Beholding God

I've Moved!

2010-08-02T08:01:00.001-04:00

Yep, I've packed up and moved to Wordpress Land. And all of these posts have come with me.

Join me in my new home.

And be sure to update your links.

Sandra Heska King

Melting Moments

2010-07-30T08:05:00.000-04:00

mounds of blueberry fluff

float in a strawberry sky

kiss

embrace

become one and

spill over

into swirling tongues

that lick the horizon

melting moments.

So What Is Real?

2010-07-28T14:54:00.000-04:00

Are you for real? Can online relationships be real?

Today Karin Fendick and I swap posts in the spirit of "friendship and community" as part of a High Calling Blogs community writing project called You Are Real. I don't remember now how I "met" Karin, but I love to rest at bit a her place where she shares her heart and some beautiful photos.

So today I welcome Karin (His FireFly). I love what she says about what can happen when God is involved in online relationships.

Oh, and I'm posting today on Real Stuff, Real People over on her blog, Flickers of a Firefly. Check it out!

And click over to HCB and check out the links to some other stories.

And now . . . here's Karin.

Road Home

So What Is Real?

I live on twenty beautiful acres of Manitoba prairie. I can walk through the grass and feel it tickling my toes. That grass is real.

I can hear how solidly the wooden door of our house shuts us safely inside against a summer storm or bitter winter wind. The house and the shelter it provides are real. The brittle cold that wind brings is very real.

My husband’s arms wrap around me, a warm and tangible love that is real indeed.

I have family and friends and fellowship with a body of believers called “church.” Relationships are sometimes deep but can often be shallow as well. We don’t always present our true selves or reach into the core of others. Yes, they are real flesh, but perhaps not quite genuine.

Words on a screen can be another way to hide. Life on the internet might be a chance to present yourself as someone you are not; after all, no one can truly see you, only the words you leave behind. There’s lots of falsehood and deception. Games are played. Lives can be shattered.

But God! When God has His hand involved, all things are possible.

God chose to use the World Wide Web to lead me on a journey of re-creation.The woman who first began pounding the keyboard was brought to a saving knowledge of Jesus via an internet contact. Jesus is very real.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.2 Corinthians 5:17 NKJV

I was introduced to the workings and gifts of the Holy Spirit while chatting online.Yes indeed, the Holy Spirit is real, alive and active.

The Lord introduced the man who He had chosen to be my husband, you guessed it, through the internet. Our love, our life and our marriage are solid, real and rooted in Him.

As writers, we can use words to describe, create, build up, connect, encourage and support. People in cyber space may not be able to give me a pat on the back with their hand in a way I can feel with my physical body, but they have touched my heart and spirit in ways often more profound.

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching. Hebrews 10:24-25 NIV

By participating in the High Calling Blogs Network, I am beginning to build relationships with others writing for God’s glory. What we share with our words is accomplishing much in the building of His Kingdom. While I may never meet my friend Sandra Heska King face to face (though wouldn’t it be an awesome time, Sandy?) we can connect spirit to spirit with God at the centre of our fellowship. I would call that as real as the mosquitoes buzzing around my hands as I type. As real as the sun warming the grass that needs mowing. As real as the One Who holds us all in His hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Karin (HisFireFly) is a sold out disciple of Jesus Christ learning more each day what it means to abide in Him. She desires to walk in radical obedience to His voice and prays that her life brings glory to The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit.

Karin and her beloved husband live in rural Manitoba with their dog Faith and various barn cats on 20 beautiful acres the Lord has provided for them.

Stop by for a visit at Flickers of a Faithful FireFly, Karin’s personal blog about Jesus, love, prayer, and life in rural Canada

Copyright © 2010 by Karin Fendick

Letting Go Of Ego

2010-07-27T22:57:00.001-04:00

Embraced by self I dissect every failure.
Gripped by pride I focus on every flaw.
Oppressed by fear I stumble with every step.

So . . .

I am
letting go of ego
and clinging to the great
I AM.

NOTE: This post is part of the One Word Blog Carnival on EGO. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

There are Rules? A Photoplay Prompt

2010-07-21T23:20:00.000-04:00

I wondered what those little lines were on the "P" section of the turny thing-a-ma-jig on my camera! I always freaked when I accidentally bumped into those boundaries.

But guess what? They are supposed to help in photo composition using something called the "rule of thirds." This is the kind of thing I learn by being a part of the High Calling Blogs network.

Am I the only one who had (note past tense) no clue?

I snap pictures I like to look at. That stir something inside. Sometimes (okay, often) they're off center, out of focus, blurry, imperfect, and crooked.

Like me.

There are rules?

I don't like breaking rules. But how can I break the rules when I don't even know the rules? How can I stay within boundaries when I don't know what or where they are?

Claire Burge has posted another PhotoPlay challenge over at HCB using the rule of thirds. Or breaking it.

I've seen some of the entries. They're good. Really good.

But I'm stepping out on a limb. Slipping in under the deadline wire. Taking courage to share. In order to learn. Sharing pictures (I mean photos) that seem to follow the rule--or break it. Taken before I knew there was a rule.

So these may not follow the rule. They may not even break the rule. Because I didn't know there was a rule. But I like them. Imperfect as they are.

As God loves me, imperfect as I am.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Towla Worm and Chill Bumps

2010-07-19T15:39:00.000-04:00

I've said it before.

The Bible often leaves me breathless.

Gasping for air.

With major chill bumps.

Like now.

I'm more than halfway through Stone Crossings by L.L. Barkat, but I often go back to re-read what came before. And I'm hung up on the crimson (scarlet) worm, the towla worm, that she describes.

"How then can a man be righteous before God?

How can one born of woman be pure?

If even the moon is not bright

and the stars are not pure in his eyes,

how much less man, who is but a maggot--

a son of man, who is only a worm!"

Job 25:4-6 (NIV)

Maggot--rimmah. A sign of decay. Of death.

Worm--towla. A sign of sacrifice. Of life.

The crimson "worm" is really an insect, a grub. About the size of a little berry. When the time is ripe, the wingless female climbs up a tree and attaches herself to it. There she lays her eggs, births a family. She excretes a crimson juice that covers her "children" and leaves a red stain on the wood. She dies so they can live.

"But I am a worm and not a man,

Scorned by men and despised by the people."

Psalm 22:6 (NIV)

Worm--towla.

Back in the day, folks harvested the bodies and crushed them to make a scarlet dye. L.L. puts it this way:

"Such colorful artistry was not lost on the ancients. They gathered this scarlet creature and crushed her to produce a crimson dye. And crimson, right up there with blue and purple, was used to dye wildly expensive clothing and tapestries. So it seems that Jesus, crushed in shame, offers to cover my nakedness--not only with the linen of his life, but also with an exotic color reserved for the rich and royal.

Just picturing this wine-crimson grace, I feel my soul tingle, as if it's growing wings. And the shame of my past, though real, cannot keep me earthbound."

This reminds me again of the Hebrew word tiqvah, translated "hope" in Ruth 1:12 when Naomi says, "If I had hope . . . "

Tiqvah is first used in Joshua 2:18 and translated "cord." David's other great-great grandmother, Rahab, the Gentile harlot, tied a cord in her window, and her family was saved when the walls of Jericho fell.

A scarlet cord. Likely stained with the crushed body of a towla worm.

Sacrifice. Hope.

The Bible gives me chill bumps.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Endless Energy-Boundless Strength

2010-07-13T10:04:00.001-04:00

I’m not saying my husband is cheap

Even though he wears a special "uniform" for summer yard work. He cuts off the sleeves of his white dress shirts and completes the ensemble with faded, tattered, and holey jean cutoffs, with strings hanging to his knees--and has no problem wearing the outfit to town. Sometimes I can grab him by the back of the collar on his way out the door. I wish I'd thought to take a picture. (Putting that on my to-do list.)

I’m not saying my husband is cheap.

Even though we’d been married for 25 years before the green mohair sweater that his high school girlfriend gave him finally unraveled--with a little help from someone whose identity shall remain unnamed.

I’m not saying my husband is cheap.

Even though he has the reputation of digging “perfectly good” food out of the trash at work--and if something in our refrigerator looks okay and smells okay, it must be okay to eat. Never mind if it’s been in there for a month. And forget about expiration dates.

I’m not saying my husband is cheap.

Even though he will clean up any leftover food on another's plate. Not just family. Our children’s friends learned that they could just push their half-empty plates toward him.

I’m not saying my husband is cheap.

Even though our kids still convulse with laughter when they recall my chasing him out of the house and through the yard to grab his white T-shirt enough times to finally shred it into an unwearable rag.

It should come as no surprise then that his favorite season is summer.

And that one of his favorite parts of summer is Alpenfest.

And one of his favorite parts (if not the favorite part) of Alpenfest is to stand in line for an hour to gobble up any free (or reduced-with-a-button) food that’s offered--doughnuts, chicken, soup, pancakes, banana splits, etc. And sneak back for seconds if he can.

He also enjoys the opportunity to take me out to a free concert. I can't remember the last time he took me to one where he actually had to purchase a ticket. Come to think of it, our first date was to see the Philadelphia Orchestra in Ann Arbor, and I had to go purchase the tickets. I don’t remember his giving me money or paying me back. Hmm.

Luckily, there are many good family-friendly fun options during Alpenfest, like the Young Americans who perform outside at high noon. I'm always amazed by their endless energy and their boundless strength--no matter how hot the summer sun. They bring their enthusiasm off the stage and right into the crowd.

A free concert. But not cheap.

I want their enthusiasm. To live out a life of faith that isn't cheap. A life that's free. But costly.

And I want to live it out with extravagance. With endless energy and boundless strength.

And summertime excitement.

“That's why, when I heard of the solid trust you have in the Master Jesus and your outpouring of love to all the followers of Jesus, I couldn't stop thanking God for you—every time I prayed, I'd think of you and give thanks. But I do more than thank. I ask—ask the God of our Master, Jesus Christ, the God of glory—to make you intelligent and discerning in knowing him personally, your eyes focused and clear, so that you can see exactly what it is he is calling you to do, grasp the immensity of this glorious way of life he has for his followers, oh, the utter extravagance of his work in us who trust him—endless energy, boundless strength!” Ephesians 1:15-19 (Message)

NOTE: This post is part of the One Word Blog Carnival on SUMMER. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Blog Birthday Reflections

2010-07-12T00:08:00.001-04:00

I've blogged now for a whole year.

Translation: I've kept up with one thing for a whole year.

Yep. July 12. This blog's birthday.

I planned to repost some earlier writings this week to celebrate.

But nah.

Maybe I'll tweet some links to some of my favorites or top hits.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I wrote some good stuff during this year--but also some bad stuff. Some fun stuff, some serious stuff. Some prose, some poetry. Tried to dig a little. Make myself bleed. Looked for my voice. Fought for my voice. Tried to not try so hard.

Tried to discipline myself to write. And found I need to discipline myself not to write.

Learned not to be so hard on myself for being a woman of many interests. Because really, maybe, hopefully that makes me more interesting as a writer.

For I am she who seeks and shares.

And writing is my passion. I know this now.

Over speaking. Over harping. Over singing. The music that begs to come out is not notes, but words. And words that sing better on the page than through the air.

At least I think so.

I started a writing blog about six months ago.

So now I have two blogs.

Some folks even follow them. And some folks take time to comment.

I developed cyber friendships as close, I believe, as any face-to-face. And all over the world. Heart-to-heart friendships. Other writers. Other seekers.

And quite possibly some of those are people I might not have given more than a head nod to had I not gotten to know them through their blogs.

I've participated in blog carnivals (such as One Word at a Time and Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays) and group writing projects through High Calling Blogs. I've even been asked to guest blog.

I've found joy in poetry, dabbled with my camera, and maybe found even a call to fiction--all of which surprised me.

I've hooked up with ChristianWriters and joined ACFW.

And acted like I have a clue.

A comment Kathy Richards (katdish) made on Amy Sorrell's blog encouraged and inspired me. She said:

"@noveldoctor (Stephen Parolini) tweeted, 'If you want to write what you believe, write nonfiction. If you want to tell the truth, write fiction.'"

"There's so much truth to that statement," she said. "A work of fiction sometimes gives us a level of protection and allows us to tell a greater truth we may not be ready to write as nonfiction. The best writers are brave souls indeed."

I want to be a brave soul.

Thanks for celebrating with me.

Party on!

Running

2010-07-10T11:21:00.000-04:00

Mike was a police officer. Joanne was a nurse.

They birthed children, fostered children, adopted children.

Special needs.

Mike and Joanne played soccer in college. Their kids played practically from the time they could walk.

Mike and Joanne coached.

They lived life on the run. Church activity to church activity. Doctor to doctor. Game to game. Goal to goal.

Then Ben began to run. Away from the family. Into trouble. Back home to steal money or a car.

To run some more. Away from the law.

A black blanket billowed over Mike. He burrowed under. Grateful for the insulation.

One day Mike and Joanne argued. Over some small something.

Joanne ran to the store.

And Mike ran.

Joanne found him an hour later. Behind the house. With his gun next to him.

And the weight of his pain fell on her.

And she ran, pounded pavement. And the pounds melted. And the weight fell away, leaving a bony frame that enclosed an empty shell of life once known.

She clawed her way from under the darkness.

But still she runs.

Without a goal.

A young man once ran. To chase the ways of the world. To find his fortune.

And his father waited. Watched. Until he saw him in the distance. Coming home.

And he ran to him.

"I'm not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don't get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I've got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward--to Jesus. I'm off and running, and I'm not turning back." Philippians 3:13-14 (Message)

Where are you running today?

I Have These Scars

2010-07-07T10:51:00.000-04:00

I have this scar.

It's fully four inches long and runs from the center of my palm up the inside of my wrist, skimming the vein. Pooh, a part Siamese from years past, sat on the kitchen counter, focused on something invisible in the sink. So focused that when I picked him up, he went beserk. And I dripped blood everywhere.

I remember.

I have this scar.

An inch long below my left knee and a couple of puncture wounds. From surgery due to a severed ACL--from a Cocoa Beach wave that knocked me off balance while I splashed in the shallows. We had just returned from a cruise and still had a couple days of vacation in Florida before we drove back to Michigan. Our car broke down on the way home and left us stranded in Kentucky for two extra days.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my belly. From an ovarian cyst. From reconstructive tubal surgery in our quest for a baby. From a tubal pregnancy. From which I came close to not surviving. Two of the scars run perpendicular to each other and remind me of a cross. I used to be able to see it better when I looked down. I also have scars from a gallbladder removal that remind me of the Grand Hotel and hiking around Mackinac Island and concern about every twinge of discomfort and my daughter's phone call telling me I had an appointment with a surgeon.

I remember.

I have these scars.

Still. All over. Especially on my legs. From liquid nitrogen spray. Memories of several trips to the dermatologist last year that left me looking like I had chicken pox. Skin lesions zapped, leaving--well, skin lesions. And the hole in my hairline from the excision of a blue nevus, and then a deeper excision.

I remember.

I have these scars.

On my heart. From hurts endured. From hurts inflicted. That I allowed to be inflicted. Through decisions I made. Out of love and desperation. Yet out of stupidity. That caused life-changing scars for someone I love. Toughened scars. But tender still. Very tender. Memories I want to forget. Wipe away. But I can't. And I weep sometimes in the night. And in the day.

I remember.

But I don't want to.

He has these scars.

On His back and on His head and in His wrists and in His feet and in His side. Inflicted from stupidity. And from greed. And from jealousy. And from hate. Yet self-inflicted. Out of love. Because He was desperate. For me.

He remembers.

Me.

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." Isaiah 49:15a

Where are your scars?

15 Lessons From My Garden

2010-07-05T07:18:00.000-04:00

First harvest

1. Weeds multiply. Fast.

2. A pruned plant is a healthy plant.

3. Overgrowth hides new fruit and drags it down.

4. It's hard to support an overgrown plant without breaking it.

5. Mosquitoes thrive in overgrowth.

6. There's a snake in my garden.

7. Don't plant seeds called "flower mix."

8. Only a handful of seeds may sprout from a bazillion sowed.

9. I'm not a very good seed person.

10. I do better with established plants.

11. It's easier to pull a few weeds (even relaxing) than to wield a hoe.

12. You may need to uproot something good to make room for something better.

13. One needs to periodically step back and survey the whole scene.

14. Hard work yields great satisfaction.

15. Your weeding may disturb and confuse others.

A Paper Bag, a Window, and a Tongue Blade

2010-07-02T11:06:00.000-04:00

Note: This somewhat silly post is in response to a group writing project on "Bosses" over at the High Calling Blogs.

I worked in a small OB/GYN practice early in my nursing career. I "managed" a satellite office, where I "bossed" only myself for four days, and worked at the main office on Fridays.

I met my husband, who was a drug salesman at the time, there--but that's another story already told in another post. I remember Dr. J muttering about the cost of a single place setting of the dishes I'd registered for, but he bought us two sets.

I also remember how the doctors provided free care for the wives of interns and residents--until their husbands went on strike. Come to think of it, I don't remember any female interns or residents coming in for care.

We had an hour and a half for lunch, and sometimes the doctors would give us nurses the key card to their "club," and we'd go out and splurge on a big meal. They were generous, although I do remember Dr. J often talked (worried) about funding his retirement, and he must have been in his 30s at the time.

Anyway, I worked there for 2-1/2 years, and a lot of memories are hazy now. But I remember three clearly.

One day I heard frantic pounding on the private entrance to the satellite office. When I opened the door, I met the eyes of the frightened secretary down the hall. I ran with her to discover one of her coworkers twitching on the floor. I freaked and raced back to our office.

"Dr. B! Dr. B! Come quick! Hurry!"

He was in an exam room with a patient at the time, so he told her he'd be right back, left her up in the stirrups, and sauntered--yes, sauntered--down the hall. He seldom got excited about anything. As in nonchalant.

I listened for the ambulance, but he returned in a matter of minutes.

"What was wrong with her? What'd you do?"

"Oh, she just hyperventilated. I gave her a paper bag."

And he strolled back into the exam room leaving me to calm myself down.

Lessons: Don't worry. Stay calm. Breathe. But carry a paper bag.

"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life."

Philippians 4:6-7 (Message)

A disheveled lady burst into the waiting room just as we prepared to lock up for lunch. She jabbered about stuff that didn't make much sense to me. I was new, but the others had seen her before. I don't remember much about that "conversation" or what was wrong or even the final outcome. What I do remember is Dr. B hovering outside her range of vision, not wanting to get involved, with his eye on the exit. He had to walk right past her to get out. So he did the next best thing. He climbed out the workroom window, directly into the parking lot, and left us to deal with her.

Lessons: Avoid futile arguments. Have an escape plan. Look for a window of opportunity.

"But refuse (shut your mind against, have nothing to do with) trifling (ill-informed, unedifying, stupid) controversies over ignorant questionings, for you know that they foster strive and breed quarrels."
2 Timothy 2:23 (Amplified)

Dr. J loved cheesecake. I mean loved it! So one morning I brought one in. Lovingly baked in a store-bought graham cracker crust. Topped with cherries. I set it on the counter in the workroom. The same place where we processed fingerstick blood and urine samples. He grabbed for it. The top fell off. And the whole thing landed upside down on the floor. He stared at it for a moment and then reached for a tongue blade, squatted down, and ate.

Lessons: Don't waste anything. Keep your floors clean. Carry a big spoon.

"Jesus answered, "You've come looking for me not because you saw God in my actions but because I fed you, filled your stomachs--and for free. Don't waste your energy striving for perishable food like that. Work for the food that sticks with you, food that nourishes your lasting life, food the Son of Man provides. He and what He does are guaranteed by the Father to last."
John 6:26-27 (Message)

And here's some extra reading for your Friday Enjoyment. The origin of graham crackers.

Do you have any memorable boss or work experiences?

Lessons From Basketball Camp

2010-06-30T09:30:00.001-04:00

Gracee's kind of a wimp.

Well, she used to be anyway. The littlest scratch required a magnifying glass and a box of tissues to absorb all the tears.

Drama queen.

So we were all thrilled, as well as more than a little apprehensive, when she agreed to play soccer last fall. And then she actually asked to go to basketball camp last week.

Run over to katdish.net to hear the story.

When you're done reading, take a look around the site. And take your tissues because you'll find posts that will make you cry and make you laugh until you cry. Kathy Richards, who writes some pretty good stuff herself, is the writer's encouragement queen. I've started to call her "barnkat," in honor of the biblical Barnabas, "the son of encouragment."

I'm excited to be able to guest post for her.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Swallowed by His Strength

2010-06-29T01:11:00.004-04:00

Miles of trials
and sorrow smiles
sink deep the feet
in silence speak
of eagle wing and sing
with fear-sliced heart
and trace the scar
of sacrifice
and blood-stained sheet
where hidden knife
carves hurting flesh
kneel trembling
to weep for her
and rise again
to face what may
its breadth and length
with weakness swallowed
by His strength.

"Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord, is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation." Isaiah 12:2 (NIV)

"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31 (NIV)

NOTE: This post is part of the One Word Blog Carnival on STRENGTH. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Simplicity in a Shell

2010-06-28T12:31:00.001-04:00

This shell dish houses shells (mixed with Claire Burke potpourri) gathered from past trips to the sea. It sits on my dresser and reminds me of times I've shed the shell of everyday to seek solitude and simplicity. To stroll a stretch of beach in the early morning and gather treasures in my spirit as well as my sack. To float in a salt spa and let the waves massage my tired back. To bake clean in an oven of sand. To contemplate my smallness at sunset. To let the water wash my feet.

I have a need to go back to the sea, but it won't happen this year. And so I touch my shells and starfish and pieces of coral, these and others, and try to slip my shell for a moment. For a short season. To find an island of solitude in a sea of distractions, simplicity in an ocean of multiplicity. To touch a singleness of focus, a soul center. Serenity.

I've been re-reading Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. As she contemplates a channelled whelk, she's struck by the fact that it is simple, bare, and beautiful. And that the frame of her life--and my life--does not foster simplicity.

Its hard to remain whole when fragmented by distractions. Even those things and objects meant to simplify life, like dishwashers and vacuums and microwaves and cars and computers, often make life more complicated.

"One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much."

One doesn't need many clothes at the beach--swimsuit, sandals, sweatshirt. And as far as shelter, we've stayed in a tent, a tiny trailer, and a simple beach cottage that required very little upkeep. We ate simply.

In beach living, she says, one sheds vanity and pride and Martha-like anxiety and hypocrisy and finds spiritual freedom and peace.

"Simplification of outward life is not enough. It is merely the outside."

But it's a place to start.

"One is free, like the hermit crab, to change one's shell."

"O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!" Psalm 8:9 (NIV)

What have you learned from the beach?

Break the Fast

2010-06-25T11:45:00.000-04:00

Strawberry preserves
pool in muffin crypts
trickle down chin
and cracked shells
drip sunshine
scrambled joy
browned and peppered
just right with
a side of java
watch the corn grow
taste the honeyed breeze
break the fast.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Love Zinnias

2010-06-24T20:05:00.000-04:00

I did a dumb thing.

Okay I've done several dumb things, but today it's one dumb thing.

I didn't do it today, but now I'm suffering the consequences.

I planted a few herbs, a few flowers.

And a lot of zinnia seeds.

I love zinnias.

The box says, "Easy to grow, just apply and water, germinate in 10 days, height 18-24 inches."

It says, "Distribute evenly over the planting area using the convenient pour spout."

I love zinnias.

So I distributed. All over the planting area.

I envisioned an ocean of multicolored mops at the back door waving a friendly greeting in the early morning.

I love zinnias.

Problem.

I forgot I had to pull weeds. How do you pull weeds when you don't know where the zinnias are sprouting? How do you pull weeds without pulling zinnias or stomping on them when you didn't have a planting plan?

No boundaries. No walkway.

Randomly shaking seeds among soon-to-grow weeds.

Lots of them.

Oops.

And now the zinnias are sprouting.

Lots of them.

But so are the weeds.

Dandelions and grass and wild geranium and some other stuff I don't know the names of.

I decided to let them grow together for awhile until I was sure which was which and in hopes the baby zinnias would grow strong enough to withstand a bunion bump.

But now the weeds tower over the sprouts. They are winning the race skyward.

I can wait no longer.

And I'm pretty sure zinnias are coming out with the weeds.

"The farmhands asked, 'Should we weed out the thistles?'

He said, 'No. If you weed the thistles, you'll pull up the wheat, too. Let them grow together until harvest time. Then I'll instruct the harvesters to pull up the thistles and tie them in bundles for the fire, then gather the wheat and put it in the barn." Matthew 13:28b-30 (Message)

Have you ever made any gardening mistakes?

Framed Memories - Part 3: The End

2010-06-23T17:49:00.000-04:00

The storm struck. The barn collapsed.

In one sense, relief reigned.

Nobody hurt.

No more worries about who or what hid in the shadows.

No more energy burned in worry about the future. Like what to do with an old barn that faced inevitable demise in some form since restoration was not a viable option.

Nothing left to do but capture frames of memory.

Nothing left to do but to make a memory as we celebrated memories.

The wake lasted three days.

Captured here in a handful from dozens of frames.

The barn is dust.

The landscape forever changed.

And we treasure the memories.

As we look toward the future.

Letting go.

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

Matthew 6:19-21 (NIV)

Where is your treasure? What do you cling to?

Note: This post is in response to Claire Burge's PhotoPlay prompt "Frame It" at The High Calling Blogs.

Framed Memories--Part 2

2010-06-22T07:34:00.001-04:00

It appeared in Michigan's Heritage Barns.

A symbol of Michigan history.

A symbol of family history.

Withstood many storms.

Witnessed many stories.

My husband played basketball on the drive floor.

He fed calves and bedded many a Bozo (his dad's pet name for each replacement bull.)

He climbed the ladder to feed the barn cats in the dark and once came nose-to-nose with a raccoon when he pushed it out of the way to reach the light.

He kept his horses in this pasture, and out back is where I met my Wendy that his parents bought for me shortly after our wedding.

His mother warned me to watch out for the bull. She managed to scare me well. Once when Dennis and I were in the pasture, Bozo took a step toward me, and I threw myself under the electric fence. I think Bozo laughed as hard as Dennis.

Dennis tells how his dad used a shipping crate to hold grain--about 8 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 3 feet tall. A crate that once held the casket of a soldier, home from the war. He thinks the remains might still be in the brush and promises to help me look for it.

Frames of family memories.

We could not maintain the barn. The huge metal doors at the top of the barn bridge had fallen off. The stone foundation was crumbling. We looked into restoration, but it was so expensive.

And so finally, the Great Hailstorm of 2008 took it down.

The frame faltered. The foundation collapsed.

And I wept.

And we stood on the rubble of history

framed by our memories.

"But the Master, God, has something to say to this: Watch closely. I'm laying a foundation in Zion, a solid granite foundation, squared and true. And this is the meaning of the stone: a trusting life won't topple. I'll make justice the measuring stick and righteousness the plumb line for the building. A hailstorm will knock down the shantytown of lies, and a flash flood will wash out the rubble." ~Isaiah 28:16-17 (Message)

Is your foundation squared and true? Are you standing on rubble? Or buried underneath?

Note: This post is in response to Claire Burge's PhotoPlay prompt "Frame It" at The High Calling Blogs.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Framed Memories - Part 1

2010-06-21T12:25:00.000-04:00

Tossed by the storm.

Embraced through the storm.

Saved from the storm.

Framed by the storm.

This was the scene in our backyard following the "Great Hailstorm" of 2008 (July 2.) Two giant pines crushed our above-ground pool, 48 feet round, 6 feet deep in the middle. A place of laughter and cannonballs and music and solitude and starlit floats. Even an occasional skinny dip.

Memories dismantled.

Memories buried.

Memories framed in my mind.

" . . . and you were so glad when the storm died down . . . Psalm 107:30a (Message)

Note: This post is in response to Claire Burge's PhotoPlay prompt "Frame It" at High Calling Blogs.

What is your most memorable storm story?

How have you been framed by the storms of life?

For the Fathered and the Fatherless

2010-06-19T10:11:00.000-04:00

To My Sissy On Her Birthday

2010-06-18T10:40:00.003-04:00

White spots on a nose and baby feet.

Shadows in the little house

You not old enough to fear.

Wispy memories.

Separated by the miles

Wrapped myself in shawl of self

Duel pain unshared.

Silent years.

Late night laughter

Stores and restaurants and icy parking lots

Pancakes and pavilions.

Treasured times.

My sister.

My best friend.

Bittersweet

2010-06-17T16:40:00.000-04:00

Startled by beauty

Within my wall

Deceptively sweet

Bitter

Bittersweet

Nightshade.

Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. Isaiah 5:20 (NIV)

It's Crazy!

2010-06-16T15:13:00.000-04:00

They call him Crazy Wheels.

I don't know his real name.

Shame on me.

He tools all over town in his motorized wheelchair. He gives kids rides. And once my son saw him in the interstate median. With the police. He was probably speeding from exit A to exit B.

I saw him once at the pool. Must have been for some kind of water therapy since a lifeguard was preparing a sling.

I could not help but stare at his legs. Withered. Skin over bone.

No substance.

No depth.

Useless.

I remember what my own leg looked like in comparison to my other after I fell. After I broke my foot.

Casted, splinted, crutched, caned.

Unable to bear weight.

Shriveled.

Weak.

Imperfect.

Defective.

Useless.

Scary.

Like unexercised faith that depends on someone else's strength.

It's crazy.

"Consider it wholly joyful, my brethren, whenever you are enveloped in or encounter trials of any sort or fall into various temptations. Be assured and understand that the trial and proving of your faith bring out endurance and steadfastness and patience. But let endurance and steadfastness have full play and do a thorough work, so that you may be [people] perfectly and fully developed [with no defects], lacking in nothing." James 1:2-4 (Amplified)

Has your faith been tested? Have you stepped out in faith?

Is your faith stronger because of it?

Are you clinging (or have you clung) to someone else's faith?

Was (is) your faith weaker because of it?

A Heart For Achile

2010-06-15T00:24:00.000-04:00

"Compassion is sometimes the fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else's skin. It is the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you, too." ~ Frederick Buechner

Jesus felt compassion for the hungry. And so He fed them.

Moved with compassion, Jesus reached out his hands and healed the blind and the deaf and the sick.

With a heart of compassion, He gave His all.

Because compassion involves action.

His name is Achile.

He's eight years old.

He lives in one of the poorest countries in the world. Burkina Faso in western Africa.

He's a Compassion child but can't take full advantage of his sponsorship or regularly attend school.

Because he's been in pain for five years.

Because he has a congenital heart defect known as tetralogy of Fallot.

Compassion International has provided medical care for the last two years at the National Teaching Hospital Yalgado Ouedraogo, but now he needs urgent heart surgery to save his life.

At a specialized hospital in India. Cost estimated at $20,449.

One child. With a name. With a face. With a critical need.

And an opportunity to show compassion. To share the heart of Jesus.

To give Achile a future and a hope.

By giving from the heart here.

Or by praying.

Or both.

Because compassion involves action.

Read about how Compassion helps other children with serious heart conditions, like Alex, here.

"It's criminal to ignore a neighbor in need, but compassion for the poor--what a blessing!"

Proverbs 14:21 (Message)

We sponsor Nduta (Lucy) from Kenya through Compassion. Do you sponsor any children?

Have you ever known anyone with tetralogy of Fallot?

NOTE: This post is part of the Bridget Chumbley's Blog Carnival on COMPASSION. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Sizzling Hot Abs

2010-06-14T07:48:00.000-04:00

So this is my new toy.

Because at my age, things--well, kind of rock and roll. Especially roll. And other things, like neck and back, get kind of stiff.

You've seen the ads. Just sit back and rocket (rock it.) Support head and neck.

Get sizzling hot abs.

Um, right.

I tried the beginner's workout. I can rock that baby down. Easy as eating chocolate cake.

Rocking back up again? Well, that's another story.

The video trainer--that woman with the sizzling abs--the one in the tight pants that dip below her perfect navel--stretches her arms out in front of her or crosses them over her chest and just rockets up.

Up and down. Up and down. All the way up. All the way down.

I grab the handles, grunt, and just turn blue. Blend right into the background.

If I suck in my navel and remember to breathe out when I come up, I can rocket up, oh maybe an inch. Or less.

I'm such a weakling.

Chris Tomlinson (Crave, reviewed here) said, "I would like to think my spirit is ridiculously ripped."

I've thought about that a lot over the last months. A healthy spirit requires proper feeding and regular exercise. Without it, I suspect it's weak and flabby.

Like me.

I want a strong spirit.

Anyway, I'll continue to work it, and maybe I'll find a tighter tummy. Maybe even before I get discouraged. Or plain just tired of it.

Maybe I'll even find some sizzling hot abs.

Probably not.

It's in the fine print.

Results not typical.

But I can at least be more healthy. Maybe a little firm. And I'll try not to compare myself to the navel lady.

I'd rather have a spirit that sizzles anyway.

But sizzling hot abs would be nice.

"A healthy spirit conquers adversity, but what can you do when the spirit is crushed?"

Proverbs 18:14 (Message)

What kind of exercise equipment have you bought? Did you use it? Did you see results?
Are you feeding and exercising your spirit? How's that going?

Going Batty

2010-06-12T09:54:00.000-04:00

I'm not a fan of bats. The flying kind. They creep me out.

I know they fly around doing good. Gobbling up a bazillion mosquitoes. Pollinating plants and spreading seeds.

But they creep me out.

I shudder to think how many visitors we knocked down in this old farmhouse and then released before having them sealed out. Before I worked for the health department.

Because now I know the risk.

And bats really creep me out.

A local lady saved herself this week by capturing a bat that bit her. She actually had puncture marks. Testing proved it had rabies.

Reminded me again of one of our many bat experiences.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mom! Dad! There's a mouse in my trash can!"

Not the way I want to be startled from a deep sleep. Dennis continues to snore.

"Mmmmm. What color is it?"

I don't know why I asked that.

"Brown. Hurry!"

Brown? Mice aren't brown, are they? In her tall Michigan State trash can? Oh no!

Dennis sleeps on. I bound up the stairs. And there in her trash can--is a bat!

Bat. Bedroom. Sleeping person.

Must. Catch. Bat.

Book over can. Bushel basket with vinyl liner. More books to hold in place. Close closets. Close door. Stuff towels under door. Call . . . who? At 7 in the morning?

Margaret! Our communicable disease nurse!

Help!

Why am I freaked? We've had confirmed cases of bat rabies in the area. A bat in the area of a sleeping person means assumed exposure.

Lose bat. Get shots.

I check Abby over for bites, knowing marks could be invisible and that there is no way to tell saliva exposure. Calm her down. Calm me down. Send her off to school.

I call Animal Control who sends two officers armed with long heavy gloves--a man and a woman.

We go upstairs, and the man begins to dismantle my "trap."

He removes the books. He removes the basket. The three of us peer warily into the can.

No bat!

Uh oh!

He explores the basket. Removes the liner.

No bat!

He removes the paper from the bottom of the can, piece by piece, and we stare at the bottom of an empty can.

No bat!

I see shots in our future. But--are those droppings on that sheet of crumpled paper? I reach down to pick it up.

And the bat falls on my bare foot!

My heart stops. I nearly fall out the window. The lady officer screams. The man swoops down on it with his gloves.

And. We. Wait.

Days later. The news. The bat is (was) clean.

Whew!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was and am informed now. But I wonder. How many other bats have we dodged?

While we slumbered.

Or like the one Abby woke up to see settled on her canopy one night?

Or like others seen, chased, and lost?

Not that the risk is humongous. But it's there. And I could drive myself batty with worry.

And I wonder. Am I aware of spiritual risks? Have I sealed the entries? Do I remember to don my armor? How many dangers has He protected me from? Dangers unaware?

I'm so glad that He stands guard even in the night watches.

And I'm not creeped out at all.

He won't let you stumble,

Your Guardian God won't fall asleep.

Not on your life! Israel's

Guardian will never doze or sleep.

God's your Guardian, right at your side to protect you--

Shielding you from sunstroke,

sheltering you from moonstroke.

God guards you from every evil

He guards your very life.

He guards you when you leave and when you return,

He guards you now, He guards you always.

Psalm 121:3-8 (Message)

Have you had any close encounters of the bat kind?

An Early Morning Drama

2010-06-10T15:48:00.000-04:00

It happened about 4 this morning. I don't know if I was already awake or if it woke me up.

Not the squeal of tires. More like the sound of air brakes. And then a boom.

A big BOOM!

I lay there a minute trying to figure it out. No sirens. But definitely something not right.

I scrambled out of bed, wandered around the dark house, and peered out the windows. Had to be an accident. But I saw nothing, so I started back to bed. And then I heard something else.

Thunder? An explosion?

And then my phone rang. Abby.

"Mom! An accident on the highway. Fire!"

And then finally sirens. Lots of sirens.

I ran out back through the wet grass to watch the flames shoot toward the sky about a quarter mile away.

And when the flames died, we heard saws.

Details still unclear. Two semis involved? Original reports indicated a tanker. Apparently not so. One passing another? One left the scene? One driver injured?

Someone said, "It was an Old Dominion truck pulling twin 28 ft van trailers. The passenger side fuel tank on the Old Dominion truck hit the landing legs of the other truck and started the fire."

Whatever that means.

The truth is they are still trying to piece it all together

And it's a mess out there. Steady stream of traffic rerouted off highway, across the road, and back on. Workmen and trucks and officers still on the job 8 hours later. Still a faint scent of burnt rubber. Lives disrupted. People hurt.

From our perspective, it seemed impossible for anyone to survive.

That's the problem with human perspective. It's limited. Things are not always what they seem. We don't know the whole story. Speculation masks truth. Rumors spread. Lives are disrupted. People are hurt.

The tongue is a fire.

"It only takes a spark, remember, to set off a forest fire. A careless or wrongly placed word out of your mouth can do that. By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell." (James 3:5-6 - Message)

This we know for sure at this moment:

1. There was an accident.
2. There was a big fire.
3. A semi burned.
4. There were many responders.
5. There was sawing.
6. A short stretch of highway was closed.

I deleted all my early posts from Twitter and Facebook about this early morning drama.

Waiting for the whole story.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

SAFE!

2010-06-08T07:20:00.000-04:00

Kirthmon F. Dozier / Detroit Free Press/MCT

I listened to the end of the game on the way home from the hospital last Wednesday.

Detroit Tigers and Cleveland Indians.

I could feel the excitement through the radio. The noise was deafening. Ninth inning. Twenty-six Cleveland batters out. Tiger pitcher Armando Galarrago one out away from a "perfect game." Cleveland batter Jason Donald hit a ground ball. Routine play. The first baseman, Miguel Cabrera, snagged the ball and tossed it to Galarrago, who touched the bag ahead of the runner.

Done deal. Out! Positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably OUT!

But then disbelief.

Shock.

First base umpire, Jim Joyce, called Donald safe.

SAFE!

Chaos. Confusion. Confrontation.

But not from Galarrago.

He smiled, said nothing, and went back to the mound to get the next batter out.

Later he said, "Nobody's perfect."

And later Joyce apologized. He and Galarrago shook hands.

And hugged.

Joyce could have taken the next day off. But he didn't. He took his place behind home plate.

He cried.

I cried.

What life lessons of integrity, humility, honor, forgiveness, grace, courage, self-control, understanding, sportsmanship!

Lessons that would have been lost if Donald had been "out."

If official records showed a "perfect" game.

Instead we have perfect lessons from a "less than perfect" game.

I can't imagine any better outcome.

A perfect game that wasn't.

Yet was.

The Tigers will donate the first base bag, Galarraga's spikes, and a ball from the game to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

The story will be told.

And lessons will be learned.

In baseball and in life.

Because no matter what "bad calls" come our way, it's all good, because we are safe.

Safe in our Father's arms.

And He turns the "bad" into good.

And I can't imagine any better outcome.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Beheld God

2010-06-03T17:44:00.000-04:00

I beheld God

In the strength of a mother

Who labored long and hard

And in the end released control.

In the love of two parents.

In the tenderness of a father

Who was a tower of strength

And exuded calmness in the face of concern.

In the joy of a sister.

In the beauty of a newborn baby, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Lillee Azhinae

Born: 06/02/2010 at 5:28 a.m.

8 pounds 9 ounces

21 inches long

Photo by Jeannine Cooper, my amazing photography friend, whose first lily of the season just happened to bloom in front of this sign.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful. I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14 (NIV)

Random Empty Thoughts

2010-06-01T10:41:00.000-04:00

Running on empty?

Slow down.

Dump excess fuel.

Toss excess weight.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

Hungry?

Eat to live.

Live to eat.

"I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." John 6:51 (NIV)

Filled to be emptied.

Emptied to be filled.

"Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant . . . " Philippians 2:5-7a (NASB)

Anxious and worried?

Cling.

Trust.

". . . so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to Me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it." Isaiah 55:11 (NIV)

Enslaved by stuff? Chasing the wind?

Let it go!

"For you know that it was not with perishable such as silver and gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect." I Peter 1:18-19

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on EMPTINESS. For other thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Memorial Day Morning at Maple Hill

2010-05-31T11:38:00.000-04:00

Maple Hill saw lots of activity this past week. Sprucing up. Decorating.

The cemetery is awash in flags. The American Legion places them on the graves of veterans every year.

There's been activity there since early this morning, too. Entry flags hung and raised to half staff. Preparations for memorial service.

I took a slow drive through.

My husband and I especially honor his uncles today whose flags fly here.

Uncle Bob Ladd (Lt Col) served with the Air Force in World War II and Korea as a bombardier/navigator. He also served in Vietnam and the Pentagon.

Uncle Kenneth King served as a pharmacist's mate aboard a Navy battleship in World War II. Because "loose lips sink ships," he wrote that his ship had "as many guns as the Shumaker's have kids." That meant a dozen.

Great Uncle Irvin Greenawalt served in the Army in World War I. He was killed in France.

Our local American Legion Post 42 (Greenawalt-Flaherty) carries his name along with that of of Francis C. Flaherty, recipient of the Medal of Honor. He served aboard the USS Oklahoma at Pearl Harbor and died while helping crewmates escape.

Thank you to those who served and sacrificed the ultimate!

Amazing Grace by LeAnn Rimes

"Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13 (NIV)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Do You Know Where You're Going?

2010-05-28T12:20:00.000-04:00

My husband's car broke. The driveshaft. On his 1997 Saturn. The one with 368,000 miles.

He loves his cars. I remember when he had to finally let go of his Colt. Just pitiful. I swear I saw tears.

Tin cans.

Anyway, he got the car fixed. Which meant a rental car for a few days. And yesterday I had to drive him up to the airport to turn it back in and then over to pick up his mistress.

I hate highway construction. I hate the barrels and the barriers. I hate trying to figure out where I'm supposed to be. I hate that everyone else seems to know, and they ignore the 60-MPH but 45-MPH-when-workers-are-present signs. Construction ahead. Slow down. They just fly past me. Weave in. Weave out.

Anyway, I don't know what possessed me to ask. I think because I seldom have a passenger but Gracee who just turns up the music and enjoys the ride or amuses herself with her Nintendo or pen and paper.

My kids always complain about my driving. But they're kids. I guess I was thinking about them and their complaining.

But before I knew it, the fighting words fell out of my mouth.

"Does my driving make you nervous?"

Silence. Weighing words.

"Well, a little," he finally said.

I gripped the wheel tighter. Clamped my teeth. Tight. Tongue safely dammed behind them.

He continued.

"You did get a little close to that truck back there, and you nearly crossed the center line. AND you say you know where you're going, but you don't really."

I screamed, "What are you talking about Mr. DK55 on the open highway? YOU who likes to scare someone who pulls out in front of you so you don't brake until the last minute. YOU who loves the sound of your horn. YOU who when you drive in Detroit traffic turn into one of THEM. YOU wonder why I always have my nose in a book even in the car? YOU who leaves dust in your wake as you hit country chatterbumps at 55 leaving me with aching teeth and a bruised tailbone? I make YOU nervous?"

Yup. That's what I screamed.

In my head.

But since I have a gentle and quiet spirit, I simple nodded and said, "Hmm. Well, I get nervous riding with you sometimes, too."

And I could use a GPS. Even right here in our little town. I admit it. I've never had a great sense of direction, and Dennis loves to tell the story of when we were riding "around the square" on horseback (a much softer ride over chatterbumps), and how we turned right, then right, then right, and then I tried to go left.

I mean, who pays that much attention when you're settled in the saddle, buried in thought, playing with a mane, brushing away flies, patting a warm neck, and taking in the scenery.

Just enjoying the ride.

Sigh.

I might have said a few other things. In a gentle and quiet way, of course. But I got to thinking.

This drive through life can be tough. A battle sometimes. And there are rules and signs.

Dodge the barriers. Roll with the bumps. Don't ride too close to someone else. Stay in the narrow lane. Don't cross the center line. Keep your eyes on the road. Construction ahead. Slow down.

But enjoy the ride.

And always know where you're going.

Do you have any highway horror stories?

What traffic sign best typifies your life right now?

Do you know where you're going?

"Don't look for shortcuts to God. The market is flooded with surefire, easygoing formulas for a successful life that can be practiced in your spare time. Don't fall for that stuff, even though crowds of people do. The way to life--to God!--is vigorous and requires total attention." Matthew 7:13-14 (Message)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Buddy Makes All the Difference

2010-05-27T08:55:00.000-04:00

"Real care means the willingness to help each other in making our brokenness into the gateway of joy." ~ Henri Nouwen

My friend, Duane, broke his finger playing softball. Or maybe he just sprained it.

Reminded me of the time I broke my own finger. Falling UP stairs. Because I'm graceful like that. An accident waiting to happen.

Anyway, Duane's sporting a splint and finding it a bit painful to type, and I have ten working fingers. For now at least. So I'm giving him a break and sharing my story over on his blog today.

Come on along. See you there. Bring chocolate. Duane~Scott.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I'm Ready--Are You?

2010-05-26T11:23:00.000-04:00

Baby's Breath

It could happen any moment.

I'm ready.

Camera/new camera card/fresh batteries.

Check.

Book to read/Bible/notebook to write in/pen and pencil.

Check.

Makeup/hairbrush/contact lens solution and case/glasses.

Check.

Sweater and a pair of warm socks.

Check.

Full tank of gas/cash and change in wallet/gum.

Check.

All packed and in car. Yes, some things I need to retrieve from the car and return.

Fresh clothes at the ready.

White board/fresh markers.

Check.

Coloring books/word search book/fresh crayons.

Check.

Nintendo DS/charger.

Check.

Blanket/books.

Check.

"Cute" clothes.

Check.

Packed and in car.

Grandma's and Gracee's bags.

Taking a lesson from the fig tree.

And now we wait.

For a little sister. For a new grandgirl.

It could happen any moment.

I'm ready.

"No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father." Matthew 24:36 NIV

"So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect Him." Matthew 24:44 NIV

Are you ready?

Have I forgotten anything?

Who But God?

2010-05-25T22:06:00.000-04:00

My ladies Bible study gave me this hydrangea today.

My first one.

I'm stunned by the richness of the velvety blue blooms and the deep green of the leaves.

Who but God could create such beauty?

This stuff doesn't happen by accident.

Of course, I had to connect with Mr. Google this afternoon to learn how to care for it. I discovered that I have to feed it aluminum. Too little aluminum in the soil means pink blooms.

Amazing!

Did you know that in the 19th century aluminum was more costly than gold? Did you know that aluminum is the most abundant metal (third most abundant element) in the earth's crust, but that it's so reactive it's hardly ever found in its pure state?

(There's spiritual significance there, but I'm sidetracked from my flowers.)

I also learned there are lots of ways to manipulate colors to pink and blue and purple and mixtures by doing things like adding lime or rusty nails, but that you can't change the color of white hydrangeas, though God sometimes adds pink and red to the blooms as they move toward the green of an aging flower.

Fascinating!

Anyway, after class I went to a local farmer's market (Horrock's for you Michigan people) and picked up this hardy "Knock Out" rose to plant in memory of Rose Dog.

I also just wanted to pick up a few herbs, but I was overcome by the scents and colors.

Everywhere I looked.

Reds and purples and whites and pinks and blues and yellows and oranges and greens of every shade and mixtures of all!

Who but God?

I filled my basket with Mexican evening primrose, flax, beard tongue, petunias, geraniums, salvia, marigolds, portulaca, ageratum, vinca, parsley, chives, basil, chervil, and tomatoes to add to the blooming astilbe and bachelor's buttons and lilies of the valley and yet-to-bloom day lilies and black-eyed susans and daisies and hosta.

And a box of zinnia seeds.

And I came home to the heavy sweet scent of the first peony blooms.

And this summer--provided I remember to water everything--I'll drink in the colors and the fragrances and watch butterflies and hummingbirds and behold God.

Because who but God could create such beauty?

"Attention, all! See the marvels of God!

He plants flowers and trees all over the earth,

Bans war from pole to pole

breaks all the weapons across His knee.

Step out of the traffic! Take a long,

loving look at me, your High God,

above politics, above everything."

Psalm 46:8-10 (Message)

Where do you see the marvels of God?
Can you slow down--step out of the traffic?

Can you look at Him longer than and above anything else?

Let It Be

2010-05-19T13:30:00.000-04:00

Maple Hill Cemetery - 05/16/2010

I've been captured by Pete Wilson's new book, Plan B. So much so that I based my teaching on it the last three weeks.

Have you read it? If not, you should. I wrote a review of it on my other blog here.

Life goes awry. Dreams shatter. People fail us. Expectations go unmet. Someone dies.

Sometimes stuff happens because of our own bad choices. Sometimes because others made bad choices. Sometimes a combination of both. And sometimes--just because.

And all we can control then is our response.

We can run.

Away from God. Into sleep or food or busyness or television or overeating or some kind of addiction. Or into the arms of the wrong people.

Or toward God. Fling ourselves straight into His arms.

We can grab the reins.

Try to take control. Make a plan. Manipulate. Try harder. Help God out.

Or we can give up control. Sit in His lap.

And wait.

Yes, wait. And rest. And trust His timing.

We can ride it out.

Hang on tight to the "stuff." Stuff it. Wallow in disappointment. Let bitterness take root and give birth to depression and anger.

Or we can let it go. Confess our failure. Accept the consequences. Forgive. Others. Ourselves. Surrender to God's plan.

We can let it be.

Like Mary. "Let it be done to me according to what you have said." (Luke 1:38 - Amplified)

Not my will but Yours.

Not my plan or my dream or my expectations.

Because everything that comes to us is either by God's hand or is filtered through His fingers. To conform us. To change us into His image.

And when life seems out of control, it really isn't. But God IS. In all. Over all.

Pete says, "When life doesn't turn out the way you thought it was going to turn out, you may think you're losing control. But the truth is, you never had control in the first place."

He says, "The greatest of all illusions is the illusion of control."

God takes all of our failures, all of our twisted and broken plans and dreams, and weaves them into His beautiful and perfect plan.

I played the Beatles' song, "Let It Be" for my class yesterday. I didn't realize that Paul McCartney wrote that song during a stressful time in his own life. Based on a dream he had that his mother visited him and told him that everything was going to be okay--to "let it be." You see, his mother's name was Mary. She apparently was a nurse, a midwife, and she died suddenly from breast cancer when Paul was only 14.

A Plan B.

He sang the song at his wife Linda's funeral. And again at a 911 benefit. He was in a plane on the runway at JFK that day and watched the towers burn and crumble.

There's hope in the darkness. Hope in the brokenness. Hope when everything in life goes up in flames or comes crashing down.

God's in control.

Let it be.

Are you living a broken dream today?

How do you respond when things don't go your way?

"I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry . . ." Psalm 40

When Do You Say Good-bye?

2010-05-12T14:46:00.000-04:00

With Mona, our first lab, it was pretty much a no-brainer. She had hip dysplasia and was in obvious pain.

Elsie. Just. Died.

She was a great dog. After she quit digging under the fence. She treed a woodchuck once. And caught a pheasant in the backyard. She loved water.

She survived parvovirus, a whole pound of raw bacon, and Abby's chocolate birthday cake. Though we found sprinkles in the yard for weeks.

And one day I found her in a puddle of piddle. Congestive heart failure. She pulled through that, too.

But died at the vet's while we were on a cruise. She was ten.

Rose was a wild thing when we brought her home. Three years old. Product of a broken marriage and returned to the breeder. She needed us.

She's always been a sickly dog, though. Skin allergies mostly. Icky ears. Perpetual scratching. Expensive foods. Frequent treatments. All kinds of medicines. And then pancreatitis, probably steroid induced.

But she recovered from that.

She hates water. And in the last few years had to lie down during short walks. So we don't walk her any more.

She'll be eleven in October.

She limps. A lot.

She scratches. A lot.

She whines. A lot.

She yelps. Sometimes.

She pants. Sometimes.

She seems restless. Sometimes.

She goes off her food. Sometimes.

And she seems fine enough. Once in a while.

She sleeps a lot.

She seems happiest when she's asleep.

How does one know--really know--when it's time to say goodbye? When it's more about love and relief of suffering than your inconvenience?

Messy carpets. Hair all over. The expense.

I wish I was Dr. Doolittle.

We've talked about it. Dennis called the vet for advice yesterday. He was in surgery, but hubby talked to one of the gals in the office who made an appointment for Saturday. For euthanasia.

But we're having second thoughts.

I prayed about it last night. Asked for some kind of sign.

She didn't get up to go out as early as usual this morning. She hasn't eaten all day. She's been vomiting all day.

Coincidence?

Making this kind of decision is for the dogs.

Have you ever had to do it?

"One reason a dog is such a lovable creature is his tail wags instead of his tongue." ~Unknown

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

For Those With Empty Arms on Mother's Day

2010-05-08T14:04:00.000-04:00

One church. One Mother's Day.

"All you children stand up and face your mothers. All together now repeat after me, 'I love you, Mom.'"

Another church. Another Mother's Day.

"All you grandmothers stand up. All you moms stand up. Now the rest of you women stand up. Because if you're not a mother in the physical sense, you are a mom in the spiritual sense."

Sorry, Pastor. That does not help when you are racked with new and even aging grief. In time, maybe. In time.

And that is why for so many years I avoided church on Mother's Day.

And why I still hurt for those with barren wombs and empty arms on Mother's Day.

And sometimes wonder if it's not best to to erase Mother's Day from the calendar--and honor our own mothers every day.

And so this weekend, for those who suffer, I think of you, my sisters. And I hold you up before the One who knows.

I know.
It's Mother's Day.
I know the burning in your breast
The throbbing chest ready to explode
The aching arms
The tightened throat, choking
The dammed tears
And then the flood.
I know the heartbreak
That follows month after month of scientific love
And manufactured methods.
And then the exhilaration of success
And the devastation of loss.
Fruitless.
I don't know your path of healing
But it will come in time
In some form
And the pain will subside
Somewhat
Leaving an occasional familiar twinge
A thorn.
It's Mother's Day.
And you hurt.
I know.
He knows.

"If your heart is broken, you'll find God right there; if you're kicked in the gut, he'll help you catch your breath." Psalm 34:18 (Message)

Nursing School Memories on National Nurses Day

2010-05-06T21:49:00.000-04:00

Composed by Mrs. Lystra E. Gretter, Detroit, 1893

Memories from nursing school dance in my mind today. I graduated from a hospital diploma program in 1969--a member of the last class.

Most programs lasted three years, but this one packed all the work in two. We went year around. I think the hospital counted us as staff, and some of us also sometimes worked as aides for a little--and I mean little--spending money.

Which was okay because we had no need for much. We spent almost all our time either on the floors, in class, studying, or sleeping.

We lived in a dorm connected to the hospital with a tunnel. Sometimes we amused ourselves with cart races.

Most of the girls roomed with someone else, but Becky and I each had our own room in the end turrets--maybe because we lived further away and stayed on the weekends more often than the others.

I remember the first night was just plain scary. I locked my door and lay on my bed shaking and crying. I wanted to go home. Especially when I heard all the crashing doors and screaming. And then pounding on my door. I didn't answer, didn't move. And found out the next day that the "big sisters" were dragging all the newbies into cold showers.

Initiation.

If we survived the first six months, we received our school cap in a special ceremony. Every school had its own uniform and own cap. You could identify a nurse's school by the cap she wore. I remember sending our caps out to the cleaners who would wash, stiffly starch, and press them flat. We'd need to fold and staple them back together.

Capped by my big sister, Betty.

The ceremony took place in a church, and we are each holding a Nightingale lamp.

My brother carved the school's insignia (from a uniform arm patch) into a plaque as a gift. He cut himself and bled all over the house one weekend I was home --and wouldn't tell me what he was doing. Made me pretty mad.

Some of the things I remember are:

Seeing my instructor's feet outside the curtain while I was giving a complete bed bath. She was eavesdropping.
Having to give up my chair at the charting desk if a doctor appeared.
My first patient death and having to prepare the body.
Passing nasogastric tubes on each other and injecting each other with sterile water (yes, water, not saline.)
Following a patient through an emergency C-section (baby's arm prolapsed) and discharge. The baby had a physical issue that caused doctors to question its sex. At discharge the mom proclaimed, "We love him in spite of his penis problem."
Assisting with a circumcision performed in the nursery. Maybe more traumatic for me than baby.
Stocking my closet with jars of baby fruit for late-night study snacks.
Friday morning (8 a.m.) dates with a formaldehyde cat.
Early morning doctor rounds.
Sunbathing on the dorm roof.
Metal bedpans and emesis basins.
Glass thermometers.
"Man on the floor" warnings when maintenance came up to fix a dorm issue.
Psych rotation--Playing Euchre with the patients, scopolamine and insulin treatments.
Dr. Manning halting surgery to admonish (and embarrass) Becky. "Young lady, we NEVER say 'oops' in the operating room!"
Having to wear our hair off our shoulders.
Yelling "flush" if someone was in the shower so they didn't get scalded.
The fragrance of alcohol, Dial soap, moist dressings, musty halls in the old wing, and fresh paint--among some not-as-pleasant aromas.
Having the difference between empathy and sympathy drilled into us.
Avoiding the autopsy page. We were all supposed to observe one. I always managed to be busy.
Doing post-op teaching for a patient several days after a routine gallbladder removal.

We earned a black stripe for our caps later in our training. After graduation, we could work as a graduate nurse such until we passed state boards, allowing us to add RN after our names.

My first job was in an intensive care unit, which in 1969 would probably remind one of a regular patient room today. I rotated through all three shifts. I couldn't sleep during the day, and I remember a nightmare evening as charge nurse even before I'd passed my boards.

Over the years, I worked as a special duty nurse, office nurse (OB/GYN and family practice), OR nurse, community health educator, and public health nurse. I went back to school in my 40s to get my BSN.

I haven't worked in the field for several years. And I miss it sometimes. I feel a sense of "home" when I step into a hospital, and I keep my license intact--just in case.

Someone reminded me today, "Once a nurse, always a nurse." That need to nurture and comfort in some form continues to be part of who I am.

Even as I've turned to writing.

Nursing is an art; and if it is to be made an art,

it requires as exclusive a devotion, as hard a prepration,

as any painter's or sculptor's work;

for what is the having to do with dead canvas or cold

marble, compared with having to do with the living

body--the temple of God's spirit?

It is one of the Finest Arts;

I had almost said, the finest of Fine Arts.

~Florence Nightingale

Are you a nurse? Do you have memories of training?

Do you know a nurse who creatively practices the art of compassion and caring?

Thank a nurse this week.

National Nurses Week

May 6-12, 2010

The Great Lilac Massacre

2010-05-04T20:25:00.000-04:00

I stood in Abby's drive today and breathed.

Deep.

The heady fragrance of lilacs.

I closed my eyes, lifted my nostrils toward the breeze, and sniffed to capture the aroma trail.

I nearly hyperventilated.

Pure joy!

The bushes grow wild there, lavender and white.

I watched a woman cut a bouquet from them yesterday, her car parked next to the "private drive" sign.

What nerve!

I drove on.

I understood.

As soon as the snow melts, I obsess over the first signs of lilac leaves, then the buds, then the blooms.

From my office and our bedroom windows, I look down on a wild, overgrown area. A log cabin once stood there. We still find artifacts.

My lilac overlook.

That wore a billowing white gown in the spring.

Wore.

Until the Great Lilac Massacre of 2007.

When the OCD demon took control of my son.

With a chainsaw.

For a little spring cleanup.

I ran outside and saw

pure devastation.

Broken and bleeding limbs lay everywhere.

I smelled death.

And when Jeremy saw my face, I'm sure he thought it was his.

I considered it.

But a good long cry seemed a better choice.

My husband thinks the earliest bushes may have graced the cabin.

No matter.

Gone.

All gone.

Except for a handful of survivors. Some that refused to die.

I wish he'd taken out the trees instead.

Poor Jeremy.

He knows he broke my heart.

And stole my joy.

A fleeting joy.

A replaceable joy.

Because nobody can steal the true joy. The inner joy that remains through broken dreams and butchered expectations. The joy that remains steady through the autumns and winters of life as well as the springs and summers. The joy that does not fluctuate with circumstances.

And if I'm very still and tilt my nose upward, I catch a sweet scent of One once broken and bleeding. One who refused to die.

My Joy.

Forever.

"Your statutes are my heritage forever; they are the joy of my heart." Psalm 119:111

What brings you joy?

What is your favorite flower?

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on JOY. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Shabby Chic

2010-04-30T11:07:00.000-04:00

Gracee spends more time at home these days. As a result, Grandma maintains an ever-dwindling supply of clothes.

She slept here several nights this week, though, which presented a school morning challenge.

I usually set out two or three possible outfits for her to choose from.

The other morning, the conversation went something like this.

"I can't wear that butterfly shirt."

"Why not? It's cute."

"It goes with the blue shorts."

"But the shorts are pretty short, maybe too short for school, and it's pretty chilly out. And--wait a minute. You wore this shirt with jeans last week."

"I want to wear the shorts."

"No. How about this outfit?" I point to another pair of jeans and shirt.

"No. I need a different shirt for those jeans, and it's at home."

"Gracee, everything goes with jeans. They are universal pants."

She just looks at me.

"What's wrong with this shirt?" I point to a white shirt pink peppered with the word "Princess."

"Everyone laughed at me the last time I wore it."

"Everyone?"

"Well, Zander did."

"Zander's a boy. What does he know? Anyway, it's a cute shirt."

"No."

"Okay, wear this butterfly shirt with these jeans. You'll look cute, and nobody will laugh."

"No. I already told you. That shirt goes with the blue shorts. I want to wear the blue shorts."

I proceed to give her a lesson in wardrobe planning.

"Look. The fashion police have really good ideas. Pretend this butterfly shirt goes with these jeans, and this princess shirt goes with these jeans. How many outfits do you have?"

"Two."

"Okay. So what if we switch shirts. How many outfits do we have now?"

She just looks at me.

"Four. We have four outfits. Now if we pull out the blue shorts, we have yet another outfit. See? You can wear a shirt with more than one pair of pants or shorts. You have more outfits with fewer clothes."

"I don't want to wear any of those."

I'm exasperated now. "You're not wearing the blue shorts. Choose something quick and come eat. You're going to be late for school."

She came out wearing a short black dress over a pair of jeans.

Good enough.

The next day she brought clothes from home.

A colorful sundress, a pair of gray leggings, a long-sleeved button top (blue and brown that matches a pair of brown leggings--go figure), and battered black Etnies with no socks.

I took a picture and sent it to Abby. She thought she looked "hideous."

I guess that's another way of saying "shabby."

I thought she looked--creative. And cute.

Maybe even chic.

(Don't look at the weeds. I gotta get out there.)

Besides, I have bigger hills to die on.

And she says nobody at school laughed at her.

We worry too much about externals.

Clothes. Cars. Houses.

We pant after the newest gadgets and updates.

We think what our kids wear (or not) and have (or not) is a reflection of our love and care (or not.)

We dress them like little celebrities.

Do they look cute? Do we look stylish? Does everything coordinate?

We suffer from Coachitis and Jordanitis and all other sorts of fashionitis.

I love the Message translation of Jesus' words in Matthew 6:27-29.

"Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? All this time and money wasted on fashion--do you think it makes that much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop, but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby alongside them."

See all the colors? I think Gracee is a beautiful as a field of wildflowers.

What did your child wear to school today?
What are you wearing?

I Saw the Light

2010-04-28T11:31:00.000-04:00

I remember Judy.

Her eyes especially. They lit up a room. Contagious joy.

I didn't know her when her eyes were dark. When she wandered in darkness.

Social cliff climber. Addicted. Swinger. Adulteress. Occult dabbler.

Traveling the reprobate road.

She sent her children to neighbors, friends, and daycares so she could do her own thing.

Enslaved to sin.

Empty.

Until she panicked and realized she was no longer in control.

Until she picked up a long-shelved and unopened Bible that fell open to Matthew.

And she fell in love.

She rose before sunrise and read and cried and prayed all day.

One night she woke up feeling as if a power source had entered her body. She looked at her fingertips and saw light radiating from them. Her husband also woke with a start. "It's only 65 degrees in here, and you're so hot I can't touch you!"

She found her way to our church. And she stayed in the Word.

Her husband was ready to divorce her.

"I could handle your alcoholism. I could even handle the affairs. But I can't handle this affair you're having with this Man, Jesus!"

He tried everything to knock her off her path. While she tried everything to push him onto her path.

Until she sensed that her job was simply to be a light. She maintained a meek and quiet spirit and simply loved and served her husband as she never had before.

One Saturday night they went to a neighborhood party. She retreated with a Coke and watched her husband drink up and toke up and flirt with all the other women. She desperately wanted to go home, but God seemed to tell her to sit still and keep her mouth shut. Later she helped him home. He threw up all night, and she nursed him.

Then she took the children and went to church.

And after the service, she looked up to see her husband "lit up like a candle."

A changed man.

Because she saw the Light.

And she became a light.

The whole family eventually went to the mission field as lights.

And then back home as lights to extended family.

I remember Judy.

And I miss her.

I saw the Light in her.

Who has been a light in your life?

"The unfolding of your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple." Psalm 119:130 (NIV)

"You are the light of the world." Matthew 5:14 (NIV)

Whose fault?

2010-04-26T12:06:00.000-04:00

Abby and I went to my niece's baby shower yesterday.

We had to go around the circle and introduce ourselves.

When my mom's turn came, she gave her name and said, "This is all MY fault."

At my turn, I said, "I'm her daughter, her mother, her sister, and her aunt. And yeah (pointing to my mom), it's all HER fault."

Cuz kinda sorta it is.

I mean if she hadn't met my dad, and they hadn't--well, you know--this little population explosion would never have happened.

HER fault.

I remember when then little Jeremy tumbled down the stairs.

"It's YOUR fault," he screamed at my husband.

"Really?" Dennis asked. "How so?"

"YOU put these socks on me! YOU called me down here! YOU bought this house! It's YOUR fault!"

Well, kinda sorta correcto.

If Dennis and I never met and if we hadn't adopted him and if we hadn't moved into this house with these stairs, he wouldn't have fallen down them.

Yep. OUR fault.

It overwhelms me, really, when I linger too long in thought. How a choice we make in this moment can affect forever moments.

How if my parents' parents' parents hadn't met and had made different choices and my husband's parents' parents' parents hadn't met and had made different choices, we wouldn't be in this place at this time. How if I/we had made different choices, we would not even know our children or they might be totally different people. How two cousins now share a similar experience. How I might not be in love with a precious 7-year-old granddaughter. How my arms throb to hold the ones soon to come.

We are the fruit of yesterday's choices, and the seeds of tomorrow's fruit.

We follow broken roads of the past that lead us straight to the present.

We don't always recognize the signs that point straight to Him. Even the lost and broken dreams. The twisted expectations. The pain.

That somehow it all fits into a grander plan. Part of a bigger tree.

And that we're not really in control anyway.

God bless the broken road that led me here. And that will ultimately lead me home, into my Lover's arms.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Yep. It's HIS fault!

And it's all good.

Very good.

"The mind of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps." Proverbs 16:9 (NASB)

Have you seen signs of Him along your broken paths?

Where have you seen a sign of Him this week?

So Long. Good-bye. Farewell.

2010-04-22T13:01:00.000-04:00

Last week Bonnie Gray invited me in a blog comment here to take a "What If" challenge.

Brainstorm five "what if" questions, she said. Fast. Choose one. And then let's jam about it.

Like today. A week later.

Say what?

I've learned not to stew in a pot of "what if's" or swim in an ocean of regrets any more. Too hot. Too deep. But I do sometimes wonder in a curious way how my life might be different. And occasionally I still wince at some of my naive and stupid choices. But only for a moment. Because I can see how God takes my out-of-tune self and orchestrates a moving symphony.

One He continues to write.

Romantic.

Eternal.

So I don't dwell in those shadows. Takes too much energy.

Then I thought about stuff like what if I got to go to somewhere as a Compassion blogger or to Kenya on a sponsor tour? Or what if I got to visit the Holy Land?

Or what if I actually finished and published a novel?

But it needed to be something that I had some control over--now--with results to report on within the week.

So I came up with a list that doesn't touch some of the more noble and deep ones that others posted, but I could focus on one for a week and see where it led.

Maybe an open door of possibility. Maybe a path to what could be.

1. What if I gave up my addiction?
2. What if I walked every day?
3. What if I was in bed by 11 every night?
4. What if I sat and did nothing for at least 15 minutes every day?
5. What if I took that online novel-writing course?

Not very deep. Simple. Maybe even a bit hokey.

But what if I gave up my addiction?

Hi. My name is Snady.

And I am a Bejeweled Blitzaholic.

What if I gave up that time sucker? No more clacking jewels or colorful explosions. No more words of affirmation and encouragement. "AWEsome!" "Spec-TAC-ular!" No more one more game, one more minute turning into one more hour.

Or more.

No more trying to beat my friends with scores over 300,000. No more late nights. No more blurry eyes or cricked neck.

And so I did!

I gave it up.

Deleted the application from Facebook.

Yup.

Gone.

For a whole week.

Cold turkey.

So long.

Good-bye.

Farewell.

Forever.

And what have I done with that leftover time?

I've walked. Only twice this week for 45 minutes. Three times if you count today. But that's more than last week. Or the week before, or before, or before.

I watched the dust rise from behind tractors.I marveled at tine-straight furrows and pondered my own life path that looks more like a curly straw.

I inhaled the aroma of fresh-turned earth and listened to frogs plop into puddle-ponds pooled in last year's corn stalks. I patted passing horses. I took pictures as possible illustrations for blog posts.

And I've been to bed before 11. Even before 1 a.m. Every night but one when I got caught up writing.

I sat still once.

I stripped more wallpaper while I watched the History Channel for 6 hours!

I read more.

I don't know if it's all because of giving up a game. Maybe I just want to believe that. But surely I didn't spend THAT many hours playing.

I hope.

Anyway.

I'm still thinking about the class. I have until the end of the month for the specific one I'm thinking about.

And I joined ACFW just this morning. On my to-do list for months.

And so with my new-found time, my new-found health (I'm giving up M&M's too, doncha know--maybe), and even with a soon-to-come new granddaughter to dote on, what new movement might God write next?

Because I said good-bye to an addiction.

What if I finish a novel by the end of the year?

Is it possible?

Could it be?

What if . . . ?

NOTE: To read how others responded to this challenge, head over to the Faith Barista Jam.

Do you live with regrets? Do you wallow in the past?

Do you have any "what ifs" that could open the door to a "what could be?"

What would you throw off, do, change, start if you believed God was in it?

"I run for dear life to God, I'll never live to regret it." Psalm 71:3 (Message)

Self-Control: A Limerick

2010-04-20T18:49:00.000-04:00

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, honor God with your body.

1 Corinthians 6:18-20 (NIV)

There once was a writer from Michigan

Whose mirror revealed the shape she was in.

M&M's in a bowl

And with no self-control

She emptied it faster than any man.

The writer then realized her sin.

The temple the Spirit lived in

Had gone all to pot

And healthy was not

Good-by M&M's, hello thin.

Now the writer was bought at a price.

For honor she'll overcome this vice.

She'll pray ev'ry day

M&M's stay away

And chocolate will no longer entice.

Disclaimer: This limerick is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, including the author, is entirely coincidental.

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on SELF-CONTROL. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Thanks--I Needed That!

2010-04-19T11:49:00.000-04:00

Trinity Touch Times.

"Gathering to touch our community in simple ways."

The church flowing out of the church.

Being the church.

Loving and caring and surprising.

With no strings attached.

Just random acts of kindness to "show God's love in a practical way."

Like hanging around a self-service laundry with a handful of quarters.

Like staking out a gas station with a handful of $5 gas cards.

Like hosting a dollar car wash--where instead of charging a dollar, the "washee" receives a dollar for the privilege of washing his or her car.

Like paying for the order behind you in the fast food drive-through line.

For starters.

Ed coordinates this ministry for our church. He has such a tender heart.

He told a story about three weeks ago that still haunts me.

He and a small group of others were spread out on Michigan State's campus passing out goodie bags. I don't know what all they contained. A bottle of water. An energy bar. Other stuff.

I probably don't have the story totally straight, but here's the gist of it.

Ed held one last bag with nobody in sight. He prayed for a recipient and headed down an alley. He saw someone coming toward him.

Only one someone.

The kind of someone you don't want to stare at, but you do want to take it all in.

Or the kind of someone you might just want to ignore. Avert your eyes. Maybe even feel an ounce of fear toward.

Kind of a cross between Goth and punk. Whatever they are.

Dressed all in black. Spiked hair. Chains. Studs. Covered in piercings and tattoos.

All alone.

Even Ed hesitated a second, but then stopped him and said something like, "I just want to give this to you and tell you God loves you."

Silence. For a brief second. And their eyes locked. There might have been a tear in the young man's eye.

"Thanks," he said. "I needed that."

And a tear welled up in Ed's eye. They hugged. And the young man went on his way. He didn't even know what the bag contained.

So what did he need? Someone to look him in the eye and tell him they cared. That God cared. That he mattered.

It's what we all need really.

Someone who will lock eyes with us.

Acknowledge us.

Offer a smile, a touch, a kind word.

Or a glass of water. Or an energy bar. Or even a handful of wilted dandelions.

Regardless of our appearance. Or even our attitude. Or because of.

Because we all hide hurts.

And we all need to know we matter.

And that someone cares.

Thanks. I needed that.

When did someone last perform a random act of kindness for you? How did you feel before and after? When did you last perform a random act for someone else? What resulted?

"My brethren, pay no servile regard to people [show no prejudice, no partiality]. Do not [attempt to] hold and practice the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ [the Lord] of glory [together with snobbery]! James 2:1 (Amplified)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Almost Missed It

2010-04-16T11:02:00.000-04:00

I almost missed it.

Nose in Bible. Pen in journal.

But I looked up. Out into the field.

And watched a male turkey try to gain the attention of several females.

Who paid him no mind.

He fluffed. He fanned. He followed.

Back and forth. The caboose on the train. The shovel in the parade.

At one point a second male approached the front of the line. But the females just veered to the right leaving both males stranded. I thought there'd be a fight. But no. Both males just looked kind of resigned, and male #2 eventually went his own way while male #1 continued the dance.

In gentleman fashion.

While the females pecked at the ground.

Ignoring him.

I almost missed it.

Just like I often miss the majesty and splendor God parades before me and around me. Or simply ignore it. While I aimlessly peck head down through my day. Or rattle and crash through it like a runaway grocery cart in a parking lot.

While I pay Him no mind.

I almost missed this.

And this.

And these.

I almost missed the opportunity to marvel at the marvelous.

To wonder at the wonderful.

I need to slow down more. I need to look up more.

I don't want to miss it.

I don't want to miss Him.

Where have you seen God today?

"What a wildly wonderful world, God! You made it all with wisdom at Your side, made earth overflow with your wonderful creations." Psalm 104:24 (Message)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

6 Lessons Learned on a Messy Monday

2010-04-14T14:41:00.000-04:00

Weekend messes greeted me Monday morning.

No worries. The day stretched before me like a yawning feline.

Lazy day.

Got my hair cut and colored in the morning. Clogged floor drain so I couldn't do laundry. No Tuesday class to prep for because of a planned testimony and potluck.

I figured I could play a little, write a little, play a little.

And I did.

About 3:00, I decided I'd pay some bills, straighten the house, and start a creative dinner.

But then Abby called and asked if I'd meet her at the store and help pick out thank-you notes. Shouldn't take too long.

On my way, Jeremy called. He blew a tire crossing railroad tracks, but he'd called a tow truck to haul him to Wal-Mart. All cool.

Abby and I picked out cards. We both needed to pick up a few groceries. She complained of feeling very tired. Gracee did wheelies with the cart.

Jeremy called again. Wal-Mart didn't have a tire. They put on the spare, and the spare blew on his way to the only tire store in town. He didn't know what to do. Insurance only allows one tow a day. He didn't even know if the tire store had a tire, and he didn't have a number to call, and he didn't want to call information, and he really wanted to get to basketball, and his dad "wouldn't" answer his phone, and "I'm really starting to freak out, and the tire store closes in 20 minutes."

Jeremy has OCD.

Meanwhile, my phone reception in the back of the store was awful. I ran to the front to hear and to pay for my items (still holding the thank-you notes), remembering that I would need to get gas before I could get to Jeremy. I ran my debit card (as a credit--I always do because I never have enough cash, and I hate to waste checks.)

Not authorized.

I forgot! Happened earlier in the day, and I had meant to call the bank. That was on the list of stuff I planned to do "later." So I wrote my second check of the day with my ear to my phone and ran out the door and over to the gas station to pay for $3 worth of gas in change to get to Jeremy before the tire store closed.

Leaving Abby and Gracee to fend for themselves.

While my own frustration mounted.

Jeremy decided he just wanted to take the bad tire to the tire store and get a new one for $135 (all the money he had just withdrawn to buy some work clothes.) We skidded through the door in the nick of time and left with a new tire. The original plan was for me to take him home to change and then to basketball and then he'd have a friend bring him back to the truck where his dad would meet him and help him change the tire. He decided to change it on his own.

So we returned to the truck--behind which sat a police car with flashing lights. The officer cancelled his tow truck call, and talked Jeremy through changing the tire and even loaned him a sturdier jack.

Crisis resolved.

Whew!

I stopped at Abby's to drop off the thank-you notes. And she proceeded to tell me about HER afternoon that started downhill when she was late to pick up Gracee from school. Gracee had a wad of dandelions in her hand, and Abby, envisioning "butter and milk" in the car, told her to leave them and realized her mistake as soon as the words left her lips. Gracee threw them on the ground with a "Fine! They were for you." Abby tried to redeem the situation by suggesting to Gracee that perhaps Grandma would help her buy a little flower at the store.

Of course, by the time they got to checkout, Grandma was long gone, which threw Gracee into another tizzy because Abby didn't have the money to buy a flower. In fact, Abby discovered she had NO money and no way to pay for her purchase. At that point, she just wanted to sit down in the aisle and cry. As it turned out, Lee was on his way back from Lansing, so they just waited for him rather than needing my rescue. But at some point, Gracee (yes, sweet Gracee) played the "I just want to die" card, and that turned into an ugly scene--which was resolved by the time I got to their house. Gracee was fine, and Abby had just finished a good cry.

Whew!

When I got home, I picked a few flowers and took back to Gracee to give to mom.

Dennis had managed to call the bank between Jeremy's calls to discover the bank had put a hold on our card because Dennis had used it the day before to pay for some suits--an unusually large purchase for us with an unfamiliar payee.

Whew!

Dennis and I ate leftovers in a messy kitchen that night, and I finally paid bills around 9:00--including a credit card, which I paid off--but since it was after 5 on the due date, I can expect to see a late fee.

Sigh!

What did I (and my children) learn on Messy Monday?

It never pays to procrastinate.
It never pays to freak out.
It never pays to speak before you think.
It always pays to pray.
It always pays to laugh.
And it always pays to be prepared.

Because a day can suddenly turn messy.

And stuff can happen.

Are you a procrastinator? How do you cope when life interrupts your plan?

"Watch therefore [give strict attention and be cautious and active], for you know neither the day nor the hour when the Son of Man will come." Matthew 25:13 (Amplified)

I Cannot Do All Things

2010-04-13T07:30:00.000-04:00

Do you sail ships you were never meant to sail? Or is it time to dock the ship?

Does your stomach churn through waves of responsibility initiated by the propeller of a poor self-image and the inability to say, "No?"

Have you gotten so busy doing you forgot about being?

Do you spend so much time making Him known that you don't make time to know Him?

Been there. Done that. Repeated that. Several times.

To read more, check out my Godly Girl's guest post over at Mel's World.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

No Regrets

2010-04-12T14:35:00.000-04:00

My daughter and my niece. Both due in June.

I'm 61 years old. And almost a half.

You'd think I'd be over it by now.

I am. Mostly.

But sometimes I still sense the faintest twinge of jealousy.

A ripple of regret.

A sliver of sadness.

A pensive moment of wonder.

What would it have been like to see my belly ripple?

To feel an inward wave of movement?

A kick of life?

And yes. Even the nausea and the fatigue and the bloat.

The miracle of creation.

Begetting. Bearing. Birthing.

With one request.

An identical outcome.

Because I can't imagine any other life.

Abby and Jeremy - ages 6 months and 4 years. (1989)

And so I embrace what is.

Because it was.

Planned and purposed.

Before my time.

A miracle of creation.

From an empty womb.

Pregnant with faith.

Perfused with love.

Heart stretched past capacity.

Overflows.

Blessing begats blessing.

Granddaughter Gracee - age 5-1/2 (2007)

And life is a kick.

No regrets.

(No stretch marks, either.)

" . . . we can't round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!" Romans 5:5 (The Message)

Can you live a life with no regrets? Can you embrace what is?

Morning poem

2010-04-10T07:54:00.000-04:00

Arise, oh sleeper.

A new day bursts

Wide open with promise.

Behold a robin

Dance of life.

Hark! A feathered melody.

Rejoice.

Give thanks.

And sing!

"Surprise us with love at daybreak; then we'll skip and dance all day long. Psalm 90:14 (MSG)

My Cups Overflow

2010-04-08T21:59:00.000-04:00

Cup. Mug. Glass.

Do you have one nearby? I do. Almost all the time. And sometimes more than one.

Containers. Vessels.

They hold a lot of symbolism.

Circular rims--no beginning and no end.

Designed for use.

Thirst quenchers and comfort givers.

Sometimes worn and flawed.

Sometimes stained and mold coated.

Different shapes and various sizes.

Fragile and sturdy.

Microwave safe--or not.

Dishwasher safe--or not.

Must be emptied to be filled.

Must be filled to be emptied.

During my declutter frenzy, I pared down my stash. These favorites survived.

The company that takes care of family--employees and policyholders. I so appreciate that my husband's job as an agency standards consultant is secure and allows me to follow my dreams. I love the crackled look of this mug because I so often feel that way. I don't drink from this.

I don't drink from this cup either. But it reminds me of the cup Jesus drank from and that if I am to follow Him, I need to drink from it, too. It reminds me of a young girl in Kenya and of the organization that reaches out in compassion "releasing children from poverty in Jesus' name." On the back it says, "Children are great imitators. So give them something great to imitate." Good thought.

An often-used mug for coffee or tea or cocoa. I bought it back in the day when I buried myself in quilting to battle the pain of infertility. It encourages me to think of how God takes all the broken pieces and scraps of my life to create a patchwork masterpiece.

I just love Lucy! And I love chocolate. You probably didn't know that, right? My daughter bought this mug for me. It makes me smile, sometimes giggle, and sometimes laugh out loud. I think that's a good thing.

Abby also got this mug for me. It's cracked on the other side but still very useful. I use it a lot. I like to think I'm useful in spite of my cracks.

Company cups. The upper left is from my everyday dishes, but I don't regularly use the cup. The other cups belonged to my mother-in-law (upper right) and her mother (front and center.) I need to use those dishes more. Things of such beauty and sentiment don't belong behind closed doors.

Gift cups. I use these when I want (need) to pamper myself, maybe curl up with a good book and a candle and sip on a unique herb tea. We all need to feel special sometimes.

Vintage Cracker Barrel. I may treat myself to one of these for morning coffee. They might be chickens, but I still hear a cock crow in my head reminding me of Peter's impulsiveness and denial and Jesus' forgiveness and Peter becoming the rock he was meant to be. On the lighter side, they bring back memories of the chickens we raised for a couple of years--but that's another story. These are great, too, for large homemade lattes topped with lots of whipped cream.

These were my mother-in-law's toy dishes. I don't use them, but I enjoy looking at them and thinking of her playing with them as a girl. She would have been 101 years old this year. I'm also reminded that the cups are really small, which means they would brim over really fast. I think our spirit cups have a way of expanding.

I use one of these goblets and sip on ice water throughout the day. I could use a plain old thing, but I love the vine design and the way the glass catches the light and the way it feels when I grasp it. I think I drink more water because of it.

This mug is on order. A treat to myself when I finish my Sweeter Than Chocolate study of Psalm 119--with a hope that I'll grow to love the Word even more than a bag of M&M's.

My cups still overflow. My cup overflows. Oh, to be a useful vessel overflowing for Him.

"But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, so that the surpassing greatness of the power will be of God and not from ourselves." 2 Corinthians 4:7 (NASB)

What kind of spiritual symbolism can you see in a cup?

Do you have a special one that you like to use?

Gentleness--Power Under Control

2010-04-06T21:35:00.000-04:00

My husband's great uncle was killed in World War I. The wheel horses were King horses, and the rest belonged to area farmers.

"Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth." Matthew 5:5 (NIV)

"You hold Turk while I saddle Ike."

Dennis had taken me home to meet his parents. But mostly to gain horse approval. And the approval of saddle club members.

Me nervous?

Maybe.

Kind of.

A lot.

I rode a grade school friend's horse once. Nearly scraped off half my back as it galloped into the barn.

Anyway, I grasped the end of the reins. Turk happily chomped the grass. And when he "reached the end of his rope," he simply gave a mighty tug of the head and jerked me along behind him. Across the friends' backyard. Over and over.

Chomp. Chomp. Jerk.

Chomp. Chomp. Jerk.

Until the saddle horn caught on the clothesline. He jumped. And both posts collapsed inward, upending their cement "roots."

Good first impression.

Uncontrolled strength. Unharnessed power.

Turk knew his master. And he knew not me.

Dennis and Turk.

Dennis tried me out on Lady. She limped down the road and tried to bite my toes. When we turned back toward the barn, she broke into a run while I, wild-eyed, grabbed the saddle horn as if it were my last bag of M&M's.

Years later, I came across this verse:

"But let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God." 1 Peter 3:4 (NIV)

So I set out to implement those characteristics in my life.

By not talking.

At the time, I transcribed reports for Heidi, a rehabilitation nurse. She would share things that were going on in her life, and I would listen. In silence. Months later she finally asked me what I was hiding. She even said her thoughts turned to the Mafia. I think she was serious.

My efforts did not produce the quality.

Because I couldn't.

Impossible.

And, of course, my self-control only evidenced itself with acquaintances anyway.

At home? Another story.

Uncontrolled tongue. Unharnessed emotions

I knew my Master. But I took the reins.

The Greek for "gentle" in both verses is prays. Also translated "meek."

Not weak.

A strong word.

A tamed animal.

A broken colt.

Power under control.

A fruit of the spirit.

Gentleness, or meekness, speaks of training and learning to handle heavy loads in the lightest way. A surrender to the master's control.

And a quiet spirit does not necessarily mean a quiet personality. It does not mean silence.

A gentle and quiet spirit is unruffled. Free from frenzy. But it can be angry at the right time at the right person in the right way for the right length of time.

Stability in stress.

Courage in crisis.

Tranquility in turbulence.

Peace in the preposterous.

Impossible on my own.

A gentle and quiet spirit says, "God, I give you the reins in this situation. I accept this in your sovereignty because you want to make me more like Jesus through it. I willingly accept the yoke. I embrace it. And I embrace you as you embrace me."

Controlled by the Spirit.

Harnessed to Jesus.

Wendy and me. Dennis' parents bought her for me. After I'd learned a little.

He's Alive!

2010-04-04T00:11:00.000-04:00

Tu Lips are made to praise!

He's alive, and I'm forgiven.

Heaven's gates are open wide.

Alleluia!

Black Saturday - A Meditation

2010-04-03T13:20:00.000-04:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/callmetim/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Disappointment.
Crushed hopes.
Gut-wrenching grief.
Heart-stopping fear.
Defeat.
Sealed tomb.
Darkness.
Death.

Final four.
Spring break.
Easter Bunny.
Egg hunts.
Yard work.
Meal preparations.
Readied finery.

God's appointment.
Fragrant hope.
Unrestrained joy.
Renewed courage.
Victory.
Empty tomb.

Light.

Life.

"And they went and made the grave secure, and along with the guard they set a seal on the stone."

Matthew 27:66 (NASB)

Will you remember today?

More Time in the Light

2010-04-02T12:04:00.000-04:00

My living room boasts two large windows, one about ten feet wide and the other about eight. Heavy floor-to-ceiling decorator drapes hang from each. I don't know how much they weigh. Heavy. Took forever to find traverse rods long enough and substantial enough to support them.

A few gentle tugs on a cord in the morning part the veil. Darkness flees, and a light flood washes over the room. I stand face to face with the sun. Momentarily blinded, I shade my eyes.

I need more time in the light.

Dust particles dance while smears and smudges clap in time.

Exposed.

The animals saunter in to spy out the land and bask in the warmth.

I think about Moses and how his face glowed after an encounter with the Almighty and how the people could not look at him unless he veiled his face.

My family does not shrink back from me. I don't need a veil.

Pity.

I need more time in the Light.

My mind wanders to another veil. Purple and blue and scarlet. Thirty feet wide. Sixty feet long. The thickness of a man's palm--about four inches. (Some sources say three.) Tradition says it took 300 priests to hang it, and Josephus says horses hooked to each side could not tear it.

The veil separated the Holy from the Most Holy. Only the high priest could enter once a year on the Day of Atonement. It symbolized sinful man's separation from a holy God.

A division.

A barrier.

Christ's body.

And when Jesus died, the veil split from top to bottom.

A Light flood.

Exposed.

A way.

Directly into His presence.

Face to face.

I need more time in the Light.

"And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom." Matthew 27:50-51 (NIV)

"Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us through the curtain, that is, his body, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near to God with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water." Hebrews 10:19-22 (NIV)

Do you need more time in the Light?

My Vision is Whack

2010-03-31T17:06:00.000-04:00

They have eyes, but they do not see.

Psalm 135:16b

My vision is whack.

I've worn glasses ever since I can remember. Grade school I think. Some of those old pictures aren't fit for human eyes.

But here's one anyway.

One thing I do know: that though I was blind, now I see.

John 9:25b

I wear contacts now. I got them when I was a senior in high school. I had no problem breaking them in. I wanted them.

I really wanted them.

Bad.

More than anything.

Give me your heart, my son, and let your eyes delight in my ways.

Proverbs 23:26

I sometimes even forget and fall asleep with them in.

I still wear the old kind. Hard. Gas permeable. My doctor tried to convert me to the soft ones a few years back. I tried. Sort of. I hate touching my eye. (Though I don't mind manipulating or digging "lost" contacts out of the corner of my eyeball.)

I like the old ones. I like the old ways better.

See, I am doing a new thing!

Isaiah 43:19a

Today I wear monovision contacts. Doctor told me I had them mixed up one day. But he said that was a good thing, too, because it meant I tolerated them so well. I guess not everyone does. Now I try to remember that "read is right." I close my left eye to see if I can read with my right eye. If not, I switch.

I always get in trouble for wearing them too long. Sometimes I fudge when he asks.

Or is that lying?

For he who lacks these qualities (knowledge, self control, perserverence, godliness, brotherly kindness, love) is blind or short sighted.

2 Peter 1:9a

I do have "backup" glasses.

I hate them.

I had a plank in my eye once. Felt like it anyway. Turned out to be a metal sliver. Don't know where it came from. Doc removed it (didn't hurt a bit), and I had to wear glasses until it healed.

Dust and pollen feel like boulders. And make me cry. And make my mascara run. And it's worth it.

I have two pairs of glasses.

One is a pair of bifocals. Yes. Sigh.

The optometric assistant talked me into the frames.

I hate them. (The glasses. The frames are okay. Dennis hates those.)

But now they're "too strong."

The other pair is for computer work. I wear them the most. I can see well enough around the house with them. Not well enough to drive.

I hate them, too.

And now I have to take them off to read.

Glasses smear and fog up. And Gary (the too-old-for-me neighbor boy) used to love to lick two fingers and smudge the lenses. I didn't care, though. At least he was paying attention to me.

For now we see through a mirror dimly, but then face to face.

1 Corinthians 13:12

I can't see with them. I can't see without them.

I need to fill a new contact prescription, too. And then get prescription sunglasses. Because contacts and beaches don't go well together.

Which reminds me. There's a contact somewhere in Lake Michigan sand.

If they ever tell me I can no longer wear contacts, I'll ride a banana peel to the nearest LASIK center.

Because my vision is whack.

How is your vision today?

I pray the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of his calling.

Ephesians 1:18

Pondering Palms

2010-03-29T10:36:00.000-04:00

The [uncompromisingly) righteous shall flourish like the palm tree [be long lived, stately, upright, useful, and fruitful."

Psalm 92:12a (Amplified)

Tamar.

Many Hebrew parents named their girls "date palm," a name that symbolized elegance, grace, and beauty.

These trees once flourished in the Holy Land. The ancients called Jericho "the city of palms," and some believe the date palm could be the oldest fruit-bearing tree in the world.

Date palms stretch toward heaven, growing a foot a year. They can reach heights of 80-100 feet, especially if suckers are pruned. Each leaf on its "crown" can grow 10-20 feet in length, sheltering clusters of fruit. Each cluster can weigh as much as 20-40 pounds and bear 600-1700 dates. The palms can produce fruit for over 60 years.

An Arab saying states that a palm should have its "head in the fire and its roots in the water." They are "children of the desert," and their presence in the burning sand signifies a place of rest and refreshment, life-giving water and nourishment for the body. An oasis in a harsh world.

The stem of the date palm sways back and forth in a storm, flexible and unyielding. Its length bears scars showing where leaves have fallen off.

Ancients celebrated its more than 360 uses from beauty to food to medicine to building. The tree could satisfy almost every temporal need.

Amazing trees.

Symbols of strength, prosperity, joy, and victory.

People often waved branches in the air or carpeted the road to honor winning athletes, conquering heroes, and arriving kings.

Like Jesus.

"So they took branches of palm trees and went out to meet Him. And as they went, they kept shouting, Hosanna! Blessed is He and praise to Him Who comes in the name of the Lord, even the King of Israel!"

John 12:13 (Amplified)

"Save us. Save us now!"

The people expected an earthly kingdom. Salvation from Rome. They organized an impromptu TEA party. They paved the road with their garments and palm fronds. Expecting freedom. Not prepared for disappointment. They didn't realize that Jesus had come to Jerusalem to die. For them. For us. That His eyes were on eternity.

They didn't know then that the palms that had blessed and healed and gently cupped a face would soon quiver with the excruciating pain of crucifixion nails.

Many years ago, I remember lying on my back on my living room floor, arms outstretched, begging God to let me feel what Jesus felt. And I heard Him speak to my heart. "It's over. Finished. It's not your pain to bear."

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands."

Isaiah 49:16 (NIV)

I want to flourish like a palm tree. Pruning life suckers. Stretching upward, yet bowing with fruitfulness. Diving deep into living water. Sustained through hot times and an oasis for others on desert journeys.

I envision my tattooed picture on and my name carved into His palm.

I want to live with my own palms wide open to surrender those temporal things I want to cling to.

With palms down to release worry and stress.

With palms up to receive His love and peace and strength.

What is your palm position today?

I Will Sing

2010-03-25T15:34:00.000-04:00

I couldn't sing on Sunday.

I had laryngitis.

So frustrating for one who loves to sing.

As a child, I stood on a salt lick stage in the woods and serenaded whatever critters would listen. I pretended to be Patti Page.

I stood outside under the stars and sang "Johnny Angel" as loud as I could. Only I changed "Johnny" to "Gary," a neighbor who was too old for me.

When I sang "Where the Boys Are," my sister declared I sounded just like Connie Francis. She has a much better ear now.

Yeah, I'm that old.

And truth? Still, when I'm all alone, I turn up the music and sing like a real singer.

Shhh. That's our secret.

Oh, I've had some singing "gigs" over the years. I sang a medley from Sound of Music when I ran for National Cherry Queen. I've sung in church choirs. Even sang solos and duets. Sometimes well. Sometimes disastrously.

People used to say they liked to watch me sing because I was so "animated." I still remember how I glowed for days for "really sticking that high A."

But I'm no Susan Boyle or Sandi Patty.

Not even close.

I wonder if David had a good voice.

I've thought about taking lessons. But these days I'm finding it easier to fade into the background. And at this point, it's not a dream I feel led to follow hard after.

So how come God gave me this great desire but not the great talent?

Maybe because He wants me to sing for an audience of One?

On whatever stage and in whatever stage I find myself?

With or without a voice?

I can do that.

I will sing!

"I will sing to the Lord as long as I live; I sing praise to my God while I have my being." Psalm 104:33 (NIV)

Can you sing--even if you "can't?" In whatever stage you find yourself?

Faithful to the End

2010-03-23T16:23:00.000-04:00

It happened at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado, on April 20, 1999.

"Do you believe in God?"

"Yes, I believe in God."

"Why?"

But before Cassie could answer, he shot her. Dead.

Faithful to the end.

They shot Rachel Scott, too. Twice in the legs and once in the torso.

The shooters left but soon returned.

One yanked Rachel's head up by her hair.

"Do you believe in God?"

"You know I do."

"Then go be with Him." And he shot her in the head. Dead.

Faithful to the end.

The book Jesus Freaks shares story after story after story of Christians threatened, imprisoned, tortured, and killed over the years for the sake of Jesus. Very tough reading.

Faithful to the end.

For the One who is faithful to the end.

I don't know if I could do it. I don't know if I could be faithful to the end with a nozzle at my nose.

I don't know if I could take a bullet for my child or spouse.

I don't know if I could stand for Jesus if not doing it meant no suffering for me or my family.

I'd like to think I could. But honestly, I don't know if I could.

I don't know if I could be faithful to the end.

And it saddens me. And scares me.

I'm even a little afraid to write this post.

I've been consumed with these thoughts because this morning I taught on the last Beatitude.

"Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil toward you because of Me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great; for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you."

Matthew 5:10-12

I'm okay with the happy dances in the preceding verses. Here, though, not so much.

But the reality is that if I accept my spiritual poverty and mourn and hunger and thirst and all that other stuff, "they" will come after me. Because the more I pant for Him, the more I become like Him.

And I can't expect different results. If I bring comfort, I'll make others uncomfortable. If I make peace, I'll stir up trouble.

And I'll suffer in some form.

Fact.

He said so.

"If they persecuted me, they will also persecute you." (John 15:20)

And that's not all.

"Indeed, all who desire to live godly in Christ Jesus will be persecuted." (2 Timothy 3:12)

"For to you it has been granted for Christ's sake, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for His sake." (Philippians 1:29)

Yikes.

Truth is--suffering proves I belong to the kingdom. That should make me happy. Enough to rejoice. Enough to be exceedingly glad.

I might escape death, but I can't escape abuse. If I'm not suffering in some form, even subtly, I need to reassess my life.

None of the disciples escaped persecution or death. All except John were killed in the end--beheaded, crucified, stoned, clubbed, or stabbed. John may have miraculously survived a pot of boiling oil.

All stood faithful to the end--though in the beginning they possessed little faith and a lot of fear.

Like me.

God knew what they needed when they needed it.

He knows what I need when I need it.

And because He is faithful, He provides--will provide.

Early Christians paid a price for faith. From lion food to torches. From racking to roasting

Christians today endure hacking and burning. They endure torture and rape. They watch homes burn, families torn apart, jobs lost.

God saves some. But not others. I don't know why. He's different.

And He calls me to be different. Different enough to risk some harassment. Different enough to risk possible death.

Faithful to the end.

When John the Baptist sat in prison (what Max Lucado calls his "dungeon of doubt" in The Applause of Heaven), he sent his disciples to Jesus to ask Him if He really was the Expected One. And Jesus sent word back of those who now saw and heard. Of those cleansed and those who lived. Of good news preached to the poor (in spirit.)

Of the unacceptable now accepted. Of the rejected now received. Of the devalued now valued.

Our kingdom. His kingdom. Come.

Jesus had His eyes on the eternal.

My eyes linger on the temporary.

"Lord stamp eternity on my eyes!" (Jonathan Edwards)

In Acts 1:8 Jesus said, " . . . you shall be My witnesses . . . to the remotest part of the earth."

The Greek word for "witness" is "martys." A spectator of something in a historical or a legal sense. But it also means "those who after his example have proved the strength and genuineness of their faith in Christ by undergoing a violent death."

Martyrs.

Faithful to the end.

Jesus Freaks gives these definitions of a martyr:

1. One who chooses to suffer death rather than to deny Jesus Christ or His work.
2. One who bears testimony to the truth of what he has seen or heard or knows, as in a witness in a court of justice.
3. One who sacrifices something very important to further the kingdom of God.
4. One who endures severe or constant suffering for their Christian witness.
5. A Jesus Freak.

There's a cost to following Jesus. There's a cost to living for Him. There's a cost to living like Him.

While I might not be called to martyr my life, I must martyr my comfortable way of life. I have to count the cost. To be His disciple. To be His witness--His martys.

And like Cassie, I need to say, "Yes," every day.

Faithful to the end.

For the One who is faithful to the end.

Have you suffered persecution in any form? What in your life will you martyr today?

Links to check out:
Jesus Freaks
Open Doors
Voice of the Martyrs

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on FAITHFULNESS. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Spring Awakening

2010-03-18T10:22:00.000-04:00

Spring yawns

Slips from its disintegrating blanket

And pushes up from its wintry grave.

Pregnant lilacs in the greening air.

Death consumed by life.

Everywhere.

"I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me will live even if he dies." John 11:25

Would You Risk a Pinch for a Vision?

2010-03-17T11:37:00.000-04:00

St. Patrick's Day.

All things green. Shamrocks. Corned beef and cabbage. Beer.

And pinches if you don't celebrate "properly."

But maybe we should instead celebrate vision. Perception. A way of looking at life. A way of reaching up and out. A willingness to risk a pinch.

When he was about 16, Irish raiders kidnapped Patrick from his family's farm in Britain, took him back to Ireland, and forced him into slavery. He worked as a shepherd and grew deep in faith during those years alone. About five years later, he apparently received a vision to run for the coast where he would find a way to escape. He returned home only to have another vision--a call back to the land of his imprisonment. A call to set his captors free. A call to spread the gospel in a foreign land. A vision worth a pinch.

"Be Thou My Vision," the beautiful Irish hymn, has its roots in an ancient Irish poem possibly written by Dallan Forgaill, a 6th century martyr. Mary E. Byrne translated the old Irish in 1905, and Eleanor Hull set it in verses in 1912. The medieval folksong, Slane, named after the Hill of Slane, carries the lyrics. Now we connect this hymn to St. Patrick's vision and to a flame that once burned, possibly on this hill.

Side Note: I find it interesting that Slane (Baile Shlaine) means "homestead of fullness."

Tradition says that in 433 A.D., Patrick risked a pinch when he lit a paschal fire on the Hill of Shane. In doing so, he openly defied a decree that outlawed any fires in the vicinity of the great festival fire lit at nearby Tara to honor the spring equinox. This infuriated the king who could have killed Patrick, but the king was apparently so struck by Patrick's courage and commitment, and perhaps eloquent preaching, he allowed him to continue his missionary work.

Patrick had a vision, an inner flame that allowed him to rise from adversity, to use the flames of adversity to light a flame for the Light.

Do you have a vision? Would you "risk a pinch for it"?

" . . . I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, lofty and exalted with the train of His robe filling the temple." Isaiah 6:1 (NASB)

"Where there is no vision, the people perish . . ." Proverbs 29:18 (KJV)

Sweet melody. Sweet voices.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I am Here--This is Now

2010-03-15T22:32:00.000-04:00

Dennis and I got these T-shirts at our first Celebrate Your Marriage conference. I don't remember how Jay and Laura explained the original meaning, but my takeaway was this:

I am here. This is now.

Not the past. Not the future.

Now. The present.

Celebrate now.

Now.

Not fretting about yesterday's mistakes, failures, hurts, or disappointments.

Gone. Can't do anything about them now.

Not fretting about tomorrow's mistakes, failures, hurts, or disappointments.

Might never happen. Can't do anything about them now.

Not living with regret. Not living with fear.

Not dwelling in the past. Not living in the future.

Not consumed with "what ifs."

Present in the present. To His presence.

Now.

I am here. This is now.

And I will celebrate now.

Now.

Where are you right now?

"Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." Matthew 6:34

Blessed Beggars

2010-03-11T15:32:00.000-05:00

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 5:3

I traveled to Kenya during the past week. Not in body, but in spirit. Images described and photos posted by the Compassion Bloggers seared my heart. I sloshed through mud and garbage with them. I pinched my nose against the stench of hopelessness. I winced at eating food prepared in and by the unknown.

I heard the soul sobs. I wept.

Poverty. Abject poverty.

Dirt poor.

Crushed.

Powerless.

We have to grasp the tentacles of that kind of physical poverty before we can comprehend what Jesus meant about spiritual poverty.

"Poor" comes from a Greek word that means "to crouch." Those who are poor recognize they are destitute, suffocating with no spirit breath. Helpless. Dying. Hearts as dirty and cluttered as a slum.

Until they give up and give over. They creep through the dirt to touch the hem of compassion, beg for a crumb, cringe out of fear. And Compassion Himself reaches down and gives them the kingdom. Someone said the door is low, and only those who crawl can enter. They leave self on the outside. They crouch and receive a crown.

No longer hopeless. Now hope filled. The poor become rich.

Blessed. Happy. Dancing

Like these children in a Compassion International project in the midst of Mathare, the most dangerous slum in Kenya.

Kenyan Song in Mathare from Ryan Detzel on Vimeo.

John Bunyan wrote, "Christ makes princes of beggars."

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." Psalm 34:18

Have you recognized your poverty? Then sing!

Goodness in a Gideon

2010-03-09T17:23:00.000-05:00

And God saw that it was good, very good.

How could it be otherwise? Because He is good.

He IS good. Good IS God. His essence is goodness.

Godness is goodness.

God puts the "oo" in goodness.

Indescribable. Uncontainable. Ooooo!

From the creation of the universe to the structure of our bodies to every event allowed in our lives. Meant for good.

Fitting. Suitable.

Even when from our perspective it seems terrible. Horrible. No good. Very bad.

Good. Because God equals good.

I found this note tucked between the pages of a Gideon Bible at the Ritz Carlton in Detroit.

"Do not remove," the other side read. So I left it.

I shared it on Facebook. And my friend, Lea, commented:

"How cute is that? You know, what a great idea that is. If every person of faith wrote a quick testimonial to the goodness of God and stuck it in the back of a hotel Gideon Bible, nonbelievers could be personally witnessed to by finding it. I believe God's Word is illuminated best by the earnest stories of believers about the real power of God to change lives. You've prompted me to start a movement, Snady."

A testimonial to the goodness of God, sometimes recognized only in hindsight, because He does what is fitting or suitable in season--even though it doesn't exactly feel good at the time.

Because God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good!

He is indescribable and uncontainable! Ooooo!

"Your marvelous doings are headline news; I could write a book full of the details of your greatness. The fame of your goodness spreads across the country; your righteousness is on everyone's lips." Psalm 145:6-7

Will you help spread the fame of His goodness? Will you join Lea's Gideon Goodness Movement?

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on GOODNESS. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Go Here. I Dare You!

2010-03-05T11:03:00.000-05:00

If you don't want to be uncomfortable, don't go here.

If you don't want to weep, don't go here.

If you want to see some beautiful pictures, go here.

If you want to read about an organization and a group of bloggers who are being changed, go here.

If you want to feel like you're there with them, go here

If you want to behold God and see how you can make a difference, go here.

If you want to see how others can sing and dance in spite of their circumstances, go here.

If you want to gain a new perspective on your own circumstances, go here.

Because here you'll find links to posts by some who are experiencing poverty up close and personal for the next week. They're sharing sights and sounds and smells and tears and joys. They're sharing their hearts.

Because they are beholding God in Kenya. They are beholding God in poverty. They are beholding God in the faces of children.

They are beholding God through Compassion.

I'm especially interested in this trip because we sponsor a child, a girl, here. I wish I was a part of it. But I am going vicariously.

You can, too.

Travel here.

Every day.

All week.

And experience discomfort. Let yourself weep and your heart break. Enjoy the photos. Behold God at work in the midst. And be challenged to join Him.

Here. Now.

I dare you.

Did you go here? How were you touched? How will you respond?

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves . . . Defend the rights of the poor and needy." Proverbs 31:8-9

Be Happy!

2010-03-03T11:56:00.000-05:00

Would you like to be happy?

I would!

I still remember the pageant question I drew from the bowl. "What does happiness mean to you?"

Ummmm . . .

I blathered some kind of nonsense, and my mom said afterward that I could have said something like, "Happiness would be not having to answer a question that asked what happiness means to me."

Or I could have just said, "World peace."

Or better yet, "Inner peace."

Bliss. Serenity. Joy.

Blessed.

Makarios.

What Jesus said. Nine times in nine verses.

I want that!

You bet I want that.

But wait.

Something is wrong.

Something is messed up.

I thought I would get to do my own thing. Be blessed with money, friends, stuff, travels, popularity, good times.

I thought it was about me, me, me.

What's this stuff about poverty and purity and meekness and mercy and starving and persecution?

I have to be miserable to be happy? That's backwards! That's confusing. And it doesn't sound like much fun!

What's that?

I'm not going to find true happiness any other way? The tree of happiness doesn't grow in cursed soil? I'm not going to fill my emptiness with externals? My kind of happiness will make me miserable?

You want to replace my thermometer with a thermostat? No fluctuations? Steady happiness no matter what's swirling around me?

You want to give me dancing, spin-around, Snoopy joy?

Well, okay. I'm trusting. I'm listening.

"Blessed are . . ." Matthew 5:3-11

Are you a thermometer or a thermostat?

Of Close Calls and Frazzled Angels

2010-03-01T10:28:00.000-05:00

Abby does not have a guardian angel.

She has several. And they work in shifts. And with limited assignments. Guarding her creates too much stress. Even for an angel.

They worked overtime Friday night.

I wonder if heaven houses a golden spa. A place where a frazzled angel goes for feathicures, herbal halo wraps, purifying mud masks, or milk and honey massages.

If so, the place was busy Saturday morning.

My heart usually skips a beat when I see Abby's name on my caller I.D. She doesn't often call just to ask how I am or tell me she's thinking about me. It's usually to make a request or share a piece of drama.

Like Friday night.

I didn't have to decipher the tone of voice. It was frantic.

"Mom! We've been in an accident!"

Moms hate those kinds of calls.

And after reassurance that she was not hurt, I did what any good mom would do. I dumped on my Facebook and Twitter angels and called on them for prayer.

And they came through for Abby, for the others involved in the wreck, for Gracee and me as we waited because going to the scene was not a good option.

Here is what happened.

Abby was driving north on the highway in her Saturn Ion on an nasty road, going about 45. A semi passed her. A Jeep entered from the ramp. The Jeep must have accelerated too quickly on ice as it pulled in front of Abby. The driver lost control, swerved into the left lane where the semi clipped the front end. The semi lost control, hit the bridge, and the trailer overturned. The Jeep spun out, and Abby hit it. The highway there, just a couple miles from home, was closed for hours. The EMTs took the Jeep occupants to the ER with, hopefully, minor injuries.

The officer at the scene did not believe Abby's car sustained damage, but light proved otherwise.

Yet we are grateful that she, baby in the oven, and father-to-be escaped injury.

After everyone's nerves calmed, we contemplated the "what ifs."

What if Abby and Lee had chosen to stay in and watch satellite movies?

What if Abby and Lee had chosen to enjoy a dinner locally instead of heading toward Lansing?

What if Lee hadn't taken extra time to shovel some extra heavy snow?

What if they hadn't left Abby's house at the time they had or if she hadn't driven the speed she did?

Would the Jeep still have entered the highway at the same time?

Would the semi have been traveling the same speed--but only in the right lane?

Would the semi have broadsided the Jeep with fatal consequences?

Did Abby serve as a buffer to tragedy?

We'll never know.

But one thing I know for certain.

God is in control.

And one thing I wonder.

Were frazzled angels crowding into the Golden Spa on Saturday morning?

"He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways." ~Psalm 91:11

Have you ever had any close calls? Have you been able to see God's protection in retrospect?

Her Father's Joy

2010-02-27T11:56:00.000-05:00

Surrounded by babies and pregnancies.

But for us, just monthly disappointment.

We signed up to adopt a baby through the state of Georgia--a list years long.

I went back to the doctor. "You're just waiting to become pregnant," he said.

Sigh.

Dennis came home one day and said, "They want us to move to Florida. Just for 12-18 months. They want us to rent out the house, not sell it."

"You'll be coming back with a baby," my friend, Judy, predicted.

That move was so hard. I wrote about it in an article published in Evangel several years ago. But I'll share that another time.

We said our goodbyes, and off we went to the land of beaches and orange blossoms. But still no baby. So we began the process of infertility testing. More on that here. (And a followup here.)

Over. Finished. We'd done all we knew to do. My plumbing was disconnected. We did not feel led to go forth with extraordinary means at that point. Tired. We began to make other plans that did not include children. We gave it all to the Lord.

And then our pastor called with news.

"I went to this meeting. There's an interdenominational group that's been counseling young, unmarried, pregnant girls. They feel they need to offer an option. It's not an official adoption agency so there's not official paperwork, and the adoptions will take place privately through an attorney."

Without a lot of hope, we put together a packet that included resumes, biographical and spiritual histories, and a financial report. I still have copies of those on yellow carbon paper! I also wrote a poem.

CHOSEN FOR LOVE

We've

Love to share

Through joy and care

Bound with ties as yet unseen

We'll learn together the way to grow

That to the world His ways we'll show.

As God is my Parent, you'll be my child

We both are adopted in one family

So I'll care for you as He cares for me

That you can be all He wants you to be.

We'll bake cookies for Dad, play catch outside

We'll listen to music or read a book

I'll check your homework, we'll talk of your day

At bedtime I'll tuck you in while we pray.

We'll share the wonders of butterfly wings

We'll climb a mountain and walk on the shore

In nature's classroom with childlike surprise

We'll find new things that will open our eyes.

Love has to be tough if it's love at all

And it may hurt when I have to say, "No"

But I'll kiss your bruises, always be there

To comfort and hold you through every tear.

We've

Love to share

Through joy and care

Bound with ties as yet unseen.

He chose you long ago, you see

A special gift wrapped up for me.

Sandy King, May 1984

The group liked the packet enough to send out a state social worker to interview us and inspect our environment.

And we waited. Without much hope.

The 12-18 months stretched into 4 years! There were a couple false alarms about moving back to Georgia, but they fell through.

And then.

THE CALL!

A baby girl. A newborn. Come and get her! My heart still pounds when I think about it.

Two days after her birth, I cradled and cried over this special gift. A gift given by Him 25 years ago today.

Planned before time began.

Almost immediately and before the adoption was finalized, the company transferred us back to Georgia.

Judy was right. We came back with a baby.

Abigail Elizabeth.

Her father's joy. Consecrated to God.

Abby.

My gift.

My daughter.

My best girlfriend.

I love you.

Happy 25th Birthday!

Welcome home, Abby!

So blessed!

Cake awaits. First toys. And snacks for the cats.

New daddy heading off to work in a pink shirt with a basket of pink bubblegum!

With Pastor Jack at 1-1/2 weeks.

Just look at her now!

My Husband's Hand

2010-02-24T13:43:00.000-05:00

I lay awake on my back in the dark listening to my husband's soft breathing. He lay on his stomach, his right arm tossed across my neck, hand resting on my face. I held that hand with my left and nestled my cheek into its cup, seeing it in my mind. My right hand gently brushed the arm hair, traced the outline of the fingers, encountered the roughness of a hangnail and the scab of a cut.

Not a large hand. But not small. And big enough to swallow mine when he grabs it while we cross an icy street or hike over rough terrain.

A balanced hand.

A kind hand.

Not a rough hand. But a hand that handles paper and holds phones. But not a soft hand, either. A hand that hauls wood into the house after a 16-hour day so I don't need to. That empties the litter box and fishes recyclables out of the trash (and sometimes food, but that's another story). A hand that spent several weekends trying to reconstruct our daughter's walkway.

A caring hand.

A kind hand.

Not a pasty hand. But a hand sprinkled with sun spots from summers working in the field. A hand that steered a tractor when it was only 6 years old and bottle fed calves and and bedded bulls and showed horses. A hand that created gifts for his mother, including a piece of clay art that I display in my office. I wish I'd seen that child hand.

A precious hand.

A kind hand.

Not a weak hand. A hand with roping veins and a strong slow pulse at the wrist. A pulse that beats with love for his family. A hand that shovels snow before I'm up--and then shovels for a neighbor. A hand that washes dishes and cleans bathrooms and vacuums carpets. A hand that helps my son's girlfriend with her taxes after a long day at the office.

A helpful hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that carried Frostys and other special treats to his nursing home-confined father, in spite of verbal abuse. A hand that helped his dad to and from his wheelchair, to and from his car to drive him to doctor's appointments and out to eat.

A compassionate hand.

A kind hand.

Not a grasping hand. An open hand. A hand that pulls bills from his pocket to give to a man on the street or a child that needs (wants) a little extra, leaving him with enough for something off the dollar menu or a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

A sacrificial hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that changed diapers and plays board games and reads books and searches under covers for a hiding child when he can hardly keep his eyes open.

A patient hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasps a stray dog or cuddles a lost kitten or carries an unwelcome housebound insect outside. A hand that walked a colic-suffering horse all night, in the depth of winter. That brushed an icy tear from his own eye.

A tender hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that held me when I wanted to beat the stuffing out of one of our kids for some reason.

A restraining hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that stroked my forehead as I awakened from anesthesia.

A gentle hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that grasped mine when he noticed a single tear as I recently lay on an emergency room gurney. Even after my frustrated and angry and undeserved tirade against him earlier that evening.

A forgiving hand.

A kind hand.

A hand that slipped a ring on my finger over 38 years ago when he promised to love and cherish me through better and worse until parted by death.

A loving hand.

A kind hand.

My husband's hand.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience." Colossians. 3:12

Have you encountered a kind hand?

Sickness--A Gift?

2010-02-19T14:45:00.000-05:00

I think my left side is permanently wrinkled.

I spent most of yesterday on it. I started by sitting on the couch to watch the news. And slid down ever so slowly. Basically into a stupor. One of those weird days where eyes refuse to focus. Momentarily sort of awake, sometimes, but not really. Incorporating news reports into my dreams. Hovering between the real and the unreal. Choking a devil dog that had me in its grip--and being relieved to find my kitty alive and well lying on my shoulder.

And then to bed, again on my left side. I'll probably be deformed.

I've been ill for the last couple of weeks. And I thought the cure might just do me in.

I almost gave up. But I made it through. One dose at a time. Several prayers at a time.

And today, I'm so grateful for evaporated drug effects.

Sickness. Not a gift I asked for. Not a gift I wanted. But a gift allowed. And as I opened it layer by layer, I discovered and rediscovered:

1. A greater empathy for those who struggle with daily nausea and fatigue from whatever reason, and especially for those undergoing longterm chemotherapy.

2. A caring and supportive family and affirmation that I'd be missed if anything happened to me. (This after telling my husband to "just shoot me" if I ever contract this illness again or--worse--wind up with the same prescription "bomb" again.)

3. A circle of friends who prayed me through day by day, dose by dose, in spite of my whining.

4. The knowledge that my "suffering" paled in comparison to that of others, and also the knowledge that I'm still such a "weakling" I'm apparently not ready yet for big time challenges.

5. A reaffirmation to take better care of my body in terms of diet and exercise.

6. A better grasp of the wise words, "This, too shall pass" and "Do not worry about tomorrow."

7. A reminder that sometimes it's okay to just let go and REST!

And today, I feel more rested. I'm eating again. And though my body might be slightly wrinkled and deformed, I sport a smoother and stronger spirit.

Have you ever found sickness to be a gift?

Patience Now

2010-02-09T11:40:00.000-05:00

Patience.
I want it.

Now.

But it is precious produce
Sown in the soil of adversity.
Timid tendril
Uncurling
Pressing upward
Pruned
Protected
Warmed
Watered
Until the fullness of time.
His time.
And so I wait.
Now.

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self control . . ." Galatians 5:22-23

How does YOUR patience grow?

He Opened His Mouth

2010-02-03T21:05:00.000-05:00

When Jesus saw the crowds, He went up on the mountain; and after He sat down, His disciples came to Him. He opened His mouth and began to teach them. Matthew 5:1-2 (NASB)

He opened His mouth.

That tickled me. How else was He going to teach? Was He going to practice ventriloquist skills with a stubborn donkey?

Then it dawned on me. He'd been teaching already. A lot by example. Touching and healing and loving on folks.

He'd taught and preached in the synagogues and gathered quite a following. And a huge crowd from all over the area joined up and traveled with Him. Probably more than could fit in the synagogue. And some who would not be welcome in a synagogue.

So He climbed up on a hill where the crowd could see Him, in a natural, open-air amphitheater. Maybe His voice would carry further. And He sat down on the hill. Sitting could have signified the coming of an important, official word.

Or it could have meant He planned a long sermon, and the group might miss the afternoon fishing tournament!

The committed ones jostled their way up the hill to be close to Him. I get that. I always want to be in the front row to see and catch every word of an inspiring speaker. I mean I crashed through the door and knocked fifty people to the ground to catch the enthusiasm of Richard Simmons up front and personal.

(Okay, I know some of you aren't going there, but I had a great time!)

And He opened his mouth. To speak loudly? To speak clearly? To be heard and understood?

He opened His mouth. He didn't speak through clenched teeth like I've been known to do in an angry moment--spitting venom and hissing orders and hurtful words, like a pharasitical snake.

Not such a great example of caring and love on my part.

And He began to speak words that would knock their sandals off. Words overflowing from a superabundant heart full of love and compassion. With authority and power. Words that challenged what the listeners believed, that contradicted what they had been taught.

New words. Odd words.

Blessed are . . .

Are others likely to listen to you because you've already taught by example?

How Do You Want to Die?

2010-01-28T14:14:00.000-05:00

I know. Morbid thought.

Do you want to go suddenly or do you want time to prepare?

Would you choose to "go out" while doing something you love or go to sleep one night and wake up in the arms of Jesus?

Would you choose to linger awhile with a terminal illness in order to "tie up loose ends?"

Would you ever consider taking your own life?

Do you think about the effect on the ones who are left behind?

Do you think about your legacy or the type of funeral or celebration that would follow or the words you would want on your tombstone?

Years and years and years ago, before I knew better, someone did a detailed "astrological chart" for me. This person told me I would die traumatically.

Too much information. No thanks. I'm glad only the One who created me knows my future.

I have this dream of knowing, though. Some lead time. Not as a burden but making the journey with courage and serenity. Leaving an example. Passing into eternity with the name of Jesus on my lips, leaving wise words and hugs behind. Holding hands. My loved ones will weep briefly, only briefly. And then they will laugh and celebrate. And life will go on, and they will be stronger.

That's MY plan.

Truth is, I don't know the what, when, where, why or how.

I could walk out of this office and fall down the stairs and hit my head within the hour. I could run headlong into a semi on my way to pick up Gracee from school.

My husband's cousins were on their way to visit relatives. When they slowed for a toll booth, a semi rammed into their rear. Their car exploded into flames.

Not far from our house, a semi collided into the back of a farm wagon sporting a slow vehicle sign. The farmer died at the scene.

It happens.

I could be diagnosed with incurable cancer next week.

Or I could live, spry and sassy, for another 40 years.

Only God knows. It's HIS plan.

So I need to be prepared NOW. With earthly affairs and relationships in order. And my eternal connection intact. Living as if I only have today. Not waiting for someday.

As Pope Paul VI said: "Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it, I say! Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows."

So how do you want to die? Or maybe a better question--how do you want to live?

"That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won't last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs the and will last forever! So we don't look at the troubles we can see now; rather we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever." II Corinthians 4:16-18 (NLT)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Can Do It Myself!

2010-01-27T11:06:00.000-05:00

Sooo serious.

I'm talking about the physical therapist. I think he left his smile muscles at home.

"Bend your neck this way. Turn your head that way. Is that the best you can do?"

Uhhh ...yeah! I AM 61 years old today, you know.

"Do it again."

He gets his angle-measuring thingie out. Writes down some numbers.

I sit there cracking my gum, thinking about my Biggby birthday coupon and wondering what I'll "spend" it on and whether I'll buy a chocolate chip scone to go with it.

"Point to the exact spot where it hurts."

There is none. It just aches all over. Sometimes maybe right here.

"Does it hurt more when I press here? Or here?"

It's kind of like trying to tell the eye doctor if this (click, click) or this (click, click) is most clear.

Okay, it hurts there. Kinda. Not really.

Can I go now?

"What is your pain level at its least? What is it at its most? What exacerbates or relieves the pain? What is your pain level right now?"

Ackkkk!

"Your insurance allows 60 visits. You might need to pay 10%. We'll start with 3 visits a week."

Start with?

"Yes, for 30 minutes each, for 4 weeks. Then we'll reevaluate. Here are some exercises to start at home."

Please, just smile.

I head out to the counter and struggle through trying to set up a series of appointments.

I look at the exercises. Easy. Yep. I remember all those from last time. And if I'd been faithful in the easy things . . .

So in some sense, I deserve this discomfort. A consequence of disobedience to directions.

I head straight to Biggby where they smile. I still can't make up my mind and tell the barista to choose for me. I end up with a skinny mocha raspberry. Yum! I bypass the scone since I already had two in the past week.

Sometimes I have a problem with self-discipline. Not today.

********
I cancelled my appointments. I can't justify the time and money spent to have someone do for me what I can and should do for myself. I can't justify spending money to relieve discomfort when the same money could save a life--like helping send a PT to Haiti, or providing relief packs for at least 10 families for a week through Compassion International, or investing in a passport and updating my own immunizations in the event I can provide hands-on relief.

Sometimes I have a problem with stubbornness.

But I can do it myself.

And I still refuse to fall apart.

Have you suffered any consequences due to stubbornness or lack of self-discipline?

" . . . he who does not use his endeavors to heal himself is brother to him who commits suicide." Proverbs 18:9b (Amplified--from Septuagint)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Go to the Source

2010-01-22T14:46:00.000-05:00

After a month of worsening arm and shoulder pain, I finally went to my doctor this morning. I figured a time of simple whining would solve the problem. I mean, isn't that what often happens? You go to the doctor with an issue--pain or fever or something--and by the next day, it's gone. And you wonder why you wasted the time and money.

Well, he didn't offer me cheese to go with the whine. He instead offered me physical therapy. For my neck. Which doesn't hurt. He bypassed the symptoms and went to the source. A possible pinch at the connection.

I whined some more and then said I could do my own physical therapy at home and he asked what I'd do and I said neck exercises and he said he thought PT would help and I sighed and said okay whatever.

I refuse to fall apart.

So Monday, already, I get to have a PT evaluation. Again.

And then probably two to three days a week of having to shower and get dressed and put on my mask to present myself for therapy.

Maybe if I faithfully executed the previous plan (read exercise) presented in years gone by, I wouldn't be in this predicament.

Still whining.

Isn't that the way we roll, though? We've got an issue, a symptom of something deeper. But we just want to ignore it or take a pill or slap a Band-Aid on it and go on our merry way while whatever it is gets worse. We don't want to expend the time or the energy to find the source and do battle.

Just a quick fix, please, with a side of chocolate, if you don't mind.

Anyway, I'm going to stop whining and do what I'm told and wrestle with the source of my physical pain because I refuse to fall apart.

And while I'm at it, I think I'll undertake an ST (spiritual therapy) and ET (emotional therapy) evaluation. If I find anything awry, I'll go to the Source. And then work on releasing the kinks in that connection.

I refuse to fall apart.

How are you holding together?

"Be not wise in your own eyes; reverently fear and worship the Lord and turn [entirely] away from evil. It shall be health to your nerves and sinews, and marrow and moistening to your bones." Proverbs 3:7-8 (Amplified Bible)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King