Letting Go Of Ego

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Endless Energy-Boundless Strength

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Swallowed by His Strength

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Heart For Achile

"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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Random Empty Thoughts

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

The Great Lilac Massacre

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Self-Control: A Limerick

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

Gentleness--Power Under Control

 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.

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

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Faithful to the End

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

Goodness in a Gideon

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.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

My Husband's Hand

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?

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

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Patience Now

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?

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

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King