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There may be rain, There may be snow, There may be ice, We just don't know. Turn on the air? Turn on the heat? Flip flops or snowshoes for our feet? May bees lighting in the flowers May be rebuffed by sneak snow showers. Twisters, tempests, floods all plague us. Lord, we pray for you to save us. Will a reprieve be coming soon? Maybe we'll find out in June.
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 “Grandma, watch this!” Our ten-year-old grandson scrambled up our backyard maple tree like King Kong scaling the Empire State building. He stood on a limb, grabbed the one above him, and bounced. Hapless young leaves dropped under his onslaught as the branch bobbed up and down. My breath caught in my throat, a regular occurrence for a grandparent of an active boy. “Asher, be careful. You haven’t broken any bones yet. Let’s keep it that way.” He stopped bouncing and plopped onto the limb. My lungs resumed their normal rhythm. “Grandma,” he called in a cajoling tone, “Climb up with me. Please.” I eyed the old tree. Asher and I considered it our private fortress, but the branch I normally used to boost myself up had broken off in a recent storm. Getting into that tree would take more upper arm strength than I possessed. “Honey, I don’t think I can climb up there anymore.” Asher’s eyes widened as if I’d uttered a blasphemy. “But Grandma, it’s our special place. You have to try.” His stricken look prompted me to grab a branch. An oversized gorilla hoisting me up would have been more helpful than Asher’s verbal assistance. “Pull harder, Grandma. Boy, you should really start working out. You’re getting pretty weak.” After multiple tries I hefted myself onto the lowest limb and lay panting against the rough bark. Slow maneuvering brought me to a sitting position. “See Grandma, I knew you could get up here.” Asher grinned and scooted next to me. We sat together on the branch, our feet dangling. A cool May breeze held the insects at bay as Asher told me about his school day. I silently thanked God for the opportunity to spend time with this beloved grandson. My husband Jake and I relished our time with him. We’d forged a special bond over the years with this child, so dear to our hearts. As sunset streaked the sky the breeze died down and mosquitoes began foraging for victims. “OK Sweetie, let’s go in. Your grandpa will be home soon.” Asher shimmied down the trunk like a competitor in a lumberjack competition. I swung my leg lower, feeling for the limb I always used to descend. “Be careful Grandma. Your climb-down branch is gone, remember?” I surveyed the hard surface below. The new river rock and brick landscape edging mocked me. Several dismount attempts brought one conclusion. I couldn’t get myself down safely. “Hurry up, Grandma.” Asher bounced on the patio. “Sweetie, I’m having trouble getting down.” Asher stopped jumping and peered up at me. “Grandma, are you stuck in the tree?” The knobby bark bit into my protesting backside. I cautiously shifted my weight on the branch. “I don’t want you to worry, but . . .” “Are you REALLY stuck?” “Yes Asher, I’m really stuck.” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “Can I call 911?” he asked hopefully. “No, not 911. Call your grandpa.” Asher ran inside for the phone. A tiny gnat, the size of a pin head, landed on my arm. I jerked at its needle-jab sting, then fought to keep my balance. A red, dime-sized welt appeared where the gnat stung me. I swatted away another Mutant Robo-Gnat that was dive-bombing my face. Asher ran back, waving the phone like a prize. “Are you sure I can’t call 911?” he asked again, anticipation written in his countenance. I could see his mental wheels turning. A firetruck or two, perhaps a rescue squad on stand-by would perk up a weekday. And make a great story at school. “Dial your grandpa and put him on speaker,” I commanded. Jake answered on the second ring. “Grandma’s stuck in a tree,” Asher announced cheerfully. “What?” I rolled my eyes and swatted another gnat. “Grandma told me to call because she’s stuck in a tree.” I heard a long pause before my husband asked, “Is Grandma really stuck in a tree?” “Yeah, and she wants you to come home and help her down,” Asher enthused. Jake’s hysterical laughter flowed through the phone line. “You’re on speaker. I can hear you,” I shouted from my perch. ”Now stop cackling, come home, and get me down.” Between bouts of laughter Jake said, “Tell Grandma to hang on. I’ll be there soon.” “Ok, bye Gramps. I’ll take care of things until you get home.” Asher laid the house phone on the patio table and ran back inside. I smashed a Robo-Gnat attacking my leg as Asher burst through the patio door, his new cell phone in hand. “My grandmother is stuck in a tree,” he said in his best news announcer voice. “Who are you talking to?” I asked. “Nobody, Grandma.” Asher resumed his spiel, “My grandmother is stuck in the tree. She can’t get down. Grandma, would like to say a few words?” The splintery wood dug into my palms. I tamped down exasperation. “Say a few words to who? Who are you talking to?” “I’m not talking to anyone. I’m recording you. See?” He flipped the phone around and held it up for me to view. Sure enough, a video played on-screen. A middle-aged woman wearing silver loafers, dark washed jeans, and an exasperated glare hunched in a maple. “Give me that!” I make a feeble swipe at the upheld phone. Asher pulled it back and tapped buttons furiously. I wobbled on the branch before regaining my balance. Asher peered up at me through the deepening twilight. “Be careful! You almost fell. Grandma, are you really, truly stuck?” My heart softened at his evident concern. “Yes Sweetie, but I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.” “Oh, I’m not worried,” he said, “I just posted this online. The video already has two ‘likes.’ You’ve gone worldwide.” I'm a sucker for romantic scenes where the hero sweeps in and rescues the heroine. The song, Reckless Love, describes the most awesome rescuer ever. The hero refuses to allow anything to come between him and his beloved. He leaves everything and everyone behind, and embarks on a search and rescue mission.  And he does it without any guarantee his devotion will ever be returned.
The song says, "When I was Your foe, still Your love fought for me. You have been so, so good to me. When I felt no worth, You paid it all for me. You have been so, so kind to me." "And oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God. Oh, it chases me down, fights 'til I'm found, leaves the ninety-nine. And I couldn't earn it, and I don't deserve it, still, You give Yourself away. Oh, the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God." "There's no wall You won't kick down, Lie You won't tear down, Coming after me. There's no shadow You won't light up, Mountain You won't climb up, Coming after me." Romantic books and movies take a backseat to the reality of true love. God's love. "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16 Because of that incredible love, Jesus left heaven and embarked on a search and rescue mission for us. He did it for the young, the old, the rich, the poor. For every person in the world. God is reaching out to you right now. Do you desire His unconditional, never-ending love? Pray this simple prayer: "Jesus, I welcome you into my life. Please forgive my sins. Be my Lord, savior, and friend." And get ready to experience the overwhelming, never-ending, reckless love of God! Photo courtesy Wikimedia Commons. One year I struggled to create a Hallmark-perfect holiday season. Instead, chaos ensued.
Chicken Soup for the Soul shared the story of my goofy failure in their new release, "The Wonder of Christmas." Holiday Perfection The kitchen’s mustard-yellow oven mocked me from its 1970’s built-in perch. I glared at the offensive appliance, roughly the size of a child’s easy-bake oven. Next week our entire family would arrive for Thanksgiving dinner in our new home. I wanted everything to be perfect, but there was no way to fit a turkey in that tiny oven. Who lived here before us? Elves? My husband Jake shuffled into the room. “It’s midnight. What’s wrong?” “Why did the builders put a miniature stove in a large home?” I fumed. “I can’t make a perfect Thanksgiving turkey in this stupid thing.” Jake rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Let’s replace it.” My heart did a momentary happy dance before reality crashed in. “We just moved. We don’t have funds for a new one.” Jake wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll buy a used one.” He gestured to my nemesis. “We can rip this out now if you want.” At midnight, the idea made perfect sense. We grabbed tools, removed the old built-in appliance, and cleaned the decades of greasy dirt left behind. The next morning we found an online ad proclaiming, “New stove for sale. $60.” Hopping into our pickup, we drove over for a look. A friendly young couple met us at the door and led us around back to large shed. The husband said, “We bought this stove back home in Iowa, but there was already one here when we moved in last year. This one’s just been sittin’ in the shed, so we figured to sell it.” I swiped a layer of dust off the appliance with my finger. Underneath it the white stove gleamed. It looked perfect. Since sixty dollars comprised our entire remodel budget, we bought it. The two men loaded it into the truck, and Jake and I drove home congratulating ourselves on finding a bargain. Once we maneuvered the stove into the kitchen, we notice an odd smell. “It probably just needs a good cleaning,” I said. We scrubbed every inch we could reach, inside and out, but the odor increased. As the stench permeated the entire house, Jake shared his horrible realization. “I think a dead mouse is stuck in the insulation, but I can’t get to it without ripping the stove apart.” “Holiday guest expect aromas like pine boughs or gingerbread. Our house reeks of rodent carcass. We need to do something,” I whined. So we ran the self-cleaning feature repeatedly every day. By Thanksgiving the stink had dissipated. Mostly. I felt confident that by the time our guests arrived, the delectable scent of perfectly roasted turkey would cover any lingering odor. Humming, I stuffed the turkey, slid it into the new range and inspected the side dishes. Ruby colored cranberry sauce, potatoes waiting to be mashed, pumpkin pies from the bakery all passed the perfection inspection. The freshly cleaned house looked perfect, so I dressed, put on makeup, and did my hair. I wanted to look perfect too. Or as perfect as possible despite wrinkles and acne. As family members arrived we greeted them, gave the house tour, then sat together, chatting and laughing. After a time Jake pulled me aside. “Honey, the turkey isn’t cooking.” I hurried to the kitchen and opened the stove door. The huge raw turkey perched sadly in the cold oven. Agh! Had I burned out the stove with repeated mouse cremations? I stood paralyzed, dismay tap dancing across my brain. My eagle-eyed mom glided into the kitchen and within seconds pointed out the problem. “Sweetheart, it will cook faster if you turn on the oven.” She tapped the knob, firmly fixed in the “off” position. Panic set in. “What are we going to do? There’s a house full of people and nothing to feed them except raw turkey!” Jake sauntered downstairs and brought up large ham from the basement fridge. At my questioning look he winked. “I wanted it on hand just in case.” And he was perfectly right, as usual. That Thanksgiving our family ate ham sandwiches. And ribbed me unmercifully about not turning on the stove. Although far from what I’d envisioned, that Thanksgiving was perfect in its own way. While munching my sandwich, I realized I didn’t need to strive for magazine-perfect food presentations or a picture perfect house. My focus didn’t need to be on perfection, but rather gratefulness. I looked around the table and thanked God for the people in my life. My husband who showed me love in unexpected ways, like ripping out a stove because it bothered me. And having the foresight to tuck away an emergency ham. My mother who still taught me cooking basics--like flipping the knob to the “on” setting. And our precious daughter and grandson, siblings, cousins. I silently thanked God for the perfect blessing of having family together. We invited everyone back for Christmas. This time, rather than trying to make everything perfect, we decided to skip the fancy turkey dinner and offer crockpots of soup instead. I even made sure to turn the dials onto the “high” setting so the soup would cook in time for Christmas dinner. Only one thing would have made those crockpots of soup more perfect. If I’d remembered to plug them in. Have you seen the Miss America parodies in the movies or on TV? A cheesy host asks the contestant, "If you could have one wish, what would it be?" The young woman simpers and answers in a sugary voice, "World peace."  I'm not bashing the Miss America contestants. They're intelligent, talented, and beautiful. I cheer for those young women...even with my cellulite thighs and bat-wing triceps flapping. And even though I've experienced many times when I didn't feel intelligent, or talented, or beautiful. Or worthwhile. Or loved. Have you ever felt like that? Hold onto your Kraft American singles because this may sound as cheesy as the mock Miss America host. If I could have one wish, I'd want everyone, young and old, to know this: You are special. You are loved. You matter. Since the Miss America Fairy won't be swooping by to grant my wish, consider this. You matter so much that God says to you, “I’ve never quit loving you and never will. Expect love, love, and more love!" Jeremiah 31:3 The Message bible. May that truth bring peace to your world. Photo courtesy of commons.wikimedia.org. Beauty pageant contestants at National Rice Festival, Crowley, Louisiana,1938. Photo by Russell Lee. After a volatile marriage and an ugly divorce, I'd sworn off love. But the book, Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Miracle of Love, reveals the true story.  The judge banged his gavel, and I followed my lawyer out of the courtroom, past my glaring now ex-husband. My steps echoed down the polished marble corridor. Each footfall took me further from the pain of betrayal, infidelity, and alcohol abuse. I almost danced with elation. The attorney eyed me strangely. “Most people are distraught when they get divorced.” Distraught? I felt like I’d escaped from a horrible prison. Caring for my fifteen-month-old daughter Patty was my top priority. Now she wouldn’t suffer growing up in a dysfunctional, abusive home. We’d been set free. A few weeks after the divorce my best friend Debbi asked, “When will you start dating again?” “Never,” I replied. “My new mantra is, ‘Every man on the planet is a conniving sneak, existing only to wreak havoc on unsuspecting women’s hearts.’” Debbi laughed at my irrational words. “You don’t mean that. Someday you’ll find true love.” Love? No thank you. I didn’t want a new relationship. I didn’t even want to look at a man. Until a Norse god walked out of my neighbor’s home. Tall. Tan. Fit. Gorgeous. A modern-day Thor was visiting Frank, my middle-aged neighbor? I looked away from the enticing vision and repeated my “all males are evil” mantra. A few days later Frank stopped by while I weeded the lawn. “Hey Jeanie, I’m letting the neighbors know my buddy is staying with me for a while. He works night shift. He’s a super guy.” OK, Thor was a super guy staying with Frank. Fine. It had nothing to do with me. The next day I glanced out my bedroom window and spotted Thor standing next to a black pick-up. He looked up and down the empty street, then hopped into the truck bed. What was this guy up to? Thor removed his shirt and stretched out to nap in the summer sun. His muscles seemed to reflect the light. I stared open-mouthed. Whoa, did this guy pose for romance book covers? Yeesh. I dragged my hormones away from the window and practiced my man-hating mantra. Perhaps a bit overboard since this guy was way out of my league. Still, there was no harm in looking. Spying on Thor’s afternoon tanning sessions became a daily ritual. I’d climb onto my mattress and peer out the small rectangular transom window above my bed. After a week, guilt forced me to stop. I established Commandment Number Eleven: Thou shalt not ogle thy neighbor’s guest. A round of deep house cleaning would take my mind . . . and hormones . . . off my neighbor’s virile friend. While Patty napped I threw on a ragged sundress and pushed my hair into a messy ponytail. No sense putting in contacts or using make-up. An hour of scrubbing later, I grabbed the window cleaner and headed toward the bedroom. “Just to tidy up,” I told myself, “not to peek at Thor.” Sure. Even I didn’t believe myself. But Thor wasn’t in his usual spot. A knock on the door interrupted my spying attempt. Thor stood at the door. Had he spotted me ogling him? Fresh sweat beaded my upper lip. I wiped it with a sudsy glove and stammered, “Oh. Yes. Hi, um . . .” When I fell silent, Thor gave me a shy, easy smile. Wow, this guy put toothpaste commercial actors to shame. “Hi, I’m Jake.” He pointed over his shoulder at my neighbor’s house. “I’m staying with Frank.” “Uh, that’s nice.” I inwardly cringed at my inane response. “Frank talks about what a nice lady you are.” “Um . . . thanks,” I said. He looked down for a moment, lifted his head, and blurted, “Would you maybe go out with me sometime?” I stared into his electric blue eyes. It felt like I’d touched a high voltage line. I glanced at his wide shoulders. Too tempting. I lowered my eyes. Bad move. His shorts revealed his long muscular legs. I blinked hard and admitted, “Look, I just ended a bad marriage. I’m not interested in dating.” Thor—Jake—blew out a relieved sigh. “Same here. My girlfriend and I broke up last month. I’m not ready for a relationship. I hoped we could go to the movies or something. Just friends.” “I’ll go out with you if my babysitter is available. But remember, just friendship. Nothing more.” Jake lit up like a Christmas tree in Times Square. “Great! Here’s my number. Call whenever it’s convenient for you.” He waved goodbye. I closed the door and wondered why such an attractive man would invite me out. A glance in the mirror revealed my full bedraggled glory. I looked like a sweat-doused monkey in rubber gloves. Yep, his line about “just friends” explained the invitation. That weekend Jake treated me to a movie and dinner even though it wasn’t a date. “Hey, I appreciate you going out with me. I’m glad to pay,” he said. Despite his handsome appearance, Jake was endearingly humble. We talked non-stop. During dinner Jake said, “You’ve only eaten a few bites. Is the food OK?” “It’s great. I’ll take it home in a doggie-bag.” Paying the sitter would bite into my limited budget. My leftovers would provide three delectable meals for Patty. Since I wasn’t eating much, Jake politely stopped eating too. He drove me home and I invited him in. “Patty’s been asleep for an hour,” the sitter said. She grabbed her pay and left. Patty awoke just as Jake and I sat down on the couch. I walked her out and warned Jake, “Don’t be offended. Patty shies away from men.” Patty pulled her tiny hand from mine and toddled straight to Jake. He patted the sofa and asked, “Want to sit with us?” She held up her arms. I froze, shocked. Jake scooped up Patty and sat her on the couch. She snuggled against him. Jake grinned at me and patted the cushion again. “Are you joining us?” We spent the evening chatting and laughing. When Patty grew sleepy I tucked her in bed and returned to Jake. “I had a great time tonight.” “Me too,” he said. I scooted closer. “Just to remind you. I’m not looking for a relationship.” “Me neither.” He laid his arm across the back of the sofa. I leaned toward him, “Just friends.” He brushed my cheek softly with his thumb. “Friends.” We gazed into each other others eyes. He cupped my face like precious porcelain as I lifted it toward his. Our lips met for a heartbeat of eternity. The next day Jake knocked at the door, his arms laden with bags. “You seemed to like the restaurant’s food last night. I wondered why you didn’t eat much. When you tucked Patty in I checked your fridge.” His gentle kiss eased my embarrassment over the empty refrigerator. Jake spent the next months proving his trustworthiness. His honesty, generosity, and love silenced my man-hating mantra. When Jake proposed the following year, I don’t know who was more ecstatic, me or Patty. After thirty-three years of friendship, love--and unabashed ogling--I still thank God that “Thor” came to my door.  Jake, Jeanie, and Patty's son Have you ever felt like, no matter hard you try, you're not getting anywhere? That's where I've been lately. It seems that no matter how much I do, I fall farther behind. And I'm missing the here and now because I'm fretting about what needs to get done. Last month our thirteen-year-old grandson was out of school for two weeks with a fractured knee. After a week and a half on heavy painkillers, he finally felt well enough to do some schoolwork. My husband brought home the books, worksheets, and report packets from each of our grandson's classes. We piled them in a towering stack next to his chair. His eyes bugged out. "That's Homework Mountain. How am I supposed to do it all?" he asked.  I told him, "Don't worry about doing everything. Just pick one subject and work on it when you feel up to it." He heaved a sigh and grabbed his science book. An hour later he put the book and completed worksheet packet on the opposite side of Homework Mountain. "One down, ten to go," he muttered. But after resting he picked up another book. This time it only took twenty minutes to finish. He plopped his work on the finished pile and crowed, "Oh, yeah!" For the next two days he chipped away at Homework Mountain. He'd glance at it, then look over at the work he'd done. He called me over each time he completed a subject so we could celebrate. Soon the pile of finished reports and worksheets reigned in middle-school splendor. He said, "Hey Grandma, I kept looking at what I needed to do, then looked at what I'd already done. And I finished two weeks of work in two days!" Sometimes we need to look back to see how far we've progressed. I decided to take a cue from my grandson.I've been beating myself up for not writing more. But when I looked back over the past few months, I see progress. My stories are in three of the latest Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
  Another story is coming out in LIVE magazine, as well as an article for Inspiration Ministries. Instead of focusing on "I'm so Far Behind Mountain," I'm determined to look at accomplishments, no matter how small they seem, and give God the glory for it all.
How about you? Where do you see forward momentum in your life? What will you celebrate? Even if we don't feel we've accomplished much, the bible offers this encouragement from Zechariah chapter four: "Do not despise these small beginnings..." After all, even a baby step forward moves us in the right direction.  Do you ever feel like God isn't listening? Take heart, because He even hears our whispered prayers. I shared one testimony about it in a recent Chicken Soup for the Soul release, Miracles and More. My daughter Patty writhed on the maternity room’s rumpled sheets. She clutched her distended abdomen and clenched her teeth. Her sweat-matted blonde hair and pale face bore testimony to the pain she silently endured. I held back my tears and faked a calm demeanor. Patty’s story reflected that of many young women. Meet a man. Fall in love. Love turns sour. Patty’s courtship had spiraled down into an abusive nightmare. She decided to end the dangerous relationship rather than subject her yet-unborn baby to it. Which led her to this teaching hospital. Crews had renovated the Labor and Delivery unit somewhat, but this room screamed, “Hospital,” from the dull white paint and disinfectant smell, to the wall of medical equipment. Equipment I’d soon be grateful for. Patty had arrived early that morning to have her labor induced. Hours had passed with no progress. The worst OB nurse in the history of the world attended my daughter. I privately dubbed her NurseZilla the Hun. To each of Patty’s requests, “Can I get up and walk?” or “Can I turn onto my side?” NurseZilla the Hun would brusquely respond, “No. We have monitors lines on the baby. Just lie still.” A police interrogation cell would have held a more welcoming atmosphere. To our great relief, after hours of NurseZilla’s, “No, no, no’s,” Super Nurse took her place. She smiled at Patty and said, “Let’s make you more comfortable.” And commenced doing everything NurseZilla had nixed. Patty’s doctor was out of town, so a variety of staff members came to check her throughout the day until he arrived. One doctor examined her and frowned. “You’re not dilating as fast as we’d like. We’ll hold off on the epidural for now.” Patty grimaced. “The pain’s pretty bad.” “We’ll keep checking you,” he said, and walked out of the room. Patty groaned and drew her knees toward her chest. I held out my hand. “Squeeze it,” I urged. “Squeeze as hard as you need.” She shook her head. “No, Mom, I’d crush your hand. I don’t want to hurt you.” Patty gripped the bed’s side rails in a white-knuckled hold instead. Time slowed to mocking crawl. Shadows shifted across the walls as darkness fell. Footsteps echoed past our quiet room. The monitors tracked Patty’s and the baby’s vitals. I wiped away the sweat trickling down Patty’s agonized face, and longed to ease her suffering. More pain-filled hours passed. Finally, a doctor examined her and pronounced, “Good news. You’re dilating. You can have that epidural now.” The anesthesiologist arrived and prepped Patty’s back for the spinal injection. “Sit up and hold still,” the young man cautioned. He worked carefully while Patty fought to stay motionless. After what seemed an eternity the man said, “Done. It’ll take effect soon.” A relieved smile spread across Patty’s face. “Wow, I feel so much better. Thank . . .” She slumped to the side in mid-sentence. The tech caught her and laid her back on the bed. Her head lolled on the pillow. A niggle of dread traversed my spine “What’s happening?” A concerned look crossed the anesthesiologist’s face before his profession mask dropped into place. “Nothing to worry about.” The monitor showed Patty’s blood pressure dropping steadily. I pointed to it. “Really? Is that normal?” Her vital signs became erratic, and he called for help. A nurse appeared, checked the monitor, and made another call. The next person came in requested more back-up. Super Nurse hurried in and laid a comforting hand on my arm. “It would be best if you stepped out. You can wait in the family lounge.” Instead, I slipped back into the corner. More staff members rushed into the room. They ignored me as they entered full “save the patients” mode. Every motherly instinct screamed, “Go to your daughter!” The rational part of my mind warned, “Stay out of their way so they can help her.” There was only one thing I could do for my precious daughter. I clasped my shaking hands together and prayed, “Lord, Jesus, please save Patty and her child.” Softly, quietly, I sent my whispered prayer past the confines of the chaotic hospital room. The unnerving racket of clattering instruments and beeping monitors filled the air. The fast-moving medical professionals surrounded Patty, urgency in their actions. They called instructions in increasingly loud tones. I remained in the corner, whispering prayers. After what seemed an eternity, Patty’s precarious monitor readings leveled out. Faint color tinged her cheeks. She opened her eyes blearily, and the medical team visibly relaxed. Patty’s doctor arrived soon after. He examined her and smiled. “Ready to bring your baby into the world?” After that, the labor and delivery progressed normally. I experienced the incredible joy of witnessing my grandson’s Asher’s birth. Patty looked like she’d been through a battle. But with her newborn son cuddled to her chest, she radiated absolute joy. She looked into her son’s eyes and crooned words of love. When the nurse took baby Asher out so Patty could rest, I smoothed the tangled hair from her forehead and thanked God she and her new child were alive and healthy. Patty reached out “It’s safe to hold hands now,” she joked. Our fingers intertwined and she drifted toward sleep. “I love you Mom. And I know you’re going to stand there and pray,” she murmured, “But please pray quieter this time.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “After the epidural I just wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t. You were praying too loudly.” “Honey, things got pretty hectic when you collapsed.” Patty looked at me, uncomprehending. “Mom, what are you talking about?” “You passed out. The staff worked frantically to save you and the baby. It got really noisy in here.” Patty’s eyes widened. “I don’t remember any of that. I only heard you praying super loud.” Astonished, I asked, “The beeping, the clattering, the staff yelling instructions to each other? You didn’t hear that?” Patty shook her head. “No. I only heard you praying. It sounded like you were shouting.” Realization jolted through me. God had used the prayers to get Patty’s attention, and tether her to life when she was drifting toward death. And those prayers she perceived as being so loud? I’d never lifted my voice above a whisper.  Oh, my sweet, sweet nemesis--television. In March 2014 I publicly admitted my weakness. I'd created a late-night TV and junk food comfort zone. "Comfort zone" sound much better than "addiction," right? I thought I'd conquered television's dreamy pull, but recent late-night reruns lured me back in. Shows from the past half century unfold before my delighted (and slightly glazed) eyes. The Twilight Zone. Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Perry Mason. The Rifleman . . . Midnight finds me ransacking the fridge like a rabid wolverine. After stuffing my face I fall asleep to the TV's lulling drone. The next day I wake bloated, groggy, and kicking myself for making such a foolish choice. Again. Last night I prayed for help. Instead of a sudden disdain for chocolate or a potato chip aversion, the Lord reminded me of Galatians 5:22-23. One of the fruits of the spirit is self-control. God had already given it to me, but I needed to exercise it. Say WHAT? Late night TV offers a slew of workout DVD's promising to strengthen my abs and glutes. Unfortunately, none for exercising self-control. So I prayed, "OK, Lord, I need strength to exercise my self-control." Soon after I came across this passage, "As soon as I pray, you answer me; you encourage me by giving me strength." Psalm 138:3 NLT And He did. Last night I snuggled in bed instead of the recliner, and held a book in place of a remote.  You might be saying, "TV addiction? Seriously? That's nothing compared to what I'm facing."
Fair enough. So what are you struggling with today?
"The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, he will show you a way out so that you can endure." 1 Corinthians 10:13 NLT No matter what you're struggling with, it's not bigger than God. He's an ever-present help in time of trouble. Bring your situation to Him. Dig into the bible to find answers to your issue. Be accountable to trustworthy people. Be honest with yourself about the problem. And I'll do the same with the TV/late-night food obsession. The trail of Nacho Cheese Doritos would give me away anyhow. Turkey photo courtesy of vectorolie@freedititalphotos.net Chain photo courtesy khunaspix @freedigitalphotos.net  Does preparing for Christmas resemble a Hallmark movie or a horror flick? Years ago a TV commercial showed a frantic woman scrambling to simultaneously deal with a ringing phone, screaming children, barking dog, and a delivery person at her door. Finally in desperation she throws her hands up and cries, "Calgon, take me away!" Immediately she's luxuriating in her bathroom tub, discreetly covered in Calgon bubbles from the neck down. Evidently, behind the scenes in Happy Commercial Land, the dog stops barking to answer the phone, the delivery person baby-sits the children, and Betty Crocker and the Keebler Elves get dinner under control. How about you? Do you feel overwhelmed? Could you use a Calgon moment? I'm pretty sure the Fed-Ex man and Marie Callender won't show up to help any time soon, but there's some good news. There's a God who loves you. He wants to help you. Here's what He says: "And call for help when you’re in trouble-- I’ll help you, and you’ll honor me.” Psalm 50:15 The Message We can go nuts with Christmas tasks: shopping, baking, cleaning ... Or we can focus on Jesus, who truly is the reason for celebrating Christmas. "For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16 NLT  So when Christmas preparations start to bury us under a multi-tasking avalanche, we don't have to crumble under it. Let's call to God for help. He's available 24/7.
Betty Crocker and the Keebler Elves are already busy in my kitchen. Photos courtesy of stockimages @ http://www.freedigitalphotos.net |
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