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You see, this is a God who takes ordinary, everyday things like flies, and water, and bushes, and conversation and turns them into something extraordinary. That “extraordinary” is what we call “holy.” Holiness is not a matter of an object or a person having some innate, extraordinary worth. Holiness is a matter of God taking an ordinary thing or person and giving them extraordinary worth.  Tom Fuerst

In Tom Fuerst’s sermon this week, he talks about how God took the ordinary and made it extraordinary, imbuing normal things with God-power in the life of Moses.

It is a powerful reminder that it’s not about what we can do, it’s about what God can do, especially in situations that seem hopeless.

I’ve had some hopeless situations this week. One was a court case, unfounded, against my son. Another was an unfounded negative reference from my former employer.

Weird that they happened in the same week.

God walked beside me as I dealt with the negative reference. He turned my despair into peace, guided me through some tricky conversations and sent me some wise advisors.

As for my son’s court case, I knew that my son’s innocence was certain—he had been with good friends the night the alleged incident “happened.” However, to prove it in court was going to be our word against his accuser’s word.

My husband and I prayed. My friends and relatives prayed. The extraordinary started.

Friends sent scripture, prayers, words of love and encouragement.

God sent a lawyer whose thorough research and attention to detail gave us hope.

But God wasn’t finished turning the ordinary into a holy miracle. Because God is the God of people and relationships, and surprises.

As we were walking into the courtroom, a good friend of our lawyer’s happened to be walking out. Because our lawyer is a good and kind person, because he is well loved and respected, because he carries the love of Jesus in his heart and shares it with those around him, this friend stopped him, and questioned him about the case. Then, the friend, who also happened to be an attorney, walked over to the man pressing charges against my son and talked him into dropping them.

An ordinary friendship turned extraordinary in one miraculous moment.

Our God is an awesome God.

Faith Legacy

I am the Lord, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.  Isaiah 41:13

What sort of faith legacy am I leaving my children?

Tom Fuerst’s Sunday sermon made me think about this question.  I’m not sure I like my answer.

I want my children to understand that life can be hard, but that God is always faithful.

I think sometimes I’m really good at that first message: life can be hard; but not so good at that second one: God is always faithful.

God is always faithful.  God has walked beside me, he has held my right hand, he has assured me that I am not to fear, that he is always there to help me. When I cry out, he sends me friends.

Family Faith Legacies: Those who have gone before us

 I come from a long line of imperfect people.

My great granddaddy on my daddy’s side was a horse trader. Ok, probably more like a horse thief. The rest of my family tree includes drunks, poets, womanizers and masters of control.

That’s not to say there aren’t saintly people in my family tree, and probably more of them than the others. But somehow it’s the flaws that go down in the family legends. What fun is it to tell stories of saints at the annual Thanksgiving poker game?

In my family, you make fun of yourself, and hope your humor excuses your imperfections. The cardinal sin is taking yourself too seriously.

But, in spite of their imperfections, my family has left me a legacy of faith.

Faith Legacy Number 1: The legacy my imperfect ancestors left was one of absolute faith in a perfect God, and a strong sense of the necessity of a perfect God in a world of imperfect people.

We’re all sinners in need of forgiveness was the faith message of my family. Some of us just recognize our sins a little better than others.

Faith Legacy Number 2: How to be iced at a family gathering. Discuss the sins of others.

The Faith Legacies of some Imperfect People:

In an  attempt to even out the family record a bit, I want to share the faith legacy of those who came before me.

My mother stands every day in amazement at the beauty of the world around her. One of my earliest memories is Mama showing me a glorious Florida sunset when I was a preschooler. At 87, she suffers from dementia, yet, every time I see her, she never fails to comment on some beautiful thing in the natural world—the sound of the birds, the color of the sky, the scent of a gardenia.  My mother seeks the miracle of  God’s created beauty. She always finds it.

My father was amazed by the miracle of the human body.  He remarked often on God’s intricate plan and the body’s ability to heal itself of most illnesses.  He was a family physician who humbled himself enough to not try and take credit for the body’s natural healing abilities. He stood in wonder, his eyes wide open, waiting to see yet another miracle of God’s perfect plan. He said he was never disappointed.

My maternal grandmother, was so painfully shy that she seldom left her house. Even when age made her even more frightened of large groups of people, Sunday morning and evening, without fail, she went to church. She had faith in the promise that we are blessed when we fellowship with other Christians.  And she was blessed. I have the notes she made in her Bible to prove it.

My maternal grandfather feared poverty. Orphaned at age 2, and pushed off to family members who loved him but had their own families to provide for with their meager farms, he began supporting himself at age thirteen, and married my grandmother at fifteen. In spite of his fear of poverty, he tithed regularly. His faithful tithing along with that of the Wilsons and some of his other friends allowed the First Baptist Church in Panama City to stay afloat during the dark years of the depression.

My paternal grandfather walked four miles in the Florida heat to work at the mill every morning carrying his carpenter’s toolbox and lunchbox, and back home again in the night. He was sustained by his faith in God and  his belief that it was his job to provide for his family no matter what.

My paternal grandmother memorized entire chapters of the Bible right up until she died so that she could continue teaching her ladies’ Sunday school class. She thought the large magnifying glass she was forced to use to read would distract the women from God’s message. She believed God’s purpose for her was to keep teaching Sunday school, even at 87, and be an example to women her age that God can use you no matter how old you are.

The others: I don’t know much about the faith of my great-grandmothers. I have to believe it must have been strong given the faith of their children.

But, thanks to the faith and perseverance of my cousin Sandy Moore,  I have poems written by my great-great grandfather. His faith carried him through the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 and 1871. He writes of God’s grace and God’s faithfulness that sustained him even through the horrors of that bloody war.

What about my faith legacy?

What about me?

I can tell my children how during pain and grief, I’ve cried out to God, and he has always sent help.

I can tell my children of keeping my eyes wide open for the blessings of God, and finding them, small daily miracles, and larger lifetime miracles. I can name a few of those miracles for them. Friends. Flowers. Sunsets. Smiles. Laughter. Jobs.  Fellowship.  Family.

I can tell them that in spite of the unexpected curve balls life has sometimes thrown, God has been faithful –just like his word promises–with a peace that passes understanding, and deep-seeded joy.

I can tell them that when I open my devotional, The Upper Room, and read the Bible every day, there is always, without fail, an insight that I need for that day.

I can tell them that listening and singing along to praise and worship music lifts my heart, soothes my troubled spirit, helps me to find the calm place in the middle of the storm.

I can tell them that going to church and being involved in small groups gives me joy, even when I don’t really feel like going.

I can tell them that praying for God’s moment-to-moment guidance really does work.

Life is not easy. Things do not always happen the way we plan. People hurt us. But in the midst of all of the pain, there rises a joy that overpowers ugly. Every time.

That’s my faith legacy.

I love weekends!

1.My husband is off work.

2. We get to spend time with friends and family

3. We get to sleep late

4. We get to go to church on Sunday, sing great songs, listen to a wonderful pastor, and talk with our friends.

This weekend, we spent Saturday at the beach. 

We walked along the shore, dipped our toes in the cool water, and gave thanks for heaven on earth.

Later in the day, my husband and I went with our brother and sister-in-law to the Farmer’s Market and bought home grown Tupelo Honey from Vernon, Florida, garlic grown in Fountain, and admired the lovely created crafts to the sound of a home-grown band. The breeze was cool, and we were happy to be there together.

It was the first day of Red Snapper season, so we stood and watched them unload the boats. I have never in my life seen snapper so big!

We bought some snapper and grilled out, and spent the cool evening sitting around eating and laughing together. I give thanks for living in paradise!

I spent the morning (from about 8 until about 12) working on a novel synopsis that I plan to present to my editor. I’m hoping she will like it and buy it. I’m also hoping for a new roof for my house. Maybe I’ll get both. I might not get either. But, the hope that I might keeps me writing.

That, and the fact that I really love the characters and the historical period I am writing about. It’s Britannia during the turmoil of the Roman invasions when people are having to make tough choices about what freedom is, and what they are willing to sacrifice to have it.

I think writing is like the house you live in and the wand you make magic with in Harry Potter’s world.

It chooses you.

I didn’t set out to be a writer. But, since I was in the fourth grade and wrote the class play, I have always written. Plays, poems, the beginnings of diaries.

I feared I couldn’t finish a novel.

I feared I didn’t have what it takes.

Coming up with an idea for a novel is easy.

(I sometimes want to shake people who tell me the good idea they have that I should turn into a novel. I mean, I know they mean well, but it’s a little like handing a marathon runner a new pair of shoes and asking him to run the marathon for you.)

For me,  the hard part  in writing a novel is getting past about page 45 or 50. It’s getting through even after your cool new idea is no longer cool or new.

Novel writing is like running. It hurts for a long time, and then, suddenly, it doesn’t. And then it starts hurting again, but you go back to it day after day because you must.

If you don’t, you will hate yourself.

When you finish a day of writing, you feel good about yourself.

When you skip a day you feel guilt and make excuses: too many errands to run. Didn’t feel good. Kids needed me. And so on.

On the good writing days you have errands and kids, and you don’t feel good, but you still write.

That’s what you do because you are a writer, and writers write.

Right now, I’m working on my eighth novel. It hasn’t gotten much easier.

Having a good synopsis makes the writing  a little easier. It’s sort of like knowing where your mile markers are.

Writing a good synopsis is hard work. I’ve been working on this synopsis for about a week.

I usually write really fast, but the book this synopsis is based on has taken me four months so far, and I’m only at the 25,000 word mark. I’m hoping the synopsis will help me find my way. And help sell the book.

Sometimes I think I should ditch the novel and start a new one. I have a synopsis for a new one. But, I really like this story. I like my characters. I like the historical period.

So why is it taking me so long to write?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this: I’m glad that day after day, writing chooses me.

It’s obvious, isn’t it? The place where your treasure is,

 is the place you will most want to be, and end up being

Matthew 6:21 (The Message)

I remember reading the story of Eli and Samuel when my children were small.  I was very put out with these two supposedly wise men for not being better disciplinarians.

Seriously, I thought, the Bible is very clear: “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old they will not turn from it.”  Proverbs 22:6

I disciplined my children because I love them.

The pay off for all these years of good, loving discipline supported by psychology, my best friends and my parents was supposed to be this:  teenagers and young adults who did what they were supposed to do.

My own teenagers acted like, well, teenagers.

Making my teenagers do what I wanted them to do was sort of like opening up a feather pillow, letting the feathers fly in the wind, and then trying to capture them and put them back in the pillow.

I ran around chasing a lot of feathers.

I was a little hurt it hadn’t all turned out the way I wanted.

My children had become my treasures. I cared more about their love for me than I did about God’s love for me.

What a burden that was for them, and how it stunted my spiritual life.

I grew a little when I read Matthew’s verse out of The Message.

When I began focusing on how I was doing with God rather than how my nearly grown children were doing with me, I grew a little more.

My children are teenagers.

Teenagers are selfish.

They are the center of their world.

That’s the common wisdom anyway.

I wonder if it’s even true?

Maybe what’s more true is that young children are pretty open, loving and giving. They see the world as cooperative.

But then they wise up as teenagers.

They lose their childlike innocence—translate: they stop trusting people to do the right thing

And they see the world for what it really is.

A place where most everyone is out for number one.

In his books of poetry, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, William Blake records this.

For Blake, it’s a bitter but necessary transition.

Without the fall from innocence to experience, we would never be able to appreciate or even understand the innocence when it’s offered back up to us.

This week, two things brought this transition home to me.

1. I was doing an author visit at an elementary school. My host asked that I focus on the places my writing had taken me.  I found a piece of my early poetry, written when I was a teenager. I was astounded at my sheer selfishness. That’s not how I remember myself.  I remember me being altruistic, kinder than most of the people around me. They were fakes.
2. Our pastor, Tom Fuerst, asked us this week to examine our darkness. He said that without recognizing and naming our darkness, Easter Sunday with its promise of resurrection and new life is meaningless. We can’t be resurrected unless we understand what we are being resurrected from.

Maybe what happens from childhood to teenagerhood is that we start looking beyond ourselves. We look for people worse than us so we can feel better about ourselves.

Or maybe, we become so horrified by our own brokenness, our knowledge that we can never live up to our own expectations that we look around us to make sure we are not alone.

We aren’t.

Adulthood: when hyperawareness of what others do wrong stops.

Adulthood: accepting the responsibility of our own dark side. Adulthood: admitting it. Coming face to face with it. Owning it.

And then fixing it.

I think I’m stuck in perpetual teenagerhood.

I’m really good at picking out what everyone else is doing wrong. But what I’m doing wrong? Not so much.

I’m a mother. It’s essential that I guide my children in the way they should go. I help them through their weaknesses and encourage their strengths.

Focusing 100% on their inadequacies, and not at all on mine.

Hmm.

I am hyper focused on how they treat me. I operate under the guise that teaching them to treat me with respect is their pathway to happiness. It will help them earn a place in the world, people will like them, and they will like themselves.

Does that “lesson” turns into me focus rather than you and us focus?

I’m big on our need for community support. I wrote a whole dissertation on it.

But when it comes right down to it, do I practice true community? Or am I in it for me? Am I in it for what I can get out of others, how I can manipulate others to cushion my way in a tough world?

I know a few people who are truly good. I watch them and shake my head. If only I could be that good, I think to myself.

But, really? Do I want to be good? Or is it too much bother, too much work, too uncomfortable?

Being good is this: putting others before myself.

Jesus was a pretty wise guy. Love your neighbors as you love yourself.

When my child offends me with harsh words, I’m supposed to love him as I love myself. Rather than protecting my own feelings, I must try to figure out where the harsh words came from and love her out of them.

But wouldn’t that be sending my teenager the wrong message? Wimpy parenting? Trying to be a friend rather than his parent?

A very wise counselor at my children’s high school, Sharon Hofer, said it might be time for me to stop being the parent, and start being the partner.

What she meant was this. Rather than “punishing” him each time he broke a rule, as this was proving completely ineffective, I was to sit him down and talk with him about where he wants to go.

What does he see himself doing in two years? Five years? Ten years? How is the choice he has just made going to help him get where he wants to go?

The counselor reminded me that my job was no longer the parental punisher, but the parental guide.

I was to join forces with him and help him get where he wanted to go.

A partnership rather than a parental relationship.

In a partnership, one partner is not always right.

In a partnership, each is equally responsible for the success of the partnership.

In a partnership, expectations are clearly defined, as are common and individual goals.

In a partnership, there is honesty and investment, quarterly reports and evaluations.

For a partnership to work, each partner has to examine the darkness of his own soul.

Each partner has to lay aside his own self-serving motivation and instead serve the common good.

In a Nike world where “just do it” means do what you want when you want to do it, such a partnership could be tough.

But completely necessary.

No one knows my flaws better than my teenagers. They recite them in front of the mirror every morning as they examine their faces for new bumps.

If I truly want to walk in the light, I might need to join hands with my teenagers.

In this new partnership, we will prepare them for a successful future.

And I will face my dark side.

Azaleas bloom hot pink. The rain wet woods serve as bleak backdrop to their riotous color.

God moments are like that. Dante’s woods, his life without God, overtake me, and I am swallowed by darkness. Anger, despair, hopelessness.

In my despair, I cry out to God for help. A friend calls me. Offers to pray for me. The azaela’s bloom hot pink.

John 15:5-14

Did I mention that Louisville is the most wonderful city in America?

A completely true statement as long as my daughter, Jenny, and her darling husband, Chris, live there.

Hal and I drove up on Friday for an action-packed long weekend. Here are the fun things we did.

Friday night, 8 pm. Romeo and Juliet at the Young Actor’s Theatre. My favorite part of the production: the real swimming pool. My second favorite part of the production: the opera-like juxtaposition of Act 3 scenes 2 and 3 when Romeo is banished. Wow. Who would have thought to play the scenes at the same time on two separate areas of the stage? Powerful directing.

After the show, we had a late night supper at Doc Crows, (Chris’s favorite!) an open-air main-street restaurant featuring the best bbq I’ve ever tasted. Chris took a break from studying for a dental school exam to join us. It was a perfectly breezy, early fall evening, not quite cold enough for a coat, but definitely not Florida. Natives,Jenny and Chris, love finally living in a city where the seasons actually change.

The next morning was Jenny’s birthday. We woke up and she opened presents–her favorites: shirts, sweaters, a necklace and scarf from sisters Megan and Morgan, and this awesome Northface cold-time jacket from that awesome Chris.

Next, we headed out to discover yet another lovely Louisville eatery, this time, Toast, for birthday  brunch.   Lovely morning Mimosas, fluffy omelets and yummy pancakes.

Then, an afternoon matinee. Wicked. Oh, my. Have I ever seen such a wonderful show? I don’t think so! What a sadly beautiful story of good deeds being completely misrepresented and converted to evil by egocentric, power hungry acquaintances. But, in the end, in the best possible way,  love is able to conquer all. Makes me completely re-imagine that last scene in the Wizard of Oz. Ding Dong, neither the good witch nor the bad witch is actually dead. And which is actually the witch? Makes me want to always ask, “why?” And besides all that, the music is fabulous.

After the show, Chris worked hard to make certain all of his plans for Jenny’s surprise party between Wicked and the FSU/Clemson game went off without a hitch. And it did. What a guy! She was completely surprised and delighted. All of their friends from Community Group at Sojourn brought food, flowers, a pinata and crazy awesome decorations.

There was the small hitch when the party mistress locked herself out of the apartment shortly before it was to begin stranding the partiers outside rather than inside, but it was all worked out, and Jenny had the best birthday of her life.

And FSU did beat Clemson. Phshew. That might have been her favorite birthday present of all.

Sunday morning we woke early and went to see a member of Jenny and Chris’s community group, Ivan,  baptized. What a sweet, happy moment. The highlight was the reading aloud of his testimony just before the baptism.

We followed the baptism fellowshipping with the sweet people at the church, including pastor, Jonah Sage. After church, we went on a quest for Goetta sausage, which we found at the local neighborhood Kroger. Hal cooked it along with eggs and toasted bagels and my cheese grits. We sat down for a Sunday feast at Jenny and Chris’s lovely condo.

For the afternoon, Chris studied, Hal investigated Trader Joe’s, and Jenny and I went to the Princess Diana exhibit at the Frazier Gallery. What a lovely, heart-wrenching exhibit.

From the wedding dress that my friends and I copied for our own weddings, to the overwhelming number of condolence letters to Diana’s family at her death, Jenny and I walked through her life. What a woman. I had forgotten what hard work she did for the elderly, the underprivileged, for miners, AIDS patients, abused children, families with members in prison. Her charities reached out and touched even more people than her hollywood perfect smile. So happy to share the life of such a great woman with my daughter.

After Diana, we went to JoAnn’s fabrics. Is the Louisville JoAnn’s the biggest in the country? I don’t know, but it sure felt that way. They had everything. It was sewing heaven. Jenny had an idea for a basket of goodies she wanted me to embroider for her friend, Juli, who had just had a baby.

Jenny and I set to work, embroidering all afternoon and evening. We ended up with a basket of the following: two onesies, three burp cloths, two blankets, a hooded towel and a snugly. We had a blast sewing while Hal cooked us his specialty, hamburgers. No one cooks hamburgers like my husband. He needs to open a restaurant. Maybe when he retires. Which is no where in the near future. Three more to get through college.

Monday morning, we slept in while Jenny went to her classes (biochemestry and molecular biology masters–one semester away from graduating!) and Chris went to his.

Later, I wrote, Hal read, and our first-born grandchild snuggled behind him. 

Later, Jenny took us to eat lunch on Frankford Avenue at Shiraz. Who knew mediterranean food could taste so good? Could they just open up one of those restaurants here in Panama City? Happy, Happy eating!!!!

After eating, we walked down Frankford Avenue and visited the bookstore, a pottery store, and finally the Pie Kitchen. Louisville. I love it!I

That afternoon might have been the highlight of the trip. Jenny has been teaching Pure Barre classes for a few weeks now. She loves, loves, loves teaching, and is obsessed with the sweet community of women she works with, learns from and teaches. I got to join them for a class. Ok, so it wasn’t easy. In fact, I thought I was going to die a little. But, the feeling after the class was wonderful. Thank you to Jenny and wonderful Pure Barre friends!!