Musings

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It’s almost Christmas. I can’t believe how quickly time has passed us by. I changed blogs recently and in a clearing out of the old to make room for the new, I deleted my old posts. I wish I hadn’t done that. Sometimes I get overzealous in wanting to make room for the new things God has in store and I clear out too much.

I still have my stories, saved in a word file. Kept as my own scrapbook of random thoughts and wishes. I’m glad I at least did that, rather than throw the baby out with the proverbial bathwater. I need to know where I’ve been. It helps me see where I’m going sometimes. I have a built in forgetter, and my stories are really God’s story and if I don’t see them, I forget how far he’s brought me.

This has been a facinating week. If you missed the news, Tulsa had the worst ice storm in it’s history. I wasn’t prepared. We thought we were. Jeff and I went to the store and stocked up on food and supplies, believing the most inconvient thing this storm would bring would be rough travel. We were wrong.

We didn’t plan for a week long power outage. 264,000 homes and businesses were without power. I forgot, I have an electric stove. My supplies weren’t very useful. But that’s okay – I learned that I have a lot to learn when it comes to being ready. And even then – I have to trust God to provide for my gaps. And he always does. And boy did he ever.

I’m going to blog about that week for a while. Hopefully my pictures will turn out because I’m not sure I can truely paint this picture with words. Even if they don’t, I’ll try.

God’s Spirit spoke to us in amazing ways this week.

I had a blast with God in the darkness of my home. More so that I remember allowing in the light. Isn’t that so true to us? We don’t mean it to be. But we get busy – doing. And I, at least, get wrapped up in being a doer, and forget how to simply be.

I have teenagers and I spend as much time in my car as I do at home. There’s always someplace to be or something to do. I’m part of a missionary team. A church planter. A teacher. A songwriter, a singer, a mother, a wife. Doing it all to the glory of God – I hope, and yet I forget to spend face time with the lover of my soul, my creator and my sustainer. I get tired when I do that. The things that feed me (using my gifts), can quickly become the things that drain me, if I’m not careful.

So he pulled the lights for a week – maybe. He had my attention – kinda hard not too. I really didn’t have any distractions other than the cold.

And having a teachers heart, I’m going to write about his gifts in the days to come.

There’s a Hole in Our Wall, Dear Jeffrey

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(Sung to There’s a hole in the bucket)
I bought a new cabinet
Dear Jeffrey
Dear Jeffrey
I bought a new cabinet
For our bathroom downstairs
——————-
I looked for your drill bit
Dear Jeffrey
Dear Jeffrey
I looked for your drill bit
Dear Jeffrey
And found it, I did.
————
I looked for the studs
like it said to
dear jeffrey
I looked for the studs
and low there they were
————————–
I missed them Dear jeffrey
Dear Jeffrey
I missed them Dear Jeffrey and I don’t know how.
————————————-
There are holes in our wall, dear Jeffrey
dear Jeffrey
There are holes in our wall Dear Jeffrey
Four holes
——————–
The cabinet’s not up yet dear jeffrey
dear jeffrey
The cabinet’s not up yet cuz I lost the bracket thingie that goes in the hole.
————————
we might need some plaster
and more paint
dear jeffrey
We might need some plaster
and more paint
to hide my mistakes.
—————–
Love you Honey!

The Neurotic Messiah

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Oh no! What have I done? I cannot read a single note. Not one. This score is much more complicated Than I ever anticipated.

I haven’t sung in a choir for twenty year. And so began my chorus of fears.

The starts, the stops, the highs, the lows The beats, the counts, the arpeggios. The conductors who speak in some foreign tongue Is it Latin, or Italian? I know not which one.

The M’s and P’s, and F’s and M’s. Oh, these aren’t your typical church service hymns. Am I an “S” or not an “S” I do not know and now they say my costume I need to sew.

Light the fire but don’t take it out?! Would someone please tell me what that was about?

Now I’m told to sing like Ethel Merman and that we aren’t singing, but giving a sermon.

Oh how I’m beginning to rue the day when Sue Paulison said “Come on let’s play. You don’t need to audition, just show up and sing. Being a part of “The Messiah” is a wonderful thing.”

I’m now thinking my impulse to do this was rash. This may be a check I’ve written that my body can’t cash.

This is not good, not good at all, but then again, does pride not come before the fall?

I drove straight home and on my bed I sat telling my husband, I’m not going back! And that is that!

Then standing in the hallway whom did I see but my 9-year-old son list-ening to me. “I thought you once said don’t ever quit. So please tell me now, why are you doing it?”

I searched through my brain to frantically look for some wise answer to get me off the hook. Failing that I tried for the truth Hoping somehow he’d understand, even in his youth.

“That may be true.” I answer, “But don’t you see? There’s too much to learn and it’s too hard for me. Besides, I really can’t sing, not like the rest.” And he said “That’s okay Mom; just do your best. God won’t mind, just wait and see. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

And so I sat with a guilty heart wondering when my son got so smart. And wondering why he now would choose to remember my words and those words use.

Then henceforth came my next blessing I caught a cold while I was dressing. I coughed and sneezed and wheezed and gasped. My voice, once loud, now barely rasped.

I cannot sing and cough no sir, they have to let me drop now, I’m sure. No guilt, no blame, It’s not my fault. This cruel dance can finally come to a halt.

But Leon’s good. He doesn’t miss a trick. You’d better get well and get well quick. I’ll let you sing you’ll do just fine, people catch colds all the time. And so went my last excuse. Fighting God on this one seemed no use.

My costume’s all sewn by my friend Cyndi, with care, At least now I will have something to wear.

I thought a “piano” is what you played and not what you sang and this cold still makes me sound like a cat in the rain. I’m not an “S” and this much I know that’s to keep us from hissing during the show.

The Marys and Josephs have been picked out with care now if only they could decide when they’ll be there.

The last practice has come we should know what to do. Stand up straight, bend your knees, and that includes you. The Altos still outnumber the rest by a score, next year could you please try soprano some more.

The orchestra is with us, it’s coming together. Somehow I doubt we could get any better.

Tell us Pastor Carter how does it sound now that we’ve done this last go around?

“It needs to be crisp, we’ve lost that somehow. Remember, you are praising God, so let’s pull it together now. Sopranos are too strong, bring it down just a bit. Bass’s your not emphasizing the lines that you hit. Tenors and Altos your entrances are late, but other than that I think it sounds great.”

Our differences we have quietly tucked away, as all Tulsa Lutheran churches sing in har-mony this day. Clear and true our music does ring as we all praise and worship our new-born King.

All fears and joking are now put aside. This is a worship service and our joy we can’t hide.

The true story of Christmas can only be told through the lives of the ones who dare to Behold.

“Behold! I bring you tidings of great joy which shall be to all
people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior which is
Christ the Lord.”

Of Mice and Meaning

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I found mice today, cleaning out a closet he said was too full.
He was right you know,
about the closet that is.

Underneath all of the clutter and stuff that is my life
was a nest of shredded books and papers.
A paper back that was once mine, was now theirs.

Chewed and torn and turned into a home.
Only the top half of the book remained.

I coudn’t even make out the author’s name
or the title for that matter.
Bill something not that it matters now
but it did once.

Digging deeper,
I found more papers
More torn books
half chewed and then rejected.

Perhaps the binding was too tough?
Or the reading too slow.

Who knows.

In a moment’s time
my trusty vacuum cleaner
swept through their home
and my life
like a tornado Ripping it to shreds
until nothing was left.

I set traps
sticky ones that were supposed to be kind
or at least mess free
but they aren’t
a baby got stuck and cried for it’s mother
only she never came

And he wound up in the trash

I won’t use those again
it’s much too sad.

I’d rather buy a cat,
but he hates them
so we have mice instead.

The closet is empty now
purged of it’s former inhabitants
and free of bothersome clutter

waiting to be refilled
or reorganised
whichever comes first

much like my life

Bowing Down

DeanaLeave a comment

Have you ever had one of those days where God seems to be wanting to teach you something, but you just flat out don’t get it? I’ve had a week like that.

“Baptize me, oh Lord,
To the criticism of man,
That I might one day
become immune to it.”
– Beth Moore

That is not a prayer for the faint-hearted, wouldn’t you agree?

To be covered by, or immersed in other people’s criticism so that I can become immune. Wow. Not something I would personally wish for. The immunity part, fine, I just don’t like the medicine. There’s no sugar coating that kind of cure. Even the flu shot only offers a small amount of the virus, and it’s already dead. It’s not full of a live flu culture, I mean that would be crazy. Right?

This is a different kind of booster shot: Criticism in it’s full dosage, alive and well, pouring over me. To be found lacking by someone else. Me? Lacking, surely they jest or do they? Not my kind of cure.

It all started when I went to a Women of Faith conference last week with a few gals from my church and we had a blast. We listened to Max Lucado, Jennifer Rothschild, Patsy Clairmont, Marilyn Meeberg, Sheila Walsh, Luci Swindoll, Thelma Wells, and Sandi Patti. I was tested, lifted, and refreshed. Their joy was so contagious that we reserved 25 tickets for next year. I couldn’t wait to tell the gals who couldn’t come this year, about their chances for next. We spent the whole car ride home talking and planning.

Sunday morning I saw her. The one person I thought for sure would be excited. Was she not the person who told me when I joined the church four years ago that she was hungry for Bible studies, retreats, and women’s ministry? Had she not told me that while other churches in our town did those things, ours did not and she wished we could and that she just knew that I was the person to lead them? Had she not wanted to go with us on this weekend? Did she not simply say “I can’t afford it right now, but keep me in mind for next year?” I couldn’t contain myself. I just had to tell her what we had done.

I got baptized. Not sprinkled, I don’t even think I got dunked. Think Niagara Falls and I never saw it coming.

I had forgotten that our missionary league had a national gathering in 2007. She is a very active member of this missionary league. An organization that I had participated in and loved for well over a decade. They do a lot of wonderful things for the body of Christ, things that might not otherwise get done. I just don’t have the time for it right now. My heart’s desire, my passion, and my “mission” if you will is to feed women. To give them a place for the Marys to be and the Marthas a break. If you ask me what excites me? It’s watching the lights come on in their eyes, seeing the shoulder’s relax, and the spirit rest. I love that!

So, I’m excited, and not only is she not sharing my joy – she turns on the fire hose of conviction and opinion. “Oh my. That stuff is soooo second rate. Don’t you understand they are just wannabes compared to XXXX. We have everything you need in our group. You need to come to nationals for yourself and just see.” My first impression was one of total disbelief. I could not have heard her correctly. Max? Luci? Sheila? Second rate? Are you kidding me?

Our animated conversation continued outside. The more passionate she became in her convictions, the deeper my heels dug into the ground with mine. I finally had the sense to state that she could have her opinions and that was fine, just please don’t run me or what I’m trying to do into the ground to my face, or to other people.

I wish I could say she heard me, and understood. But she didn’t. All she had to say to that was “Well, I have to tell people the truth.”

I wish I could say that I heard her, and understood, but I didn’t. All I could say was “Well then, don’t ever ask me for anything again.” and I walked away.

Yep, I took the mature route. I took my dolly, walked over to a place where my “real friends” were sitting, and burst into tears. I was a sniffling wheenie. After being consoled and calming down, I did what any red-blooded woman of faith would do, I went home and prayed for her.

My prayer? “Go get her God.”

That’s how a lot of my intercessory prayers begin you know. With them.

I’m thankful that not only does God meet me there, he doesn’t let me stay there for long.