UBP Like It's 2012

 

It’s that time of year again, time for Ultimate Blog Party 2012. If this is your first visit, welcome. Let me show you around. (And if you’re an old friend, you’re welcome to stay, too. Just don’t eat all the snacks)

My name’s Nancy Franson, and I’m Out of My Alleged Mind. As I told my future son-in-law the first time we met, you never can be quite sure about me; whether I’m trying to be funny or I’m just plain crazy. And that’s my edge. This post: About the Blog Title explains, well, pretty much what you’d expect it to explain.

I wanted to have the place all cleaned up in time for the party, but I’m in the process of moving. I’ve been threatening since the fall to transfer my blog over to Word Press. But, as I often say about all things technical, “Things did not go as planned.”

Then again if I were to invite you over to my house, I may or may not have all the laundry neatly folded and put away. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’ve quit trying to hide all the mess, and this is a place where I invite folks to enter into it. I’m convinced that one of the chief purposes of my life is to tell my stories as a cautionary tale for others.

And through my stories, I hope to bear witness to God’s faithfulness in meeting me in my mess.

I’ve written this post about what I believe.  On my blog I sometimes make jokes about being a Presbyterian, because that’s what I am. Sometimes I wonder if there aren’t folks in my church who secretly wish I’d just run off and join the Methodists. But they’re stuck with me. It’s probably predestined.

I’m a freelance writer; and because that’s what it says on my business card, it must be true. I homeschooled my kids for many years and, as they began leaving home, I started looking for writing projects to give me something to do. One of my first was a series of interviews with an elderly friend who was losing her memory to dementia. We gave bound copies of her story to her friends and family members the Christmas before she died.

Another early project was interviewing some folks who are part of the Coalition for Christian Outreach, (CCO). The CCO is a Pittsburgh-based college ministry which, in my completely unbiased opinion, is about the most happening one on the planet.

I love telling stories, my own and those of others who cross my path. My brother, who reads my blog, said he imagines most people think I make up the stories I tell here. He can confirm, however, that they are (mostly) true.

Although I homeschooled for many years, I don’t often write about my experience. I think I need some distance to gain some perspective on those years. I didn’t always love it, and writing about it now might just come across as mean. I hope that when I do tell those stories; the good, the bad, and the ugly, I can tell them with honesty and grace.

Both of my children are adopted, and I gladly tell the stories of God’s goodness in bringing to me the exact ones he knew I needed. I sponsor, through the good work of Compassion International,  a child from the Philippines out of gratitude for my son who was born there.

I love the beach, I love Christmas, and I love my friend Ethel. I’m a huge fan of hijinks, shenanigans, feather boas, and guacamole. I prefer pie to cake. I’m originally from the Pittsburgh area and, yes, I do bleed black and gold for my Steelers. And the mere existence of the Baltimore Ravens makes me sad.

Me with Michelle DeRusha, Deidra Riggs, and Mary Bonner

I often refer to the people I’ve met in blog world as my imaginary friends. It’s been my privilege to meet several of them in real life, and they have demonstrated themselves to be as genuine as folks can be. Some of the communities where I like to hang out on the internet include:  The Wellspring, Graceful, Finding Heaven, Imperfect Prose, Jumping Tandem, and Faith Barista.

Me with Jodi from Curious Acorn

I’m also honored to have been featured at The High Calling, a community of some of the most thoughtful people on the internet discussing the connection between faith and work.

Yes, I am available to guest post. Please ask.

I strongly believe that one of the privileges of being a follower of Christ is getting to speak words of blessing over one another, so may God’s grace and peace be upon you. Thanks for stopping by.

If you’ve enjoyed your visit here, won’t you consider subscribing by email, liking my Facebook page, or following me on Twitter (@nancyfranson) or Pinterest?

UBP2011 Post

When We Disappoint

When my daughter was a baby she napped in a crib in her upstairs bedroom, painted pink and stenciled with bunnies. One day, after she had woken from her nap, I picked up my sweet baby girl and started carrying her down the stairs. And then I slipped and fell.

I was in pain, the seeing-stars-I’m-afraid-to-move-and-find-out-I’ve-broken-something kind of pain. While I was trying to figure out how badly I’d battered and bruised myself, my daughter cried out in pain of her own. She had a rash on her chin, received from having been dragged down the carpeted stairs. Her eyes bore a look of utter betrayal as if asking me, “How could you do this to me, my own mother?”

The pain I felt paled in comparison to the ache of knowing I’d caused harm to my daughter. It wasn’t intentional, but I felt responsible nonetheless.  I had failed my child, the one who looked to me for security, protection, and love.

My pastor has been preaching a series of sermons on the life of David. Last week he highlighted an episode in which David failed to protect his family. While on the run from King Saul, David took his family and hid out in Ziklag in the land of the Philistines. He even assisted the Philistines by participating in their raids against the Amalekites, Girzites, and other desert tribes. Saul didn’t pursue David while he lived among the Philistines, and he and his family remained there in relative safety for over a year.

Some of the Philistine commanders grew nervous, however, about taking David into battle with them. David was an Israelite, an enemy of the Philistines, and the commanders questioned his loyalty. David was dismissed from the ranks of marauding Philistines and sent home to Ziklag. Upon arriving home, he learned that the Amalekites had raided the village and carried all its wives and children into captivity.

While David was off doing battle with the Philistines, he left his family unprotected and open to harm.

Then David and the people who were with him raised their voices and wept until they had no more strength to weep. I Samuel 30:4, ESV

I’ve wept too; in the knowledge that my actions have caused harm to those I love. I’d like to say that dragging my daughter down the stairs was my one and only act of disappointment, but that’s not true. I’ve made careless decisions, some of which were outright self-centered and sinful. I’ve responded in frustration and anger rather than in love.

Leaning on conventional parenting wisdom I repeatedly grounded one child and generally made life miserable in an ongoing battle over schoolwork. The problem with leaning on conventional wisdom, however, was that it blinded me from seeking God’s wisdom and recognizing my child’s learning disability. That thing God said about not leaning on one’s own understanding? Turns out God intends those words for parents. Turns out, he intends them for me.

Nobody around here is getting nominated for mother-of-the-year any time soon.

I wounded my child with angry words, through my lack of patience and understanding. I grieve my actions and have wept bitterly. I am tempted to curl up into a ball and declare my utter worthlessness as a parent. But that’s not what David did:

. . . David strengthened himself in the LORD his God. I Samuel 30:6, ESV

God doesn’t cast aside those who fail, those who disappoint. The Lord met David in his sorrow and strengthened him. My pastor directed us to these words, written by David in Psalm 25:

Remember not the sins of my youth or my transgressions;
   according to your steadfast love remember me,
   for the sake of your goodness, O LORD!

Good and upright is the LORD;
   therefore he instructs sinners in the way.
 He leads the humble in what is right,
   and teaches the humble his way.

Psalm 25:7-9, ESV

This account of David ends well; he gets his family back. My daughter’s chin healed, and I doubt she even remembers the day I dragged her down the stairs. But not all stories end well, at least not on this side of eternity. My actions may cause wounds which run deep, resulting in scars that last a lifetime. Who knows whether David’s wives and children were haunted by recurring nightmares after being captured by ancient marauding tribes? Scripture is silent on this point, and I believe it’s wise not to speculate when scripture is silent.

But this passage offers hope. It reminds me that God is the one who rescues and delivers from all harm, even the harm caused by my carelessness and sin. So I ask his forgiveness and pray for healing. I need passages like this to remind me that God doesn’t give up on me, even when I’m undone by my failures. He forgives and strengthens the mother who cries bitter tears.

Honored to have this post included in the December, 2011, round up of featured posts at The High Calling, selected by David Rupert at Red Letter Believers.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Finding My Voice

“Finding your voice is your sacred obligation,” said the university president at the convocation service for the class of incoming freshmen.

I wanted to jump up out of my chair, clap my hands, and shout, “Glory, hallelujah, and amen!” Instead, I remained in my seat, tears streaming from my eyes as I whispered, “Thank you, Lord Jesus.”

From the days when I was filling out adoption paperwork, even before I met them and brought them home, my heart’s desire for my children was that they see God’s unique calling in their lives and pursue it. Throughout their childhoods, I prayed they would see their need for Jesus, respond in faith, and recognize they were created in His image for the good of the world and for His glory. We talked about these ideas, during our years of homeschooling. We revisited them as the high school years drew to a close and college applications and essays were being completed. Often my attempts to engage these thoughts were met with icy stares and stony silences. But now I know my son is at a place where he will continue to be challenged to pursue God’s call in his life.

Funny thing about raising kids, though. It’s hard to get them to latch onto ideas if they don’t see their parents and other influential adults putting them into practice.

Which I guess means I, too, need to be about the business of finding my voice. I have been trying, here in my little corner of internet world, to write about life and faith and how it all connects to the one big story of Jesus and redemption. I am willing to pursue that call, though my sentences are wordy and my verbs often passive. In that effort, I am grateful to have met many others who are using their voices for the good of the world and for God’s glory. So many of them challenge me to work harder, refine my skills, and write better.

This September, editors and members of The High Calling will be gathering for a writer’s retreat at Laity Lodge in Texas and are offering to pick up travel and registration expenses for one member of the community. These are people who understand the importance of daily work in the building of Christ's kingdom.  I would desperately love to be the person chosen.

Many other gifted friends like Sheila, Sandra, Lyla, and emily, are also hoping to snag that one lone spot. So even if I don’t win I figure I still win, because I’ll get to read more of their beautiful words written even more beautifully.

Go read their words. Then be about the business of finding your voice.

Sweetie

(A re-post from the archives.  Just because)

Once upon a time there was a young boy who had a caterpillar. The boy had a sister and both were being home schooled by their mother. She wanted them to see God’s fingerprints on every square inch of creation and believed science was a beautiful and essential part of that good creation. However science textbooks made her feel as though her head was going to explode. So she learned how to look under milkweed leaves for things like Monarch caterpillar eggs and gave those to her children instead of books.

The boy’s caterpillar hatched from its egg and began to eat and grow, and the boy named him Sweetie, for that was what his mother often called him. Perhaps he thought Sweetie was the name given to all people and creatures that are deeply, deeply loved.

Each morning, the boy padded downstairs in his footed blanket sleeper, picked up the plastic container which held Sweetie, and plopped it down next to him on the breakfast table. The boy’s Cheerios grew soggy as he watched Sweetie slowly and methodically munch away on milkweed leaves. The boy seemed mesmerized, eyes fixed upon the caterpillar, thumb secured in his mouth. The mother wondered if even video games would have lured the boy away from watching his caterpillar. Secretly, this pleased her.

One day, the caterpillar climbed to the top of his container and hung himself upside down in the form of the letter “J,” as caterpillars are wont to do. The next morning, in place of Sweetie was a jewel-like, jade-green chrysalis, flecked in gold, bearing the fingerprints of the Maker of all things beautiful. After about two weeks, Sweetie emerged according to the Maker's design and just as described in science textbooks, should anyone bother to read them.

The boy carried Sweetie outside, placing him on the hydrangea bush next to the house so that his wings could dry. He, his sister, and mother left for gymnastics class, all wondering if Sweetie would still be there when they returned. When the boy got home, he was thrilled to discover his butterfly waiting for him on the bush. The mother, however, was horrified to find that Sweetie had wandered into a spider’s web and was helpless to escape.

Without a word, the mother sent the boy and his sister into the house. Her husband returned home to find her slowly and gently trying to disentangle Sweetie’s feet from the web of his captor.

“You’re upsetting the balance of nature,” he said.

“I don’t care!” replied the mother. “This is not happening. Not here. Not now. Not to my son’s butterfly!”

And so, for the love of her own dear son, the mother released Sweetie from the snare of the one seeking his destruction. She set him free to live out the ordained lifespan of a Monarch butterfly which, according to science textbooks, lasts roughly one year.

And now the mother watches her own dear ones struggle to emerge from their childhood chrysalises, knowing that they, too, have an enemy who preys upon them.  She knows that this enemy spins webs designed to entangle their feet, and that she will be powerless to release them from the captor's snare should they wander into one of them. And so she prays to the One who loves her dear ones even more than she, the One who demonstrated His love by sacrificing His own beloved Son to crush the enemy’s head and set all captives free.

The Grammar of Easter

Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows...  Isaiah 53:4

The choir sang these words in Sunday morning’s anthem, echoing those that had stopped me in my tracks earlier in the week.  God was doing it again, repeating Himself to make sure I’d heard him:

Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.

The verbs.  It was the verbs in this familiar passage that cried out and caught my attention.  The verbs made me sit up and take notice as though I was hearing these living and active words for the very first time.  As a writer whose verbs don’t always line up and play nicely with the rest of the words in my sentences, I’m aware that verb choices and their tenses matter.

I came home and pulled an old homeschool teacher’s manual from a shelf wanting to make sure I knew which tense was on display here and why it mattered.

Has borne and carried.

My manual told me that I was looking at the present perfect tense of these verbs, and that the tense is used in this way:

Use the present perfect tense to indicate an action (or condition) that was begun in the past and is completed at the present time or is continuing into the present.  The present perfect indicates that the past action has some connection with the present moment.  (Grammar and Composition III, James Chapman, p. 80)

The past action has some connection with the present moment.  Relying on an old chant I’d taught my kids to identify parts of speech, I asked the question,

What has He borne and carried?

The answer:  Our griefs and our sorrows.  My griefs and my sorrows.

When I think about Easter, about Christ’s atoning sacrifice and death on the cross, I think about Him paying the penalty for my sin and enduring the grief of being forsaken, in that moment, by His Father.  Isaiah’s words reminded me that Christ not only bore the weight of my sin, carrying it to the cross, but He also bore my griefs and my sorrows, all my heartache and tears.  He carried the weight of all the pain and sadness I experience that is present in a world broken by sin.

A past action that has some connection with the present moment.

So if my grammatical analysis is correct, and if Jesus really has borne my griefs and my sorrows, maybe I don’t need to keep carrying them around.  Maybe, just maybe, He’s inviting me to lay my burdens down.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Ann and the Gratitude Community, laying down burdens to fill empty hands with the many, many gifts:

826.  A God who repeats Himself to make sure I hear.

827.  Lunch with rock-star diva friend--solving the problems of the world, once again.

828.  Every day that she feels a little bit stronger.

829.  Husband taking young man turkey hunting.

830.  The way he becomes like a little kid at Christmas the night before a hunting trip.

831.  Son and friends spending a beautiful sunny day outdoors.

832.  Birthday celebration times two.

833.  An evening of food, friendship, laughter, and joy.

834.  A read-aloud.

835.  Opening day of baseball season and memories of Dad.

836.  Sharing the excitement of the hometown team playing for a national championship.

UBP11: What Part of Party Don't You Understand?

When I saw UBP 2011 in the title of a friend’s blog post, I had flashbacks to high school chemistry class and nearly developed a rash.  The combination of letters and numbers reminded me of something from that periodic table of the elements that never made sense to me and made my head hurt.  In reality, UBP 2011 is a whole lot more fun—It’s The Ultimate Blog Party hosted by Janice and Susan at 5 Minutes for Mom.

Welcome to those of you visiting here for the first time.  Come on in and make yourselves comfortable; I’ll show you around.  You might want to throw on a fancy hat.  Or maybe your feather boa.

Here in my little corner of the blog universe, I like to tell stories.  I tell family stories and stories about fascinating people I’ve met.  Of course, I tend to think most people are fascinating, and I think everybody’s story matters.  I also think that all of our stories are all part of one great big story that ends well.

Here at Out of My Alleged Mind I talk about faith, about what it means to be a follower of Jesus.  I grew up going to church and Sunday school, won awards for memorizing Bible verses, and I have known about Jesus all my life.  I love me a good, heavy, deep, and real theological debate.  These days, however, my writing tends toward what it looks like to take all those things I know in my head and live like I believe them out here in a world that is messy, broken, and ugly.  I believe that life is hard, but God is good and God is great.

The beloved Swede is the love of my life.  He often drags me up and down hiking trails, through mountain passes, and across streams--though he swears he isn’t really trying to kill me.  We are adoptive parents of two amazing kids—one domestic, one import.  I homeschooled for many years but didn’t always love it.  I am still recovering.

I cried for nearly two years when my daughter left for college.  Now that my children are grown and I am almost an empty-nester, I am trying to figure out what else God has left me on this earth to do.  My baby girl got married this past year, and my son (who has mad, crazy piano skills) offered his gift of music for her wedding.  (I totally rocked that mother-of-the-bride thing).

I have a rock-star diva girlfriend who kicked cancer’s butt.  She is my hero.

On my blog, I often tell stories about my friend Ethel.  When we are out finding trouble to get into enjoying moments of sweet fellowship together, I play the role of Lucy.  She and I get our pictures taken with Santa every year which, we believe, is the highlight of the season for him.  I think about Christmas all year long.

Despite having a head full of gray hair and being a Jesus-loving, former homeschooling mom, I am a huge fan of quirkiness, shenanigans, hoopla, jingle bells, polka dots, feather boas, laughter, merriment, mirth, and the movie Mamma Mia!  I like to crank up the music in my car and sing at the top of my lungs-- even to songs by Pink, which have no redeeming value whatsoever.  In a few months, on my next birthday, I will officially become eccentric—something I’ve been practicing for all my life.

I am Nancy at Out of My Alleged Mind.  Nice to meet you.  Thanks for stopping by.

Joining the party:

The Way They Should Go

Am I the only mother for whom the following words strike fear and trembling deep into the recesses of her heart?

Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.  Proverbs 22:6, NIV

I know.  These words are intended to be a source of promise and comfort.  It’s just that, I’m not always sure I’m leading my children in the way they should go.

The Sunday School answer, of course would be that we are to lead them in God’s way, to follow the principles of scripture.  When my children were babies, my husband and I stood at the front of our church and made promises to raise them in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.  The difficulty, for me, has always come in knowing how to do that on a day-to-day basis. 

It’s not as though believers agree about what faithful Christian parenting looks like.  We draw lines in different places in almost every area of parenting.  Breastfeeding only or is bottle feeding okay?  Cloth or disposable diapers?  Timeouts only or spanking?  Do we allow them to trick-or-treat?  What about Santa Claus? What is the best way to educate:  home school, private school, or public education?  Should we allow our children to date or is courtship the only honorable means for finding a spouse?

Where does a faithful Christian parent draw the line on clothing choices, tattoos, piercings?  When should we lay down the law?  When do we extend grace?

The wealth of technology and gadgets available to our children makes parenting decisions even more complicated.  At what age should my child be allowed to have a cell phone?  Should I let my children text?  What about internet access?  Facebook?  Do I monitor their accounts or is it wrong to snoop?  What kind of music do I allow my kids to download onto their IPods, or do I even involve myself in those decisions?  Do I even understand how most of those gadgets work?

Add in variables about each child’s temperament, gifts, abilities, strengths, and weaknesses; try to account for family dynamics as well as the emotional baggage each of us as parents brings into our family, and the decision-making calculus becomes truly overwhelming.  There are just too many opportunities for getting it wrong.
                                                                                                                              

And I know that sinfulness and rebellion linger within my own heart.  My fear comes in wondering,

What if I lead them in the wrong way?

When my example leads them astray, I feel I have betrayed my precious children into the hands of the enemy by means of a mother’s kiss.

As my children have grown, I’ve had to acknowledge times and places where I got it wrong.  Far too often I relied on my own wisdom and understanding rather than acknowledging my utter helplessness in raising those entrusted to my care.  I attempted to put into practice the words of James Dobson, Tedd Tripp, and Doug Wilson while neglecting the Living Word.

I spent more time at home school conventions and in studying curriculum catalogs than I did on my knees.

Recognizing my failures, I have had to look my children in the eye and ask for their forgiveness.  I’ve had to bend the knee to my heavenly Father and ask His forgiveness.  And while there on my knees, it finally occurred to me:

What if the way isn’t so much about parenting methods, educational choices, and acceptable behaviors?  Could it be that the way this proverb had in mind is the way of repentance, of forgiveness, of grace?

The way of the cross. 

Linking with Finding Heaven Today.

Sweetie

Once upon a time there was a young boy who had a caterpillar. The boy had a sister and both were being home schooled by their mother. She wanted them to see God’s fingerprints on every square inch of creation and believed science was a beautiful and essential part of that good creation. However, science textbooks made her feel as though her head was going to explode. So, she learned how to look for things like Monarch caterpillar eggs hidden underneath milkweed leaves and gave those to her children instead of books.

The boy’s caterpillar hatched from its egg and began to eat and grow, and the boy named him Sweetie, for that was what his mother often called him. Perhaps he thought Sweetie was the name given to all people and creatures that are deeply, deeply loved.

Each morning, the boy padded downstairs in his footed blanket sleeper, picked up the plastic container which held Sweetie, and plopped it down next to him on the breakfast table. The boy’s Cheerios grew soggy as he watched Sweetie slowly and methodically munch away on milkweed leaves. The boy seemed mesmerized, eyes fixed upon the caterpillar, thumb secured in his mouth. The mother wondered if even video games would have lured the boy away from watching his caterpillar. Secretly, this pleased her.

One day, the caterpillar climbed to the top of his container and hung himself upside down in the form of the letter “J,” as caterpillars are wont to do. The next morning, in place of Sweetie was a jewel-like, jade-green chrysalis, flecked in gold, bearing the fingerprints of the Maker of all things beautiful. After about two weeks, Sweetie emerged according to the Maker's design and just as described in science textbooks, should anyone bother to read them.

The boy carried Sweetie outside, placing him on the hydrangea bush next to the house so that his wings could dry. He, his sister, and mother left for gymnastics class, all wondering if Sweetie would still be there when they returned. When the boy got home, he was thrilled to discover his butterfly waiting for him on the bush. The mother, however, was horrified to find that Sweetie had wandered into a spider’s web and was helpless to escape.

Without a word, the mother sent the boy and his sister into the house. Her husband returned home to find her slowly and gently trying to disentangle Sweetie’s feet from the web of his captor.

“You’re upsetting the balance of nature,” he said.

“I don’t care!” replied the mother. “This is not happening. Not here. Not now. Not to my son’s butterfly!”

And so, for the love of her own dear son, the mother released Sweetie from the snare of the one seeking his destruction. She set him free to live out the ordained lifespan of a Monarch butterfly which, according to science textbooks, lasts roughly one year.

And now the mother watches her own dear son struggle to emerge from his boyhood chrysalis, knowing that he, too, has an enemy who preys upon him.  She knows that this enemy spins webs designed to entangle the feet of her son, and that she will be powerless to release him from the captor's snare should he wander into one of them. And so she prays to the One who loves her dear son even more than she, the One who demonstrated His love by sacrificing His own beloved Son to crush the enemy’s head, and set all captives free.

Remember, Remember, Remember the Signs

...first, remember, remember, remember the Signs. Say them to yourself when you wake in the morning and when you lie down at night, and when you wake in the middle of the night. And whatever strange things may happen to you, let nothing turn your mind from following the Signs. And secondly, I give you a warning. Here on the mountain, the air is clear and your mind is clear; as you drop down into Narnia, the air will thicken. Take great care that it does not confuse your mind. And the Signs which you have learned here will not look at all as you expect them to look, when you meet them there. That is why it is so important to know them by heart and pay no attention to appearances. Remember the Signs and believe the Signs. Nothing else matters. -- From The Silver Chair, by C.S. Lewis

Store shelves are stocked with back-to-school supplies, and hot, humid summer evenings have yielded a few degrees to the approaching autumn. Despite, or maybe because of, the fact that for the first time in sixteen years I will have no children starting back to school this fall, I'm sensing the first few notes of autumn melancholy begin to disquiet my soul. I'm tempted to give in to the sadness, to grieve the end of the sunshine and sand, the barefeet, the freedom, and the watermelon.

I miss buying school supplies.  I miss having children to buy back-to-school supplies for.  I'm haunted by the years of homeschool lesson-planning and the years that flew by all-too-quickly when I was so busy teaching my children that I forgot to take time to delight in them.  I wonder what will shape their lives when they are no longer framed by school calendars.

And I know that the best antidote to this melancholy is remembering the Signs of God's goodness, of His faithfulness.  The air isn't always clear around me, and my mind does get confused.  I forget that when things don't look as I expect them, my Father still loves me and always, always rejoices in doing me good.

So I continue to count the gifts:


 
439. …I will rejoice in doing them good…Jeremiah 32:41

440. Yellow trumpet vine attracting hummingbirds.

441. Son accompanying violinist during offertory.

442. Grandparent camping trip.

443. Son who notices rainbows and star-filled skies and sees them as good gifts from God.

444. Husband who makes Sunday morning Swedish pancakes.

445. Summer blueberries for pancakes.

446. Summer cornfields

Isaac On the Altar

The beloved teenage son, after years of being homeschooled and attending private school, has piles of scholarship money sitting at his feet.  And he's not sure he wants it.  Uncertainty, indecision, and fear follow him about, clouding his thinking.  His gifts and talents are held in tension by the way his brain holds onto and processes information.  And this is all part of His loving Father's design and plan for him.

And he talks about the army.  And I picture drill sergeants yelling and bullets flying and soldiers hoping to come home safely from dangerous desert places.  And I weep.

And I think of how many times I've stood and wept at Memorial Day parades, watching the flags waving, watching the veterans march by.  I remember how many times I've spoken up in support of the military, expressing my gratitude for their willingness to sacrifice and put their lives in harm's way.

Their lives.  Not my son's.

And I hear the voice of his school principal saying that perhaps the Lord is asking me to put my Isaac on the altar and trust in God's provision.  And I remember hearing that story as a young girl in Sunday School, watching my sainted teacher act it out.  Pretending to march up Mount Moriah, carrying the wood.  Placing the imaginary son on the altar.  Looking to see the ram, caught by its horns.  It was a powerful story then.  I never thought I'd be asked to live it.

And a friend, an army chaplain calls him while on vacation with his family and talks to him and encourages him.  And my son brightens, expressing gratitude for the gifts of time and encouragement.  He sees the possibility of challenge and success and the opportunity to test himself and become a man.

I tell my brother about the phone call and say, "Wouldn't our dad be proud of his grandson?" he who proudly squeezed himself into his army uniform and marched in his hometown Memorial Day parade, year after year.  And my brother tells me the story (how is it that I never heard this until now?) of the army chaplain who befriended our father, he who as a young boy used to walk past churches, wondering what went on in there.  And that chaplain sowed the seed of the gospel.  And it took root.

And I know that God is in this and He will provide.  And I hear His voice saying, "Never will I leave you.  Never will I forsake you."  And He means it.

And I am so grateful.  The list of God's gifts, great and small, continues:



230.  The men and women of our armed services.
231.  The families who love them and let them go.
232.  The blessings of being in the body of Christ--what our pastor called, "the privileges of membership."
233.  Seeing the men in the church speaking truth and grace and encouragement to my son.
234.  Witnessing the baptism of a new convert--a hard-core atheist transformed by the gospel, wooed out of the kingdom of darkness and welcomed into the kingdom of light.  Being reminded, once again, that it is all, all true.
235.  Being surprised, once again, by the first chorus of spring peepers.

236.  The snow fountain which blooms so briefly but so beautifully each spring.

237.  Swans on the reservoir.  Yes, they are fierce and aggressive, but so lovely to look at.

238.  Childhood friends.

239.  Learning of a saint triumphant who has earned his rest.  Reading the legacy of the lives he touched.  Knowing he had done what God had put him on this earth to do.

240.  Faithful Sunday School teachers.

241.  The ministry of CareNet.  Lives transformed by the gospel.

242.  The Pirates winning their first game of the season, reawakening memories of my dad.

243.  The beloved Swede, reaching out to a young man being raised by a single mom, sharing his love of hunting.
244.  The hard-working, salt-of-the-earth, God-fearing farmer who runs the hunting camp and finds joy in introducing young people to the sport.

245.  The young man shaking like a leaf after getting his first turkey.

My Charlie Brown Moment

There is a moment in A Charlie Brown Christmas when our beloved blockhead visits Lucy at her psychiatrist's booth.  He tells her he guesses he just doesn't understand Christmas.  Lucy suggests that perhaps he is suffering from any number of phobias.  When she suggests that he has a fear of everything, Charlie Brown exclaims, "THAT'S IT!"

I was raised in a church in which, occasionally, all God's people would shout, "Amen."  Now that I'm presbyterian and reformed where we do everything decently and in order, I sometimes allow the silent murmur of an "amen" to glance across my lips.

This past Sunday, I wanted to shout like Charlie Brown.

After investing years in homeschooling my children, gleaning the best information I could gather from the conventions, devising years' worth of lessons plans, compiling spreadsheets that mapped out successful life strategies for them to accomplish great things for Christ and His kingdom, the most amazing thing happened.  I lost control.  My children started making their own decisions, some of which made me enormously proud and others which kept (and continue to keep) me awake at night.  Graduation looms large on my son's horizon, and still there is no plan.  I don't know what comes next.  I sit and pray with hands turned upward, releasing him to care of his loving Father.

Sunday's words about God's covenant promises, which depend entirely on the love and grace and faithfulness of my heavenly Father and on absolutely nothing I can do:

God loves you too much to allow you to control your life.

THAT'S IT!  And all God's people say...




195. Hearing that God loves me too much to allow me to control my life.

196. Getting an appointment on short notice.

197. Kind, understanding laughter from the receptionist.

198. The beloved Swede closing a chapter on the project out west. The outstanding work that was accomplished; the memories our family made over the years when we traveled with him.

199. After school track club.

200. Laughing with my son.

201. A pasture full of rocks and the opportunity for an afternoon of hard work.

202. The pathology report that was as good as we had all hoped and prayed for.

203. Storytelling and laughter from the patient and her husband.

204. Book recommendations.

205. Robins and red-winged blackbirds

206. The yellow haze on the forsythia.

207. That all the rain falling out of the sky during these dreary March days isn’t a spring blizzard that has to be shoveled.

208. The Jamaica mission’s team dinner and auction—outstanding jerk pork, curry, and salad with grilled pineapple and blue cheese.

209. Sunday evening popcorn with friends.

210. Blessed assurance.

211. Unearthing a treasure trove of memorabilia while searching for some medical records.

212. Memorabilia=Ebenezer. A reminder that hitherto has the Lord helped us.

213. Knowing that everyone who has been born of God does not keep on sinning, but he who was born of God protects him, and the evil one does not touch him. 1 John 5:18. Thanks be to God, amen, and amen!

March Madness

Most people who know me know that I have issues with the month of March.  This all started one March day in our early years of homeschooling.  I remember working with my kids on identifying the parts of speech in a sentence and asking them to underline the nouns.  They stared at me with blank faces as if to say, "Nouns?  NOUNS??  You never told us there were things called nouns!"

Nearly three-quarters of a year of instruction seemed to have evaporated into the cold, dreary March air.  I was utterly dumbfounded.  And then a year later it happened again.  This time, I began to recognize the symptoms and came up with my own diagnosis.  We were all suffering from a bad case of the March Stupids.  We'd been couped up for too long, shoveled too much snow, nursed too many colds, and seen too much gray.  Our brains seemed frozen.  We needed spring, and March was toying with us--giving us a glimpse of snowdrops and crocus and daffodil peaking through the ground, then allowing winter to gather her forces, unleashing her last blast of fury in the form of spring blizzards.

Which we would have to shovel.  By the way.

I know March is toying with me, once again, seducing me with the promise of spring.  I know that winter is lying in wait and will again break my heart before yielding to the boundaries the Creator has set for her.  But spring has always come, every year, in the past.  I expect she will again.  And I will sing and give thanks.

See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.  Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.  Song of Songs 2:11,12

179. A text message from a friend that read, “My lilac bush has buds!” because she knows how much I hate March and how much I love lilacs.

180. A picture message of snowdrops blooming sent by another friend—even though I have picture messaging blocked on my phone and never actually got to see the image.

181. Crocus and daffodil poking through the ground.

182. Being able to buy cut daffodils at the local supermarket.

183. Maple syrup buckets=the sap is starting to run.

184. Seeing a student riding a unicycle on his way to class=combining efficiency with whimsy and quirkiness.

185.  Quirkiness.

186. Scrambled eggs with onions, peppers, smoked gouda and wild boar sausage.

187. A quiet, sunny Saturday morning and a drive to one of my favorite hiding places.

188. Indie artist coffee shop music.

189. A chalkboard in the ladies room=an invitation to scribble some graffiti: Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!

190. Military chaplains.

191. An early diagnosis and successful surgery.

192. The privilege of praying for our pastor.

193. His opportunity to plant seeds in a local college classroom.

194. Help that arrives in unexpected ways from unexpected places, and most assuredly, from the loving hand of the Father.