The Light of the Father

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PAST...

It's been almost two years since my mother-in-law found her way to heaven. We are finally cleaning out her house and getting it ready to sell. As you might imagine, our progress is often impeded with random discoveries of long lost treasures which tug on our heartstrings, evoking bittersweet memories. A few weeks before Thanksgiving, the Dickman was upstairs pulling up the old dusty carpet when I stumbled upon a small Mason jar filled with two Zippo lighters and a western belt buckle. Rather than interrupt his progress, I put it away to show him later. Because I'm only a few brain cells away from senility, several days passed before I remembered the jar. I took it to him, putting it in his hands without any explanation or preamble.  Immediately, his eyes grew wide and filled with tears. He opened the jar and shook the contents into his hand.  “Robin, do you know what these are?! My Dad's belt buckle and his lighters...  I haven't seen them in over 50 years!” The contents of that old Mason jar were clearly priceless treasures to the Dickman.

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THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT...

In between the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie, we were visiting with our son and showed him the jar full of treasures. Lucas took immediate interest in one of the lighters, thoroughly inspecting it while wondering aloud if a new wick and some lighter fluid might bring it back to life. [Now, if you don't know my Lucas, it is important to understand that he is an absolute minimalist and has no interest in collecting 'things'. Not only that, but he also scores depressingly low on the 'Sentimentality Scale'.]  I watched as he turned the lighter over in his hands, imagining his grandfather holding the same lighter so many years ago. Impulsively I asked, “Do you want the lighter Luke? You can have it!” As soon as the words left my mouth, it occurred to me that the lighter was not mine to give. I quickly glanced over at Dickie who was [thankfully!] nodding in agreement. Luke looked at his Dad and said, “If you don't mind I would love to keep it.” It was touching that our son wanted to keep this unlikely link to the past – a connection to the grandfather he never met.

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THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS FUTURE...

A few days after he returned home, Lucas sent this picture to his Dad. Not only had he managed to get that old lighter cleaned up and working again, but he and his family were using it to light their Advent candles. Our son had taken something broken and lovingly restored it to bring a glorifying light to God.

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Sweet friends, I don't have to tell you how broken our world is.  One look at the news, one headline on the internet, one trip through a forgotten neighborhood... that's all it takes to know. Satan has relentlessly filled our world with evil and corruption. Some days it feels like the bad guys are winning.

Today was one of those days. I'm ashamed to say that my heart was full of negativity as I opened my Bible.  My hopeful spirit sought to find comfort in His Word.

And man, was God ever ready for me! Only a few verses into Ephesians and this is what I found:

"... this was His purpose:  that when the time is ripe He will gather us all together from wherever we are - in heaven or in earth - to be with Him in Christ forever."

Wow.  I stand amazed that over two thousand years ago, through the inspired words of an apostle imprisoned and in chains, Jesus gives us hope for today... and for every tomorrow!

God will gather us together into ONE glorious kingdom under ONE sovereign King.  Holy. Incorruptible. Unimpeachable.

And in His perfect time, harmony between Heaven and Earth will once again be restored.

This broken old world has never been more in need of that harmony and unity.

The richness – the fullness – of that promise fills my heart with joy! And you know what's even more exciting? The gathering has already begun.

Can't you feel it... hearts that are yearning for so much more than this world has to offer? Eyes searching desperately for that which is meaningful? The increasing boldness of believers unashamed to declare His salvation in love?

It's happening, y'all. We don't always see it because satan distracts us with discord and division.  He limits our focus and depletes our hope, making us forget the Promises of the Father... His boundless mercy, His unfailing love, His piercing light.  His Perfect Plan.

The prevalent evil  in our world today is temporary. God is already transforming the world in big and small ways... the gathering has begun.

We can help Him, you know.

All it takes is a little dusting, a little polishing, some re-fueling... and God will ignite the Spirit within us with a light that defies a hopeless world and illuminates the darkness around us.

THE SISTERHOOD OF EVER-EXPANDING WAISTLINES

My Fellow Fluffy Females...

Let it be known that on this day, November 6, 2019, ROBIN IN DA HOOD, stood up for all overweight middle-aged women throughout the universe. 

I refused to be weighed at the doctor's office, y'all. 

It wasn't even planned, but as the nurse called my name and I walked closer and closer to those dreaded scales, something in me snapped. As I was silently pondering just how much clothing I could take off without frightening the other patients or getting arrested, I suddenly realized that I AM A GROWN A$$ WOMAN AND I DON'T HAVE TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE.

I stopped dead in my tracks, firmly shook my head and said, "Nah. I don't think so. You weighed me 8 weeks ago and not one thing has changed. And you know what? I just don't need that kind of negativity in my life." 

The sweet, overweight, middle-aged nurse looked at me in surprise... then her face slowly broke into a smile as she nodded back at me, eyes sparkling in admiration.

One small step for the Sisterhood of Ever-Expanding Waistlines... one giant leap against Doctor's Scale Harassment.

CLAY POTS...

When I was in Israel last year, it was common to see potsherds (broken pieces of pottery) scattered among many of the ancient ruins.  They are so numerous, in fact, as to not be valued or protected.  Even so, I squealed with the glee of a tipsy paleontologist with each shard sighting.  It was endlessly fascinating to see glimpses of a culture which had survived centuries. I couldn't help but wonder how the pottery had been used or what treasure it may have contained.

The pieces of earthenware reminded me of Paul's words in II Corinthians, where he refers to our mortal bodies as mere “clay pots” that hold immeasurable treasure. 

Clay pots are temporary --- easily cracked and broken. Who would be crazy enough to put valuable treasure in such a fragile container? 

God. He's crazy enough to fill these temporary bodies of ours with an eternal light that reflects the Glory of Christ.

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As I  pulled into the driveway  of  the modest country home, I'll admit that  my therapy bag was filled with low expectations.   The agency nurse had  informed  me that my patient  -  an old rancher  -  was critically ill.    He had been diagnosed with  cancer  earlier in the year and the treacherous disease had recently begun to severely impact his function.  Although he was a candidate for Hospice care, he had politely declined and requested physical therapy, instead. 

His sweet wife met me at the door and led me back to their bedroom. There he was... a tiny emaciated man sleeping quietly in his recliner. He was so still and pale, my first concern was that he had stopped breathing. Hearing our chatter, he slowly turned his head. As his gaze searched mine, I smiled into a pair of beautiful, soulful gray eyes that instantly told me more than any documented health history could ever discern. Without a doubt, those eyes were weary. But instead of defeat, a bright fighting light of hope shone through. 

It took quite a while to complete the evaluation, as we had to stop and rest after every few minutes of activity. During the breaks, I began to ask about his life. As he slowly opened up, his beautiful eyes grew ever more brilliant, twinkling with humor and spirit that mocked the fragility of his cancer-ravaged body. 

As I listened, I glanced over at his wife who was sitting quietly in a corner of the room. She was watching over her husband intently with an expression of innate concern mixed with overt exhaustion. Clearly, her mind fought a truth that her heart wasn't ready to accept. I was filled with compassion for this Wife turned Watchman, Companion turned Caregiver. I wondered at their story... at the layers of years and memories which had culminated in these last difficult months. It was humbling to witness the tangible love and unwavering devotion between them. 

However sweet the moment, I knew this precious man was not a good candidate for therapy. So, I straightened my spine, put on my Official PT expression and forced myself to be professional. Or at least, realistic. 

“Sir, are you sure you will be able to participate in scheduled physical therapy? I assure you, there are other options that might make you more comfortable, right now.” 

His head popped up and he said in a firm, confident voice, “I can't wait. I'm gonna get stronger. Y'all are gonna help me.” 

Oh, man.  

I am not licensed to offer false hope. Miracles are beyond my Scope of Practice. 

But you know what? I'm really good friends with a Great Physician. One who specializes in Hope and Miracles. And I would never want to get in the way of His Healing Power. 

I looked that tired, feeble man straight in the eye and said, “Alrighty, cowboy... buckle up!” 

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"But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this 

all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.  

We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; 

perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; 

struck down, but not destroyed."

Isn't it freaking amazing that even while death is at work within us, the light of Jesus shines brighter and brighter through the cracks of our pitiful pots of clay?  

God never said these temporary bodies of ours wouldn't suffer.  Instead, He promised to give us strength to persevere.

Hard pressed...

Perplexed...

Persecuted...

Struck down...  

But not destroyed.  Because it's all about the treasure.

MISSING THE TARGET

I'm in the middle of a Messianic Jewish Bible study called “HaYesod” (Hebrew for “the foundation”). Just as the Bible is the foundation of our faith, the foundation of the Bible is the Torah. It is in this collection of the first five books of the Bible that Moses provides us with God's standards for righteous living, including the Ten Commandments. 

I learned that the word “Torah” comes from a Hebrew root word which is basically an archery term meaning to “take aim or shoot”, as in shooting an arrow to hit the mark. 

The opposite of “Torah” is “Chata” which means: “to miss” as in to miss the target or miss the mark. Chata is the Hebrew word most commonly translated as “sin” throughout the Bible – used almost 200 times in the Old Testament. 

In Judges 20:16, a group of 700 men from the tribe of Benjamin (all left-handed) are described as being so accurate with their slings that “everyone could sling stones at a hair breadth and not miss”. 

And in Romans 3:23, Paul uses the same word when he tell us that “all have sinned and fall short of the mark”. 

ALL have missed the mark. 

The Torah leads us to our mark, our target: to love God and keep His commandments. 

So why do we keep missing the target? 

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It has been a devastating week for our bloodstained nation. Mass shootings have sadly become a heartbreaking reality within the brokenness of America. 

Shootings have become so commonplace that we have grown quite adept at identifying the root cause of each horrific event. Experts, in fact. Even before the bullet-ridden bodies have been removed from the crime scene, we've already herded our partisan sacred cows into their respective fences. Even before the carnage has been washed away, we are pointing our unstained fingers at the indisputable targets of blame: 

1. A Right Wing White Supremacist 
2. A Left Wing Anarchist 
3. An Illegal Immigrant 
4. A Rogue War Veteran 
5. A Desensitized “Gamer” 
6. A Hypersensitive Cyber-bullying Victim 
7. The Criminal Media 
8. Weak Gun Laws 
9. Not Enough Concealed Carriers 
10. Untreated Mental Illness 
11. Overtreated Mental Illness 
12. Conservative Intolerance 
13. Unlimited Liberal Tolerance 
14. Racism 
15. Bigotry 
16. Prejudice 
17. Unbelievers 
18. Zealots 
19. Poor Parenting 
20. Progressive Schools 
21. Trump 

A never-ending cycle of blame.

But if each of us is pointing to the right target, then why does the violence continue to escalate? Why does the number of murdered innocents climb higher and higher? Why do the divisions within our country grow deeper and deeper? 

Could it be that ALL of us are falling short? Might ALL our pointing fingers be missing the target? 

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As Christians, our target should be the Kingdom of Heaven. To aim for anything else is sin.

Sin as old as mankind. Sin against mankind.

Sin against God.

Cain is still slaying Abel.

LET'S GO, GOD!!!

If you are familiar with Alcoholics Anonymous, you'll recognize the affirmation “Let Go and Let God” as a popular slogan of the 12-step recovery program. After admitting that you are powerless over your disease then believing in a power “greater than yourself”, Step 3 calls for submitting control to your Higher Power. 

But you really don't have to be an alcoholic/addict to know:  letting go can be a heck of a lot scarier than hanging on. 

“Let Go and Let God” has found it's way into theological circles, as well. It is a well-worn phrase that many Christians toss out to one another like a lifeline.  Funny thing about lifelines... you have to swim out and grab hold if you want to be saved. 

Life is a battlefield, y'all. Letting Go and Letting God does not relegate us to a seat on the bleachers as a helpless spectator. Though we must relinquish our will to God, He doesn't expect us to be a passive warrior in the battle of spiritual warfare. 

So, what does He expect? 

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When I was in high school, I dabbled in athletics. I say 'dabbled', because I had zero aspirations of becoming a top athlete. I had the endurance of a slug and I was way more interested in looking cute in my uniform than in pulling a hammie. But to everyone's surprise, Coach Webb put me on the 440 relay team during my junior year. I was – without question - the weakest link, evidenced by the fact that Coach never quite knew where to put me.  He moved me from the first leg of the relay because I couldn't seem to figure out how to crouch AND hold a baton AND still look cute. I definitely wasn't a strong enough runner for the the last leg, so Coach ended up bouncing me back and forth between the second and third legs. The problem then was that I had to both RECEIVE and PASS the baton. I wasn't too bad at receiving but I really sucked at passing.  I was afraid to let go. I knew if the baton was dropped, my team would be disqualified and it would be my fault. I could never seem to reach the precise moment of faith that my teammate had full control of the baton.  It was a serious dilemma that led to a very short relay career. 

Ceding control is hard. Passing the baton takes a lot of faith. 

Unless you are Jehoshaphat. 

Remember King Jehoshaphat in the Old Testament? He was one of the Good Kings whose “heart was devoted to the ways of the Lord”. Because he turned the idol-worshipping Jews back to the Lord, he was blessed with great wealth and honor. Then, one day Jehoshaphat heard that a vast alliance of three armies was marching toward Judah to destroy him. The exact words of warning to Jehoshaphat were, “Dude!  There's a HUGE army coming straight for YOU!”. Yikes. 

I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure my first instinct would be to turn around and run! Call 911! Alert the Space Force!! 

Not Jehoshaphat. Although the Bible tells us he was “alarmed”, the first thing Jehoshaphat did was to call for a prayer meeting and nationwide fasting... EVEN WHILE THE ENEMY WAS ON THE WAY!!!

King Jehoshaphat gathered all the people of Judah together and led them in a beautiful prayer.  He cried out to God in distress, admitting that they were powerless against the enemy and didn't know what to do. He ended his prayer with these powerful words, “...but OUR EYES ARE ON YOU”. 

You know what God did? He said, “Hey y'all … don't let that big ol' army scare you. THIS BATTLE IS MINE."

Essentially, God told the people of Judah to let go of the baton and pass it to Him. 

He promised they would not have to fight, but that they should prepare to march against the enemy, take up their positions and stand firm. 

Stand firm in FAITH. 

The next day, Jehoshaphat met with his people for a pep rally.  He got them all pumped up, and then he did the craziest thing ever in all the annals of war strategy:  Jehoshaphat  moved the choir to the front of the army and told them to praise God with all their might. 

I bet there were more than a few twinges of anxiety among the altos and tenors. But once they started singing, their fear dissolved into faith and their collective strength grew in unison with their voices as they praised God in song.  Can't you just imagine the beautiful praise growing louder and louder as they marched toward the battlefield of En Gedi?   Voices became weapons.  Songs of worship became a radical act of warfare. 

So much for the element of surprise, huh? 

It didn't matter, because when Jehoshaphat and his people came within view of the battlefield, all they could see was a desert full of dead bodies.

God had turned their enemies upon each other and all of them were destroyed. Hundreds upon hundreds of corpses. NO ONE HAD ESCAPED.

War ain't no joke.  It's real and it's happening now, all around us... the omnipresent battle of Good vs. Evil. You may not always be aware of it, but it's always there. And on those days when we feel overpowered and outnumbered, when we're not ready for battle and filled with despair at the strength of our enemy, we must never forget... THE BATTLE BELONGS TO THE LORD.

Let Go.  Admit to God that you are powerless against the enemy. 

Then, Let's Go! Get your butt off the bleachers, cast your eyes toward Him in faith and let's join our voices together in mighty weapons of praise and worship...  LET'S GO, GOD!

SPIRITUAL GIFTS

What is your Spiritual Gift? Do you know? 

The Apostle Paul tells us: “There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit distributes them. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but in all of them and in everyone it is the same God at work. Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the COMMON GOOD.” (1 Corinthians 12:4-7) 

A few days ago I was filling out a volunteer application for a ministry I support and wish to serve. One of the questions was "Why do you want to join our ministry?". Without thinking I wrote, "I want my life to make God smile." 

Our Spiritual Gift (or gifts) is not about us. Nor is it necessarily of our choosing. As much as I wish God had given me the voice of an angel to minister in song... it just didn't happen. I have the voice of an alley cat screeching on a picket fence. Instead, God gifted me with a spirit of exuberant encouragement for those who actually do sing like angels. 

The gifts I see in others edify me - challenge me - humble me. 

Last week, my son was in Peru building a worship center, my brother & sister-in-law were in Brazil with a mission team and my cousin was leading hundreds of campers in songs of worship. 

My son is an optometrist. He uses his knowledge as an optometrist to serve others wherever God leads him. But he's just as happy pouring concrete and running electrical wires in 3rd world countries who need a sanctuary...

My sister-in-law thought she was a weak link in the ministry team. But then, she brought out her needlework and God worked His magic. People surrounded her and relationships were formed, opening the door to His Word...

My beautiful little cousin is introverted and shy. But when she opens her mouth to sing, she becomes a 10-Foot Warrior for Jesus, sending His message straight as an arrow into the hearts of young and old, alike... 

Don't ask yourself what you can do for God. Ask God how He wants to use you. He may surprise you. He will likely take you out of your comfort zone. He may send you across the street or across the world. But our orders are clear: To Win As Many As Possible. 

And yes, to make God smile.

Patching Up Superman...

Another chapter has been added to the Haney Chronicles of Near Hits and Misses whereby God has once again swooped in to save our worthless butts. This tale is a bit convoluted (really, aren't they all?) filled with fear, faith, reckoning, gratitude, love, laughter and a not-so-small dose of embarrassment. Pop some popcorn, grab a DP and settle in.

It all began in February, at our Concerts at Sea cruise. This is an annual rock and roll cruise we have been enjoying for a dozen years and many of the cruisers have become very close friends. One such friend – Dave – took the Dickman aside and made him promise to get a stress test. Dave had recently suffered a heart attack and was on a mission to save his friends from the same fate. Dickie explained that although he is freakishly healthy, he has always expected to die with a heart attack... just like his Dad. And frankly, he was fine with that.  Dave brushed away Dickie's bullsh*t and made him promise to get checked out.   Dickie promised. 

The Dickman always keeps his promises.

After returning home, Dickie was single-minded about scheduling a stress test but kept running into obstacles. Three months later, he finally went in for testing. To his surprise, an abnormality showed up on the EKG, indicating possible cardiac issues. The doc wasn't worried, but thought it would be prudent to undergo a heart cath for further diagnosis.

We went in for a radial heart cath and I fully expected to hear nothing but Good News. Not just because of my rose-colored glasses, but also because over the years, the Dickman had somehow managed to convince me that he truly might be Superman.

Even so, there was that tiny niggling reminder of how God is always working in our lives to put us right where we need to be at the right time... placing people in our lives to direct our paths. I couldn't help but wonder if God might be using our friend Dave as His messenger. There was that.

Sure enough, the heart cath revealed Superman's kyptonite: Plaque. Coronary Artery Disease. Blockage in All Three Main Arteries.

Yet, God was already at work. Dickie's RCA had become totally blocked, but over time a network of collateral blood vessels had formed around the blockage, creating a thoroughly efficient bypass. God's bypass. 

Isn't He amazing??

As for the other blockage, it was decided that stents and medication would be sufficient at this time.

The diagnosis was a bit overwhelming. As the Dickman and I walked out of the heart clinic, we felt the ground shifting beneath us. So, we did what any self-respecting heart-clogged Texan would do: we went to eat Mexican food.

While munching on tacos, I looked across the table at my Dickman. My dear, sweet, crazy, beloved Dickman. I have been looking at his pretty face, staring into those gorgeous eyes since I was 14 years old.

“How ya doing, buddy?” I asked. 

“I'm awesome!” he replied while wiping queso off his chin.

“This is the worst part...” I told him. “Finding out that you're human.  I've suspected for years, ever since you made that wrong turn coming back from Dallas and we got lost in Paducah.”

He swore me to secrecy. I understood that he would need some time to process all of this.  It would take a while to readjust his super-hero cape. I complied. Because he's mine, I walk the line.

His stent was scheduled for Thursday. Our family surrounded the hospital-gowned Dickman while he told tall tales from his gurney and flirted with nurses. After hours of delay, a surgical tech finally came to take him back for the procedure. She asked him his name and he said, “Chris McDonald”. Without missing a beat, she replied, “Yessir. Taking you back for your hysterectomy.”

I sat with My Tribe in the waiting room, covered in prayers and cookie crumbs.  I would be lying if I told you I felt no anxiety. Unlike Chris McDonald or whoever that guy is - I am very human. Though there are few things that unsettle me, the thought of being on this earth without Dickie is devastatingly unsettling. I wouldn't last a day. We're the Dynamic Duo: Dickman & Robin. Are there times I want to kill him? Certainly. But I never want him to die...

The doc finally came out and briefed us on the surgery. All went well, except that he had to tell Dickie to stop talking so that he could concentrate on the procedure. Bottom line: the Dickman is now sporting an extra long stent in his 'Widow Maker' and has to stop eating chicken fried steak with extra gravy.

It had been a long day. A long couple of weeks. But once again, God made everything okay in the end.

As we got in the car to drive home from the hospital yesterday, we were a sorry sight.  My wonky eye was blurry and his right femoral artery was still clotting. We decided that if we worked together, we could efficiently and safely operate a 2-ton vehicle. I worked the pedals and Dickie helped me steer.  Which is pretty much a metaphor for the rest of our life together... 💗

Why am I allowed to share all of this now? Well, since he's all patched up and ready to go, the Dickman has determined that he is, once again, indestructible. And like his friend Dave, he wants to spread the message to all you other mere mortals to GO GET A STRESS TEST! (And also get your eyes dilated while you're at it.)

FOOTNOTE: After his surgery and while under the influence of morphine, Dickie asked me to send a text to update his friend, Brian. I didn't have Brian's number in my phone so Dickie rattled it off to me. I typed in Dickie's message as he dictated it to me, rolled my eyes and hit 'send'. When Brian didn't reply, I asked Dickie to check the phone number. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized I had sent this message to the wrong number...

Never Run Out Of Light!

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it."  (John 1:1-5)

Am I the only one who thinks John might've had too much wine before penning the first chapter of his book?

It's a little bit jumbledy-jivey, if you ask me...

As I pondered upon this inspired verbiage of mixed metaphors and divine ideology, I was reminded of a homeless lady I encountered a few days ago...

Sunday morning, the Dickman and I were driving home from church. We had left a bit early because one of us had eaten TWO bowls of buttered popcorn the night before and had thoroughly pissed off all the diverticula within my intestines. I could not wait to get home and mainline a bottle of Pepcid.

A few blocks from church, I spied a bedraggled homeless lady in a fluffy pink bathrobe wrestling a grocery cart down a busy street.  I started to panic when I realized the pink-robed lady was pushing her cart INTO the street, causing cars to drive erratically while dodging her as best they could.

I screamed at the Dickman to pull over and he obeyed me promptly, as always 😉.  I jumped out of the truck (that's a lie, I haven't jumped in years)... I bounced out of the truck and hurried over to the obviously disoriented lady.

“'Scuse me, ma'am... can we get you out of the road? I'm afraid you're gonna get hit by a car!”

She glared at me through cloudy eyes. “No! I'm fine! Didn't you see the rainbow? The birds? The rain is coming. The flood. You better get somewhere it's about to happen. Big storm. Get to the Ford House and you'll be safe. Hurry! You need to go.”

“Okay, we'll go. Let's all go.” I urged, as we maneuvered her and the grocery cart out of the street. “Please, let us help you. Can we take you somewhere?”

“Oh, no. The birds. A storm is coming. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to that place over there. There's a bench. I sit on the bench. Do you want to come with me? They'll feed you there, you know. Are you hungry? They'll feed you. Go away. Leave me alone.” She was clearly becoming more agitated and I wasn't sure what to do next. As she continued her animated and nonsensical tirade, I stopped and looked at her. Really looked at her.

Her gray hair was matted, her face weathered and dirty. She was missing a few teeth. Her fingernails were filled with grime. She had mittens and extra clothes stuck down the front of her shirt. Her grocery basket overflowed with plastic sacks filled with rags.

Dickie tugged on my arm and said, “We better leave her alone, she's safe now, she's out of the street.”  I reluctantly got back in the truck.

And promptly started bawling.

As he pulled back into traffic, Dickie gave me a concerned look and said, “I know it's hard to leave her, but what can we do? What do you want me to do?  Look, there's a Dairy Queen! We'll buy her some food.  Will that make you feel better?”

“Yes”, I sniffled. It would make me feel better, because I am Texan enough to believe in the healing powers of a Hunger Buster and an M&M Blizzard. The DQ sign suddenly became imbued with all the magical healing powers of the universe.

In spite of her poor dentition, I opted for a Chicken Strip Basket because... gravy, man.  Gravy makes everything better.  We sped through the drive-through and went back in search of our lady.

She was nowhere to be found. As we cruised up and down the street, I finally saw her sorting through her grocery basket.  She was stopped near an alley, just a few hundred feet from where we had left her. Dickie pulled into the parking lot and I rolled out of the pickup.

“Mary!” I called out to her. I had no idea what her name was. I had no idea why I was calling her 'Mary', but she turned to me when I called.

The wariness returned to her eyes as I walked towards her. I slowed my pace and plastered a dazzling “trust me” smile on my face (it usually works, even with my toughest patients; but never with cops). As I drew closer, I extended the box of food towards her like a holy offering.

“What's that?” she said gruffly.

“It's food. We thought you might be hungry so we brought you some lunch. Chicken strips and fries.  And gravy!"

She asked where the food was from and I told her DQ. She said, “Oh, no! I can't eat anything from Dairy Queen. It will kill me. Eats holes in my stomach. Are you trying to kill me? I know the cook at Dairy Queen... she's an old lady and she STILL bleeds. Are you bleeding? Do you have your period?”

“Uh... no ma'am. As a matter of fact, I haven't bled in years.”

“You don't?! It can come back you know. You don't have your period anymore? How old are you?”

“I'm 62.  Barely.”

She glanced over at Dickie, leaned towards me and whispered, “But what about him??”

“He doesn't bleed either?” I offered.

“Is he nice?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, yes, ma'am. He's very nice.”  I replied.

”Well, be careful. Old ladies can still have babies. You be careful with him. Take that food and go. I'm going to the Ford House to see Nixon. Do you know Nixon? I love him. We used to dance on the tables until the lights went out. Then it went dark. Darkness everywhere.  Don't let the lights go out.  Go buy you some lights. You never want to run out of light.”

“Yes ma'am, I will. I'll be sure to get more lights”, I reassured her.

And with that, I took my unwanted DQ Chicken Strip Basket home.

*********************

John and Mary. A disciple and a vagrant.  Both of them spreading messages of darkness and light.

"There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light. The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world. He was in the world, and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him..."  (John 1:6-10)

The man sent from God was John the Baptist. Elijah revived, the front runner, the camel hair wearing, locust eating, Levitical Jew who came out of the wilderness to usher in The Light to a dark and desperate Israel.  

I picture him looking not so very different than our dirty, disheveled Mary – minus the shopping cart.

Yet, even though John was chosen and highly favored by God... he was still no match for the darkness.

But Jesus was.

Jesus entered this world and The Light came on. A Light so bright and overwhelming that it was noticed by Magi almost 1000 miles away. How could anybody not see such a Stunning, Spectacular, Omnipresent Light?

We can all see darkness.  But who are the ones who cannot see light? 

The blind.  The spiritually blind cannot see the Light of Jesus.

Even with eyes wide open and standing right in front of Him, there were those who did not see Jesus. Could not see The Light.

So, they remained in darkness.

*********************

It's hard – if not impossible - to help someone who refuses to be helped. For people like Mary, I'm not sure what the answer is. I do not believe an elderly, mentally ill homeless woman belongs on the streets. She belongs in a shelter or a mental hospital.

I could have called the police. But I've worked with the homeless population enough to know that nothing would have happened. Unless Mary was willing to accept our help, there wasn't much we can do.

And that is why I wept. 

I cried because I couldn't help Mary. Her brokenness saddened me. I was filled with frustration knowing that, if she would only let me,  I could make a difference in her life.

Can you imagine the depth of sadness that Jesus must feel? How often does He cry over the brokenness of this world? How impossibly frustrating it must be to see His perfectly sighted creation wandering blindly in the darkness.

My prayer today is that ALL of our eyes be opened to the Glory of God and that EVERY soul be filled with the Light of Jesus. 

The Light that is Eternal. Everlasting.

Because like Mary said, you never want to run out of Light...

From the Cradle to the Cross

Easter is coming and Jesus comes to mind. 

But what comes to mind when you think of Jesus? 

I think of a Savior and a Friend. A quiet and humble Teacher. A Healer in dusty sandals. A Calm in the storm. Holy and Human. Glorified. Genuine. Empathic. Majestic. Prophesied. Crucified. 

I think of Jesus from the Gospels: the Messiah in Matthew, the Suffering Servant in Mark, the Compassionate Healer in Luke, and the Son of God in John. I visualize Peter's lovable friend who gifted him with nets full of fishes and a faith that walks on water. 

I hardly ever think of Jesus in a diaper. Cranky. Colicky.  Baby Jesus.  The Jesus who belonged to Mary. Her son, her boy. Her pride and joy. 

Can you imagine how she felt as she knelt at the foot of His cross? 

I cannot. 

But as the mom of two sons, this I know for sure:  as she witnessed Jesus' crucifixion, Mary was not grieving for the Son of God.  While others looked upon the face of a suffering Savior, His mother remembered the face of her precious baby who once gazed back in total adoration; the grinning toddler who wobbled towards her with arms opened wide; the messy-haired young boy with scrapes on his knees.  Mary grieved for the son of her heart.

And she saw so much more than a Messiah nailed to a cross. 

The hands torn by nails once belonged to a little boy who patted His mother's cheeks and told her she was pretty... who held tightly to her finger as they walked along the streets of Galilee. 

Nobody knew the Jesus that Mary knew... the heart that grew beneath hers. She felt His first fluttering movements. Although His birth was ignoble, she knew before counting his fingers and toes that He was - indeed - perfectly made. 

It was Mary who tucked Jesus into bed, then stood quietly listening as He breathed His holy breath in peaceful slumber. She is the one who could tell at a glance whether Jesus was hungry or tired, angry or sad... and detect a fever by laying her hand across His forehead.  

Can't you just see her bandaging His blistered hands as Jesus learned to use the tools of His earthly father? And I imagine she stood in awe as her son began to manifest the tools of His Heavenly Father. 

Easter is coming and Jesus comes to mind.

When I reflect on the Crucifixion, my heart is overwhelmed at the sacrifice of the Savior who died for my sins. 

But my heartbreak pales in comparison with the weeping mother who held the bloodless body of the Savior in her trembling arms.  

The broken body of her sacred son...

The Word Became Flesh and Dwelt Among Us.

(John 1:14 )

STORMS AND RAINBOWS

The bells jingled softly as we entered the jewelry store. A pretty middle-aged woman came up to us with a bright smile. 

"Hi! Can I help you?”

“Well, I'm not sure...” I replied. “I have a friend who lost her baby through miscarriage and I'd like to get her a gift. But I'm not sure if I should give her something in remembrance of the baby in heaven, or in celebration of the Rainbow Baby we are praying for.”

The sales clerk's face flooded with compassion. “Speaking as a mother, I think she might prefer something to honor her grief of the child she lost. I mean, speaking as a mother... who has lost a child.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” My husband and I replied.

“Thank you. It's... I just... after losing my son, a friend gave me a pair of angel wings, and they mean so much to me. Come, let me show you.”

As we walked across the store, Dickie asked, “How long?”

“Pardon me?”

“How long ago did you lose your son?”

“It's been four years.”

“Wow.  Four years without your boy... my heart hurts for you.” I said.

She stopped in front of a display cabinet in the back of the store and began showing us lovely charms with angels and wings.

“We almost lost our son.” Dickie said, softly.

We both looked back at him in surprise. Her face immediately filled with concern.

“Our son... we have a son who struggled with addiction. Drugs almost took him away from us” he said.

Her hand covered her mouth and her eyes filled with tears. She looked at Dickie and said, “That's exactly what happened. My son died of a drug overdose.”

I could no longer speak, but stood in tearful silence as I felt heavenly cords gently wrapping the three of us together in a sacred connection.

My sweet husband put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her sad eyes and said, “It wasn't your fault, you know.”

She nodded.“I do know. I mean... I think I know. Most days, I believe it.”

I said, “We were good at blaming ourselves, too. But even during his recovery, our son told us that we didn't cause his addiction and we couldn't cure it. It's simply a horrible disease made deadly by the wrong choices.”

She smiled through her tears, grabbed my hand and said, “Thank you. Thank you for that – I needed to hear those words today.”

I told her we were honored she had shared her story with us.

We all took a moment to wipe away the tears, oblivious to the other customers around us.

Then she began to tell us about a special sign from God she received shortly after the death of her son. She was having a particularly difficult day and had been driving around, trying to stop crying long enough to buy groceries. Finally able to collect herself, she noticed a group of teenagers selling items just outside the store entrance. They tried to get her attention as she walked by, but she waved them away and continued inside.

On her way out of the store – against her will - something made her stop at the group she had previously passed. She walked up to one of the teens and said, “Okay. What are you raising money for? What is this 'Teen Challenge of Texas'?” The young girl explained that they were an organization dedicated to helping teens recover from drug addiction. She couldn't believe it. She shook her head in wonder and irony as she reached into her purse for a donation. The kids thanked her and she turned to go. “But ma'am!” they called to her... “You forgot your stone”. She turned back and saw the girl pointing to the end of the table where there was an array of small, smooth stones painted with various Bible verses. “Would you like to pick out a Scripture Stone?” She shook her head and said, “No, it doesn't matter. Just pick out one for me.”

The girl handed her a stone. Painted brightly across the stone was Luke 23:43.

Not recognizing the scripture, she put the stone in her pocket and drove home. Later that afternoon, she remembered it, pulled the stone from her pocket and slowly rubbed her fingers across the scripture. She picked up her Bible and turned to Luke 23:43. As she read the words of Jesus, a sense of peace and wonder settled over her troubled soul...

“Verily I say unto thee, today thou shalt be with me in paradise.”

This time, her tears were not those of sadness, but of gratitude. God, in all His wisdom, had sent her the very message her heart had been crying out for... the assurance that her son was safe with Jesus.

“What a beautiful story.” I managed to say. “God loves you so much that He wanted you to know you will see your son again.  He is in your future.”

She smiled and replied, “Yes, I truly believe that. He was a good boy.”

We hugged each other – not with the quick embrace of strangers, but with a deep connection forged by the Spirit at work within us. We knew our encounter had been no mere coincidence.

As Dickie and I we were walking out the door she called to us, “Please... will you tell your son about mine?”

We assured her that we would, and that we would never forget her, either.

A few days later, I sat down with my son and told him of our Divine Encounter. I told him but for the grace of God, I could have been the grieving mother and she could've been the one telling us how well her son is doing.

JP replied, “But Mom, you were a grieving mother.  The son you told her about did die. And I thank God that part of me died."

He continued, "Mom, I don't know why I'm still here. It's not because God loves us more. It's not because that lady didn't pray as hard for her son as you did for me. It's nothing we deserved or can make sense of.  There is a verse that says, 'It rains on the good and the evil.' (Matthew 5:45).  We don't have to understand, we just need to be grateful for today. I'm grateful that He gave me a chance to make up for the years of lost sleep and worry that I put my family through. I am lucky!”

“No, not luck. You are nothing less than a blessing.” I assured him.

He smiled back at me with that beautific smile of his... the one that has melted me since the day I first held him in my arms. It tugged at my heartstrings, and made me sorrowful for all the Mamas missing the light of their child's radiant smile.

I seldom think of those dark days.  Sleepless nights when I begged God to heal my son... to change his heart... to rescue him and keep him from harming others. As the years passed and the storm raged on, I found myself praying words no parent should ever pray. “If he can't overcome this, God... please, take my boy safely home with you.”

Even during the times when I almost lost him, God sustained me with hope that I would see my son again in heaven.

As my man-child patted me on the back and walked away, I was swamped with the fullness of God's redemption; overwhelmed by His perfect grace.

I had gone into a jewelry shop searching for a special gift to give a Rainbow Mom - a precious friend who had been given another chance to create a miracle with God. 

I left the shop in humble realization that out of the stormy darkness of desperate days, the God of Miracles had given me another chance, as well.  

It's never too late to be a Rainbow Mom...

http://teenchallengetx.org/