God, Me & a Cup of Tea

Semper Fi

2009-11-09T09:22:00.003-05:00

Let not loyalty and faithfulness forsake you; bind them about your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart. So you will find favor and good repute in the sight of God and man. – Proverbs 3:3–4 (RSV)

If you’re a fan of NCIS, like I am, you know that Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs is a diehard former Marine, loyal to the boys of the Corps to the core. Gibbs is the embodiment of the Marine Corps motto, Semper Fi—always faithful.

Maybe that’s why NCIS is one of the top shows on TV. We’re drawn to characters who are larger than life, who embody qualities that are admirable, noble and good, such as faithfulness.

Funny, how hard Hollywood tries to ram its corrupt values down America’s throat. If Hollywood had issued its own “Ten Commandments,” the seventh one would read, “Thou shalt commit adultery,” and the tenth one, “Thou shalt covet thy neighbor’s wife.” You’d think faithfulness were a relic of the ancients.

But it’s not. Just let some government big shot get caught cheating on his wife (or husband), and the affair is splashed across the headlines of America. We hold our leaders to a high standard. We want—no, we demand—honesty, fairness, nobility, trustworthiness and faithfulness—to family, employer, community, country and comrades.

Faithfulness, in spite of all Hollywood does to convince us otherwise, is alive and well in America today. It just doesn’t get the press its opposite does.

Don’t believe me? Just talk to a member or former member of the US Marine Corps, and you’ll get a glimpse of Semper Fi in action. Go to a wedding or gathering of people who are strangers and notice the reaction to a soldier in a Marine Corps uniform. Instant camaraderie. Decals, lapel pins, bumper stickers—anything that identifies a Marine or former Marine results in the same bonding. Marines stick together. They are a loyal brotherhood like no other.

In his web article, “The Meaning of Semper Fidelis,” Cam Beck says that for his family, Semper Fi isn’t just a fancy slogan. It’s a way of life.

“My father retired from the Marine Corps in the ’90s, after serving over 20 years on more than one tour of duty in a combat zone. Therefore, my brothers and I grew up in a culture that demanded excellence and loyalty of its members.”

He finds it difficult to understand the mindsets of those who weren’t brought up with such emphasis on fidelity.

“United States Marines are revered for their downright fanatical devotion to each other, their service and their country,” Beck writes. “The phrase is ‘Always faithful.’ It isn’t ‘Sometimes Faithful.’ Nor is it ‘Usually Faithful,’ but always. It is not negotiable. It is not relative, but absolute. . . . Marines are imbued with Semper Fidelis, and all it means, and because they lived it for so long, they have difficulty accepting any less from others.”*

On Wednesday, our country will honor the former members of every branch of the US military: Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marines. Let’s not forget the work of the US Coast Guard, either.

It doesn’t matter when or where they served, from the shores of Iwo Jima to the jungles of Vietnam to the sands of the Middle East. These veterans showed us what faithfulness is all about.

Take time to reflect on their sacrifice and service and what it meant to our country—and what it means to you. Send a card to a veteran you know and express your appreciation for his or her service. Better yet, take him or her out for lunch.

I’m proud to say my family has served in all branches of the US military: my father, Army; my father-in-law, Navy; my brother, Air Force; my husband, the Marines.

My only hope is that my own life will reflect the high standards of the veterans I’ve known.

Semper Fi.

Dear God, thank You for the men and women who have selflessly given of themselves to serve our country. May their sacrifices not be forgotten, and may they receive the honor they deserve. Amen.

Special-Tea: 2 Timothy 4:1–8

*“The Meaning of Semper Fidelis,” by Cam Beck.

In a pickle

2009-11-02T09:13:00.002-05:00

I was pushed back and about to fall, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation. – Psalm 118:13–14 (NIV)

Have you ever been in a pickle?

I’m sure you have. There isn’t a human being on this earth that’s never been in a difficult situation with seemingly no way out.

Now, that’s funny expression—“in a pickle.” Not funny in a humorous way, but in a strange way. Where did these sayings come from, anyway?

Shakespeare coined the phrase “in a pickle” in 1611 in his play The Tempest when Alonso asked Trincolo, “How camest thou in this pickle?” To which Trincolo replied, “I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last.”

Sometimes we get ourselves in pickles of our own makings (which probably birthed still another expression, “You made your bed, so lie on it.”). Other times our pickles are caused by situations over which we have no control.

Take David, for example. Plucked out of the peaceful pasture, where he watched over his father’s sheep, he was plopped down in a plush palace, where he strummed his harp to soothe a distraught king. All too soon, however, he found himself huddling in a cave, hiding from a jealous, insecure, power-hungry monarch who wanted to kill him.

This pickle David found himself in was not of his own making. He didn’t ask to be anointed king of Israel, and he didn’t plan to wrest the kingship from Saul.

Yet God called him from the sheepfold to the palace, then led him to the caves of Palestine for a reason.

A young lad was anointed king. By the time Saul was killed in battle, David was a man, known for his strength of character and honor. His courage in battle, shrewdness with his enemies, loyalty to his men (and to the man who was trying to kill him), kindness to the displaced, and faithfulness to God marked him as a man worthy to lead a country. The qualities strengthened while he was a fugitive in the wilderness sustained him throughout his reign.

His pickle done him good.

I’ve been in a few pickles myself over the course of my life, some of my own making, some not. Like David, I’ve learned that this isn’t always a bad place to be.

Pickling is a process during which something is transformed from the outside in by soaking it for a period of time in vinegar and salt. Flavor and texture are changed by the brine, and those qualities are preserved.

My pickles done me good. Even the ones I got myself into.

That’s because I learned to turn my pickles over to God and let Him do the work of the brine.

And when the brine’s the strongest, I find myself turning to the psalms David wrote. They chronicle his transformation from green cucumber to tasty pickle and give us a glimpse into a heart that God called after His own. In the first part of the psalm, David pours out his troubles to God. Then, about halfway through, his tone changes—with one little word, “but.” I call it “The But Factor.” (Read them—you’ll see what I mean.)

In spite of the pickles he found himself in, David affirmed his faith and trust in a God who would answer him when he called, who would make certain that good won over evil.

Are you in a pickle?

Remember the words of someone who found himself in pickle after pickle after pickle, even after he became king: “In my distress I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears” (Psalm 18:6).

Still in a pickle after you’ve prayed?

Think of the years David spent as a fugitive before he became king, and don’t fret about it. You still need more time in the brine.

Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise him, my help and my God (Psalm 42:5). Thank you, God, for the pickles I find myself in because I know they are what You use to transform me from the outside in. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 118

The end of the valley

2009-10-26T10:35:00.002-04:00

Your Father knows what you need before you ask him. – Matthew 6:8 (NIV)

I’ve reached the end of the valley of wait. Well, this valley, anyway.

Three weeks ago I wrote about a growing fatigue that was slowing me down big time and interfering with every aspect of my life. Yet my lab reports were “normal,” so my doctors told me. But I knew my body—after all, I’ve lived with it for almost 58 years now—and I knew something was wrong, something the lab reports weren’t showing.

As the fatigue and the frustration grew and no answers were on the horizon, I launched an all-out prayer attack. I asked everyone I knew who prayed to pray that the cause would be found, and sooner rather than later. For months my prayer friends interceded for me, asked for updates, and persevered.

While they prayed, I searched for answers: Was I reacting to something I ate or drank? Too much coffee, chocolate, or carbs? I stopped taking the iron supplements when I read that too much iron could be the problem. No matter what I tried, though, nothing worked.

One day while shopping, I picked up a bottle of Vitamin B-12. Ah, the energy vitamin. What would it hurt? I bought the highest potency available. But, not wanting to interfere with the test results, I didn’t start taking the high potency formula until all my lab work was completed.

I noticed a difference the first week. I was afraid to believe this could be the answer, but each day I felt a little better than the day before. A walk to the mailbox and back—a distance of four-tenths of a mile—didn’t wipe me out for the rest of the day. By the time I returned to the doctor for my follow-up appointment to discuss the results of my tests, I had more energy than I’d had in months. Gone were the constant crappy-draggy feeling, the brain fog, the food cravings, the insomnia, and continuous low-grade headache.

The answer turned out to be simple and, by this time, not surprising: a Vitamin B deficiency. Which is why the B-12 made such a difference.

“Continue taking the B-12,” the doctor told me, “as well as B-6, folic acid, and a good B-complex supplement.”

That’s it. No prescription. No scheduling a next appointment. “Call me if you need to,” he said.

When I got home, I researched the B vitamins and their function. I hadn’t realized the vital role they play in the proper functioning of the thyroid gland. I’d believed all along the problem was metabolic, with my underactive thyroid.

I hadn’t known—but God did. After all, He designed these bodies we live in. He created me and knows every intricate detail about me (Psalm 139).

What made me notice that bottle of Vitamin B-12 on the grocery store shelf? What made me decide to spend the money when money is tight and nothing I tried had worked?

You can chalk it up to coincidence, luck, even desperation.

But I chalk it up to the One who knows me better than I know myself.

Why didn’t He drop down His answer from Heaven right away? I don’t know. But I trust Him. His reasons are not for me to understand. He is, after all, God, not me.

The Valley of Wait, I wrote three weeks ago, is where I learn faith, hope, and trust. Where doubts are dealt with, and patience is strengthened. And where I grow closer to God through prayer because I pray more when there’s trouble than when everything’s hunky-dory. I realize my helplessness to help myself and my utter dependence on Him.

That alone is worth the wait.

Dear God, how can I say thanks for the things You have done for me? Things so undeserved, yet You give to prove Your love for me. The voices of a million angels could not express my gratitude. All that I am and ever hope to be, I owe it all to Thee. To You be the glory!* Amen.

* From “My Tribute” by Andrae Crouch, copyright 1971, Lexicon Music, Inc.

In Midian

2009-10-19T10:48:00.002-04:00

Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the LORD that will be established. – Proverbs 19:21(RSV)

Moses—now there was a man who had it all—prosperity, power, prestige. But this prince of Egypt, thanks to his impulsive nature and nasty temper, became a refugee, fleeing for his life in disgrace and fear. Instead of a palace, the wilderness. No longer the proud prince, but a lowly shepherd. Talk about culture shock.

I wonder, as he tended sheep in the godforsaken desert and on the lonely mountainsides of Midian, did he think he was all washed up? A has-been? That the best part of his life was over? How long did it take him to stop missing the splendor, the hype? Did he feel as though he lost his purpose?

Then, after 40 years, Mission Impossible: “And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt” (Exodus 3:9–10 NIV).

Oh, right. Like that was going to happen. Moses knew Pharaoh. But he didn’t know God. So he hedged. He made more excuses than a kid who doesn’t want to do his homework.

But man cannot argue with God. Well, you can, but you can’t win. For every excuse once-mighty Moses gave, God had an answer.

So Moses spent the next 40 years leading a stubborn, rebellious, cantankerous nation over one million strong through both a physical wilderness and a spiritual one. It was for this that Moses was enshrined in the famous “Hall of Faith” (Hebrews 11). He died a great leader with a fame that endures to this day, a fame he never could have achieved as a prince of Egypt. (Other than King Tut or Cleopatra, do you know the name of even one Egyptian royal?)

But I wonder, as he dealt with the constant complaining, the mercurial temperament of a nation whose loyalty and emotions were as fickle as an ambivalent teenager’s, as he quelled rebellion after rebellion, as he wore himself out settling their petty disputes—did he long for the quiet hillsides of Midian, tending to a flock that was undemanding, whose major flaw wasn’t stubbornness but stupidity?

When he was a proud prince, Moses wasn’t content to rule Egypt; he wanted to rescue the Israelites. Right idea, Moses. Wrong time. Which led him to the wilderness classroom where he learned patience and humility. When God saw he was ready, He called Moses to his destiny, his purpose.

Sometimes we find ourselves in Midian, wondering if we’re all washed up, if somehow we missed God’s purpose for us. Or we wonder if we’re being punished. Or perfected. Oh, Lord, I’ll never be perfect! So I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life stuck in Midian, in a wilderness where the only attention I get is from needy sheep.

Yet I can’t handle the pressures Moses experienced when he traded sheep for people. But then, everything that happened in Moses’ life had a purpose: to prepare him for the job God had planned for him all along. Moses wasn’t perfect when God called him—or afterward. He blundered and thundered and made both the Almighty and the Israelites mad.

But he learned in lean times to lean on God. The leaner the time, the harder he leaned. And he learned that where God sends, He also enables and provides.

God hasn’t changed.

If you find yourself in Midian, enjoy the peace and quiet, the absence of strife and chaos. Work with God as He molds you for the job ahead. Then you might wish you were back in Midian.

But, then, it could be your job is Midian.

In that case, take to heart the words of another man who, centuries after Moses, found himself in his own Midian, a jail cell: “I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content” (Philippians 4:11 RSV).

Dear God, if I spend the rest of my life in Midian, help me to be content. Help me to know that You will fulfill Your purpose for me (Psalm 138:8). Amen.

Special-Tea: Exodus 2:1–3:10

MORE TEA:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” – Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

Class reunion

2009-10-12T09:44:00.003-04:00

These stones are to be a memorial . . . – Joshua 4:7 (NIV)

When I first walked into the room, I thought I was in the wrong place. These people are too old, I thought. But a familiar face peered into mine. I recognized the grin, the dimples, and the twinkle in her eyes.

“Patty Mihalic!” I exclaimed, surprised that the name came so easily.

Then more familiar faces gathered around me, some identifying themselves, some whose names slipped off my tongue as though 40 years had not passed since we graduated from high school.

Until then, I’d gone to only one class reunion—the twentieth. My reasons for not going were mixed: some practical—I couldn’t afford it—and some prideful—I didn’t look like I did in 1969. And I wanted to go when I’d sold my first book to a royalty publisher—and it rocketed to the bestseller list. I wanted to go when I lost weight. I wanted to go when I could show them!

I wasn’t in with the “in crowd.” In grade school, my classmates made fun of me, and some continued their mockery throughout high school. I didn’t even make the mermaid group, the group of sophomore girls chosen to serve tables at the junior-senior prom (the theme was “Under the Sea” or something like that), an honor reserved only for the prettiest and most popular. And boyfriends? Don’t even go there.

But when the invitation for the fortieth class reunion came, I wanted to go.

I decided to give the 55 classmates who attended a copy of both my books—compilations of my column that I self-published. The morning of the reunion I wrapped 120 books, two per package, in white tissue paper and tied each package with maroon and gold yarn—our school colors. Since I’d decided to wrap them that day, I didn’t have time to run to town. I had to use what I had on hand. All the time I wrapped and tied, I fretted. Would my gift be considered tacky or cheap? Should I have splurged and bought nicer wrapping paper? Did the yarn look stupid?

On the two-hour trip to the resort where the reunion was held, I confess I was a bit concerned about showing up in a rusting Ranger with 114,000 miles. I was a tad embarrassed that I weigh twice as much as I did when most saw me last.

My fretting was all for naught. Nobody saw the Ranger. Nobody looked at me with that “Boy, has she let herself go!” look in their eyes—others had gained weight, too. And when I handed each classmate the wrapped-in-cheap-tissue paper, tied-with-yarn gift, no one smirked.

Funny how our insecurities nag us needlessly, even after a lifetime. But thank God I was able to lay them aside. Perhaps because I realized it really doesn’t matter anymore. I’m happy, content and secure in who and what I am. I know God has a lot to do with that.

I had a wonderful time. Linda is even more gorgeous than she was back in the day. “She takes the prize,” another classmate said. I agreed, without even a tinge of envy. Cathy’s smile still ignites the sparkle in her eyes. Darlene’s nurturing heart still blankets her words. Jeannie still carries herself with that devil-may-care attitude. Cary’s happy-go-lucky spirit infused the evening with joy. Lulu hasn’t lost a bit of her sweetness, nor Debbie her warmth.

Vivian and I laughed ourselves to tears as we recalled the time I invited the entire third grade class to my house for a birthday party, but didn’t tell my mother because I knew she’d say no.

For nearly 40 years I remembered the hurtful words and actions, the feeling of being invisible, insignificant, unpopular, not pretty. But as we chatted and caught up with each other, I remembered the good times, the notes, the words of encouragement when I needed them.

Our alma mater was torn down nearly 20 years ago. At the reunion, each classmate received a brick from the building, couched in a maroon velvet bag with “MVCHS Class of 1969” embroidered in gold. I put it in my writing room, where it reminds me everyday that the bonds forged in youth cannot, like the building, be torn apart—that my past is as important as my present and my future, for the past has made me what I am today.

And for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Dear God, thank you for the blessings of good memories. Amen.

Special-Tea: Philippians 4:8; 1 Corinthians 13

The valley of wait

2009-10-04T16:26:00.001-04:00

But they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. –
Isaiah 40:31

For the past several years I’ve complained to my doctor about an increasing tiredness, insomnia, weight gain and the inability to lose weight and keep it off, no matter what I do.

“It’s my thyroid,” I told him. “I don’t think my medicine is strong enough.”

He’d decreased the dosage twice.

“Your lab work is normal. Lose some weight,” was the usual reply.

Last year he referred me to an endocrinologist, who, after sending me for an ultrasound, diagnosed thyroid nodules.

“Very tiny,” he said. “They may enlarge or disappear altogether. Nothing to worry about.”

He made no change in my medication. Over the past year, however, my symptoms worsened and new ones emerged. By the middle of the summer, the fatigue was interfering with my daily life. I was slowing down, physically and mentally. I won’t list the symptoms here—I don’t have the room.

I had an appointment with the endocrinologist at the beginning of August. Convinced the problem was metabolic, I thought for sure he’d find something. Nada. I listed my growing symptoms, including a low pulse rate when I exercise.

“That’s because you’re in shape,” he said, reading my file. “Now, about your weight . . .”

“My weight is a symptom,” I said.

His answer?

“Your lab work is normal. Lose weight. See you in a year.”

“I’m fed up with doctors who pay more attention to paper than to the patient,” I complained to my husband. “What he should have said was, ‘Your lab work looks normal, yet you’re still having problems. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’ He never tested all the thyroid hormones. Only two. I’m not going to him again.”

Three weeks later I had my yearly physical with my primary care physician. He listened to me—sort of. After ordering more lab work, which included tests for EBV and Lyme disease (he wouldn’t even consider ordering more thyroid tests), and two heart tests, he inferred that he believed they’d all come back normal.

Back to the old “blame it all on weight, depression, and/or aging.”

I wasn’t buying it. I called another endocrinologist, but I couldn’t get in until mid-February. Six months is too long a wait when my symptoms worsen by the day. So I made an appointment with a doctor a friend from church recommended.

At last a doctor who listened! He spent an hour with me, checking me over, asking questions, getting my medical history. He asked questions the other two doctors didn’t. He checked me for water retention; the others didn’t. He ordered more lab work than I’d ever had done at one time, which required 21 tubes of blood.

I still haven’t gotten the results of all the tests. I have 2 1/2 more weeks until my next appointment, but I’m OK with waiting. I know I’ll have an answer.

When problems arise in our lives, we run around from one place to another, searching for answers, but finding none. God is the last resort.

Yet God is the Great Physician, the one who listens, the one with the answer.

Even when God is my first resort, though, more often than not I have to spend time in the Valley of Wait before I get the answer. But I’m OK with that. It’s where I learn faith, hope, and trust. It’s where doubts are dealt with, and patience is strengthened. And I know eventually the answer will come, even though it may not be what I want. God knows best.

Are you in the Valley of Wait? Know that God will do His work His way in His time. Your answer will come, and it will always be for your good. (Romans 8:28)

Dear God, thank you for reminding me every day, in so many ways, that You are always with me, even when I walk through the Valley of Wait. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 27

Glow in the dark

2009-09-28T12:20:00.002-04:00

When Moses came down from Mount Sinai, his face was radiant because he had spoken with the LORD. – Exodus 34:29 (NIV)

I can remember when I first discovered how glow-in-the-dark figures really worked. Until then I’d never really given much thought to how something could radiate light without being a source of light itself. I noticed how the figures shone brightly at first, then slowly lost their glow.

Rather than give off light all by themselves, glow-in-the-dark figures radiate the light they’ve absorbed from a light source such as a light bulb or the sun. The brighter the light source and the closer and longer the exposure, the more light is absorbed and the brighter the glow.

I remember how I’d take a glow-in-the-dark figure and hold it close to a light bulb, then hurry to a darkened room so I could watch it glow. But the glow would eventually fade, and I’d have to return for more light.

Christians, too, are “glow-in-the-dark” figures. We are to radiate the light we absorb from God to a world darkened with selfishness and sin. The closer we get and the longer we stay in His presence, the brighter we will glow.

I wonder how well I am radiating God to those around me. Too often I jump right into the day without taking much time to absorb His light through praying and reading His Word. Then, when I go into the sin-darkened world, His radiance dims much too quickly.

Yes, I can go to church once or twice a week and catch some light, but it’s only when I’m up close to God on a daily basis and I spend adequate time with Him that I absorb – and then radiate – the most Light.

Remind me, O God, that my purpose in life is to radiate Your glory. For You alone are the true Source of Light. Amen.

Special-Tea: Matthew 5:14-16; Exodus 34:29-35

Sharon's hands

2009-09-21T08:32:00.002-04:00

She . . . willingly works with her hands . . . she extends her hands to the poor, Yes, she reaches out her hands to the needy . . . give her of the fruit of her hands. – Proverbs 31:13, 20, 31 (NKJV)

Recently my friend Sharon treated me to a girls’ day out. The day-long event was a “HeartSpa Getaway” held at a local Christian campground and included activities to nourish, refresh, and renew both body and spirit.

In addition to enjoying inspirational music provided by a women’s singing group and searching soul and Scripture, we also pampered our hands, faces and feet.

Our first pampering station was for our hands. First we rubbed them with an exfoliating scrub, then slathered on a soothing lotion. The next step I was a bit hesitant about—dipping my hands in a crock-pot containing liquid paraffin. I was afraid it would be too hot. But it wasn’t, and as soon as I brought my hands out, I was instructed to hold them together in a prayer position. My folded hands were then encased in a plastic bag and wrapped with a hand towel. While we waited for the paraffin, plastic, and towel to do their therapeutic work, we were to pray with and for our partners.

Sharon and I clasped our towel-clad hands and began praying. As I prayed for Sharon, whom I’ve known for over 30 years, I envisioned her hands—long and slender, with nails clipped short so they won’t interfere with the work she has to do.

I remembered when these hands brought me homemade chicken soup when I was in bed recovering from my second C-section. She hadn’t known it, but I’d asked God for some homemade chicken soup when I was still in the hospital.

These hands, I realized, have spent a lifetime doing for others—cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening, canning—the million and one things that need done for a family. These hands have written countless notes of encouragement, slipped uncounted dollar bills into scores of needy hands. They can be counted on to do what needs to be done. They’d held sick children, changed messy diapers, cleaned up puke, scrubbed bathrooms, cut hair, given perms, washed dogs, wrapped gifts, rubbed backs, blew kisses, prepared Bible lessons.

They’ve been bitten, blistered, burned, calloused, and cut, yet still wave a friendly greeting in a grocery store, on the street, in church. As busy as these hands are, they always take time to comfort. They’ve been clasped together in prayer for others, and they’ve grasped the hands of others as she prayed for them.

The hands are the instruments of the heart. Sharon’s hands are giving hands, for her heart overflows with kindness, compassion, and love.

My daughter’s dog, Tess, was rescued from an animal shelter. Tess is afraid of hands and slinks away in cowering fear when a hand, however loving, gets too close. Who knows what cruelties have been inflicted on her by hands that wanted only to dominate or harm?

Hands can hit, pinch, pound, punch, slam, and slap. A closed hand is tight and tense. Hands that grasp and cling when it’s time to let go cannot be open to receive.

Sharon’s hands are no longer supple, smooth, and nimble. They bear the scars of a lifetime of love. But they are not empty. They overflow with blessings poured out from her heavenly Father, blessings she passes on to others.

I have no choice over how pretty my hands are—whether they’re long and slender or wide and knuckley. But, as Sharon likes to say, pretty is as pretty does.

I choose what these hands do. They can lend a hand, pass on a hand-me-down, give a hand up. They can be the hands of God in a needy world.

Have you taken a good look at your hands lately?

Dear God, thank you for Sharon’s hands and the many hands that have met my needs over the years. Bless them, O Lord. Forgive me for the times my hands have hurt others, and help me to forgive and forget those hands that have hurt me. Show me how to use my hands for Your work. Amen.

Special-Tea: Proverbs 31:10-31

Who wears the pants?

2009-09-13T16:37:00.000-04:00

. . . for a man is God’s glory, made in God’s own image, but woman is the glory of man. – 1 Corinthians 11:7 (NLT)

All I wanted was a deck.

With our income tax refund safety tucked in our savings account, this past spring my husband and I discussed replacing the redneck porch with a deck built of treated lumber and large enough to accommodate family cookouts. We discussed size and even staked out the dimensions. A friend, using computer software, drew up the blueprints.

Then we got into a discussion about the roof.

In order to fully enjoy the deck, Dean said, we’d have to have a roof over it, and the slope of the roof had to be steep enough to allow melting snow and rain to run off. Any slope less than—I think he said four/twelfths—would cause ice to back up under the eaves and damage the roof. And, for the size of the deck we were considering, the deck roof would have to extend to the peak of the house roof.

“I don’t think that’ll look right,” he said.

“What’s wrong with the slope of the porch roof we have on now?” I asked.

Let me give you a little background here. Our back porch is called the redneck porch because it’s built of castoff pallets my husband dragged home from work. It’s actually our second redneck porch because pallets aren’t made to endure these northern winters. The roof, what Dean calls a “shed roof,” is made of the corrugated green plastic sheets his mother used as a windbreak on her back porch, and is held up with pillars made from a couple of trees from our woods.

The roof discussion soon trumped the deck discussion.

“I’d like to put a roof on the house before we build the deck,” Dean said at the turning point (where the discussion turns into an argument), citing the age and condition of the brown rolled roofing that has covered our heads for the past 26 years.

Last fall, Dean smeared tarry black goo over the back roof, which for some reason shows more signs of roof fatigue than the front. So now the roof on the front of the house is brown and the roof on the back is black. But I digress.

Wanting to be a good wife and not argue, I pulled out the latest Consumer Reports magazine, which coincidentally (or fatally, depending on how you look at it) featured different types of roofing. We couldn’t decide on shingles (my vote) or metal roofing (his preference), so we estimated the cost of both—way more than the meager amount we had in savings.

“So let’s build the deck,” I said, closing the magazine.

“But I want a roof over the deck,” he said, “and if we’re going to put a roof over the deck, I want to replace the house roof at the same time.”

This is called an impasse.

“All I want is a deck!” I said, close to boiling point and a decibel under “yell.” “Can’t anything be simple? Why do you always have to complicate things? Oh, I know—you really don’t want to build the deck, so you sabotage the plan. You always do that.”

The atmosphere in the house was frosty for a week or so—until God nudged me. Dean was right. The deck was a want; a new roof was a need.

For me it was still another lesson in the husband-wife relationship—specifically, who wears the pants in the family.

I’ve been spoiled—Dean usually lets me have my way. But there are times he disagrees with me. He doesn’t lord it over me, doesn’t cite the well-worn scripture about the wife submitting to the husband, doesn’t demand his own way. He simply states his case and his reasons.

“Woman is not independent of man,” Paul wrote, “and man is not independent of woman” (1 Corinthians 11:11 NIV).

Who wears the pants? We both do—he wears one leg and I wear the other. And, like a three-legged foot race, we stumble and sometimes tumble until we get in sync with each other.

Turns out we got neither deck nor roof. Our daughter came home with her family for three weeks in June, and there went the money. But we do have enough for another can of roof coating, though.

Dear God, when Dean and I disagree, remind me that our relationship trumps over whatever it is we’re arguing about. Remind me that a home built with love is the home that endures the seasons of life. Amen.

Special-Tea: 1 Corinthians 11:2–16

What I work for

2009-09-08T08:24:00.004-04:00

In My Father’s house are many mansions . . . I go to prepare a place for you. – John 14:2 (NKJ)
Don’t store up treasures here on earth . . . store them in heaven where they will never lose their value, and are safe from thieves. – Matthew 6:19–20 (LB)

In his short story, “The Mansion,” Henry Van Dyke tells the story of John Weightman, a highly successful, self-made businessman whose life was ruled by one motto: “Nothing that does not bring the reward.”

Weightman applied this motto to both his professional and personal life, from investing his money to building his richly furnished house to raising his children to giving to charity. A faithful churchgoer and professed Christian, Weightman believed that Scripture promised a reward for good deeds.

Weightman even had a carefully crafted career plan for his son, Harold, who, unbeknown to Weightman, chafed under his father’s iron hand. One Christmas Eve Harold asked his father to help an ill friend who’d saved the young man from going the wrong way in his early college years. Harold suggested they loan him three or four thousand dollars.

When Weightman was told the ill young man had only “a fighting chance,” he balked.

“A fighting chance may do for a speculation, but it is not a good investment,” he said. “Send him three or four hundred dollars.”

That night, feeling sad after the disagreement with Harold, Weightman fell asleep in his carved library chair. He dreamed he died and went to heaven, where people, all of less fortune and prosperity than himself, told him they were on their way to their mansions. Surely, Weightman thought, with all the good he’d done, his mansion would far outdo anyone else’s. And he felt a certain smug pleasure imagining their reactions to his place.

One by one, each of his fellow travelers was escorted to mansions so beautiful they were filled with joy and awe. Finally only Weightman and his friend Dr. McLean were left. The heavenly guide led them to one of the largest and fairest mansions with a spectacular flower garden. The guide turned to the doctor.

“This is for you,” he said. “All the good that you have done for others, all the help that you have given, all the comfort that you have brought, all the strength and love that you have bestowed upon the suffering, are here; for we have built them all into this mansion for you.”

Now it was Weightman’s turn. He could hardly wait. The guide led him to a single, ramshackle hut in an open, lonely field with no flowers and very little grass. It looked like it had been built with scraps and castoffs of other buildings. Surely this was a mistake!

The guide shook his head sadly. “This is all the material you sent us,” he explained.

“All my life long I have been doing things that must have supplied you with material,” Weightman said. “I have built a schoolhouse; the wing of a hospital; two—yes, three—small churches, and the greater part of a large one, the spire of St. Petro—”

“Yes,” answered the Keeper of the Gate, “it counts in the world—where you counted it. But it does not belong to you here. We have saved and used everything that you sent us. This is the mansion prepared for you.”

I wonder—what are my motives for the things I do? I listed all the possible reasons I could have for serving God. Love for Him was at the top of the list—the purest and hardest one of all. I would like to think I serve because I love Him. I would like to think that is my only reason.

But I also work for that heavenly reward—that mansion Scripture promises.

But I confess I’m a lot like Weightman. I long for earthly recognition, appreciation, approval, worldly goods, health, a good life, popularity, achieving my dreams. Would I still serve Him if I were to attain none of these?

I would like to think I would, but I know I still have a way to go to have the pure heart God wants me to have.

Dear God, help me to keep my eyes fixed on You, not on what I could get for being obedient. Help me to give and serve for pure reasons—to want to help someone else with no thought of myself. Amen.

Special-Tea: 1 Corinthians 3:10–15; Matthew 6:1–4, 19–21

My place on the wall

2009-08-31T16:17:00.002-04:00

Do not fear . . . let not your hands grow weak. The LORD, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives great victory. – Zephaniah 3:16-17 (RSV)

I grew up in a house on a hill with a view of the Monongahela River. I’d often sit in the backyard on a summer day, watching the coal barges push upstream. On the near side of the river, extending the length of my hometown, was the steel mill. On the other side, a two-lane road ran between Webster and Monessen.

You had to be careful driving that stretch, especially during the spring. To make room for the road, builders had cut into the steep, rocky hillside, which made the entire hillside unstable. In the spring when the ground thawed, giant boulders came crashing down, destroying the high steel fence and littering the road. Signs were put up: “Danger. Falling Rock.”

Nowadays, unstable hillsides are restrained by huge stone walls built right up against them. However, these retaining walls, reinforced with steel rods and fencing meshed with stone, provide protection only for a time. Eventually they’ll give way to the forces of nature: the hillside will push against them, and if not reinforced periodically, these walls, too, will weaken and collapse.

From ancient times, walls have been built to protect. The Great Wall of China stretches over 4,000 miles and was once manned by one million soldiers. Ancient cities were protected by walls thick enough to contain houses, with watchtowers built along them. Troy’s walls could not be breached, thus the Greeks devised a way to get inside: we all know the story of the Trojan horse. Then there were the formidable walls of Jericho, which collapsed after a siege of only seven days.

One ancient wall that’s often overlooked is the wall that surrounded Jerusalem, which, generations after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BC, remained “broken down, its gates burned with fire” (Nehemiah 1:3). Without a wall, a city was defenseless against its enemies. And a wall-less city was a disgrace.

Called by God in 445 BC to rebuild the wall around Jerusalem, Nehemiah faced a formidable task. The work was extensive—they toiled from “dawn till the stars came out,” not even taking time to change their clothes. Nehemiah and his crew had to be on guard constantly. Crafty and relentless, enemies without undermined his efforts with deception and murderous plots. The enemy within, exhaustion and discouragement, undermined the morale of the workers.

Nehemiah didn’t discount the power of his adversaries, but neither was he overwhelmed by everything that went wrong. Instead, he focused on God, rallied his workers, and pushed on.

“They all plotted together to come and fight against Jerusalem and stir up trouble against it. But we prayed to our God and posted a guard day and night to meet this threat,” he reported (Nehemiah 4:8–9). “From that day on, half of my men did the work, while the other half were equipped with spears, shields, bows and armor. . . . Those who carried the materials did their work with one hand and held a weapon in the other . . . So we continued the work” (Nehemiah 4:16, 17, 21).

Following God’s call doesn’t lead to a trouble-free life. The road of obedience is strewn with the boulders of deception, resistance, and animosity. The potholes of disappointment, discouragement, and doubt siphon energy and enthusiasm. Wounded and weary, we retreat, overwhelmed by the size of the task, the strength of the enemy, and our own weaknesses.

But wait! God hasn’t called me to defend the entire wall, only a section of it. Together we can rebuild the walls of faith that protect and defend us. It won’t be easy. But then, if it is, we’re no threat to the enemy.

We find strength not our own, but knowing that where God calls, He will enable.

Have you found your place on the wall yet?

Dear God, so much evil in the world, and it seems that the enemy is getting stronger and bolder by the minute. What can I, one little person, do to fight back? When I feel overwhelmed, remind me to focus on the portion You have assigned to me and that victory will come “not by might, nor by power, but by Your Spirit” (Zechariah 4:6). Amen.

Special-Tea: Nehemiah 4

Red flag days

2009-08-24T11:19:00.002-04:00

All your waves and breakers have swept over me. – Psalm 42:7 (NIV)

All three of my kids and their families have vacationed on the shores of the Atlantic this summer, from Ocean City to the Outer Banks, all the way to Edisto Island, SC. I’m sure glad it isn’t this past weekend.

With Hurricane Bill churning up the surf and generating dangerous rip currents, powerful waves towering from six to 22 feet threaten life and limb. Weather forecasters warned against swimming, boating or fishing.

“In order to be safe, just stay out of the water,” The Weather Channel Web site advised. “Simple as that. It’s tempting to do, but don’t do it. You’re testing your fate.”

I have two who’d probably ignore the red flag warnings and plunge in anyway. One seems to think he’s indestructible, and the other acts as though rules and warnings are for everyone but him. The third is just the opposite—she’ll gather her chicks under her wings and batten down the hatches.

Growing up in a rather poor family in southwest Pennsylvania, I didn’t go to the beach until I was in my late teens. And even then it wasn’t an annual trip. In nearly six decades, I’ve been to the seashore about six times.

Once was right after our youngest son’s baseball team lost in the first round of the Little League state championship. Since we were only a couple of hours from the coast, were traveling in our motorhome, and my husband had optimistically taken the entire week off, we drove on over to Seaside Park, NJ. We figured it would get our minds off getting beaten so quickly and easily.

I’d had visions of strolling through gently rolling waves lapping warm sands. How was I to know what those little yellow flags snapping in the stiff sea breeze meant? I sure found out when I tiptoed into the surf after my husband and son.

There was nothing gentle about the ocean that day. The only thing rolling was me! After getting pounded into the sand one too many times, I staggered to the safety and security of the blanket. At least I got my sinuses cleaned out, I thought, blowing my nose into a paper towel.

“What does that yellow flag mean?” I asked my husband when he dripped by.

“It means caution,” he replied. “To be careful because the seas are a bit rough.”

“Now you tell me!” I choked.

“The green flag means calm seas, and the red flag danger. You don’t want to go out on a red flag day. That’s when the waves are really high, but that’s also the best time to body surf.”

Who wants to body surf? I thought. I just want to romp in a gentle sea.

I prefer the same as I live my life. At my age, I’d rather romp in gentle waves than endure the breakers on those red flag days. I’ve learned through experience that I’m not indestructible—and that rules and warnings are for me, too. I’ve come to understand that battening down the hatches and riding out the storm doesn’t mean I’m a sissy, but a sage.

Sometimes I can’t avoid staying out of the water. Circumstances leave me no choice but to plunge into the treacherous waves that sweep me off my feet and pound me into the surf. Reeling from onslaught after onslaught, I often wonder where God is while I’m being battered and beaten.

But I needn’t wonder too long. Just in time, He plucks me out of the raging seas, lovingly sets me down on soft sands, and enfolds me in the soft, secure blanket of His love—whether I “deserved” being saved or not.

And I realize that, whether I got myself in this predicament through my own foolhardiness or whether it was foisted upon me, God will always hear my cry and come to my rescue.

He will for you, too.

Thank you, Father, for being with me in the red flag days of my life. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 42

Of blights and blessings, part 2

2009-08-17T09:17:00.003-04:00

In my distress, I called to the LORD, and he answered me. – Jonah 2:2 (NIV)

A little over a week ago, I was sure we’d lost all our tomato and potato plants. Late blight, which was responsible for the Irish potato famine of the 1850s and can destroy an entire crop in a couple of days, had infected our garden.

“I asked God to stop the blight in its tracks,” I wrote on my blog. I believe God could do that. I just had my doubts He would do it. After all, how many of my prayers, some I’ve prayed for 10 years, have gone unanswered? So far, that is. Sometimes I despair of praying about those unanswered items, especially when they involve others.

I was sure all our four dozen tomato plants and four rows of potato plants would have to be pulled and burned. What I didn’t expect was for the blight to stop in its tracks.

Oh, we did lose the potato plants. Every single one of them. But we found usable potatoes beneath the soil. Some are tiny, some are medium-sized, but they are edible. How well they will store, I don’t know. But we’ll use what we can.

As for the tomato plants, we lost all but about a dozen. The plants on the lower end of the tomato patch are still lush and green, showing no sign of blight. Probably these are the blight resistant variety I’d bought and forgotten where I planted.

As for the other plants—some are brown and shriveled from bottom to top, but some show blight only halfway up the plant, with the tops still in blossom and green. Tomatoes on the blight-infected plants are rotting on the vines, but not all of them.

It appears that we may get some tomatoes to eat fresh and maybe even to can. It’s a case of “OGK”—“Only God Knows”—so we’ll have to wait and see.

It’s the same thing with prayer: Sometimes God answers lightning-fast, and all we can say is, “Wow!” Other times God seems to take His dear old time answering, and we cry in despair, “How long, O Lord?”

After being chosen by God and anointed king of Israel, David was forced to live a nomad’s life in the wilderness for years in order to evade a murderously jealous monarch. At one point, he cried in despair, “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1) David eventually claimed the throne, but during those years of waiting he was being shaped and strengthened.

There was a time I prayed and prayed and prayed for someone who was making life miserable. I, too, cried, “How long, O Lord?” for years, never seeing an inkling of change. That person kept me on my knees, seeking God, clinging to Him, learning to wait. My trust in God was challenged—and strengthened.

Truthfully, I didn’t believe this prayer would ever be answered. This person was a hard nut to crack. And perhaps I wasn’t sure, at that stage in my young faith walk, that God could turn night into day and perform the miracle it would take.

When I was at a low point, a dear, wise Christian woman told me, “When it’s hardest to pray, that’s when you need to pray the hardest.”

Then came the day God answered. And all I could say, and all I can still say, was, “Wow!”

Is there something or someone you’ve been praying for, perhaps for years, and still see no sign of an answer? Does despair have you almost convinced that the answer will never come? Is it getting harder to pray? Is doubt, like a blight, eating away at your faith?

Hang in there, child of God. He hears you. He cares. And He will answer.

In the morning, O LORD, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait in expectation (Psalm 5:3). Even though the wait seems long and the answers aren’t what I want, dear God, I know I can trust You and rest in the knowledge that You hear and answer--always. Amen.

In my distress, I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears. – Psalm 18:6

Special-Tea: Psalm 20

Of blights and blessings

2009-08-14T11:55:00.000-04:00

Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. –Habakkuk 3:17–18 (NIV)

I spoke too soon.

Wanting to share my joy at the abundant garden harvest we’re enjoying, I took pictures of the lush vegetable plants and posted them on my blog (see previous blog).

“When we planted our garden,” I wrote, “we prayed a blessing over it, then put a fence around it to keep the country critters out, then weeded and cultivated, then prayed some more. God has answered in Ephesians 3:20 ways.”

I then went on to list my harvest to date: 14 quarts of pickled beets, 7 quarts and 40 pints of beans (canned); 32 bags of beans for soup and stew, and 18 bags of pepper strips (frozen). Still to harvest are more beets, beans, carrots, onions, potatoes, squash, pumpkin, tomatoes and peppers.

I even splurged and bought a pressure canner. I figured I’d be busy into October. But that evening, my husband broke the news.

“I don’t know about the tomatoes,” he said, a worried look creasing his tired face.

I glanced up from my computer. “Why?”

“Blight.”

No. Forty-eight plants up in smoke. No tomatoes for the soups and stews and tomato dishes we enjoy through the winter.

I wasn’t going to panic, though. We prayed a blessing over the garden, right?

The next morning I asked God to stop the blight in its tracks, if that was indeed the problem. Maybe Dean was wrong. After all, it was getting dark by the time he’d made it to the garden to trim and tie up the tomatoes, which I’d described as a forest on my blog.

I googled “blight” + “tomato plants” + “Pennsylvania.” What I read wasn’t good. “Late blight,” as it’s called, has been running rampant in Pennsylvania since June and thrives on cool, wet weather, which has defined most of the summer. Not only can this blight wipe out an entire tomato field quickly, but it also affects potatoes.

“An infected plant,” I read, “would show a white mold on the underside of the leaf.”

I stared at the photo of an infected leaf, then pulled on my sandals and marched through the wet morning grass to the garden.

The tomato plants were lush no more. Withered, brown leaves spread from the bottom up.

Maybe, I thought, it’s just that the plants were so full, they aren’t getting enough air. A good trimming is all they need.

I leaned across the fence, plucked off a leaf and turned it over. White mold ringed the brown. I checked the potato plants, which I’d thought were dying off naturally. White mold there, too.

Does that mean God didn’t answer my prayer when I asked Him to bless my garden? If that’s the case, then why bother to pray about anything?

I can believe God didn’t hear, didn’t answer and doesn’t care. I can moan and groan and curse my luck. But that will just allow bitterness, like the blight, to infect my spirit.

Daniel wasn’t spared from the lions’ den. Neither were Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego spared from the fiery furnace. They were spared in it. They went to the lions’ den and the furnace trusting God, whether He spared them or not (Daniel 3 and 6). Even Job said, “Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” (Job 2:10)

What about me? Do I trust God?

A resounding Yes!—even though my four dozen tomato plants and four rows of potato plants will have to be pulled and burned.

I’ve still plenty to be thankful for: 61 sparkling jars in my pantry, 50 bags of homegrown veggies in my freezer, more veggies to harvest, and a faithful, loving God that still has the whole world—and that includes my garden—in His capable hands.

And, Lord willing, there’s always next year.

Thank You, God, that You are in control and not me. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 100

Our answer to the recession

2009-08-06T10:28:00.000-04:00

The kiss of sun for pardon,
The song of birds for mirth,
One is closer to God in a garden
than anywhere else on earth.
~ Dorothy Frances Gurney

When we planted our garden, we prayed a blessing over it, then put a fence around it to keep the country critters out, then weeded and cultivated and prayed some more. God has answered in Ephesian 3:20 ways. We who usually have to struggle to maintain a garden despite the wildlife and weather and soil have an abundant harvest, exceeding our expectations.

So far I've canned

14 qts. pickled beets (plus 2 qts. given away, and 1-plus qt. enjoyed fresh, with pickled eggs)

7 qts. and 30 pints green beans
10 pts. wax (yellow) beans

and frozen

20 1-cup bags green beans (for soup & stew)
12 1-cup bags mixed (green and yellow) beans
15 snack bags of sweet banana pepper strips
3 snack bags of green bell pepper strips

One more batch (about 7 qts.) of beets to do. I pulled the bean plants (notice bare ground on the left), but left one row of yellow beans, since they aren't done yet. I figure one more picking.

Still to harvest:

carrots
more peppers (48 plants)
tomatoes (48 plants), which are slow this year because of the cool, wet weather (but I usually can tomatoes in September)
onions
red potatoes
pumpkin
squash (butternut and spaghetti squash)

The tomato patch (left) looks like a forest, with the cherry tomato plants looking more like trees than plants. DH (Dear Husband) will have to trim them.

And somehow we must have gotten one hot pepper plant mixed in with the sweet banana pepper plants--I figured this out when we added a pepper to chipped steak, then had to put out the fire when we ate it. I can't tell which peppers are the hot ones, so when I slice them, I take a small bite. If it bites back, I put it aside to give to my oldest son, who, unlike DH and I, likes dishes with some kick.

Last year we enjoyed canned pears from our trees (left), but this year, the pears are few. And what we do have growing on the small tree, the deer are eating. So DH put a fence around the tree last night. But I still won't have enough pears to can. Maybe I'll buy a bushel . . .

Speaking of the pear trees, the one on the right (the bigger tree) was the recipient of an arrow, which split the tree in two, when our oldest was target shooting, getting ready for bow season. That was at least 15-20 years ago.

Where have all the flowers gone that DH planted at the woodsline behind the house? (see picture at right) Wonder no more. See why we put a fence around the pear tree and the garden? And to discourage them from jumping the fence, DH added the clothesline wire above it and I tied on about two dozen plastic grocery bags, for which I got laughed at. But, hey, it worked, didn't it?

We are family

2009-08-03T10:44:00.000-04:00

And since we are all one body in Christ, we belong to each other, and each of us needs all the others. – Romans 12:5 (NLT)

“We are family” boasted black letters on a fluorescent green shirt, obviously made for this year’s family reunion.

How nice, I thought, smiling as the little girl wearing it skipped past.

It got me thinking about families. What is a family anyway?

Most simply, a family is a group of people who share a common bond. Families are most often defined as being related by virtue of having the same ancestors.

My Slovak grandmother arrived in America on May 4, 1910, at the age of 20. My mother was born four years later. I don’t know much about my father’s family, except that they, too, were Slovak, and, like many immigrants in the early 1900s, found work in the steel mills of western Pennsylvania.

My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles are all gone now, and few of the cousins that remain remember much of our heritage. But, still, there is an unbreakable bond that ties us together.

My husband, on the other hand, says his background is “Heinz 57.” Although his ethnic heritage is mixed, his roots go deep into farming—we live on land that was once homesteaded by his great grandfather (or was it great-great-grandfather?).

Each year we attend two family reunions—the Woods reunion (his mother’s family) and the Huey-Wetzel reunion (his father’s side). When my children were little, I dreaded these day-long events. My family never had them, and secretly I felt resentful. I saw it only as work and often felt like an outsider. But I’ve changed my views.

“The older you get,” I told my son recently, “the more your roots mean to you.”

My roots tell me who I am—why I am the way I am. Understanding my past gives more meaning to my present and helps me to face the future. My grandparents’ generation embarked on a new life in a new country, not even knowing the language, then faced two world wars and a country-crippling depression while raising families of eight, nine, or more. That’s strong stock. I’m proud to say we are family.

There are other families, too. This year I’ll attend my fortieth-year class reunion. Although I’ve gone to only one in four decades, this time I feel need to go. I finally understand what binds us. We grew up together, sharing the Beatles, the Vietnam War, racial unrest, a cultural revolution. We are family.

Then there are those parents whose sons were on our son’s college baseball team. Together we cheered our boys on and sometimes (OK, often) booed the umpires. Victory, defeat, bad calls, rain, snow, energy-sucking heat, bone-chilling dampness, long road trips, disappointment and joy bonded us together. This summer, a year after our sons graduated, we held the first annual UPJ baseball reunion. The love that flowed among us was stronger than ever. We are family.

Last weekend in Punxsutawney the third annual “Church in the Park” weekend was held, with seven churches of varying denominations participating. Friday evening we enjoyed the movie Bolt on a screen set up in the town square. Saturday night featured a Southern gospel concert given by a choir made up of singers from the different churches. Sunday morning we gathered around the bandstand and worshipped together.

Earlier in the week, all seven churches worked on a community project together, cleaning up the local section of the Rails to Trails corridor.

How nice, I thought, for once we aren’t circling our wagons, but are facing outward, reaching into the community, asking, “How can we help?”

Yes, there are differences, but the bond we share, Jesus Christ, is stronger. Through Christ, we are family.

Family, you see, finds within the common bond meaning and purpose, strength and courage to face and impact the world outside—and, in the process, creating other families.

I am reminded of the words of a song I liked when I was in my teens: “No man is an island. No man stands alone. Each man’s joy is joy to me. Each man’s grief is my own. We need one another, so I will defend each man as my brother, each man as my friend.”*

Dear God, thank you for the families of which I am a part. Thank you that because of them, I do not have to face the world alone. Amen.

*From the song by Joan Baez, “No Man Is an Island,” ©NA

Special-Tea: Ephesians 4:1–13

The words of my mouth

2009-07-27T08:51:00.000-04:00

May the words of my mouth . . . be pleasing in your sight, O LORD. – Psalm 19:14 (NIV)

At our house, Thursday is leftover day, meaning supper is whatever is left over from meals earlier in the week.

Last Thursday was no exception. On Wednesday I’d made enough stewed tomatoes and macaroni, one of my husband’s favorite meals, to fill his still-a-farmboy stomach and a 2 ½-quart casserole dish with leftovers.

Thursday’s supper, I figured, would be easy: pop the casserole in the nuke, shake packaged salad into bowls, and throw a loaf of fresh bread and soft butter on the table. Nice and quick—just what I needed on grocery day.

But when I was in town, a “fresh corn” sign caught my eye. I envisioned steaming yellow cobs dripping with melted butter on our supper plates beside the leftover stewed tomatoes and macaroni. And I pictured a delighted look on my husband’s face.

I’ll surprise him, I thought, flicking on my blinker and turning into the parking lot.

When Dean called to say he was on his way home, I had the water boiling and the corn husked, ready to drop into the pot. But his reaction wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t rave about the corn—nary a word about it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked when we sat down at the table. After 36 years, I can read his body language pretty good.

“Nothing.”

I gave him my best “I know better than that” look.

“The corn is sweet,” he said, “and the macaroni is, too. You know I don’t like something sweet with something else that’s sweet.”

Sure it’s sweet, I wanted to say, with all the sugar you dump on the macaroni. Instead I said, with just a touch of sarcasm, “Thanks, Michele, for thinking of the fresh corn. It hits the spot.”

Now, my husband doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’s honest to a fault. He’ll never tell me, for example, that I look nice just to make me feel good. But, gee, can’t he lie a little, just once in awhile?

Perhaps I’m too sensitive, but I’m not alone in this longing to be appreciated.

“There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation than for bread,” Mother Teresa once said.

St. Paul instructed the early church to “let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them” (Ephesians 4:29 NLT).

Like oil on squeaky hinges, a few words of appreciation can go a long way—in building up relationships, soothing a battered spirit, refreshing a weary soul, and putting a smile on a sad face. I can get a lot of mileage out of one compliment.

“Pleasant words are a honeycomb,” penned the writer of Proverbs, “sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24).

Sweet words of appreciation—who in your world can use them today?

Open my eyes, Lord, to the many kindnesses others show to me every day—and remind me to express my appreciation often. Amen.

Special-Tea: Luke 17:11-19

My new hero

2009-07-21T11:11:00.000-04:00

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. – 2 Corinthians 12:9 (RSV)

Meet Diane Dike. She’s an effervescent, enthusiastic, middle-aged blonde with a smile that lights up a room and a face that radiates a joy that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside. And who carries around in a Snugli an Italian greyhound named Gracie that she adopted from a local animal hospital.

Gracie goes with Diane everywhere—restaurants, schools, even on stage when she is speaking. Gracie is Diane’s service dog.

Confined to a wheelchair most of the time, in pain all of the time, Diane needs Gracie not only to retrieve things for her, but also to keep her warm. Diane suffers from a rare, incurable blood disease called cryoglobulinemia, that causes her blood to turn to a deadly jello-like consistency, especially when she’s exposed to cold, such as air conditioning and drafts.

The first line of treatment is to stay warm. She wears mitten to open the refrigerator and dons full mountain ski gear to go shopping. Gracie’s body heat helps Diane to stay warm, preventing her blood from congealing.

When she was first diagnosed, Diane found ways to continue her active, athletic lifestyle—skiing, hiking, swimming, even hang gliding. But as the disease progressed, a wheelchair became necessary. Standing or dangling her legs while sitting causes painful flare-ups, so keeping her legs and feet propped up in the wheelchair prevents the blood from pooling in her feet.

If this debilitating, progressive disease isn’t enough, she’s also been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, autoimmune disease, TMJ, chronic fatigue syndrome, endometriosis, bipolar/manic depression, vasculitis, and colitis associated with her blood disorder. But in spite of all this, she’s as radiant as an angel.

But she’ll be the first to tell you she wasn’t always this way. After her diagnosis, she went into a downward spiral, which included divorce and homelessness, and abandoned the faith she professed as a teen. She wound up on a suicide watch in a psychiatric hospital.

One day, as she prepared to move back home with her parents, she entered the empty kitchen of her apartment. In Diane’s own words, “I felt so sad as I looked in my kitchen cabinets and thought, that is exactly how I feel, empty. Then, as if God himself gently reached His hand to my chin and lifted my face skyward, a song came on the radio that pierced my heart and brought me to my knees. The kitchen was all aglow and He was with me.”

Diane rededicated her life to God.

“My test became my testimony,” she says. “My mess became my message.”

She moved from her parents’ home in Florida to Colorado, where she met her husband, Paul—her “knight in shining armor” she calls him. And she finally completed the coursework for her doctorate. Yes, I said doctorate. By the grace of God.

But God had more grace in mind for Diane.

One night while sick in bed, she prayed, “Lord, is there a little puppy dog out there that needs me as much as I need her?”

Two days later a friend from the local animal hospital called her. An Italian greyhound with two broken front legs and a broken tail needed a home.

“I want her,” the friend said, “but the Lord keeps telling me she is for you.”

The rest, as they say, is history. (For more of Diane’s story, visit her online at www.dianedike.org, where you can order her book, God Made Only One of Me, which chronicles her journey from pain to hope.)

Diane Dike is a living example of what God can do. It doesn’t matter how broken you are. Or how far from God you’ve strayed. He’s just waiting for your permission. As Diane says, “God loves you, He likes you, and He made only one of you!”

I met Diane, Gracie, and Paul at a writers and speakers conference last weekend. When I came home, I told my husband, “I’m never going to complain again.”

OK, I probably will. But when I do, I’ll remember Diane’s radiant face and the joy that bubbles from a spirit that knows the transforming power of God.

Dear God, may those whose lives and spirits are broken either by circumstances beyond their control or by their own doing, find healing and purpose in You. Amen.

Special-Tea: 2 Corinthians 12:7–10

Where am I?

2009-07-14T15:05:00.000-04:00

As Jesus and the disciples left the city of Jericho, a huge crowd followed behind. Two blind men were sitting beside the road.

When they heard that Jesus was coming that way, they began shouting, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

The crowd told them to be quiet, but they only shouted louder, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

Jesus stopped in the middle of the road and called, “What do you want me to do for you?”

“Lord,” they said, “we want to see!”

Jesus felt sorry for them and touched their eyes. Instantly they could see! Then they followed him. – Matthew 20:29–34 (NLT)

Jesus walks in the world today, like He did 2,000 years ago. You can see Him if you look hard enough.

He’s the mother cradling a sick child, the father playing catch with his son, the grandfather putting a popped chain back on a bicycle with training wheels, the grandmother setting aside her what she planned for the day so she could watch the kids while their mother ran some errands, the friend who listens no matter what time of the day when you call.

But when Jesus walks by, where am I?

Perhaps I’m one of the blind beggars, crying out for mercy and healing, ignoring those who tell me to give it up, God’s too busy or important for little me, or that my problem is too small or too large or impossible. “Who are you to ask God for anything?” I’m chided. “You’ve been that way all your life. Accept it.” But I’m desperate. I’ve tried everything else. He’s healed so many—the woman who spent all her money on doctors and only got worse. The thousands of people He fed at one time with a little boy’s lunch of bread and fish—and had food left over! Surely there’s hope for me.

Or am I one of the crowd, shushing up those who don’t meet my standards? They’re too dirty or smelly or lazy. They have no hope, so why bother? Or maybe I don’t want to share Jesus, don’t want Him to take time away from me for those dirty beggars who never worked a day in their lives. They’re not “our kind” of people, you know? Am I one of those who love Jesus because of what He can do for me, for the thrill of the miracle?

Or am I one of the disciples, in training, trying to grasp all that this Man can do, all He’s teaching me. I’m watching, waiting, learning—relearning because I was too thick the first time. Or the second. Or third. Jesus is the Man everyone loves and listens to. I’m merely riding on the coattails of His popularity, basking in the reflection of His glory, important only because of my relationship with Him. I’m one of THE disciples. I’m in with the “in” crowd.

Or am I Jesus to someone who will see Him in me? In what I say and do? In my attitudes and responses. Do I dare touch the untouchables. Step out of my comfort zone to help in a tangible way someone who is sick or hurting or needy? Or do I just drop a few extra dollars in the offering plate so someone else can do it?

Where am I in this scene? Or, more importantly: Who am I?

There’s a story about a statue of Jesus that was damaged in World War II. The villagers tried to reconstruct it, but the hands, they discovered, were beyond repair. “A Christ without hands is no Christ at all!” someone said.

They considered replacing the statue, but then someone wrote a poem that was inscribed on a brass plaque and attached to the base of the bomb-damaged figure:

“I have no hands but your hands to do my work today.
I have no feet but your feet to lead men on their way.
I have no tongue but your tongue to tell men how I died.
I have no help but your help to bring men to God’s side.”

Jesus still walks in the world today. Do you see Him?

Dear God, remind me that I don’t just GO to church—I AM the church and part of the body of Your Son. Show me how I can be Jesus to somebody today. Amen.

Special-Tea: 1 Corinthians 12:12-27

Time in a bottle

2009-07-04T12:36:00.000-04:00

Children are a heritage from the LORD. The fruit of the womb is a reward. – Psalm 127:3 (NKJV)

On the kitchen windowsill above my sink are two vases of flowers: daisies my 5-year-old grandson Kyle picked for me the day he was a little stinker and got me mad, and a handful of tiger lilies my husband plucked on the way home from work the day my daughter and her two boys left after a wonderful three-week visit home.

Since Jaime lives 700 miles away, we don’t get to see her and her family often. Now that she’s teaching full time, her week-long Christmas visit is no longer feasible, so she decided to make her annual visit home in June and extend it to three weeks.

So Dean and I brought two mattresses in from the motorhome, emptied a few drawers, moved my lateral filing cabinet into the closet and transformed my writing room into a bedroom for the boys, Alex, 8, and Kyle. I took a monthlong sabbatical from writing and stocked up on macaroni and cheese, paper plates, disposable cups, Band-Aids, Fruit Loops, paper towels, and laundry detergent. I made sure there were children-friendly games, puzzles and movies on hand for rainy days.

Our other three grandchildren, ages 10, 6, and 2, who live next door, were thrilled to have their Southern cousins visit during the summer, when they could play outside. The kids spent every minute they could together. We had a houseful from morning ‘til night.

I sat back and savored every moment, soaking in the sounds of children’s laughter and spats when a game they were playing got too intense, and enjoying my brood together at last. I made a note to hang up a few strips of fly paper in strategic but out-of-the way places. And, of course, I kept the vacuum cleaner within reach.

My refrigerator was crammed. My bare feet picked their way through scattered toys and pieces of toys and games. I stitched a seam on Kyle’s stuffed penguin, did loads and loads and loads of laundry, and ran the dishwasher sometimes twice a day.

Before they came, I’d thought that after three weeks, I’d be ready to see them go.

I wasn’t. I could go for another three weeks (give me a few hours every now and then to myself, though). The day they left I cleaned the upstairs, washed all the bedclothes and hung them on the line, and kept so busy, I made myself sore.

The next day, however, I cried for two hours in an empty and too quiet house. Good thing my daughter-in-law called and asked me to watch the kids in the afternoon. But the oldest, Brent, who had bonded with Alex, looked like I felt—bereft.

When my kids were little and creating chaos, I couldn’t wait for them to grow up and move out, so I could have peace and quiet and order—and a life.

Now I realize they and their families are my life, and an empty, too quiet house isn’t what I really want. I want my brood close, filling my house and heart with life and love and joy.

There was a song back in the ’70s called “Time in a Bottle” that pretty much sums up what I’m feeling today. If I could save time in a bottle, I’d bottle up the first time I held each of my babies and the times I’ve held my children and grandchildren in my lap, reading to them or scratching their backs or just watching TV. I’d bottle up the Sunday evenings we made homemade ice cream using an old-fashioned, hand-crank ice cream maker and the times we spent camping. I’d capture those fleeting moments watching my children run through the grass on a glorious summer day, and I’d bottle up every single visit they made home.

And in lonely, missing-them moments like these, when the reality of how quickly life is passing hits home, I’d pluck down a bottle, open it, and inhale the love and energy of the most cherished moments of a life that’s been blessed beyond all I could have asked or imagined.

Life is passing by all too quickly, Lord. Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom (Psalm 90:15) and to rejoice in each day, each moment, that You give me (Psalm 118:24). Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 127

Virus protection

2009-06-30T10:28:00.000-04:00

Take . . . the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God. – Ephesians 6:17

The window popped up on my computer screen as I booted up my system for the day’s work session.

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Not again.” The notice informed me that I needed to update my virus protection files.

When I first bought my computer, I pooh-poohed the idea of purchasing a program to protect my system from “viruses” – nasty programs that sick people write and send through the Internet that either make your computer act wacky or shut it down completely.

I got through a year without incident. Then someone informed me that I’d sent an email that had a virus attached. I didn’t even know I was sick. All the horror stories I’d heard about virus-caused computer crashes, I realized, could happen to me. So I bought an anti-virus program and installed it.

I lost count of the times the program arrested an incoming virus and jailed it in quarantine. Since I don’t like the idea of anything potentially harmful in my system, even though it’s disabled in a safe place, I’d mutter a prayer that I didn’t mess things up, hold my breath, and click on the “delete” button. I remained in business.

Screening emails for incoming viruses isn't the only way the anti-virus program protects my computer. Once a week, it automatically scans my complete system for hidden viruses.

Simply installing the program, however, isn’t enough. Updates are needed daily, sometimes several times a day. My program automatically downloads new information so the program can identify the latest viruses going around and stop them before they have a chance to wreak their havoc.

I have an anti-virus program for my spirit, too. It’s called the Word of God. I update it each time I read, study, and memorize Scripture (Ps. 119:11). It abides there, deep in my heart, mind, and soul, protecting me from any incoming things that could harm me. These viruses, once attached to my spirit, either make me “act wacky” until I determine to delete the sin from my life, or control me so that I don’t do what God wants me to do.

A “window” pops up whenever I need to be reminded that God will give me the strength to resist temptation (1 Cor. 10:13), that trials perfect and strengthen my faith (1 Peter 1:6,7; James 1:2-4), that tribulations are the lot of life (John 16:33), and that I can be forgiven when I fail (1 John 1:9). Reading the Bible regularly “scans” my heart, mind, and soul for any hidden sins lurking there.

“The word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart” (Hebrews 4:12 NIV).

Taking the time each day to read the Bible helps me not only to identify sin when it tries to attach itself to me, but also to boot it out. And that’s protection I wouldn’t want to do without.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” (Psalm 139:23-24 NIV)

Special-Tea: Read Ephesians 6:1-18

The right shoes

2009-06-22T12:34:00.000-04:00

…having shod your feet with the equipment of the gospel of peace… - Ephesians 6:15 (RSV)

When he was growing up, my son David took the shoe trophy for the Huey household. He had a pair of shoes for every occasion and activity: baseball, basketball, skateboarding, school, play, work, fishing and hunting. It would have been simpler—and cheaper—if one pair would have worked for all occasions.

His different shoes, however, each had a different job to do and were crafted accordingly. His spiked baseball shoes gave him traction as he ran around the bases or through the grassy outfield. His basketball shoes gave him the ankle and arch support he needed as he ran and jumped on a hard, wooden floor. Sturdy work boots, like hunting boots, gave him support and protection as he tramped over the uneven terrain of the woods in search of firewood or game. The shoes he wore for fishing were made to keep his feet dry, while his hunting boots were insulated to keep his feet warm.

Cold, wet, or aching feet make it hard to concentrate on and complete the job at hand.

I, too, need the right “shoes” for the job God has given me: to take His peace to the world around me (John 14:27, Matthew 28:20, Acts 1:8).

In order to take this peace to others, though, I have to have it first. Where can I find it? Only through Jesus. It is a gift that comes when we receive Him as Savior and make Him Lord of our lives.

“I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart,” Jesus says in John 14:27 (NLT). “The peace I give isn’t like the peace the world gives.”

The peace of the world is fragile, mercurial and temporary. The peace that God gives is solid, unchanging and permanent.

We receive God’s peace when we pray, when we takes our concerns to Him and leave them there, when we trust Him and obey what He tells us.

“Do not be anxious about anything,” Paul wrote to the Philippian church when he was imprisoned in Rome, “but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your request to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you” (Philippians 4:6-9 NIV).

Only God’s peace gives me the traction, support, warmth and protection I need to run life’s bases and stand my ground against the enemy.

Only when I have God’s Son in my heart do I have the right shoes on my feet and am ready to take that peace to a world that so desperately needs it.

Do you have the right shoes on your feet?

“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace…” (Isaiah 52:7 NIV) Lord, let my feet be beautiful!

Special-Tea: Read Ephesians 6:10-20

Full house, full heart

2009-06-19T14:32:00.000-04:00

My kids (from left) David, Shelley, Jaime, and Todd

I'm taking a sabbatical this month from my freelance work, as my daughter and her family are home for three weeks. Since we hadn't seen them in a year, I cleared my schedule so I could spend time with them. Alex, 8, and Kyle, 5, are having a blast with their "northern" cousins, Brent, 10, Madison, 6, and Deagen, 2, who live next door. Jaime lives in South Carolina.

Yesterday on the way home from VBS, we saw a black bear up close, lumbering around in a yard on the side of the road, about 50 feet away. Today we saw a doe munching at the edge of the woods behind the house, about 25 feet away (there go the flowers my husband planted).

Pictured above are my kids and their cousin Shelley, who is Jaime's age and grew up with them. It's been at least two and a half years since we've had all three together in one place at the same time. As soon as I get a picture of all five grandkids together, I'll post it.

Meanwhile, I'm having a ball enjoying every minute of the noise and commotion that comes with a full house. And I'm getting all the hugs and kisses I can! Full house, full heart.

Chest protectors

2009-06-15T13:56:00.000-04:00

Stand firm…with the breastplate of righteousness in place. – Ephesians 6:17 (NIV)

When our boys were younger, my husband was forever reminding them of the importance of wearing the proper equipment when playing sports. So when he got his ribs bruised rough-housing with the oldest, who was in full football gear, I had to bite back the “I told you so” and go and buy the biggest Ace bandage I could find. He who preached protection was sore for a month.

Football isn’t the only activity for which participants must wear protective gear. Baseball catchers and umpires, deep sea divers, astronauts, law enforcement officials, construction workers, firefighters and soldiers all wear specially designed equipment to protect their bodies from serious injury.

Especially vulnerable is the torso, where the heart is located. The heart keeps us alive by pumping blood, containing oxygen and nutrients, throughout our bodies to every organ in our body. When our heart stops, we stop. That’s why chest protectors are so important.

In spiritual warfare, we also need a “chest protector.” St. Paul calls it the breastplate of righteousness.

Righteousness is, most simply, right thinking, right feeling and right living.

In a world where right and wrong have become relative and are too often interchanged, the line between what is right and what is wrong has become blurred. How, then, can we know what is right?

That’s easy: Read the Bible. “All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong in our lives. It straightens us out and teaches us to do what is right” (2 Timothy 3:16 NLT).

When the winds of trial threaten my faith, when anger over a careless remark or action rises unbidden, when low funds tempt me to delay paying what I owe, when desire for others’ respect becomes more important than truth and honesty, I need to dig more deeply into God’s Word says and bind that chest protector around me even more tightly.

I should never, ever be without it. I’m much too vulnerable to the enemy’s attacks. Only with it secured and in place can I stand firm.

Have you put on your chest protector today?

Thank you, God, for Your Holy Word. By reading it and putting it into practice, I can stand firm in the battles I face every day. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Romans 3:21-26

Not an ornament

2009-06-08T09:23:00.000-04:00

Stand firm, then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist. Ephesians 6:14 (NIV)

When my favorite belt began to unravel, I tucked the frayed and broken edges into the weaving, hoping to extend its life span. Small wonder it was falling apart—I wore it every day with slacks, jeans, shorts or a skirt. I liked the sporty look it gave my outfit for the day.

After a couple of years of daily use, however, the belt took on a worn appearance, and, in time, I could no longer hide the frayed and broken sections, no matter how hard I tried. It was time to dispose of what I’d come to depend upon to complete my daily dress.

At first I felt incomplete, but then I noticed I really didn’t need the belt to hold up my bottoms—my middle-age spread did the job just as well. All my belt had been was an ornament, something added for decoration but having no practical value.

Two thousand years ago when St. Paul instructed the people of Ephesus to have the belt of truth buckled around their waists, a belt was more than an ornament. It was an important piece of a soldier’s armor. A strong, wide piece worn around the middle of the body, the soldier’s belt served two purposes: It protected his vital organs, and it held all the other pieces of his armor together.

In likening truth to a belt, St. Paul has shown us its importance. Truth, defined as “all that is real and will not change,” is not just something I put on to make me look good. Truth has a real and vital purpose: to protect me and to hold me together. The belt of truth gives the wearer the security and peace of a clear conscience. Unlike my imitation leather belt, the belt of truth will never unravel or wear out.

Truth is more than not telling a lie—it’s not being deceitful in any way. It’s not leaving out part of a story in order to change the meaning, either to make ourselves look good or to cover something we don’t want revealed.

Truth is keeping a promise in spite of changing situations and not going back on your word when something better comes up.

Truth is not relative, not a perspective, not a twisting of words, not telling folks what we think they want to hear.

Trust and truth are intertwined. Lose truth, and you lose trust.

In a world where deceit runs rampant, truth is refreshing and freeing.

Have you put on your belt of truth today?

Help me, O God, to bind myself with truth every day of my life. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Ephesians 6:10-24