Mooring

Life on the Inside

2009-07-08T10:37:00.026-05:00

Our son Jason called from Ft. Lewis, WA the other night to say that the next couple of weeks would be "the worst ever." Firing various weapons at the range in daylight and then in darkness, shackling vehicles and equipment to be air dropped, seizing an airfield by parachuting in under the cover of night with hundreds of other soldiers, and road marching 22 miles were a few of the things he mentioned NOT looking forward to. In other words, the very things that drew him into the military in the first place.

Jason's imagination was colored olive drab by the age of three, when he first belted out,"Old MacDonald had a farm, G.I., G.I. Joe!" Carrot sticks or french fries in his chubby fists never failed to battle it out, accompanied by sounds of "Pckoo, pckoo!" his best imitation of M-16 gun fire. By the time he started school, his favorite past time was stalking enemies in the woods behind our house with his number one comrade in arms, Alexander--both clad in oversized camouflage and armed with sticks. In high school JROTC, he worked his way up to the rank of battalion sergeant major before graduating and finally fulfilling his dream of becoming a real infantryman.

But now he's on the inside, and the jump boots have lost some of their luster, so to speak. The high adventure he dreamed about has turned into a reality of exhausting training and day-to-day tasks that are more often mundane than manly. He still really does love the parachuting, weapons-firing, and romping through the forest, but he's learned that being a soldier involves more than just the fun stuff. He sees the complete picture, now that he wears his own uniform instead of his dad's. Jason's collision with reality isn't so different than that of anyone else growing up and entering the adult world. From moms to teachers, and from businessmen and women to any professional or manual laborer out there, how many of us have stopped to shake our heads and lament, "This is not what I signed up for!"

The same not-knowing-what-we're-in-for thing happens when we finally grasp the significance of the cross and enter into the body of Christ. We may have resisted for years because we were too busy, too uninterested, or too turned off by Hollywood's unwavering stereotypic portrayal of simpleminded, judgmental, and hateful Christians on the screen, or by the hypocrisy of a church-going neighbor or co-worker. Maybe we didn't know what to think of God so we didn't think of Him at all. Whatever the case, when we entered in by faith, we found that the view from the inside is far different than that from the outside, and, unlike other experiences in life, far better than anything we could ever ask or imagine.

The Bible says "No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him." He's given us a whole book of reasons to believe that He means what He says, and He's given us His church built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets with Christ Jesus Himself as the chief cornerstone. But we'll never know what we're missing until we enter in through faith.

Jason found out that life on the inside of the army is not exactly what he had dreamed about. The glory and the thrill are still there, but they tend to get lost in the daily grind. Likewise, the Christian life has its own thrill and glory, but unlike in the army, it is the little things that happen day in and day out that magnify this truth rather than cloud it. Just ask any insider.

Accused

2009-05-01T09:34:00.002-05:00

“What have you been allowing this girl to wear on her feet to cause this type of damage?” demanded the pediatrician.

My daughter was born with structural feet problems that had steadily worsened over the years. Those crooked feet had been cushioned, supported, and lovingly pampered since the day I’d sent out announcements declaring the birth of our perfect baby girl with fuzzy hair and floppy feet. I sighed and defended myself.

Moms aren’t perfect, but we sure seem to get a bad rap. For me, it started in the hospital after my first son’s arrival. “Mrs. Moore, did you eat something gassy? Your baby is screaming in the nursery. You know,” lectured the nurse, suspiciously eyeing the remains on my dinner tray, “whatever you eat the baby takes in, too.” Wet diapers, it turns out, also cause babies to cry.

I’m not saying I don’t make mistakes. My family and friends certainly know otherwise. But even those closest to me don’t make accusations, even when I’m way off the mark. There are other ways to nudge me in the right direction, and if there is guilt to be reckoned with, they know I’ll sniff it out on my own. Moms do that.

But, thankfully, I never have to wallow in my guilt. The Bible says that in Christ I’ve been made complete—that when I was dead in my transgressions, He made me alive together with Him, having forgiven all of my transgressions. That leaves me utterly free to move forward, learning from my mistakes, and focusing on doing the right thing.

In that vein, I sought a nutritionist’s counsel when my lean and fit daughter began expressing undue concerns about her weight. “It appears,” the woman told me with a grimace, “that you just want to control things.”

Code Blue

2009-04-20T09:10:00.003-05:00

About five hours after Hayley’s surgery on Tuesday, which relocated a chunk of bone from her hip to her foot, the pain medication finally kicked in and she leaned back and nodded off. She had been agitated and in pain since emerging from her anesthesia fog and being wheeled to the orthopedic ward, so it was a relief to see her looking relaxed. Chuck took Julia, Hayley’s friend visiting from Kentucky, to grab a bite to eat, while I settled onto the couch in front of the window in her hospital room, scanning the sport’s page.

Several moments later, I heard a labored, deep-in-the-throat, sucking gasp. I rushed over and stuck my face close to Hayley’s, calling her name. No response. Her face and lips were greenish. I lightly smacked her cheek, which caused her head to roll to the side, and I yelled her name over and over. Her eyelids didn’t flutter. I detected no breath escaping from her nose or lips. “HAYLEY!”

I pushed the call button and blurted that I needed help. The voice at the other end said, “Yes? Can I help you? Is there anything you need?”

I ran to the hallway, saw that it was empty, and yelled, “HELP! I NEED HELP!” My voice boomed, and I knew I had been heard throughout the entire fifth floor. Immediately, Donald, the physical therapist, darted into view on my left and asked what was wrong. A young woman, presumably his assistant, shadowed him. “She’s not breathing,” I told them. Someone else sprinted up the hall from the opposite direction.

A lot of things flew through my mind at that moment. I was praying constantly. I feared that it was too late, that the gasp I’d heard had signified the end. I also thought that maybe I was wrong about everything, and that she really was just in a deep sleep. If I’m wrong, they’re going to have me committed. They’ll think I’ve lost it . . . Please, let them think that. Let me be wrong.

I returned to Hayley’s side, and seconds later, Donald told me he had found a weak pulse. She was still alive! I remember my knees shaking and my eyes watering as I stood praying. Donald’s assistant rubbed my back and repeatedly told me everything was going to be okay. More people charged through the door, and someone asked me what Hayley’s name was. I heard them calling her and telling her to wake up, and I knew she still wasn’t breathing.

More and more people swarmed into the room. They were still calling her name, but I could no longer see her through the multi-colored mass of scrubs and lab coats. The din increased. Someone asked me if this was her normal pallor. “No.”

Then I heard the Code Blue announcement over the hospital PA system. It was surreal to think that it was for my own child . . . and it confirmed that the situation was as dire as I had feared. People continued streaming into the room—a room that had seemed surprisingly spacious and bright when Hayley had first arrived. Now it felt small and cramped and hot.

“Mrs. Moore, would you mind stepping into the hallway?” I didn’t want to leave Hayley. But it was Donald, the physical therapist, who asked, and I trusted him enough to let him lead me out. Donald is one of those unflappable professionals you want on hand in a life or death situation. He had done his part, being first on the scene, and now he stood in the doorway watching the commotion inside the room, while reassuring me that she was going to be okay. “You did everything right,” he told me. I overheard him tell someone else, “The mom did everything right.”

When things are spinning out of control, it’s helpful to hear that you did everything right.

A woman in a white sweater put her arm around me and prayed. There were as many people congregating in the hallway as there were in the room. Others, out of breath, continued arriving in clumps of two and three. They never stopped coming. A man introduced himself as a hospital chaplain and shook my hand. I wondered why he was smiling and wanting to chitchat at a time like this. I don’t remember what we talked about, just that my eyes were fixed on Donald in the doorway. At some level, I knew the chaplain was trying to distract me; the smile, I later realized, was his natural demeanor.

Finally, I heard the happiest words in the English language: “She’s pinking up!” A moment later: “She’s awake!” And then: “‘Mom,’ you can come in and see her now.”

Hayley looked small and scared, but her face was beautifully flushed and she was breathing. Someone told me I could hold her hand, but when I tried to do that, she pulled away. You little pill, I thought. Later, she told me she remembered doing that but was confused at the time. Gradually, the heroes and helpers flowed from the room, like an outgoing tide, while a few lagged behind, scribbling reports. The nurse never left Hayley’s side until she was transported to the ICU for closer monitoring.

That morning I had read David’s words: I saw the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. That was the scripture I had turned over and over in my mind earlier in the day, while Hayley was in the operating room. During the Code Blue crisis, I was admittedly rattled and distressed, but not out-of-my-mind panicked. Instead, I prayed. I think it was that morning’s scripture, putting things in a proper perspective ahead of time, that kept me from completely falling apart when things got scary.

I also know that people were praying for Hayley like crazy that day, from a women’s Bible study in Virginia to family members in southern California, and many more in between, especially right here at home. All in all, from the two surgeons who worked on her foot and hip, to the quick-footed physical therapists and all of the other Code Blue responders, to every medical staff member who attended Hayley, and to those praying far and wide across the country—a whole lot of people did everything right.

Whooooosh

2009-04-08T08:38:00.005-05:00

In my small northern California town sprawled on a hillside, I was the kid who was always in a hurry.

Whoooosh. Three blocks to Food Lane for applesauce.

Zoom. Six blocks to the library to return books.

When people saw my short legs churning up the sidewalk, they probably looked to see who was chasing me. Why would a little girl run like blazes all over town?

The answer was simple: my sister Susan was counting. A typical prelude to one of my headlong sprints went like this:

Susan, at the movie theater: “Oh no, I forgot my glasses. Run home and get them for me, will you?”

Me: “They’re your glasses. Get them yourself.”

Susan, in an enticing, sing-songy tone: “I’ll coouunt.”

Me: Whooooosh.

The simple truth was that Susan knew what made me tick. She had figured out—and wasn’t ashamed to exploit—the fact that I couldn’t resist a challenge to run faster than I ever had before. Never mind the unscientific method of measuring my speed; once the gauntlet was thrown, I was off to the races. Of course, I now realize she never counted beyond three—the time it took me to scamper out of earshot—but, bided her time until I drew near enough to hear some random numeric sequence: “Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine.” The numbers always sounded pretty good, but I always knew I’d do better next time.

Ultimately, of course, God is the One who knows what makes me tick. Psalm 139 says He has searched me and is familiar with all my ways. He created me. And not unlike my sister, He has work for me to accomplish suited to my passions and talents, and He delights to see me rush eagerly to do it. In fact, He’s counting on me.

The Race

2009-03-19T16:38:00.004-05:00

This weekend I participated in my first ever multi-sport competition, a women's-only duathlon. The race consisted of a two-kilometer run, followed by a hilly 10-mile bike ride, and another two-kilometer run. Since I run or cycle most days, anyway, I figured it would be fairly simple to combine the two activities into one fun event.

But, if you've never hopped off your bike and attempted to run even six steps, you probably have no idea how rebellious the human leg muscles can be. The transition from cycling to running triggers a phenomenon called--with good reason--the grip. Simply put, in cycling the quadriceps propel you forward, while in running you mainly use the hamstrings. Quickly switching from one mode of locomotion to the other causes both legs, from calves to hips, to tighten up and scream, "I quit."

That little challenge notwithstanding, the duathlon was definitely as much fun as I thought it would be. With only women participating, it was competitive . . . but kinder and gentler than your typical all-comer's event. In fact, during both of the round trip run routes, every person I encountered threw me an encouraging word, smile, or wave--and usually all three. Not wanting to seem rude, I managed a polite grunt in return, even though I was sucking wind.

My cycling stint got off to a bumpy start. Pushing my bike, I ran out of the transition area, per the race instructions, and proceeded to fling myself aboard. However, mid-fling, an official pointed out that there was yet one more painted line on the asphalt just ahead to be crossed before mounting, so I clumsily attempted to defy physics and reverse my action. Gravity won out as the bike went down and I flew over the handle bars. Happily, this put me well past the line, with my bike close enough to drag across as well.

Even with the resulting bloodied knee and bruised shin, the competition was exhilarating and extremely satisfying. It was a great reminder of why the apostle Paul so often described the Christian life using athletic terms--run with endurance; press on toward the goal; discipline your body. Paul's point is clear: Christianity is not a spectator sport.

But it's also not about mindless calisthenics that you do because you think you should, while hating every minute. Rather, the Christ-centered life is rewarding and exciting, and it gets the adrenaline flowing. And just when you find yourself settling into a comfortable pace, beware--God might just decide to change things up to challenge your mind, stretch your muscles, and give you a taste of the grip.

Come Down From the Cross

2009-03-04T21:48:00.002-06:00

Today I'm guest blogging over at Morning Coffee. Renae has a great site. Check it out.

No Strings Attached

2009-02-27T14:48:00.010-06:00

At a church I once attended, the soloist was amazing, and at the end of the service I rushed over to gush and thank her for her contribution to our morning's worship. "Oh, thanks," she replied, barely pausing to look at me as she slid from her pew. A few weeks later, I was again moved by her magnificent song. But this time, after the benediction, I turned toward the exit and shuffled out with the mob. My praise doesn't seem to mean that much to her, anyway, I thought.

Wow, who knew I was so needy? Who would have thought that my "heartfelt" compliments actually came with strings attached? Not me, until I realized that apparently I was willing to be a blessing to others as long as they were willing to bless me back. No money necessary, just be sure to light up with gratitude whenever I deign to acknowledge your God-given talents. Yikes.

It's pretty disturbing to discover something like this about yourself. In fact, it can trigger full-scale introspection and unearth all kinds of additional ugliness. I'll spare you the details.

Fortunately, we're not left to wallow in this pit without help, because if we open our eyes, we'll see that God has placed people all around us who really understand His blessing concept. These people don't just bless the rest of us, they set an example of service we can follow, like Epaphroditus, mentioned by Paul in his letter to the Philippians. Paul tells us to hold men like this in high regard.

A man in my church--I'll call him Mark O. because that's his name--is a perfect example. Every time my daughter goes through surgery or is having a rough time, Mark shows up on our doorstep, hands over a Dairy Queen Blizzard, and tells her he hopes she feels better soon. My daughter thanks him with a shy smile but doesn't exclaim or do cartwheels. Mark doesn't care; his only aim is to bless her.

Christ offers all of us the same type of no-strings-attached blessing with His gift of salvation. Bound to the cross not by string but by nails pounded in with finality, He canceled out the certificate of debt against us. How can we accept this free gift and dare to place conditions upon anyone whom He has given us the power to bless?

Valentine Pedals

2009-02-17T20:55:00.009-06:00

I had a great Valentine's Day. When my husband told me he wanted to buy me some pedals, I thought he meant petals--as in roses. But off we went to the local bicycle shop, where he bought me new pedals and the special cycling shoes that snap into them. Very cool and a nice addition to the classic road bike he bought me in 1984 when we were engaged.

I guess bicycle pedals don't sound very romantic compared to jewelry or flowers or heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. To some, they might even fall into the same category as vacuum cleaner bags and toasters--a little too utilitarian to be considered legitimate Valentine gift fodder--but since I love to cycle, for me they were the perfect present for several reasons.

First, I can now climb the steep hills in town a little more efficiently. A little. Sadly, gravity is still gravity, even with fancy bike pedals and shoes. Secondly, I get a better workout now that I can exert strength in the uplift motion rather than just the push of the pedals. And, thirdly, I can now participate in public cycling events without causing my teenage daughter to cringe at my obsoleteness.

But the biggest reason this was the perfect gift is because it meant that weeks ago when I casually mentioned a desire to someday upgrade, my husband listened to what I said, filed the information in his head, and then acted on it when he had the opportunity. As a Christian, I know that my heavenly Father always hears my prayers and blesses me with good things beyond belief, but around the house the only ones who really perk up their ears when I talk are the dogs. This was a good reminder that a wagging tail isn't the only sign that someone is listening to me.

At the bike shop, an older man overhead our interaction with the proprietor and shared his thoughts on various models of pedals. Having a neuroma on his foot, he said, required certain considerations. We left the store and my husband said, "That poor guy with his smelly feet," which puzzled me until I realized his ears had picked up an aroma instead of a neuroma.

All things considered, it really is amazing that I ended up with pedals and not petals for Valentine's Day.

The Walking Wounded

2009-02-10T09:24:00.004-06:00

In the book of Matthew, Jesus chastises the Pharisees for their habit of cleaning up their outward appearances while inside being full of dead men's bones and everything unclean. He told the crowds and His disciple that since the Pharisees sat in Moses' seat, they were to obey them. "But do not do what they do," He added, "for they do not practice what they preach." Ouch.

I hate the idea of being someone who gives a false impression of who I am. I saw a movie once where a character covered up his whiskey bottle with his Bible when he heard someone approaching. It made me realize that whenever I do something I'm not proud of or wouldn't want to be seen by others, I'm pretty much doing the same thing--hiding behind the Christian impression I've given publicly.

I suppose that's why I'm instructed to walk in the light. The Bible tells me that God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all. That means everything I do should be able to stand up under those powerful beams that television cops shine on suspects in a line-up. Unfortunately, like certain guys in the line-up, I sometimes have guilt written all over my face.

So I have a choice. I clan clean up the outside of the "cup," like the Pharisees, and fool some of the people some of the time. Or, I can scour it from the inside out and come clean before God.

Taking the external approach is like putting a bandage over a deep wound. Although out of sight, it continues to fester. I know a lot about wounds these days--my daughter has been dealing with one for weeks and weeks, inflicted by a post-surgical infection.

No matter how much we cleaned and tended the wound on the surface, it continued to look unsightly and cause her pain. Healing didn't kick in until she began hyperbaric oxygen therapy--breathing one hundred per cent oxygen in a pressurized chamber for two hours every day. Regularly increasing the oxygen level in the blood and surrounding tissue, finally enabled her wound to heal, from its deepest point outward.

Like the Pharisees with their dead men's bones and my daughter with her bandaged foot, we've all been counted among the walking wounded at one time or another. The only cure is to plunge our cup into Living Water to slosh out the crud and stench that has become lodged. This means acknowledging our sins and helplessness before God and asking Him to give us a thorough scrubbing with lots of suds.

The result will be a cup that is squeaky clean from top to bottom, inside and out.

Coffee Break

2009-02-05T10:17:00.006-06:00

Today I'm slurping my Morning Coffee with Renae as her guest blogger. Give her a visit and read God's cure for a troubled heart.

Cable Car Christianity

2009-01-29T19:12:00.018-06:00

When my husband and I visited San Francisco, we trudged for miles up and down insanely steep hills, sniffing salt-laden fishy air. We listened to gulls shriek over head, and took in the view of the Golden Gate Bridge looming out of the mist to guard the sailboat-dotted bay. Then we got smart and hopped aboard a cable car.

Cable cars are the way to go in San Francisco. Cruising along at a steady 9.5 miles per hour, you might forget where you're going because it's so much fun getting there. And unlike the typical city bus that belches to a stop, dares commuters to make contact with ripped vinyl seats pocked with petrified gum, and then lurches away from the curb, a cable car beckons to those on foot with a clanging bell and the offer of a smooth wooden pew to sit on.

Kind of like church. In fact, a ride on a cable car pretty much sums up the early years of my spiritual life.

I clambered aboard into the arms of those who had embarked before me, and took off with the crowd. It was thrilling. But after a while, the newness wore off and with all of us heading in the same direction at the same rate of speed, the ride became . . . comfortable. Just as a cable car makes forward progress on its tracks by gripping a continuously-moving cable in a rut under the road, as a Christian, I, too, was basically tracking in the right direction, but in a rut.

The problem was that my focus was as much on the people around me as on God, and unfortunately, I wasn't alone. Research published by George Barna last year revealed that people were more than 50 per cent likely to say that their most significant connection was with their church's congregation rather than with God. Barna says, "That certainly reflects the interpersonal comfort that millions of people have developed at their church, but also indicates that people may have forgotten the ultimate reason for belonging to a Christian church."

I'm glad I jumped off the cable car before I fell asleep. My feet really can take me much farther. That's why God's Word implores me to walk in a manner worthy of the Lord and to run the race set before me. I still love my church family and I look forward each week to rubbing elbows with them in the pews. But in a church on a mission to grow fully devoted followers of Christ, we're not all traveling the same route at a predictable 9.5 miles per hour.

Otherwise, we might get too comfortable and forget where we're going.

Fact of the Day

2009-01-23T21:21:00.009-06:00

The swordtail is the fastest swimming fish.

At least that's what I read a few days ago on a message sign announcing the Fact of the Day in a remote Texas town, population 1054. My daughter and I have been making a 150-mile trip to Austin and back everyday for four weeks now for medical treatments, and this was the first time I had even noticed the sign.

My first thought was, Hmm. And then I thought, What is a swordtail, anyway? And for approximately four and a half seconds, I was excited to have learned something new. On the return trip I glanced up at the sign again, just to make sure I had gotten my facts straight. Yup.

My anticipation of the next day's Fact of the Day was almost as overblown as NBC's live coverage outside Blair House Tuesday morning, awaiting the unveiling of Michelle Obama's inauguration outfit. But whereas Michelle delivered with a dazzling lemongrass ensemble, my Fact of the Day was more like the Emperor's New Clothes: nonexistent. I headed out of town toward the horizon, without expanding my personal horizons one whit.

Sometimes my spiritual life is just as flat. I'll hear or read a nugget of truth that strikes me afresh, and I'm awed that God would communicate in such a personal way. My heart and mind yearn for more. But instead of following up like a noble-minded Berean, I continue on my way until the next nourishing morsel comes my way. Worse than being spoon-fed, this method of receiving God's Word is like catching crumbs under the table.

Instead, God wants me to experience the abundant life--to be filled up to all the fullness of Himself. Not that hard times won't happen, because they will; or that I'll get everything I want, because I won't. But God invites me to come to Himself, to read His Word and to meditate on it, and to be led by His Spirit on an itinerary constructed just for me. Going my own way and expecting God's Word to chase after me like a blood hound, is as far-fetched as driving down the highway and expecting a Fact of the Day to change my life.

Incidentally, a Google search for swordtail fish yielded 90,300 results, but of the six sites I checked, none mentioned Phelps-like swimming attributes.

On a happier note, today's updated Fact of the Day proclaimed Meg Ryan's birth name as Margaret Mary Emily Anne Hyra, a fact fully confirmed by Google.

And that's the gospel truth.

Morning Coffee

2009-01-19T20:50:00.006-06:00

Check out Renae Brumbaugh's blog, Morning Coffee for my guest post. Renae posts a devotional piece on the life of Christ every day, and she has a wealth of wisdom and insight to offer. It was a privilege to get to write for her.

The Heart of the Matter

2009-01-05T20:49:00.026-06:00

I love Sunday mornings at my church. People are happy to be there--they call out greetings and dispense hugs like candy that is too good not to share (chocolate with gooey caramel centers), and most everyone wears a smile. I can count on my pastor speaking the solid truth from God's Word, and it's a given that our singing will exalt the name of Christ.

I love Sunday mornings because of the warmth of the place and because I have confidence in my church. With Scripture as the plumb line, our beliefs, goals, and activities square off nicely. That may sound clinical, but it is only true because of the healthy faith and prayers of my church's leaders, and because God's Spirit is at work in individuals, bringing unity to the body.

Whenever I happen to visit a different church, it's hard not to keep thinking of my own. It's not that God can't be worshiped elsewhere, but a little church-homesickness just naturally tugs at my heart when I'm away from the brothers and sisters I've been growing up with over the past several years.

But, delightfully, I found myself entirely engaged in and committed to yesterday's worship service at our son Robert's church in Waco. The moment we stepped out of the car, spirited organ sounds welcomed and engulfed us. Not the formal, heavy-handed rumblings you might hear in a centuries-old stone cathedral in Europe, but more like the rollicky trills and chords that entertain fans during the seventh inning stretch at Yankee Stadium--but with reverence.

The entire age-worn building seemed to breathe glory to God in the highest. As though inhaling, it took in rich dancing rays of sunlight through tall painted panels of glass. Vibrant colors skittered and hopped across the pews, illuminating dimpled smiles of children and highlighting with dignity the creased faces of the aged. The merry light worked itself in and around the plumage of the reverend's wife's glorious head piece, giving her crown the iridescent quality of a raven in flight.

Exhaling, the lively church released non-stop praise and adoration to the King. The organist's fingers rarely stopped moving, and the choir gave more than just their voices to every hymn. The soloist's beautiful proclamation of gospel truth pierced my soul and brought me up out of the pew and onto my feet. In the end, the reverend himself tacked on the exclamation point with an animated delivery of a simple yet apt biblical message.

I loved being in a church so different than what I was used to that it never ceased feeling novel. Yet at the same time, feeling right at home because at the heart of the matter it wasn't so different after all: both churches worship God the Father by the power of the same Holy Spirit. I have confidence in this church led by a reverend who lavished love, prayer, and attention on my son for no other reason than because that is what Jesus would have done.

Far down the road, when most of the particulars of our visit have faded from my memory, I know I will still remember the warm greetings and hugs bathed in dancing sunlight, the soloist's song,...and the magnificent feathered hat.

Holiday Mail

2008-12-10T19:14:00.019-06:00

Here's a piece I wrote for the Army Times in December 1993. It was a little lengthy, so I'm lopping off the first several paragraphs. They titled it:

Those Holiday Letters Keep Coming...and Coming

The onslaught of holiday mail is something I begin looking forward to as soon as the weather turns crisp. It starts about December first, thanks to a few zealous friends whose Thanksgiving traditions include stuffing a turkey and their Christmas card envelopes.

I look at holiday mail as a fleeting encounter with the person at the other end. It's a quick gift that comes packaged with memories of a shared past, wrapped in the personality of the sender. Holiday cards that don't include a message of some sort are disappointing.

Personality is revealed more by the style of a holiday letter than by what it says. Some of our more imaginative friends have penned their season's greetings from the point of view of their pets and unborn children, while others have published mini family newspapers. Last year a former college roommate related the year's events via pattern poetry in the shape of a Christmas tree.

Regardless of style and format, almost every military family we know produces a computer-generated newsletter. In contrast, when I was a kid, exactly one family's message was typed and mass-produced. My brothers and sisters and I would read this annual epistle with wildly exaggerated expressions and grand gestures. We figured these pretentious people thought they were a little more special than the rest of us, so we mocked them.

I now surmise that if not for typewriter and copy machine, we ingrates would likely have been the first ones crossed off this former military family's season's greetings list.

I like reading anything anybody has to say in a Christmas letter.

There is something comforting about hearing from people whose lives change very little as the years go by and from those who go through more changes than we do. It makes us feel like we're right where we're supposed to be.

I enjoy being surprised by what some have written, and just as much, I enjoy the predictability of others--such as the apologies and excuses offered by those sending computer letters for the first time, instead of the "real thing." Apparently, my siblings and I weren't the only former scoffers of this type of holiday letter.

What I like most is reading how everyone else's children are the best and brightest. I smile because I know better--and so will all my family and friends as soon as they read my own holiday newsletter this year.

Win or Lose

2008-12-02T08:50:00.016-06:00

Win or lose, when my town's high school football coach talks to the media after the Friday night game, his remarks always start out the same way: "I just want to praise God." He proceeds to rattle off a string of reasons for this praise, and always includes how God has blessed him, and how thankful he is for everything God has done.

Some people may think his words are merely sound bites for the radio audience, a show of small-town quaintness. But anyone who knows Jack Welch knows that he means exactly what he says. Jack Welch knows that he is a blessed man, and having earned a position of respect and authority in our town, he uses every public opportunity to expose his faith. I'm glad that in doing this, he articulates that his thankfulness is to God.

In contrast, leading up to Thanksgiving, a popular morning television show host reminded viewers to be sure to give thanks in whatever way would be meaningful to them. It was clear from the context of her statement that she was not suggesting meaningful as in choosing between praying or singing praises to God, but as an all-inclusive, non-offensive nod to every spiritual and unspiritual belief out there.

Her point was that it didn't matter to whom you were thankful as long as you paused to realize...what? That you had received an abundance of family, friends, food, prosperity, and other good things in life, and that you were glad? That somehow, you managed to have a pretty decent life and you just wanted to take time out from your busy schedule to acknowledge this reality to yourself?

That line of reasoning doesn't work. You can't add up every good and perfect thing in your life, and then take the Father of lights out of the equation. James' epistle warns us not to be deceived in this very thing. But this is exactly what I do if I fail to acknowledge the source of my bounty and simply put on an attitude of gratitude, as the catch-phrase goes, as if it were a comfortable, old sweater. Like a comfy cardigan, this vague style of thankfulness may give me a warm, cozy feeling, but that is the extent of its usefulness.

My thankfulness to God is tied to the entire spectrum of my faith. I can thank Him for my life because He is my creator. I can thank Him for His protection because He is my rock and my refuge, a strong fortress to run to in times of trouble. I can thank Him for my circumstances because I know that His plans for me are for my welfare, to give me a hope and a future. I can thank Him in my prayers because I know that He already knows what I need and will heap blessings upon me, topped off with peace beyond comprehension.

Most of all, I can thank Him for His Son, Jesus Christ, in whom I have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. And, like Jack Welch reminds his listeners week in and week out during football season, when my praise and thanks are bound up in my faith in Christ, the string of blessings never ends. Win or lose.

Turkey Trotting

2008-11-25T10:20:00.009-06:00

With less than a mile to go in Saturday's 5K Turkey Trot, I mostly just wanted it to be over. However, I could tell that the person up ahead was fading fast, and the ever so weak and gasping vestige of competitiveness still brewing deep within me, compelled me to go after her. My plan was to blow by and make a statement. Not with words because that would be rude (and would require actual breath), but with a bounce in my step and a very brief surge of speed intended to emphasize my superior staying power. I wanted, in effect, to cut her off at the knees.

"Good job," she panted in my direction as I made my move. "Keep going." She had a sweet voice to match her tiny teenage frame, and this unexpected display of good sportsmanship knocked the killer instinct right out of me. I scrapped my blustery Blow-By Plan, and instead, matched her stride for stride.

"You're doing great," I huffed. "I think you can take that person up ahead, and then those other two after that." We chatted lightly back and forth and I noticed that she stepped up her pace with the distraction of our conversation. Finally, with the finish line looming, she scampered off and left me in her dust.

Sometimes it's good to be reminded that coming alongside someone can be more enjoyable and far more rewarding than looking out for my own interests.

The apostle Paul certainly knew that satisfying feeling, because he came alongside people all the time. Whether at the riverfront in Philippi, the synagogue at Thessalonica or in the marketplace of Athens, Paul joined people in what they were doing and ended up impacting their lives forever. He could have stood on the sidelines and barked orders and criticism, like a fanatical soccer dad, but instead, he encouraged them in their good intentions, sweated beside them in their labors, spoke the truth in love, and demonstrated righteous living.

Paul's leadership style is good to remember when I feel too insignificant to have a positive influence on others. It's good to remember when I'm trying to be effective in ministry and in my various roles as parent, wife, family member, friend, and neighbor. His leadership style reminds me to connect with those around me and to work at staying connected, even when I'd rather not. It reminds me to trust the Holy Spirit--the One who comes alongside me--to work in the lives of those around me, and to consider what a privilege it is to even be included in the panning out of His plans for them.

I'm not suggesting that trotting next to someone for a few minutes during a fun run compares in any way to Paul's amazing work, or that racing and competing for the gold is wrong. In fact I plan to do just that with bells on in next month's Jingle Bell Dash. But just when I least expected it, when I was tired and self-absorbed and a little bit smelly, I was reminded that sometimes the very least we can do is come alongside someone else, and sometimes that is exactly enough.

Mayhem and Madness

2008-11-18T20:31:00.003-06:00

Driving by the Corpus Christi Navy Lodge on the first evening of this past weekend's mother-daughter camping adventure, Hayley wistfully commented that she wished we could just stay there. This was an understandable sentiment considering she was on crutches, still recovering from last month's foot surgery. Hopping in and out of a tent was precarious and tiring. I perceived that her wishful thinking also had something to do with hot and cold running water, beds, lamps, and other modern conveniences.

"Nothing beats camping," I countered. "And think of the memories we'll be making."

I was right. We woke up the next morning refreshed and eager to hit the beach. Once there, we walked/crutched on the sand, wolfed down a picnic breakfast with hearty, salt-air appetites, and splashed in the water. Hayley paddled into the waves on her surfboard, but learned the hard way that if you can't walk, then you probably shouldn't try to hang ten. (Yesterday's x-ray showed that the foot will probably be okay after all.)

We visited the Corpus Christi A&M campus--the purported reason for our trip, went shopping, and returned to the beach to watch the orange-streaked sky of sunset. At the end of the day, Hayley welcomed the comfort of tent and sleeping bag as much as I did.

Just as we both drifted off to sleep, mayhem and madness struck. One moment there was not so much as a whisper of a breeze, and the next, gale force winds slammed ashore, collapsing our nylon tent and flailing it about like a giant distress signal flag. Terrified, Hayley hopped to the car for cover while I battled the roaring winds and and tent flappage in an heroic effort to drag out all of our belongings and load them up.

When all was said and done, the splintered poles and frayed nylon of our former tent ended up in the dumpster--nothing but a memory. And, happily, Hayley enjoyed two nights in the Navy Lodge with hot and cold running water, beds, lamps, and all the conveniences of home.

Friday Night Lights

2008-11-02T19:55:00.000-06:00

Last weekend my two football teams, the Copperas Cove Bulldawgs and the Baylor Bears, both suffered narrow defeat in pretty much the same way. Their opponents ran down the clock with their last possessions and pulled ahead, leaving only enough time for the Bulldawgs and the Bears to stage hurried, last ditch, heave-ho efforts to pull off something mighty. Both attempts resulted in interceptions by the other teams.

In both instances, with about three minutes left on the clock, it occurred to me that our guys on defense should just get out of the way and let the dreaded touchdowns happen. Both opponents had convinced me that not only would they reach the end zone, but that they would do so at glacial speed. Why not let them have their momentary glory, but save enough ticks on the clock for a non-hurried offensive drive of our own, and possibly snatch that glory right back to its rightful owners??

This type of logic is precisely why Bulldawg coach Jack Welch will never let me be a part of his coaching staff. No matter how much I want my Bulldawgs to win and no matter how many wannabe coaching schemes I come up with, I know in my heart I will never, ever be more than a spectator to the sport. I swallowed that pill a long time ago.

Harder to choke down, though, was when the members of the weekly Bible study group my husband and I belong to decided to continue meeting on Friday nights throughout the fall. On DAWG NIGHT. Not only would my strategic coaching input continue to be stifled, but my ritual of cheering on the team and following the action via our colorful Copperas Cove radio commentators would be squelched, too. Only the tail minutes of each game would remain for me to listen to during the drive home from our study.

Surprisingly, this arrangement has not been at all painful for me. In fact, I can truthfully report that what has been illuminated under Marc and Anne's dining room chandelier, has been more action-packed and exciting than anything I have ever witnessed under stadium lights. I wouldn't trade this Friday night venue for all the games in Texas.

For one thing, our study repeatedly drives home the point that God invites me to participate with Him. Now, I know God doesn't need me any more than Coach Welch does, but he offers me the privilege of taking part in His work and He gives me the power to do it. And unlike a football game, the action doesn't end when the evening is over, but actually begins as I put into practice what I've learned.

Bible study wins out over Friday Night football in other ways as well. As much as I love the Bulldawgs, my zealous desire for them to do well has no impact on their performance on the field, and my wishful thinking has no effect on the final score. I really am useless to the game of football. But not so on God's playing field. The Bible tells me that the effective prayer of a righteous man can accomplish much, and Jesus said that if I have faith the size of a mustard seed I can move mountains. Wouldn't that give the pep squad a reason to shout?!

Just as I can do nothing to change the outcome of a football game, a game has no power to change me. Win or lose, when I get up the next morning I'm exactly the same person I was before the kickoff. But a single encounter with the living word of God can change me forever. In fact, the Bible tells me to be transformed, and urges me over and over to press on to maturity. God may not toss down a DELAY OF GAME penalty flag if I fail to get anywhere in my Christian walk, but he definitely rewards my forward progress.

In short, our Friday night Bible study is a winning proposition because the six of us enjoy spending time in God's word and with each other. But I think the Copperas Cove Bulldawgs have it pretty good, too. Every week they get to put on the uniform and play football under lights, AND, day in and day out, they get to experience Jack Welch's mentorship as he teaches and models what it means to follow Christ.

I'm positive the Copperas Cove Bulldawgs will take care of business, as expected, in their next game. And the Baylor Bears against the Texas Longhorns? Well, they could use our prayers.

Maccha Doni

2008-10-30T08:42:00.000-05:00

This Army flashback is inspired by Anne!

I was in Egypt during the summer of 1985 for an exercise called Bright Star. As the POL/water operations officer of the 240th QM Battalion, I was involved in providing hundreds of thousands of gallons of jet fuel, diesel, mogas, and water to Army and Air Force units conducting operations in the harsh desert environment.

It was a stressful six week stretch for me with little down time. Issues arose from trying to coordinate deliveries to various far flung units needing fuel and water at specific times, and with our host nation counterparts required to escort our transport vehicles, but who had a far more relaxed approach to the whole concept of time.

Additionally, we had been assigned the mission of putting to the test the Army's brand new Reverse Osmosis Water Purification Units, only to discover that our source of raw water, Anwar's Well, was already perfectly safe and clear to drink, with no help necessary from our fancy multi-million dollar equipment, thank you very much.

Accountability was a nightmare in an environment where both fuel and water evaporated at mysterious rates, and on top of everything, my battalion commander had decided to use this particular exercise to "see what I was made of."

So, it was a welcome diversion to be invited, with two of my NCO's, to an Egyptian officer's quarters for a meal. With an array of colorful, piquant dishes before us, we sipped a sharp-tasting clear yellowish drink resembling camel urine and dug in--literally with our hands.

"Mmmm, what is this?" I asked, pointing to plump morsels in a thick, golden sauce. I was completely caught up in the thrill of being away from tents, MRE's, and my barking battalion commander, and everything tasted delightfully fresh and exotic.

Our cordial host smiled as he attempted to explain the dish in broken English, referring to it as something that sounded like Maccha Doni.

"Maccha Doni is delicious!" I gushed, rubbing my stomach for added emphasis. "How do you spell that?"

Patiently, he replied, "m-a-c-a-r-o-n-i."

Falling B_ _ _ _ _ _ _ s

2008-10-27T08:01:00.000-05:00

My family and I enjoy reading colorful, competing neon business signs along the main thoroughfare of town whenever we happen to drive home after dark. If you were to come here this week, you could stay at the CAC_ _ _ MOTEL, eat pancakes at the KE_ _ _ _ RESTAURANT, and buy a brand new CHEV _ OLET at the local dealership.

Of course, it doesn't take much imagination to read between the lines--or burnt out bulbs--and figure out what types of businesses are trying to grab our attention, especially given the context in which the signs are presented. But think what would happen if traffic signs out on the highway were neon?

MERGE _ _ _ _T, LANE CLOSED 500 FEET

or

DANGER: L _ _ SE G _ _ _ E _ SPEED LIM _ _ _ 0 MPH STRICTLY ENFORCED

Our minds would race to try to fill in the blanks, gleaning clues from what we could see. Sadly, we could be dead wrong, especially if we resorted to taking our cues from the way people around us were driving.

It's pretty far-fetched to think of zooming along and having to interpret road signs with missing parts, and yet some people actually live out their lives in a similar sort of way. They think the Bible gives good direction generally but that it is up to the individual to try to figure out the specifics--as if there were gaps in God's guidance. In this type of reasoning, one's own logic, experience, and emotions play major roles in the decision-making process; like during the time of the Old Testament judges when everyone did what was right in his own eyes.

Along these lines, Chuck Colson states, "Seventy-two percent of the American people say there is no such thing as absolute truth. Even more shocking, 67 percent of evangelicals say there is no truth, while claiming to follow the One who says He is the truth!" Surely, these statistics can only point to the major portion of our population simply not knowing what God's word has to say.

Jesus told believing Jews, "If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free." From Genesis to Revelation, God's word is complete and relevant; it is more than sufficient for answering every question, filling in every blank, and navigating through every rocky stretch.

Otherwise, we might end up speeding through a FALLING B_ _ _ _ _ _ _ S zone, thinking we're dodging boulders, but instead, missing out on the blessings God wants to rain upon us.

The Lighthouse

2008-10-19T10:20:00.000-05:00

As a kid, my interests were diverse and usually involved a ball, although not always. Shooting hoops with my brother in the backyard, racing down the sidewalk on roller skates with my little sister, and galloping uphill on my steed (which looked uncannily like a secondhand stingray bike) were among my favorite pursuits. Life was fun and safe, and my most pressing questions were, "Why do we have to wait until next week to go camping at the lake when summer vacation starts today?" and "Who wants to go outside and play tether ball with me?"

The questions became a little more complex by the time I reached college, and sometimes I was the one who was supposed to come up with the answers. A track coach with an aversion to losing demanded, "Why not take steroids and be strong enough to compete while injured?" "Is it fair," he pondered, "if there are ten racers on the starting line and nine of them use performance-enhancing drugs and one does not?" And exasperated with my continued stubbornness, "When are you going to grow up and realize that the world is not black and white but gray?"

I wasn't philosophically savvy enough to paint the world any particular color, but after a year of debate with this coach my surroundings did appear sadly drab. By this time, I questioned the meaning of running and the meaning of life, and all seemed vanity in a major Ecclesiastes way. My response was to rashly jettison all athletic pursuits from my life, which left me off-balance and without direction.

In this condition, I began working for a businesswoman on the island of Kauai. She was a person who professed faith in God, and I figured that would probably be okay with me--at least she wouldn't be trying to slip vials of illicit pills into my gym bag.

What I didn't expect was that her faith would be demonstrated more by her actions, day in and day out, than by her words. Gathering her employees together each morning to pray would have seemed pretentious to me if she hadn't lived out the rest of her day in a consistent, righteous manner with joy evident in her step and kind words on her lips. If she went to church one day a week and lived the other six bent on monetary gain and callously lording her position of authority over the rest of us, I would have been less than impressed.

But because she had disciplined herself for the purpose of godliness, and because she walked in a manner worthy of her calling, I saw the relevance of her faith to her life and I saw that her world clearly was not gray nor black and white, but richly colorful.

How apt that the establishment in which I worked for this woman was called the Lighthouse; it was a beacon of light when my world had turned murky, and it set my life on the course it is on today.

Under Way

2008-10-16T23:37:00.000-05:00

According to my dictionary, a mooring is an element providing stability or security. Like an anchor. After days or weeks on the high seas, nothing feels better than that first night's sleep at a peaceful mooring. Life doesn't come to a halt, but there is total rest knowing that the vessel will no longer be tossed here and there by waves.

Beginning this blog is to embark on an adventure into uncharted waters. The way may be winding or straight, the seas choppy or smooth. I may clip along with a fair tail wind or buck up against rolling swells. But with wind in my hair and salt on my lips, I will head somewhere. And, ultimately, not in the journey itself but in the sureness and soundness of the mooring, will my greatest pleasure be realized.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
John Masefield