In this new series entitled “Love Stories”, I have invited you to ask questions. The idea was to make sure that we were addressing what concerns you, rather than going off into the la-la land of nebulous theory and cute concepts that no one really understands.

And I have loved reading your questions!

Every single email has been well thought through and sincere— obviously written by people who honestly want wisdom for living and dating well.

I have also noticed in the last few weeks of looking that there is a plethora of blogs about dating and relationships. Some really good ones and some not so great.

Two of the best are written by women I know: Ally Spotts writes with wit and unique insight, teaming up with her dad who is a Christian counselor to make sure she gets it right. And Joy Eggerrichs blogs on www.loveandrespectnow.com.

Her insights are often hilarious and always down-to-earth and Biblically grounded.

Yet what we want to do here is somewhat different.

I am an “older woman”, a role I relish. In answering your questions I will give the perspective of one who has lived and loved and made mistakes. I am not a professional... I am a wife of 33 years, a listener, a friend, and a mother of two godly men and two lovely women.

And though the Bible is strangely silent when it comes to direct statements regarding dating/courting/friendships-that-are-more and all the complexities between men and women, there are treasures to be gleaned there.

I am going to attempt to be practical. Yet at the same time, I want to paint a picture for you of what God’s purpose in all of this is.

Please be nice to me when some of my answers go against what you’ve heard for years and years… this blog is intended for those who are unapologetically centering every inch of their lives around the Lord Jesus Christ— or are at least trying to!

So here goes…

Q: What does it mean to be inviting?

A: This question refers to a statement I made at Loveology (if you haven’t already, these teachings by John Mark and Mike Eyrie are worth listening to) in answer to the age-old question which every decent girl struggles with:

How do I get a guy’s attention without resorting to flirtation or initiating?

This is a dance I have been watching for a long time.

Women are told not to “chase men”. We’re told that men should be the leaders and initiators of the dating relationship.

And I wholeheartedly agree!

If a woman wants to marry a man who will take up the God-given role of spiritual leadership in the home, she’d be wise to let him lead from the get-go. A man who mildly allows the woman to initiate and perpetuate the relationship is going to be a passive husband— and I’ve yet to hear of a woman who really wants that!

But does that mean that a girl has to sit quietly with her hands folded in her lap and demurely look down?

I hate to say it, but that’s kind of what I taught my own two daughters. By “don’t chase boys” I communicated to them that they needed to be passive. Problem is, that’s terrifying to the guys!

I’ve listened in on their conversations, girls— when five or six of these guys crowd into my son’s room to eat Dorittos and play computer games and talk, they’re anything but quiet. Yet these go-for-broke young men are cower at the thought of approaching a withdrawn, unwelcoming woman. They need a little help!

In reality, there is a way for women to invite men into the possibility of relationship. And most good men wait for that invitation. They’re looking for some sort of clue that their initiative just might be welcome. That they have a chance. That you’d like to give them a chance.

So that’s the concept: The guys initiate, while the girls invite... and both have to be happening at about the same time to get this dance started.

Now for the practical: How does a woman invite?

Well, I’ve started a list and it’s getting ridiculously long— much too long for a single post. So for today let me just give you…

Invitation #1: Communicate admiration for him.

Movies, sitcoms, comics, even children’s books (read The Bernstein Bears!) treat men as if they are big, stupid, klutzy idiots. Can you imagine how hard it is for boys being raised in our current emotional environment?

Yet God wired men to lead with confidence and He wired women to come alongside and help with competence. (more on the whole man/woman roles for a later post)

It is a woman’s God-given directive to come alongside and encourage a man. To make him believe he can do it. To admire him when he does. And to tell him loud and clear!

Learn to encourage, admire, and communicate respect to a man, and you will be an inviting woman.

For many young women, this is excruciatingly difficult. Think of the risk!

If you haven’t grown up in a home where encouragement is dished up at every meal, you’re going to have a tough time choking out the words.

Just be honest. And be bold enough give that kind of grace no matter what his response.

Before Phil and I started dating I was so in awe of him that I was sure I wouldn’t be able to string two sentences together in conversation. So I did what every shy girl does... I avoided him! But one day I just couldn’t hold back. I had to tell him how much I admired his rock solid faithfulness.

There is a whole back story here, but long story short, my uncharacteristic boldness got him to thinking about me. What I meant as a simple word of encouragement, he interpreted as an invitation. Of course he could probably feel the vibrations of my pitter pattering heart during the entire 60-second conversation! Yet somehow those shyly offered words of affirmation got the ball rolling.

Now, there’s more to it of course. Where’s the balance, how much is too much? You don’t want to scare the guy off by embarressing him… but you’ll need to ask your friends for that kind of feedback. There is no perfectly reproducible pattern to follow. Just as each and every woman is uniquely created by God to be beautiful and appealing, her approach to welcoming a man is going to look unique.

The point is this: one of the best ways to be inviting is to encourage and affirm and admire him.

And in case you’re concerned that I’m just giving you tactics for catching a guy, consider this: The number one piece of wisdom I offer to married women who want to have a great marriage is the same…

Encourage… Affirm… Admire.

From my heart,

Diane

So… you want chapter and verse? Here’s one every man wishes his wife would put into practice…

Ephesians 5:33

Amplified Bible

33… and let the wife see that she respects and reverences her husband [that she notices him, regards him, honors him, prefers him, venerates, and esteems him; and that she defers to him, praises him, and loves and admires him exceedingly].

To which all our brothers say: AMEN!

It’s hard to sit down and write a love story. It’s even harder to sit down and write your own love story. I looked to others for examples, but soon realized that everyone’s love story is different.

That is what I learned to love about love stories. God writes each one perfectly and unique for each person.

My love story is one about unexpected love.

In December 2008, I graduated college in Southern California and moved back home to Portland, Oregon.

It wasn’t a move that I wanted to make. Moving home, having a degree but no career, and leaving behind what I thought was all my independence in another state, was hard.

I was that girl who thought some boys were cute but was never really into dating. I had my first relationship when I was a sophomore in college, innocent liking, is what I would call it. It lasted a whole six months.

Two months after that, I “liked” another boy, that I called my boyfriend for about three months.

But I just wasn’t into dating. I was more comfortable around guys, having grown up with four brothers. I had lots of guy friends, but I was an independent girl, who never needed or wanted a boyfriend.

I firmly believe God was preparing my heart for what was about to happen. Never needing or wanting a boyfriend was clearly God protecting me from the heartache and pain of being in multiple relationships while in High School and College. But not only was God protecting my heart, also my purity.

In early April 2010, I went to dinner and a movie with a dear friend. It wasn’t until a couple weeks ago, when I was reflecting back on my “love story” that she reminded me what I said that evening. I told her I believed God had finally released my heart to date. I was open to the idea of having a boyfriend and falling in love. Something I had never had peace about before.

Twenty some days later, I met Alexander for the first time. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He was soft spoken, had a calm presence, and was very quiet. I chalked all that up as being boring. Dreadfully boring, or at least that was my first impression. It wasn’t love at first sight.

A week and a half later, I got invited to spend the weekend at Lincoln City with some friends. I didn’t want to go because I knew Alexander was invited, too. Since our initial meeting, many people were behind us dating. I knew the beach was part of their plan, and I wasn’t about spending an awkward weekend at the beach with a handsome guy that I wasn’t interested in.

I spent the weekend observing Alexander. Fascinated by who he was and how he interacted with others.

We had little interaction after the beach. I’d see him around church serving and loving on people. But I made no effort to talk to him. Still admiring from afar.

But something Inside of me started to change.

I wanted to be noticed. I had always thought Alexander was so handsome but I was always so drawn to how I loved watching him interact with others, especially when it came to the way he showed love to every person he came into contact with.

But I had no reason to believe he noticed me. I was always kind and warm in our few interactions and maybe sometimes, secretly looked for a detour to walk past him. But I was conflicted. Did he notice me? How do I let him know that I like him?

To my surprise, he had noticed me. He called me on Wednesday, May 19^th 2010 and asked if I wanted to go on a date that Saturday.

Our first date May 22^nd: we talked over Crepes, walked around Portland, picked out books at Powell’s, and had Mexican Food for dinner. Our date started at 1 p.m. and ended at 11 p.m.

It was the best date I had ever been on. I knew after that date that I was going to marry Alexander. The only problem, he didn’t.

The next couple of months were some of the longest and most life shaping months of my life. I’m not a patient person. In fact, I’m a total perfectionist, who always has a plan and wants things done accordingly.

Had God forgotten that he had released my heart back in April to dating a guy? I clearly thought this guy was Alexander. Was he not? Was I dating the wrong guy?

Thoughts and questions, like those, bombard my mind. I didn’t trust God.

It was as if I had made a plan and timeline, scanned a copy, and sent it off to God…expecting he’d forward it on to Alexander to make sure it happened.

The beauty of dating a man that trusts and follows God is that they had a plan. Just not the same plan. A little over six months from the day I went on that first date, with a tall, dark, and handsome guy, He got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife.

And on May 7^th, 2011 I became his wife.

This love story, written entirely by our Father, is better than any love story I could have imaged or dreamt for myself.

Fallon

Some truths to take note of:

1. Fallon waited on God’s timing to ready her heart and soul for the oft times complicated venture of dating.
2. First impressions are often way wrong! Fallon laughs at her embarrassingly off the mark impression of Alex.
3. Alex and Fallon took some time to just watch each other from a near distance before jumping into relationship.
4. Friends who loved them both were a great dating service!
5. Fallon had to curb her impatience for a while… and wait for Alex to take the initiative.
6. Fallon trusted Alex because she saw that Alex is “a man who trusts and follows God”.
7. Fallon and Alex invited God to write their love story— and He did!

Seventeen and Sinking Fast

The summer I turned seventeen I hit a low point. No longer a darling little girl whose shyness could be explained away with a smile and an excuse, my social angst kept me chained to passivity. Add to that a curious mixture of perfectionism and an almost phobic fear of working too hard (I think that’s actually called laziness), and its no wonder my report card was less than impressive.

I carried that folded piece of card stock to my room, hid it where mom wouldn’t take a peek, and waited with dread for my dad to come home.

Deep dread.

My dad, you see, expected more from me. A whole lot more.

Somehow he’d gotten this notion into his head that I was smart. I still don’t understand why he was so sure of this up-to-that-point unverified theory. Me, smart? Sure, I could read far and away above my grade level, but most of my reading consisted of either horse books or adventure stories. Not exactly the stuff of Pulitzer prizes. And math- Dad’s favorite subject- was my worst enemy. I’m still convinced my Algebra teacher’s C+ was his way of kicking me out of his class lest he have to endure another year of my woeful whimpering, “But I just don’t understand…”

But Dad saw something inside that fair-haired head of mine and he was determined that I use it well.

Thus the angst.

This report card was a reliable barometer of just how well my scholastic life was proceeding. And how hard I was trying when my patient father wiped my tears after a math assignment and told me to “just do your best.” My best that year included skipping classes after lunch (you guessed it, Algebra) and not even attempting that American history research project that was required for any grade above a C.

While I waited for my always punctual, ever-predictable father to pull into the garage and make his way upstairs, I imagined every possible scenario. Would he yell at me? Rummage through the boxes in the attic and dust off that well-worn paddle I hadn’t felt since grade school?  Ground me from life?

I’d told my best friend in no uncertain terms, that my father was going to kill me.

But that’s not exactly what happened.

When I handed him that report card he got real quiet. Just sort of still, like he wasn’t there in that moment, like I’d lost him to somewhere far away. I think he forgot I was standing there, shaking, a chip on my shoulder so big I could hardly hold it up.

And then he sat down on the side of the bed... slumped a little... sighed.

When he finally looked at me with a look of defeat on his face that chip came crashing to the floor, taking all my excuses with it.

My dad was disappointed in me.

Not furious, not disgusted, not even a hint of impatience. He was just sad. So very sad.

I’d let him down. I’d let me down, and he didn’t know what to do.

We didn’t talk much after that, as I remember. What could I say? Sorry Dad, I’ll try harder next year? The fact was, I couldn’t try harder, didn’t have the courage, or the drive, or whatever it takes to succeed at such a thing as school. And he knew it, and that’s what made his shoulders sag and his eyes fill.

He must have said something to mom because she never so much as uttered a word of reproof to me. And I wasn’t about to bring it up, no, I tip-toed around the subject of school as if the summer would go on forever and my senior year wasn’t looming like a storm on the horizon.

That summer I’d taken a job flipping burgers at an amusement park called Frontier Village. My uniform was a ghastly combination of red and white stripes and bows and funky converse high tops. Every day I did the same thing: pull frozen patties from the deep freeze, load hotdogs into the steamer, hand out change, pour ketchup and mayonnaise and relish into stainless steel trays.  And every night I came home smelling of grease and salt and deep-fried onion rings.

I hated that job.

But my dad loved it! At least once or twice a week he’d exchange his wingtips for cowboy boots, pay the price of admission, and sit down to eat what he proclaimed was “the best burger I’ve ever tasted!”

All summer he bragged about my burger flipping capabilities. In fact, all summer my dad bragged about me. A lot. At the supper table he’d tell my skeptical older brother what a valuable addition I was to the lofty corporation of Frontier Village. Then he’d try to impress my little sister that I was by far the best looking girl who’d ever worked there.

He spent the summer convincing me that I was indeed the smartest, most capable, invaluable employee on the roster of that little amusement park. At his urging, I tried to get to my job just a little early every morning. Then I’d stay a few minutes late, wiping those counters down one last time. I’d greet the boss by looking him in the eye- after all, Dad said I was one of the elite, and I was starting to believe it.

By the end of that summer I strode a little straighter into my last year of high school. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to look my teachers in the eye, to stay and talk about assignments and up coming tests.

I was interested.

I was capable.

I was smart.

I believed I could succeed because Dad believed in me.

I still don’t know how my dad knew what to do that day I handed him my inadequacies. He never let me in on his secret source of wisdom. We didn’t talk about those kinds of things, he and I. Our conversations were about the here and now, not philosophies and ideas.

Yet I knew he knew and he knew I did too.

And somehow I think that when Dad retreated into that silence pause, he was talking to the One who’d carefully crafted and placed me in my father’s care. I think he was asking that Father for wisdom for his wandering girl. And I think he got it.

From my heart,

Diane

10 things Dad did right:

1. He saw something no one else did— potential.
2. He communicated to me what he saw in specific, daily doses.
3. He restrained his response to my failure.
4. He went out of his way to show interest in my life.
5. He inconvenienced himself to involve himself in my life.
6. He ate my hamburgers!
7. He assumed I wanted to do well when everything about me screamed defeat.
8. He praised me in front of the rest of the family.
9. He redefined my image of who I was.
10. He loved me anyway.

From Genesis 2

Long, long ago in a land now hidden by time and eroded in failure, there lived a man. He was no ordinary man, for this man had been given a name— Adam, which means earth.

Adam was made by the Creator of the earth, who gathered a fistful of dirt into His hand and breathed His life into the man.

This Adam was the king of all God’s creation, designed to watch over the beauty, to cultivate its richness,

to partner with God in His work.

And the work was good. Filled with delight and joy— fun.

Adam’s first task was to identify and catalogue and name each created animal. How he must have laughed as he traveled throughout the land investigating anteaters and koalas, eagles and eels.

Words flowed as he watched these created gifts burrow and cavort and tuck in their tails and chase the moon.

Perhaps he ran his hands down the ridged back of a rhinoceros. Or scratched the ears of an elephant. Buried his head in the mane of a lion. How he must have laughed at his first sight of a zebra— those gaudy stripes his glimpse into his Master’s flair for drama

But he laughed alone. No snicker echoed his, no smile in response.

And God saw all that alone— the wandering and the wondering and the hoping. He saw that it was not good.

Not good at all.

And God’s heart reached into Adam’s and felt his ache down deep.

In that moment an idea was born.

God, who lived in three, would make Adam to live in two. A matched pair— different, but alike. Designed to fit with God, to mirror His beauty,

to laugh with Him and joy in His work.

To do it together.

And so God, the Creator, created again.

First He laid the man on the soft earth and let him rest there; filled his nostrils with the scent of pine and cradled his head on a pillow of peace.

Adam slept deep.

And while his man slept, God got to work.

Forming, sculpting, crafting, smoothing, God’s smile wouldn’t stop as He added a little here and softened a little there.

Beauty.

Intimate, radiant, God-made art.

A gift for Adam from God.

When the time came for God to give His gift, He shook Adam’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Awake, my son, and see.”

Yawning wide, languishing in that netherworld between rest and reality, Adam opened his eyes. What he saw shocked all sleep from his body.

Exquisite beauty.

Hair tumbling down rounded shoulders, arms reaching out to him, skin the color of the earth warmed by the sun, eyes that laughed and wept and saw… right through to his wildly beating heart.

Eve.

And so the story begins... God’s first love story.

For the next several weeks we’ll be delving a little deeper into God’s intent- the why’s, and the what’s, and any how-to’s God may have imbedded into His story.

And because no two stories are exactly alike, and God’s love shines through all sorts of cracks and crevices created by all our differences, we’ll be posting other tales of love. Not fairy tales, mind you, but real stories about love and loss and mistakes made and hopes dashed… and Redemption. Great doses of that Grace He pours all over our undeserving lives and the Mercy that makes us long for more of His love.

But we need something from you...

We need your questions.

Every other week or so we’ll serve you a story… and on the other weeks we want to sit a while and talk about it. All those wonderings and wishings and wanting to do this right. We want to know- I want to know- what worries you.

I am on of those older women now; the ones who are given the call to teach and train and encourage and coach all you younger women. It’s a task I relish.

And my husband, Phil, is an older man, expected to “promote the kind of living that reflects right teaching…” and living in a way “worthy of respect”, “wisely”, filled with strong faith and lots of love and endless patience. (Titus 2)

With Phil as my wise counselor and the Bible as my guidebook, I’ll attempt to answer your questions about love and relationships and what God wants. And when I’m pretty sure my response is not enough, I’ll seek out others who know a whole lot more than me.

Together, we’ll delve the depth of God’s heart and discover the beauty of the gift He gave so long ago.

Looking forward to your questions…

From my heart,

Diane

Send your questions- any questions- via email to hespeaks@ajesuschurch.org.

I scribbled these words on a pad of paper as I drove home the day John Mark went away to college. I still had three children at home, including Matt, who was only five. Yet still, the growing up of my first-born came as a sort of shock to me. How had it happened so fast? But it did, and it does, and we need to remember…

September 1998

Yesterday I took my son to college.

With a quick hug and “See ya at Thanksgiving… maybe,” he turned to

begin the next stage of his life.

Today all I can remember is the past.

Just yesterday, it seems, he was born.

Not squalling and screaming,

but wide-eyed and silently staring at these two strangers who would

love him, and discipline him, and teach him, and wipe away his tears

for the next eighteen years.

I remember the moments.

His hand resting on my breast as I nursed him.

His first flinging steps as he raced from his dad’s outstretched hands to mine.  His squeal as he ran naked down the sidewalk.

I remember the first time he opened his Bible and read it on his own.

Listening as he led his little sister to receive Jesus.

His ear-to-ear grin when he was baptized by his dad.

I remember playing army, dramatically dying, imitating machine gun fire, throwing water filled grenades.

I remember playing hide and seek when he thought no one could see him if he covered his eyes.

I remember matchbox cars in the bathtub and G.I. Joe in my purse.

Melted crayons in the car and rock collections in the washing machine.

I remember skinned knees and stitches, pimples and braces, loud music…and soft serenades on the piano as he waited for the carpool.

Late night talks…and tears.  Silly jokes with no punch line.

Artwork on the fridge.

Eighteen years of memories.

One thing I know now...

one thing I want to pass on to every mother of every little boy...

all that work, the lost sleep, the worry, the spankings, the cooking, the cleaning up of little-boy-messes, the reading and rereading of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, the hours of listening, the carpooling, the cuts and scrapes and trips to the emergency room…

Every moment is worth it.

When you kiss him good-bye, when your job is done,

when you send him off to his future,

you too will remember the moments.  And you will agree…

It was well worth it.

From my heart,

Diane

by melanie dobson How can the women of Solid Rock help women in Haiti?

Last spring Diane Comer asked this question of Madame Jeune, the co-founder of Grace Village that helps care for the poor and orphans in Haiti. After praying together, the women began to dream as they shared their hearts.

What if a team of women could travel to Haiti and pray with the godly Haitian women in leadership—the wives of pastors and evangelists who’ve worked tirelessly to comfort women grieving the loss of husbands and care for children who lost their parents in the earthquake rubble? What if Solid Rock could organize a retreat specifically to love and encourage these women who’ve poured out the love of the Savior during the past two years?

What if the Solid Rock women could share about the glory and power of God’s many names that we learned about at the Night in Prayer? Strong Tower. Mighty Creator. Prince of Peace. Immanuel (God with us). Husband. Father.

But since not every woman in Solid Rock could go to Haiti this fall, Diane also wondered—what else could all the women do together to love the Haitian women?

The answer slowly became clear. The women of Solid Rock could do something that no one else has done. They could donate dresses for the women in Haiti to wear to church.

It may seem a bit strange to donate dresses when many in Haiti are struggling to obtain healthy food and clean water. But unlike the church culture in the Portland, both Haitian men and women dress up to attend church. Men wear nice shirts and often ties. Women wear beautiful dresses out of respect for the Savior and their community. They may not have much to wear the rest of the week, but they treasure their church clothes for Sundays.

After the earthquake, many of the Haitian women lost their church dress in the rubble and they have no resources to buy or make new clothing. With the help of Solid Rock ladies, pastor’s wives will now have the opportunity to give a dress to women who are seeking to follow Christ—a reminder of how much Christ loves and values them in the months and years to come.

Hundreds of men and women from Solid Rock have traveled to Haiti in the past year, offering their hands and feet to love the hurting people in this country by building homes, feeding children, and sharing the love of Christ. In October, twenty Solid Rock women will respond to Madame’s invitation and travel to this country to encourage and pray for pastor’s wives in their work. Instead of bringing building supplies on this trip, they will deliver duffel bags filled with dresses donated by the women of Solid Rock.

On September 17, you are invited to a unique women’s event called Dress for Haiti. Starting at 11 a.m., there will be a luncheon as well as information about how to donate dresses for the Haitian women. And there will be opportunities to purchase a conservative dress or skirt and blouse online through computers setup specifically for the event—clothing that will give a Haitian woman dignity as she attends church, maybe for the first time.

In the midst of the destruction, in the midst of horrific grief from loss and pain, the light of the Savior continues to glow in Haiti. It is a light that beckons people away from the dark and into the loving embrace of our Savior. It is a light that shines in safe havens like Grace Village and through the beautiful eyes of Haitian believers trying to help their country heal.

It is a light that we—women of Solid Rock and ambassadors of Christ—have the privilege to shine as we love the Haitian women by meeting their needs through prayer, encouragement, and by donating and delivering hundreds of dresses in the hope and strength of another one of God’s many names—Light of the World.

Journeying with you,

Melanie Dobson

P.S.  Wednesday (September 14^th) is the deadline to sign up for the Dress for Haiti luncheon. More information about the event or to donate a dress after the event is available here. For additional questions, please email women@ajesuschurch.org.

Also, if you would like to be in an army of women who will be joining together to pray for the team going to Haiti in October, please email prayhisnameinhaiti@gmail.com.

You cannot imagine the joy that I have experienced as I have studied and written about these names of God. When I first started, my days were being invaded by the heartbroken sadness of far reaching sin that had attacked my extended family on multiple fronts. The consequences of unmitigated selfishness had left people I love devastated.

None of us were spared.

How could people do this?  Why would God allow it?

I ran between everyone trying to fix it, exhausting myself in the process. My soul carried their burden with every breath.  Sadness stalked me.  Fun and laughter and rest seemed like mockery of their pain.

Every morning I brought all that sorrow to the Father, pleading with Him to take it away from these people I loved.  I carried with me a long list of souls too confused to walk alone. And every day I spent hours on the phone, pouring out every tidbit of comfort and wisdom I had acquired in my own quest for answers.

Then I hit the wall. Nothing was working, no one was getting fixed as fast as I thought they should, and I no longer had the strength to run alongside them. Like a marathoner at mile 19, I wanted to quit.

That very morning I started this study of His Name.

Elohim was first- the Creator.  My burden began to lift just a little at the realization that His fingertips made the Alps and the oceans and the hummingbird outside my window.  Then I studied Child. What’s this?  God as a kid?  Running and giggling and reveling in wonder?

Maybe He would handle this catastrophe after all.  Maybe I ought to let Him instead of bossing Him around every morning as I brought my burdens to His attention.

Maybe He had a plan.

As I moved on to Immanuel, with us is God, and Strong Tower, He began to fill me up with His Presence.  The beauty of who He is overrode the ugliness of this part of my loved ones’ stories.

I began to hope again, though this time that hope took on a different definition.

The truth is, this life we live is sometimes awful.  When sin invaded human history, it brought with it horrors too horrific to handle. Sin and disease and brokenness are normal now. But that sin did not delete God.  Not by a long shot.  He is still who He ever was- the same God He was in the ancient stories of Abraham and Joshua and Abigail and Sarah.  And He’s just as unchanging today.  To me and to my family and to every human being whose world has been rocked by treachery.

But here’s the best part- He’s never going to change.

He will always be El Roi- the God who sees me.  He will forever be the Word- that continuous stream of talking to us that we are just beginning to catch on to.

And He will be who He is to us—to you, and to that circle of people you call your own.

That, my dear girls, is where hope lies... and joy, and rest, and reality.

Not that everything is going to get better.  Not even that He is working in our lives to fix us, but that He is who He is and He will be who He is to us- forever.

I hope that this study of His names has filled you as He has filled me. And if it has, would you please do something for me? Would you let all of us know what has been your favorite Name? And why?

From my heart,

Diane

“If you abide in Me and My words abide in you,

ask whatever you wish

and it will be done for you.”

John 15:7 NASB

Whatever you wish.

I like that. A lot.

If that isn’t a reason to pray, I don’t know what is. Whatever I wish…

Well I wish for lots and lots of things. Health, wealth, and happiness to start with. A better body, a beautiful house in the country, a new oven, a vacation in Switzerland, and all my family happy and healthy and wealthy too.

I do the whole wishing thing really well.

But hold on... wait a minute. What is that I learned in Hermeneutics?[1] Something about words in context? Okay, okay, I’ll find it… oh, here it is,

Rule #12 : Interpret a word in relation to its sentence and context.[2]

And another one,

Rule #22: A doctrine cannot be considered biblical unless it sums up and includes all that the Scriptures say about it.[3]

Oh darn. Does that mean I may not be able to wish my will on God?

Spanning out to the verses before and after, I see words about abiding and bearing fruit and glorifying God and keeping His commandments.

Uh oh, where did wishing go?

When I read this seemingly cross-stitchable verse again, I see what it really says.

I get hung up on the if.

If…

You abide in Me.

There are, it would seem, conditions for all my wishing and wanting and getting what I want.

I’m beginning to think this might not be so easy after all.

What, for example, is this thing called abiding?

I looked it up...

To remain or dwell. To be united with him, one with him in heart, mind and will. Steadfast.[4]

It means to remain in His perfect will at all cost.[5]

That’s intense!

At all cost?

With all my heart, mind, will?

Sounds a little like when Jesus prayed, “…not as I will, but Thou wilt” (Mt 26:39) or “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…” (Mt 6:10)

What about my wish?

I go back to my less and less favorite verse and find another if…

My words abide in you…

He wants His words to abide in me, to penetrate my will and my intellect.

To change the way I think, the way I feel, the way I wish.

Then, He says, go ahead and ask.

Anything.

Anything that comes to mind while you are united in Him, yielded to Him at all cost; so fully absorbed in Him that your heart and mind and will are all mixed up in His.

That’s the way to wish.

And when we do that, my dear wishing sisters, He promises that,

It will be done for you.

From a heart full of wishing,

Diane

(repost)

---

[1] A fancy term for How to Study Your Bible

[2] Studying, Interpreting, and Applying the Bible, by Walter Hendrichsen and Gayle Jackson. They articulate 24 “rules” for the correct interpretation of the Scriptures- really good!

[3] ibid (which, of course, as everyone knows, means same as above)

[4] The Complete WordStudy Dictionary, New Testament, Spiros Zodhiates, Th.D.

[5] The Open Bible, pg. 1032 notes

Then Jesus went up into the hills and sat down…Jesus soon saw a great crowd of people climbing the hill, looking for Him. Turning to Philip, He asked,

Philip, where can we buy break to feed all these people?

There’s a young boy here with five barley loaves and two fish. But what good is that with this huge crowd?

Tell everyone to sit down, Jesus ordered.

And they all ate until they were full.

John 6:3,5,9,10,11

I am the bread of life.

No one who comes to Me will ever be hungry again.

John 6:35

The Meaning of the Name:

The people who were drawn to Jesus on the hillsides of around the Sea of Galilee were not wealthy folk. They didn’t have a lot of extra stashed away in a bank account to help them through the lean times. For these men and women to take a day off of work in order to listen to Jesus meant almost certain deprivation. It cost them something.

And yet they came in droves— thousands filled the grassy slopes. Gathered in clusters of friends and family, they soaked in the words of this man whose audacious claims earned him enemy-of-state status.

I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to be in that crowd. To be jostled by neighbors trying to get closer, to sit in the relentless heat with sweat pouring down my back.

What must it have been like to feel the hunger and sense the thirst of those thousands? To hope like they must have, when all other hope was gone? Was the place crazy with excitement? Were they scared? What drew them there? And, I wonder,

Did they walk away with what they wanted?

The story tells us that the very next morning some of these same people came clamoring for more. With visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads (or maybe it was barley loaves), they gathered for a second helping. Just think of it, no more work, no more striving for every little scrap, here was a man who’d just hand it to them, no questions asked!

Only this time, instead of baskets of bread, they got an earful of honesty.

…you shouldn’t be so concerned about perishable things like food.

Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that I, the Son of Man, can give you…

I am the bread of life.

No one who comes to Me will ever be hungry again.

Those who believe in Me will never thirst…

But you haven’t believed even though you have seen Me.

John 6

They knew exactly what He was saying— that if they wanted to have hold of this bread that filled the gnawing hunger of 5000 people in the wilderness, they were going to have to get off their passive pattucies and go after Him in risk-taking trust. He wasn’t going to prove Himself one more time in order to help them off their wavering picket fence.

If they wanted that bread— that magical, mystical, richly satisfying-to-their-toes kind of life they were hoping for, they were going to have to fully and irrevocably entrust every aspect of their lives to Him. And He wasn’t giving any guarantee that He would cooperate with their wishes.

Jesus wasn’t about to make it easy. And He still doesn’t.

Instead he says,

This is the way it is. You want bread?

You want what will keep you fully alive and strong?

Above those soul-crushing waves, out of your endless wilderness of worry?

It’s Me you want!

Not Ten Steps to the Happy Life, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. There aren’t ten steps, there’s only one: Me.

To get at that bread you crave you’re going to have to let go of everything else

that makes you pretend you’re safe.

Your family, your inflexible this-is-the-way-we-do-things approach to life,

your pitiful attempts at control.

And some days you’re going to be faced with impossibilities

like feeding 5000 men out of your sack lunch.

Or loving someone who betrays you.

Or shutting up when everything in you screams for justice.

Or giving thanks for deafness when straining to hear leaves you limp with exhaustion— left out and alone.

When Jesus held that loaf of barley bread in His hands, He wasn’t offering peace-filled platitudes. He was issuing a challenge.

Will you trust Me?

Even when you’re hungry and the cupboards are bare

and all you have is all I am?

Because that’s when I’ll be the Bread of Life to you.

That’s when you will know that deep-down soul-saturating fullness that only I can give.

When you’re absolutely starving and you choose Me and only Me.

Not your friends, not your family, not another seminar or counselor or guarantee. Just Me.

I don’t know if you’ve been to that place of nothingness. I do think that everyone of us gets there at some point in our lives. Maybe some of us arrive a little more hallow eyed and gaunt-cheeked than others, but if you’ve been there you know exactly what I’m saying.

And I know this: once you’ve eaten deeply of who He is- the Bread of Life- you’ll never hunger for anything else again.

From my heart,

Diane

…How blessed are all who take refuge in Him.

Psalm 2:12

NASB

(source)

Satisfaction and rest. The world searches frantically for both.  I search for both.

If only I had…

If only I were…

If only I could…

Lasting satisfaction is not filled by people or places or things.

And rest.  Where do I find that?  A perfect vacation?  A beach house?  A lighter schedule?  Less work to do?

No. Rest is found in only one place. Deep down daily soul rest is found only in the Shelter of the Almighty.

I know the satisfaction and the rest to be found in the Shelter.  I’ve been there.  It is a wonderful place to be.  The problem is, I tend to just go for a visit. I pop in when the hassles of life get to me, when I feel restless and dissatisfied, when things don’t go my way.

Rest is for those who live in the Shelter of the Most High.  There is a big difference between living there and taking a quick visit when the need arises.  This Shelter is not a vacation home. It is a place to move into permanently. A place to get comfortable in, to hang some picture memories, to snuggle down deep.

I have known the Shelter as a hospital room. When I am hurting or grieving it is the first place I want to run to. I have known the heart-healing of that place.

I have known the Shelter as a refuge. When I am worn out and weary I seek a respite there.  In that Shelter I have been refreshed and renewed.

I have known the Shelter as a library of sorts.  I have gone there seeking solutions, answers for questions too big for me.  I have come away with a heart full of His wisdom.

I have known His Shelter as a place of pure joy. I have worshiped there alone and have celebrated in His presence with the family of believers.  I have touched His Throne and been transformed again and again and again.

And yet with all these wonderful visits, I have yet to consistently dwell there. I move in and out.  I don’t know why.  I just sort of drift out.  Until another crisis or an especially beautiful quiet time reminds me that this is where I want to be.  I don’t want to be so foolishly fickle.  I love it there in the Shelter.

I am coming to realize that the act of dwelling there, really living in the Shelter of the Most high, is a daily decision.  No, it's more like an hourly decision, a moment by moment awareness of the Father.

I can choose to live there when things are good and when they are not.  I can live there when the kids are squabbling, when I am shuttling teenagers, at the drizzling soccer field, and at the crowded grocery store.

I can live there from the moment I wake up to the time I go to sleep and every moment in between.  The Bible tells me that He will keep on giving to me even in my sleep!

But the decision to stay there is mine.  The Father will not force me.  I must decide if I want to seek Him with all my heart.   I must put aside, at times, thoughts and words and actions that do not belong in the Shelter.  Just like I make my kids leave their muddy shoes outside in the garage, so must I leave my filth at the altar before I can enter into His presence.  He is not expecting perfection- He knows me too well for that.  But when He whispers in my ear I must listen and obey lest I push away His Spirit and push myself out of the Shelter.

So here it is.  On this page of my journal I state the desire of my heart:

I want to live,

to daily dwell in

the Shelter of the Most High.

I seek the rest and the satisfaction

that is found in Him alone.

I long to live

in Him.

From my heart,

Diane

Why don’t you soak into Psalm 16 for a while? It’s David’s yearning to dwell there.

(repost)

I will teach you and instruct you in the way in which you should go; I will counsel you with My eye upon you.

Psalm 32:8

Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,

To the house of the God of Jacob,

That He may teach us concerning His ways,

And that we may walk in His paths.

Isaiah 2:3

The Meaning of His Name:

I have always been terribly forgetful. I forget where I put my keys, what I did with my jacket, where I parked my car. When I was a little girl I forgot my homework, my library book, my gym clothes, my lunch.

My mom (who forgets nothing) used to say, If your head wasn’t attached you’d forget that too! My big brother nicknamed me Dingbat-Di for all the times I got in trouble for forgetting again.

All that forgetfulness made school, to say the least, challenging. I was always borrowing pencils and lunch money. I don’t know how many times I stared at my teacher in horror and proclaimed total and complete ignorance of an assignment due that day.

It’s not that I didn’t want to do well; I loved the order of the classroom, the smell of the textbooks, the discovery of something new and unknown. It’s just that there was so much to remember and nothing seemed to stick in my head for long enough to grab hold and stay there.

Of all my teachers, Mrs. Brown was my favorite. Tall and slim with softly waving hair, she wore long flowing skirts cinched at the waist and funny half glasses with a chain around her neck.  Every day after lunch, she’d wait for us all to settle into our seats and quiet down.  Perched on her stool with all the poise of royalty, Mrs. Brown would quietly open a book and read us into new worlds.

Secret animal kingdoms with Wind in the Willows, Victorian England with Black Beauty, back country farms with Charlotte’s Web. I lost myself in her stories, relishing every detail, remembering every character, laughing and crying and hanging onto every word.

After school I’d run home and recount every detail to my mom over a plate of homemade cookies and milk. Names and places and descriptions and who said what to whom.

I forgot nothing.

And mom noticed. Maybe her little girl wasn’t so hopelessly forgetful after all.

Pretty soon my mom (ever the organized scheduler) had settled us into the routine of stopping by the library every week. She helped me find the books Mrs. Brown read to us and then she’d take me home and cuddle up with me on the couch and gently coach me through the words. While at school I painfully pushed myself to memorize flash cards of words (this was way before phonics), at home Mom slid her finger under sentences as she enveloped me in the stories.

At school I learned to read, but it was at home that I fell in love with learning.

(my mom and me)

There was a kindness in the way my mom taught me. As if she had all the time in the world to read it again and again. I remember the cadence of her voice, the feel of her crisply ironed blouse, the scent of her perfume, the press of her cheek against my head. Time slowed down to my pace and all the things I could never remember filled up and made sense and stuck tight.

And I think that’s how Jesus teaches too.

Slow and soft and gentle and easy. He pulls us up tight against His heart and runs His finger under what we’re supposed to know. Lets us linger a little so we can get it down deep. Listens while we say it back. Leads us to the edge of wonder and makes us feel safe there.

When Jesus taught His disciples He said the same things over and over again. He used stories from real life and asked strangely probing questions and let silence get comfortable. He compared people to sheep and mixed mud into medicine and made sure everyone saw everything He ever did.

Kinda like my mom.

And is it any wonder those guys followed Him right down to their deaths? Peter upside down on a cross, John all alone on an island, James with his head on a block.

Those men knew all about the Teacher. His truth slid past their ears right into their brains and on down into the very fabric of their lives.

His truth changed everything.

Sometimes I get mad at myself because, once I again I forget. I forget to be gentle, I forget to forgive, I forget to talk nice, I forget to trust. Over and over, it seems, I have to learn the same lessons.

And I keep waiting for Him to get frustrated with me, to slam down His fist and shout, enough!

And all He does is lift me onto His lap and hold me close and open the pages again.

As if He has all the time in the world to wait for me to get it right.

As if He knows I will

because He knows I want to

because He knows I can

as long as I stay all curled up close in His arms.

From a heart that is learning in the lap of the Rabbi,

Diane

Make me to know Thy ways, O LORD;

Teach me Thy paths.

Lead me in truth and teach me.

Psalm 25

I’ve worried today about an awful lot of things… Will I be home in time to swipe the dust before my friends arrive?

Are my jeans sagging where I don’t want them to because I’m filling them where I shouldn’t?

Dinner… what’s for dinner that’s easy and at least a little healthful?

What do I wear this weekend if it’s hot? Can I get away with bare legs at a funeral or have I got to cover up with nylons?

I really should go running… and I really don’t want to… but that ½ is coming and I really should go running…

And while I worry about a lot of things, my friend is worried about just one…

How long will her daughter recognize her face?

My friend could care less about dust cloths and saggy jeans or nylons on a hot day. She just wants Rachel to know who she is. To be assured at her touch. To snicker a little laugh at an inside joke. Vickie just wants Rachel to remember.

A couple of decades ago, Rachel came squalling into the Hughes family, a healthy, vibrant baby girl with a little more than the normal number of chromosomes and a whole lot more than the average amount of girlishness.

A little fairy of a child, Rachel loved pink and glitter and Cinderella wands. Her silky blond hair framed a face kissed by God Himself, a smile with dimples, and those lovely slanted eyes that marked her as different.

Everyone who knew Rachel relished the different—the grace and the light and the pure joy that wrapped her little frame from head to toe.

By the age of two, Rachel’s fragile body was attacked by leukemia. A battle raged with horrific force as her mother and father joined an army of souls to fight it back. Needles and drips and searing pain marked that little girl’s days. She thought the white-robed ones were enemies, the hospital a house of horror.

All she wanted was to go home.

After what seemed like forever, she did.

And she flourished there.

Years went by. Years of Barbie parties and pretend weddings and real wedding dresses. Dangly earrings and fresh cut bangs. Sandals with heels.

And pink, lots and lots of pink.

Then Crohn’s hit. And migraines. And hormone problems. And more pain.

My friend, Vickie, cared for little Rachel through many a long night of pain. She sang songs and read stories and played Barbie and stroked those silky blond bangs.

She and Dave stayed home when other parents went to the beach or out to dinner or otherwise flew the coop. Rachel needed them and so they stayed.

And so did her brother and sister. Teenagers who loved that little girl with a fierce kind of love. The kind that grows kids up in a hurry and creates a gentle waft of fragrance in their presence.

Real love.

After a while, the battles subsided once again and Rachel came back full of all the vim and vigor of a true teenager. She carried purses with nothing in them and joined a cheerleading team and worshiped with her hands held high.

An angel in the pew.

And we all loved Rachel. She swept us into her world of fairy tales and beauty and everything good.

Never bold or bombastic, she just managed to leave in her wake a certain kind of smile, like a secret yet spoken. She was a lady and proud of it, with a little bit of girliness still lurking just under her sophisticated surface.

But then she began to fade. To draw away. Her mom noticed it first, the mumbling  words and sinking deep. Rachel’s humor waned and with it her smile.

Something was wrong.

Once again a round of doctors. Tests. Wonderings.

But Rachel retreated further and further away, lost in a world of her own, rarely reachable.

Instead of dancing, Rachel straightened. She fussed and fixed and folded t-shirts over and over again. Had to get it right. Had to have the order her mind was missing. Had to do something to calm the swirling inside.

And then the diagnosis: Alzheimer’s.

What do you say to a parent of a teenager with Alzheimer’s?

Read that again.

A parent of a teenager with Alzheimer’s.

Cancer… Crohn’s…Alzheimer’s.

Wouldn’t you think my friend, Vickie, would be mad?

Cursing God?

Ranting and raving and kicking the cat?

Or at least popping pills to alleviate the anguish?

Not Vickie, not a chance.

Instead this grieving mom is writing about birds’ nests and beauty and lessons learned in that shadow world. About hugging and memories goodnight songs. About letting go and holding on and allowing God to be good in the midst of all that bad.

Vickie is laying out lessons every harried mother needs to know. Lessons every family needs to grasp.

Lessons hard won and hardly ever learned.

I don’t know how long Rachel has in our real world or how long until she forgets.

I don’t know how Vickie can smile through the kind of pain no mother ought to suffer.

I only know this: there’s still an awful lot I don’t know.

Oh Di,

I hear my Savior say to me in all my fussing,

you are worried about so many things.

But see your sister, Vickie?

Watch her.

She knows what’s really important.

She washes My feet with her tears and washes the world with her faith.

Go thou and do likewise.

Learning from a friend,

Diane

To learn from my friend, Vickie, click here.

“He Himself is our peace.” Ephesians 2:14

The meaning of His name:

I just got one of those missives that made my blood boil. You know the kind... all couched in sweet sounding spiritual platitudes with an underlying ugliness meant to hurt deep.

Ugh!

The more I read the madder I got. I wanted to rave, to bite back, to form a sarcastic reply and disseminate the paragraphs of sugar coated half-truths. And I wanted to show the message around to others who’d agree with me and do a little ranting of their own.

But as I got up to make myself some breakfast, I passed a pile of writing I’d intended to do. A stack of reference books about the Names of God, a book about Shalom and its biblical roots, a couple of Bibles ready to open and dig deep.

Gulp. In this frame of mind I could hardly be expected to write niceties. I was way to mad for that. Indignant, righteous anger.

Or maybe just mad.

After filling my empty belly with oatmeal I decided I’d better fill my angry soul with something better than the sour grapes I’d swallowed whole.

And that’s when I discovered the beauty of this name- Sar Shalom. Prince of Peace.

You see, I thought this title to be a sort of grand name all lit up in lights on a marquee. For some strange reason no one seems to be able to trace, it’s a name we take out and shine all up at Christmastime. We like this name. We like the royal loveliness of the way it sounds as we sing it.

But do we really grasp what it means when we wake up to find a nasty note in our mailbox?

The Hebrew word for peace is shalom. It is a word dripping with meaning.  While most of us interpret peace as the absence of conflict, this word encompasses much, much more. It conveys a sense of tranquility and wholeness and completion. Shalom includes such benefits as health, satisfaction, success, safety, and prosperity.

It is everything we want in life, and everything we want for those we love.

But don’t forget the prince part. That’s important. A prince in ancient days was not merely a handsome figurehead waiting for his chance to snatch the throne. A prince was a man of power, a man with authority over his subjects.

A man to be feared and obeyed.

Uh oh, all those mean replies I’d been making up in my head were suddenly starting to look a little petty… and maybe a whole lot wrong.

Prince of peace.

I think this prince had a few things to say about not-so-nice messages and how He wants me to deal with them. Things like…

God blesses those who work for peace, and they will be called the children of God. (Mt 5:9)

God blesses you when you are mocked and persecuted and lied about because you are My followers. Be happy about it! Be very glad! For a great reward awaits you in heaven. And remember, the ancient prophets were persecuted, too. (Mt 5:11,12)

Don’t repay evil for evil. Don’t retaliate when people say unkind things about you. Instead, pay them back with a blessing. That is what God wants you to do, and He will bless you for it! (I Peter 3:9)

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! This Prince of Peace talked about working hard at peace (I Peter 3:11), about doing good to those who are downright nasty (Mt 5:47). When people spit in His face and made fun of Him, He chose to stay silent and pray for them (Mt 26:63). Then He let Himself be led to the Cross and nailed there— just so He could offer His enemies that irrevocable peace they so desperately needed.

Will I ever learn?

My heart response this morning showed me some real blackness still buried down deep. I was so ready to bury someone in sludge who’d slung a little mud my way. So quick to bite back. So slow to follow in the footsteps of the One I call my King… the Prince of Peace.

I’m all confessed now… and repentant… and ready to do what He says… so that I can have what He offers… and relish the peace in His wake.

And I’ve told you all this so that you and I can do this together, this living in the kingdom of the Prince of Peace. So that you know that I struggle because I know that you struggle too. This is no easy task. It requires a daily determination to die to all my own ugliness and to follow hard after the One who knows the way.

Are you with me?

From my heart,

Diane  Comer

For more on Jesus’ response when being mistreated, read I Peter 2 and 3… and John 18-19:30. And for more on peace, read Philippians 4:6-9 and John 14:27

“Come my children, and listen to Me, and I will teach you…”

Psalm 34:11 (NLT)

“My heart has heard You say, ‘Come and talk with Me.’ And my heart responds, “LORD, I am coming.”

Psalm 34:11 (NLT)

It is early as I sip slowly from my second cup of steaming tea. Snuggled warm beneath a thick blanket, I watch reluctant light illuminate a fog wrapped world.

Silent. Still. Beautiful.

I love these early quiet hours. Before the world awakes and needs arise. Time to think, and sip, and go slow.

In this early hour I am fully me. Not who I need to be. Not who I wish I could be. Just me, with all my complexities and worries and hopes and dreams and possibilities. Me.

And here in this safe place I meet God.

My Father. My Lord. My dearest Friend.

He beckons me here, urges me to this seat by the window. Surrounded by books and Bible, pad of paper and favorite pen, I think. And ponder. And sometimes I know things I never knew before. Things that tell the truth about my insides, about why I do what I do and say what I say. Why I drive myself too hard at certain times and drag my heels at others. Why my list burdens and bothers and why I can’t let it go.

Somehow, here, all tucked into His love, I’m okay with me. Because He is. In His presence I seem right. I fit. I think He likes me. I know He does.

This is where He speaks. Here in the quiet I hear…

“Shh, Di, quiet now… Listen… I’ve wisdom for that worry.

Do you want My way? Are you sure?

Because mine is the way of the Cross…”

Bible open now and heart all soft, my soul soaks in all He has to say. Wisdom words about respect and hope and anxiety and striving. About living life different.

Here He tells me to trust. To forgive. To stop struggling all the time and finally just let Him have His way- since after all, I’ve told Him again and again that’s what I want.

“Now do it, Di, and see Me part those waters while you walk that muddy ground right up the other side.”

In this warm wrapped moment I know I can. Because I know He will.

Because He always has and He always does and He’s always been. And His stories tell me He’ll never stop.

I read Esther’s worries and hear her growing faith. The courage of this girl snatched from home, captive to a king’s lust, called to risk it all for an ideal- she takes my breath away. All her life for this one moment?

Do I live like that? Like that hard thing is why I’m here? Like all my life is for now? Like I matter that much?

Suddenly, forgiving that one who hurt me, doesn’t seem so hard. Of course I do…because He does… because hurting my feelings is really not the end of the world… because loving her in all her normalness is what He wants from me…because He sees me so much better than I am and makes me so much better than I could ever hope to be… and I want to love her like He loves me.

Of course I do…because He does.

My home is stirring awake now. A waft of coffee, a hint of hurry. The clock reads later than I’d thought. Time to go. The lists awaits.

Tomorrow I’ll come again. To hush… to listen… to let go… to gather wisdom to be who I really am and courage to do what I otherwise wouldn’t.

From my heart,

Diane

Want more? Read Esther’s story and then flip over to Matthew, chapter five to hear more about listening and living and loving His way.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble… The LORD of Hosts is with us.

Cease striving and know that I am God;

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth…

The Lord of hosts is with us.

The Meaning of His Name:

I might have mentioned a time or two how fear-prone I have always been. (read more about that here)

Cautious is my middle name; careful defines how I live my life.

I think I have thought of every possible scenario that could happen to one of my kids and warned them in somber tones about this story I just read in the newspaper…

Just letting them know, of course that danger lurks at the seaside and on the highway to the beach and in raw eggs and in crazy-macho-boy-man-showing-off moments of foolishness.

Just in case they hadn’t thought of that.

But I had an airhead moment many years ago where I forgot all my cautionary advice for just a few seconds and did the unthinkable- I opened my door to a stranger.

As I remember it, the day was a typically lovely day where we lived in Santa Cruz, California. The fog had burnt off around noon and now my kids were playing in the backyard with friends while their mother and I chatted on the sofa. Barbara was a doll-sized woman with a personality as big and bold as a warrior. Mostly when Barbara talked, I laughed- her hilarious recounting of everyday life situations, which she seemed to regularly encounter made my safe life sound tediously boring.

In the midst of our talking someone started pounding on the front door. And I do mean pounding. Like a sledgehammer on steel, the sound had me jumping off the sofa and rushing to investigate before I had a chance to think.

Instead of peeping through the hole to see who was on the other side (a safety precaution I’d insisted my husband install just in case…), I flung the door open to see who dared interrupt my day. And what I saw nearly took my breath away.

A man. A BIG man. A VERY BIG man with a very big black dog by his side.

Rooted to the spot, I could only stare as this VERY BIG man began to swing his arms in angry gestures and rant through tight clenched teeth,

Where’s Diane? They told me Diane was here… where’s Diane?

In the strangest voice, he mumbled and shouted all at once, pointing to his dog, demanding an answer, insisting he see DIANE. Meanwhile his big black dog swirled in agitated circles as if searching for a hidden enemy, barking, jumping, and moaning with the man.

I stood frozen with fear, my front door wide open, oblivious to caution and carefulness and common sense.

At just the moment the VERY BIG man stepped towards me, my tiny friend, Barbara came to the rescue. Leaping off the sofa a few feet away, Barbara ran to the door, shoved me unceremoniously aside, and slammed that door shut with a bang that could be heard miles away- all the while shouting, There’s no Diane here! Go away!

Still trembling, we snuck to a window to see where the man and his dog had gone. He stood there, shaking his unkempt black hair, muttering, looking up from time to time, as if arguing with someone by the front door. A great debate raged for several seconds between the man, his frothing dog, and some invisible adversary.

When he finally left, both of us crumpled to the floor in a uniquely female mixture of hysteria-laced hilarity. We were laughing and crying and shaking and completely beside ourselves with the ridiculous horror of it all.

I never did find out who that man was. I did discover that he’d gone from door to door in my neighborhood inquiring incoherently about Diane. My brother-in-law, Jack (who lived next door), politely pointed him to my house and then wondered what in the world his pip-squeak of a sister-in-law would have to do with a man like that… thanks Jack!

I believe that God sent His angels to protect me that day.

Me, who’d always been so careful to protect myself, needed His help. I think the invisible adversary the man was arguing with was a guard placed by God beside my door to stop the man from whatever havoc he intended to wreck.

He kept me safe when I didn’t know how.

And that’s what this Name is all about. Yahweh Sabaoth. LORD of Hosts.

The first one to discover this Name of God was a suffering woman who lived in the midst of fear-filled times. Her name was Hannah and she wanted a son more than anything else in the world. Hannah’s inability to conceive left her not only lonely and heartbroken— it also left her at the mercy of her husband’s nasty second wife. More than that, however, was the uncertainty of her future. In the absence of social security, a son was charged with the care of his parents in their old age. To be barren meant to die destitute.

Hannah, “greatly distressed”, “wept and would not eat”. She prayed to the Lord as she “wept bitterly” at the alter in the Temple… and “the Lord remembered her and it came about in due time… that she gave birth to a son; and named him Samuel.” (see her story in I Samuel 1,2)

LORD Sabaoth answered.

Decades later, Hannah’s baby boy would grow up to be the prophet-priest who anointed David king over all God’s people. And King David sang song after song about this LORD of Hosts whose protection defined logic.

Then came the pleas of Isaiah and Jeremiah and Zechariah and Hosea and Amos and Micah and Naham and Habakkuk and Zephaniah and Haggai and Zechariah and Malachi.

Men who saw where God’s people were headed and after warning, begging, pleading, urging them back to His heart, finally just placed them in His hands… the hands of the LORD of Hosts.

This is a Name for those long nights of waiting for someone you love to step back into the circle of His love and your care.

This is a Name for when you are unable to protect even yourself. For those moments when you open the door… and this One steps in to rescue you from your own foolishness.

This is a Name for those times when all your warnings and cautionary tactics fail.  When the one you love doesn’t listen. When all you can do is leave her in His hands.

This is the Name for when that VERY BIG man comes too close and you don’t know what to do.

Yahweh Sabaoth. The LORD of Hosts.

Hiding safe in this Name,

Diane

Do you have any real life stories of when God stepped in to rescue you without explanation?

Would you share those stories with us to strengthen our fear-prone tendencies to think we’ve got to be so very, very careful?

I’d love to hear.

(source)

John 13:1-17

What would you do if you knew that within hours agonizing suffering would smash into your world?

Betrayal of an intimate relationship.

Horrifying pain

Abandonment

Public scorn

Mockery

A bloody beating

Exhaustion

Rejection

Have you walked that path?  The path of suffering?

It is the path to the Cross.

In those last days before the end, Jesus knew what was ahead... all of it. Yet instead of curling up in a ball of defeat and fear, He pushed Himself back from the supper table, set aside all that defined Him, and poured grace and beauty over His disciples.

Now, I know what you’re saying:

Well, He was God.  He was different.  He was heroic and I’m not. I’m just me— a mess of emotion and mistakes and more fear than I ever thought possible.

And you’re right of course.  Jesus faced His fears knowing He had all the power at His disposal to rescue Himself.

So why didn’t He? Why did He wake up that morning and set His face towards all that horror?

Because He saw your face. He knew about your pain, what you’d have to endure because of the evil rampant in your world.  And He didn’t want you to have to go it alone. Ever.

So He set Himself to suffer- and to die, so that He could carve a path for you to follow in those times of anguished wrongness.  In His compassion, He knows it’s never easy. Yet in His wisdom He left a simple set of truths that light the way lest we wander in hopelessness.

Here are just a few I found in John 13:1-17 where John remembers what happened the night before:

1. Jesus knew who He was.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that He belonged to the Father, that He was made for intimacy with the Father, and that He was headed right back into His Father’s presence.

Do you?

Or are working with the mixed-up notion that this life is meant to be all hunky-dory fairy tale perfect? That this is it, and that your best life is supposed to be now.

2. Jesus didn’t blame anybody.

As He carried Himself from person to person around that emotionally charged table, He actually focused on helping the very men who would abandon Him in just a few hours. Instead of protecting His rights as an individual, His rights as God, He emptied Himself.

Mull over Philippians, chapter two to understand why He chose not to defend Himself instead.

3. Jesus did what needed doing.

In their stressed out state, the disciples overlooked some basic care of each other.  So Jesus set about to do it Himself. His offerings went way beyond anybody’s expectations of His responsibilities.  And He did it so elegantly- no fanfare or drawing attention to Himself.  He simply served.

Do you see something, anything, that somebody needs?

4. Jesus fully entrusted Himself to God.

Humbly, obediently, Jesus submitted Himself fully to God.  No fighting, begging, whining, complaining.  He entered fully into whatever…whenever…however God chose to allow for His life.

As my friend, Becky says, “Give God full creative license to do whatever He chooses with your life.”

Jesus knows your soul’s response to your pain.  He knows and He cares.

And He’s left some footprints for you to follow…

Will you?

You know these things— now do them! That is the path of blessing. John 13:17

From my heart,

Diane

For more treasures to grab hold of, read…

Philippians 2

James 1

I Peter 2:21-25

There is no one righteous, not even one. Romans 3:10

NIV

This is the name by which He will be called: The LORD our Righteousness.

Jeremiah 23:6

NIV

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Matthew 5:6

NIV

Meaning of His Name:

I used to think that being righteous meant being a good girl. So I set out to obey the rules, to tow the line, to behave the way I thought I was supposed to.

And I failed.

Again and again I tried. And again and again I failed.

After a while I stopped trying so hard and started pretending. I pretended to be better than I was. Pretended to be nicer, sweeter, more loving, less obstinate.

But then I had kids... lots of kids. And I couldn’t pretend when surrounded by fussy babies and needy toddlers and mess-making pre-schoolers. And I didn’t much like this woman I knew I was, so I started to pray- really pray, for a rescue from Me.

Then God, in His grace, let all my behavior-modifying, performance-oriented faith collapse like that proverbial house on the sand.

And I sank deep.

I saw my own depths of darkness and I cowered at the sight.

Yet in all that mess I had made, Jesus bent down low and rescued me. He picked me out of that muddy pit, cleaned me up, and set my feet solidly on Himself. The Rock.

And I’ve been singing about Him as loudly as I can ever since. (read more about that here) Because…

He did what I couldn’t and He didn’t have to.

He just did.

And that, my dear friends, is the barest bones of this thing we call the Gospel. The good news.

That I couldn’t be good, let alone righteous. And neither could you. And neither can your kids or your friends or your husband or anyone else you expect to be better than they are.

And that’s why Jesus came to rescue us and why He’s rescuing us still and why someday He’s going to bring us so fully into His presence that we become who we were meant to be.

Who He is. Yahweh Tsidqenu. The Lord our Righteousness.

For an all-too-often hypocritical, not-good woman like me, that’s not just Good News. It is the best news!

Because now its not about me and how well I do as a woman or as a mother or wife or friend or Jesus follower. It’s not about following the latest techniques and reading all the books and going to that seminar guaranteed to turn us into shining paragons of perfection.

It’s about Jesus.

The Rescuer. The Redeemer. The Messiah. The Savior.

My righteousness.

From my heart,

Diane

Want more?

Read straight through what some have named, “The Romans Road” :

Romans 3:33

Romans 6:33

Romans 5:8

Romans 10:9

Tucked deep into a journal I kept while raising my children, I discovered this entry. I don’t remember how old my kids were or what prompted the outpouring of my heart. What I do remember is that constant wondering if my life held significance— if I mattered.

I am done with those days now. Yet still the question lingers… For all you moms wondering if your hours add up to nothingness… may you know way down deep that what you do today adds up to forever…

From my heart,

Diane

(source)

JUST A MOM

I absolutely love being just a mom.

No agendas to fulfill, no boss to please. No office to shower and dress and curl and paint for every morning.

I get up each dawn wrapped in my cozy robe; stumble bleary-eyed to the kitchen where steaming coffee awaits me. Instead of office gossip, I am greeted with warm hugs and mumbled G’morning mom’s from little people who are genuinely glad to see me—

Just as I am.

I plan my day not on a computer, but with a warm body curled on my lap.

What should we do today?

Should we go to the park? Or the zoo? Or have a tea party for two?

Certainly there are chores to do. But I am my own boss.

I decide if the laundry needs doing or can wait ‘til a rainy day.

I decide to pick a bunch of home-nurtured roses

or hunt through tangled vines for hiding green beans,

or mow the lawn.

I can choose to stop to play army in the sandbox with my lieutenant general.

I can choose to boogie to blues while my performers do their thing on rollerblades.

I control the destiny of my days.

Each day is an adventure— no two days look the same.

While a semblance of routine exists,

(get up, have breakfast, clean up, make beds… make dinner, clean up, get everybody to bed)

the order is simply a parameter to frame my days.

What to do with the in between part is totally up to me.

How well I do it is up to me too.

These being just a mom days are the most important days of my life.

Nothing I will ever do will compare in significance with the nurturing and training and playing and praying with my children that I do now.

Nothing.

Someday I may make more money, but never a better investment.

Someday I may get raises and reviews, maybe even a promotion or two.

Now I get slobbery kisses and homemade I-LOVE-YOU-MOM cards for no reason.

I am molding a life.

Each day shimmers with significance. My impact of my children holds immeasurable importance.

Talk about power...

I’ve got it!

Prestige...

I am the center of my children’s universe!

Who do all the professional football players say “Hi!” to on national T.V.? Why not “Hi Dad!” or “Hi Boss!” or “Hi Ms. Executive VP?”

Power. Prestige. What else?

How about Position?

I am in a strategic position to place the wisdom of the ages in the hearts and minds of my children. Every time I open the Word of God to my kids, every time I help them to memorize a verse for next week’s Sunday School, every time they see me read my Bible and ponder its meaning, every time I help them to bring their troubles to God in prayer.

I am leading my children onto the path of life.

A woman of incredible power…

in a place of prestige…

holding an immeasurably important position…

I am just a mom.

“So teach us to number our days that we may present to Thee a heart of wisdom…

Let the favor of the Lord be upon us and do give permanence to the work of our hands,

Yes, give permanence to the work of our hands.”

Psalm 90:12, 17

(source)

I am the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd lays down His life for the sheep.

I am the Good Shepherd; I know My own sheep and they know Me.

I have other sheep, too, that are not in this sheepfold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to My voice; and there will be one flock with one shepherd.

My sheep recognize My voice and I know them and they follow Me.

John 10

NLT

The Meaning of His Name:

When I was in the third grade, my family was invited by a neighbor to go to a small new church started in a refurbished prune shed. It was a lovely, cool place with dark wood walls and scarlet carpet on the raised dais.  Tiny pails hung under holes in the ceiling, singing a rhythmic song when the rain beat against the aluminum roof.

The first Sunday we were there I sat surrounded by other nine-years olds in what had been the tiny kitchen of an old farmhouse. An older woman (she was probably all of 30!) read poetry or a song- or something lyrical- from a beautiful white and gold bound book.

I was enraptured by all of it.

When the class was over, the teacher handed each of us a mimeographed copy of what she had been reading and challenged us to memorize it. The prize, she promised, would be the appealingly feminine book of Psalms she held in her hands.

I had to have that book!

All week I worked to cram that poem into my head. By the next Sunday I had it down, word perfect, ready to hold in my hands the coveted beauty of those pages.

And so began by love affair with these words written by a boy-shepherd roaming the hills of a far away land—

The Lord is my Shepherd;

I have everything I need.

He lets me rest in green meadows;

He leads me beside peaceful streams.

He renews my strength.

He guides me along right paths,

bringing honor to His name.

Even when I walk

through the dark valley of death,

I will not be afraid,

for You are close beside me.

Your rod and Your staff

protect and comfort me.

You prepare a feast for me

in the presence of my enemies.

You welcome me as a guest,

anointing my head with oil.

My cup overflows with blessings.

Surely Your goodness and unfailing love

will pursue me

all the days of my life,

And I will live in the house of the LORD

forever.

Now, all these years later, I know why my heart longed for that little gold-bound book. This Shepherd was wooing me, inviting me into a relationship with Himself, offering to be my Shepherd.

Let’s take a look at what He offers…

Rest from all that striving.

Peace in the midst of turmoil.

Strength to face reality.

Guidance through impossibilities.

Safety while surrounded by loss.

His presence when loneliness overwhelms.

Protection when threatened.

Comfort when afraid.

Satisfaction instead of restlessness.

Blessings instead of barrenness.

Hope forever.

Is it any wonder I fell in love with Him?

This Shepherd reaches out His hands to you and to me offering a life that is the antithesis of our reality. In the midst of the darkness and the loneliness and our hair-pulling anxiousness, He promises to lead us into this place of purest pleasure.

Will you follow Him there? Let Him lead instead of holding on to every fretful possibility that holds you stuck?

Dare you trust Him to be your Shepherd?

From my heart,

Diane

If you want to know more about all the enticing imagery of this Name, pick up the classic book, A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23 by Phillip Keller.

Fear has stalked me my whole life. Since I can remember, I’ve been afraid.  Afraid of heights, afraid of falling, afraid of getting lost in the grocery story, afraid of getting in trouble, afraid of anything fast.

Nicknames get attached to little girls like that…

Scaredy-cat,

Chicken,

Worry-wart...

I was afraid of people too.  Afraid of being noticed, of talking to someone I didn’t know.  Afraid of standing in front of people, of giving book reports, of giving speeches.  Afraid to walk to my teacher’s desk to ask a question (After all, someone might see me!).

My imagination ran rampant.  It ran my life, defined my days, and determined my future.

And my fears grew up with me.

As a teenager, I was afraid to walk through the courtyard area where hundreds of students gathered for lunch.  Instead, I’d walk all the way around the school to slip into the cafeteria unnoticed.

As a young woman, I was terrified of staying alone at night.  Every creak and groan of our old house shot a surge of adrenalin through me. Was someone there?

I wouldn’t drive alone to visit my little sister in college three hours away.  The roads were isolated, after all. What if my little Volkswagen Bug broke down?

Earthquakes scared me the most.  When I was fifteen, my family moved to California.  Every few months, it seemed, the earth rattled and shook. The slightest tremor would leave me weak-kneed for weeks.  I imagined the house coming crashing down around me, being trapped, alone.  The rumbling of a truck left me scurrying for cover, an airplane overhead sent my heart racing.

But somewhere in there I gave my heart and life to Christ.  I heard that He was my Father.  That He cared about me.  That He would take care of me. I read His Word and sang His songs and surrounded myself with His people.  Little by little, fears fled.  I grew more confident, composed even.

But earthquakes were still my undoing.

I remember sitting on the edge of my bed once, talking on the phone, when the bed began to wiggle wildly.  I turned to scold my son (sure he was bouncing on the bed!) only to realize that the whole room was shaking!  I could hardly sleep on that antique iron bed after that, every movement felt like that tremor.

I prayed for courage…

prayed for strength…

prayed for healing…

Nothing.

It seemed I was destined to be defeated by fear for the rest of my life.

Then it struck.  On a mellow October day, the Great Quake of ‘89 rocked my world.  Literally.  As soon as it started, I knew it was a big one.  Really big. Hollering for my kids over the ear-splitting roar, I grabbed them close as we huddled in a doorway. When it was finally over, we weaved our way through our broken glass-filled living room to the back yard.  News from neighbors filtered in fast.  Several tuned in to the emergency broadcast system since phones were out and power lines down.  Hundreds of people had been crushed beneath falling bridges and buildings.  Some were still trapped.

And that’s how God freed me of fear.

In that moment, when all our lives were completely and unequivocally out of our control, He stepped in.  He took over.  He became to me who He is~

El Roi: the God Who Sees

El Shaddai: the All-Sufficient One

Adonai: Master

Who can fear when He is so supremely in charge?  When the Master of the Universe, the One who can shake and subjugate the very earth, is watching over me, how dare I be afraid?  Suddenly my fear-filled life seemed silly, trite, and petty. Wasn’t it time I put my hand in His and trust Him fully?

“The steps of the godly are directed by the LORD.

He delights in every details of their lives.

Though they stumble, they will not fall,

For the LORD holds them by the hand.”

Psalm 37:23,24

NLT

From my no longer fearful heart,

Diane