We are God’s masterpiece.

He has created us anew in Christ Jesus,

so that we can do the good things He has planned for us long ago.

Ephesians 2:10

NLT

In just a few days I am going to Haiti.

My clothes are sprayed, dehydration salts packed, malaria pills sitting on the counter, ridiculously huge water bottle ready. I still haven’t quite figured out how to cram all that gear into one carry-on bag, though leaving all my girly goodies behind will certainly free up space.

For one entire week I’ll be sans make-up and curling irons, nail polish and all those everyday things I hide behind. Instead of a luxurious bubble bath at night before I climb under my down comforter, I’ll be showering in a moldy concrete shower and thanking God if I have enough contaminated water to rinse off.

The weather forecast is predicting 97 degree days, and we’re traveling at the tail end of hurricane season. And let’s not even talk about the potential for earthquakes…

This is me! Princess of the Prissy Girls.

Now I know what you’re thinking: What possessed Diane to venture off to the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere? Why didn’t she just write a check and send someone else, someone suitable, someone of Amazon strength and the courage of a warrior?

And since we all know I’m neither strong nor courageous, let me tell you the story that is compelling me to go…

I grew up privileged. Not rich exactly, but with more than most.

My dad, on the other hand, grew up impoverished. Dirt poor. By the age of thirteen he was paying his own way, not because his parents neglected him, but because they simply couldn’t work hard enough or long enough to put food on the table for their family of six.

That poverty drove my father to work his way through school and then up the ladder of his career to a position of respectable success.

And I enjoyed all the bells and whistles of Dad’s drive for security.

So when I embraced the Gospel in my teenage years I was faced with a dilemma: Dare I surrender all? What if the unthinkable happened and God sent me to Africa?

You see I’d been there. When my family vacationed in Uganda and Tanzania we stayed in five star resorts and “roughed it” in Land Rovers as we posed our way on a camera safari across the Serengeti Plain.

Yet even that trip unnerved me. Cockroaches the size of my fist, spiders engulfing a tree, a lizard left over from the dinosaur age. Freaky stuff for a seventh grade girl.

What if God made me go back?

Silly as it may sound, that decision to surrender was agonizing.

Could I live the rest of my life in a jungle hut eating grubs over an open fire? I remembered my parents giving me huge doses of Dramamine so I could calm down enough to sleep the one time we stayed in a grass-roofed structure near a famous watering hole. While others oohed and aahed at the elephants and giraffes as they ambled down for a drink, I was having an adolescent melt down over geckos on the walls.

Dare I trust God for bugs and bats and creepy crawlies?

After weeks of agony, I finally did. Full surrender… even if He sent me to Africa.

That was 37 years ago, and in all that time the closest I’ve come to cooking over an open fire has been camping at Lake Tahoe. Apparently, God didn’t need me to don my safari gear to minister to the natives. Or maybe He was protecting His people from the disaster of my meltdown…

So when I sat across the dinner table with Madame and Bishop Jeune and heard about the needs of the women in Haiti, I couldn’t comprehend the sense of urgency pounding through my veins. Nor could I believe the words that escaped from my mouth when Madame Jeune invited me to come to Haiti to speak at a conference for women in leadership.

But what has amazed me the most is that I want to go! Still, after hearing about the spiders the size of a dinner plate, and the bat that patrols the dorms we’ll be staying in, and the filth and poverty and disease…

I can hardly wait to get there.

When I asked my always-honest husband if he thought I ought to go, he was silent for a long stretch.

“Well…” he mumbled with uncharacteristic hesitancy, “I think only the LORD could have put this on your heart. No way could you have come up with this one on your own.”

A less than enthusiastic endorsement.

But He has put this on my heart. Achingly so.

I wake with their faces in front of me. Rich mahogany eyes, weary from carrying the weight of the grief of their world. Women whose hearts beat like mine but whose lives don’t include bubble baths after a long day of pouring into hurting people.

I see them. They call to me… won’t you come and give us courage to go on?

Courage? From me?

On Monday morning, October 24^th, I’ll be boarding a flight across the world to meet these women whose eyes haunt my sleep.

I won’t be going alone. A team of warm-hearted, wise women is coming with me. Each has been carefully chosen to love on the Haitian leaders, to pour into them the overwhelming love of Christ— to bring hope.

We’ll be staying in the Grace Village compound and traveling in the back of a truck to a large facility nearby each day for the meetings. Women from all over the country will be making their way to this conference, some by bus, others on their own two feet.

They’ll be poor by our standards. Yet I have no doubt that we’ll sense our own poverty as we worship alongside these women who pay such a high price to serve in the Kingdom.

Will you pray for us? For the Haitian women who come? For me?

Will you pray that the same Spirit who has poured so much of His love and grace and mercy into my less-than-worthy life will splash all over these women as we gather together to lift up His Name in Haiti?

Will you pray that I will have courage to give?

From a heart amazed by His grace,

Diane

“Have I not commanded you?

Be strong and courageous!

Do not tremble or be dismayed,

For the LORD your God is with you

Wherever you go.”

Joshua 1:9

“And be kind to one another, tenderhearted,

forgiving each other,

just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.”

Ephesians 4:32

This whole forgiving thing is really hard. Impossible even. Sometimes I don’t feel like forgiving. I can think of a million reasons not to forgive- I mean, after all, won’t that person just get away with it if I let him off the hook? And won’t he do it again if I don’t get in his face and wag my pointy finger?

Yes, yes, and yes!

That’s why forgiving is a heroic act of faith. Ultimately I forgive simply because I have been forgiven so much.

It doesn’t honestly make a lot of sense. But then, neither do a lot of things in the Kingdom.

We could wax long on all the why’s and wherefore’s but you and I know that at some point we have to reach into that half-tamed will of ours and just do it.

Here’s how:

#1 Name the sin.

That’s right, no covering it up or excusing it or stuffing it deep down. Someone genuinely wronged you and its time to figure out exactly what all those roiling emotions are pointing at. Name it.

He stole from you, she lied, he committed adultery, she gossiped.

Find the real, biblical name and use it. Forget all the psychobabble at this point and utilize the raw language of Scripture to recognize the wrong.

Remember that Jesus knew exactly what sins He was dying for as He hung on that Cross.

(2 Corinthians 5:21)

#2 Count the cost.

Authentic, bone deep forgiveness is costly. That free gift offered each one of us by God’s son cost Him his life. Every single drop of blood, every breath, every bit of Him.

Forgiveness hurts deep. It can be agonizing. The cost is incredibly high. And that’s why so many of us harbor stinking, festering garbage cans full of unforgiveness.

We hurt already by the wrong done against us and now we’ve got to forgive?

Yet it’s not impossible. We’ve already been given everything pertaining to life and godliness- even the strength to forgive. (2 Peter 1:2-8)

#3 Pour it on.

There is no such thing as stingy forgiveness. That’s fakery at its most self-righteous.  To forgive someone while withholding love from him or her is not forgiveness at all. Jesus paid the price for one reason only: to bring us close to God. (I Peter 3:18)

If we are to be His imitators, we’re going to have to move beyond how we feel and reach out to love that person who wronged us, and hurt us, and sinned against us.

#4 Entrust yourself to God.

No one really ever gets away with anything. Remember that when any of us sin, we first and foremost sin against God.

He’s waiting and He’s working and He’s wooing people to Himself.

We serve a God who watches over us jealously even while He’s actively involved in utilizing man’s evil to create something good and perfect and beautiful in each of us.  When we forgive out of sheer obedience, He is able to step in and do what He wishes in our hearts.

#5 Listen to wisdom.

Sin always has consequences, (Galatians 6:6,7) and in some cases, that means a loss of intimate relationship. While many, even most, sins can be forgiven in such a way as to restore closeness, sometimes wisdom dictates otherwise. If a person is perpetually unrepentant and refuses to cease the cycle of sin and abuse, then some sort of carefully scripted protection must take place.

Put yourself under the accountability of someone wiser than yourself (like a pastor or a godly husband or someone who offers biblical counsel) in order to love from a distance while God does His work in that person’s life.

#5 Choose.

Remember that forgiveness is a choice of the will, not, as some people espouse, a process. According to everything Jesus taught on forgiveness, we must forgive.

Now, you might not feel all warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. In fact, you may not feel any different at all. How you feel is beside the point because how we feel always follows how we think, not the other way around. Choose with your will to forgive, and eventually, over time, the feelings will follow.

It might take a while- that’s the process part. When all those awful feelings come back to try to choke the life out of you, you’ll have to remind yourself before God that you’ve forgiven that sin.

It’s a choice you make. (Ephesians 4:32, Matthew 18: 21-35)

As hard as all this is, you are not alone. Jesus knows just how you feel, in fact; He’s suffered every single thing that you have. Everything. And He’s waiting in the wings to help you the moment you step into the ferocious battle to forgive.

From my heart,

Diane

(repost)

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

“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

…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’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.

“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.

(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

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

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

Once upon a time I met a man.

He was tall and lean with impossibly long arms that reached all the world in to the circle of his strength. Almond blue eyes beckoned and flashed. A smattering of freckles and a tousle of unruly hair hinted at the boy inside all that convincing conviction that drew others in like bees to honey.

The man emanated intensity.

For a long time I watched that man from far away. Others talked and I listened— leaned in close to hear the man speak. Those first words caught me, drawing me in, inviting me to linger.

In that man I heard a heart beat for God.

Every week the man taught and I, caught in the crowd around him, absorbed the truths he spoke. With greatest care he opened his enormous Bible, flipping pages, leaning forward, compelling us— me to come close, to jump in, to believe.

And we did.

And I did.

And he pulled us in to the One who had rescued him, showing us how to live in a way that honored that Redeemer. Tirelessly he taught us about Jesus, painting a picture of life lived in absolute surrender. A compelling life of purity and passion and purpose.

And all of us fell in love with that Savior of his…

And I fell in love with him.

Shy as I was, it took a long time to dare to let him know. How could I ever hope that one such as he would possibly look my way?

But he did.

Once, twice… a question… a lingering… a hint of maybe.

And so I practiced that secret art every woman knows. Subtle and soft but with all the determination of a tigress on the prowl, I skirted around the edges of his world and invited him into mine.

And he came.

When he talked I listened and I heard and I said it back… and something happened. Something magical and mystical and just a little strange.

Because he heard too.

All the words I couldn’t say. All the thoughts I wouldn’t speak.

He heard— me.

And for thirty-three years we have danced and circled and held onto the hope of forever.

There are three things that amaze me—

no, four things I do not understand:

how an eagles glides through the sky,

how a snake slithers on a rock,

how a ship navigates the ocean,

how a man loves a woman.

Proverbs 30:18,19

This mystery is great…

Ephesians 5:32

Happy Anniversary, my love.

From my heart,

Di

The Lord will accomplish what concerns me… Psalm 138:8

I worried as I tossed and turned all last night.

A running dialogue of what if’s and must-do’s galloped behind my closed eyelids, robbing me of rest and leaving my bed a rumpled mash of misbegotten bed sheets.

It was a relief to wake up!

Rolling out of that wrestling ring of worry, I reached for two ibuprofen to ease the aches and pains my buffeted body bore, padded down to the kitchen to make my morning tea, lit a candle or two to chase away the sodden gloom~ and drank in the healing Words of God.

Comfort…

Assurance…

Control. (His, not mine!)

Soon my weariness lifted as I poured out my petty worries to God.  Like a child, I showed Him my “owies”.  Nothing earth shattering or even heart breaking.  Just daily stuff, and my usual- “How will I get it all done?”  My self-imposed standards of perfection chasing joy and peace right out of my day.  He reminded me, with the patience that makes me love Him all the more, of a few lessons already taught, if not yet fully learned.  I’ll pass some of those on to you, in case you’re popping a few aspirins of your own…

1. Don’t cram too much into one day. Specifically, don’t crowd too many different categories of tasks into one day.  Looking back at His plan for creating the World (a bit bigger than my burdens today!), in Genesis chapter one, each day took on a logical, well thought through order.  First, light, then the skies, then land on which to grow food, then seasons…you see the idea? He had a plan. My frantic hurrying from thing to thing leaves me exhausted, discombobulated (I love that word!), dingy, and out-of-sorts.  No wonder my head aches!
2. Acknowledge what you have done. Again, in Genesis one, at the end of each and every day He looked back over His accomplishments and relished the completed creativity of His work. A simple notebook will do the job.  Set it beside your bed and take a few minutes each night to list the things you did accomplish that day.  Come on, write it down! You’ll be surprised how much you did on a day when you “didn’t get anything done”.
3. Remember who is in control. (hint, hint: not you!) If only I could get this one through my thick head!  I am not in charge.  I have abandoned my life to God and told Him in all sincerity that I want Him to control everything, everyone, every circumstance, every detail of my life.  But He’s not so neat and tidy.  He does things differently than I do.  And He doesn’t usually tell me why!  (read Psalm 138:8)
4. He has a plan and purpose for me. This is one of the most exhilarating, energizing truths to ever grip me.  The fact that He has specific tasks for me to accomplish, assigned tasks just for me…wow!  I read once that giving your kids chores to do around the house enhances their self-esteem.  So I did.  Lots of chores.  They were the most self-esteemed kids on the block.  And now I have a chore list from the Father…because He thinks I’m the one to do it.  Every time I think about that, I sit up a little straighter, clear my desk, and get to work. (read Ephesians 2:10)

…and moms, remember that your tasks have names…

From my heart,

Diane

I’d been cleaning out cupboards and tidying up files and finding things I didn’t know I had— pictures and poems, old papers, photos of days gone by.

Treasures.

Then I found this-

a prayer, a cry to God to help me know how to do this thing He’d called me to,

this role called mom.

Strewn with Tears

The way to church this morning was strewn with harsh words, impatient gestures, and hastily wiped tears.

Oh, those tears!

They broke through my angry heart, pointing a convicting finger straight at me.

I had caused those tears.

I had trampled the tender feelings.

In my rush to leave my home in perfect order I had created chaos.

“The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands.”

O Lord, build my house.

Speak to me, remind me that I serve You best by carefully, tenderly nurturing the souls of my precious children.

Stop me in my tracks when I get off track— before the tears.

From my heart,

Diane

…” well, when we came to the city of Troas to preach the Good News of Christ,

the Lord gave me tremendous opportunities. But I couldn’t find rest because my dear brother Titus hadn’t yet arrived with a report from you. So I said good-bye and went on to Macedonia to find him.

Now wherever we go He uses us to tell others about the Lord and to spread the Good News like a sweet perfume…”

2 Corinthians 2:12,13,14

(source)

Early this morning, still pajama clad, I finally cleaned out my fridge.

It looked alright- no spills, nothing going green yet.  But I every time I dared open the door, my over-sensitive nose was assaulted by an awful stench.  Where was it?  I’d checked left-overs, sniffed cheese, rummaged through the vegetable bin- nothing. How could something that looked so clean smell so rotten?

I found all sorts of stuff I didn’t know I had in there. Where’d I get all these sauces? Barbeque sauce, teriyaki sauce, chili sauce, hot sauce, Szechwan sauce and steak sauce to name just a few. And mustard—four different kinds!

Where was that stink?

I couldn’t help but ruminate, as I rummaged through my fridge, on my somewhat stinky life.  Something didn’t smell right lately.  Nothing obvious- no septic sins, nothing moldering unattended.  Everything on the outside seemed decently clean.

So how come I didn’t feel fresh?  Where was my energy… my normal wake-up-in-the-morning hopefulness?  How come I kept dreading my days and then barreling through them, dragging my to-do list along behind?  Why was my eye twitching?

Slowly the fridge emptied.  Every corner clean, each vegetable inspected.  Lots of iffy odors thrown out.  Still, nothing nasty enough to cause such a foul odor. What could it be? Time to check the freezer.

Once again everything came out.  When was the last time I emptied this freezer?  Last summer?  Maybe the summer before?  I have no idea. Judging by the overflow of frozen green beans and who-knows-what’s-in-em ziplocks, it’d been a good long while since I’d ventured deep into this territory. Why ever did I buy a big bag of frozen pineapple?  I don’t even like pineapple!

But the smell was fading. Either that or my olfactories were failing. The deeper I cleaned, the less I smelled. Yet I’d uncovered nothing.

I think the apostle Paul was talking about stinky lives when he wrote to his friends in Corinth that even though he’d experienced a lot of unrest in his life lately, he was determined that every where he went he’d spread the fragrance of Christ. He reminded his friends (and us, by the way) that spreading the Good News was about none of us having to stay trapped in our stinkiness because Jesus cleaned all that out on the Cross. His blood actually washed us clean. Imagine that. Clean, fresh, fragrant beauty.

Could it be that the fetid odor I’d been trying to ignore had to do with me forgetting that?

Like maybe it’s not about me and my agenda and my stress from my overambitious workload? That my goal ought not to be to get so much stuff done- but to spread His beauty and His perfume wherever, whenever, however, and with whomever I find myself?

Like maybe it’s really about Jesus?

If you, like me, tend to get ahead of God and pack your days full of more tasks than any fully-human-woman can possibly hope to accomplish, then maybe its time to stop buying more mustard.  Time to figure out why the eye is ticking before the bomb goes off. As for me, I’m going to get rid of some of the extras that are crowding out my joy.  Its time to take a long look at all that I’m doing and ask God for wisdom to know what needs to be thrown out. Time to clean the fridge.

I still have no idea what caused such extreme malodorousness. Nor do I know why it’s gone. But I do know that we’ll be eating a lot of strange combinations over the next few weeks- honey mustard on green beans anybody?

From my heart,

Diane

My father is not a famous man. He has never written a book, never wanted to write a book. He’s never been interviewed or quoted or awarded anything much at all.

If you heard his name you would probably ask, Who’s he?

On the outside my dad looks just very ordinary. Medium weight, average height, brownish-grayish hair, blue eyes.

All my years of growing up, he lived in an ordinary tract home, drove an ordinary car, lived an ordinary life.

But my dad is not ordinary.

Born to a poor family, he worked his way through college, earned his degree, and landed a promising job with a large company.  He stayed out of debt, stayed married, and stayed with that same company for over thirty years.

It’s not all the things he has done that make my father special; it’s who he is.

As a man, as a father, my dad is really extraordinary.

Well acquainted with poverty, Dad determined to raise his children to be hard working, responsible people. Fresh as if it were yesterday, I remember being given the responsibility to water a brown patch of the front lawn. My job was to turn that brown grass green. Everyday just before I knew his car would drive into the driveway, I’d be out there proudly showing my daddy that at the impressive age of six, I was his big girl.

And he let me dream. Of course I could be a prima ballerina— if I worked long and hard at it. Certainly I could own a horse of my own— if I worked and saved and didn’t waste my money.

Though I never got through the first class of ballet, I did eventually get my horse.  For years I washed cars, babysat, dog sat, and house sat, until finally I exchanged five crisp hundred dollars bills for my very own bonafide horse.

I think my dad loved that horse as much as I did. He bought himself a pair of cowboy boots, learned the necessary lingo, and took hundreds of pictures.

He entered into my world and I loved him for it.

Somehow Dad just knew me. He’d listen as I jabbered endlessly about nothing, and yet seemed to understand what I didn’t say.

I grew up convinced that Dad could fix anything. If I left my hair dryer on the workbench, I could expect to find it in working order the next day. No big deal. Dad fixed it.

When mom and I disagreed and cried and yelled, Dad helped us to see the problem logically. To work it out. To be calm. Dad fixed us.

As a little girl, I loved my daddy’s hands. Broad and strong, they meant safety to me. When he held my little hand in his all was well with my world. He’d squeeze it every so often, not saying it in so many flowery words, but clearly communicating his love just the same.

Dad never used his hands to spank me; he had a wooden paddle for that. He didn’t’ have to use it very often but when he did he meant to teach a serious lesson. Perhaps the greatest pain those spankings caused me was to my pride. I’d let him down, disappointed him.

Later, when I was too old for spanking and my friends urged me to do something wrong, my response was clear, “No way, my dad would kill me!” Which, translated means, “Its not worth seeing the look of disappointment and disapproval in my daddy’s eyes.”

In my junior year of high school I faced a real identity crisis. I had stopped trying at school, given up being pleasant and nice at home. I was sure no one understood me, convinced no one really cared.

When I handed my dad my very average report card at the end of the semester, I cried and told him I knew I should do better— but just couldn’t.

He seemed to understand.

I got a two-bit job flipping hamburgers at a western-style amusement park that summer. Every day I dressed in a silly looking red and white stripped skirt, plain white blouse and red high top converse shoes with a big red bow in my hair.

Dad said I looked beautiful.

Every evening he asked about my job, the people I worked with, the food I cooked. “An important job”, he convinced me.

Several times, out of the blue, he would walk into that little hamburger joint and order a cheeseburger with the works. He always wore his cowboy boots, always winked at his flush faced daughter, and always declared loudly that it was the best hamburger he’d ever eaten.

He had me convinced I was the best hamburger flipper in the entire U.S.A. I was certainly the most responsible, best looking, top employee that Frontier Village had ever employed— or so said my dad.

By the end of the summer I was standing a little taller and that terrible chip on my shoulder was beginning to melt. That next school year I earned straight A’s and landed a good job at a bank before going on to college.

I have always known that it was Father who straightened me out.

Not with the stern confrontations or harsh discipline so typical of those teenager years. He didn’t draw up contracts I wouldn’t keep or heap on guilt I couldn’t bear. He just encouraged me. A lot. And because he believed in me, I began to believe in myself.

Dad is an engineer, not a psychologist, but he listened to his daughter’s heart and heard a cry for help.

Once again, Dad fixed everything.

On my wedding day Dad sat down with me, held my hand in his, and said,

“Honey, today I am going to give you away to another man.

I want you to know that once you are married you can never come back.

If you and your husband have a disagreement

you’re going to have to work it out together.

So if you’re not sure, now is your last chance to change your mind.”

I cried at the sobering, unromantic reality of his words. He was right, I knew, but somehow it didn’t fit into my world of romance and fairy tales. Yet as he squeezed my hand and smiled quietly into my eyes, I knew that my father was giving me the greatest gift he could possibly give.

He was letting go.

From a heart forever grateful for a Dad like mine,

Diane

“… that I may know Him, and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His

sufferings, being conformed to His death…”

“I press on in order that I may lay hold of that…”

“I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of Christ Jesus.”

− Paul in his letter to his friends in Philippi

(source)

It has often been said that life is a journey. And I believe that is so. But every journey I’ve been on has a destination, a goal, a place to get to. I’ve yet to meet anyone who set out to go nowhere.

For most of us, that journey seems to be at best random, at worst misdirected. We slide through life following our noses to the next place, randomly picking scents that smell good to us for a time. Then something else catches our attention and off we go, veering here and there into the vast frontier of life experiences.

No wonder we’re so restless.

Then there are those whose path is one of indiscriminate destruction. Careening here and there, leaving broken souls and calamity in their wake, these people pepper our lives with pain. To those married to such a person, or raised by someone of this sort, life begins to look more like a destruction derby, round and round a dusty track of defeat.

Where are we going? Where are we meant to go? And why is the getting there so filled with pain?

These are the questions we ask ourselves, the queries we spend our entire lives pursuing, whether we realize it or not.

Why else do we set goals? What other reason is there for all this quest to figure ourselves out? Why the bitterness so many end up with at the close of their lives?

The Bible is filled with stories of men headed somewhere. Abraham to a “land I will show you”, Moses from an Egyptian palace, through the wilderness, to the edge of the Promised Land. David, from the hills surrounding Bethlehem to the halls of a kingdom.

Women too, seem drawn to a particular place they are meant to be. Ruth the Moabitess determined to let nobody hold her back from living amongst the people of Promise. Knowing they would despise her, she went anyway. Her declaration to her mother-in-law, Naomi, sounding more like a life plan than simply a declaration of loyalty.

The list goes on and on. Esther to the king’s bedroom, Mary to the manger, Lydia to the riverside, Paul to Macedonia. Men and women called and directed by God to go somewhere.

I was a young woman when my journey took its first terrible turn. Up ‘til then I’d coasted with ease through an idyllic childhood. Never knowing any real pain other than the occasional conflict, life was as it was supposed to be— good and happy and normal.

Yet in all that goodness, a vague dissatisfaction had set in. An uneasy sense that there ought to be more. More what? I had no idea, just more.

When, inexplicably, in my twenties I began to lose my hearing, that flickering flame of restlessness ignited into a full-fledged inferno of entitled fury.

How dare God do this to me!

Wasn’t His job to make life good? As long as I followed His rules He was supposed to make everything right. To bless me. To give me everything I needed and even most of what I wanted to make life happy and rich and full and fulfilling.

Now this?

Soon I settled into a better solution. God was going to heal me, that was it! I envisioned myself a crowning glory of God’s power displayed for all to see. His poster child of gleaming joy. Arms raised, I would declare to all the world that God is good, just look at me and see His promise fulfilled.

What a story this would be! And of course, humble woman that I was, I would be absolutely resolute in giving all the glory to God. Just look at how God takes care of His own— especially those who follow the rules.

Wouldn’t everyone want to follow Him then?

Only He didn’t heal me. The tests came back showing further decline. The doctors were dismayed. Deafness was mentioned.

And my world fell apart.

The smooth sailing that had characterized my life had run into gale force winds and I had no equipment to handle it.

And though that’s a story for another day, (you can read the rest, if you like, here) I am now absolutely certain that it was God who propelled me into that storm and God who kept me there.

I did go deaf. I am still deaf. And I believe He wants me deaf.

And all this has to do with journey- my journey, because now I know the destination. I know exactly where I’m going.

I’m still not crazy about this section of the route. The bumps can be jarring, the twists and turns wear me out at times, but I’m on my way to where I’m supposed to go- to where I want to be.

My destination is right up close to the heart of God.

That’s where He’s taking me and He knows the way. That’s all He’s ever wanted for you and me, ever since that horrifying day in the Garden when we broke away from Him in the first place. That first sin that separated us from Him, setting us on a course of self-centered self-destruction far from His heart.

He wants me back. He wants you back.

And for some of us- for most of us, the only way we’re ever going to get there is through suffering.

Its not a pretty thought.

And yet, I can say now, after years and years of this hard thing, it’s worth it! This place He has brought me to, filled as it is with hurt and loss, is a good place.

Up close, He is all I ever wanted and more than I ever dreamed.

If your journey is taking you through some rough spots, will you take a little while to think about where you’re supposed to be headed in the first place?

I wish I had.

All that rage down deep came from a heart confused. Had I known His craving to connect my heart to His, I could have climbed into His comfort while He held me there. Instead I fought and demanded and made a mess of soul.

I’m still on that journey. Getting closer now, I’ve caught a whiff of His beauty.

Though suffering still scares me, I know where it leads. And I know where I’m going. And I want there.

I want Him.

From my heart on the way,

Diane

Today I want to tell you a story.

But this is not a pretty story. In fact, this story’s horrors may keep you up at night. So if you only like the nice ones, go ahead and move on because…

There’s nothing nice about murder.

This story begins many, many years ago when a baby girl was born to her proud father and adoring mother. Like every little girl, Megan loved to twirl and dance and laugh out loud. She played baby dolls and drew pictures of the sun and the stars and green trees beside pretty houses.

She poured love and embraced life.

But as so often happens for fairly-like little ones, Megan struggled through the painful metamorphosis from girlhood to womanhood. Something snagged along the way. Pain invaded her safe cocoon. Misunderstanding and confusion and rejection and helplessness conspired to wreck her once-safe world.

So Megan ran away.

Away from the madness. Away from hurt. Away from a world gone bad.

But as she fled the darkness, her feet stumbled into that blackest of pits, catching her there, gripping her tight—drugs.

This little girl who once swirled to the applause of her parents, descended into the dark relief of nothingness.

Years passed. Years that should have been filled with boys and bouquets and snapshots of a life lived at the edge of joy. In their place were pictures of a hallow-eyed waif with too-limp hair and too-dull eyes. Pictures that never made it to the scrapbooks.

Her parents tried to help.

Oh how they tried! Rehab and rescues and searching and letting go.

But the lost girl stayed lost to all that love. Lost on purpose.

And then one day the unthinkable twisted the nightmare into terror.

Megan was murdered.

Her proud father had to hear. And so did her mama. How their baby, their beautiful, angel-haired, twirling little girl died alone.

Afraid.

And somehow it seemed to all who knew, that Satan won that day.

All those prayers. Didn’t God hear?

But this story didn’t end at Megan’s murder.

Maybe her story just started… maybe there’s a whole lot more to Megan’s life than her gruesome death… and maybe, just maybe, Megan is watching beneath the arms of God as this next saga of her story unfolds.

Megan’s adoring daddy, you see, is not a man to let things lie. He’s a man of action, of can-do-must-do-will-do drive. And he’s a judge. The black robed, stern visaged, gavel-pounding guy behind the oak stand. His name is Tom.

Now I know what most of you are thinking. Daddy gets bad guy and bad guy goes to hell! Right? The good guys cheer and all the mamas all the world over sleep a little easier tonight.

But that’s not this story.

The bad guy did get caught. It took a long time and a lot of men and a lot of mamas with a lot of fire to get this guy. But they did it. They got him. And they locked him behind steel so he could never hurt a lost little Megan ever again.

And he didn’t even say he was sorry. Not once. A really bad guy.

And Megan’s daddy— Tom— the judge— still grieved deep.

But somewhere in his mourning something happened.

Something strange and otherworldly and unexplainable. Something about faith and the Father. Something foreign to all the rest of us watching.

Tom forgave the man.

Reaching deep into that part of the soul no one sees, Tom’s yearning for peace turned him to the One who called himself the Prince of Peace. And so he opened the book about that strange one and searched inside the words to find what no one else could give. What he found there shook his heart.

Words about mercy to the undeserving, and grace for brutality and forgiving the unforgivable.

Words like “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

Those words.

And Tom, the one on the outside of those prison walls, felt his soul set free.

Really.

In fact, with the freeing of his heart, came something more. Something hard to believe but true none-the-less.

Tom, the-little-girl’s-adoring-daddy, that Tom, went behind the bars to tell the man, that very bad man who had murdered his daughter, about the One whose words set him free. And that bad man who had never even wept a tear, that one who had not so much as said I’m sorry, broke apart.

While guards held guns and no one watched, Tom talked. Words about One who died on purpose for men like him. Bad men. And good ones too. And how the God-man knew what He was doing when He hung from that sin-scarred beam. And how He had the bad man’s face and Megan’s face and Tom’s face all tucked into His heart as He writhed in pain.

And Tom kept talking.

Words about why and words about how. Words about life to the man who brought death to his daughter.

And when the man asked why, Tom just cried. A lot. And...

The one who wielded the knife and shed the blood and heard the screams— shattered in the face of forgiveness.

And I think Megan knows.

And smiles.

And twirls a bit before her other Father with a glee and gladness and joy not known since her little girl days.

And so do I.

And so should you.

Because that’s not just an ugly story about a world gone bad. And that’s not a story where the evil one wins.

That’s a story about One who sets the prisoners free.

All of us.

From my heart,

Diane

…He Commands the Morning

Job 38:12

(source)

The dark hour before dawn wrapped its silence around me as I burrowed deeper beneath the comforter.  Mmh… that luscious sense of waking early, only to realize I can luxuriate in a couple more hours of sleep…ahh…sleep.

Then a whisper echoing over the silence,

Come

Blinking open sleep encrusted eyes, I peek out of my warm nest into the darkness.

Come!

This time I raise my head. Did someone call my name?  Who could be up?  My husband’s steady snoring assured me it wasn’t him.  Mmh…My imagination of course, a dream perhaps…back to sleep.

Come!

This time I startled awake.  What?  Who?

Come, My beloved.  Come meet with Me.

Could I be hearing right?  Could this inexplicable voice be my Lord’s?  Was He calling me to come to Him?

As I lay there wondering, I heard it one more time.

Come.

Reluctance fled and with it all sense of sleepiness.  Throwing back the covers, I padded downstairs with my heart pounding in anticipation.  What did He want?  Why would He wake me?  Was this real or was I going crazy?

Within moments I had my answers.

God wanted me.  He wanted me to be with Him.  And what’s more, He wanted to be with me. Just be.  Not to read my Bible, not to pray, not to do anything at all. Just be.

Curled up in the corner of the sofa, my Bible open on my lap, a steaming mug of tea in hand, He spoke to my heart.  Words of wisdom, words of delight poured over my heart that morning.  I felt lavished in His love.  Surrounded.  He simply wanted me.

And He still does.

“My heart has heard You say,

“Come and talk with Me.”

My heart responds ,

“Lord, I am coming.”

May your mornings be filled with the conversation.

From my heart,

Diane

Dear Daughters-of-My-Heart:

I’ve spent the morning puttering around my house; cleaning and folding, tidying and wiping, doing all those hidden things no one sees— those things that turn these walls and windows and floors into a welcoming place. A home.

And as I’ve puttered, I’ve had you on my heart. Watching out the window as the rain comes, the wind whipping blossoms off trees, this ache pushes deep. The Father washes His world fresh and clean and I want that for you. Every one of you.

I see the pain flit across your face when words like purity and virgin and love get said. I watch your hope dim. Your body slid deep into your coat as if it could cover what you’ve lost.

I ache because I hear your cries in the night.

Somewhere long ago you let yourself wish a lie. If only I give him all of me, he’ll give me all his heart forever…

And you did… but he didn’t.

And now you’ve spent it all on something you can’t take back and if wishing worked, you’d wish it all away. The pain, the loss, the choice you made. All those wishes in the night.

And oh how I hurt for your pain. How I wish it would all go away.

And as I wish, I pray. I talk…alone at my sink, this sacred place…to the Father who knew what you were doing and why. The One who whispered in your ear. The One who knows.

And we talk, He and I, about all that pain, while I pull apples from the fridge and ponder what to do with those shriveled skins— throw them away? Waste the fruit? Wishing I’d tasted that sweet flesh while they were fresh and ripe.

And He shows me then, just what He has in mind. For you. And for my near-done apples.

My son will be home soon, I realize, while I peel and scrape and cut away the black parts. Won’t he love the scent? He’ll bound his way into my workspace, wrap those arms around my back, and let me know he knows I did this all for him.

Just like the Father is doing all for you.

You’ve said your sorry’s, wept your tears, and He knows. And now He’s busy in His workroom too. Adding a pinch of salt to bring the flavors back, a bit of spice, a lot of sweet.  Chopping the bits all small and soft, mixing it up, bringing it in. Washing all those ugly parts away.

That’s His way.

He calls Himself a potter and you the clay. He molds and mixes. Wasting nothing.

Building beauty out of mud.

I chop some more, add a hint of lemon. Sour, yes, but something inside ignites the faded flavors to what they ought to be. I don’t know why, but it works. Always.

The bowl is full. I mix and scoop and turn it over and over again. Breaking clumps, spreading flavor, beating the mess. And I pray for you.

This mixing hurts.

Then I top it off. With good things swirled, I cover my mess of used up apples with what can only be called grace. The part everyone wants, heaped high. Crunchy, buttered, sugared things that will melt into deliciousness done right.

Into the hot oven I slide it. Shut the door. Set the timer. Forty-five minutes and then some. I’ll check it from time to time just to be sure its not too hot. Just warm enough to meld those lovely things...

into what they’re supposed to be.

Matt comes home just before its done. Says all those things boy-men say about scents and starving and best-moms-in-the-world. And I smile real big. My boy. I made it for my boy.

He doesn’t know about the shriveled skins and blackened holes. Those are gone now, washed away down deep. He tastes the beauty of my artistry, relishing each bite as my love to him. Mom’s love.

And so, dear girls, does He. My Father- yours!

He mixes and He adds and He knows just how. Then He jumbles it all ‘round and you don’t know why.

But He does. He really does.

Then the heat hurts bad. And you hear and you feel and you ache as you melt. And He watches close just then. The Master at work. Hoping, looking, checking again and again.

And someday, dear girls-of-my-heart, He’ll pull you out all warm and soft and sweet again.

He’ll make you what you never could have been before. A gift. A grace.

A love from Him to someone.

From my heart,

Diane

For I am confident of this very thing,

That He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

For it is only right for me to feel this way about you all,

Because I have you in my heart… you are all partakers of grace with me.

For God is my witness how I long for you all with the affection of Christ Jesus.

And this I pray, that your love may abound still more and more in real knowledge and all discernment, so that you may approve the things that are excellent, in order to be sincere and blameless until the day of Christ; having been filled with the fruit of righteousness which comes through Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God.

Philippians 1:6-11

“And the angel of the Lord…

came…

and sat upon it.”

Matthew 28:2

(source)

The stone stood in silent sentinel across the cave. On the other side, or so she thought, lay Jesus.  Her Lord.  And wrapped up with Him lay all her shattered hopes and dreams. Dead.

She’d come to say good-bye. Farewell to faith.

She’d come to grieve. To let go of the hope that had held her in such wild expectation every time He talked.

It was over now.

Best she be done with it and cope with reality… deal with drudgery… face her future…

But that stone blocked her way.

Falling to the ground in a heap of defeated despair, pulling her knees tight against her chest, she rocked back and forth, back and forth as her sobs filled the early morning air.

Why… Was… Life… So… Hard…?

Waves of grief shook her. Years of hurt overwhelmed her reason, spilling out upon the unyielding realities of that stone. There was nothing to do but die.

Somewhere in the peripheral of her mind she sensed movement, but her sorrow was too great to stop and listen. But there.

A sound.

A scrape.

Was that a cough?

Her sobs slowed, again a noise.

Fear froze her.  Oh no, what now?

Slowly, hesitantly, as if she could wait away the next disaster, she looked up.

An angel sitting on the stone, that… gargantuan… immovable… uncontrollable mountain of impossibilities.

And the stone was moved.

Just like that.

Is a stone blocking your way to life?  To peace?  To joy?  Have you worn yourself out trying to push it away?  Exhausted your soul trying everything to change your circumstances?  Are you sweaty and angry and defeated and discouraged?  Have you lost hope?

Sit still awhile. Sit at the tomb of your tomorrows and let yourself grieve what might have been.  Should have been.  Cry it all out.

And when you’re done, listen… shhh… quiet… be still…

In the ashes of your grief, in the failure of your fantasies of how life ought to be, sits Jesus. In dazzling white He sits atop that stone… immune to impossibilities… with a different idea of the ideal.

And while you’re there, let Him fill you with His hope and His dreams.  Let Him store those tears away, pack up your past, relinquish your regrets, and give you… a new start, a new life… a renewed hope…

After all, He rolled away that stone.

From my heart,

Diane