I think I'll cook dinner tonight. Normally we eat light during the week; however, during the summer I try to really cook at least once a week. For tonight it will be Hamburger Casserole. I've been making it for a while and Tom always like it. I wish he would eat peppers and onions so I could add them to it as well. I forgot to get some mushrooms to put in it; but, it is fine without them.
Have a recipe for an Italian chicken recipe. Have most of the stuff to make it. Maybe I'll get the rest of the stuff and try to make that this week as well.
Need to make myself leave the house and go to the gym. Just haven't wanted to go anywhere. Really need friends here. After 12 years I have few roots in the place. In many ways it really isn't 'home'.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
For today
How to Do the Job You Don't Really Want To Do
Certain aspects of the job the Lord has given me to do are very easy to postpone. I make excuses, find other things that take precedence, and, when I finally get down to business to do it, it is not always with much grace. A new perspective has helped me recently:
The job has been given to me to do.
Therefore it is a gift.
Therefore it is a privilege.
Therefore it is an offering I may make to God.
Therefore it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him.
Therefore it is the route to sanctity.
Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God's way. In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness. The discipline of this job is, in fact, the chisel God has chosen to shape me with--into the image of Christ.
Thank you, Lord, for the work You have assigned me. I take it as your gift; I offer it back to you. With your help I will do it gladly, faithfully, and I will trust You to make me holy.
Certain aspects of the job the Lord has given me to do are very easy to postpone. I make excuses, find other things that take precedence, and, when I finally get down to business to do it, it is not always with much grace. A new perspective has helped me recently:
The job has been given to me to do.
Therefore it is a gift.
Therefore it is a privilege.
Therefore it is an offering I may make to God.
Therefore it is to be done gladly, if it is done for Him.
Therefore it is the route to sanctity.
Here, not somewhere else, I may learn God's way. In this job, not in some other, God looks for faithfulness. The discipline of this job is, in fact, the chisel God has chosen to shape me with--into the image of Christ.
Thank you, Lord, for the work You have assigned me. I take it as your gift; I offer it back to you. With your help I will do it gladly, faithfully, and I will trust You to make me holy.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Howard Jones interview
Here is a classic HoJo song and an interview with him. Just click on the link and "forward" to 2:25. Looking forward to getting to see him in concert again in October.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Is There Life After "No"?
This is a questions I'm still struggling with. After 12 years of prayer, God said 'no' to something I had deeply wanted. I'm still trying to figure out why God wants to keep me at the school for another year. Everything about the college seemed tailor made for me. For now, though, the door has been closed. Today I got the following devotion in my inbox. Wow...it really speaks to everything that has been going on. (the devotion came from here.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we were living in Ukraine, someone once told me, “You know how we can tell if someone’s American? They’re the ones smiling for no reason.”
Wrap your head around that one.
I heard it five years ago and it’s still a brain teaser for me. In person and over a cup of tea, I could spend hours dissecting the cultural differences it alludes to. But, of late, it’s been the Christian culture I’ve been thinking about more than any other. And how that statement might apply to us all.
“You know how we can tell if someone’s a Christian? They’re the ones smiling and smiling and smiling. Sometimes for no good reason.”
For two years after our time in Ukraine we were anything but fine. After a decade away we had moved back to South Africa with high hopes for relocating back to my motherland. Those plans were eroded; slowly, painfully, and unexpectedly. Not a single step of our homecoming unfolded as we had so blithely assumed it would.
But, by all appearances we were fine. And if anyone asked, that’s what we told them.
I smiled at church. I smiled at playgroup. I smiled at bible study. And I smiled at kids’ birthday parties. I smiled for no good reason I could think of. Other than that I was sure no one expected me to respond to their generic, “So, how’re you doing?” with a bust gut of agony and bloody tears right there in the meet and greet between the worship and the sermon.
How awkward would that be?
“Snot en trane” – the spot-on Afrikaans expression “snot and tears” – is not generally the appropriate response to a pre-service handshake.
So instead I plastered a stubborn smile, band aid-like, over my bleeding innards and got really good at making small talk and deflecting anything that might try to peel back a corner of the tape.
But 18 months later things were worse. And for the first time I was faced with a “no” answer from God that I couldn’t seem to change or understand.
No, your husband won’t get the job he needs.
No, you won’t be able to stay in South Africa.
No, you don’t get to choose where you go next.
I realized I had been expecting the easy “yes” of what I now recognize as Christianity-lite. I thought if I could grin and bear it long enough, things would finally go my way. I know you’ve heard it too. The fluffy take on some pretty serious verses that try to tell you, “All you need is faith” and you’ll get what you want. “Just believe and the Lord will provide.” “Ask and you shall receive.”
So, this profound and resounding “no” was off my grid by a mile.
Things were not fine. Things were not good. Things hurt inside and out. We had to pack up our house and our new baby boy and move away from the family and country we were just rediscovering. The loss was physically painful.
I wrestled a long time with this new God of my “no.” But slowly I discovered that His answer didn’t dismiss my loss. Not if I saw it in the context of His ability to understand and respond to that loss.
Do you know the Bible story of the infertile woman whom God blessed with a child? The prophet Elisha had prayed for her. But before the boy was grown up, he died. And his desperate mother went looking for an answer. Listen to what she says when the prophet asks her that hardest of questions, “How’re you doing?”
“'Is it well with you? Is it well with your husband? Is it well with the child?'" And she answered, "It is well." 2 Kings 4:26.
She was far from fine. But she took that agony to the only person who could understand it. And at the feet of the God she could share her agony and outrage with, she was well. She was able to be real. Her answer didn’t dismiss her loss. It simply put it in the context of God’s ability to respond.
That is where He met me. At the cross-roads of his decision and my acceptance of it; he led me out of my heartache and into a season of redemption and beauty. All without changing his answer.
Instead he changed me.
(pt 2)
This is Owosso, Michigan. Unlikeliest of destinations. Corn fields as far as the eye can see and enough farm equipment that my son would soon be able to identify the difference between a “tractor” and a “combine.” Owosso opened its arms to us and I crawled in, lay down and died a little.
The loss of homeland and family felt like a physical wound. I bled; I cried. And for months after the move I felt disorientated and disconnected. I did not sense God in it at all. I walked forward in blind faith, stumbling over myself and my regret.
That was one of the most difficult parts of the process. Before we left South Africa, many well meaning Christians around us had constantly implied that if we just had enough faith it would all work out as we prayed it would. It made me start to ask the hard questions.
But what if it doesn’t work out?
What does that say about how God loves me compared to how God loves you (you who seemingly have your heart’s desire).
And after months of pleading prayer that yielded zero results, it was a bitter pill to hear others casually say, “Oh, well, we should just pray for you then.” As if their prayers carried more weight than ours. As if they had God’s ear and we did not.
It took a long, long time (and much wailing and gnashing of teeth) to pack it in and quit my homeland. Because no amount of prayer – by us or others – ended in the answer we were hoping for.
So, we said good-bye.
We watched as my little brother barreled through security at the airport to give my son one last, desperate hug.
We traveled 28 hours.
And we arrived in Owosso, Michigan.
That’s where I thought the story ended. But, you know already that was – instead – a surprise beginning. And I’m enjoying unpacking it with you all.
But, much like the slow and steady process of making chaos out of of a suitcase that is busting at the seams, it is better done in stages.
(Pt 3)
I’ve been digging through some of my old baggage – sharing pieces of the year God told us a whole lot of “no” and not much else. My hope is that it might encourage you if you find yourself stuck in a place where your prayers seem to be bouncing off the walls. If you want to start from the beginning you can read part 1 here and part 2 here.
After a year and a half in my homeland of South Africa our plans to settle in permanently under the purple boughs of the jacarandas were painfully uprooted. No one was hiring an international and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that a man needs to work. So I blindly promised my husband that wherever he found a job, we would move.
Turns out that job was in Michigan.
It could not have been more different. Or more perfect a place to recover. Psalm 23 took on literal meaning for me. Out of the desert of God’s silence and our desperation He led us now into green pastures, beside quiet waters, and the Spirit begin the gentle process of restoring our souls.
We couldn’t afford a house or much of a rental either, but family friends had a home they couldn’t sell and were prepared to rent to us for a fraction of its worth in exchange for us being prepared to move out at a moment’s notice if it sold. It was deep in farm country and would have stood vacant if we hadn’t arrived when we did.
Pete’s aunt and uncle lived just around the corner and absorbed us into hearth and home. And slowly we started to find our feet and take tentative steps forward again.
And I discovered that at the heart of my misery – beyond the homesickness and sense of failure – had been a misunderstanding about faith. I had confused faith in God with faith in what God could do for me. I had been viewing God like a mystical vending machine; I inserted my prayers, pulled the handle and expected the desire of my heart to pop out the bottom slot.
Boy, was I deceived.
I have since come to believe that God is not nearly as interested in our happiness as He is in our holiness. What makes me happy is not necessarily what draws me closer to the God who knows my every nook and cranny. And He loves me enough to say, “no” when – as every parent understands – saying “yes” would have been so much simpler.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still ache for home and the could’ve beens if things had worked out there. It just means that I truly understand in a way I never had before, that His will is for His best, which in turn is for my best. Because He is the God of fresh beginnings and beautiful restoration. And I have the baby to prove it.
(pt 4)
After nearly a year in Michigan we traveled home to South Africa for a visit. We were nervous about how it would go. There was still lingering post traumatic stress from our roller coaster lows while living there. But we had a secret. It warmed us from the inside and carried us boldly forward.
I was pregnant.
And with each roll of this baby’s new body, each tap of his tiny feet on my belly I felt God’s Spirit whispering comfort and the fulfillment of promise in my heart. A Michigan baby headed to South Africa for the first time. The trip exceeded all our expectations. It was chock-a-block full of understanding and friendship and family ties tight and strong.
Like fresh rain it washed away the dirt and exhaustion of the last time we had been home. And we were left with clean memories. Ready for the imprint of moments like this.
The thought of another boy had us all whooping with glee. But a name, we didn’t have a name for a long time.
After three weeks of pap ‘n wors, koesisters, rooibos tea, and oodles of family we left. Again. And this time it only hurt in the good way. The heart so full of faces and places and grins that it wants to explode with a happy bang kind of way. Instead it pounds away in the chest keeping up a stomping rhythm of remembered, relived joy.
On take off, something else stomped. A small foot added its own gumboot beat to the ride. And a name, his name, flashed across my mind. Micah.
We knew no one by that name. We knew very little about the book. Micah was a minor prophet and his letter included in the Bible is just a few short chapters long.
When we got home we looked it up and started to read. And over the echoes of the past two years of “no” God spoke to us in new ways using the ancient words of a prophet to explain where we had come from and where we were going:
Therefore I will look unto the Lord;
I will wait for the God of my salvation:
my God will hear me.
Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy:
when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness,
the LORD shall be a light unto me.
I will bear the indignation of the Lord
because I have sinned against him,
until he plead my cause, and execute judgment for me:
he will bring me forth to the light,
and I shall behold his righteousness.
Micah 7:7-9.
(Even now I can’t read those verses without my eyes blurring.)
He knew all along what he was doing. Even in the darkest moments, there was a night light burning. And joy, such bright, beautiful joy came in the morning.
Two days after Christmas morning Micah was born.
God is our “Yes” in all things despite how we may feel at the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we were living in Ukraine, someone once told me, “You know how we can tell if someone’s American? They’re the ones smiling for no reason.”
Wrap your head around that one.
I heard it five years ago and it’s still a brain teaser for me. In person and over a cup of tea, I could spend hours dissecting the cultural differences it alludes to. But, of late, it’s been the Christian culture I’ve been thinking about more than any other. And how that statement might apply to us all.
“You know how we can tell if someone’s a Christian? They’re the ones smiling and smiling and smiling. Sometimes for no good reason.”
For two years after our time in Ukraine we were anything but fine. After a decade away we had moved back to South Africa with high hopes for relocating back to my motherland. Those plans were eroded; slowly, painfully, and unexpectedly. Not a single step of our homecoming unfolded as we had so blithely assumed it would.
But, by all appearances we were fine. And if anyone asked, that’s what we told them.
I smiled at church. I smiled at playgroup. I smiled at bible study. And I smiled at kids’ birthday parties. I smiled for no good reason I could think of. Other than that I was sure no one expected me to respond to their generic, “So, how’re you doing?” with a bust gut of agony and bloody tears right there in the meet and greet between the worship and the sermon.
How awkward would that be?
“Snot en trane” – the spot-on Afrikaans expression “snot and tears” – is not generally the appropriate response to a pre-service handshake.
So instead I plastered a stubborn smile, band aid-like, over my bleeding innards and got really good at making small talk and deflecting anything that might try to peel back a corner of the tape.
But 18 months later things were worse. And for the first time I was faced with a “no” answer from God that I couldn’t seem to change or understand.
No, your husband won’t get the job he needs.
No, you won’t be able to stay in South Africa.
No, you don’t get to choose where you go next.
I realized I had been expecting the easy “yes” of what I now recognize as Christianity-lite. I thought if I could grin and bear it long enough, things would finally go my way. I know you’ve heard it too. The fluffy take on some pretty serious verses that try to tell you, “All you need is faith” and you’ll get what you want. “Just believe and the Lord will provide.” “Ask and you shall receive.”
So, this profound and resounding “no” was off my grid by a mile.
Things were not fine. Things were not good. Things hurt inside and out. We had to pack up our house and our new baby boy and move away from the family and country we were just rediscovering. The loss was physically painful.
I wrestled a long time with this new God of my “no.” But slowly I discovered that His answer didn’t dismiss my loss. Not if I saw it in the context of His ability to understand and respond to that loss.
Do you know the Bible story of the infertile woman whom God blessed with a child? The prophet Elisha had prayed for her. But before the boy was grown up, he died. And his desperate mother went looking for an answer. Listen to what she says when the prophet asks her that hardest of questions, “How’re you doing?”
“'Is it well with you? Is it well with your husband? Is it well with the child?'" And she answered, "It is well." 2 Kings 4:26.
She was far from fine. But she took that agony to the only person who could understand it. And at the feet of the God she could share her agony and outrage with, she was well. She was able to be real. Her answer didn’t dismiss her loss. It simply put it in the context of God’s ability to respond.
That is where He met me. At the cross-roads of his decision and my acceptance of it; he led me out of my heartache and into a season of redemption and beauty. All without changing his answer.
Instead he changed me.
(pt 2)
This is Owosso, Michigan. Unlikeliest of destinations. Corn fields as far as the eye can see and enough farm equipment that my son would soon be able to identify the difference between a “tractor” and a “combine.” Owosso opened its arms to us and I crawled in, lay down and died a little.
The loss of homeland and family felt like a physical wound. I bled; I cried. And for months after the move I felt disorientated and disconnected. I did not sense God in it at all. I walked forward in blind faith, stumbling over myself and my regret.
That was one of the most difficult parts of the process. Before we left South Africa, many well meaning Christians around us had constantly implied that if we just had enough faith it would all work out as we prayed it would. It made me start to ask the hard questions.
But what if it doesn’t work out?
What does that say about how God loves me compared to how God loves you (you who seemingly have your heart’s desire).
And after months of pleading prayer that yielded zero results, it was a bitter pill to hear others casually say, “Oh, well, we should just pray for you then.” As if their prayers carried more weight than ours. As if they had God’s ear and we did not.
It took a long, long time (and much wailing and gnashing of teeth) to pack it in and quit my homeland. Because no amount of prayer – by us or others – ended in the answer we were hoping for.
So, we said good-bye.
We watched as my little brother barreled through security at the airport to give my son one last, desperate hug.
We traveled 28 hours.
And we arrived in Owosso, Michigan.
That’s where I thought the story ended. But, you know already that was – instead – a surprise beginning. And I’m enjoying unpacking it with you all.
But, much like the slow and steady process of making chaos out of of a suitcase that is busting at the seams, it is better done in stages.
(Pt 3)
I’ve been digging through some of my old baggage – sharing pieces of the year God told us a whole lot of “no” and not much else. My hope is that it might encourage you if you find yourself stuck in a place where your prayers seem to be bouncing off the walls. If you want to start from the beginning you can read part 1 here and part 2 here.
After a year and a half in my homeland of South Africa our plans to settle in permanently under the purple boughs of the jacarandas were painfully uprooted. No one was hiring an international and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that a man needs to work. So I blindly promised my husband that wherever he found a job, we would move.
Turns out that job was in Michigan.
It could not have been more different. Or more perfect a place to recover. Psalm 23 took on literal meaning for me. Out of the desert of God’s silence and our desperation He led us now into green pastures, beside quiet waters, and the Spirit begin the gentle process of restoring our souls.
We couldn’t afford a house or much of a rental either, but family friends had a home they couldn’t sell and were prepared to rent to us for a fraction of its worth in exchange for us being prepared to move out at a moment’s notice if it sold. It was deep in farm country and would have stood vacant if we hadn’t arrived when we did.
Pete’s aunt and uncle lived just around the corner and absorbed us into hearth and home. And slowly we started to find our feet and take tentative steps forward again.
And I discovered that at the heart of my misery – beyond the homesickness and sense of failure – had been a misunderstanding about faith. I had confused faith in God with faith in what God could do for me. I had been viewing God like a mystical vending machine; I inserted my prayers, pulled the handle and expected the desire of my heart to pop out the bottom slot.
Boy, was I deceived.
I have since come to believe that God is not nearly as interested in our happiness as He is in our holiness. What makes me happy is not necessarily what draws me closer to the God who knows my every nook and cranny. And He loves me enough to say, “no” when – as every parent understands – saying “yes” would have been so much simpler.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still ache for home and the could’ve beens if things had worked out there. It just means that I truly understand in a way I never had before, that His will is for His best, which in turn is for my best. Because He is the God of fresh beginnings and beautiful restoration. And I have the baby to prove it.
(pt 4)
After nearly a year in Michigan we traveled home to South Africa for a visit. We were nervous about how it would go. There was still lingering post traumatic stress from our roller coaster lows while living there. But we had a secret. It warmed us from the inside and carried us boldly forward.
I was pregnant.
And with each roll of this baby’s new body, each tap of his tiny feet on my belly I felt God’s Spirit whispering comfort and the fulfillment of promise in my heart. A Michigan baby headed to South Africa for the first time. The trip exceeded all our expectations. It was chock-a-block full of understanding and friendship and family ties tight and strong.
Like fresh rain it washed away the dirt and exhaustion of the last time we had been home. And we were left with clean memories. Ready for the imprint of moments like this.
The thought of another boy had us all whooping with glee. But a name, we didn’t have a name for a long time.
After three weeks of pap ‘n wors, koesisters, rooibos tea, and oodles of family we left. Again. And this time it only hurt in the good way. The heart so full of faces and places and grins that it wants to explode with a happy bang kind of way. Instead it pounds away in the chest keeping up a stomping rhythm of remembered, relived joy.
On take off, something else stomped. A small foot added its own gumboot beat to the ride. And a name, his name, flashed across my mind. Micah.
We knew no one by that name. We knew very little about the book. Micah was a minor prophet and his letter included in the Bible is just a few short chapters long.
When we got home we looked it up and started to read. And over the echoes of the past two years of “no” God spoke to us in new ways using the ancient words of a prophet to explain where we had come from and where we were going:
Therefore I will look unto the Lord;
I will wait for the God of my salvation:
my God will hear me.
Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy:
when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness,
the LORD shall be a light unto me.
I will bear the indignation of the Lord
because I have sinned against him,
until he plead my cause, and execute judgment for me:
he will bring me forth to the light,
and I shall behold his righteousness.
Micah 7:7-9.
(Even now I can’t read those verses without my eyes blurring.)
He knew all along what he was doing. Even in the darkest moments, there was a night light burning. And joy, such bright, beautiful joy came in the morning.
Two days after Christmas morning Micah was born.
God is our “Yes” in all things despite how we may feel at the time.
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