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Selective Hearers and the Women Who Love Them
[Still Waters]
07/19/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Selective Hearers and the Women Who Love Them
A tragedy has occurred in our home. I had hoped and prayed this pestilence which had caused "a thousand to fall at my side" would somehow not come near our home. But my faith was not strong enough, my prayers not powerful enough. We were destined to become like almost every other married couple I knew. It does indeed rain on the just and the unjust.
I can remember the night well, that our home was invaded. As a newlywed, I was pouring my heart out to my husband as he watched TV to keep from being overwhelmed with emotion at the details of my story. Then as I allowed the usual moment of hesitation in my monologue, where he would normally enter the conversation with compassion, wisdom, and understanding, there was silence. I remember waiting, thinking, "Wow! He is so touched with my outpouring, he cannot speak." The silence continued...and then the scene that has been rerun in our home more times than Andy Griffith played out.
"Honey? Honey? Are you listening??......HONEY! ARE YOU LISTENING?"
His armor still shown brightly, as it rested against the blue denim background of the recliner. His shield still rested against the left side of the chair, and his sword against the right side, ready to defend me in a heartbeat, but something was still wrong. I then ran to my knight in shining armor's side convinced some thing was terribly wrong. Finally after struggling to shake that massive amount of shining metal and getting no response, denting the chest plate as I enthusiastically performed CPR attempting to revive him, I flipped open his face guard, only to find a some cob webs and a note, "Gone to get a sandwich, keep talking."
The glazed look in his eyes as he returned from the kitchen, wearing his ragged white t-shirt and jeans, said it all. (Do Knights always dress that tacky under their armor?)Not only did he not have anything to say about my vocal offerings, not only did he not hear them, he did not know I was in the room. The winds of selective hearing had blown into our home. I thought my man would be different than so many of my friends' husbands. It was a sad day, for both of us. I would now talk twice as much since he could only absorb half as much. The half he did absorb would be confused with the the half he didn't hear. The half he didn't get would be the whole juxt of the conversation.
I have come to accept my husband's late onset hearing disability, although I think it would make it easier to deal with if I could receive a monthly disability check to compensate me for the inconvenience his hearing loss has caused me. Of, course I would have more information to share with him when I came back from shopping which would only make the situation more unbearable for both of us.
The new tragedy? Our home has been struck again. My 10 year old son started exhibiting the same symptoms of this disability. I was devastated. He is only 10. He's too young for a grown man's disease. I cried out to God in desperation, "Please don't take my son from me! I still have so much to share with him! Please God, 6 months! Give me 6 months to say goodbye, before his eyes glaze over, and communication is forever limited to commercial breaks and the time it takes to fix him a sandwich!" But I did not pray through and his hearing got worse.I would frequently be giving directions in his general direction in the living room. I would wait on some sort of acknowledgment that my words had been received and processed. Moment's later, still no response. I cannot count the times I have given reminders as we walked out the door, of items he needed to grab, only to arrive at our destination "itemless". I found myself addressing him like he was 90 years old and living in a rest home.
"IT'S TIME FOR YOUR BATH!"
"NOT MATH! YOUR BBBBBBAAAAATH!"
And with the absolute sincerest look on his face, he would say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
Well, this mom got tired of apologies. I decided to take Nathan to our Ear, Nose, and Throat Specialist. We drove an hour and a half, in hopes of a miracle procedure to restore sanity to our home.
We arrived, and I informed the doctor of my dilemma. "My son is turning into his father at age 10. This should concern all parties involved. " He didn't seem to realize what a state of national emergency this was. I told him of Nathan's hearing loss, his constant misunderstandings, and the all annoying phrase repeated throughout the day, "What?".
The doctor laughed and informed me, that he has numerous wives drag their husbands into his office to get their hearing checked, only to find their husbands can hear fine, it's the high frequency of their wives' voices that they cannot hear. I cracked up laughing, assuming that was some sort of audiologist' joke, but he assured me it was true. I felt pity for those wives, but knew God could move in my situation. Apparently God moved all right- right out of that doctor's office. They performed the tests on Nathan's ears. I was shocked by the results- as I usually am when told I am the one with the problem. Apparently the high frequency of my voice does not always register in Nathan's ears. The more frustrated I get, the higher my voice goes, decreasing my chances of being heard. I am raising a 10 year old, with the hearing of a 60 year old. The doctor suggested he marry a woman with a deep voice. He did give me some pointers to making sure I am heard- make him look me in the eyes when I am giving him direction. Make him repeat the directions back to me. Minimize distractions during important conversations. He said I could also try them on my son if they worked on my husband.
Then as we were leaving, the doctor told Nathan, "Nathan, it was good to see you again."
Nathan replied, "Again, what does he mean again?"
"Nathan, he was the doctor that took your tonsils out."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot."
With his memory following so closely on the departure on his hearing, we decided to go straight to the Social Security Office and get his paperwork started. Wanted: A godly woman with a low voice, a good memory, and patience to marry my son.
As we prepared to leave the office though, the doctor looked into Nathan's eyes and gave him a clear instruction. "Don't tell your mother anymore you can't hear. You need to be honest and say, "I wasn't listening."
Well, about that time, God stepped back into the office, and convicted me of my listening skills.
"My sheep know my voice.....
I know His voice well. I can recognize Him in a crowd. I can hear Him in the crashing waves, or a gentle brook. And I know when to pretend I didn't hear Him- when He asks for more than I am willing to give. I can hear Him calling my name, when I want just 30 minutes to sleep. When He calls me from my gentle cruise to leave the boat and walk on the water, I sometimes find myself in more of a hearing mood than listening one. We as His sheep know His voice, but are we always listening? To hear is to simply acknowledge the sound, to listen is to hear the sound and process the information. So many times, I am comforted by hearing His voice, because it means He is still near. It also somehow leads me to believe that as long as I am close enough to still hear His voice, than I can hone in and listen more closely when I feel like "listening."
The sad issue is this- it we who miss out when we don't listen. When I try to tune out the noise of my kids each day, I miss out on on conversations I want to join, games I want to play, jokes when I really need a laugh, and joy and chaos I will someday miss and long to hear. Sometimes we are tuning out an invitation from God to draw closer, go deeper, soar higher, or even rest longer. We tend to always try to remember that we will not have our kids forever and time is precious with them. If only we could grasp that concept with God. Though God is eternal, the time He would share with us today under these circumstances in our lives, may never happen again. It is the changes in us that will hinder the effectiveness and impact of time spent with Him, not Him. If God calls you today, it is because He knew something of your present circumstances or tomorrow's events that makes this moment in time the perfect moment to speak to you. What if what He wants to impart to you today, will be too late to receive tomorrow? We treat God's continual presence and activity in our lives too lightly. We take for granted our God who never sleeps nor slumbers, assuming we will always another time to meet.
When the same voice that spoke light into existence, calls unto our inner man to come and dine, it is not an invitation to be taken lightly. Just as he tried to instill in the Israelites with their daily ration of manna, there is daily provision from Him available to us each day. Tomorrow's will not be available today, and today's will not sustain through tomorrow. Just as I long for Nathan to treat every word I speak to Him as significant and meaningful, how much more so should the words of our Good Shepherd be heeded and internalized.
As Dr. Schultz gently reprimanded Nathan, I too, received the rebuke to be honest-"Father, I will not say I did not hear you, but rather I was not listening. " How ridiculous to ever think God would speak too low for me to hear.
I paid a $35.00 co-pay for that rebuke. Of course, I saved $35.00 when I cancelled the appointment I had made for my husband.
O Be Careful Little Eyes What you See
[Still Waters]
07/09/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
"O Be Careful Little Eyes What you See,"
I am tirelessly careful about what other people view me doing. I try to be cautious and modest in my dress, I am discreet and private when clearing my nasal passages (please don't make me expound on that...) and I pride myself on my proper, ladylike behavior. But there are times, when control of what others observe me doing is removed.
Such was the case this week.
In preparation for the company this weekend, I was fulfilling my job duties as "Keeper of the Cement Pond." I was skimming, chlorinating, vacuuming, and sweating. When I clean the pool, I usually dress in my oldest, tattered, faded clothes because I am notorious for getting chlorine on them and fading them. That day was no different. In addition to bumming down, I will neglect to apply makeup or style my hair. Why apply what is going to be sweated off into the pool water anyway, and then require more treatment to remove?
As this Beverly Hillbilly 90210 pool gal worked her magic clearing up the water, in a manner only Moses and his staff could rival, a predicament arose. In the bottom of the 10 foot deep end, garbage had become trapped in the drain preventing the water to flow properly through the pump. On any other given day in the summer, there would have been short elves and dwarfs in the water who would have been thrilled with the task of diving down and cleaning the drain. On this such day, no one under 5' 4" was present. Desperately needing to get the pool cleaned, I decided to take action. I would dive down and retrieve the garbage. Since I have not invested in my own pool accessories, I decided to borrow from the kids treasure box of gear. Digging through the jumbled mess, I found a pair of goggles I needed to be able to see the drain clearly under water. As I stretched the goggles over my head, I realized my head is considerably larger than a 7 year olds. I adjusted the goggles to as large as possible, and then wedged them over my head. Instead of holding all my hair down under the band, it somehow managed to redirect my hair upward, giving the appearance of a hairpiece perched upon my head ready to be released with the next good breeze. That, however, was minor to the change the goggles made to my face. I apparently have quite a bit more facial fat than a 7 year old also. The goggles had the opposite effect of a face lift. Every ounce of fat on my face was pulled down into the goggles. I was struggling to see through the two slits where the cheek fat met my eyes in each lens. Because of the immense pressure of the goggles on my face, every bit of skin out side the goggles was red and every bit of skin in the goggles was white. I looked like a homeless diver, who had been stung by a bee and was awaiting the Jaws of Life to remove me from my entrapment.
It was uncomfortable, yet I knew the sooner I got it over with, the sooner I could move on to another project. I slid into the water, and prepared to submerge beneath the surface. If submerge gives you the mental image of a submarine diving towards the depths, good. That's the only image that can come close to describing this amount of flesh entering the water.
I bobbed in the deep end for a few minutes, practicing holding my breath, and situated myself against the wall to be able to effectively push off the side and gain momentum for the journey down.I was beginning to feel like I belonged in a Jacques Cousteau documentary. " Watch as the massive creature circles her prey, preparing to lunge in for the kill," He might would say in hushed tones. I was finally ready to pursue the drain. Deep breath, solid push against the wall, and I am under. I t is really hard to judge distance under the water. I overshot the drain and tried to turn mid glide and swim back toward the drain. But a new problem arose. When shorts get wet, and when they are loose anyway, they tend to not stay put. Every time I moved forward, my shorts tried to stay stationary in the water. I developed a new stroke. I would use both hands to glide forward, then both hands to grab the shorts. I looked like a jellyfish, where the legs move first, then the head has to catch up. I repeated this stroke across the pool. Glide with arms, grab shorts. Glide with arms, grab shorts.
Finally I was back over the drain, and already exhausted with my new synchronized swimming routine. I rose to the surface, gagging and choking as I held my shorts with one hand and tried to remain afloat with the other, took a deep breath, and plunged back into the water. I managed to get to the drain and grab a huge handful of leaves. I kicked for all I was worth trying to hold onto the garbage and my shorts. I broke through the service again, gagging and coughing, as I doggy paddled my way to the shore to deposit my garbage on the concrete. Unable to use my arms, I decided to flip on my back and float to shore. I held the handful of leaves straight up in the hair like the Liberty Torch, and kicked and splashed my way to the side of the pool. When the side was in reach, I slapped those leaves on the pavement, just as the goggles slid up pulling my hair into a tight pony tail on top of my head, while the bottle of the goggles caught on the tip of my nose, pulling it straight up in "pig like" appearance. Unable to fix the goggles, hold the shorts, release my hair, and stay afloat, I just bobbed and gagged for a moment to catch my breath. It was then I noticed two boots attached to brown pants standing 12 inches from me. I looked up into the very disturbed and shocked face of the UPS man.
It was obvious by his stunned face, and perched stance, he had been standing there a while. I don't know if he was more afraid of me coming out of the water, or of possibly having to go in after me. I am not sure he wanted to hang around for either possibility.
"Hi," I blubbered.
"I...I... have a package for you," he stuttered.
"OK. Just leave it on the porch, " I said in a tone of voice that I hope resembled that of an efficient secretary and not that of a beached whale.
" I will. Are you gonna be alright?"
What a loaded question. I have never been "alright". I am an accident waiting to happen, and a candid camera's dream. I felt, however, that I needed to re-assure this man so he would not worry about me on the remainder of his route.
So what could I say, that would ease his mind and yet explain my behavior. With a contorted, red face, I gave my explanation.
"You know how rodeos have clowns? Sea World is going to try the same concept in the Shamu show. Water clowns. I'm trying out."
Without a moment's hesitation, he replied, "You're ready,"with a twinkle in his eye, as he backed the big brown van down the drive-way.
I was embarrassed, and yet it was an obvious reminder- you never know who is watching you. You may work diligently to portray to others exactly what you want them to see and perceive about you, but what you truly are will eventually shine through. Sometimes the only catalyst needed to bring out our hidden nature is a forbidden fruit tree, a bathing maiden on a roof top, a crowing rooster, or even suffering. We may be observed in the fiery furnace like the three Hebrew boys. We may be observed in our slavery like Joseph. We may be observed in our power and authority like King Saul. We may even be observed in our death like Stephen. How will we do? Will the true nature of Christ shine through us? Will we be able to draw on the unending source of strength and power in our lives, or will the emptiness of our spiritual tank become obvious to all. So many times we feel we are inadequate to be used for the kingdom. We do not realize we are daily a testimony to the world. Every action is documented by a lost world and a knowing family. It is the difference bewteen carrying the cross and wearing the cross. One strives to make a statement with no sacrifice involved, the other seeks to protray the sacrifice that requires no further statement- an innocent King on a guilty man's cross-my cross. The true measure of a Christian's commitment is not what he does with the cross, but what the cross does to him. The world will not be reached by viewing our religious jewlry and wearing our catch phrase T-shirts, if underneath we do not also bear the marks of the cross on our back and His Word on our lips. Someone is watching and a world is waiting.
Don't be caught with garbage in your hand and holding up your britches. A lost world is not drawn in by that image, only UPS drivers.
Deep Thoughts From The Shallow End Of The Pool
[Still Waters]
05/27/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
From my early, well more like ancient, days of being a toddler bathing in the sink and playing in a conglomeration of blow up pools decorated with fish and smiling octopuses, I have had a dream. A dream deeply rooted in my love of water and sun. My dream- to have an in ground pool. I have memories of visiting friends with pools, envious of the favor God had shown them. Forget the coat of many colors, (they no longer come in my size anyway), throw me in a pit filled with water any day. Oh, to frolic and float in the crystal clear water of my own private aquatic refuge.
Well, my dream has come true. We now have an in ground pool.
I have done little frolicking and the only things floating have been the little bugs that have managed to escape my vengeful skimming net. Crystal clear water comes with a price. There are chemicals to make it bluer, chemicals to keep it from turning green, chemicals that make it cloudy while cleaning it, and more chemicals to remove the cloud. Once you have the clear water, then you can clearly see the bottom which holds treasures, that I would prefer remain hidden. This discovery now requires hauling out the 50 foot hose attached to a 15 foot pole and vacuuming the entire bottom of the pool. Of course, oddly enough, the hose cannot suck up the lawn furniture deposited there by the storm. So I, in one of my rare appearances in the pool, must dive 10 feet down to retrieve the lawn chair. I sat in it for a moment to rest before hauling it to the surface.
But in spite of all the toil and the tears I have found great joy in watching my children swim. They seem to become engrossed in their own world of aquatic play and forget I am there, resulting in a very entertaining show. I watched my son Nathan baptize his brother and sister so sweetly and tenderly. I watched Rachael baptize her brothers- plunging them backward and forwards repeatedly as they gasped for air, as if there was sin still struggling to hang on. I have watched Ben enter the pool every single time with a passionate leap, unhindered by the frost on the ground in late April and freezing water. I have watched the kids drag out every floatable device they can find, giving the appearance of frogs jumping from lily pad to lily pad.
My favorite memory this year by far, though, is of Rachael. Rachael is not a strong swimmer so I have insisted that she wear an inner tube in the deep end until she improves. One afternoon I watched as Nathan was repeatedly jumping into the deep end, also not a strong swimmer, and Rachael with her hot pink inner tube, would swim to save him.
Rachael informed me, "I'm practicing saving people."
I was cracking up, on the inside, thinking the most valuable asset a lifeguard could have, is the ability to swim themselves. I don't think I would find much confidence in a lifeguard who has to have nose plugs, ear plugs, a swim cap, arm floaties, and a big inflatable duck around his or her waist. I found it so humorous that Rachael thought she could be a lifeguard when her only qualification was-she had a float that kept her from drowning too.
But then in a single moment my heart was convicted. Sadly, that is my spiritual mentality also.
I only want to perform or handle tasks that match my gifting, talents, and natural strengths. I want to have that secret weapon- I can do this on my own. I don't like the uncertainty of having to trust a floatie in order to be successful. But in reality, the floatie I don't like depending on- is God. Not only do I judge myself, I judge others using the same criteria. I secretly fault or criticize those who are placed in positions I feel they are unqualified for, or unequipped to do. And you can imagine my disdain and anger, when others less qualified are placed where I want to be.
Looking back, I know why I was overlooked for so many opportunities- I wouldn't use the float.
The truth of the matter is, any HUMBLE follower of Christ has realized one truth. The float of God's grace is the only thing that seperates us from the rest of the world. Without it, we'd still be drowning.
I cannot tell you the number of times I have dove into projects and situations that I felt equipped to handle and then felt my strength quickly disappear. I have splashed and struggled, gurgled and choked on the water, arms flailing and legs kicking, struggling to get back to the shore. In those moments, I have heard a gentle voice speak, "Peace, Be still," as he draws me back into the boat. Sometimes I am afraid to get out of the boat, sometimes I am too stupid to stay there. He can speak "Peace" not only to the storms that come into our lives, but also to the ones we create all on our own.
On rare occasions, I have done projects and handled situations completely on my own. God has allowed my tired and wasted body to wash up on shore, rather than save me. He has left me there awhile to boast in my own hard fought battle- alone. I am alone not only becasue I did it without Christ, but because I alienated everyone else with my attitude and pride driven by my own agenda. Finishing the race alone, is not near as invigorating and fulfilling as winning the race with Christ by your side. There is no reward when you run alone, for Christ has the awards with Him, for those who run for Him, with Him, and because of Him.
I now, can picture God, looking to and fro for someone to send to save a lost and drowning world. He glances at world class divers, Navy Seal Commanders, Olympic Gold Medalist swimmers and then something catches His eye. He watches a little red-haired girl with freckles, goggles, and a hot pink inner tube, and says, "There she is." His ways truly confound the wise, and me- who is now off to shop for inner tubes in the plus size department.
Well, my dream has come true. We now have an in ground pool.
I have done little frolicking and the only things floating have been the little bugs that have managed to escape my vengeful skimming net. Crystal clear water comes with a price. There are chemicals to make it bluer, chemicals to keep it from turning green, chemicals that make it cloudy while cleaning it, and more chemicals to remove the cloud. Once you have the clear water, then you can clearly see the bottom which holds treasures, that I would prefer remain hidden. This discovery now requires hauling out the 50 foot hose attached to a 15 foot pole and vacuuming the entire bottom of the pool. Of course, oddly enough, the hose cannot suck up the lawn furniture deposited there by the storm. So I, in one of my rare appearances in the pool, must dive 10 feet down to retrieve the lawn chair. I sat in it for a moment to rest before hauling it to the surface.
But in spite of all the toil and the tears I have found great joy in watching my children swim. They seem to become engrossed in their own world of aquatic play and forget I am there, resulting in a very entertaining show. I watched my son Nathan baptize his brother and sister so sweetly and tenderly. I watched Rachael baptize her brothers- plunging them backward and forwards repeatedly as they gasped for air, as if there was sin still struggling to hang on. I have watched Ben enter the pool every single time with a passionate leap, unhindered by the frost on the ground in late April and freezing water. I have watched the kids drag out every floatable device they can find, giving the appearance of frogs jumping from lily pad to lily pad.
My favorite memory this year by far, though, is of Rachael. Rachael is not a strong swimmer so I have insisted that she wear an inner tube in the deep end until she improves. One afternoon I watched as Nathan was repeatedly jumping into the deep end, also not a strong swimmer, and Rachael with her hot pink inner tube, would swim to save him.
Rachael informed me, "I'm practicing saving people."
I was cracking up, on the inside, thinking the most valuable asset a lifeguard could have, is the ability to swim themselves. I don't think I would find much confidence in a lifeguard who has to have nose plugs, ear plugs, a swim cap, arm floaties, and a big inflatable duck around his or her waist. I found it so humorous that Rachael thought she could be a lifeguard when her only qualification was-she had a float that kept her from drowning too.
But then in a single moment my heart was convicted. Sadly, that is my spiritual mentality also.
I only want to perform or handle tasks that match my gifting, talents, and natural strengths. I want to have that secret weapon- I can do this on my own. I don't like the uncertainty of having to trust a floatie in order to be successful. But in reality, the floatie I don't like depending on- is God. Not only do I judge myself, I judge others using the same criteria. I secretly fault or criticize those who are placed in positions I feel they are unqualified for, or unequipped to do. And you can imagine my disdain and anger, when others less qualified are placed where I want to be.
Looking back, I know why I was overlooked for so many opportunities- I wouldn't use the float.
The truth of the matter is, any HUMBLE follower of Christ has realized one truth. The float of God's grace is the only thing that seperates us from the rest of the world. Without it, we'd still be drowning.
I cannot tell you the number of times I have dove into projects and situations that I felt equipped to handle and then felt my strength quickly disappear. I have splashed and struggled, gurgled and choked on the water, arms flailing and legs kicking, struggling to get back to the shore. In those moments, I have heard a gentle voice speak, "Peace, Be still," as he draws me back into the boat. Sometimes I am afraid to get out of the boat, sometimes I am too stupid to stay there. He can speak "Peace" not only to the storms that come into our lives, but also to the ones we create all on our own.
On rare occasions, I have done projects and handled situations completely on my own. God has allowed my tired and wasted body to wash up on shore, rather than save me. He has left me there awhile to boast in my own hard fought battle- alone. I am alone not only becasue I did it without Christ, but because I alienated everyone else with my attitude and pride driven by my own agenda. Finishing the race alone, is not near as invigorating and fulfilling as winning the race with Christ by your side. There is no reward when you run alone, for Christ has the awards with Him, for those who run for Him, with Him, and because of Him.
I now, can picture God, looking to and fro for someone to send to save a lost and drowning world. He glances at world class divers, Navy Seal Commanders, Olympic Gold Medalist swimmers and then something catches His eye. He watches a little red-haired girl with freckles, goggles, and a hot pink inner tube, and says, "There she is." His ways truly confound the wise, and me- who is now off to shop for inner tubes in the plus size department.
Fame or Favor
[Still Waters]
05/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Fame or Favor
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/fame-or-favor.html>
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/fame-or-favor.html>
I was remembering today some of the many stories our family loves to share. One of the stories is about the day our family shared fifteen minutes in the spotlight, and boy did we shine!
It was a Saturday filled with chores and yard work. Every man, woman, and child was working in the neighborhood, and we were determined to look just as busy. We mowed, and cleaned, weed-eated, and cleaned out storage buildings. Everyone was wearing their clothes that had the least amount of life left,but still enough fabric to sufficiently cover. I had my short hair pulled up in two stubby ponytails, no make-up, a stained T-shirt, baggy jean shorts, old tennis shoes, and no socks. Chris was wearing old jeans, a battered tattered ball cap, and a once white T-shirt whose stains were a checklist of projects completed that day. Grass Stain, mowed yard. Oil stain, changed spark plugs. Feathers, fed chickens. Ketchup, tried to feed himself.
The kids were in no better shape. But the stains were of a different nature. Yellow stain, tried to grab Rachael's banana Popsicle. Larger yellow stain, Rachael threw the Popsicle. Grass stain, rolled in grass. Red stain, blood from falling out of tree. More red stains-blood from retaliating for being pushed from tree. I have found that the stains on the backs of the kids clothes are the most disturbing. These are things placed their by the other two children. There I find things, but I ask no questions. Green slimy stains. ( Note to self: Find Kleenex holder for swing set.) Brown foul smelling stains. (I assume that one involves the dog.) And the most prominent stain, small dirty hand prints, most likely not from hugging. The kids clothes were more of "trying to wear one more time before the seams split". I let them dress themselves, so clothes were selected for their location in the drawer(whatever's on top) instead of for actual style purposes.
To say the least we were a motley looking crew. When the sun started to set, and the mosquitoes started to bite, it was time for dinner. The general, unwritten, and solemn rule in our house is, if mom's day involved a lot of manual labor, someone else will be slaving over the stove. The one who has been most willing to step up is the short order cook at Wendy's. We piled in the car and headed to Wendy's to go through the drive thru for dinner. ( We were a social services dream case, and I wasn't going to give anyone the opportunity to stumble across us.) After eating in the parking lot, Chris pulled across the street to a gas station. Near the gas pump was parked a beautiful white stretch limo. Chris parked where we could admire it while he ran in to the bathroom. As he came out, he was walking with a man in a nice suit. I immediately knew what Chris was up to. He wanted to find out who was in the limo. They chatted for a moment and then Chris got back in the car. It was empty.
"DO you guys want to look in the limo?"
"Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh! Oh dadddy, It's just like Hannah Montana's!" So the kids piled out, and I warned them not to touch anything. "Just Look."
As the kids all exited the same car door, at the same time, Chris leaned over and whispered, "Come on, we're going for a ride."
"Whaaaaaaaaaat?"
"Yeah, I asked the guy what he would charge to take us for a ride, and he said nothing. The people who rented it didn't use all their time."
"You can't be serious?!!!!!"
"I'm dead serious. Come on!"
My family, the poster family for Feed the Children, with all their tattered , stained, stains still setting from dinner, sweaty, sticky and stinky was climbing into a stretch limo, which would surely never be the same.
The condo on wheels was beautifully decorated with mirrors, and lights, roses and crystal glasses, black leather interior, and tinted windows. It was a very surreal moment.
The kids couldn't stop talking, and changing seats, trying to take it all in at once. From the seat behind the chauffeur Rachael, age 5 at the time, spoke up.
"Wow, I'm special now."
The chauffeur turned quickly around and said, "Honey, you were already special. Being in a limo doesn't make you special."
Rachael's little eyes were bright and her ears attentive, as he continued.
"You're very special to God. Right now, I feel special having you in my limo." Turns out the driver was a pastor.
I sat watching my family, in a limo that just an hour ago, was used in an effort to impress others out of low self worth, was now being used to build a little girl's God worth. We made special plans that night in the limo. We promised the kids, if they married a strong Christian we would try to get them a limo for their wedding day. They all decided on the same driver. We talked about daddy's gift of humility. He doesn't think he's better than anyone else, and yet, he doesn't think he 's beneath anyone either. His motto: "It never hurts to ask." He never eliminates any possibility, no matter how far fetched or seemingly unobtainable. We were in a limo, simply because he asked. He is why we have Triple Cross Farms. I saw the price tag and croaked. He saw God's provision.
We had a wonderful thirty minute drive in the limo. The interesting part was when we pulled into the parking lot at the Speedway again. A whole new crowd was there. A crowd that had not seen us load up. But there was definite interest to see us get out. I saw wives nudge husbands. Heads peaked out of windows and around the pumps. Commerce ceased in the food mart as clerks strained to see, and little faces pressed up against the glass. To further climax the moment, the chauffeur jumped from the car, ran to the passenger door and with great exaggerated movement solemnly opened the door. Guess who was the nearest to the door? The Hee Haw wife. As everyone leans in expectation as movement is seen in the limo, out emerges what ..... is that a tennis shoe with gum on the bottom? My pasty white legs blind the crowd, but not before they are treated to a buffet of food stains, a glimpse of "Hollywood's 100 worst dressed" all rolled into one, and a visual montage to accompany the song, "who let the dogs out." It was tragic yet hilarious, memorable yet unforgivable. As I exited as quickly as possible, we were all treated to another phenomenon. Rachael exited the limo, as she imagined herself to be, not as she was. You'd have thought Rachael was in a tiara and gown. She exited with style, and a smile that I will never forget. The boys did their usual, let's squeeze out together routine. And Chris climbed out like it was just another day in the life of the Clampets. (Though I saw a twinkle in his eye.) Oddly, everyone still stood frozen and still as we pulled out. Some images just take a moment to recuperate from.
That night, we weren't famous, but we were favored. God above smiled on us and favored us with a little special treat. It really made me think of salvation. That moment when the King of all Glory invites you into His Kingdom. We are filthy, and stained yet He bids us to come as we are. If you try to take the time to clean up first, you might miss that opportunity.
And still how many Christians still live in a mentality of " I don't deserve that. I can't have that."
You're right! You don't deserve it! You can't earn it! But God wants to favor you with it! How many "limo rides" do we miss, sitting on the curb while the limo door is standing open, beckoning us to enter? Don't miss the ride because you think you can't afford the trip!
1 Corinthians 1:27 "But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise........and things which are not to bring to nought things that are. That no flesh should glory in his presence."
When we emerged from that limo that night, there was no doubt in any body's mind that we weren't there because we deserved to be, we were there because we were invited. Invite God into your world of foolishness and nothingness. That is the canvas He's looking for to confound a lost world.
So our fifteen minutes of fame have ended, but our Heavenly Father's favor will last for a lifetime!
Faith From Potato Water
[Still Waters]
05/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Faith From Potato Water
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/faith-from-potato-water.html>
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/faith-from-potato-water.html>
We have had an interesting scenario play out in our house over and over. It started with a cell phone. I remember clearly the day my husband got his first cell phone. I remember it well because it coincided with another big event in my life. I was trying to regain consciousness after having a hysterectomy. I remember struggling, still half sedated, to ask for a sip of water, while he set up his phone, trying to convince me the phone would be a great asset to us both. "You'll be able to get a hold of me 24 hours day, whenever you need something." Right. We were in the same room and I couldn't get his attention to get me a drink of water. I think I have resented cell phones ever since.
The next event occurred when after dropping his phone in a glass of soda in his truck, he decided he would have to have a new one. By this time the addiction was in full swing, so there was no quitting cold turkey from cell phone access. This time he surprised me with my own phone, so I could "get connected". I was thinking how awesome it would be on my next surgical procedure to be able to call Chris from my hospital bed and request a drink of water. With my luck however, there would be roaming charges from the bed to the chair.
My excitement was short -lived however. Chris used his phone so frequently, and dropped it so frequently, it began to short out. Since his phone was for business purposes and work, he needed one that was dependable. Guess whose phone was readily available. Yep! Mine. I was given his beautiful camouflage phone still sticky from pop to use until our contract could be renewed and new phones purchased. At least in a moment of post surgery thirst I could suck the rest of the pop from the phone.
Once again, new phones were purchased and I was given a shiny new phone. Guess who ran over their phone with a truck? Guess who inherited the camo phone again? I must say my phone was greatly admired among and "bubbas" and the "git er done" crowd in our community.
By this time, the camo phone was beginning to have it's own difficulties- I could no longer read the screen. I never knew if it was on or off. When I tried to retrieve messages, I called my doctor, and when I needed to get in to the doctor I retrieved messages. It was frustrating. SO finally, once again, new phones were purchased because my husband's old phone didn't get a strong enough signal. Once again I had a beautiful new phone, until I asked my husband to protect it during another surgery. He sat on it in the waiting room and busted the screen.
A friend took pity on me at church, and brought me one of her old phones that worked perfectly. It was such a blessing!
Finally, we qualified for new phones and I was given a new phone. I debated about whether to go and just give it Chris so I wouldn't get attached. I felt like I was running a foster program for cell phones. This time, however, my phone came with an added feature- a lecture. The Evil Knievel of cell phone destruction, was lecturing me on properly caring for our new cell phones. "We can't get new phones for 2 years, so we have got to make these last." I was beginning to think the cell phone contract would last longer than our marriage. I felt like I was listening to Roseanne Barr teach a parenting class. I turned into Roseanne Barr for a few minutes and gave a few choice remarks about who did and did not have a right to lecture about cell phone care.
The next afternoon I went to church to peel 70 pounds of potatoes for a church dinner. (I didn't find out there where 70 pounds until I got there.) I thought we were going to have to soak them in the baptistery to keep them fresh until the next day. I was alone in the kitchen, and decided to use my new speaker gadget on my phone and kill two birds with one stone. I was enjoying a wonderful conversation,with my phone propped up on a bowl to be closer to my mouth, when as I turned to reach for another potato I heard a devastating noise. It was as jarring as hearing the front of a ship crashing into an iceberg. On the right day, in the right place, it could have been the sound of a frog leaping into his favorite pond. It could have been the sound of a precious saint being submerged into their watery grave of baptism. But it was instead the sound of a cell phone plunging into the depths of quarter inch peeled potatoes soaking in water. Roseanne was quickly replaced by Lucy. 24 hours after obtaining a new cell phone, I had committed the same crime I had been hanging over my husband's head for years. As my phone bubbled and sputtered I quickly sprung into action. I opened it up, placed it on a microwave safe plate, and prepared to nuke it dry, when I realized-----no, I didn't realize I would melt the circuitry. Instead I worried Chris would call and the phone would still be on speaker and he would hear the microwave beeping, or worse he would get ear cancer from the radioactive waves pouring from the microwave through my phone into his.
I laid the phone out to dry, and after a few a hours I heard a sort of bubbly ring.
"Hey, honey, I've been trying to call you. Have you had your phone off?"
"Sort of."
"What's the matter?"
"I had a little accident."
"YOU DIDN'T!
"Didn't what?"
"You dropped your phone in water didn't you?"
The man can't perceive when his wife needs a drink a water, when he's in the same room, but he can tell when she's messed up from clear across town!That stinks!
He was very understanding, well, smug would be a better word. I was very humbled. And the phone seemed to be fine.
Until this week.
My screen is gone. It's horrible! Do you know what it's like to answer a phone and not know whose on the other end?!!! I was reminded that was the way phones worked for years. I never realized how much planning and thought went into every phone call. I answer the phone differently according to whose calling.
Our pastor gets my best Ruth Graham voice, "Reeder Residence, where God Reigns Everyday."
The Prayer Chain gets my militant "ready to do battle in the heavenlies" voice.
My children get my "momma loves you and is trying really hard not to get aggravated because you've called me 10 times in 10 minutes" voice.
My husband gets my "I'm so tired, ask me if you can pick something up for dinner" voice.
Some of my perfect friends, get my " everything's peachy, you'll never know my house is a mess" voice.
And some people just get the " I'm not here leave a message at the beep" voice.
How fake is that? I can't even be real and genuine answering my telephone!
How I desperately need to be more Christ-like in my conversations. He was a Master Communicator.I realized that with Christ's omniscience, being all knowing, every person He spoke to- He already had their number. He knew every past, present, and future detail of their lives. Yet, with love and compassion He would weave a masterful conversation, patiently pulling them to draw the conclusion He already knew, or gently extracting information He already had, much like the woman at the well.
In the story of the rich young ruler, who vainly thought he had never broken any of the commandments, Jesus could have named the time, place,and motive of every commandment the young man had broken. But Mark 10:21 says, "Then Jesus beholding him, loved him". He knew how arrogant this man was. He knew he would not heed the advice to sell all he had. But Jesus doesn't avoid the call or conversation. He doesn't use a "I'm too busy to waste my time with someone who won't change" voice. Every conversation is treated with the same attention, time, and purposeful intent.
Christ's goal- each conversation presented an opportunity to change or grow an individual and He intended to make the most of it. Some embraced the opportunities, others, like the rich young ruler,didn't. Yet, all were given the 100% attention of the Master. He could be honest in His correction because He was even more liberal with His love. He revealed truths without causing others to become defensive. He slipped away when he could, but He was pleased to be found.
Imagine the change that could take place if we would be honest and open with one another.How often are our conversations gauged by what will it cost us, or what can be gained? Kissing up to that person, pacifying this person, avoiding that person, and yet chasing down another person.
I want desperately to have Christ-like conversations. To approach each one with a love, that the Father has for that individual. To give Christ an opportunity to use my lips to touch hearts and change lives through the spoken word. Imagine the thrill, if we knew that when we opened our mouths, Heaven grew quiet to hear another conversation sounded so similar to ones they heard over 2000 years ago involving a Carpenter from Nazareth. Oh, to have dialogues that even the angels want to join!
SO yes, I have grown in my faith since bathing my phone. I have faith that no matter who calls, when I respond with God's love, He will direct the conversation if I am yielded and listening to His Spirit.
I have Faith From Potato Water, I can say in my "I'll try to do better, Lord" voice. Wait, my phone's ringing.. ahhhh, Lord can I start that love thing AFTER this call?
The Lord Giveth, and the Hairdresser Taketh Away
[Still Waters]
04/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
When I was little, God gave me beautiful strawberry blonde hair. As I have aged, God removed His hand of blessing from my scalp, and left me with sort of a dingy brown color. Yesterday, I tried to get my former glory back, by enlisting the help of my hairdresser. "Make it brighter," I requested. Apparently, there are different and varying degrees of brightness. There is a sort of sun kissed touch, a bleach bottle shine, and what I now know to be the"somebody didn't get their pool chemicals right" radioactive glow.
As long as I can remember, I have had this sort of tomenting spirit, that since it cannot gain access to my mind, has attached itself to my hair. I have had more outer cranium tragedies than you can count. I went to my first piano recital at age 7 with hair the golden girls would have been embarrassed to wear. Never get your hair done in a salon where they offer you Ensure instead of water, or where there is a crash cart next to the hair dryers. My hair was curled and poofed in true Barbara Bush style. My piano teacher didn't even recognize me under the hair, and I really don't think she placed who I was until I started playing the piano.
I have had such tragic hair cuts, that the stylist has actually "remembered" a coupon that entitles the holder to a free haircut. A "Get Out of Jail Free Card" if you will. I, of course, was imprisoned by that haircut for 6 weeks, and on probation for another four weeks, waiting for rough edges to even out.
I have had haircuts by stylists not allowed to use the curling irons, and highlights by stylists not allowed to use the foil. I am not kidding. It's like hiring a chauffeur that can't drive at night, or a Chef that's not allowed to use the stove. Why do I stay in these situations and not just leave to find more qualified professionals? Fear. I don't want to offend them or insult them. I want everybody to feel good.. even the hair stylist who sent me home in the middle of winter with a wet head because she needed time to fix her own hair before she got off work. I hope she had a great evening while I was home nursing my cold.
So here I am... Jennifer the blonde. I feel ridiculous. My daughter informed me the minute the foil fell from my golden locks that I was in serious trouble. She informed the hairdresser the color was all wrong. Goldilocks was getting a little nervous about meeting Papa Bear at home. When I beheld my image in the mirrir I knew I would be finding out just how good baby bear's bed slept that night. I got in the car and thought I left the dome light on-it was my hair brightening the whole car. I wonder if being able to save on the electric bill would be a good selling point for my husband.
And now tomorrow, I must go to church. I might wear a hat, and call it a trial run for Easter. I wonder if I could possibly get by with the "Moses Motif" and wear a veil hiding the overwhelming glory of God radiating from my hair.
There are a few mistakes we cannot hide from anyone, hair-tastrophes being one. Everyone is going to know my dilemma when I emerge from the vehicle in the church parking lot in the morning. Most will say nothing because they will not know if my hair was intentional or tragic, planned or a surprise. Sort of the way it was when I started showing when I was pregnant with my third child in 3 years. Only the most bold will comment on my poor choices and only the most godly will rejoice with me in my new season of life-regardless of how I got here. (I might add my family was not near as godly as I had hoped.)
And so I wait. I endure the looks. I avoid the mirrors. And I wait. Someday it will fade, or grow out, or possibly fall out. But it will pass.
I think we all desire to be full of God's glory, or to bear marks of His glory- but when it comes from a bottle and not His Spirit- it's just tacky. It draws the wrong attention, and does little for His cause. You cannot manufacture God's Glory. I have never seen an Easter Pageant-no matter how many millions of dollars were spent- that could truly capture God's Glory on Resurrection Morning. Man-made effects can never duplicate supernatural Glory! We might get a little tingle from man's exhaustive efforts to mirror God's Glory, but God's Glory at just a minute glimpse, takes man's breath away, causes mountains to crumble, stones to cry out with deafening worship, and graves to bursts forth with life.
I don't want a cheap imitation of God's Glory in my life. Give me the real deal! The latest bestseller, the newest worship tape, the most magnetic preaching cannot bring the change about. It can fuel the desire for it, and even reveal a path to it... but ultimately it is a one on One experience. The Potter and the clay. His feet, your Alabaster Box. Your grave, HIS LIFE!
I don't know where you are today. I know I have learned that in the most innocent of decisions I am still human and carnal flesh. I cannot escape it. I can only learn from it, and grow through it, and hope to emerge changed for the better on the other side. I really feel from the depths of my soul, that God can teach us through every circumstance in our lives- every event however small or massive can bear His fingerprints. When life leaves you stunned- strive to become a stunning display of His faithfulness. When life leaves you broken- break out in song and worship! Even the smallest of burdens can be made into monuments of God's Grace and Glory.
What a thrill when I can enter a dwelling and have people say, " What's different about you?", and know it goes beyond the hair, to a deeper level- God's Glory radiating from within.
2 Cor. 3:18 "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord are changed into the same image from glory to glory even as by the Spirit of the Lord."
Change me God from Glory to Glory!
Tomorrow I will head to church. I know the hairs of my head are numbered in Heaven, and I am assuming the color is also documented, I only hope the records in Heaven have been successfully changed. I would hate for Heaven not to recognize me, like my piano teacher.
I can picture myself hitting the alter, broken over situations in my life, and Heaven's choirs' rejoicing in the new soul coming home as the Father says...
"Never mind... it's just Jennifer.. get me recordkeeping on line 1."
As long as I can remember, I have had this sort of tomenting spirit, that since it cannot gain access to my mind, has attached itself to my hair. I have had more outer cranium tragedies than you can count. I went to my first piano recital at age 7 with hair the golden girls would have been embarrassed to wear. Never get your hair done in a salon where they offer you Ensure instead of water, or where there is a crash cart next to the hair dryers. My hair was curled and poofed in true Barbara Bush style. My piano teacher didn't even recognize me under the hair, and I really don't think she placed who I was until I started playing the piano.
I have had such tragic hair cuts, that the stylist has actually "remembered" a coupon that entitles the holder to a free haircut. A "Get Out of Jail Free Card" if you will. I, of course, was imprisoned by that haircut for 6 weeks, and on probation for another four weeks, waiting for rough edges to even out.
I have had haircuts by stylists not allowed to use the curling irons, and highlights by stylists not allowed to use the foil. I am not kidding. It's like hiring a chauffeur that can't drive at night, or a Chef that's not allowed to use the stove. Why do I stay in these situations and not just leave to find more qualified professionals? Fear. I don't want to offend them or insult them. I want everybody to feel good.. even the hair stylist who sent me home in the middle of winter with a wet head because she needed time to fix her own hair before she got off work. I hope she had a great evening while I was home nursing my cold.
So here I am... Jennifer the blonde. I feel ridiculous. My daughter informed me the minute the foil fell from my golden locks that I was in serious trouble. She informed the hairdresser the color was all wrong. Goldilocks was getting a little nervous about meeting Papa Bear at home. When I beheld my image in the mirrir I knew I would be finding out just how good baby bear's bed slept that night. I got in the car and thought I left the dome light on-it was my hair brightening the whole car. I wonder if being able to save on the electric bill would be a good selling point for my husband.
And now tomorrow, I must go to church. I might wear a hat, and call it a trial run for Easter. I wonder if I could possibly get by with the "Moses Motif" and wear a veil hiding the overwhelming glory of God radiating from my hair.
There are a few mistakes we cannot hide from anyone, hair-tastrophes being one. Everyone is going to know my dilemma when I emerge from the vehicle in the church parking lot in the morning. Most will say nothing because they will not know if my hair was intentional or tragic, planned or a surprise. Sort of the way it was when I started showing when I was pregnant with my third child in 3 years. Only the most bold will comment on my poor choices and only the most godly will rejoice with me in my new season of life-regardless of how I got here. (I might add my family was not near as godly as I had hoped.)
And so I wait. I endure the looks. I avoid the mirrors. And I wait. Someday it will fade, or grow out, or possibly fall out. But it will pass.
I think we all desire to be full of God's glory, or to bear marks of His glory- but when it comes from a bottle and not His Spirit- it's just tacky. It draws the wrong attention, and does little for His cause. You cannot manufacture God's Glory. I have never seen an Easter Pageant-no matter how many millions of dollars were spent- that could truly capture God's Glory on Resurrection Morning. Man-made effects can never duplicate supernatural Glory! We might get a little tingle from man's exhaustive efforts to mirror God's Glory, but God's Glory at just a minute glimpse, takes man's breath away, causes mountains to crumble, stones to cry out with deafening worship, and graves to bursts forth with life.
I don't want a cheap imitation of God's Glory in my life. Give me the real deal! The latest bestseller, the newest worship tape, the most magnetic preaching cannot bring the change about. It can fuel the desire for it, and even reveal a path to it... but ultimately it is a one on One experience. The Potter and the clay. His feet, your Alabaster Box. Your grave, HIS LIFE!
I don't know where you are today. I know I have learned that in the most innocent of decisions I am still human and carnal flesh. I cannot escape it. I can only learn from it, and grow through it, and hope to emerge changed for the better on the other side. I really feel from the depths of my soul, that God can teach us through every circumstance in our lives- every event however small or massive can bear His fingerprints. When life leaves you stunned- strive to become a stunning display of His faithfulness. When life leaves you broken- break out in song and worship! Even the smallest of burdens can be made into monuments of God's Grace and Glory.
What a thrill when I can enter a dwelling and have people say, " What's different about you?", and know it goes beyond the hair, to a deeper level- God's Glory radiating from within.
2 Cor. 3:18 "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord are changed into the same image from glory to glory even as by the Spirit of the Lord."
Change me God from Glory to Glory!
Tomorrow I will head to church. I know the hairs of my head are numbered in Heaven, and I am assuming the color is also documented, I only hope the records in Heaven have been successfully changed. I would hate for Heaven not to recognize me, like my piano teacher.
I can picture myself hitting the alter, broken over situations in my life, and Heaven's choirs' rejoicing in the new soul coming home as the Father says...
"Never mind... it's just Jennifer.. get me recordkeeping on line 1."
Comments not allowed for this entry.
Jesus and Mr. Clean
[Still Waters]
03/30/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Jesus and Mr. Clean
Today, I cleaned bathrooms. 4 bathrooms to be exact. When we first moved to this house, we were in hog heaven not having to wait in line anymore. Gone were the days of rushing through the front door after returning from dinner, hollering "I get the bathroom first!", and pushing through the family, small bodies and 1 large man bouncing off the sides of the hallway, proving how serious I was. Now all the little piggies have made the bathrooms anything but heavenly. I have to ask myself, was indoor plumbing really that great of an advancement? Think with me for a moment
Cain may have said, "Mom! Where's my loin cloth? I left it laying right by the creek after my bath!"
And Eve may have replied," A wild boar carried it off. I tried to tell you not to leave your clothes laying around." Problem solved. No more personal items laying around for the wildlife to shred.
Trees designated as "private" bore signs that read, "Use all the leaves you need, we'll grow more." No more cries to answer, such as "where's the toilet paper", "do you have any softer paper towels" and "do we really have to use wide ruled paper?". Nature's cool breezes provided what pine fresh spray in a can could not-instant ventilation.
Somewhere between cleaning toilet number 3 and 4 I had a brainstorm. I am going to install papertowel holders in all the bathrooms directly above the toilet paper. Above each will be a small plaque, (tastefully coordinating with the bathroom decor of course) that will read, "Don't just sit there, clean something."
The problem then arises, that after all the bathrooms are cleaned, one of my alternate personalities emerges. The first one to emerge from a cleaned bathroom is immediately brought before the Senate Committee, of which I hold all offices.
"What were you doing in there?" I harshly ask.
"Did you pee? Yes? Did you raise the lid? Did you get any drops anywhere else besides the designated area? Did you wash your hands? Did you poop? Was it loose or firm? LOOSE!!!! Oh. no! Did any residual matter stick to the upper part of the bowl, or was it all flushed down?? Did you touch the faucets with your dirty hands, or use your elbows like I showed you?"
And there is great fear and trembling present for the child who has to make multiple trips to the clean bathroom.
"Didn't you just use the bathroom? That's it I'm cutting back on your fluids! You're drinking too much! And go get the Immodium! You need a dose just in case! Did you use the fancy towel to dry your hands? I 've told you and told you, that towel is for the special guests! That's not us! Use the stained towel under the sink! "
It never fails, somebody gets a stomach virus after the bathrooms are cleaned. Although I have sort of wondered if all the tension in the home during and following my attack on the porcelain portals, has not induced irritable bowel syndrome in my kids.
I assure you, in those moments, the victim wishes he had just gone outside.
The thing that scares me the most, is that I am starting to have some very disturbing dreams about Mr.Clean. Apparently, in the deep, dark recesses of my heart, I secretly long for a bald man to come and not sweep me off my feet, but rather sweep around my feet. His smiling face on the cleaning bottle, just seems to say, " I will clean those bathrooms for you, my love, and I will enjoy doing it!" I am having some spiritual conflicts with the fact that he wears an earring, (oh, and the fact I am married), but I honestly believe if we had an immaculate home, my husband could tolerate the bald man with Febreeze cologne hanging out in the laundry room.
Oh, the daily trials of keeping the bathroom clean, and surviving in our home after they are clean!
In the middle of my tirade, God gently yet firmly, brought something to my attention. He has had the same issue with me for years, yet He has handled it so much better. While I realize the above comments may seem a little disgusting and improper to speak of, they are nothing compared to what I am getting ready to share. I have a horrible, disgusting habit. I have tried to break it, tried to hide it, tried to make it smell better or even look better-but I can't. I am a sinner. I daily sin. I try desperately to keep my soul fragrant, clean, and spotless, but I am powerless on my own to do it. So I must then make a trip to the "water closet" or more appropriately called the prayer closet. There I must reveal, confess, and grieve before my Father, asking for forgiveness for once again, having to dirty, and blemish the pristine, spotless, and beautiful throne room I entered. Yet, almost like Pilot, I am told to wash my hands of that sin. Each time I am given a fresh washing in the sparkling sink of mercy. Oddly, God has His children use stained towels too, to dry their newly cleansed hands- they are stained red with the blood of His Son and embroidered with Grace.
I have repeated this ritual time and time again, more times than I can remember, and not one time the Father chooses to remember. Each time I am met with the same welcome- open arms and gentle words. No condemnation. No reminders of how many times I had been there before. No rebukes for the messes He has to clean up-repeatedly. Just the same love, mercy, grace, and willingness to cleanse.
"It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning." Lam. 3:22-23
It is a truly great and wonderful act of mercy and grace, that each morning we arrive in His presence to find no lingering reminders of yesterdays failures. There are no fingreprints on the sink of grace mocking us for having to return, no damp or wrinkled towel of mercy laying on the floor, reminding us it is right where we left it yesterday. New, fresh, clean, and sparkling preparations await me every day in the Father's Presence-for He chooses not to remember and removes all such memorbilia from His presence. New mercies-yet the same Loving God.
Now, I am having a very different vision of Mr. Clean. Same smiling face and eager desire to clean, yet in a very different way. He has olive skin, brown hair, and deep eyes that can look into my very soul, yet they never reveal the disappointment and sadness at what He must see there. And while He has no pierced ear, He has pierced hands and feet, that take His desire to clean me to a whole new level. And while He does accompany me to the laundry room, He dwells in my heart, for that is where there is the most work to be done. And there He smiles and says, "Let me clean you, my love, and I will enjoy doing it." Jesus puts Mr. Clean to shame.
Comments not allowed for this entry.
The Battle Of Chicken Run
[Still Waters]
03/24/2009
By Admin, Admin
The Battle of Chicken Run
Well, I have exciting news. My morning devotion this morning was attended by 7,000 others. It was a packed house. Sadly, they were all hens and roosters. I locked myself in the chicken house by accident this morning and had to do a fair amount of praying while sitting on a bucket waiting for help. It was "Survivor" chicken house style.
If you haven't heard, our family now owns Triple Cross Farms, where we care for 27,000 chickens, and gather their eggs. It was a complete act of God that opened the door for us to receive this beautiful home, farm, and business. He has been working out the plan and details step by step over the past year and half. We had no idea where we were heading, but the journey was an amazing one that I would not have wanted to miss.
As I sat on the bucket this morning with hens pecking at my rubber boots, I sort of wondered if God and I weren't both having doubts about me being here. The morning started out a 5 0'clock am. Apparently, some of God's creatures do stir that early, though I am not generally one of them. (God can confirm this.) So the hour itself was one strike against me. The second strike was the fact I took NyQuil at 2 am to help me sleep. Next time I am going to remember to dose the chickens too, so we can all get some extra sleep.
Half conscious, half sick, and half sedated , (see even my math doesn't calculate that early), I stumbled to the chicken houses to feed the chickens. I am assuming most of you have never been in a chicken house with 7,000 chickens. The houses run 500 feet long. The water troughs run down the center of the house, suspended from the ceiling. The controls are on the right side of the building. This information is important to the next dramatic part of my story.
When I went in, I walked down the wrong side of the building to get to the controls. I had a choice- walk 500 feet around to get to the right side of building, or crawl under the water lines.
Those of you who know me, know the only thing worth walking out of my way for is a good dessert, or a good buffet.
SO I chose to get on my hands and knees on the ground, in the wood shavings and you know what else, and crawl under. This is when I encountered another problem. Ever since the very first time I walked in a chicken house, I have chosen to wear men's size 13 rubber boots. I do this in hopes of intimidating the roosters. (It's odd how what seems so rational in my mind, looks so stupid on paper.) If I thought walking around in oversized boots was hard, crawling was even more so. Every time I pulled a knee forward, my foot slid farther out of the boot. I would then slide my knee back to replace my foot back in the boot. After a few moments of alternating this procedure between both legs, it dawned on me. I was getting nowhere. I was shuffling my legs back and forth digging a trench I was now getting caught in. Both boots then became wedged under me, as I struggled to retrieve the boots, and keep my face out of the wood chips.
But that was not my greatest struggle. I was now face to face with the Roosters. They are magnificient creatures when you are looming over them. Face to face, not so much. They descended on me, much like I was deep fried and in a bucket. I was pecked and scratched while I clawed my way out of the trench,to the other side of the building, beating them off with one boot and a sock.
I should mention, our chickens are usually wonderful, tame, and non- agressive, but they are also creatures that panic and freek out over any abnormal, out of the ordinary object, or behavior. A 280 pound, hyperventilating woman crawling around on the ground waving a boot, falls under that category. The chickens had dinner and a show. It was not a performance I wish to repeat. (There are 7,000 others that agree.)
After the harrowing battle at Chicken Run, I was ready to head back to my bed. As I tromped to the door through the haze of chickens feathers and airborne dust, I dreamed of a hot shower, and my warm bed. But life can be so cruel, for as I turned the knob nothing happened. It was locked. I pounded, cried, and rammed the door, begging to be let out. A 7,000 voice choir joined the song behind me. "Please, let her out!" they squawked in unison.
But I succumbed to my fate and sat on a bucket to await my knight in shining armor riding in a pick up truck to rescue me. " One word from him, and I'm throwing myself under the truck,"I muttered to myself.
Maybe today, you're having a rough start. What should be an easy and smooth task has turned into a monumental undertaking. I have to ask did you forget your key? Not the key to any wooden man made door, but the key to Heavenly provision and power-the key of Prayer. We can be right where God would have us to be today, but without that Key, we are powerless and purposeless. We are trapped in the right time and place but it's purpose cannot be fulfilled. How many days of purpose have I lost because I failed to use the Key of prayer to unleash God's power in each place. What would the Cross have been without Gethsemane? What would the Day of Pentecost have been without the Upper Room? What is a church without an alter, or the Temple without the Holy of Holies? Without prayer our lives are stages awaiting great performances, arenas awaiting magnificent exploits, and blank pages awaiting a written masterpiece. None can be accomplished without God, and the world may never see or read them without prayer.
Prayer. One little Key can unlock so much. The absence of one little Key can keep us trapped in so much. Can you hear the 7,000 "amens" behind me?
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Shirley Gibson
[General]
01/07/2009
By Admin, Admin
Dec. 27, 2008
Shirley Gibson
Another Year has passed, and with it one grows a little older, hopefully a lot more wiser. I had lived all of 66 years in one place, never wanted to leave. But it came to pass, and we headed south to Kentucky. At first I felt so alone in a strange place. But as time went by I adjusted. Then after we were here about fourteen months, my husband got sick and died two months later. By then I had met some really nice people, and the rest is history. They, the Lord and my church helped me heal as a young Christian and a widow. I can look back on my life and see many things that I would like to have changed. Well, there is no going back, only forward. Thank the Lord for that. Sometime ago, I wrote my testimony, of where I came from and where I had been. Up until a little over three and a half years ago. Well, I thought my life was going fine. It took the death of my husband to make me change. I was truly blessed when the Lord showed me his love. My Christian family was there for me.
In the past, I did not think of God, never thought I needed him. We had talked about going to church, but we never did. I had met some people who invited me to go to their church, but that never happened. Then after my husband got saved we went to Hopewell. We both liked it, but he was too sick. We couldn’t go anymore. After his death I started to attend regularly. I became active in the Church and I am involved in many things.
Although I was raised Catholic. I did not stay with it as an adult. There was something missing, and I didn’t know or understand what it was until I came here. I attended a few other churches along the way, but again something was missing.
There is so much more I would like to share, of what the Lord has done for me. I was never one to step up out of my comfort zone to do much of anything for others unless I was asked. Now I feel like I can’t do enough. That is with a willing heart. Everything I do now has so much more meaning. I have a burden for the elderly, and the handicapped. The children also, but I think my heart lies with the elderly and the handicapped. I think some f that stems from having handicapped parents. They were visually impaired. I worked with some. I was usually around people like that. I never really gave it much thought back then, but now it is so much more meaningful. I have said this before in an earlier testimony, I thought I knew a lot about life and love, I didn’t. Now when referring to my life, I have a little thing I call my three L’s. The Lord, His Love and my new Life.
There is so much to do in a church and for a church, all one has to do is get involved. It doesn’t matter how much or how little, it is all for him.
I am so grateful for the new life I have been given. I cannot vision my life the way it was before. Everyday is a blessing. The Lord, the church, and my brothers and sisters have shown me the way. Now my desire is to show others the way. Thank you Jesus
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When A Thousand Words Are Not Enough
[Still Waters]
10/26/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
When a Thousand Words Are Not Enough
I’ve always heard that a picture is worth a thousand words. That seems quite possible as I look through photos of my kids as babies. It’s not only the image of them that floods my mind with memories, it all the inanimate objects in the picture. The table in the background where the Blue Clues movie lies, reminds me of the hours spent watching the red, high pitched, fuzzy character, whose program, though geared towards toddlers, was still a challenge to my weary mind to understand. The blankets strewn on the couch remind me of the days where my hope was not only in Jesus, but in nap time which never seemed long enough. The laundry basket in the corner reminds me of one truth of motherhood- along with God’s love, the depth of the laundry basket seems endless and incomprehensible- just accept both humbly and willingly.
It was while going through the family pictures that we came across one that captured the family’s interest. It was a picture of Chris, in a recliner, holding Rachael on one side and Nathan on the other. Rachael was 1 ½ and Nathan was 2 ½. They were both freshly bathed and in pajamas, but only one was happy. Rachael was thoroughly engrossed in conversation on a play phone to someone she apparently was thrilled to hear from, and Nathan was thoroughly distraught, tears streaming down his cheeks, reaching and longing for the phone.
Naturally, while looking at the picture, Nathan wanted to know why he was crying, and no one made any effort to ease his tears. Rachael was delighted and really didn’t feel any need to ask questions, she was obviously happy in the picture and that was all that mattered. Ben had some concerns as to why he wasn’t in the picture at all, but was relieved to know he was well on the way to joining our family. I had my own thoughts about the picture, as I looked at Chris sitting with an obviously upset child in his lap, eyes glazed over and staring into space, and unable to pull himself back to reality from whatever planet his mind had gone to, to help me
Later, Ben took the picture and put it up, because he said it made him sad to see Nathan cry. One moment in time captured on film, evoked a thousand different, words and emotions from each of us that viewed it. Some where happy, some were sad, some were confused, some were oblivious. Isn’t that the way life feels sometimes? We can capture one moment of time and the emotions from that one moment flood through our soul.
Imagine if we were to take a picture of our congregation Sunday. What a multitude of feelings there would be. There would be those whose very faces would bring pain, as we would feel their anguish of being a new widow, or having an unsaved loved-one. There would be those who would bring feelings of joy as they hold their new baby, or sit close to their newly wedded spouse. There would be those who would bring no emotion as we have no idea about their lives because we only see them on Sunday morning. And there would be those, whose physical suffering would cause us confusion, as we wonder why an obviously present Heavenly Father, would seem so far away and uncaring towards the needs of his children.
But that picture only captures one moment, in a lifetime of moments that God tenderly weaves together. To take one moment, and even with a thousand words try to discern and dissect the plan of God, is to take one brush stroke of Divinci’s brush and critique the masterpiece not yet complete. It is to take one note played by Bach and judge a symphony not yet finished. It is to take the life of a young man born in Bethlehem, and predict that he will always be “just a carpenter in Nazareth”. What an in injustice to an eternal God to attempt to capture all of His plans in the span of one second, one breath, one camera flash.
It wasn’t but a day or two after the picture was discovered, that an additional picture was found. It was part 2 in the sequence of events. Benjamin had discovered it, and came running proclaiming the news as if he had discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls. This picture revealed the exact same scene a few moments later. Rachael was now crying, and Nathan was chatting enthusiastically on the plastic phone, possibly sharing his praise report to a friend. Chris however, still appeared to be orbiting in space. Now each family member again expressed their thousand words in response to the picture. Rachael was much more verbal in her comments as this time she was the child in need in the picture, and no seemed to care. Nathan voiced his great relief as to knowing someone finally heard his cries and answered. Ben was still sad because now someone else was hurting.
In a moment’s time all had changed. Those who were hurting were now happy. Those who were happy, were now suffering, and those concerned about the hurting had someone new to show compassion to. Life is just that way. If this is your moment to suffer, you will have a moment to rejoice. If you are rejoicing now, soon you will shed tears. If you are heart broken over the hurting in the world, you will have an eternity in Heaven where your tears will be wiped away. But know this, God sees each captured moment, and even when the brush he uses is sometimes harsh, or the colors bold, you are a masterpiece in the making, and He will never allow the canvass to be damaged beyond what is necessary to complete the portrait. And yes, the Master Musician, even when a note seems flat, or a chord too loud, when he completes the symphony of your life, will be song of praise to glorify Him.
A thousand words for each moment of our lives that He tenderly wove together for our good and His glory will still never be enough to express our thankfulness and awe at the work of His hands. John said that if all Jesus did were written down, the world could not contain the books. I would say that if every single moment of Christ’s work in your life was captured on film for you to see, the world could not contain the photo albums, and mere words would seem insufficient gratitude, for those moments were not captured and created by man’s ink, but by Christ’s blood.
Hand-In-Hand Combat
[Still Waters]
10/26/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Hand in Hand Combat
Last night, my daughter Rachael, gave her little, 8 year old heart to Jesus. It was a crowning moment as a mother- a moment I want to remember for eternity. This was the same child that I once tenderly held her hands above her head, helping her to balance as she sporadically kicked, and twisted her body, struggling to maintain control of the two limbs flailing aimlessly beneath her, giggling each time her foot happened to touch the ground. This same little girl months later, was content to hang onto two of my fingers, as she had finally mastered the rhythm of walking, each foot consistently thumping the ground one after the other, but balance still eluded her. And soon there were the moments of giggling and shrieking that only a little girl can make, as she would sail from across the room, in a headlong fashion, arms stretched out to the side, giving her the appearance of a plane making an emergency landing, that was only safe and fun if she landed in the comfort of my waiting arms.
In the past few years, she has needed me little for the physical act of walking, though occasionally as we are walking, she will shyly take my hand, give it a gentle squeeze, and just as quickly release it before anyone else can see and embarrass her. I love those moments, for they remind me that I am still needed, though not necessarily for every step. It’s almost heartbreaking that by the time we can hold our children’s hands comfortably without having to strain and lean down to reach them, they no longer want to share that simple expression of love with us.
Spiritually, we have been through the same process, in the past few years of gently and tenderly guiding Rachael in her first steps toward Calvary. I remember the night about 2 years ago when conviction first fell on Rachael. It was a moment, up until last night, that was a source of great grief and prayer. Rachael has always had a strong sense of right and wrong, and when it came to salvation that was a hurdle to cross. She knew the truth of the Bible and the reality of Heaven and Hell. Her mind said, “You are going to hell because you are not saved.” Her heart, however, was not ready. I think after you read the below conversation, you’ll agree.
It was a late one night when Rachael came to me crying, afraid she was going to hell. Her brother had been saved the night before, and that added to her burden. We went to her room and sat on her bed to talk. It became obvious very quickly that the harvest was not quite ready.
“Rachael, what’s the matter,” I tenderly asked.
“I need to get saved.”
“Why do you need to get saved,” I asked, anxiously awaiting the humble reply of a sinner desperately needing salvation.
“Why do you need to get saved,” I asked, anxiously awaiting the humble reply of a sinner desperately needing salvation.
“I JUST DO!” she screamed.
“But why do feel you need to get saved right now,” I asked.
“Because I don’t want to go to hell.” I felt that glimmer of hope, that Rachael was indeed on the verge of salvation, but it quickly smoldered as the conversation proceeded.
“Well do you realize you are a sinner?”
And the response that will live in infamy followed.
“WELL SO ARE YOU!!!!,” she replied with a vengeance that would have made Billy Graham doubt his salvation. When the salvation seeker becomes the accuser of the brethren, it’s a pretty good sign further seeking is necessary.
“I know I am Rachael. We all are. But I asked Jesus to forgive me, just like Nathan did last night.”
“Nathan didn’t get saved last night!” she countered.
“Yes, he did Rachael. I was there with him when he prayed.”
“No, he didn’t!”
“Yes, he did Rachael!”
“Well, I didn’t see him do it, and I don’t believe him!” Another issue to remember if you’re witnessing- when the sinner starts trying to do the job of the Holy Spirit and discern everyone else’s spiritual state but their own, it’s not quite time to fill the baptismal pool. I was starting to realize this conversation was not heading to Calvary, but more towards the Garden of Gethsemane, where there might be prayer, but not without great drops of blood.
“Rachael, Nathan’s salvation is between him and God,” I said through clenched teeth, as I became more and more agitated.
“Well, he’ll have to prove it to me, cause’ I just don’t believe it,” she affirmed by crossing her arms across her chest. I sat there thinking, “Whoever wrote ‘Sharing Jesus without Fear”, had never witnessed to this 6 year old.
“Rachael, I have this feeling that maybe you’re not ready to get to saved.”
“Yes, I am!”
“No, you’re not!”
“Yes, I am! You let Nathan get saved!” I never dreamed the Salvation of my children would turn into a battle of sibling rivalry. Quickly realizing I was facing a great problem of negative publicity when Rachael would inevitably tell everyone at church her mommy would not let her get saved, I made a decision.
“Well, Rachael, let’s pray then.”
“I don’t want to pray.”
“What do you mean you don’t want to pray???” I shouted in exasperation as my last spiritual nerve was giving out. “You said you wanted to get saved! Let’s pray and ask God to help you, so your heart will be ready!”
“I don’t want to pray right now.”
“Rachael, you can’t get saved if you won’t pray.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how it works. If you want to get saved you have to confess your sin to God”
“You’re a sinner too!”
“I know, we ALREADY COVERED THAT!” I said, as my hands turned white clenching her blankets.
“I’m tired! I want to go to bed now,” she whined as if I had been brow beating her to get saved, and she just wanted to go to sleep.
My last nerve snapped.
“Well, when you want to get saved you just let me know!” I snapped back at her as I marched down the hallway.
“Why! You probably won’t believe me!” She countered as she pulled the blankets over her head.
That night has haunted me for two years. What was supposed to be a moment of hand in hand victory as we prayed -ended in hand to hand combat. I left her room, and had to go to my own prayer closet to repent for how I had acted trying to witness to my daughter. I was so worried that a spiritual door had been slammed closed between us that night, and that she would never let me in again. Just a couple of weeks ago, I had told my husband, that he might have to be the one to talk to Rachael, because our spiritual talks tend to feel more like spiritual warfare between she and I.
It was the memory of that night, which made last night so special. Rachael and I were alone in the office and after discussing all the things on her heart, and those that weighed on her mind, she asked me a question that had been on her heart.
“Mom, you told me one time that kids will go to Heaven if they’re not saved, right?”
“Well, only up to a certain time in their life. When they are old enough to understand and God starts talking to their hearts about getting saved, they need to listen.”
“If they don’t listen and die, where do they go?’
I swallowed hard, and felt the tears come up in my eyes, for I knew what child she was talking about. “Rachael, they would go to hell.” I silently thanked God that the door I thought would never open again, had been opened by my daughter, and she was humbly inviting me in.
“How many times will God deal with them?” she hesitantly asked.
“ He only promises once. He doesn’t have to give more chances than that.”
“ He only promises once. He doesn’t have to give more chances than that.”
“Mom, God’s been talking to me for a while about getting saved. I have been praying,” and then the tears in her eyes started to roll,” that all our family will be saved, and that no one will go to hell, when I realized God may not answer my prayer because I’m not saved.”
Hesitantly, I asked the question that had started the firestorm two years ago, “Rachael, do you know you are a sinner?” I held my breath waiting for the accusations to fly but in a tender, broken voice, my baby replied, “Yes.” I than asked her if she died where would she go. She answered, “Hell”. We talked about sin and grace, Heaven and Hell, Faith and Feeling. Then that moment came.
“Rachael, do you want to pray?”
“Yes.”
We got in the floor and knelt at the piano bench and she gently took my hand. This time hand in hand we combated sin, and not each other. With each tearful phrase that she repeated after me, she and I walked hand in hand, step by step to the foot of Calvary, where my baby, laid her life at the foot of the cross, and we both fell into the arms of Jesus who was waiting. Then as she told me she couldn’t stop crying, I gathered her in my arms as I did when she was little, and prayed that God would let her cry just a little longer.
Of all the places I’ve walked with my daughter that long, sometimes brutal road to Calvary was the most beautiful, treasured place we’ve ever gone. What greater peace can there be for a mother than to know, that when I have left this world, and I am walking hand in hand with Christ in Heaven, He’ll still be walking hand in hand with her on earth, leading her home to a land where we’ll never part- where as she looks upon her brother’s face she’ll finally have to admit, “I guess I was wrong. You are saved Nathan.”
Spiritual Resumes
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Since a former co-worker of mine has begun attending Hopewell, some little known stories about me have started to surface. Apparently, our most embarrassing moments in life are not cast into the sea of forgetfulness with our sin. Such as, the many embarrassing moments I had while working at JC Penney. Sometimes, we can become embarrassed when things we thought were forgotten are suddenly brought to light, but the way to avoid that is to share them yourself first! So I am going to share a couple, but bear in mind I was a teenager.
There was the time I worked in the men’s suit department and accidentally left an ink tag (those anti theft devices) on a suit coat. We received a phone call from the funeral home stating they needed the ink tag removed immediately because it was very noticeable on the deceased in the casket. I suggested covering it with a boutonniere but apparently that would give the impression He was going to prom. (I can’t tell you the number of 80 year old men in caskets I’ve seen at proms.) The maintenance man was called to remove the ink tag machine from the counter so I could be driven to Williamsburg to remove the ink tag. Speeding down the interstate, I couldn’t help thinking, “Surely these people know that it won’t be the ink tag that keeps him from getting through the pearly gates.”
Then there was the moment when one of my many stupid ideas went awry and an entire store witnessed it. I worked in the visual department for awhile a Penney’s. I helped with displays, decorating, etc. I was going to the storage area to retrieve two mannequins when I had the brilliant idea that by sticking my hands down into the mannequins through the necks I could transport them easier. I t worked! I was able to carry the mannequins quite easily through the store. The problem arose when one of the mannequins, a child size one, would not slide off easily as it slid on. I tugged. I pulled. Nothing happened.
A customer walked up to the register, interrupting my session of grunts and tugs, to check out, and since no one else was available it was my job to perform. I half hunched over, half stood up as I tried to hide the hand-consuming-mannequin behind the register counter. I looked like a modern version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I was quite a spectacle as I tried to hold the bag open with my teeth and push the clothes into it with my available hand. The line of customers that was forming behind her quickly dissipated as they watched me hand her a shopping bag with teeth marks and saliva drippings.
As I was once again freed to work on my project, I began to brainstorm. Until I was able to free my hand, I could go over to the children’s department and dress the mannequin like a little girl with a hat and pretend it was “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day”. Of course that could quickly turn into, “You’re fired! Take your daughter home with you day!”
I then tried taking scissors and widening the neck hole so I could release my hand, but decided that wasn’t wise because accidentally slitting a wrist stuck in a mannequin would only complicate the issue. (Although, the blood might make my hand slide out easier.) After many such brilliant ideas, and hours hiding in the stockroom, I knew I needed to seek help.
My hand at this point was so swollen it was cutting off the circulation. And needless to say I was running out of excuses for my inquisitive co-workers. “Still can’t find a place for that mannequin?”, “If you carry that around much longer it will become attached.” Ha, Ha. Finally, I resorted to going back to the stockroom and admitting to my supervisor my dilemma. At first, she thought it was joke. Then as she tugged and pulled, the reality of the situation set in. She tried lotion and hand wash from the bathroom to slide my hand out, but the only result was a cleaner, softer hand still stuck in the mannequin. She decided to call for reinforcements. We had codes for calling management that would let them know what they were needed for, but obviously there had never been a need to have a code for “hand stuck in mannequin”. She combined codes 7 and 11, which stood for shoplifter and lost child. I was now shoplifting a small child.
When the manager arrived he tried a few tugs and pulls of his own. After no avail, and a after I was “compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses” (who had heard the announcement and came running), the decision was made the mannequin would be cut off with a hand saw. (And I was worried about scissors.) Many associates decided to eat lunch in the stockroom that day to enjoy the festivities, and even started a pool taking bets as to how much blood there would be. I was greatly concerned when the one chosen to do the sawing had predicted there would be more blood than anyone else had wagered there would be. I fought off the urge to run, since I wasn’t sure if stealing a life-like mannequin would be considered kidnapping.
Finally, after a blood free, stressful 30 minutes, I was freed. Of course, my ordeal was not over. At the annual Christmas Party I was presented with the mannequin tied with a big red bow. I wish I could tell you those were the last of my many embarrassing moments, but unfortunately I was just getting warmed up for the rest of my life.
I wish we as Christians could look at our own spiritual mishaps and those of others in a lighter friendlier manner. Sometimes our pride and self preservation keeps us from revealing our own weaknesses, yet seeks to degrade others for theirs. If only we could show each other that same grace and support. It is OK to make a mistake, learn from it, and still have a spirit of humility about it to laugh about it.
We as Christians tend to feel the need to keep a Spiritual Resume and live our life according to how that resume looks, and judge others by how theirs looks. I remember once speaking at a women’s conference in Ohio. I was treated with such respect and dignity. Imagine their surprise when I shared how that morning how I had to super glue the strap on my purse and my sandal to wear that day. My dress had split up the back; I had just gotten a perm that made me look more like “Shirley Temple” than “Anne Lotz”, and my notes were written on toilet paper, grocery receipts, and in crayon. (I wrote whenever, however, and on whatever I had the opportunity to.) There was an instant evaporation of that spirit of awe, and an immediate feeling of camaraderie between us. They were much more receptive of me and God’s Word, when I became like them, and not “above” them. After all, if people feel too inferior to approach us- how can we ever share the gospel or disciple them effectively.
Don’t be afraid to let a little of your humanity show. We are Heaven bound, yet we are not heavenly beings yet. I remember attending a church function recently, and for the first time in 12 years, I asked to borrow the pastor’s keys to make a copy in the office. I made the copy; made sure everything was left just as I found it, and reverently closed the door to that Holy room where Heaven and Brother Herschel meet to prepare the sermons. Then I as quietly walked down the hallway, my daughter broke the silence with, “What did you do with his keys?” Ohhhhhh. They were left in the locked office. I wanted to tap on the door and say, “God! I know you’re in there, open up!” I walked back and forth in front of the door 7 times and let out a shout, but the door never fell. Then by the mercies of God, the custodian was just pulling into the parking lot and was able to let me in. Now, I realize this little story knocks me out of ever having a key to anything at church, but the reality is I have gifts, but I am also a little on the forgetful side.
But my scatter brained ways are what makes it all the more apparent that it is God using me when I write. In my weakness, He shines all the brighter. When I stand to sing or speak, I hope people who know me can say, “That’s sure not Jennifer up there.” Sometimes, people don’t see Christ at work in us, because we hide our weaknesses. They can’t see the times He was more than enough, because we won’t admit to all the times we weren’t near enough.
1 Corinthians 1:26-29, 31b reads, “For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called; But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea and things which are not, to bring to naught things that are:
That no flesh should glory in his presence. …….. He that glorieth let him glory in the Lord.”
If the ultimate goal is that God be glorified in us, and He chose us for the weaknesses, foolishness, and nothingness within us to better bring glory to Himself, then by struggling to conceal those things, we really conceal Him.
We do not lose those things when we become saved, we only find the greater purpose in them. The Presence of God has not made us better than others, but more useful to God in reaching others. How could anyone in a lifeboat taunt those still trapped on the sinking ship, and think themselves any better?
Remember who you are, who He is. Write your spiritual resume in a manner that will reveal God’s glory to lost a world, and not just trying to conceal your weakness and humanity from the Body of Christ. Those who truly know us and know Christ should have the grace and compassion to accept us anyway. If not, maybe they don’t know One of the two as well as they might think. After all, they can’t hide their own weak hand in a mannequin of perfection from the rest of us forever!!
Pride Cometh before a Fall
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Do you remember the exact moment you realized, you were no longer a spring chicken? The day you knew “over the hill” was not just a cute phrase, but rather an experience- when you no longer had the physical stamina to climb any higher and rolling down the hill hitting every rock, bush, and tree limb would now be your official form of transportation? I had that moment this past week, and I realize that I am no longer a spring chicken. I am now an old hen whose days are numbered until I will soon be made into a chicken pot pie.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The Bible School kick off was in full swing. Kids were playing basketball, volleyball, and kick ball. With the shortage on helpers that day, I stepped up to the plate (pun very much intended) to be the full time pitcher in the kick ball game. I used to be very athletic. The operative word there is “was”. (Thank God for internet where I can’t hear you laughing.) I was the only girl on a boys softball team, and in the seventh grade, I was recruited by the girls high school team to play. I was ready to re-live those glory days of high school athletics.
The game was a heated battle. Alright, I was the one overheating, and the battle was with my body trying desperately not to pass out. The moment that will in infamy, in my mind and in the x-rays, had arrived. The ball was pitched, and kicked just to the left of me. No time to wait on the first baseman to intercept it. I lunged, stopping the ball. The old girl still had it. In mid lunge I went to hurl the ball to first base to tag the runner out. I had made this same play time and time again on the softball field.
Houston we have a problem. Struggling to re-gain my balance from the lunging position, my mind flashed through my whole life of physical changes since I had last made this same play. Three pregnancies. Eight surgeries. One hundred extra pounds. Asthma. Allergies. And the all-important extra 15 years. My body continued its forward momentum, as my feet kept moving, and my torso kept leaning more and more forward. Don’t bother helping Houston. No rescue scenario will get me out of this one. I am going down.
And down I went, as ants scurried out of the way, and the earth braced itself for the impact. In the same moment I slammed to the ground, I was getting back up. While my body was not what it used be, my pride was. Being carried off the field as an 18 year-old who took one for the team was an honor. Being carried off the field as a 33 year old who took one for Bible School with no trophy or pennant to show for it would just be embarrassing. I jumped up, grabbed the ball, and yelled, “All right, who’s up next?”
My body did all the yelling after that.
As I went to pitch the ball with my left hand, oddly I could only move 3 fingers. As I released the ball with my arm in mid air, I noticed a large knot on my left forearm. My hand began to throb in Morse code. “Pain. Pain. Pain.” My jeans had grass stains and dirt all over them. My shirt was covered in grass and a few ants that didn’t make it and my shoulders were aching. After attempting to continue playing with one hand, I decided I had had enough. It was time to throw in the towel, or at least have it filled with ice to nurse my wounds. I went in, admitted my defeat to the other workers, and sat down with a bag of frozen green peppers on my hand.
After 2 trips to the emergency room in 2 days, I was diagnosed with contusions, a broke finger, and shattered pride.
I still had a week of Bible School ahead of me. Fortunately, this year we were doing it a little different. I was going to tell the Bible story each night, to each class. I had decided to dress up in costumes and do monologues each night, sort of like a one man play. It went very well. The room was quiet, the kids and adults were completely engaged in the lesson, and Christ was magnified. I was right where I was supposed to be. I felt peace, fulfillment, and God’s anointing each night as I performed what God had gifted me and instructed me to do.
That week left me with such a different feeling than Saturday had. On Saturday, I went where I wanted to be. I volunteered to work the kick ball game where I thought I would be magnified. I gave little thought to my calling, or limitations, and I suffered for it. Don’t we sometimes do that spiritually? We sign up to work in church where we want to work, but not where God has led us to work. We are drawn to people we want to be around, and not reaching out to the people desperately needing to be around the Christ with in us. We allow our flesh to determine our spiritual actions, when our spirit man should be determining what our flesh should be doing. When we make those wrong decisions, it is the Body of Christ that suffers. We disable the foot of Christ, or as I now know, the hand of Christ from working effectively.
Sometimes, it is not in just being in the wrong place that hurts the Body of Christ, it is not showing up at all. When we leave the position God has called us to fill vacant, someone must fill it. That someone may do all right, but there will be a void left still.
Don’t let pride keep us from where God as gifted and equipped us to go. Don’t let the enemy use us to disable another part of the Body of Christ from being effective. Pride is a dangerous and sometimes painful thing. Proverbs 29:23 reads, “A man’s pride shall bring him low.” God words, even to this little verse shall come to pass. He brought me face down in the dirt, low. The only place lower would be six feet under. Pride does come before the fall, and pain cometh shortly thereafter. Don’t let the Body of Christ suffer the pain that your pride has caused.
Worthless World VS. Priceless Jesus
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
“I’d rather have Jesus, than silver or gold. I’d rather be His than have riches untold, “-those are just a few of the words of a beautiful song that Larry Jackson sings at our church. It is his theme song of sorts, and you can tell he means every word that he sings.
But recently as he was singing this very song, I was singing along thanking God for the blessing of knowing Jesus. It has truly been worth more than any amount of silver or gold. He was walked with me down paths where no one else could or would walk with me. He has fed me with manna from Heaven while I have been in hospital beds, doctor’s offices, and even on my front porch on many a night. His peace and presence has filled my heart on many an interstate mile, waiting room, and even while washing dishes at my kitchen sink. He has been an ever-present help and refuge in the sometimes chaotic and overwhelming circumstances of my life. He is my God. He is my Friend. He is my Savior. He is the most valuable asset life has to offer. He is the only thing that gives my life worth.
As I sang those words along with Larry, the Lord hit me with a thought, “What would you do without that others may have me? Would you rather that others had Jesus, than to have silver and gold for yourself? How important is it to you that others have me?” If you were to ask me that question in relation to my friends and family, I would say, there is no price too great, for seeing my children saved. There is no task too great, if the result is my family circle being unbroken in Heaven. But I am afraid that in my heart of hearts, I have placed a lesser “book value” on what I am willing to pay or invest in the lives of those lost, who are unknown to me.
I am afraid we in American have been ruined spiritually by the system of checks and balances. We tend to keep running tallies of the costs of items and rate their priority. Everything has a value assigned. Even the acts of charity are assigned values for tax purposes. We have lost the ability to perform without immediately thinking, “What will it cost, and what will I gain.” We evaluate everything from our clothes, vehicles, homes, cell phones, and even food on our table by the value placed on it by the world, instead of using the most basic criteria – “will it meet my need”, not “will it meet my wants.”
Spiritually, we are operating on those same terms. We evaluate everything spiritual using the same system. If we say a prayer, we expect instant results, and not just any result will do. If we attend Sunday Morning church, that balances out not going on Sunday night. If we give to missions, that balances out not witnessing at work. We put our kids in Sunday school, to balance out not teaching them spiritual truths at home. We don’t visit the sick because that’s the deacon’s job, (unless it’s someone we know and like). We don’t work with the children’s ministry, because we don’t have children anymore so there’s nothing personal to gain. We don’t go to the nursing home because it cuts into our Sunday afternoon leisure activities. We don’t seek God all week, because He got our attention on Sunday.
We hide behind our work in the church, to balance out neglecting our job in the world. The church is not our spiritual occupation. It is the vehicle and means to perform our job in the world-reaching the lost. I have been guilty of serving God wholeheartedly in church, but restricting my efforts to those areas I am most comfortable serving in. There is a missing character trait in us as Christians. The trait that says, “I will give all, all the time because He has done no less for me.”
While we cannot purchase someone else’s salvation by any means, we can certainly pave a path with our resources to the foot of the cross, to direct the masses there more quickly and efficiently. Christ made a bridge between Calvary and eternity in Heaven. It is our job to provide a bridge from Calvary to the very heart of every hurting, sin-sick, and dying soul. We as church and individuals will be judged on what we invested into that road. Are we providing a well-marked highway for the lost, or are we providing a dimly lit path that few stumble across in their search for help. And sometimes the bigger question is, does that path lead only to our church, or does it ultimately lead the lost to Calvary?
We tend to want to plant spiritual seed in our own little private garden, where we can yield a harvest, and enjoy first hand the fruit of our own labor. I enjoy sowing into my own children because my flesh feels that reflects on me. But is God any less concerned about the children passing through our church each week who need a spiritual mother to sow in their lives? May I tell you that is the reason the fields are white with harvest and the laborers are few? As Christians, we must be willing to release all ownership of our investment in the Kingdom, that He alone may be glorified in the returns that investment yields. When we work in His harvest fields, we work as a whole, yielding harvest for the One, just as the One brought Salvation to the whole.
We stand ready to pay the price that our loved ones or co-workers may pass through to obtain access to Calvary. But will we continue to pay the price for others we do not know, or don’t really have a desire to know? Can I tell you, that the greatest, purest acts of sacrifice will be rewarded by Him with the greatest of treasures He can offer- treasures laid up in Heaven never to be tainted by this disintegrating world.
I’d rather the world had Jesus, than for me to have the world. I encourage you now, sow and work trusting the results to God. Give your all to the One who can multiply your efforts to reach many, just as he did with a little boy’s lunch that fed five thousand. How much more of this worthless world can we surrender that more people may come to know this Priceless Jesus?
Matthew 9:36-38
“But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted, and were scattered abroad, as sheep having no shepherd. Then saith he unto his disciples, ‘The harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest , that he will send forth laborers into his harvest.”
His harvest. –Our great calling and honor to work in it for Him.
Wounded for Freedom
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
It was a climatic moment in the movie. The hero’s hands were bound behind his back as he struggled to free himself before the terrorists crashed the plane he and his family were on. Suddenly, he locates a piece of broken glass next to his hands and subtly grasps it one hand and begins to cut at the ropes that bind his arms. As he blindly cuts behind his back he frequently misses the ropes scoring his own skin with glass, causing great pain and bleeding. Rachael was troubled by this scene and asked, “Why is he doing that to himself?” My 6 year old son Benjamin gave a reply that I have yet to forget.
“Because when he is free the wounds will heal.”
The room grew very silent as we were all stunned by his insight, and I launched into a state of spiritual dementia, where my natural man seems lifeless, but my spirit man is racing through time to all the times in scripture where wounding brought freedom.
Jacob wrestled with an angel of God, but the wounding of his hip brought great blessing upon him.
Joshua was greatly wounded emotionally when thrown into a pit by his brothers. But the wound healed as God elevated him to prominence and prosperity.
Job was wounded in every area of his life, but when the wound healed he was blessed with more than he lost.
Jesus was wounded in every way imaginable but in His mind he could have thought, “When they are free my wounds will heal.” What is even more amazing is that he took the wounding that our own wounds may be healed. Our minds can comprehend that freedom costs, as we look at those who have died in battles for our country. But could we comprehend an army from Switzerland coming and fighting for our country; dying for a freedom they didn’t need or would not benefit them in any way? That is the incomprehensible fact of Christ’s crucifixion. It was His pain for our gain. He had no dog in the fight, no ties to the crimes, no involvement in any sin committed that He was now paying the price for. But He thought our freedom was worth the pain.
Sadly, today, we don’t seem as a Christians to want to claim that same creed. You’ll find no church signs stating “Our pain is your gain.” NO t-shirts bearing the message, “Persecute me so I’ll be blessed,” or songs declaring, “Wound me Lord, if it will free someone.” We are still counting the cost of winning the lost, and sadly we have become self-declared spiritual cheapskates. Each of us has drawn lines in the sand we will not cross for the sake of Christ; in turn drawing lines He cannot cross to bless us.
“Nursing home service on Sunday cuts into my naptime.” Line drawn.
“I just don’t have the patience to work with kids anymore.” Line drawn. (Have you ever considered the patience it takes to be your pastor?)
“God didn’t intend for us to tithe when the economy is so bad.” Line drawn.
“You can’t help the poor; they just want a hand out.” Line drawn.
“I’d visit the sick in the hospital, but I’m afraid I’ll catch something up there.” Line drawn.
“It would take a burning bush to get me back in the nursery.” Line drawn. (Yes, most of you will remember I am the one that made that heartless unspiritual comment. Forgive me, all of you precious mothers with babies under three.)
The problem is not that we don’t have valid reasons for not desiring to suffer a little for Christ, it’s that we can’t see past the cost to see the prize. We have no vision for the plan God is seeking to fulfill in us and through us. We only see how the details of His plan could interfere with our own carnal plans.
Nothing in my life has revealed the concept of being wounded to free others more than motherhood has. My own body bears the scars of the surgeries necessary to bring freedom and life to my three children. Every wrinkle on my face and every gray hair bear witness to long nights without sleep taking care of a sick child, changing diapers, feeding bottles, or yes, tending to baby chickens my son was hatching out in an incubator. My nerves have been wounded each time I allowed my children the freedom to ride their bikes down a hill, climb a tree, swim out a little deeper in the pool, and shoot their new BB gun. I see all the possibilities of danger, yet I must endure the pain, trusting them God’s care for them to experience the new freedom increased age and responsibility brings. My mind is operating on a skeleton crew of wounded brain cells, not because of drugs, but because of the million “What’s that,” “How come”, and “Why,” questions I have answered through the last 8 years. But my sacrifice will bear fruit, and the fruit I have already tasted in my kids lives makes me hungry to see and taste more. I cannot imagine making sacrifices for the Body of Christ would produce any less of a harvest.
Wounding is neither comfortable nor pleasant. Yet, when wounding is experienced under the leading and careful eye of Christ it reaps great rewards and blessings in this life and the next, for you and for others. While it is not required that we pursue wounding, I think as mature Christians we should not shun opportunities or tasks that God would give us because the potential for wounding is there. When those decisions to obey God lead to wounding and suffering, may it be our cry, “May this wound be used for the up building of the Kingdom as thoroughly and completely as possible.” If I must be in pain, why not pray that not a moment of it is wasted, but that every tinge of discomfort produces fruit in the Kingdom.
It is recorded in Scripture that Christ was so marred by the beatings and abuse of His crucifixion that he was not recognizable by those who knew Him. My desire is that my spirit man would be completely marred when I finally arrive home, each wound bearing witness not to a wound that the enemy inflicted, but to the opportunities I willingly accepted to be broken and wounded for the cause of Christ. I hope that my own carnal flesh is unrecognizably disfigured by the successful spiritual warfare where I daily crucified my flesh that my Spirit man would be free to obey God. After all, there’s a new body awaiting me.
Brothers and Sisters in Christ, may I compliment you on every scar, mark, and wound of the battle you bear. To the carnal world you may be too grotesque to look upon or be around, but to Jesus and the Body of Christ, you are beautiful.
Selective Hearers and the Women Who Love Them
[Still Waters]
07/19/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Selective Hearers and the Women Who Love Them
A tragedy has occurred in our home. I had hoped and prayed this pestilence which had caused "a thousand to fall at my side" would somehow not come near our home. But my faith was not strong enough, my prayers not powerful enough. We were destined to become like almost every other married couple I knew. It does indeed rain on the just and the unjust.
I can remember the night well, that our home was invaded. As a newlywed, I was pouring my heart out to my husband as he watched TV to keep from being overwhelmed with emotion at the details of my story. Then as I allowed the usual moment of hesitation in my monologue, where he would normally enter the conversation with compassion, wisdom, and understanding, there was silence. I remember waiting, thinking, "Wow! He is so touched with my outpouring, he cannot speak." The silence continued...and then the scene that has been rerun in our home more times than Andy Griffith played out.
"Honey? Honey? Are you listening??......HONEY! ARE YOU LISTENING?"
His armor still shown brightly, as it rested against the blue denim background of the recliner. His shield still rested against the left side of the chair, and his sword against the right side, ready to defend me in a heartbeat, but something was still wrong. I then ran to my knight in shining armor's side convinced some thing was terribly wrong. Finally after struggling to shake that massive amount of shining metal and getting no response, denting the chest plate as I enthusiastically performed CPR attempting to revive him, I flipped open his face guard, only to find a some cob webs and a note, "Gone to get a sandwich, keep talking."
The glazed look in his eyes as he returned from the kitchen, wearing his ragged white t-shirt and jeans, said it all. (Do Knights always dress that tacky under their armor?)Not only did he not have anything to say about my vocal offerings, not only did he not hear them, he did not know I was in the room. The winds of selective hearing had blown into our home. I thought my man would be different than so many of my friends' husbands. It was a sad day, for both of us. I would now talk twice as much since he could only absorb half as much. The half he did absorb would be confused with the the half he didn't hear. The half he didn't get would be the whole juxt of the conversation.
I have come to accept my husband's late onset hearing disability, although I think it would make it easier to deal with if I could receive a monthly disability check to compensate me for the inconvenience his hearing loss has caused me. Of, course I would have more information to share with him when I came back from shopping which would only make the situation more unbearable for both of us.
The new tragedy? Our home has been struck again. My 10 year old son started exhibiting the same symptoms of this disability. I was devastated. He is only 10. He's too young for a grown man's disease. I cried out to God in desperation, "Please don't take my son from me! I still have so much to share with him! Please God, 6 months! Give me 6 months to say goodbye, before his eyes glaze over, and communication is forever limited to commercial breaks and the time it takes to fix him a sandwich!" But I did not pray through and his hearing got worse.I would frequently be giving directions in his general direction in the living room. I would wait on some sort of acknowledgment that my words had been received and processed. Moment's later, still no response. I cannot count the times I have given reminders as we walked out the door, of items he needed to grab, only to arrive at our destination "itemless". I found myself addressing him like he was 90 years old and living in a rest home.
"IT'S TIME FOR YOUR BATH!"
"NOT MATH! YOUR BBBBBBAAAAATH!"
And with the absolute sincerest look on his face, he would say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."
Well, this mom got tired of apologies. I decided to take Nathan to our Ear, Nose, and Throat Specialist. We drove an hour and a half, in hopes of a miracle procedure to restore sanity to our home.
We arrived, and I informed the doctor of my dilemma. "My son is turning into his father at age 10. This should concern all parties involved. " He didn't seem to realize what a state of national emergency this was. I told him of Nathan's hearing loss, his constant misunderstandings, and the all annoying phrase repeated throughout the day, "What?".
The doctor laughed and informed me, that he has numerous wives drag their husbands into his office to get their hearing checked, only to find their husbands can hear fine, it's the high frequency of their wives' voices that they cannot hear. I cracked up laughing, assuming that was some sort of audiologist' joke, but he assured me it was true. I felt pity for those wives, but knew God could move in my situation. Apparently God moved all right- right out of that doctor's office. They performed the tests on Nathan's ears. I was shocked by the results- as I usually am when told I am the one with the problem. Apparently the high frequency of my voice does not always register in Nathan's ears. The more frustrated I get, the higher my voice goes, decreasing my chances of being heard. I am raising a 10 year old, with the hearing of a 60 year old. The doctor suggested he marry a woman with a deep voice. He did give me some pointers to making sure I am heard- make him look me in the eyes when I am giving him direction. Make him repeat the directions back to me. Minimize distractions during important conversations. He said I could also try them on my son if they worked on my husband.
Then as we were leaving, the doctor told Nathan, "Nathan, it was good to see you again."
Nathan replied, "Again, what does he mean again?"
"Nathan, he was the doctor that took your tonsils out."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot."
With his memory following so closely on the departure on his hearing, we decided to go straight to the Social Security Office and get his paperwork started. Wanted: A godly woman with a low voice, a good memory, and patience to marry my son.
As we prepared to leave the office though, the doctor looked into Nathan's eyes and gave him a clear instruction. "Don't tell your mother anymore you can't hear. You need to be honest and say, "I wasn't listening."
Well, about that time, God stepped back into the office, and convicted me of my listening skills.
"My sheep know my voice.....
I know His voice well. I can recognize Him in a crowd. I can hear Him in the crashing waves, or a gentle brook. And I know when to pretend I didn't hear Him- when He asks for more than I am willing to give. I can hear Him calling my name, when I want just 30 minutes to sleep. When He calls me from my gentle cruise to leave the boat and walk on the water, I sometimes find myself in more of a hearing mood than listening one. We as His sheep know His voice, but are we always listening? To hear is to simply acknowledge the sound, to listen is to hear the sound and process the information. So many times, I am comforted by hearing His voice, because it means He is still near. It also somehow leads me to believe that as long as I am close enough to still hear His voice, than I can hone in and listen more closely when I feel like "listening."
The sad issue is this- it we who miss out when we don't listen. When I try to tune out the noise of my kids each day, I miss out on on conversations I want to join, games I want to play, jokes when I really need a laugh, and joy and chaos I will someday miss and long to hear. Sometimes we are tuning out an invitation from God to draw closer, go deeper, soar higher, or even rest longer. We tend to always try to remember that we will not have our kids forever and time is precious with them. If only we could grasp that concept with God. Though God is eternal, the time He would share with us today under these circumstances in our lives, may never happen again. It is the changes in us that will hinder the effectiveness and impact of time spent with Him, not Him. If God calls you today, it is because He knew something of your present circumstances or tomorrow's events that makes this moment in time the perfect moment to speak to you. What if what He wants to impart to you today, will be too late to receive tomorrow? We treat God's continual presence and activity in our lives too lightly. We take for granted our God who never sleeps nor slumbers, assuming we will always another time to meet.
When the same voice that spoke light into existence, calls unto our inner man to come and dine, it is not an invitation to be taken lightly. Just as he tried to instill in the Israelites with their daily ration of manna, there is daily provision from Him available to us each day. Tomorrow's will not be available today, and today's will not sustain through tomorrow. Just as I long for Nathan to treat every word I speak to Him as significant and meaningful, how much more so should the words of our Good Shepherd be heeded and internalized.
As Dr. Schultz gently reprimanded Nathan, I too, received the rebuke to be honest-"Father, I will not say I did not hear you, but rather I was not listening. " How ridiculous to ever think God would speak too low for me to hear.
I paid a $35.00 co-pay for that rebuke. Of course, I saved $35.00 when I cancelled the appointment I had made for my husband.
O Be Careful Little Eyes What you See
[Still Waters]
07/09/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
"O Be Careful Little Eyes What you See,"
I am tirelessly careful about what other people view me doing. I try to be cautious and modest in my dress, I am discreet and private when clearing my nasal passages (please don't make me expound on that...) and I pride myself on my proper, ladylike behavior. But there are times, when control of what others observe me doing is removed.
Such was the case this week.
In preparation for the company this weekend, I was fulfilling my job duties as "Keeper of the Cement Pond." I was skimming, chlorinating, vacuuming, and sweating. When I clean the pool, I usually dress in my oldest, tattered, faded clothes because I am notorious for getting chlorine on them and fading them. That day was no different. In addition to bumming down, I will neglect to apply makeup or style my hair. Why apply what is going to be sweated off into the pool water anyway, and then require more treatment to remove?
As this Beverly Hillbilly 90210 pool gal worked her magic clearing up the water, in a manner only Moses and his staff could rival, a predicament arose. In the bottom of the 10 foot deep end, garbage had become trapped in the drain preventing the water to flow properly through the pump. On any other given day in the summer, there would have been short elves and dwarfs in the water who would have been thrilled with the task of diving down and cleaning the drain. On this such day, no one under 5' 4" was present. Desperately needing to get the pool cleaned, I decided to take action. I would dive down and retrieve the garbage. Since I have not invested in my own pool accessories, I decided to borrow from the kids treasure box of gear. Digging through the jumbled mess, I found a pair of goggles I needed to be able to see the drain clearly under water. As I stretched the goggles over my head, I realized my head is considerably larger than a 7 year olds. I adjusted the goggles to as large as possible, and then wedged them over my head. Instead of holding all my hair down under the band, it somehow managed to redirect my hair upward, giving the appearance of a hairpiece perched upon my head ready to be released with the next good breeze. That, however, was minor to the change the goggles made to my face. I apparently have quite a bit more facial fat than a 7 year old also. The goggles had the opposite effect of a face lift. Every ounce of fat on my face was pulled down into the goggles. I was struggling to see through the two slits where the cheek fat met my eyes in each lens. Because of the immense pressure of the goggles on my face, every bit of skin out side the goggles was red and every bit of skin in the goggles was white. I looked like a homeless diver, who had been stung by a bee and was awaiting the Jaws of Life to remove me from my entrapment.
It was uncomfortable, yet I knew the sooner I got it over with, the sooner I could move on to another project. I slid into the water, and prepared to submerge beneath the surface. If submerge gives you the mental image of a submarine diving towards the depths, good. That's the only image that can come close to describing this amount of flesh entering the water.
I bobbed in the deep end for a few minutes, practicing holding my breath, and situated myself against the wall to be able to effectively push off the side and gain momentum for the journey down.I was beginning to feel like I belonged in a Jacques Cousteau documentary. " Watch as the massive creature circles her prey, preparing to lunge in for the kill," He might would say in hushed tones. I was finally ready to pursue the drain. Deep breath, solid push against the wall, and I am under. I t is really hard to judge distance under the water. I overshot the drain and tried to turn mid glide and swim back toward the drain. But a new problem arose. When shorts get wet, and when they are loose anyway, they tend to not stay put. Every time I moved forward, my shorts tried to stay stationary in the water. I developed a new stroke. I would use both hands to glide forward, then both hands to grab the shorts. I looked like a jellyfish, where the legs move first, then the head has to catch up. I repeated this stroke across the pool. Glide with arms, grab shorts. Glide with arms, grab shorts.
Finally I was back over the drain, and already exhausted with my new synchronized swimming routine. I rose to the surface, gagging and choking as I held my shorts with one hand and tried to remain afloat with the other, took a deep breath, and plunged back into the water. I managed to get to the drain and grab a huge handful of leaves. I kicked for all I was worth trying to hold onto the garbage and my shorts. I broke through the service again, gagging and coughing, as I doggy paddled my way to the shore to deposit my garbage on the concrete. Unable to use my arms, I decided to flip on my back and float to shore. I held the handful of leaves straight up in the hair like the Liberty Torch, and kicked and splashed my way to the side of the pool. When the side was in reach, I slapped those leaves on the pavement, just as the goggles slid up pulling my hair into a tight pony tail on top of my head, while the bottle of the goggles caught on the tip of my nose, pulling it straight up in "pig like" appearance. Unable to fix the goggles, hold the shorts, release my hair, and stay afloat, I just bobbed and gagged for a moment to catch my breath. It was then I noticed two boots attached to brown pants standing 12 inches from me. I looked up into the very disturbed and shocked face of the UPS man.
It was obvious by his stunned face, and perched stance, he had been standing there a while. I don't know if he was more afraid of me coming out of the water, or of possibly having to go in after me. I am not sure he wanted to hang around for either possibility.
"Hi," I blubbered.
"I...I... have a package for you," he stuttered.
"OK. Just leave it on the porch, " I said in a tone of voice that I hope resembled that of an efficient secretary and not that of a beached whale.
" I will. Are you gonna be alright?"
What a loaded question. I have never been "alright". I am an accident waiting to happen, and a candid camera's dream. I felt, however, that I needed to re-assure this man so he would not worry about me on the remainder of his route.
So what could I say, that would ease his mind and yet explain my behavior. With a contorted, red face, I gave my explanation.
"You know how rodeos have clowns? Sea World is going to try the same concept in the Shamu show. Water clowns. I'm trying out."
Without a moment's hesitation, he replied, "You're ready,"with a twinkle in his eye, as he backed the big brown van down the drive-way.
I was embarrassed, and yet it was an obvious reminder- you never know who is watching you. You may work diligently to portray to others exactly what you want them to see and perceive about you, but what you truly are will eventually shine through. Sometimes the only catalyst needed to bring out our hidden nature is a forbidden fruit tree, a bathing maiden on a roof top, a crowing rooster, or even suffering. We may be observed in the fiery furnace like the three Hebrew boys. We may be observed in our slavery like Joseph. We may be observed in our power and authority like King Saul. We may even be observed in our death like Stephen. How will we do? Will the true nature of Christ shine through us? Will we be able to draw on the unending source of strength and power in our lives, or will the emptiness of our spiritual tank become obvious to all. So many times we feel we are inadequate to be used for the kingdom. We do not realize we are daily a testimony to the world. Every action is documented by a lost world and a knowing family. It is the difference bewteen carrying the cross and wearing the cross. One strives to make a statement with no sacrifice involved, the other seeks to protray the sacrifice that requires no further statement- an innocent King on a guilty man's cross-my cross. The true measure of a Christian's commitment is not what he does with the cross, but what the cross does to him. The world will not be reached by viewing our religious jewlry and wearing our catch phrase T-shirts, if underneath we do not also bear the marks of the cross on our back and His Word on our lips. Someone is watching and a world is waiting.
Don't be caught with garbage in your hand and holding up your britches. A lost world is not drawn in by that image, only UPS drivers.
Deep Thoughts From The Shallow End Of The Pool
[Still Waters]
05/27/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
From my early, well more like ancient, days of being a toddler bathing in the sink and playing in a conglomeration of blow up pools decorated with fish and smiling octopuses, I have had a dream. A dream deeply rooted in my love of water and sun. My dream- to have an in ground pool. I have memories of visiting friends with pools, envious of the favor God had shown them. Forget the coat of many colors, (they no longer come in my size anyway), throw me in a pit filled with water any day. Oh, to frolic and float in the crystal clear water of my own private aquatic refuge.
Well, my dream has come true. We now have an in ground pool.
I have done little frolicking and the only things floating have been the little bugs that have managed to escape my vengeful skimming net. Crystal clear water comes with a price. There are chemicals to make it bluer, chemicals to keep it from turning green, chemicals that make it cloudy while cleaning it, and more chemicals to remove the cloud. Once you have the clear water, then you can clearly see the bottom which holds treasures, that I would prefer remain hidden. This discovery now requires hauling out the 50 foot hose attached to a 15 foot pole and vacuuming the entire bottom of the pool. Of course, oddly enough, the hose cannot suck up the lawn furniture deposited there by the storm. So I, in one of my rare appearances in the pool, must dive 10 feet down to retrieve the lawn chair. I sat in it for a moment to rest before hauling it to the surface.
But in spite of all the toil and the tears I have found great joy in watching my children swim. They seem to become engrossed in their own world of aquatic play and forget I am there, resulting in a very entertaining show. I watched my son Nathan baptize his brother and sister so sweetly and tenderly. I watched Rachael baptize her brothers- plunging them backward and forwards repeatedly as they gasped for air, as if there was sin still struggling to hang on. I have watched Ben enter the pool every single time with a passionate leap, unhindered by the frost on the ground in late April and freezing water. I have watched the kids drag out every floatable device they can find, giving the appearance of frogs jumping from lily pad to lily pad.
My favorite memory this year by far, though, is of Rachael. Rachael is not a strong swimmer so I have insisted that she wear an inner tube in the deep end until she improves. One afternoon I watched as Nathan was repeatedly jumping into the deep end, also not a strong swimmer, and Rachael with her hot pink inner tube, would swim to save him.
Rachael informed me, "I'm practicing saving people."
I was cracking up, on the inside, thinking the most valuable asset a lifeguard could have, is the ability to swim themselves. I don't think I would find much confidence in a lifeguard who has to have nose plugs, ear plugs, a swim cap, arm floaties, and a big inflatable duck around his or her waist. I found it so humorous that Rachael thought she could be a lifeguard when her only qualification was-she had a float that kept her from drowning too.
But then in a single moment my heart was convicted. Sadly, that is my spiritual mentality also.
I only want to perform or handle tasks that match my gifting, talents, and natural strengths. I want to have that secret weapon- I can do this on my own. I don't like the uncertainty of having to trust a floatie in order to be successful. But in reality, the floatie I don't like depending on- is God. Not only do I judge myself, I judge others using the same criteria. I secretly fault or criticize those who are placed in positions I feel they are unqualified for, or unequipped to do. And you can imagine my disdain and anger, when others less qualified are placed where I want to be.
Looking back, I know why I was overlooked for so many opportunities- I wouldn't use the float.
The truth of the matter is, any HUMBLE follower of Christ has realized one truth. The float of God's grace is the only thing that seperates us from the rest of the world. Without it, we'd still be drowning.
I cannot tell you the number of times I have dove into projects and situations that I felt equipped to handle and then felt my strength quickly disappear. I have splashed and struggled, gurgled and choked on the water, arms flailing and legs kicking, struggling to get back to the shore. In those moments, I have heard a gentle voice speak, "Peace, Be still," as he draws me back into the boat. Sometimes I am afraid to get out of the boat, sometimes I am too stupid to stay there. He can speak "Peace" not only to the storms that come into our lives, but also to the ones we create all on our own.
On rare occasions, I have done projects and handled situations completely on my own. God has allowed my tired and wasted body to wash up on shore, rather than save me. He has left me there awhile to boast in my own hard fought battle- alone. I am alone not only becasue I did it without Christ, but because I alienated everyone else with my attitude and pride driven by my own agenda. Finishing the race alone, is not near as invigorating and fulfilling as winning the race with Christ by your side. There is no reward when you run alone, for Christ has the awards with Him, for those who run for Him, with Him, and because of Him.
I now, can picture God, looking to and fro for someone to send to save a lost and drowning world. He glances at world class divers, Navy Seal Commanders, Olympic Gold Medalist swimmers and then something catches His eye. He watches a little red-haired girl with freckles, goggles, and a hot pink inner tube, and says, "There she is." His ways truly confound the wise, and me- who is now off to shop for inner tubes in the plus size department.
Well, my dream has come true. We now have an in ground pool.
I have done little frolicking and the only things floating have been the little bugs that have managed to escape my vengeful skimming net. Crystal clear water comes with a price. There are chemicals to make it bluer, chemicals to keep it from turning green, chemicals that make it cloudy while cleaning it, and more chemicals to remove the cloud. Once you have the clear water, then you can clearly see the bottom which holds treasures, that I would prefer remain hidden. This discovery now requires hauling out the 50 foot hose attached to a 15 foot pole and vacuuming the entire bottom of the pool. Of course, oddly enough, the hose cannot suck up the lawn furniture deposited there by the storm. So I, in one of my rare appearances in the pool, must dive 10 feet down to retrieve the lawn chair. I sat in it for a moment to rest before hauling it to the surface.
But in spite of all the toil and the tears I have found great joy in watching my children swim. They seem to become engrossed in their own world of aquatic play and forget I am there, resulting in a very entertaining show. I watched my son Nathan baptize his brother and sister so sweetly and tenderly. I watched Rachael baptize her brothers- plunging them backward and forwards repeatedly as they gasped for air, as if there was sin still struggling to hang on. I have watched Ben enter the pool every single time with a passionate leap, unhindered by the frost on the ground in late April and freezing water. I have watched the kids drag out every floatable device they can find, giving the appearance of frogs jumping from lily pad to lily pad.
My favorite memory this year by far, though, is of Rachael. Rachael is not a strong swimmer so I have insisted that she wear an inner tube in the deep end until she improves. One afternoon I watched as Nathan was repeatedly jumping into the deep end, also not a strong swimmer, and Rachael with her hot pink inner tube, would swim to save him.
Rachael informed me, "I'm practicing saving people."
I was cracking up, on the inside, thinking the most valuable asset a lifeguard could have, is the ability to swim themselves. I don't think I would find much confidence in a lifeguard who has to have nose plugs, ear plugs, a swim cap, arm floaties, and a big inflatable duck around his or her waist. I found it so humorous that Rachael thought she could be a lifeguard when her only qualification was-she had a float that kept her from drowning too.
But then in a single moment my heart was convicted. Sadly, that is my spiritual mentality also.
I only want to perform or handle tasks that match my gifting, talents, and natural strengths. I want to have that secret weapon- I can do this on my own. I don't like the uncertainty of having to trust a floatie in order to be successful. But in reality, the floatie I don't like depending on- is God. Not only do I judge myself, I judge others using the same criteria. I secretly fault or criticize those who are placed in positions I feel they are unqualified for, or unequipped to do. And you can imagine my disdain and anger, when others less qualified are placed where I want to be.
Looking back, I know why I was overlooked for so many opportunities- I wouldn't use the float.
The truth of the matter is, any HUMBLE follower of Christ has realized one truth. The float of God's grace is the only thing that seperates us from the rest of the world. Without it, we'd still be drowning.
I cannot tell you the number of times I have dove into projects and situations that I felt equipped to handle and then felt my strength quickly disappear. I have splashed and struggled, gurgled and choked on the water, arms flailing and legs kicking, struggling to get back to the shore. In those moments, I have heard a gentle voice speak, "Peace, Be still," as he draws me back into the boat. Sometimes I am afraid to get out of the boat, sometimes I am too stupid to stay there. He can speak "Peace" not only to the storms that come into our lives, but also to the ones we create all on our own.
On rare occasions, I have done projects and handled situations completely on my own. God has allowed my tired and wasted body to wash up on shore, rather than save me. He has left me there awhile to boast in my own hard fought battle- alone. I am alone not only becasue I did it without Christ, but because I alienated everyone else with my attitude and pride driven by my own agenda. Finishing the race alone, is not near as invigorating and fulfilling as winning the race with Christ by your side. There is no reward when you run alone, for Christ has the awards with Him, for those who run for Him, with Him, and because of Him.
I now, can picture God, looking to and fro for someone to send to save a lost and drowning world. He glances at world class divers, Navy Seal Commanders, Olympic Gold Medalist swimmers and then something catches His eye. He watches a little red-haired girl with freckles, goggles, and a hot pink inner tube, and says, "There she is." His ways truly confound the wise, and me- who is now off to shop for inner tubes in the plus size department.
Fame or Favor
[Still Waters]
05/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Fame or Favor
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/fame-or-favor.html>
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/fame-or-favor.html>
I was remembering today some of the many stories our family loves to share. One of the stories is about the day our family shared fifteen minutes in the spotlight, and boy did we shine!
It was a Saturday filled with chores and yard work. Every man, woman, and child was working in the neighborhood, and we were determined to look just as busy. We mowed, and cleaned, weed-eated, and cleaned out storage buildings. Everyone was wearing their clothes that had the least amount of life left,but still enough fabric to sufficiently cover. I had my short hair pulled up in two stubby ponytails, no make-up, a stained T-shirt, baggy jean shorts, old tennis shoes, and no socks. Chris was wearing old jeans, a battered tattered ball cap, and a once white T-shirt whose stains were a checklist of projects completed that day. Grass Stain, mowed yard. Oil stain, changed spark plugs. Feathers, fed chickens. Ketchup, tried to feed himself.
The kids were in no better shape. But the stains were of a different nature. Yellow stain, tried to grab Rachael's banana Popsicle. Larger yellow stain, Rachael threw the Popsicle. Grass stain, rolled in grass. Red stain, blood from falling out of tree. More red stains-blood from retaliating for being pushed from tree. I have found that the stains on the backs of the kids clothes are the most disturbing. These are things placed their by the other two children. There I find things, but I ask no questions. Green slimy stains. ( Note to self: Find Kleenex holder for swing set.) Brown foul smelling stains. (I assume that one involves the dog.) And the most prominent stain, small dirty hand prints, most likely not from hugging. The kids clothes were more of "trying to wear one more time before the seams split". I let them dress themselves, so clothes were selected for their location in the drawer(whatever's on top) instead of for actual style purposes.
To say the least we were a motley looking crew. When the sun started to set, and the mosquitoes started to bite, it was time for dinner. The general, unwritten, and solemn rule in our house is, if mom's day involved a lot of manual labor, someone else will be slaving over the stove. The one who has been most willing to step up is the short order cook at Wendy's. We piled in the car and headed to Wendy's to go through the drive thru for dinner. ( We were a social services dream case, and I wasn't going to give anyone the opportunity to stumble across us.) After eating in the parking lot, Chris pulled across the street to a gas station. Near the gas pump was parked a beautiful white stretch limo. Chris parked where we could admire it while he ran in to the bathroom. As he came out, he was walking with a man in a nice suit. I immediately knew what Chris was up to. He wanted to find out who was in the limo. They chatted for a moment and then Chris got back in the car. It was empty.
"DO you guys want to look in the limo?"
"Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh! Oh dadddy, It's just like Hannah Montana's!" So the kids piled out, and I warned them not to touch anything. "Just Look."
As the kids all exited the same car door, at the same time, Chris leaned over and whispered, "Come on, we're going for a ride."
"Whaaaaaaaaaat?"
"Yeah, I asked the guy what he would charge to take us for a ride, and he said nothing. The people who rented it didn't use all their time."
"You can't be serious?!!!!!"
"I'm dead serious. Come on!"
My family, the poster family for Feed the Children, with all their tattered , stained, stains still setting from dinner, sweaty, sticky and stinky was climbing into a stretch limo, which would surely never be the same.
The condo on wheels was beautifully decorated with mirrors, and lights, roses and crystal glasses, black leather interior, and tinted windows. It was a very surreal moment.
The kids couldn't stop talking, and changing seats, trying to take it all in at once. From the seat behind the chauffeur Rachael, age 5 at the time, spoke up.
"Wow, I'm special now."
The chauffeur turned quickly around and said, "Honey, you were already special. Being in a limo doesn't make you special."
Rachael's little eyes were bright and her ears attentive, as he continued.
"You're very special to God. Right now, I feel special having you in my limo." Turns out the driver was a pastor.
I sat watching my family, in a limo that just an hour ago, was used in an effort to impress others out of low self worth, was now being used to build a little girl's God worth. We made special plans that night in the limo. We promised the kids, if they married a strong Christian we would try to get them a limo for their wedding day. They all decided on the same driver. We talked about daddy's gift of humility. He doesn't think he's better than anyone else, and yet, he doesn't think he 's beneath anyone either. His motto: "It never hurts to ask." He never eliminates any possibility, no matter how far fetched or seemingly unobtainable. We were in a limo, simply because he asked. He is why we have Triple Cross Farms. I saw the price tag and croaked. He saw God's provision.
We had a wonderful thirty minute drive in the limo. The interesting part was when we pulled into the parking lot at the Speedway again. A whole new crowd was there. A crowd that had not seen us load up. But there was definite interest to see us get out. I saw wives nudge husbands. Heads peaked out of windows and around the pumps. Commerce ceased in the food mart as clerks strained to see, and little faces pressed up against the glass. To further climax the moment, the chauffeur jumped from the car, ran to the passenger door and with great exaggerated movement solemnly opened the door. Guess who was the nearest to the door? The Hee Haw wife. As everyone leans in expectation as movement is seen in the limo, out emerges what ..... is that a tennis shoe with gum on the bottom? My pasty white legs blind the crowd, but not before they are treated to a buffet of food stains, a glimpse of "Hollywood's 100 worst dressed" all rolled into one, and a visual montage to accompany the song, "who let the dogs out." It was tragic yet hilarious, memorable yet unforgivable. As I exited as quickly as possible, we were all treated to another phenomenon. Rachael exited the limo, as she imagined herself to be, not as she was. You'd have thought Rachael was in a tiara and gown. She exited with style, and a smile that I will never forget. The boys did their usual, let's squeeze out together routine. And Chris climbed out like it was just another day in the life of the Clampets. (Though I saw a twinkle in his eye.) Oddly, everyone still stood frozen and still as we pulled out. Some images just take a moment to recuperate from.
That night, we weren't famous, but we were favored. God above smiled on us and favored us with a little special treat. It really made me think of salvation. That moment when the King of all Glory invites you into His Kingdom. We are filthy, and stained yet He bids us to come as we are. If you try to take the time to clean up first, you might miss that opportunity.
And still how many Christians still live in a mentality of " I don't deserve that. I can't have that."
You're right! You don't deserve it! You can't earn it! But God wants to favor you with it! How many "limo rides" do we miss, sitting on the curb while the limo door is standing open, beckoning us to enter? Don't miss the ride because you think you can't afford the trip!
1 Corinthians 1:27 "But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise........and things which are not to bring to nought things that are. That no flesh should glory in his presence."
When we emerged from that limo that night, there was no doubt in any body's mind that we weren't there because we deserved to be, we were there because we were invited. Invite God into your world of foolishness and nothingness. That is the canvas He's looking for to confound a lost world.
So our fifteen minutes of fame have ended, but our Heavenly Father's favor will last for a lifetime!
Faith From Potato Water
[Still Waters]
05/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Faith From Potato Water
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/faith-from-potato-water.html>
<http://midnightmanna.blogspot.com/2009/05/faith-from-potato-water.html>
We have had an interesting scenario play out in our house over and over. It started with a cell phone. I remember clearly the day my husband got his first cell phone. I remember it well because it coincided with another big event in my life. I was trying to regain consciousness after having a hysterectomy. I remember struggling, still half sedated, to ask for a sip of water, while he set up his phone, trying to convince me the phone would be a great asset to us both. "You'll be able to get a hold of me 24 hours day, whenever you need something." Right. We were in the same room and I couldn't get his attention to get me a drink of water. I think I have resented cell phones ever since.
The next event occurred when after dropping his phone in a glass of soda in his truck, he decided he would have to have a new one. By this time the addiction was in full swing, so there was no quitting cold turkey from cell phone access. This time he surprised me with my own phone, so I could "get connected". I was thinking how awesome it would be on my next surgical procedure to be able to call Chris from my hospital bed and request a drink of water. With my luck however, there would be roaming charges from the bed to the chair.
My excitement was short -lived however. Chris used his phone so frequently, and dropped it so frequently, it began to short out. Since his phone was for business purposes and work, he needed one that was dependable. Guess whose phone was readily available. Yep! Mine. I was given his beautiful camouflage phone still sticky from pop to use until our contract could be renewed and new phones purchased. At least in a moment of post surgery thirst I could suck the rest of the pop from the phone.
Once again, new phones were purchased and I was given a shiny new phone. Guess who ran over their phone with a truck? Guess who inherited the camo phone again? I must say my phone was greatly admired among and "bubbas" and the "git er done" crowd in our community.
By this time, the camo phone was beginning to have it's own difficulties- I could no longer read the screen. I never knew if it was on or off. When I tried to retrieve messages, I called my doctor, and when I needed to get in to the doctor I retrieved messages. It was frustrating. SO finally, once again, new phones were purchased because my husband's old phone didn't get a strong enough signal. Once again I had a beautiful new phone, until I asked my husband to protect it during another surgery. He sat on it in the waiting room and busted the screen.
A friend took pity on me at church, and brought me one of her old phones that worked perfectly. It was such a blessing!
Finally, we qualified for new phones and I was given a new phone. I debated about whether to go and just give it Chris so I wouldn't get attached. I felt like I was running a foster program for cell phones. This time, however, my phone came with an added feature- a lecture. The Evil Knievel of cell phone destruction, was lecturing me on properly caring for our new cell phones. "We can't get new phones for 2 years, so we have got to make these last." I was beginning to think the cell phone contract would last longer than our marriage. I felt like I was listening to Roseanne Barr teach a parenting class. I turned into Roseanne Barr for a few minutes and gave a few choice remarks about who did and did not have a right to lecture about cell phone care.
The next afternoon I went to church to peel 70 pounds of potatoes for a church dinner. (I didn't find out there where 70 pounds until I got there.) I thought we were going to have to soak them in the baptistery to keep them fresh until the next day. I was alone in the kitchen, and decided to use my new speaker gadget on my phone and kill two birds with one stone. I was enjoying a wonderful conversation,with my phone propped up on a bowl to be closer to my mouth, when as I turned to reach for another potato I heard a devastating noise. It was as jarring as hearing the front of a ship crashing into an iceberg. On the right day, in the right place, it could have been the sound of a frog leaping into his favorite pond. It could have been the sound of a precious saint being submerged into their watery grave of baptism. But it was instead the sound of a cell phone plunging into the depths of quarter inch peeled potatoes soaking in water. Roseanne was quickly replaced by Lucy. 24 hours after obtaining a new cell phone, I had committed the same crime I had been hanging over my husband's head for years. As my phone bubbled and sputtered I quickly sprung into action. I opened it up, placed it on a microwave safe plate, and prepared to nuke it dry, when I realized-----no, I didn't realize I would melt the circuitry. Instead I worried Chris would call and the phone would still be on speaker and he would hear the microwave beeping, or worse he would get ear cancer from the radioactive waves pouring from the microwave through my phone into his.
I laid the phone out to dry, and after a few a hours I heard a sort of bubbly ring.
"Hey, honey, I've been trying to call you. Have you had your phone off?"
"Sort of."
"What's the matter?"
"I had a little accident."
"YOU DIDN'T!
"Didn't what?"
"You dropped your phone in water didn't you?"
The man can't perceive when his wife needs a drink a water, when he's in the same room, but he can tell when she's messed up from clear across town!That stinks!
He was very understanding, well, smug would be a better word. I was very humbled. And the phone seemed to be fine.
Until this week.
My screen is gone. It's horrible! Do you know what it's like to answer a phone and not know whose on the other end?!!! I was reminded that was the way phones worked for years. I never realized how much planning and thought went into every phone call. I answer the phone differently according to whose calling.
Our pastor gets my best Ruth Graham voice, "Reeder Residence, where God Reigns Everyday."
The Prayer Chain gets my militant "ready to do battle in the heavenlies" voice.
My children get my "momma loves you and is trying really hard not to get aggravated because you've called me 10 times in 10 minutes" voice.
My husband gets my "I'm so tired, ask me if you can pick something up for dinner" voice.
Some of my perfect friends, get my " everything's peachy, you'll never know my house is a mess" voice.
And some people just get the " I'm not here leave a message at the beep" voice.
How fake is that? I can't even be real and genuine answering my telephone!
How I desperately need to be more Christ-like in my conversations. He was a Master Communicator.I realized that with Christ's omniscience, being all knowing, every person He spoke to- He already had their number. He knew every past, present, and future detail of their lives. Yet, with love and compassion He would weave a masterful conversation, patiently pulling them to draw the conclusion He already knew, or gently extracting information He already had, much like the woman at the well.
In the story of the rich young ruler, who vainly thought he had never broken any of the commandments, Jesus could have named the time, place,and motive of every commandment the young man had broken. But Mark 10:21 says, "Then Jesus beholding him, loved him". He knew how arrogant this man was. He knew he would not heed the advice to sell all he had. But Jesus doesn't avoid the call or conversation. He doesn't use a "I'm too busy to waste my time with someone who won't change" voice. Every conversation is treated with the same attention, time, and purposeful intent.
Christ's goal- each conversation presented an opportunity to change or grow an individual and He intended to make the most of it. Some embraced the opportunities, others, like the rich young ruler,didn't. Yet, all were given the 100% attention of the Master. He could be honest in His correction because He was even more liberal with His love. He revealed truths without causing others to become defensive. He slipped away when he could, but He was pleased to be found.
Imagine the change that could take place if we would be honest and open with one another.How often are our conversations gauged by what will it cost us, or what can be gained? Kissing up to that person, pacifying this person, avoiding that person, and yet chasing down another person.
I want desperately to have Christ-like conversations. To approach each one with a love, that the Father has for that individual. To give Christ an opportunity to use my lips to touch hearts and change lives through the spoken word. Imagine the thrill, if we knew that when we opened our mouths, Heaven grew quiet to hear another conversation sounded so similar to ones they heard over 2000 years ago involving a Carpenter from Nazareth. Oh, to have dialogues that even the angels want to join!
SO yes, I have grown in my faith since bathing my phone. I have faith that no matter who calls, when I respond with God's love, He will direct the conversation if I am yielded and listening to His Spirit.
I have Faith From Potato Water, I can say in my "I'll try to do better, Lord" voice. Wait, my phone's ringing.. ahhhh, Lord can I start that love thing AFTER this call?
The Lord Giveth, and the Hairdresser Taketh Away
[Still Waters]
04/07/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
When I was little, God gave me beautiful strawberry blonde hair. As I have aged, God removed His hand of blessing from my scalp, and left me with sort of a dingy brown color. Yesterday, I tried to get my former glory back, by enlisting the help of my hairdresser. "Make it brighter," I requested. Apparently, there are different and varying degrees of brightness. There is a sort of sun kissed touch, a bleach bottle shine, and what I now know to be the"somebody didn't get their pool chemicals right" radioactive glow.
As long as I can remember, I have had this sort of tomenting spirit, that since it cannot gain access to my mind, has attached itself to my hair. I have had more outer cranium tragedies than you can count. I went to my first piano recital at age 7 with hair the golden girls would have been embarrassed to wear. Never get your hair done in a salon where they offer you Ensure instead of water, or where there is a crash cart next to the hair dryers. My hair was curled and poofed in true Barbara Bush style. My piano teacher didn't even recognize me under the hair, and I really don't think she placed who I was until I started playing the piano.
I have had such tragic hair cuts, that the stylist has actually "remembered" a coupon that entitles the holder to a free haircut. A "Get Out of Jail Free Card" if you will. I, of course, was imprisoned by that haircut for 6 weeks, and on probation for another four weeks, waiting for rough edges to even out.
I have had haircuts by stylists not allowed to use the curling irons, and highlights by stylists not allowed to use the foil. I am not kidding. It's like hiring a chauffeur that can't drive at night, or a Chef that's not allowed to use the stove. Why do I stay in these situations and not just leave to find more qualified professionals? Fear. I don't want to offend them or insult them. I want everybody to feel good.. even the hair stylist who sent me home in the middle of winter with a wet head because she needed time to fix her own hair before she got off work. I hope she had a great evening while I was home nursing my cold.
So here I am... Jennifer the blonde. I feel ridiculous. My daughter informed me the minute the foil fell from my golden locks that I was in serious trouble. She informed the hairdresser the color was all wrong. Goldilocks was getting a little nervous about meeting Papa Bear at home. When I beheld my image in the mirrir I knew I would be finding out just how good baby bear's bed slept that night. I got in the car and thought I left the dome light on-it was my hair brightening the whole car. I wonder if being able to save on the electric bill would be a good selling point for my husband.
And now tomorrow, I must go to church. I might wear a hat, and call it a trial run for Easter. I wonder if I could possibly get by with the "Moses Motif" and wear a veil hiding the overwhelming glory of God radiating from my hair.
There are a few mistakes we cannot hide from anyone, hair-tastrophes being one. Everyone is going to know my dilemma when I emerge from the vehicle in the church parking lot in the morning. Most will say nothing because they will not know if my hair was intentional or tragic, planned or a surprise. Sort of the way it was when I started showing when I was pregnant with my third child in 3 years. Only the most bold will comment on my poor choices and only the most godly will rejoice with me in my new season of life-regardless of how I got here. (I might add my family was not near as godly as I had hoped.)
And so I wait. I endure the looks. I avoid the mirrors. And I wait. Someday it will fade, or grow out, or possibly fall out. But it will pass.
I think we all desire to be full of God's glory, or to bear marks of His glory- but when it comes from a bottle and not His Spirit- it's just tacky. It draws the wrong attention, and does little for His cause. You cannot manufacture God's Glory. I have never seen an Easter Pageant-no matter how many millions of dollars were spent- that could truly capture God's Glory on Resurrection Morning. Man-made effects can never duplicate supernatural Glory! We might get a little tingle from man's exhaustive efforts to mirror God's Glory, but God's Glory at just a minute glimpse, takes man's breath away, causes mountains to crumble, stones to cry out with deafening worship, and graves to bursts forth with life.
I don't want a cheap imitation of God's Glory in my life. Give me the real deal! The latest bestseller, the newest worship tape, the most magnetic preaching cannot bring the change about. It can fuel the desire for it, and even reveal a path to it... but ultimately it is a one on One experience. The Potter and the clay. His feet, your Alabaster Box. Your grave, HIS LIFE!
I don't know where you are today. I know I have learned that in the most innocent of decisions I am still human and carnal flesh. I cannot escape it. I can only learn from it, and grow through it, and hope to emerge changed for the better on the other side. I really feel from the depths of my soul, that God can teach us through every circumstance in our lives- every event however small or massive can bear His fingerprints. When life leaves you stunned- strive to become a stunning display of His faithfulness. When life leaves you broken- break out in song and worship! Even the smallest of burdens can be made into monuments of God's Grace and Glory.
What a thrill when I can enter a dwelling and have people say, " What's different about you?", and know it goes beyond the hair, to a deeper level- God's Glory radiating from within.
2 Cor. 3:18 "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord are changed into the same image from glory to glory even as by the Spirit of the Lord."
Change me God from Glory to Glory!
Tomorrow I will head to church. I know the hairs of my head are numbered in Heaven, and I am assuming the color is also documented, I only hope the records in Heaven have been successfully changed. I would hate for Heaven not to recognize me, like my piano teacher.
I can picture myself hitting the alter, broken over situations in my life, and Heaven's choirs' rejoicing in the new soul coming home as the Father says...
"Never mind... it's just Jennifer.. get me recordkeeping on line 1."
As long as I can remember, I have had this sort of tomenting spirit, that since it cannot gain access to my mind, has attached itself to my hair. I have had more outer cranium tragedies than you can count. I went to my first piano recital at age 7 with hair the golden girls would have been embarrassed to wear. Never get your hair done in a salon where they offer you Ensure instead of water, or where there is a crash cart next to the hair dryers. My hair was curled and poofed in true Barbara Bush style. My piano teacher didn't even recognize me under the hair, and I really don't think she placed who I was until I started playing the piano.
I have had such tragic hair cuts, that the stylist has actually "remembered" a coupon that entitles the holder to a free haircut. A "Get Out of Jail Free Card" if you will. I, of course, was imprisoned by that haircut for 6 weeks, and on probation for another four weeks, waiting for rough edges to even out.
I have had haircuts by stylists not allowed to use the curling irons, and highlights by stylists not allowed to use the foil. I am not kidding. It's like hiring a chauffeur that can't drive at night, or a Chef that's not allowed to use the stove. Why do I stay in these situations and not just leave to find more qualified professionals? Fear. I don't want to offend them or insult them. I want everybody to feel good.. even the hair stylist who sent me home in the middle of winter with a wet head because she needed time to fix her own hair before she got off work. I hope she had a great evening while I was home nursing my cold.
So here I am... Jennifer the blonde. I feel ridiculous. My daughter informed me the minute the foil fell from my golden locks that I was in serious trouble. She informed the hairdresser the color was all wrong. Goldilocks was getting a little nervous about meeting Papa Bear at home. When I beheld my image in the mirrir I knew I would be finding out just how good baby bear's bed slept that night. I got in the car and thought I left the dome light on-it was my hair brightening the whole car. I wonder if being able to save on the electric bill would be a good selling point for my husband.
And now tomorrow, I must go to church. I might wear a hat, and call it a trial run for Easter. I wonder if I could possibly get by with the "Moses Motif" and wear a veil hiding the overwhelming glory of God radiating from my hair.
There are a few mistakes we cannot hide from anyone, hair-tastrophes being one. Everyone is going to know my dilemma when I emerge from the vehicle in the church parking lot in the morning. Most will say nothing because they will not know if my hair was intentional or tragic, planned or a surprise. Sort of the way it was when I started showing when I was pregnant with my third child in 3 years. Only the most bold will comment on my poor choices and only the most godly will rejoice with me in my new season of life-regardless of how I got here. (I might add my family was not near as godly as I had hoped.)
And so I wait. I endure the looks. I avoid the mirrors. And I wait. Someday it will fade, or grow out, or possibly fall out. But it will pass.
I think we all desire to be full of God's glory, or to bear marks of His glory- but when it comes from a bottle and not His Spirit- it's just tacky. It draws the wrong attention, and does little for His cause. You cannot manufacture God's Glory. I have never seen an Easter Pageant-no matter how many millions of dollars were spent- that could truly capture God's Glory on Resurrection Morning. Man-made effects can never duplicate supernatural Glory! We might get a little tingle from man's exhaustive efforts to mirror God's Glory, but God's Glory at just a minute glimpse, takes man's breath away, causes mountains to crumble, stones to cry out with deafening worship, and graves to bursts forth with life.
I don't want a cheap imitation of God's Glory in my life. Give me the real deal! The latest bestseller, the newest worship tape, the most magnetic preaching cannot bring the change about. It can fuel the desire for it, and even reveal a path to it... but ultimately it is a one on One experience. The Potter and the clay. His feet, your Alabaster Box. Your grave, HIS LIFE!
I don't know where you are today. I know I have learned that in the most innocent of decisions I am still human and carnal flesh. I cannot escape it. I can only learn from it, and grow through it, and hope to emerge changed for the better on the other side. I really feel from the depths of my soul, that God can teach us through every circumstance in our lives- every event however small or massive can bear His fingerprints. When life leaves you stunned- strive to become a stunning display of His faithfulness. When life leaves you broken- break out in song and worship! Even the smallest of burdens can be made into monuments of God's Grace and Glory.
What a thrill when I can enter a dwelling and have people say, " What's different about you?", and know it goes beyond the hair, to a deeper level- God's Glory radiating from within.
2 Cor. 3:18 "But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord are changed into the same image from glory to glory even as by the Spirit of the Lord."
Change me God from Glory to Glory!
Tomorrow I will head to church. I know the hairs of my head are numbered in Heaven, and I am assuming the color is also documented, I only hope the records in Heaven have been successfully changed. I would hate for Heaven not to recognize me, like my piano teacher.
I can picture myself hitting the alter, broken over situations in my life, and Heaven's choirs' rejoicing in the new soul coming home as the Father says...
"Never mind... it's just Jennifer.. get me recordkeeping on line 1."
Comments not allowed for this entry.
Jesus and Mr. Clean
[Still Waters]
03/30/2009
By Reeder, Jennifer
Jesus and Mr. Clean
Today, I cleaned bathrooms. 4 bathrooms to be exact. When we first moved to this house, we were in hog heaven not having to wait in line anymore. Gone were the days of rushing through the front door after returning from dinner, hollering "I get the bathroom first!", and pushing through the family, small bodies and 1 large man bouncing off the sides of the hallway, proving how serious I was. Now all the little piggies have made the bathrooms anything but heavenly. I have to ask myself, was indoor plumbing really that great of an advancement? Think with me for a moment
Cain may have said, "Mom! Where's my loin cloth? I left it laying right by the creek after my bath!"
And Eve may have replied," A wild boar carried it off. I tried to tell you not to leave your clothes laying around." Problem solved. No more personal items laying around for the wildlife to shred.
Trees designated as "private" bore signs that read, "Use all the leaves you need, we'll grow more." No more cries to answer, such as "where's the toilet paper", "do you have any softer paper towels" and "do we really have to use wide ruled paper?". Nature's cool breezes provided what pine fresh spray in a can could not-instant ventilation.
Somewhere between cleaning toilet number 3 and 4 I had a brainstorm. I am going to install papertowel holders in all the bathrooms directly above the toilet paper. Above each will be a small plaque, (tastefully coordinating with the bathroom decor of course) that will read, "Don't just sit there, clean something."
The problem then arises, that after all the bathrooms are cleaned, one of my alternate personalities emerges. The first one to emerge from a cleaned bathroom is immediately brought before the Senate Committee, of which I hold all offices.
"What were you doing in there?" I harshly ask.
"Did you pee? Yes? Did you raise the lid? Did you get any drops anywhere else besides the designated area? Did you wash your hands? Did you poop? Was it loose or firm? LOOSE!!!! Oh. no! Did any residual matter stick to the upper part of the bowl, or was it all flushed down?? Did you touch the faucets with your dirty hands, or use your elbows like I showed you?"
And there is great fear and trembling present for the child who has to make multiple trips to the clean bathroom.
"Didn't you just use the bathroom? That's it I'm cutting back on your fluids! You're drinking too much! And go get the Immodium! You need a dose just in case! Did you use the fancy towel to dry your hands? I 've told you and told you, that towel is for the special guests! That's not us! Use the stained towel under the sink! "
It never fails, somebody gets a stomach virus after the bathrooms are cleaned. Although I have sort of wondered if all the tension in the home during and following my attack on the porcelain portals, has not induced irritable bowel syndrome in my kids.
I assure you, in those moments, the victim wishes he had just gone outside.
The thing that scares me the most, is that I am starting to have some very disturbing dreams about Mr.Clean. Apparently, in the deep, dark recesses of my heart, I secretly long for a bald man to come and not sweep me off my feet, but rather sweep around my feet. His smiling face on the cleaning bottle, just seems to say, " I will clean those bathrooms for you, my love, and I will enjoy doing it!" I am having some spiritual conflicts with the fact that he wears an earring, (oh, and the fact I am married), but I honestly believe if we had an immaculate home, my husband could tolerate the bald man with Febreeze cologne hanging out in the laundry room.
Oh, the daily trials of keeping the bathroom clean, and surviving in our home after they are clean!
In the middle of my tirade, God gently yet firmly, brought something to my attention. He has had the same issue with me for years, yet He has handled it so much better. While I realize the above comments may seem a little disgusting and improper to speak of, they are nothing compared to what I am getting ready to share. I have a horrible, disgusting habit. I have tried to break it, tried to hide it, tried to make it smell better or even look better-but I can't. I am a sinner. I daily sin. I try desperately to keep my soul fragrant, clean, and spotless, but I am powerless on my own to do it. So I must then make a trip to the "water closet" or more appropriately called the prayer closet. There I must reveal, confess, and grieve before my Father, asking for forgiveness for once again, having to dirty, and blemish the pristine, spotless, and beautiful throne room I entered. Yet, almost like Pilot, I am told to wash my hands of that sin. Each time I am given a fresh washing in the sparkling sink of mercy. Oddly, God has His children use stained towels too, to dry their newly cleansed hands- they are stained red with the blood of His Son and embroidered with Grace.
I have repeated this ritual time and time again, more times than I can remember, and not one time the Father chooses to remember. Each time I am met with the same welcome- open arms and gentle words. No condemnation. No reminders of how many times I had been there before. No rebukes for the messes He has to clean up-repeatedly. Just the same love, mercy, grace, and willingness to cleanse.
"It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning." Lam. 3:22-23
It is a truly great and wonderful act of mercy and grace, that each morning we arrive in His presence to find no lingering reminders of yesterdays failures. There are no fingreprints on the sink of grace mocking us for having to return, no damp or wrinkled towel of mercy laying on the floor, reminding us it is right where we left it yesterday. New, fresh, clean, and sparkling preparations await me every day in the Father's Presence-for He chooses not to remember and removes all such memorbilia from His presence. New mercies-yet the same Loving God.
Now, I am having a very different vision of Mr. Clean. Same smiling face and eager desire to clean, yet in a very different way. He has olive skin, brown hair, and deep eyes that can look into my very soul, yet they never reveal the disappointment and sadness at what He must see there. And while He has no pierced ear, He has pierced hands and feet, that take His desire to clean me to a whole new level. And while He does accompany me to the laundry room, He dwells in my heart, for that is where there is the most work to be done. And there He smiles and says, "Let me clean you, my love, and I will enjoy doing it." Jesus puts Mr. Clean to shame.
Comments not allowed for this entry.
When A Thousand Words Are Not Enough
[Still Waters]
10/26/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
When a Thousand Words Are Not Enough
I’ve always heard that a picture is worth a thousand words. That seems quite possible as I look through photos of my kids as babies. It’s not only the image of them that floods my mind with memories, it all the inanimate objects in the picture. The table in the background where the Blue Clues movie lies, reminds me of the hours spent watching the red, high pitched, fuzzy character, whose program, though geared towards toddlers, was still a challenge to my weary mind to understand. The blankets strewn on the couch remind me of the days where my hope was not only in Jesus, but in nap time which never seemed long enough. The laundry basket in the corner reminds me of one truth of motherhood- along with God’s love, the depth of the laundry basket seems endless and incomprehensible- just accept both humbly and willingly.
It was while going through the family pictures that we came across one that captured the family’s interest. It was a picture of Chris, in a recliner, holding Rachael on one side and Nathan on the other. Rachael was 1 ½ and Nathan was 2 ½. They were both freshly bathed and in pajamas, but only one was happy. Rachael was thoroughly engrossed in conversation on a play phone to someone she apparently was thrilled to hear from, and Nathan was thoroughly distraught, tears streaming down his cheeks, reaching and longing for the phone.
Naturally, while looking at the picture, Nathan wanted to know why he was crying, and no one made any effort to ease his tears. Rachael was delighted and really didn’t feel any need to ask questions, she was obviously happy in the picture and that was all that mattered. Ben had some concerns as to why he wasn’t in the picture at all, but was relieved to know he was well on the way to joining our family. I had my own thoughts about the picture, as I looked at Chris sitting with an obviously upset child in his lap, eyes glazed over and staring into space, and unable to pull himself back to reality from whatever planet his mind had gone to, to help me
Later, Ben took the picture and put it up, because he said it made him sad to see Nathan cry. One moment in time captured on film, evoked a thousand different, words and emotions from each of us that viewed it. Some where happy, some were sad, some were confused, some were oblivious. Isn’t that the way life feels sometimes? We can capture one moment of time and the emotions from that one moment flood through our soul.
Imagine if we were to take a picture of our congregation Sunday. What a multitude of feelings there would be. There would be those whose very faces would bring pain, as we would feel their anguish of being a new widow, or having an unsaved loved-one. There would be those who would bring feelings of joy as they hold their new baby, or sit close to their newly wedded spouse. There would be those who would bring no emotion as we have no idea about their lives because we only see them on Sunday morning. And there would be those, whose physical suffering would cause us confusion, as we wonder why an obviously present Heavenly Father, would seem so far away and uncaring towards the needs of his children.
But that picture only captures one moment, in a lifetime of moments that God tenderly weaves together. To take one moment, and even with a thousand words try to discern and dissect the plan of God, is to take one brush stroke of Divinci’s brush and critique the masterpiece not yet complete. It is to take one note played by Bach and judge a symphony not yet finished. It is to take the life of a young man born in Bethlehem, and predict that he will always be “just a carpenter in Nazareth”. What an in injustice to an eternal God to attempt to capture all of His plans in the span of one second, one breath, one camera flash.
It wasn’t but a day or two after the picture was discovered, that an additional picture was found. It was part 2 in the sequence of events. Benjamin had discovered it, and came running proclaiming the news as if he had discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls. This picture revealed the exact same scene a few moments later. Rachael was now crying, and Nathan was chatting enthusiastically on the plastic phone, possibly sharing his praise report to a friend. Chris however, still appeared to be orbiting in space. Now each family member again expressed their thousand words in response to the picture. Rachael was much more verbal in her comments as this time she was the child in need in the picture, and no seemed to care. Nathan voiced his great relief as to knowing someone finally heard his cries and answered. Ben was still sad because now someone else was hurting.
In a moment’s time all had changed. Those who were hurting were now happy. Those who were happy, were now suffering, and those concerned about the hurting had someone new to show compassion to. Life is just that way. If this is your moment to suffer, you will have a moment to rejoice. If you are rejoicing now, soon you will shed tears. If you are heart broken over the hurting in the world, you will have an eternity in Heaven where your tears will be wiped away. But know this, God sees each captured moment, and even when the brush he uses is sometimes harsh, or the colors bold, you are a masterpiece in the making, and He will never allow the canvass to be damaged beyond what is necessary to complete the portrait. And yes, the Master Musician, even when a note seems flat, or a chord too loud, when he completes the symphony of your life, will be song of praise to glorify Him.
A thousand words for each moment of our lives that He tenderly wove together for our good and His glory will still never be enough to express our thankfulness and awe at the work of His hands. John said that if all Jesus did were written down, the world could not contain the books. I would say that if every single moment of Christ’s work in your life was captured on film for you to see, the world could not contain the photo albums, and mere words would seem insufficient gratitude, for those moments were not captured and created by man’s ink, but by Christ’s blood.
Hand-In-Hand Combat
[Still Waters]
10/26/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Hand in Hand Combat
Last night, my daughter Rachael, gave her little, 8 year old heart to Jesus. It was a crowning moment as a mother- a moment I want to remember for eternity. This was the same child that I once tenderly held her hands above her head, helping her to balance as she sporadically kicked, and twisted her body, struggling to maintain control of the two limbs flailing aimlessly beneath her, giggling each time her foot happened to touch the ground. This same little girl months later, was content to hang onto two of my fingers, as she had finally mastered the rhythm of walking, each foot consistently thumping the ground one after the other, but balance still eluded her. And soon there were the moments of giggling and shrieking that only a little girl can make, as she would sail from across the room, in a headlong fashion, arms stretched out to the side, giving her the appearance of a plane making an emergency landing, that was only safe and fun if she landed in the comfort of my waiting arms.
In the past few years, she has needed me little for the physical act of walking, though occasionally as we are walking, she will shyly take my hand, give it a gentle squeeze, and just as quickly release it before anyone else can see and embarrass her. I love those moments, for they remind me that I am still needed, though not necessarily for every step. It’s almost heartbreaking that by the time we can hold our children’s hands comfortably without having to strain and lean down to reach them, they no longer want to share that simple expression of love with us.
Spiritually, we have been through the same process, in the past few years of gently and tenderly guiding Rachael in her first steps toward Calvary. I remember the night about 2 years ago when conviction first fell on Rachael. It was a moment, up until last night, that was a source of great grief and prayer. Rachael has always had a strong sense of right and wrong, and when it came to salvation that was a hurdle to cross. She knew the truth of the Bible and the reality of Heaven and Hell. Her mind said, “You are going to hell because you are not saved.” Her heart, however, was not ready. I think after you read the below conversation, you’ll agree.
It was a late one night when Rachael came to me crying, afraid she was going to hell. Her brother had been saved the night before, and that added to her burden. We went to her room and sat on her bed to talk. It became obvious very quickly that the harvest was not quite ready.
“Rachael, what’s the matter,” I tenderly asked.
“I need to get saved.”
“Why do you need to get saved,” I asked, anxiously awaiting the humble reply of a sinner desperately needing salvation.
“Why do you need to get saved,” I asked, anxiously awaiting the humble reply of a sinner desperately needing salvation.
“I JUST DO!” she screamed.
“But why do feel you need to get saved right now,” I asked.
“Because I don’t want to go to hell.” I felt that glimmer of hope, that Rachael was indeed on the verge of salvation, but it quickly smoldered as the conversation proceeded.
“Well do you realize you are a sinner?”
And the response that will live in infamy followed.
“WELL SO ARE YOU!!!!,” she replied with a vengeance that would have made Billy Graham doubt his salvation. When the salvation seeker becomes the accuser of the brethren, it’s a pretty good sign further seeking is necessary.
“I know I am Rachael. We all are. But I asked Jesus to forgive me, just like Nathan did last night.”
“Nathan didn’t get saved last night!” she countered.
“Yes, he did Rachael. I was there with him when he prayed.”
“No, he didn’t!”
“Yes, he did Rachael!”
“Well, I didn’t see him do it, and I don’t believe him!” Another issue to remember if you’re witnessing- when the sinner starts trying to do the job of the Holy Spirit and discern everyone else’s spiritual state but their own, it’s not quite time to fill the baptismal pool. I was starting to realize this conversation was not heading to Calvary, but more towards the Garden of Gethsemane, where there might be prayer, but not without great drops of blood.
“Rachael, Nathan’s salvation is between him and God,” I said through clenched teeth, as I became more and more agitated.
“Well, he’ll have to prove it to me, cause’ I just don’t believe it,” she affirmed by crossing her arms across her chest. I sat there thinking, “Whoever wrote ‘Sharing Jesus without Fear”, had never witnessed to this 6 year old.
“Rachael, I have this feeling that maybe you’re not ready to get to saved.”
“Yes, I am!”
“No, you’re not!”
“Yes, I am! You let Nathan get saved!” I never dreamed the Salvation of my children would turn into a battle of sibling rivalry. Quickly realizing I was facing a great problem of negative publicity when Rachael would inevitably tell everyone at church her mommy would not let her get saved, I made a decision.
“Well, Rachael, let’s pray then.”
“I don’t want to pray.”
“What do you mean you don’t want to pray???” I shouted in exasperation as my last spiritual nerve was giving out. “You said you wanted to get saved! Let’s pray and ask God to help you, so your heart will be ready!”
“I don’t want to pray right now.”
“Rachael, you can’t get saved if you won’t pray.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how it works. If you want to get saved you have to confess your sin to God”
“You’re a sinner too!”
“I know, we ALREADY COVERED THAT!” I said, as my hands turned white clenching her blankets.
“I’m tired! I want to go to bed now,” she whined as if I had been brow beating her to get saved, and she just wanted to go to sleep.
My last nerve snapped.
“Well, when you want to get saved you just let me know!” I snapped back at her as I marched down the hallway.
“Why! You probably won’t believe me!” She countered as she pulled the blankets over her head.
That night has haunted me for two years. What was supposed to be a moment of hand in hand victory as we prayed -ended in hand to hand combat. I left her room, and had to go to my own prayer closet to repent for how I had acted trying to witness to my daughter. I was so worried that a spiritual door had been slammed closed between us that night, and that she would never let me in again. Just a couple of weeks ago, I had told my husband, that he might have to be the one to talk to Rachael, because our spiritual talks tend to feel more like spiritual warfare between she and I.
It was the memory of that night, which made last night so special. Rachael and I were alone in the office and after discussing all the things on her heart, and those that weighed on her mind, she asked me a question that had been on her heart.
“Mom, you told me one time that kids will go to Heaven if they’re not saved, right?”
“Well, only up to a certain time in their life. When they are old enough to understand and God starts talking to their hearts about getting saved, they need to listen.”
“If they don’t listen and die, where do they go?’
I swallowed hard, and felt the tears come up in my eyes, for I knew what child she was talking about. “Rachael, they would go to hell.” I silently thanked God that the door I thought would never open again, had been opened by my daughter, and she was humbly inviting me in.
“How many times will God deal with them?” she hesitantly asked.
“ He only promises once. He doesn’t have to give more chances than that.”
“ He only promises once. He doesn’t have to give more chances than that.”
“Mom, God’s been talking to me for a while about getting saved. I have been praying,” and then the tears in her eyes started to roll,” that all our family will be saved, and that no one will go to hell, when I realized God may not answer my prayer because I’m not saved.”
Hesitantly, I asked the question that had started the firestorm two years ago, “Rachael, do you know you are a sinner?” I held my breath waiting for the accusations to fly but in a tender, broken voice, my baby replied, “Yes.” I than asked her if she died where would she go. She answered, “Hell”. We talked about sin and grace, Heaven and Hell, Faith and Feeling. Then that moment came.
“Rachael, do you want to pray?”
“Yes.”
We got in the floor and knelt at the piano bench and she gently took my hand. This time hand in hand we combated sin, and not each other. With each tearful phrase that she repeated after me, she and I walked hand in hand, step by step to the foot of Calvary, where my baby, laid her life at the foot of the cross, and we both fell into the arms of Jesus who was waiting. Then as she told me she couldn’t stop crying, I gathered her in my arms as I did when she was little, and prayed that God would let her cry just a little longer.
Of all the places I’ve walked with my daughter that long, sometimes brutal road to Calvary was the most beautiful, treasured place we’ve ever gone. What greater peace can there be for a mother than to know, that when I have left this world, and I am walking hand in hand with Christ in Heaven, He’ll still be walking hand in hand with her on earth, leading her home to a land where we’ll never part- where as she looks upon her brother’s face she’ll finally have to admit, “I guess I was wrong. You are saved Nathan.”
Spiritual Resumes
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Since a former co-worker of mine has begun attending Hopewell, some little known stories about me have started to surface. Apparently, our most embarrassing moments in life are not cast into the sea of forgetfulness with our sin. Such as, the many embarrassing moments I had while working at JC Penney. Sometimes, we can become embarrassed when things we thought were forgotten are suddenly brought to light, but the way to avoid that is to share them yourself first! So I am going to share a couple, but bear in mind I was a teenager.
There was the time I worked in the men’s suit department and accidentally left an ink tag (those anti theft devices) on a suit coat. We received a phone call from the funeral home stating they needed the ink tag removed immediately because it was very noticeable on the deceased in the casket. I suggested covering it with a boutonniere but apparently that would give the impression He was going to prom. (I can’t tell you the number of 80 year old men in caskets I’ve seen at proms.) The maintenance man was called to remove the ink tag machine from the counter so I could be driven to Williamsburg to remove the ink tag. Speeding down the interstate, I couldn’t help thinking, “Surely these people know that it won’t be the ink tag that keeps him from getting through the pearly gates.”
Then there was the moment when one of my many stupid ideas went awry and an entire store witnessed it. I worked in the visual department for awhile a Penney’s. I helped with displays, decorating, etc. I was going to the storage area to retrieve two mannequins when I had the brilliant idea that by sticking my hands down into the mannequins through the necks I could transport them easier. I t worked! I was able to carry the mannequins quite easily through the store. The problem arose when one of the mannequins, a child size one, would not slide off easily as it slid on. I tugged. I pulled. Nothing happened.
A customer walked up to the register, interrupting my session of grunts and tugs, to check out, and since no one else was available it was my job to perform. I half hunched over, half stood up as I tried to hide the hand-consuming-mannequin behind the register counter. I looked like a modern version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I was quite a spectacle as I tried to hold the bag open with my teeth and push the clothes into it with my available hand. The line of customers that was forming behind her quickly dissipated as they watched me hand her a shopping bag with teeth marks and saliva drippings.
As I was once again freed to work on my project, I began to brainstorm. Until I was able to free my hand, I could go over to the children’s department and dress the mannequin like a little girl with a hat and pretend it was “Bring Your Daughter to Work Day”. Of course that could quickly turn into, “You’re fired! Take your daughter home with you day!”
I then tried taking scissors and widening the neck hole so I could release my hand, but decided that wasn’t wise because accidentally slitting a wrist stuck in a mannequin would only complicate the issue. (Although, the blood might make my hand slide out easier.) After many such brilliant ideas, and hours hiding in the stockroom, I knew I needed to seek help.
My hand at this point was so swollen it was cutting off the circulation. And needless to say I was running out of excuses for my inquisitive co-workers. “Still can’t find a place for that mannequin?”, “If you carry that around much longer it will become attached.” Ha, Ha. Finally, I resorted to going back to the stockroom and admitting to my supervisor my dilemma. At first, she thought it was joke. Then as she tugged and pulled, the reality of the situation set in. She tried lotion and hand wash from the bathroom to slide my hand out, but the only result was a cleaner, softer hand still stuck in the mannequin. She decided to call for reinforcements. We had codes for calling management that would let them know what they were needed for, but obviously there had never been a need to have a code for “hand stuck in mannequin”. She combined codes 7 and 11, which stood for shoplifter and lost child. I was now shoplifting a small child.
When the manager arrived he tried a few tugs and pulls of his own. After no avail, and a after I was “compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses” (who had heard the announcement and came running), the decision was made the mannequin would be cut off with a hand saw. (And I was worried about scissors.) Many associates decided to eat lunch in the stockroom that day to enjoy the festivities, and even started a pool taking bets as to how much blood there would be. I was greatly concerned when the one chosen to do the sawing had predicted there would be more blood than anyone else had wagered there would be. I fought off the urge to run, since I wasn’t sure if stealing a life-like mannequin would be considered kidnapping.
Finally, after a blood free, stressful 30 minutes, I was freed. Of course, my ordeal was not over. At the annual Christmas Party I was presented with the mannequin tied with a big red bow. I wish I could tell you those were the last of my many embarrassing moments, but unfortunately I was just getting warmed up for the rest of my life.
I wish we as Christians could look at our own spiritual mishaps and those of others in a lighter friendlier manner. Sometimes our pride and self preservation keeps us from revealing our own weaknesses, yet seeks to degrade others for theirs. If only we could show each other that same grace and support. It is OK to make a mistake, learn from it, and still have a spirit of humility about it to laugh about it.
We as Christians tend to feel the need to keep a Spiritual Resume and live our life according to how that resume looks, and judge others by how theirs looks. I remember once speaking at a women’s conference in Ohio. I was treated with such respect and dignity. Imagine their surprise when I shared how that morning how I had to super glue the strap on my purse and my sandal to wear that day. My dress had split up the back; I had just gotten a perm that made me look more like “Shirley Temple” than “Anne Lotz”, and my notes were written on toilet paper, grocery receipts, and in crayon. (I wrote whenever, however, and on whatever I had the opportunity to.) There was an instant evaporation of that spirit of awe, and an immediate feeling of camaraderie between us. They were much more receptive of me and God’s Word, when I became like them, and not “above” them. After all, if people feel too inferior to approach us- how can we ever share the gospel or disciple them effectively.
Don’t be afraid to let a little of your humanity show. We are Heaven bound, yet we are not heavenly beings yet. I remember attending a church function recently, and for the first time in 12 years, I asked to borrow the pastor’s keys to make a copy in the office. I made the copy; made sure everything was left just as I found it, and reverently closed the door to that Holy room where Heaven and Brother Herschel meet to prepare the sermons. Then I as quietly walked down the hallway, my daughter broke the silence with, “What did you do with his keys?” Ohhhhhh. They were left in the locked office. I wanted to tap on the door and say, “God! I know you’re in there, open up!” I walked back and forth in front of the door 7 times and let out a shout, but the door never fell. Then by the mercies of God, the custodian was just pulling into the parking lot and was able to let me in. Now, I realize this little story knocks me out of ever having a key to anything at church, but the reality is I have gifts, but I am also a little on the forgetful side.
But my scatter brained ways are what makes it all the more apparent that it is God using me when I write. In my weakness, He shines all the brighter. When I stand to sing or speak, I hope people who know me can say, “That’s sure not Jennifer up there.” Sometimes, people don’t see Christ at work in us, because we hide our weaknesses. They can’t see the times He was more than enough, because we won’t admit to all the times we weren’t near enough.
1 Corinthians 1:26-29, 31b reads, “For ye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called; But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; And base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea and things which are not, to bring to naught things that are:
That no flesh should glory in his presence. …….. He that glorieth let him glory in the Lord.”
If the ultimate goal is that God be glorified in us, and He chose us for the weaknesses, foolishness, and nothingness within us to better bring glory to Himself, then by struggling to conceal those things, we really conceal Him.
We do not lose those things when we become saved, we only find the greater purpose in them. The Presence of God has not made us better than others, but more useful to God in reaching others. How could anyone in a lifeboat taunt those still trapped on the sinking ship, and think themselves any better?
Remember who you are, who He is. Write your spiritual resume in a manner that will reveal God’s glory to lost a world, and not just trying to conceal your weakness and humanity from the Body of Christ. Those who truly know us and know Christ should have the grace and compassion to accept us anyway. If not, maybe they don’t know One of the two as well as they might think. After all, they can’t hide their own weak hand in a mannequin of perfection from the rest of us forever!!
Pride Cometh before a Fall
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
Do you remember the exact moment you realized, you were no longer a spring chicken? The day you knew “over the hill” was not just a cute phrase, but rather an experience- when you no longer had the physical stamina to climb any higher and rolling down the hill hitting every rock, bush, and tree limb would now be your official form of transportation? I had that moment this past week, and I realize that I am no longer a spring chicken. I am now an old hen whose days are numbered until I will soon be made into a chicken pot pie.
It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The Bible School kick off was in full swing. Kids were playing basketball, volleyball, and kick ball. With the shortage on helpers that day, I stepped up to the plate (pun very much intended) to be the full time pitcher in the kick ball game. I used to be very athletic. The operative word there is “was”. (Thank God for internet where I can’t hear you laughing.) I was the only girl on a boys softball team, and in the seventh grade, I was recruited by the girls high school team to play. I was ready to re-live those glory days of high school athletics.
The game was a heated battle. Alright, I was the one overheating, and the battle was with my body trying desperately not to pass out. The moment that will in infamy, in my mind and in the x-rays, had arrived. The ball was pitched, and kicked just to the left of me. No time to wait on the first baseman to intercept it. I lunged, stopping the ball. The old girl still had it. In mid lunge I went to hurl the ball to first base to tag the runner out. I had made this same play time and time again on the softball field.
Houston we have a problem. Struggling to re-gain my balance from the lunging position, my mind flashed through my whole life of physical changes since I had last made this same play. Three pregnancies. Eight surgeries. One hundred extra pounds. Asthma. Allergies. And the all-important extra 15 years. My body continued its forward momentum, as my feet kept moving, and my torso kept leaning more and more forward. Don’t bother helping Houston. No rescue scenario will get me out of this one. I am going down.
And down I went, as ants scurried out of the way, and the earth braced itself for the impact. In the same moment I slammed to the ground, I was getting back up. While my body was not what it used be, my pride was. Being carried off the field as an 18 year-old who took one for the team was an honor. Being carried off the field as a 33 year old who took one for Bible School with no trophy or pennant to show for it would just be embarrassing. I jumped up, grabbed the ball, and yelled, “All right, who’s up next?”
My body did all the yelling after that.
As I went to pitch the ball with my left hand, oddly I could only move 3 fingers. As I released the ball with my arm in mid air, I noticed a large knot on my left forearm. My hand began to throb in Morse code. “Pain. Pain. Pain.” My jeans had grass stains and dirt all over them. My shirt was covered in grass and a few ants that didn’t make it and my shoulders were aching. After attempting to continue playing with one hand, I decided I had had enough. It was time to throw in the towel, or at least have it filled with ice to nurse my wounds. I went in, admitted my defeat to the other workers, and sat down with a bag of frozen green peppers on my hand.
After 2 trips to the emergency room in 2 days, I was diagnosed with contusions, a broke finger, and shattered pride.
I still had a week of Bible School ahead of me. Fortunately, this year we were doing it a little different. I was going to tell the Bible story each night, to each class. I had decided to dress up in costumes and do monologues each night, sort of like a one man play. It went very well. The room was quiet, the kids and adults were completely engaged in the lesson, and Christ was magnified. I was right where I was supposed to be. I felt peace, fulfillment, and God’s anointing each night as I performed what God had gifted me and instructed me to do.
That week left me with such a different feeling than Saturday had. On Saturday, I went where I wanted to be. I volunteered to work the kick ball game where I thought I would be magnified. I gave little thought to my calling, or limitations, and I suffered for it. Don’t we sometimes do that spiritually? We sign up to work in church where we want to work, but not where God has led us to work. We are drawn to people we want to be around, and not reaching out to the people desperately needing to be around the Christ with in us. We allow our flesh to determine our spiritual actions, when our spirit man should be determining what our flesh should be doing. When we make those wrong decisions, it is the Body of Christ that suffers. We disable the foot of Christ, or as I now know, the hand of Christ from working effectively.
Sometimes, it is not in just being in the wrong place that hurts the Body of Christ, it is not showing up at all. When we leave the position God has called us to fill vacant, someone must fill it. That someone may do all right, but there will be a void left still.
Don’t let pride keep us from where God as gifted and equipped us to go. Don’t let the enemy use us to disable another part of the Body of Christ from being effective. Pride is a dangerous and sometimes painful thing. Proverbs 29:23 reads, “A man’s pride shall bring him low.” God words, even to this little verse shall come to pass. He brought me face down in the dirt, low. The only place lower would be six feet under. Pride does come before the fall, and pain cometh shortly thereafter. Don’t let the Body of Christ suffer the pain that your pride has caused.
Worthless World VS. Priceless Jesus
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
“I’d rather have Jesus, than silver or gold. I’d rather be His than have riches untold, “-those are just a few of the words of a beautiful song that Larry Jackson sings at our church. It is his theme song of sorts, and you can tell he means every word that he sings.
But recently as he was singing this very song, I was singing along thanking God for the blessing of knowing Jesus. It has truly been worth more than any amount of silver or gold. He was walked with me down paths where no one else could or would walk with me. He has fed me with manna from Heaven while I have been in hospital beds, doctor’s offices, and even on my front porch on many a night. His peace and presence has filled my heart on many an interstate mile, waiting room, and even while washing dishes at my kitchen sink. He has been an ever-present help and refuge in the sometimes chaotic and overwhelming circumstances of my life. He is my God. He is my Friend. He is my Savior. He is the most valuable asset life has to offer. He is the only thing that gives my life worth.
As I sang those words along with Larry, the Lord hit me with a thought, “What would you do without that others may have me? Would you rather that others had Jesus, than to have silver and gold for yourself? How important is it to you that others have me?” If you were to ask me that question in relation to my friends and family, I would say, there is no price too great, for seeing my children saved. There is no task too great, if the result is my family circle being unbroken in Heaven. But I am afraid that in my heart of hearts, I have placed a lesser “book value” on what I am willing to pay or invest in the lives of those lost, who are unknown to me.
I am afraid we in American have been ruined spiritually by the system of checks and balances. We tend to keep running tallies of the costs of items and rate their priority. Everything has a value assigned. Even the acts of charity are assigned values for tax purposes. We have lost the ability to perform without immediately thinking, “What will it cost, and what will I gain.” We evaluate everything from our clothes, vehicles, homes, cell phones, and even food on our table by the value placed on it by the world, instead of using the most basic criteria – “will it meet my need”, not “will it meet my wants.”
Spiritually, we are operating on those same terms. We evaluate everything spiritual using the same system. If we say a prayer, we expect instant results, and not just any result will do. If we attend Sunday Morning church, that balances out not going on Sunday night. If we give to missions, that balances out not witnessing at work. We put our kids in Sunday school, to balance out not teaching them spiritual truths at home. We don’t visit the sick because that’s the deacon’s job, (unless it’s someone we know and like). We don’t work with the children’s ministry, because we don’t have children anymore so there’s nothing personal to gain. We don’t go to the nursing home because it cuts into our Sunday afternoon leisure activities. We don’t seek God all week, because He got our attention on Sunday.
We hide behind our work in the church, to balance out neglecting our job in the world. The church is not our spiritual occupation. It is the vehicle and means to perform our job in the world-reaching the lost. I have been guilty of serving God wholeheartedly in church, but restricting my efforts to those areas I am most comfortable serving in. There is a missing character trait in us as Christians. The trait that says, “I will give all, all the time because He has done no less for me.”
While we cannot purchase someone else’s salvation by any means, we can certainly pave a path with our resources to the foot of the cross, to direct the masses there more quickly and efficiently. Christ made a bridge between Calvary and eternity in Heaven. It is our job to provide a bridge from Calvary to the very heart of every hurting, sin-sick, and dying soul. We as church and individuals will be judged on what we invested into that road. Are we providing a well-marked highway for the lost, or are we providing a dimly lit path that few stumble across in their search for help. And sometimes the bigger question is, does that path lead only to our church, or does it ultimately lead the lost to Calvary?
We tend to want to plant spiritual seed in our own little private garden, where we can yield a harvest, and enjoy first hand the fruit of our own labor. I enjoy sowing into my own children because my flesh feels that reflects on me. But is God any less concerned about the children passing through our church each week who need a spiritual mother to sow in their lives? May I tell you that is the reason the fields are white with harvest and the laborers are few? As Christians, we must be willing to release all ownership of our investment in the Kingdom, that He alone may be glorified in the returns that investment yields. When we work in His harvest fields, we work as a whole, yielding harvest for the One, just as the One brought Salvation to the whole.
We stand ready to pay the price that our loved ones or co-workers may pass through to obtain access to Calvary. But will we continue to pay the price for others we do not know, or don’t really have a desire to know? Can I tell you, that the greatest, purest acts of sacrifice will be rewarded by Him with the greatest of treasures He can offer- treasures laid up in Heaven never to be tainted by this disintegrating world.
I’d rather the world had Jesus, than for me to have the world. I encourage you now, sow and work trusting the results to God. Give your all to the One who can multiply your efforts to reach many, just as he did with a little boy’s lunch that fed five thousand. How much more of this worthless world can we surrender that more people may come to know this Priceless Jesus?
Matthew 9:36-38
“But when he saw the multitudes, he was moved with compassion on them, because they fainted, and were scattered abroad, as sheep having no shepherd. Then saith he unto his disciples, ‘The harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the harvest , that he will send forth laborers into his harvest.”
His harvest. –Our great calling and honor to work in it for Him.
Wounded for Freedom
[Still Waters]
10/19/2008
By Reeder, Jennifer
It was a climatic moment in the movie. The hero’s hands were bound behind his back as he struggled to free himself before the terrorists crashed the plane he and his family were on. Suddenly, he locates a piece of broken glass next to his hands and subtly grasps it one hand and begins to cut at the ropes that bind his arms. As he blindly cuts behind his back he frequently misses the ropes scoring his own skin with glass, causing great pain and bleeding. Rachael was troubled by this scene and asked, “Why is he doing that to himself?” My 6 year old son Benjamin gave a reply that I have yet to forget.
“Because when he is free the wounds will heal.”
The room grew very silent as we were all stunned by his insight, and I launched into a state of spiritual dementia, where my natural man seems lifeless, but my spirit man is racing through time to all the times in scripture where wounding brought freedom.
Jacob wrestled with an angel of God, but the wounding of his hip brought great blessing upon him.
Joshua was greatly wounded emotionally when thrown into a pit by his brothers. But the wound healed as God elevated him to prominence and prosperity.
Job was wounded in every area of his life, but when the wound healed he was blessed with more than he lost.
Jesus was wounded in every way imaginable but in His mind he could have thought, “When they are free my wounds will heal.” What is even more amazing is that he took the wounding that our own wounds may be healed. Our minds can comprehend that freedom costs, as we look at those who have died in battles for our country. But could we comprehend an army from Switzerland coming and fighting for our country; dying for a freedom they didn’t need or would not benefit them in any way? That is the incomprehensible fact of Christ’s crucifixion. It was His pain for our gain. He had no dog in the fight, no ties to the crimes, no involvement in any sin committed that He was now paying the price for. But He thought our freedom was worth the pain.
Sadly, today, we don’t seem as a Christians to want to claim that same creed. You’ll find no church signs stating “Our pain is your gain.” NO t-shirts bearing the message, “Persecute me so I’ll be blessed,” or songs declaring, “Wound me Lord, if it will free someone.” We are still counting the cost of winning the lost, and sadly we have become self-declared spiritual cheapskates. Each of us has drawn lines in the sand we will not cross for the sake of Christ; in turn drawing lines He cannot cross to bless us.
“Nursing home service on Sunday cuts into my naptime.” Line drawn.
“I just don’t have the patience to work with kids anymore.” Line drawn. (Have you ever considered the patience it takes to be your pastor?)
“God didn’t intend for us to tithe when the economy is so bad.” Line drawn.
“You can’t help the poor; they just want a hand out.” Line drawn.
“I’d visit the sick in the hospital, but I’m afraid I’ll catch something up there.” Line drawn.
“It would take a burning bush to get me back in the nursery.” Line drawn. (Yes, most of you will remember I am the one that made that heartless unspiritual comment. Forgive me, all of you precious mothers with babies under three.)
The problem is not that we don’t have valid reasons for not desiring to suffer a little for Christ, it’s that we can’t see past the cost to see the prize. We have no vision for the plan God is seeking to fulfill in us and through us. We only see how the details of His plan could interfere with our own carnal plans.
Nothing in my life has revealed the concept of being wounded to free others more than motherhood has. My own body bears the scars of the surgeries necessary to bring freedom and life to my three children. Every wrinkle on my face and every gray hair bear witness to long nights without sleep taking care of a sick child, changing diapers, feeding bottles, or yes, tending to baby chickens my son was hatching out in an incubator. My nerves have been wounded each time I allowed my children the freedom to ride their bikes down a hill, climb a tree, swim out a little deeper in the pool, and shoot their new BB gun. I see all the possibilities of danger, yet I must endure the pain, trusting them God’s care for them to experience the new freedom increased age and responsibility brings. My mind is operating on a skeleton crew of wounded brain cells, not because of drugs, but because of the million “What’s that,” “How come”, and “Why,” questions I have answered through the last 8 years. But my sacrifice will bear fruit, and the fruit I have already tasted in my kids lives makes me hungry to see and taste more. I cannot imagine making sacrifices for the Body of Christ would produce any less of a harvest.
Wounding is neither comfortable nor pleasant. Yet, when wounding is experienced under the leading and careful eye of Christ it reaps great rewards and blessings in this life and the next, for you and for others. While it is not required that we pursue wounding, I think as mature Christians we should not shun opportunities or tasks that God would give us because the potential for wounding is there. When those decisions to obey God lead to wounding and suffering, may it be our cry, “May this wound be used for the up building of the Kingdom as thoroughly and completely as possible.” If I must be in pain, why not pray that not a moment of it is wasted, but that every tinge of discomfort produces fruit in the Kingdom.
It is recorded in Scripture that Christ was so marred by the beatings and abuse of His crucifixion that he was not recognizable by those who knew Him. My desire is that my spirit man would be completely marred when I finally arrive home, each wound bearing witness not to a wound that the enemy inflicted, but to the opportunities I willingly accepted to be broken and wounded for the cause of Christ. I hope that my own carnal flesh is unrecognizably disfigured by the successful spiritual warfare where I daily crucified my flesh that my Spirit man would be free to obey God. After all, there’s a new body awaiting me.
Brothers and Sisters in Christ, may I compliment you on every scar, mark, and wound of the battle you bear. To the carnal world you may be too grotesque to look upon or be around, but to Jesus and the Body of Christ, you are beautiful.
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