Thursday, November 14, 2013
Finding Jacksons
"Sweet!", I thought with the first one I found in my winter coat pocket. It's always a nice surprise to discover a forgotten-about folded $20 bill in a random pocket, like a package that comes in the mail when it's not your birthday or Christmas. A few days later, the second one fell out of a book that I had been reading. "Hmmm", I mused, not remembering ever being so wealthy that I could use a $20 bill as a bookmark. When the third one turned up in my utensil kitchen drawer, and another neatly tucked into my nightstand drawer, I began to wonder how I could be this absent-minded, and "When did I ever have this much cash?!" But this morning, while dusting, I unearthed yet another under my bird-watching book. And I realized: someone has planted these here for me to find. I quickly tried to remember who all has been over in the last few months, but there are too many of you to sort through. Each neatly folded bill has appeared at a time when financial worries tried to weasel their way into my determinedly positive mindset, blessed us, and helped ease the never-ending strain of single parenting. What a wonderful way to give, without any chance of you receiving recognition back. Whoever you are, you Random $20 Bill-Giver, thank you. And I hope we invite you over again soon.
Sand Dollars
Sand dollars are my treasures. When I was seven years old, my mother and I found oodles of them on the sunny shores of Jekyll Island, Georgia. I gave one to each kid in my second grade class and made a lot of friends that day. The perfect, round, white shells symbolize blessings to me. I have searched for them ever since.
When I was first divorced, sad and scared and confused...I escaped to Captiva Island, Florida with some girlfriends, to try to make sense of the chaos in my soul. While walking alone on the beach one evening, discouraged and desperate, I prayed God would show me one -- just one -- and sure enough, I looked down and there, half-embedded in the sand, was a blessing. My heart leapt as I scooped it up--only to discover it was broken, jagged, sharp edges tinged with black....and a flood of tears hit me. Broken, just like my life. I bitterly flung it out into the crashing surf. I stayed on that beach a long time that night, talking to God, crying, as the sun sank into the horizon turning the sky into pinks, purples and oranges. But as always, with beaches, the waves wash away yesterday's footsteps, a few days later while strolling along that sunkissed beach -- I found one, perfect, round, white. I knew things were going to somehow be ok.
As the years have passed, each time I'm at the beach, I search for sand dollars. I'm not one to look for or believe in 'signs' but they are just a sweet simple reminder that the things God creates are perfect and that he is always looking out for me. Since that day in Captiva, I've probably found a whopping total of three perfect sand dollars. It is obvious they are rare treasures. But with each find I have been reminded of God's unending love for me.
A few weeks ago I again escaped to Florida, this time on a State Park island off the coast of Ft. Myers. Life again had gotten crazy -- I was fired from the church I loved (who gets fired from a church?!) And as a single mom, being jobless is always a very very scary place to be. I needed to sort out the murky shadows in my heart. as the bleached beaches and the turquoise waters begin to work their magic, I felt glimmers of hope -- hope for something unseen, unnamed, unfelt -- but hope. My handsome kind-hearted son joined me that day and we walked the beach side by side, talking about our lives, our struggles, our fears, and how we more often than not wonder about God's word, his plan, his goodness....does he really want to bless us? Is his word really true? Does he really care?
I'd just prayed for a sand dollar. Call it superstitious. Call it silly. Call it what you want but I prayed for a sand dollar. And within five steps I found one, perfect, round, white. I scooped it up and with delight told him I'd just prayed for one. A few steps later, he let out a "whoa!" -- he'd found one too. He sheepishly admitted he'd just said "Ok, God, why not? Show me a sand dollar". We laughed and felt that childlike wonder that comes when something out of the ordinary happens.
The sun was hanging bright and hot in the late-afternoon sky. The waters sparkled with a million tiny shimmering lights as the sun's rays hit each ripple and wave. All felt right in the world. We noticed that the waves were breaking quite a way out from the shore -- and happily discovered it was a sandbar, a shallow spit of sand that extended out several hundred yards. Combatting our mutual fear of sharks, we ventured out into the warm waters, so clear that we could see our feet. And then -- there at my feet I saw a sand dollar! It was huge! I eagerly reached down and grabbed it then waved it for my son to see. His dark eyebrows shot up and he flashed his winning smile. He suddenly reached down--and came up with a look of surprise holding one of his own! Then I found another, and another, and another, as he did too -- and we spent the next fifteen minutes in sheer amazement as we reached into the waves over and over again as if digging for gold. We waded out of the sea with literally armfuls of sand dollars, grinning at each other in disbelief.
The sun began to set as we walked back toward our campsite, arms loaded with our treasures. And we thought, "Hmmm." Maybe just maybe God DOES want to bless us -- maybe his word IS true -- maybe he really DOES care... way more abundantly that we could even imagine. At a time when we both were questioning God's goodness -- he led us to discover his blessing sometimes come in ridiculous excess. My cup overflows...
I know, they're just sand dollars, one of the millions of shells that wash upon the shores of our earth every day. But for me -- they will continue to be a sweet, gentle kiss from God on my forehead. assurance that he is there, and that he not going anywhere...and that maybe, just maybe, he has blessings so numerous in store for me that I won't be able to hold them all in my arms.
When I was first divorced, sad and scared and confused...I escaped to Captiva Island, Florida with some girlfriends, to try to make sense of the chaos in my soul. While walking alone on the beach one evening, discouraged and desperate, I prayed God would show me one -- just one -- and sure enough, I looked down and there, half-embedded in the sand, was a blessing. My heart leapt as I scooped it up--only to discover it was broken, jagged, sharp edges tinged with black....and a flood of tears hit me. Broken, just like my life. I bitterly flung it out into the crashing surf. I stayed on that beach a long time that night, talking to God, crying, as the sun sank into the horizon turning the sky into pinks, purples and oranges. But as always, with beaches, the waves wash away yesterday's footsteps, a few days later while strolling along that sunkissed beach -- I found one, perfect, round, white. I knew things were going to somehow be ok.
As the years have passed, each time I'm at the beach, I search for sand dollars. I'm not one to look for or believe in 'signs' but they are just a sweet simple reminder that the things God creates are perfect and that he is always looking out for me. Since that day in Captiva, I've probably found a whopping total of three perfect sand dollars. It is obvious they are rare treasures. But with each find I have been reminded of God's unending love for me.
A few weeks ago I again escaped to Florida, this time on a State Park island off the coast of Ft. Myers. Life again had gotten crazy -- I was fired from the church I loved (who gets fired from a church?!) And as a single mom, being jobless is always a very very scary place to be. I needed to sort out the murky shadows in my heart. as the bleached beaches and the turquoise waters begin to work their magic, I felt glimmers of hope -- hope for something unseen, unnamed, unfelt -- but hope. My handsome kind-hearted son joined me that day and we walked the beach side by side, talking about our lives, our struggles, our fears, and how we more often than not wonder about God's word, his plan, his goodness....does he really want to bless us? Is his word really true? Does he really care?
I'd just prayed for a sand dollar. Call it superstitious. Call it silly. Call it what you want but I prayed for a sand dollar. And within five steps I found one, perfect, round, white. I scooped it up and with delight told him I'd just prayed for one. A few steps later, he let out a "whoa!" -- he'd found one too. He sheepishly admitted he'd just said "Ok, God, why not? Show me a sand dollar". We laughed and felt that childlike wonder that comes when something out of the ordinary happens.
The sun was hanging bright and hot in the late-afternoon sky. The waters sparkled with a million tiny shimmering lights as the sun's rays hit each ripple and wave. All felt right in the world. We noticed that the waves were breaking quite a way out from the shore -- and happily discovered it was a sandbar, a shallow spit of sand that extended out several hundred yards. Combatting our mutual fear of sharks, we ventured out into the warm waters, so clear that we could see our feet. And then -- there at my feet I saw a sand dollar! It was huge! I eagerly reached down and grabbed it then waved it for my son to see. His dark eyebrows shot up and he flashed his winning smile. He suddenly reached down--and came up with a look of surprise holding one of his own! Then I found another, and another, and another, as he did too -- and we spent the next fifteen minutes in sheer amazement as we reached into the waves over and over again as if digging for gold. We waded out of the sea with literally armfuls of sand dollars, grinning at each other in disbelief.
The sun began to set as we walked back toward our campsite, arms loaded with our treasures. And we thought, "Hmmm." Maybe just maybe God DOES want to bless us -- maybe his word IS true -- maybe he really DOES care... way more abundantly that we could even imagine. At a time when we both were questioning God's goodness -- he led us to discover his blessing sometimes come in ridiculous excess. My cup overflows...
I know, they're just sand dollars, one of the millions of shells that wash upon the shores of our earth every day. But for me -- they will continue to be a sweet, gentle kiss from God on my forehead. assurance that he is there, and that he not going anywhere...and that maybe, just maybe, he has blessings so numerous in store for me that I won't be able to hold them all in my arms.
Waiting for Sunflowers
We planted the small, flat striped seeds in April just after
the last spring snow. "Matures in
90 days!" the seed packet boasted, and in anticipation we pressed each
tiny bundle of life firmly into the tilled soil with dreams of bold, bright
yellow flowers dancing in the warm, July days to come. When I was a little girl, my mother and I
would plant sunflowers. I remember
peeling open the faded, white envelope with "Sunflowers" and the date
in Mother's handwriting scrawled across the back side. Inside were the seeds she'd saved from last
summer's sunflower crop. I can remember the excitement as the seedlings first
sprouted, as tiny as my little pinkie finger, and as they soon became the
tallest towers in the garden.
May came and finally our sunflowers sprouted, joining the
crowd of tomatoes, peppers, beans, marigolds, onions, carrots and sweet peas
that had already shown their newborn faces in our new little garden. Throughout the warm summer days of May and
June we faithful watered and weeded and watched them grow and grow...and
grow. As July made its entrance, our
sunflowers were already looming high above the rest of the maturing plants and
by month's end they had grown to a impressive 10-feet tall. Down below, we picked the first of the cherry
tomatoes, pulled tiny carrots, snacked on sweet peas, cut lettuce, and
harvested bagfuls of green beans. But
no sunflowers.
The 90 days came and went and each day we eagerly check for
any signs of yellow. Day in and day out,
nothing. We've become a bit obsessed and
bring our cameras every day now to see if today is the day the green heads will
burst with color. And every day they
have still not bloomed. Sure, sure,
we're still picking beans and onions and cucumbers and squash and lettuce, but
where are our sunflowers?!
Isn't this just how we roll? We get so focused on something we want, most desperately, and in the
waiting for that specific thing to bloom we miss the millions of miracles happening around me every day. I know I do. As I wait (and worry, and worry, and
worry) I waltz right past my
oh-so-likable son playing and singing on the guitar. I take for granted the way my daughters can
run like the wind. I shrug at the warm, cozy bed I sleep in each night, the
work I've been so graciously provided to earn my keep, the delicious food
awaiting my consumption in the fridge, the dear friends who check in on my all
the time and a family that is (and has always been) solid and secure. I spend so much time waiting and worrying
about my 'sunflowers' that I'm not
seeing the bounty and beauty that surrounds me.
I can't wait for those sunflowers to bloom. They truly will be a spectacular sight to
see. But until they do, I aim to
remember that they simply will be a lovely ADDITION to the gorgeous garden
God's already provided.
Riches
The melodic sound of chatter & laughter blended with clinking glasses filled my small apartment last night to the brim, spilling out into the hallways and down the stairwells. Forty faithful friends--some that have been in my life for fifteen years and some only a few days-- brought to the party their gifts of self: beauty, wit, humor, intelligence, "passionate discourse", kindness, humility, warmth, openness, vulnerability--and wine -- gifts all the money in the world couldn't buy (except the wine!). At one point I stepped back and took it all in, looking around at each unique and dear face, and at that moment knew I was the richest girl on earth.
Beautiful Things
what is your life's theme song?
when i was a little pony-tailed girl, i waltzed in circles with my brother sam on saturday nights to lawrence welk songs in dress-up clothes of twirly, flowing dresses that were a couple sizes too large for me. everything in my six-year old world was happy, wholesome, pure, good and the future was nonexistent because all that mattered was the now.
the fun-filled strains of the cars hit "magic" -- "...summer....it turns me up-side-down..." was the tune that danced me thru my teen years, the days of summer camp and new friends and sports and seeking acceptance thru accomplishment....camper of the session, all-district volleyball, track records...awards=success, right?
my twenties brought on the realization of all of my dreams -- marriage, travel, children, a spacious home in the mountains with snow-capped views. the bright and cheery show tune "everything's coming up roses" played continuously as my kids and i skipped through life. we were living the dream.
then came the thirties, darkened by the stormy clouds of divorce. the thunder and lighting, whipping winds and torrential rains came out of nowhere and flattened my existence to a pile of rubble. loss of love, husband, home, security--life as i knew it--i could write my own lyrics to little river band's "lonesome loser". thankfully i found a single parents' group where at least together we could sing in harmony thru our crazy, upside-down lives and together find ways to mask to pain.
it's been almost forty years since the otwell twins smiled their polished smiles as they sang from our old console color t.v. in the burnett family living room. forty years of joys, pains, ups, downs, successes and failures, life and loss. this year i turn 46. it doesn't seem possible to have to cover my grays with clairol when i can so clearly remember the carefree days of twirling barefoot in childhood bliss. but here i am, drinking my coffee to get a jump-start on a day filled with work, parenting, bills, doctor's visits--and struggling at times with worry, fears, hail-damaged hopes and dwindling dreams. the easiest choice would to keep hitting replay and wallow in "....beaten, by the queen of hearts every time..." i know plenty of people who love doing the white man's overbite to those lyrics, beckoning for me to join in.
but God's written a new song in my heart. and he's willing to write one in yours, when you're ready to hit play. we've all suffered enough pain to last a lifetime, enough hardship that totally justifies downloading the latest song that sings of sorrow. but i won't be hitting that replay button any more. in fact, if i had that song on an old LP 33, i'd take the needle and etch a long deep scratch on it's surface and haul it off to the thrift store. no, i'm long overdue for a new song. so today, for the rest of my forties, the theme song i'm dancing to is gungor's beautiful things. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1spkhp41ig4
. have a listen -- and you're welcome to twirl with me if you like.
when i was a little pony-tailed girl, i waltzed in circles with my brother sam on saturday nights to lawrence welk songs in dress-up clothes of twirly, flowing dresses that were a couple sizes too large for me. everything in my six-year old world was happy, wholesome, pure, good and the future was nonexistent because all that mattered was the now.
the fun-filled strains of the cars hit "magic" -- "...summer....it turns me up-side-down..." was the tune that danced me thru my teen years, the days of summer camp and new friends and sports and seeking acceptance thru accomplishment....camper of the session, all-district volleyball, track records...awards=success, right?
my twenties brought on the realization of all of my dreams -- marriage, travel, children, a spacious home in the mountains with snow-capped views. the bright and cheery show tune "everything's coming up roses" played continuously as my kids and i skipped through life. we were living the dream.
then came the thirties, darkened by the stormy clouds of divorce. the thunder and lighting, whipping winds and torrential rains came out of nowhere and flattened my existence to a pile of rubble. loss of love, husband, home, security--life as i knew it--i could write my own lyrics to little river band's "lonesome loser". thankfully i found a single parents' group where at least together we could sing in harmony thru our crazy, upside-down lives and together find ways to mask to pain.
it's been almost forty years since the otwell twins smiled their polished smiles as they sang from our old console color t.v. in the burnett family living room. forty years of joys, pains, ups, downs, successes and failures, life and loss. this year i turn 46. it doesn't seem possible to have to cover my grays with clairol when i can so clearly remember the carefree days of twirling barefoot in childhood bliss. but here i am, drinking my coffee to get a jump-start on a day filled with work, parenting, bills, doctor's visits--and struggling at times with worry, fears, hail-damaged hopes and dwindling dreams. the easiest choice would to keep hitting replay and wallow in "....beaten, by the queen of hearts every time..." i know plenty of people who love doing the white man's overbite to those lyrics, beckoning for me to join in.
but God's written a new song in my heart. and he's willing to write one in yours, when you're ready to hit play. we've all suffered enough pain to last a lifetime, enough hardship that totally justifies downloading the latest song that sings of sorrow. but i won't be hitting that replay button any more. in fact, if i had that song on an old LP 33, i'd take the needle and etch a long deep scratch on it's surface and haul it off to the thrift store. no, i'm long overdue for a new song. so today, for the rest of my forties, the theme song i'm dancing to is gungor's beautiful things. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1spkhp41ig4
Grandma Charlotte
When my long stringy hair had snarls, Grandma Charlotte would oh-so-gently brush it out until it was shiny. She would let us get into the boxes of odds-n-ends in her attic and go on explores down in her dark, dank basement. She would let us throw Monkey down the stairs, play hide-and-seek in her carport treehouse, and blow air from the little hand-bellows into her face. Grandma Charlotte made us granny-syrup pancakes and let us eat as many as we wanted. She let us push the pedal again and again on the old sewing machine just so we could see the needle go up and down and never got mad if we messed with the cuckoo clock, even when we weren't supposed to. She let us lay cookie sheets on the steps and pour the basket of marbles down the stairs in a thunderous clattering cascade. She let us get out the rolls for the player piano and play the same tunes over and over again as we watched in delight as the keys magically moved by themselves. She always had cookies on hand and never seemed to be in a hurry. The last time we talked on the phone, Grandma Charlotte said "Amy, I think you and I would be good roommates". That was the best compliment I've ever received.
A Run Affair
It wasn't always that way. As a young, barefoot, tangly-haired little girl, I loved sprinting across the backyard on warm, muggy Ohio evenings with my brothers playing hide-and-go-seek, or flying from base-to-base in wiffleball, my grass-stained feet carrying me like wings. I felt fast.
My parents took up jogging when it became a new sport (back in the 70's?) and I remember them taking us all to K-Mart and buying blue Keds "running" shoes, with white stripes down the sides. Weird-looking shoes, with a bit of a cushioned-sole and a narrower toe than my canvas Converse All-Stars. My mother sewed us polyester jogging suits and my dad started wearing short, silky shorts. They would drive us a half-mile out past our 'busy' road to Black Road, a long stretch of country pavement dotted by a few small farmhouses and surrounded by soybean and corn fields. They carefully measured out the distances, and would commence a half mile, mile, or more jog. We all joined in this new 'family activity'. I remember after the first short, half-mile run my parents flung themselves down on the ground and laid there, panting for breath with racing heartbeats, no concept of a "warm down". They subscribed to Runner's World and we read stories about Steve Prefontaine and Frank Shorter. They were determined to get in shape -- and get us kids in shape too! Can I just say? -- it was not fun. There were very few trees along our running route so our jogs were hot and miserable. I was introduced to the phrase "cotton mouth". I soon came to dread the daily event.
My parents decided to start jogging around our one-acre yard. Soon a well-worn footpath marked the 1/8 mile loop. Daddy would pay us 25 cents per mile on allowance day for every mile we had run that week. I remember recording my mileage and time meticulously in my Trapper Keeper on loose-leaf notebook paper, in pencil. It was exciting to bring the list into Daddy's room on Friday afternoons when he got home from work. He'd study our records, slowly, and then turn to his dresser to start gathering coins. Sometimes I'd earn a whole dollar in one week just for jogging! I still hated it but it was worth the money!
In junior high I went out for track and ran the mile and the 880. I felt proud that I "knew" how to run distance and quickly started placing well in our track meets. I continued running in high school, as it was pretty much 'expected' but I soon began to tire of the long, grueling practices, and would wistfully look up the hill to where the girls who went out for Tennis were practicing. They were not sweating, their bangs still fluffy and feathered, makeup un-smeared, and they seemed to be laughing a lot. Big contrast to us tracksters who felt sick to our stomachs, exhausted, and sore.
Some days when I'd get home from practice, my parents would be in the car in the driveway and we'd hop in and they'd take us out to Black Road, where we had to run more, to get 'extra training'. Seriously?! I'd often get the cry-feeling and feel my chest tighten and my hear my breathing go from breaths to wheezing gasps. Daddy would tell me to stop being so overly-emotional about it and to "get it together". He meant no harm, he just wanted me to be in shape for my meets. But this didn't help my dwindling love of jogging.
I stayed with it for all four years of high school. I do remember loving running the last leg of the mile relay, (since it was only one lap around), as the the sun went down and the football field lights came up. On the far side of the track, there were no fans, just the quiet, and the cornfields, and the sound of our spikes--ch-ch-ch-ch--digging into the cinder tracks. But other than those fleeting moments of affection, I was pretty much over running. Not only was it so hard, I felt like a nerd compared to all the 'cool' people who did all the other fun spring sports, and really did not enjoy feeling like crap every day for a couple of hours during training. Despite my frustrations with the sport, I did make All-County (mind you this is probably out of maybe 15 total female distance runners in our tiny farming-community district-- small schools!) and even held our school mile record for about 8 years after I graduated. (I probably shouldn't mention here that the only reason I held it so long was that the year after me they changed the distance to 1600 meters and a whole new set of records were now charted for the new distance. My record would have been broken immediately...but it was still nice to see my name up on that plaque by the gym for a few years anyway!)
By the time I left for college, I swore off running and declared I would never jog again. I went out for fun sports like swimming, racket ball, and tennis. I took golf in P.E. class. I even tried badminton. I jumped in the one-time track meets in college and ran on nothing but youth and skinniness that one still has in their twenties. I did discover that jogging was a good "date" with runner-guys so here and there I'd go along on a jog if the guy was especially handsome. But that was pretty much the extent of my running repertoire.
College graduation came, then marriage, and before I knew it I'd spent a decade not running, as I was busy having babies, and putting on some extra pounds. I did aerobics (Bodies in Motion with Gilad ), bicycle rides, basketball, but no running. When I went through my divorce, I went through a short phase of running again, but it was out of sheer boredom. I had no single friends and absolutely nothing to do to pass those at-first lonely times when the kids were with their dad. I ran a few 5ks and a sprint triathlon or two. Even ran the downhill half marathon with no training at all (it's downhill, why not?) Messed up my knees a bit but finished. Didn't run again for 3-4 years after that.
This past March I joined an online exercise group. Embarrassingly, some of us who joined had only been moving our bodies maybe once a week, if at all, for years. It was time. I tried to go out and jog a mile and -- you know the familiar feeling -- my legs hurt, my stomach felt sick, and I was gasping for air. I stopped and walked. A few weeks later I tried again. Same wretched feeling, and I remembered all over again why I hate running. Nevertheless I kept at it, day by day, and in this past month of August I actually jogged more days than I did not. Not bad for someone who hates running. With the encouragement of my group, and inspired by my cross-country-running daughters, I have gotten to where I can do three miles without stopping. A very slow-as-molasses-legs-aching-with-each-step three miles, mind you, but three miles, and on good days, have even attempted a slow four or five mile jog.
This morning I woke up and it was raining. Having a full-slate of work on my plate, I knew that to make it through the day I should exercise first. And I found myself before I even got out of bed scheming as to where I wanted to run. Me, who hates running. I put on my new-to-me thrift store Asics and my favorite pink running shirt/black shorts and took off on a new trail I'd not yet discovered along a swollen, tree-lined stream. The air was cool and the refreshing light rain felt so good against my hot skin. At one point the heavens opened and the rain poured! I was drenched and found myself grinning idiotically just because I was running in a downpour. Though my calf hurt and my achilles was tight, I felt like I could've run forever. My ankles and knees stopped me short of that, but I did get in a recent-record of 7.5 miles of a slow jog.
I hate to run. But there's something about it that keeps me coming back. It's like two old lovers who have been together forever-- at times sick and tired of each other, but still able to find that passion that reminds them of the reasons they got together in the first place. My current dating relationship with running may last another month, or more, or less, and at some point I may pick a fight with it again and cast it aside. I’ll admit, I’ve been fickle. But my running shoes will still be there on my shelf, waiting patiently, for me to soften, forgive the hurt, and get back into the rhythm once again.
A Halloween Story
We grew up not celebrating Halloween because it was pagan and showed that we worshipped the devil. We would hide in the back of our house, turning off all the lights, huddled around our old black-n-white tv turned down real low while the trick-or-treaters came knocking at the front door, staying quiet so they wouldn't know we were home (talk about creepy! ) The teacher always let me hold her hand and be the line leader that day at school since I was the only kid not in costume, so i'd feel special too. I tried to pretend I didn't want to wear a fun costume, and that pumpkin-carving looked dumb. And that the thought of getting a bucket full of free candy would just be horrible. And that the taste of candy corns were revolting. But pretending never works. I really didn't want to worship the devil; I loved God. But 'all things Halloween' were bad and that was that.
I've come to realize that many, many things that we accept today as beautiful, wonderful, and even 'Christian' have very pagan origins. Like gold wedding rings on the left hand. Crosses. Bridesmaids. The fish symbol. Christmas trees. Wedding veils. It's a surprisingly long list if you ever take the time to look into it. And I've always wondered why I choose to avoid some, but not the others.
Anyway, this isn't a put-down to those who still avoid holidays like Halloween. I get it. I did the same thing for 31 years and I respect you for your beliefs. I know this is a night on which many who worship in the occult have their heyday. I know that a lot of bad, sick, evil things happen on this night. Trust me, I believe in a devil and know he walks about like a lion, looking for those he can devour, and I pray often for protection from his twisted ways.
But I also know of a lot of Christian homes where bad, sick evil things happen at night. Where we worship things like money, status, being right, and pride and wreck our homes and loved ones because of these other gods we allow in. For those of you who like to argue about these things, you'll win, because i really hate to argue, and will refuse to go there with you. I just know that the other night when we were carving pumpkins, I asked my daughter out of the blue, "You know Halloween used to be a pagan (and still is by some) holiday. Do you feel like we just worshipped the devil while we carved our goofy-looking jack-o-lanterns?" and she looked at me like I had horns. Non-satanic horns, that is. And I felt happy, very happy, that my kids do not carry the fear that dressing up in a fun costume or carving pumpkins will separate them from God's love, like I embraced until very recently. I have passed a lot of "me" down to them, some purposefully and some unwittingly, but that one, the fear that something I will do will keep God from loving me...has been buried in the grave.
So tonight, we will gather with friends at a party, wearing outlandish costumes. My kids will collect a lot of candy laced with high fructose corn syrup, and be hyper tonight from eating so much of it. We will hang orange lights on the walls and play fun music. We will marvel at the creativity. We will take pictures. We will eat pumpkin muffins and drink Octoberfest beer and engage in lively conversation. And we will laugh a lot. We won't be worshipping the devil at this party, so if you're looking to do that, please head elsewhere. But we will have a whole heck of a lot of fun enjoying this festive, silly night together with friends. I can't wait to see your costumes, but even more, I can't wait to see you. Happy Halloween!
I've come to realize that many, many things that we accept today as beautiful, wonderful, and even 'Christian' have very pagan origins. Like gold wedding rings on the left hand. Crosses. Bridesmaids. The fish symbol. Christmas trees. Wedding veils. It's a surprisingly long list if you ever take the time to look into it. And I've always wondered why I choose to avoid some, but not the others.
Anyway, this isn't a put-down to those who still avoid holidays like Halloween. I get it. I did the same thing for 31 years and I respect you for your beliefs. I know this is a night on which many who worship in the occult have their heyday. I know that a lot of bad, sick, evil things happen on this night. Trust me, I believe in a devil and know he walks about like a lion, looking for those he can devour, and I pray often for protection from his twisted ways.
But I also know of a lot of Christian homes where bad, sick evil things happen at night. Where we worship things like money, status, being right, and pride and wreck our homes and loved ones because of these other gods we allow in. For those of you who like to argue about these things, you'll win, because i really hate to argue, and will refuse to go there with you. I just know that the other night when we were carving pumpkins, I asked my daughter out of the blue, "You know Halloween used to be a pagan (and still is by some) holiday. Do you feel like we just worshipped the devil while we carved our goofy-looking jack-o-lanterns?" and she looked at me like I had horns. Non-satanic horns, that is. And I felt happy, very happy, that my kids do not carry the fear that dressing up in a fun costume or carving pumpkins will separate them from God's love, like I embraced until very recently. I have passed a lot of "me" down to them, some purposefully and some unwittingly, but that one, the fear that something I will do will keep God from loving me...has been buried in the grave.
So tonight, we will gather with friends at a party, wearing outlandish costumes. My kids will collect a lot of candy laced with high fructose corn syrup, and be hyper tonight from eating so much of it. We will hang orange lights on the walls and play fun music. We will marvel at the creativity. We will take pictures. We will eat pumpkin muffins and drink Octoberfest beer and engage in lively conversation. And we will laugh a lot. We won't be worshipping the devil at this party, so if you're looking to do that, please head elsewhere. But we will have a whole heck of a lot of fun enjoying this festive, silly night together with friends. I can't wait to see your costumes, but even more, I can't wait to see you. Happy Halloween!
Flying High
On my morning run, I encountered a gaggle of geese slowly and deliberately making their way across the path ahead of me. And I realized how much people are like geese. Annoying when they slow you down. Irritating when they get in your way. Ugly when they hiss at you. But when they unite and lift their wings and fly at their highest heights -- the absolute most beautiful creature in the world.
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