Broken Record of Prayer--Song of Answer

Sometimes prayer is like a broken record.  The kind that are scratched by wear from playing. A fine needle player getting caught in the deep grooves of use. Points getting bumped by the marred surface and replaying the same words. Stuck in the groove like a repeating prayer over and over.

That has been us this past year and seven months. Nine of those months were without my Husband here at home. For job security, stability and just plain love for the company, we agreed he work in places further from home. Knowing this would be temporary because the company had positions closer to home, we just needed one to open up. So we prayed, daily for over a year and a half.

We were stuck in the groove and ready for the needle to move on past this scratchy surface of waiting. Prayerful words felt like repeating nothingness, echoing one on the other. The song in midpause and the needle's weight not quite heavy enough to move past the scuffed spot.  If you know how record players worked, a penny placed atop the needle's head tended to move it past the scratch(es) to finish the song. The weight of prayer tends to press us down and allow the needle to dig deeper. The copper cold of pressing tends to make the penny of prayer heave under it's load.

Faithful prayer wasn't mine, in that I can not take full credit. It was my youngest son. My own words wearied me in their scratching of repeat and wait. So some nights I scratched them out and other nights I just couldn't bring myself to them AGAIN. 

Eventually faith stepped in and we felt the shift of the needle. We began to transfer all of our doings to the town that was closer to our prayerful job location, the one still unavailable. Within a few weeks, the answer came, the Heavens parted and there with our own eyes we saw the moment arrive. The needle paused in the application of pressing.

He got the job. It's been a long time coming and worth the wait.  A nightly ritual prayer was been set free in answer. The needle played on past the scuffed surface to a tune closer to home. Now, nightly prayers will be replaced with the next song of heart. Because life is a melody between Heaven and Earth, where His Spirit loves, even yearns, to harmonize with ours.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in Him, and I am helped; therefore my heart greatly rejoices, and with my song I will praise Him." Psalm 28:7 (NKJ)

"..Jesus called them to Him and said, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God." Luke 18:16 (NKJ)

This Tuesday, I'm unwrapping the gift of answers. For more unwrappings visit Emily's place at "Chatting At The Sky".

The Exodus Life--When Freedom Is A Journey

In the aftermath of forsaken 'Eygpt" (and bondage to large mortgage payments), we landed in humble-ville. The place of a Grandmother's upheaveled home where we began this leg of our journey. My feet quickly found their soles on the bottom, valley floor.

In our efforts to live as debt-free as possible, there has been change. Our former dream home was gladly forsaken in the beginning of God's call back to big country as some would call Texas. Competing for our contentment was also the dream of land and a farm. Both dreams would've married had they merged in union.  But alas, this was not the case. So we left on the mountain top of God's move in Spirit and flesh.

In all our prayer and scripture seeking, it was clear. Take care of family. This gave us the courage and peace we'd done the right thing.  Breathing becomes harder in the thin air of mountain tops, so valleys become necessary.

After a sea of states parted our U-haul crossing, we landed in the wilderness and desert of sacrifice.  Our family no longer lived comfortably for ourselves.  In the end, an answered prayer but also the start of a long, hard journey.  The valley of the shadow of death came and we have been walking out of it ever since.

Silhouetted against sun, the mountain peaks cast their shadows in the valley. And if we stand and block the sun, we too cast our own shadows.  Perhaps the shadow of doubt lingers like the Israelites who remembered slavery in Egypt and thought it better than this. It wasn't; but in the valley shadows come.  Stiff-necked ways tend to be revealed in the dog days of desert.  And in the provision of job, stability, and friends, I've found the shadow of complaining. Close to home, like the Israelites who quickly forgot all of God's miracles from their own mountaintop experiences, did I not do the same in my circling of grit and wilderness? 

Flesh strives with spirit to build with our hands the golden calf.  Instead, I continue to give my hands to His Hands.  But it doesn't mean a salty trail won't blaze a path toward shaky chin out here past the Jordan shores. We stepped over the threshold to milk and honey and that means facing battles. Yet the drowning waters of discouragement are cutoff by the new covenant in the ark of Christ. His consuming fire before us leads us out. Through the battle-weary days of possession, we know the abundance of promise awaits those who love and do the will of the Promised Son.  Out of humble desert places, our hearts have been tested in the journey to promise. Each step a lesson in walking in His way and an appetite trained to hunger for His Word.

"So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know....that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone, but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord." Deuteronomy 8:3

"..Those who bore the ark came to the Jordan, and the feet of the priests who bore the ark dipped in the edge of the water (for the Jordan overflows all its banks during the whole time of harvest), that the waters which came down from upstream stood still, and rose in a heap...and all Israel crossed over on dry ground, until all the people had crossed completely over the Jordan." Joshua 3:15,16, 17

Today I'm unwrapping baby steps. Each tiny one brings us further in our journey and hones our skills in dependance on Him. For more unwrappings, visit Emily's place at "Chatting At The Sky".

Punk Rock--When I Lived On The Darkside

His name was Spike, not his name of birth, but his name on the hardened streets of Dallas, Texas.  I met him while a teenager living in Richardson and I myself not fitting in with my old blue Ford pickup among a sea of foreign cars that'd park the High School I attended that year. 

Downtown Dallas' buildings where punk rock bands played loudly and wildly inside, my rag-tag friends and I would hang just outside. Combat boots,  Army jackets, hair-defying gravity of gel and moose, bizarre make-up, artsy folk-types, and skateboarders would've found me right smack in the middle of them.

It was outside one of these punk clubs with these friends, I met Spike. It was brief, but it left an impression after all these years.

This was a kid, not much older than me, who lived on the streets and some nights on a friend's couch. He had run away from a home of pain. His mohawk hair was spiked, it seemed, 12 inches or so.

He told us his secret hair product that allowed it to go skyward like a freakshow in a circus.  We were amazed and I for one was a little awed.  But his hair wasn't the inspiration for Spike, I know because I asked him. 

It was what he wore around his neck. A huge railroad spike on a heavy silver chain. The spike like a symbol of the pain that pierced his very soul and bound him like the chain on his neck.

That circle of friends and time in my life comes in hindsight. In all our wild clothes, prickly hair, 'rebellious'-in-your-face-shock-value, we were wearing our pain, anger and rejection like a badge of 'honor'.

In a way to express all the things we couldn't say, our appearance said it for us and we'd dare the world to look.  Right into the eye of mainstream, we even ventured a trip to some fancy shops at the Galleria mall. There they either tried to avoid us, rejecting us off-handedly. Or they'd stare with various kinds of expressions even followed us like the criminals they suspected us to be.

We weren't surprised by it all because we expected those things.

I remember under all that camouflage, I didn't want others to meet my expectation. I secretly yearned for the unexpectation of a 'normal' someone's boldness to embrace this wild me.

As strange as I looked, I dared even stranger for the opposite of rejection and have someone accept. A miracle waiting to touch any precious one of these in my circle back then.

So it is, I think of Spike and wonder if he was ever able to lay down the chain. Haunted by the home he left for the unmerciful streets, did he ever finding a resting place for that railroad piercing on his neck? A resting place for the soul that wandered for a home?

I'm hoping Spike had an encounter with some daring folk who looked in the face of pain, turmoil, and anger and accepted. For the miracle of Jesus is not only His piercing and death raised alive, but also His life that vibrates under earthly skin, today.

Not only one Man, Jesus, but now many men and women, Jesus' manifolded by His Spirit lays under skin of ones called His own. May we see with spiritual eyes beyond things on the surface. Like Christ who looked straight into the heart and accepted us badges and all, may we Him to others.


"And as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly Man." 1 Corinthian 15:49

"Now a leper came to Him, imploring Him, kneeling down to Him and saying to Him, 'If You are willing, You can make me clean.' Then Jesus, moved with compassion, stretched out His hand and touched him, and said to him, 'I am willing; be cleansed.'" Mark 1:40, 41

"..And for me, that utterance may be given to me, that I may open my mouth boldly to make known the mystery of the gospel.." Ephesians 6:19

Ps. We hightailed it out of Dallas because of my punk-rocky ways and landed in Georgia. There my family was restored from the drama I put them through on those Dallas streets. My parents did what they could to remove me from that slippery slope. Deep down I was very thankful. However I was still a teenager and didn't always 'fess up to that thankfulness.

Looking Glass--Window's Story

Like a soldier standing guard, the former needed a troop rotation. For granted, our gaze goes through them watching the outside move or mindlessly stare behind them from things we drive.

Crisper and clearer through fresh new panes, passes the cars and the limbs that wave. Decades-old wood that sheltered the battered, now embrace them all new after they shattered. Operating locks and windows that slide can be cracked down low or way up high. But on Texas days like today, firmly shut their seal from the hot I'd say.
 
Weather and seasons through them are seen, the elements displayed through glassy sheen. Perhaps it's a peek of what is to come, a rain, or storm, or clouds and sun. Some it shows what already is, a clear blue day or a drizzly fizz.  Yet crossing the threshold that holds us in, air that's conditioned or heated, in season depends. Window--a view to imagine the out, the otherside of in and climate's clout. Views don't feel heat or cold, only perceived through glasses are told.

In times, I've cloaked them with drapes by the many, where no light is cracked, no not any. Shrouded in dark to rest or to hide in a cocoon on the season it rides. Then times where no blind or curtain withholds, its path and revelry of sun-soak bestows. Other times, marred by fingerprint smudges of thick or through broken pieces and sills that  can stick.

But they're a part of this place called home, while glimpsing out those things beyond. Whether cleaning, caring, tending or repairing, they need the work done so we can enjoy staring. As they stand smudges and all, the glimpse of out always enthrall. For changing is constant just beyond glass, as steady as the growing any type grass.  The trials of glass and means to a view, I stand in place like a window too.


This Tuesday I'm unwrapping NEW windows. If you've been reading, you know I'm in a slight remodel of an old farmhouse. This week--new windows. For more unwrappings visit Emily at "Chatting At The Sky".

I'm Baffled By You, Writers & Bloggers

How do you do it? You, the blogger or writer who can crank out stuff on a schedule. You, who drop letters and words every few days, or couple of days, every week.  You, consistent and intentional deliverer of words. How?

It makes me wonder of purposeful time. Or just plain purpose. I go with the whim and write when the fancy strikes, usually when I'm dealing.  Life has a way of doing that--dealing.  Stuff.  So when I'm dealt, I write. Other times it's something busting out, bubbling up, pouring over and I just have to write. But then there are times of numb.  When I feel wiped out of words. Is that unpurposeful?  Or plain unpurposeful drive that lacks substance in absence? Perhaps, I'm shut out and on the living mode? Like the compartments my Hubby has when doing projects. One task at a time--each compartment completed before advancing to the next task & it's compartment.

Creativity swirls in waves, at least in my brain.  It washes in ashore and then slinks back out on the tide. On the one hand I'm awash with words, then the other, just as empty of them. But they always find their way back to those fine sandy grains.  Today I'm awash with empty words, but lots of living. So I share what few words I do have.  Trying to be purposeful but not for the sake of meeting some invisible schedule or expectation of sorts. Just purposeful in noting life as it swirls about me and tacking it like a sticky-note here.  Maybe I'm learning that empty words aren't as empty as they seem.  Just hiding behind the void. Whatever the case, I'm marking life and healing these last several days. Noting time and it's passing out loud in this "white" space of mine.  Because each of us are living letters, whether we write or not.

"Clearly you are an epistle of Christ, ministered by us, written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart." 2 Corinthians 3:3

The Gypsy Change--Growing Roots

Being a 'gypsy' growing up meant lots of change. In fact, change was the norm.  Every year in a different school allowed new experiences and new beginnings.  The problem was new beginnings were all I knew. At the time I relished most of them.

Glazing over high school graduation with mostly strangers left it feeling a little bereft of that poignant moment. Most in my class had known eachother, but I on the other hand hadn't even been there a full year.  A transfer during my senior year and one of the few did-NOT-relish beginnings.

Post-graduation my gypsy ways headed to Japan to live for a few years. And it'd take even more years after that before it budded in my heart.  When did it happen?  After years of travel, I wanted to be planted and have some roots. I wanted to be "where everybody knows your name."  As in the show "Cheers".  Where familiar friends meet and greet to share life.  Somewhere along the way, I missed those connections in the wanderlust of travel and moves. 

Even today, I'm only a little over a year and a half back in Texas.  But this time it's on a familiar farm which was a sweet retreat and balm to many a storm in my life.  I came here often as an adult and even as a child lived in this area a few times.  Even went to the local High School, for one whole year. So this move was like coming home.  It was the one constant growing up.

What I'm learning is the appreciation of friends and support.  When my recent surgery drew closer, just knowing I had friends praying and thinking of me summed up the true value of roots.  Ones I didn't have before because we/I were too busy changing, moving, starting new again and again. 

Growing up, I liked the gypsy life.  Now, however, I'm really liking roots.  Perhaps my gypsy ways help me to better appreciate these new shoots grounded for support.  I'm not saying one is better than another, but life at times has a way of changing our perspectives.  Being a part of community and intertwining our lives with others, is very dear and near to my heart.  One I felt so blessed to have in our times of need lately.  It's a small thing and probably a normal thing for most.  But for me, it's a beautiful gift I've been unwrapping day-to-day.

This Tuesday I'm unwrapping roots.  For more unwrappings go to Emily's place "Chatting at the Sky".

"Now all who believed were together, and had all things in common, and sold their possessions and goods, and divided them among all, as anyone had need. So continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, they ate their food with gladness and simplicity of heart..: Acts 2:44-46

When Rubber Meets The Road

Years ago, I avoided it. Even though I had started back on Sunday mornings (and silently rededicated my life), I wasn't quite ready to plaster it on my bumper. Those paper messages in way of a Jesus or fish sticker. Announcing to EVERYone I drive past, "Hey! I'm a Christian." I knew once I slapped that honking sign on my bumper, I'd be accountable. Or worse, I'd make Christian look bad. I may have Christ (and a sticker to 'prove' it) but I. am. NOT. CHRIST. Hence, cutting off a stressed out Mama might get you an un-Christ-like look and maybe even a few head motions. Thankfully, this didn't happen today. But I can't promise it won't happen tomorrow. Sorry. I try but I have this sin nature that's contrary to anything I have on my bumper.

A few weeks ago, I was driving on the interstate. Going the speed limit with my cruise set on just the right number. When all of a sudden I see this van blow right by me. Speeding like I used to, back in the day (the days of my ol' trusty radar detectoooor). Trying to push the envelope of faster with a death-grip on the wheel, sweating at every beep and blurp that'd come outta of the little black thing. I've been set free from those days. Now, I just drive normal-like.

There I was heading home when this van rips past us. A. Church. Van. Plastered on it's sides and backside was all their information. Yes, I know who you are. I got your denomination and your church name. Not that I'm gonna do anything about it. Just sayin'.

So why was I a little peeved that some church-y van was doing some un-churchy driving? At least I didn't see any kids inside, but it's hard to see through blurr.

All this to say, if we announce we're Christian, we are held to a higher standard. Actually, some are really looking for double-standards. The ones contrary to Christ. The world looks in and they see us. But Christians also see us too. We are all flawed in different ways. The only difference from the world is we have Christ.

I'm learning to grace-walk, because I just might need a little of yours. Especially if my Jesus sticker happens to slip into that sweet, rarefied parking spot up front at Wally-world and you just spent 15 minutes circling the waters parking lot for a spot just like it. Or when my parenting skills have given birth to 15 pounds of grump and I un-Christ-like throw the baby grump on my boys, under your nose. I'm not saying don't hold me accountable or to (His) higher standard. I want to be challenged. I want to grow, learn and especially Love His way. And sometimes Love isn't lovely feeling but we need to face the unlovely to move toward the Prize. But I'm not always walking in it or behaving like I want it.

So when I followed ol' lead foot van (albeit at a much slower, distanced pace) and skipped my normal exit to see if that State Trooper we just passed was gonna stop him, was that bad? In the six or so miles it took me to get to my next exit, my plank-y ways were splintering. As ambassadors of Christ, we need to take stock in our stewarship. It's good to spurn eachother toward the goal. But since I Am Not Christ, I don't know if this van driver had an emergency or just one horribly bad day, or he's just someone who thinks speeding really isn't all that terrible. If he got stopped and had to pay the dumb ticket, he mighta thought different. I dunno. And no, he didn't get stopped.

With or without grace, what I do know is, others are watching. Christians are watching. All the more reason to have the mind of Christ. We/I need to grow in wisdom and Love. Paul called it (spiritual) maturity, perhaps you're familiar with it. It's a lifelong process. But one we/I should be striving for, always. Giving grace where needed, or an encouragement, or maybe even a refining word to someone helps us/me to grow too. Paul should know, his letters are filled with these things. Not all of his words were lovely, but they were given in Love. And there is One who give us the power to grow and mature...and in many instances, lots of practice.

(ps. I wrote this post a few weeks back, presurgery. I'm not driving again just yet, but I will be starting tomorrow or Wed! Yey.)


"Therefore, laying aside all malice, all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and all evil speaking, as newborn babes, desire the pure milk of the word, that you may grow thereby, if indeed you have tasted that the Lord is gracious." 1 Peter 2:1-3


"Beloved, I beg you as sojourners and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul, having your conduct honorable among the Gentiles..." 1 Peter 2:11

"And my speech and my preaching were not with persuasive words of human wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power, that your faith should not be in the wisdom of men but in the power of God." 1 Corinthians 2:4and5


For other gratitude's visit Ann's place.  Gratitude begins here:

--That there is One who is perfect because I, by far, am not.

--Grace. Because I need it, every single day.

--Wide open roads of Texas.

--Slowly recovering (post-surgery) and getting out in a car with family.

--Learning to depend on others for support, prayer, and just plain food (thanks Mom).

--Thankful for family who live in the distance but are close in heart.

--Grateful for the true Physician who is able to care, heal, and guide others in our times of need.

Surgery, Death, And...Power?

Routine doesn't always feel 'routine' when it's you. I know they've been doing these types of 'routines' for years, but when it's your own skin under the scalpel, routine looks a little like Death.  Another chance for it too surface it's ugly head and once again try to shroud life in fear or perhaps a little anxiety. So, I've been absent this past week. I've been recovering from a 'routine'-type of surgery and feeling much better for it.

As a little girl, fear lurked in shadows and anger. Death always rode on the tails of fear. Together, they twist a person's existence until you cower under it's heavy yoke. A very real presence but also a very real deliverance of mine.

This time however, anxiety of pain was more a thought and one I expressed in my last post, "Rumbles of Volcanic Anxiety". Fear and Death teetered in the balance. Unlike childhood episodes (and even adult ones too), it no longer had a controlling hold. Mainly because I now recognize the familiar tentacles and refuse to entertain them. 

There is a difference I have now that I didn't have back then. Power. Not mine, nor yours, but His. In all the lies of the enemy, there is One more powerful. As a child, evil seems strong. Perhaps darkness seems darker than any Light can brighten, at least when you've believed the lie. I don't. Anymore. I haven't for years.

Not only is His power able to overcome, to deliver, but it's also enabled. His Power doesn't lay dormant but is actively engaged by His Spirit. And if you're the carrier of such Holy Spirit, there is a livewire of activity and victories to face your battles. But above all His Power to overcome.

Jesus said: "But you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you..." Acts 1:8

"They shall speak of the glory of Your kingdom, and talk of Your power.." Psalm 145:11

"But God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave, for He shall receive me. Selah" Psalm 49:15

"Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise prophecies. Test all things; hold fast what is good. Abstain from every form of evil."1 Thessalonians 5:19-22

Ps. Alot has been happening here so I'll try to share more throughout the week. For now, I'm recovering and doing much better. Slip me an email if you wanta know more. Thanks for all your thoughts and prayers!

Pss. I shared this on Saturday Evening Post at Esther's place...hop on over there to see other readings. I chose this one because the month of June has been around healing from that surgery. And also a month of learning to take care of mysef, an important lesson in healthy boundaries.