A Lie for Christmas

Christmas has made me very reflective this year. It may be the 'getting old' issue, or it may be the number of people I won't get to see this Christmas. I'm sure when I'm gone, they will all miss me horribly and wish they could see me for Christmas, or maybe not, chuckle.  Most have legitimate reasons they cannot be part of this year's celebration.  But the missing is still there regardless. 

A gift I helped another person get this Christmas reminded me of a Christmas story about my dad and how he tried to teach me the things he wanted to learn from his own dad but didn't. That's not conjecture; it's what he told me along with more information than I need to share in this write. 

Some time in my preschool years, my father built me a very sturdy and nice blackboard, easel.  If it had been current, it surely would have had a dry erase board on the other side, but as it was, one side was a chalk board and on the other side was a drawing board of sorts.  I found it several times during the making, not by snooping, but just by stumbling in.  And I quickly identified it to my father.  No, no I was wrong.  He gave me a far fetched explanation of what it really was.  Now my father was an imaginative story teller, but let’s face it, it may have been an imaginative story, but it was also a variance from the truth and I never doubted that for a minute.  Time and again I saw the evidence.  Time and again I was offered some wild story. 

Finally when its form was undeniable, my father admitted he had built a chalk board, but it was for another child who wasn’t getting any Christmas.  I was not happy about that.  All the times he had offered his ‘stories’ seemed quite illogical and it became a good game.  But this story was totally believable according to my father’s benevolent character and I had fallen in want of the blackboard easel.  This time there would be no playful reply, no good natured banter.  I didn’t see it again until Christmas morning.

There it was, shrouded in a sheet with a bow on the front, and it was mine!  I giggled and bounced for a bit and then I landed in my daddy’s lap.  “You wonderful old liar,” I said playfully.  My dad laughed, but there was a different feel to his laughter.  The story would go around many times over the years and that same difference was always felt in my father’s laugh.

That Christmas, my daddy told me he would never tell me another lie.  I believed him and through the years, I found that to be true.  As I grew up, he used to tell me many times that there were very few things you owned and very few things you truly controlled.  One thing you owned was your character.  He taught me that a person could tell the truth sometimes and not other times, but integrity was something you had or you didn’t have.  You could not have it part of the time.  He taught me that my word was my responsibility.  And between us he let me know that I had taught him a lesson on integrity one Christmas when I was very young.

He could have said . . .

It was a shame he couldn’t have just said “Okay. I will.”

I remember the first time my mother introduced me to her friend.  It was fairly easy to detect the presence of dementia.  But she smiled and greeted us in a classic well trained way.  It was obvious that she immediately forgot the names she was supplied and even the relationship we had to someone she knew.  But oh, she knew my mother.  Mother was familiar and held a spot in her affections.  My mom patiently repeated who we were and what our names were and where we lived.  The other lady at the table was less patient with it all.  When the friend again lost track of who we were, she raised her voice and supplied the information somewhat gruffly.  And yet, there seemed to be an understanding between the three.  Her gruff reply was passed off with just a look of condescendence, a look from the other lady that said “Excuse my friend.  She’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s got a good heart.”

My mom has introduced us to her friend every time we’ve visited her.  We live several hours away and don’t get to visit that often, but when we do we try to break the visit up so that my mother will enjoy it more and we can get a bit more time in before she’s tired and dismisses us.  My mother is 98 years old and lives in a very nice nursing home in another state.  Usually we’ll get there before lunch and visit until she goes to eat.  She likes the routine of eating with her friends and so, we walk her to the dining room, meet her friends, and then go eat lunch somewhere before we return for another short visit that generally ends in her going to her small space for a nap at which time we start the long trip back home.  The visit is worth the travel; she’s my mom.  We just don’t get to make the trip that often.

The recent years have not been kind to my mother.  She has lived a very long and, until the last few years, very active life.  Even in the nursing home she has crocheted throws, worked puzzles and delivered the mail to the patients’ rooms.  But the years are being less kind as they go.  The pain of deterioration and the meds that help control it take their toll.  Her eyes are beginning to deteriorate.  Her hearing is fading quickly.  She tenaciously grasps life and activity and yet becomes frustrated with puzzle solving.  She knows she should remember other people, but dimly recalls them until you put them into a familiar story and then she lights up with memories that connect the dots for a short time.  My mother has always been a fun, social type person and the shrinking of her world is not only discouraging, but frightening to her.  What will come next?

Her friend has Alzheimer’s.  Her son is the person who runs the nursing home, elder care unit my mom lives in.  He has been able to keep his mom there- safe, cared for, even preferred -until recently.  The disease has progressed beyond the facility he runs and so she had to be moved to a facility that focuses solely on the end stages of Alzheimer’s.  It’s a decision that I’m sure he put off as long as possible and hates day by day.

Yet for my mother, there in her shrinking world, it is one more reminder of her own shrinking, deteriorating existence and it is a horrible loss of friendship, even if it was a flawed friendship.   And so her plea –not just a request- that he tell his mom she misses her and she still cares about her and prays for her.

When my sister first told me the story, I was incensed, outraged, as she was.  The man had replied “She won’t remember who you are.  She doesn’t even know who I am.  She won’t know or care if you miss her or pray for her.”

My first thought and what came from my mouth was “He could have just said ‘Okay.  I’ll tell her.’ ”  What an unprofessional reply to a hurting patron in her late 90s!

But then that other voice inside me kicked in.  “But he’s speaking from his own pain and discouragement.  That’s his mother.  We have to have grace for that.”  My sister quietly agreed. 

I am reminded that the afflictions of this world are but a moment in light of eternity, but in light of our temporary lives, they seem eternal.  It is sobering.  It is hope deferred that makes the heart grow faint.  And yet, where there is grace, there is hope.

Work it out!

Ephesians 2:8-10 For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.  For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

I memorized the verse as a child, though I must say I didn’t have any understanding of it for years.  But the night God called me to salvation it came to life.  God instructed me in a study of grace by faith in the days following my personal commitment to Christ and it has been my mantra through all the craziness of my life, through all the personal struggles with legalism and doctrine, through all the trial and error –lots of error- of growing and walking in this new kingdom. 

I believe lots of things but the Bible is the crucible of my thought.  I believe it to be the word of God to man.  While I believe that God does speak to us in many ways, I also believe that those other ways will not violate his written word.  If it is truly God speaking, it will harmonize and synchronize with the Bible.  Though language is limited by mankind, the ideas and instruction are flawless.  The Holy Spirit will lead us into truth where language may fail.

As an example of what I am saying, I was talking to a friend and colleague once while composing a letter to the parents of my students in a different language.  She laughed at me, explained what I had really said in their language and then said “We would never say that anyway.  It’s not how we think.”  Then she proceeded to help me revise the letter so the parents of my students would understand what I needed to say.

Another issue is that language is constantly evolving.  God does not.  His meaning is the same, though our understanding is sometimes hampered by the passage of time and evolution of our language.  The King James Version, from which I memorized as a child has many passages that were viable when the translation was made, but can be difficult in today’s language.  Yet I believe God protects His word across the barriers of language.

Because I believe in harmony of Scripture and in One Spirit that breathed into the mind of each writer the truth that they set forth in their vernacular, when I run into seeming conflicts in scripture or Christian thought, I take them to my Father and ask for clarity.  I am human. I miss stuff often.  I’m still growing at my ripe age and I love it when God puts reason together for me in answer to my questions.

And so, enter Philippians 2:12 “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling!”  I’ve asked.  I’ve surmised and asked again over the decades of debate and conflicting opinions.  And yesterday morning, God gave me an answer while I struggled with pinning and sanding in the constructing of a project promised some time ago.

My grandfather on my dad’s side was a woodwright and smithy.  He had an awesome tiny woodworking shop behind their meticulous little house in Denver and I would wander in often as a small child.  It was fascinating to me.  Through out my adult life, I have toyed with building things but when I became serious about woodworking a few years ago, I studied the old ways.

My grandmother wanted a nice little desk, often called a secretary, for bill paying, letter writing and such.  They lived sufficiently, but were not extravagant people and he wanted it to be quality wood and workmanship.  The investment of that kind of wood was not in the budget, but he was given a pool table and from that beautiful walnut piece, he made many things including a desk for my grandmother.  It is solid and lovely still, sitting beneath the window in my study.  I’ve always been intrigued by the story but without much understanding.

I promised a fireplace mantel and surround to my daughter last winter.  There was an understanding of sorts that it would be completed before this year’s fire season.  I priced it out in a good quality oak.  Wow! Yeah.  I priced it out in a lesser wood though I have to say I was very disappointed in the trade off.  Summer being what it is in my world, the project was put on the back burner.  A while ago, my husband was given a load of lumber and such from a church that was doing major renovations.  As he unloaded some very large solid oak pieces my mind got busy.  Last weekend, I bought a drill press and then this week I invested in a drill press shelf and fence.  I began the project. 

I am totally excited about what is happening with this beautiful wood.  When it is complete, no one will recall its former shape or purpose at all.  I have struggled to make a cut at times, knowing I only have so much to work with.  I have struggled with removing all traces of contractors glue and the old finish.  I have problem solved and reworked and that will undoubtedly continue until the installation.  My hands hurt; my back hurts; my eyes hurt; my head is stuffed up.  It has been an awesome process so far and I’m not half way finished yet.  At times, my pain is only eclipsed by my excitement at seeing it come together.

During the process, God gave me understanding.  The wood was a free gift.  It was mine to work with via my husband’s gift.  The wood had potential, but was not useful as it was.  Through inspiration and imagination it is becoming something that will adorn and serve.  It’s not easy.  The process makes me weak and tires me.  Since we have not gotten the workshop built, my studio serves for many task, but must be cleaned constantly and adjusted to make the rest of my life doable while the piece develops.  It’s an exhausting, scary, difficult process that involves everything I have to give.  But I’m working it out.  The reward is in the finish.

God gives the free gift of grace through faith to create in us a new life, a new purpose, a new chance.  With his inspiration and strength I am becoming a new creature.  Old things have passed away; everything is being made new. It’s scary sometimes: there are too many ‘what ifs?’.  Sometimes I hurt; sometimes I’m amazed.  I get shaky; I make mistakes.  But God is always there to answer and inspire, to strengthen and apply more grace.  He cleans me up so that I can continue.  Though I need Him in every moment, every endeavor, he has given me tools, knowledge and materials and he is creating a new me through my actions and learning day by day.  I am working out “My salvation with fear and trembling” not on my own, not in human terms but by grace through faith I am becoming.  By grace, because God is my source.  Through faith, because I can only see one step at a time and God has promised he will never abandon me regardless of how I feel or what I see.  He destined me to be like his son Jesus.  It will take every energy and every day of my life.  It’s not an easy process, but worth it totally.

Shouts, Growls and Punches in the Dark

When I was a little girl, my siblings, who were much older than I, were left in charge of me quite often.  I’ve never been a fan of kids taking care of kids because . . . well they’re kids.  Both of my parents worked to maintain the home and pay the bills.  There wasn’t a lot extra for child care.  I’m not fault-finding, it’s just the way it was. 

One of their favorite games was to send the little girl out with the trash at night and hide along the route to surprise her on her way back in.  I hated the game.  The trash barrel was at the very back of our yard and we had a very deep back yard.  Beyond the garage, there were no lights back there. 

From the back door, which had a lighted porch, to the garage was a cake walk.  My dad worked in the garage at night a lot when he was home and I made that trek regularly from the time I could walk well.  Of course my dad would not be waiting in the shadows with a blanket or sheet to throw over me and grab me up to terrify me.  Rounding the side of the garage where the light was blocked out was where the terror began to mount.  They laughed and called me a baby.  I was pretty young but who likes to be called a baby.

Behind the garage my heart and head screamed in fear.  I don’t know how far that walkway between the two sections of garden actually was, but for a small child hauling a trashcan, it took forever to navigate.  Terror mounting, I would dump my load into the big barrel at the end of the walkway and begin the trip back toward the house.  My step quickened with each footfall.

I knew they would be there somewhere along the path, hiding in the shadows.  I would tell myself that this time I would not scream or cry but I would punch back before they could throw the blanket over my head.  I would swing the trashcan or a stick.  I would get away and get back into the light at the back door.  Logic told me it was my siblings.  Fear had a different opinion:  It was a fierce, great unknown monster, growling and speaking threats in a hoarse, deep voice.

Then when they had tired of the growls and threats and jostling, I’d be turned lose to make my way back to the back door which of course would be locked.  I’d pound and cry and eventually be let in.  I schemed to go around to the front which I knew was the door they would use, but by the time I was released, I always ran to the closest door which was the back door.  Just a child’s game?  To them it was.  They teased, berated and denied any part in it.  It continued frequently for years.  Eventually, my dad stopped working nights and the ‘fun’ stopped.

It left me with some permanent reactions that may seem odd or unwarranted to the unknowing observer.  I don’t know why that was such a hoot to my siblings.  At first it was just them jumping from the shadows and yelling out to startle me.  Eventually it grew into a terrorizing event. I don’t know how or where the idea to do something like that came from.  They refined it to an uncanny art. 

As an adult, through bible study and understanding the reality and nature of my heavenly Father, I’ve learned to deal with most of the leftovers.  Becoming a Christian had a profound release of the residual, unreasonable fear.  But recently I have realized that some people still play that game. They figuratively jump out of the shadows and throw a blanket over my head.  They yell and threaten and jostle and punch because they know I can’t really strike back.  Then when they’ve had enough, they leave me in a foggy darkness while they sneak off and deny any wrong-doing.  And no matter how much I reason or self-instruct, they will come back and do it all over again –and again.  When the effect begins to wear off and my reasoning negates some of the reaction, they will intensify and reinvent the game, but it is the same game.  I do not know what has caused their pain and grief and even when I suspect, I don’t know how to prepare myself for it.  I know it will happen again.  I just don’t know where and when. 

“Just distance yourself.” Comes a wise well intentioned word.  Yeah, the 3 year old couldn’t move out of the house either.  But there must be a line of wisdom that I can apply.  The battles when I was a child were never fought by slinging the trash can and running or by punching and getting away.  Saying “It’s my brother; it’s my sister” helped for a very short time but then the ‘boogie man’ became too real and I would succumb. 

Even as an older teen and adult, I faced moments of unreasonable terror.  I had nightmares.  I was crippled by fear in so many realms of my life.  When I realized where the unreasonable fear of my life came from, I learned to change from the inside by the help of God.  I overcame the inability to walk  or work in the dark.  I conquered the nightmares.  I became overly belligerent toward things that go “bump” in the night.  I learned to say “If you’re going to take me out, you’re going to have to crawl over my God and if he lets you, I’m going to heaven anyway.”

My mind is beginning to churn.  Wisdom is right behind a thin curtain.  I shall continue my journey after such an episode.  It’s not taking me off the path I’ve been given, but I would like to find a right conclusion.  In all my getting I wish to get wisdom; in all my searching I hope to find understanding.

Grow up and act like royalty

Recently I wrote a post about learning to be God’s princess.  Tonight, the concept grew up!  Below are some excerpts from the post just to set the thinking for the rest of this write.

A few years ago some friends who are very concerned and impressed with material possessions began treating us like 3rd world rejects.  We just weren’t ‘good enough’ on so many levels. . . .  I was frustrated.  You may say they weren’t really friends when you read this, but they were and are. . . .  

These people made me feel needlessly small, unappreciated and unimportant most of the time.  I could have said “Woman up, Donna.  Get over it.”  But really, how do you? 

I began seriously praying about my attitude . . . . .  and my Father assured me that he loves me more than I can even start to imagine. . . . . He told me I am his princess. . . . . .  He assured me that he would be with me in life and usher me through the transition to immortal existence when my part of this life is done.

When the slights come, he reminds me to say “I am the daughter of the King.”  It’s not an arrogant thing, it simply says that regardless of what others think or do, I am loved and I am provided for royally.  If people treat me like a servant, I will own the title and add “Servant of the Most High God.”  If people look down on my art, my craft or my person, well that person can deal with my Papa. 

This has changed the way I view life in general. . . . . “I am the daughter of the great King.”

Tonight I again had the ‘opportunity to call out in my spirit “I am the daughter of the Great King!” and then on the way home, I called it out aloud.  I spoke the obvious: “They are yours; I am yours.  Help me to understand that you care regardless and can take care of the rest.”  

In my spirit I heard the Father say “When are you going to start acting like it?”

I thought that He was reprimanding me for whining about being slighted and put down at first.  I started asking for forgiveness and strength to change my attitude.  He interrupted again and asked me when I was going to begin behaving like royalty.

Having been well trained in false humility, I totally mistook the question at first and he again told me to grow up and start acting like a princess.  I asked what he meant.  This is what I understood.

True royalty is not as concerned with itself as it is with the kingdom.  There is an image to be held that respects the position of royalty.  It is a mature refinement that refuses to dishonor the kingdom.  I don’t think I’ve ever truly understood the concept though I have been acquainted with it before.  Royalty is not entirely a matter of birth, but also of behavior and attitude.  In recent history, we have watched a ‘royal’ abdicate the throne for personal affection and desire.  Call it love if you wish.  It seems so romantic and honorable, so true to the heart and ethical.  Yet it dishonored the kingdom and disqualified the person for rule.  This person was no less ‘royal’ in a human sense, but the position of leadership and influence was lost.  We have watched this at various levels in the Kingdom of God.  It’s so easy to lose sight of the real thing when you concentrate on the glitter and glam. 

God revealed to me that the ability to put the good of the kingdom above my own petty desires and feelings is part of taking my place at his side as his daughter, his ‘princess’.  Fine clothing and surroundings, well fixed hair, nails and make-up, to a degree even the training in protocol must be overshadowed by the desire to honor and advance the kingdom in influence and respect.  While people will always find fault, and always maintain fault, while bad behavior and excess will continue, true mature royalty understands the temporary effect of a story without substance.  It understands that untruth will always exist and that people often love a lie as much as they love a truth. True royalty is not thrown off task by the complaints and opinions of petty people or gossip columns.  It is not about the finery or pomp. It’s not about a person being exalted or even protected.  It is about the kingdom being exalted and maintained in strength and integrity.

I am his own; I am his princess.  It is time to grow up and act like it.  I have much to learn.

God's little princess

A few years ago some friends who are very concerned and impressed with material possessions began treating us like 3rd world rejects.  We just weren’t ‘good enough’ on so many levels.  My man was oblivious and tried to see the ‘intent of the heart’ in the whole thing.  I was frustrated.  You may say they weren’t really friends when you read this, but they were and are.  Yet so many times they expressed concern if we offered to host anything or they acted like we were too poor to participate in anything worthy.  We are not rich, but we are richer than 98 percent of the world according to one global wealth app.  For awhile we were in the 90+ percentile in the US as well.  Yeah I’m into all the analytical stuff.  I must say, I don’t know where we stand now, and being retired –sort of- I don’t really need to find that out.  Yeah, that was a rabbit trail. 

The point is that these people made me feel needlessly small, unappreciated and unimportant most of the time.  I could have said “Woman up, Donna.  Get over it.”  But really, how do you?  With friends like these, who needs muggers?  Oh, by the way, if a mugger has a gun, does he fire mug shots?  Okay, that’s enough of that, or as some would say “Squirrel, big squirrel.”

It’s hard to feel like a princess when you’re cleaning up poop –figuratively or not.  I’m not a prissy shopper.  I don’t have to have the newest or latest, though I appreciate good quality, nice things.  Frequently, I’d rather make it than buy it, though the making may be as expensive as the buying in some cases.  It’s just who I am and generally speaking, I am okay with how I was crafted.  But some people can make me look around at my world and say ‘Ouch!’  These I mentioned above are like that, though they don’t have the best of everything either.  They name drop, they light up when they see expensive finery and they love titles.  And they notice greatly that we are not part of that system. 

So a couple of years ago, I began seriously praying about my attitude and my Father did something totally unexpected.  Instead of the scriptural reprimand I was expecting, he assured me that he loves me more than I can even start to imagine.  He helped me see that some things he does out of love for me and others are not recognized as love at all by our human reasoning.  He told me I am his princess.  I am the daughter of the great King.  He assured me that he would be with me in life and usher me through the transition to immortal existence when my part of this life is done.

When the slights come, he reminds me to say “I am the daughter of the King.  I am my Father’s child.”  It’s not an arrogant thing, it simply says that regardless of what others think or do, I am loved and I am provided for royally.  If people treat me like a servant, I will own the title and add “Servant of the Most High God.”  If people look down on my art, my craft or my person, well that person can deal with my Papa. 

This has changed the way I view life in general.  It hasn’t changed the way others view me for the most part –though in some cases it has.  In the case mentioned above, it has greatly improved our interaction, though not changed their love of all things exalted.  They see us a bit differently.  AND in those other moments, “I am the daughter of the great King.”

I woke this morning and heard the little dog howling.  She has howled all night for two nights.  So I was heading to let her out when I was met by an incredible stench.  She was leaning against the side of the kennel trying to stay out of the poop.  Her tummy has been upset since they came home.  I let her out, propped open the door to let the smell out, carried as much out into the yard as I could and cleaned the foam tiles under her kennel. I woke her owner to give her a bath while I finished cleaning.  That’s life.  

No, I don’t really feel like a princess when I’m cleaning up poop- real or figurative.  But I know it’s true.  I don’t need a fairy god mother.  I have a heavenly Father and I’m his.  He will work on my behalf.  One day I will meet the Prince when it is time and there will be no rags, no crude furnishings, no poo on the fingers or mud on the face. 

Have a Heart!

AMEN!

Disclaimer:  My prayer life has been going through an overhaul of late.  This is not meant to be accusatory; it's just some of the process I've gone through in my own prayer journey.

So what does AMEN mean to you?

            AMEN – I’m done now. 

            AMEN – Let it be done according to my request.

            AMEN – Let it be done according to your wisdom and grace.

Ummm, well when you put it like that, we will probably all choose #3.  But what are we really saying when we say AMEN?  What goes on in our mind or life after we say AMEN?  What would you say if you could not say AMEN at the end of a prayer.  How would you end it?   

#1:  Like a friendly intrusive conversation. “Well, I’ve said all I have to say for now and I really have to get busy. I’ve neglected my world.  I’ve enjoyed it, but I gotta go now.  So be it.” 

#2:  Like an urgent request to an understanding benefactor.  “I know you’re going to give me what I’ve asked for because I’ve really thought about it because it’s reasonable, I’m not being selfish and I have lots of scripture to back me up on this. I know you can do it and I thank you. So be it.”

#3:   “I know you have heard my request and I believe I am in agreement with your word.  I know you give what I ask for in Jesus name.  I know you have the power for all things.  But I understand that sometimes your love and mercy may not give me what I have asked for.  I trust you regardless.  I believe regardless.  I praise you regardless. So be it according to your will.”

The word actually means “So be it.”  But the question remains, what does that mean to you?  I’m going now?  Go get on that?  Not my will but yours be done?  It will probably depend on how you view prayer.  It may depend on what you believe about God.

One more word.  SELAH - "Stop and think about it."

This is me.

  Every so often I do a “Who I am and where to find out” kind of post.  This is one of those.  If you don't want to read, but want the links to my life, page down and you'll find them.

I am a writer.  I am an artist.  I am a teacher.  I am a believer.  I am a designer/builder.  I am a gardener.  I am a chef (homebased).  I study and grow herbs for my own health sake and share them, when I have abundance, with people who ask.  I am a wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt. 

  I have a dog and a cat and a large aquarium with two fish because one of those doesn’t play well with others and it has an amazing long life span, it would seem. I encourage lots of birds to hang around with some winter feed outside my door because I love birds and find I don't like cleaning up after them.  

  I love outdoor activities but am not a huge fan of discomfort and personal injury.  I’m a conservationist who still has the bulk of my brain and reasoning process in tact. You can take that statement any way you want to.  I have houseplants that are older than I am-which says a lot.  

  I am frugal and resourceful.  I am opinionated, though I do love to research ideas.  Some thoughts and beliefs are not negotiable, though I thoroughly respect your right to be wrong.  I was raised in a family where cynicism was a refined art; I'm not incredibly thin skinned.  I am not a multi-tasker and I’m working hard to defeat any notion of being a perfectionist.  

  I am a connoisseur and collector of great music from many genre.  I would talk about my own music, but this is a ‘who I am’ session not a ‘who I was’ session.  I’m not good at those ‘Give us one little-known fact about yourself’ icebreakers.

  I try to be a good friend even though I know that friendship reaches its port now and then and people tend to disembark and find another cruise.  I try to leave behind good memories.  I am also learning to take the advise: “Be thankful for what you were given, not angry about what you were denied.”

  That’s the short story.  Now for the meat!

I have been writing stories since I was a young child.  I love to craft words and tell images.  I've written some very long stories, but do best with short stories as I chase rabbits in the long ones.  Not sure where the rabbits get in, but it happens.  I love poetry and faith based expression (for lack of a better classification).  I write from the heart, the spirit or my quirky sense of humor (again for lack of a better classification). 

  This blog, There must be a reason, is my most random blog, though much of it is about my journey through the fields and landmines of faith and personal growth.  I thank you for reading and acknowledging my writing.

  Incidents of poetry are scattered through my blogs.  I like to write poetry.  It just seems to flow out of me at times.  Other times I purposely try to find a new door into the craft of poetic writing.  Sometimes it’s pure sap.  Sometimes it’s deep or emo.  All of it is me.  My poetry page is Poems and Processes but I have lots I've never published here or otherwise.  I have had my poetry published elsewhere a very few times.

My other blogs here are:

‘Family to Go’  

‘Sweetness BetweenFriends’

‘Goodies but Oldies’        

‘Chuckles and Giggles from 360 days'

‘Artsy Types in Close Quarters’   A journal of an artists trip to the southwest.

 

I welcome readers and comments.  If you use really bad language or become offensive, I’ll just take the comment off.  But I’m not easy to offend.  Aaaah, don’t try just to try.  I still have a lot of old Multiply blogs to add to the above pages.  I’ll probably link to them every now and then.

I am an artist and a teacher.  My website for my studio is  www.donna-by-d-sign.com  But I must warn you that it is always undergoing change.  Just visit again and you’ll see what I mean.

I have a photography page:  Life Captured  Some of the albums are private.  Most are not.  You are welcome to look.  I’d rather you not take my images without permission.  I’m pretty easy going on most of it.

So much more I could say, but you’ve either read it in the blogs, will read it in my blogs, or don’t really want to go there.  This is me – or a lot of me anyway.

Bless Me

            I listened to a teaching on prayer that spoke of people always asking God to bless what they had planned.  I agree with most of the statements made, but it started me thinking about what I really am requesting when I ask for God’s blessing.  I think there was a time when my prayers could have been translated “I’ve planned this and worked hard to prepare it, so God, I need you to make it successful.”  or “I’ve thought about this and I think this is the best course of action, God, make it happen.”  You get my drift.  God bless what I want, how I want it, by making it work well and removing resistance and obstacles.  Then we say “Amen” or “Okay, I’m done now, I’m going.”

            Life has a way of changing our opinions of ourselves.  I feel a much greater need to pray for wisdom at the onset of any quest or change these days.  I also feel a great need to listen for guidance and expect God to speak.  I frequently request interference in my plans and relationships.  I can recall the very first time I prayed that and the extreme answer that came very quickly –not what I really wanted, but what I needed for sure.  I also ask God to remind me when I’m ‘doing it again’ and to scream when I get so busy that I don’t hear.  You know, he knows when I’m serious and he really does do that.  They are not the sweetest prayers, but perhaps they are the most important and the most revealing of God’s love and care for me.

            I don’t pray about the color of my socks that day or about what time I should arise and what I should eat for breakfast or what type of coffee to brew.  God gave me a brain for that stuff.  But I’ve actually heard him instruct me in similar matters when it was an issue.  I try to listen more and question less when those exceptions occur, believing that his love will never lead me wrong.  I seldom pray “Bless me as I dress this morning.”

            As pointed out by the teacher, God has blessed us with all spiritual blessings in Christ Jesus.  God blesses those whose minds are fixed on him.  There are many scriptures that speak of our blessings as a fixed part of a healthy relationship to God that we do not have to obtain through petition.  So what am I asking for when I request His ‘blessing?’  Should I continue to pray that way?

            It can become a picky game of semantics and though I like preciseness and intelligence, I don’t believe that God is that hard to approach.  I think when his child approaches with a need, he looks through misstated requests to the heart and intent.  So that once the heart is aligned, he is not put off by a poor choice of words.  God is not small and petty in his relationship to his beloved and that is what he calls us who are in Christ Jesus.

            When I ask for his blessing on a trip, I have already talked to him and listened for his reply.  I’ve been asking for guidance and provision.  So the ‘blessing’ is for safety from interference from the enemy, from my own human error and the error of others.  I pray ‘blessing’ for accomplishment of the purpose of the trip without interference from anyone but the Father himself.  I’m asking him to make me a safe and courteous driver who doesn’t distract or endanger others on the road.

            Similarly when I ask him to bless my studio on a day, I have already heard his directive and accepted his goodness and purpose in the creation and continuing of my studio.  That is in place.  Periodically, I question him on how, what and when and try to be attuned to his answer.  So my prayer for ‘blessing’ on my studio is for myself to be attuned to others and the Holy Spirit so that I can serve well and leave a worthy testimony in the hearts of those I teach.  Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed, ‘blessing’ is a supernatural calm and clarity to be able to do the task ahead.  And yet I understand that the ‘blessing’ of God may take me where I never dreamed I would go.  While my human criteria for earnings may not be realized, I see that the blessing of God makes one ‘rich’ and adds no sorrow.  What I am asking God for is interference in what I think should be so that I may be part of his glorious plan.  That is my ‘blessing.’

            A side note is that there are many definitions of the word ‘rich’.  Monetary wealth is not my most desired.  Abundantly supplied with resources, high quality, or sustained value is, in the long run, a much more appealing definition.

            By the same token, what am I asking for when I ask God to bless my family members and my home?  I’m asking for his divine strength to accomplish what we know is right when my strength would fail and for his divine intervention for the places we do not know or understand.  Knowing how busy and noisy we are, it is asking him to scream out and to alter courses for eternal good.  I’m not saying I don’t pray for specifics.  I do all the time and yet there is the knowledge that God loves me and them so much that he may not give what I am mistaken about.  I am learning to trust and so I ask for his blessing to enrich without added sorrow as his promise states.

            I have heard many pray “Whatever it takes, God. . .”  And I admit there was a time when I prayed such prayers.  Then I saw “whatever it takes” at work -at least I thought I did.  It is not that I don’t pray for change, but I would rather have the blessing of God.  The Bible says “The blessing of God is a curse to his enemies.”  I know that God loves people and wants their salvation –all of them.  I also see that not all will want that.  But I believe evil is overcome with the blessing of God.  So when I see a friend or family member headed for rough water, I pray “God save them” and trust the how to a merciful, loving God and try to stay out of his way.  Redemption from the plan of the enemy is, after all, the greatest blessing of this life.

            I will continue to say “Bless me”  “Bless my day”  “Bless my studio” and so on, knowing that in the answer, these will then be a blessing to others and will rise and bless the Lord as well.  Amen: so be it according to your will.

Just don't get a divorce

            Recently I was asked the secret to the longevity of our marriage.  I quoted something I saw that I thought was catchy but also true, “You just don’t get divorced.”  I wasn’t trying to be trite or evasive.  It is the truth.  We’ve had times of extreme marital difficulty and yet we are still here making it happen.  We didn’t get divorced.  I could say it was our faith in God, our commitment, or our love for family that got us through the messiness of life.  I can call out the evidences that made me know God brought us together.  We can site our belief that God intends marriage to last a lifetime.  But the truth is, we just stayed together through those really yucky times.

            In every marriage there are seasons of difficulty: sickness, overworking, neglect by one, the other or both, disagreement on finance, family operations or discipline.  Sometimes for one reason or another a person becomes less physically attractive than they once were.  This last statement is a curiosity though, because I’ve seen attraction last though deformity, extreme obesity, and disfiguration.  I’ve seen men and women loose their hair, health, shape, limbs, body functions and vital spark without loss of devotion or attraction.  I’ve seen old people find each other exciting all the way to the grave.  It’s odd the things that make them attracted to one another –I think they call it love.

            But this couple was in the early stages of their marriage – that first rough year when you have so much attraction and so many obstacles to overcome, the first year when she lights up at the thought of him calling her and then snaps a few moments or hours later and knows it will not work and what were they thinking to get into this relationship?  The first year when he rushes home to find her in some frantic state and soothes it over and then asks himself “what have I gotten myself into?” The first year of marriage is a year of finding out who we really married and who we really are, regardless of the age of the couple.  It’s a year of excitement, desire, frustration, fun and adjustment.

            I think back to a couple I knew who was so enthralled with each other.  Their eyes lit up just catching a glimpse of each other.  Each was amazed at the wonder of the other.  He took her breath away; she messed with his mind.  This went on well beyond the fifth year of their marriage, but today their relationship is an empty shell of separate pursuit and enjoyment and occasional trivial sharing.  But they are still together.  I think they would say the secret is that they just didn’t divorce. And I hope that they still believe it could be better again somehow.

            I knew one couple who screamed and fought from the first night of their marriage –literally.  These two were either crazy in love or infuriated all the years of their marriage –over 60 years of bliss and tumult.  But they stayed together throughout life.  Their secret?  They didn’t divorce.  They talked about it.  They thought about it, but they just didn’t.

            I’ve watched people live through sickness and financial distress and the death of children and the disappointment of children gone astray as well as a host of wonderful times.  When they stayed together, the secret was they didn’t divorce.  Even people of strong faith in God have times when they cannot stand the other person in the marriage, when their mate does something so wrong that it scars the marriage from that time forward, when small offenses are blown out of proportion, when the things that brought them together have become forgotten or have lost value. Sometimes they separate and divorce.  Sometimes they find someone else to love.  But always if they stay married, it is because they just didn’t divorce.

            I’ve heard couples say “Divorce was never an option.”  I doubt that.  In our world, in our society, divorce is a very real option.  But you can choose not to take that option.  You can walk away from that option for this day, for this night, for this troubled time.  You can stay and stay until life changes again and staying makes sense.

            I’m not saying all marriages will repair themselves.  That would be a foolish statement.  I offer no condemnation to anyone whose life dream ended in an ending before death by your own choice or the choice of the other.  You have enough to deal with getting your equilibrium back.  You don’t need another fallible human telling you what you should or could have done.  No one else is you or has lived your life. 

            What I am saying is that many more marriages could repair themselves if people didn’t choose the option of divorce so easily and quickly.  When a couple celebrates their 60th or 70th anniversary, it is not because they were perfect or better matched people; it is because they just didn’t get divorced.

My Mother Knew Fun

            My mother loved to have fun.  She knew how to have fun and she made sure others had fun with her.  I guess I’ve always know that, but it only recently solidified into an organized thought.

            My family had so many good traditions and I can track almost all of them to my mother.  She knew how to throw a Christmas decorating party that everyone wanted to be part of.  We made candy –tons of it.  It would last throughout our Christmas celebration.  It would be given as gifts and be set out in small bowls for a quick yummy treat.  We decorated the tree and the house.  We made popcorn ropes and tinfoil ropes and even colored paper ropes for the less visible spots.  And we ended it with singing and dancing and children dropping off as the sugar left and the night wore on.  It was a party noone wanted to end.

            She hosted grand New Years Dinners with tables that stretched the long length of our dining room and living room all set in glass dishes and as close to matching silverware as she could produce.  Eventually she outfitted her table with finery that matched, but in the early days, noone used a paper or plastic plate.  Plentiful deserts and left-overs followed football games and naps and games of horse or sledding depending on the weather with board games or puzzles taking space in various parts of the house.  And yes the evening ended with music and dancing.

            By the time I was truly aware, my dad loved camping, but it was my mother who taught him to love it.  He’d slept under the stars with cattle and horses, and found no great joy in it.  But my mom introduced him to a different outdoor experience.  We didn’t have all the best and latest camp gear, but I must say I never missed it.  Mom made do.  We preferred the undeveloped camp site, probably for thrift in the early days, but eventually just because it was closer to nature and God. 

            She always dug a hole and put some kind of barrier up, be it sheets or tarps so that people could do their business in a less precarious fashion.  She would stretch rope from tree to tree to hang out towels, dishrags and wet clothes.  She organized and she managed delightfully with very little, frequently two weeks at a time.  We had an old wash tub for clothes and an occasional bath.  And frequently we left behind little rock gardens with indigenous plants arranged creatively when we pulled up stakes and headed for home.

            I suppose it was because she was a dreamer of sorts.  But she found hilarious fun in the best spots.  When I was a preteen to a young teen she taught a girls’ Sunday school class.  But it wasn’t a run of the mill type experience for ‘her girls’.  They had fashion shows and dress up parties and hat making parties.  They had sleep-overs and barbeques and camping trips and excursions to the park. Even the trip to serve the elderly in a convalescent home was done with great flare and a good amount of fun.  No month of the year remained unadorned by some kind of special event.  She supplied the idea and the opportunity and the girls just had fun.  Being her daughter, I got to have fun for more than one year.

            As the second tier of family increased, she instituted “Happy Day” celebrations.  She couldn’t always spend the actual birthday with each grandchild, so she selected a day and spent it creating a fairytale aura around that child for that happy day.  It was based on the child’s want to –within reason.  The grand children knew mom was good for a good time and maybe some pretty cool stuff in the offing.

            I always wanted to create fantastic traditions for my children and grandchildren, but sadly, it didn’t really go the way I planned.  I was not good at fun like my mom was.  I’ve had my share of ‘fun’, I have some pretty cool memories with friends and family, but I was never the awesome curator of fun that my mom was.  Her ‘fun’ days have moved into the realm of memory and family history.  Ah, but what memories to be held.

I'm not a Princess

I watched the recent video craze of the little girl –maybe 4- telling her daddy that she wasn’t a princess.  He couldn’t call her a princess. It was cute.  It called me back for a second and then a third viewing.  She was totally convinced and nothing her daddy had to say would convince her that she was a princess.

“I don’t have princess dresses.  Them have prettier, dress-up dresses.  This isn’t a princess dress.”

“Them have bracelets, sparkly bracelets. I don’t even have a bracelet.  I’m not a princess.”

“Them have sparkly, really sparkly princess headbands. I’m not a princess.”

“Them don’t take showers. Them don’t go in the sand or dirt.  Them do clean things.  Them don’t take showers.”

“Them’s just in movies. Them’s not real people. You need to watch the videos so you will know.  I’m not a princess.”

                                                                                    

It was probably after I’d watched it the 4th time that a certain realization began to settle in.  It’s cute.  That’s the draw.  And it’s familiar.  The second time I watched it, I thought “I know that little girl’s mama: the roll of the eyes, the way she silenced her daddy’s arguments, the hand gestures, the ‘don’t try to fool me’ look picked up and endearingly translated by the child.   But it’s also very real.  It struck a clandestine chord with me and, I think, with most people out there.  How do you define yourself?

Her daddy said she was his princess, but she knew she wasn’t a princess.  She had seen the movies.  She didn’t have the sparklies.  She didn’t have the clothes.  She didn’t have the environment.  Therefore, she wasn’t a princess.

I think one deterrent to us accepting who we really are is expectation.  First of all, there is the “I’m not all that” side of expectation.  The criteria becomes too great.  Even if we’d like to be all that or think we might be all that, it isn’t right to admit it. So we move way to the conservative side of our gifts and callings in our personal evaluation for the sake of humility and possible rejection. Second, there is the disappointment factor.  Something about being all that creates a pressure to maintain which many of us don’t want, especially after seeing others blow it.  After all, we get dirty.  We have to take showers, so we might be caught without our sparklies.

Another deterrent is perceived inadequacy or undeserving.  To quote Anastasia, “When your sleeping on a cold stone floor, it’s kinda hard to think of yourself as a princess.” It’s easy to let our present circumstances define us and sometimes even deny our birthright.  We forget that Cinderella was noble born and not just a house keeper.  She wasn’t the commoner who made good. She was the duchess forced into servitude by circumstance.  Sometimes things can go very wrong in our lives and destroy our hope in who we can be, yet deep inside we still know it’s there waiting on the day and time.

It’s time to start believing a different voice, a different memory.  There are people who were so close to realizing the dream that is a birthright, but it’s hard to believe when everything falls apart.  It’s not a fairytale to believe in new chances.  It’s not wrong to believe in our personal gifts and callings.  It’s not a weak dream to believe in the destiny promised by God even if it takes a long time to materialize.  If God says you are a princess, you are a princess, even if you’re sleeping in someone else’s attic.

Society wants to define who you are and what you can be, based on its own market value.  We’ve seen the movies; we don’t have the sparklies.  But there is a point where we know who we are and what we should become and we stop taking our worth from what others value.  The book you are to write has not yet been written.  Learn from others, but don’t let what they wrote define your story.  Maybe you are younger or older than the norm for a certain accomplishment.  Who knows what you can really accomplish when your effort and belief meet the power of the one who created the ability and desire within you.  Don’t discard what you know for what you are being told by others.  The sparklies won’t make you more of a princess than you already are.  Nor will their absence make you less of a princess than the Father says you are.

My Sister Pataricia

            My sister Pataricia Ann White was 10 and a half when dad brought home a big eyed wiggly baby girl to feed and clean and dress.  My mama was quite ill after I was born.  My mom and dad called her Patty Ann –said like one word when I was young- and we were the best of buddies the rest of her life.  She played with me, teased me mercilessly and toted me about until she left home when I was 7.

She and I shared a bed from the time I was a toddler.  I believe she was the one who taught me to love making up stories.  We often built stories in the dark at night.  I’m sure it was an effort to keep me quiet and make me go to sleep –a useless effort to be sure for I would be continuing the story long after she was quiet and breathing heavily.

She taught me to love drawing.  I remember when I was very young watching her draw.  She would stop what she was working on and draw me a picture.  It would have been a lovely picture had the twinkle not come into her eye.  But it always came and she would yield to the call of hilarity and draw something outrageous into the picture:  huge feet and knobby hands on a lovely princess or paper doll, an ogre in the bushes of a lovely scene, you get the idea.  I would yell and kick and mom or dad would scold “Stop tormenting that child!”  She’d laugh and eventually, I learned to expect the unexpected.  It became great fun.  She had an awesomely creative mind.

She was the light hand among my pseudo caregiver siblings and I sought her out.  When my parents were needing a break, she would carry me on her shoulders during family hikes.  We were sister friends despite the difference in our ages.

I was pretty young when she taught me to roller skate.  My sisters loved roller skating and at one point they were on a skate team of sorts.  My mom made them really cool skirts for rollerskating.  Eventually, I got one too, -just because.  I became their mascot I think.  Mostly I loved putting it on because I felt big like my sis.

I remember laying on the bed with them listening to Elvis Presley.  I didn’t see the big deal, but they did and I was just glad to be there with them.  And then my sister left to become Pataricia Ann Essex.  I don’t remember a lot about the time she was away.  I do remember that she returned with the most fun bundle of little girl I had ever seen.

My sister and I remained close.  I baby sat her kids.  She was in our home often.  I was in hers even when I wasn’t babysitting.

I moved away at 17 after getting married.  My sister was bad at writing, but oh when I did get letters they were so full of news and stories and love. Eventually my ‘age of the telephone’ ensued and we began talking once more. As with the letters, the intervals may have stretched some, but when we were talking, time just didn’t matter –well until we got the phone bill.  The calls had to be on weekends or late at night, but the bond never changed.  Every now and again we’d get to visit face to face.  We could communicate with very few words for we knew each other’s heart, but we seldom did that. She loved a good story about as much as my dad did.  Her mind crafted the words as she spoke, making the most of the rhythm of the story.

I went to visit her in the spring of ‘82.  My life was falling apart.  She assumed both the role of mentor and the role of friend.  It is a week I cherish in my memory.  She listened without judgment.  She advised out of a heart of love and deep conviction.  She strengthened my heart and my resolve and she nearly ran my body ragged!

My marriage ended about a year later.  She came down and we sat together and talked.  She was then less the advisor and more the deep friend:  words of caution, words of affirmation, words of sympathy.

I recall the last family reunion we spent together just short of a decade later.  We literally spent it ‘together’. If I hiked, she hiked, though later I would find out it was with great difficulty that she did so.  If I was cooking she was by my side.  I didn’t know it was our last.  She did.  I saw her for a short visit a month before she died.

This week marks the 23rd anniversary of her last week on earth.  I love her as much as the child making up stories in the dark.  I still laugh at the child learning to accept her hilarious, if sometimes frustrating sense of humor.  I love the gentle soul with her love of all things creative, her intense love for her children and her unwavering devotion to God even amid questions without answers. I am closer to where she is day by day, but in my waiting, I miss her sweet voice, her adventuresome spirit and her quirky sense of humor. And I honor the life that  ended sooner than my heart would wish.

We got it covered

This summer, I stepped off my usual path through the maze that I call ‘camp’.  I tried a little different tack.  I am trying to be sure I have projects that are simple enough to get done in the allotted time and are still worth doing.   This year I relaxed a bit more and allowed things to move to a greater drum beat than my own.  It was awkward at times, but in reality, it was better for me and I think better for the campers as well.  I really don’t plan on establishing another rut for camp.  It wasn’t totally fixed, but it left me feeling as though it progressed to the positive.  I definitely felt that I was destroying the norm.

            Sometimes when I, or students, get so far off base that the struggle is bleeding the life out of a work, the best thing to do is to render it impossible to go on from where I am.  I have painted out an entire section of a picture before just to gain a new perspective.  Sometimes I will say to a student, jokingly, “I’m going to ruin your life now.”  The first time I said that, the student had struggled and painted over and adjusted and corrected until frustration was taking a toll on his ability to continue at all.  He looked at me and said, “Well you might as well, because I’m sure not doing anything good and I hate it.”   With about 4 strokes, I reset to a kinder simpler state of the painting.  All that work was obliterated by 4 or 5 strokes.  He was back to a basic place where he had it right some time before.

            “I want you to leave that alone and let it dry for a bit” I said and pointed out an area that could and should be fixed.  When he started working on the old spot, he had new energy and vision.  Now days, when I say “Okay I’m going to ruin your life,” he will reply “Have at it.”  Most others do too.  I try to wait until they’ve had quite enough of their own effort before taking the brush in my own hands. 

            I don’t like taking a brush to a student’s painting or a hand to a student’s sculpture.  I know it is that person’s work and should not be mine.  I’m not cloning, I’m teaching.  Yet sometimes making marks on my own canvas pad does not change the perspective of the student or add to the student’s ability or understanding.  One stroke with the student watching can sometimes free them to continue with renewed vision and drive.  My stroke usually melts beneath his or her brush quite quickly once the understanding is in place.

            I hate the concept of erasure and starting over.  Most of the time a student will serve his work better if he works through the problem at hand.  My true belief is that an eraser is to draw in the lighter values not to correct the mistakes.  When students think there is no eraser, they are more cautious about the lines they place and they learn to draw them lighter in the beginning. 

            But ah, the painter paints.  The mistakes of a painting can be erased and changed quite quickly if you only know how.  One day, the painting is signed and carried away.  The painter may remember that there are mistakes hidden under the  layers – or maybe he will forget because it came out right.  That is the teacher’s job –to help it come out right when it is finished.

             So this year, I began differently on the canvas of camp.  One of the projects I had for the first camp was misjudged and didn’t get finished and yet it became the basis for a better planned project in the second camp when another I had planned fell through.  It almost seemed like a giant stroke of a divine brush that cleared away the mistake and frustration allowing for a better end.  The work is finished and sent away.  I can recall things I might have done differently, but in the end, it was good.

The Voice of God

            Hearing the voice of God is a very personal thing.  There are two sides to communication with God: universal –God commands all men everywhere to repent, etc.;  personal –the Spirit writes God on our hearts and we become a law to ourselves, so that we do the things of God without being instructed.  Both arguments are valid.  Some of what I feel about the voice of God is personal and from my own personal experience with God.  Some of what I believe is directly taught by scripture.  I believe that my personal belief does not in any way discount or disrespect the universal nature of scripture.

            There are those who have called me a ‘prophet’, some sarcastically or hatefully as though to indicate I think I am and I’m definitely not, and some who seriously believe God has an active, current word to others through me.  Let me say right off that I do not consider myself to be a prophet.  Generally those things I share in a public venue were not spoken for others, but for my own understanding or correction and I write them down and then share them because of the impact they bring to my own soul and spirit.  I do not think I am the last word or the only voice.  I am one voice and I recognize that God is greater and more vast than all of us or any of us.

            I can count on my fingers the incidents during my 48 years as a Christian when God gave me a direct word for a specific person.  Those occasions were not because I am or was the local prophet, but because I was there.  Perhaps having someone who isn’t a prophet deliver the message, makes it easier to take and use.  Perhaps it increases an awareness that God cares enough about your situation to use an inferior voice if need be to bring you his message of love and redemption.  Perhaps the non-prophet is just more approachable.  But it is not my regular job in the kingdom of God.

            That said, I do hear the voice of God often.   I knew the difference between my daddy’s voice and my brother-in-law’s voice.  I knew the difference between my instructor’s voice and my fellow student’s voice.  I knew the difference between my superintendent’s voice and my colleague’s voice.  I know the difference between the voice of God and other voices.  That doesn’t make me anything special.  If you tell me you’ve never heard his voice, I will have no comment on that pro or con.  I will have no critical statement for you.  That is a personal thing.  But don’t tell me I have not heard the voice of God.  You do not have that right.  And with that in tow, I will give my opinion of how God speaks to man.

            As a child, I heard the voice of God often in quiet times speaking my name.  It didn’t sound like Charlton Hesston or James Earl Jones.  It didn’t echo or reverberate.  I still hear him speak my name sometimes –usually when I’m not paying attention or listening for an answer or reading my Bible in time of need.  Sometimes it is spoken in a corrective tone; sometimes it is soft and kind.  As a child I was riddled with fear and inadequacy and I felt I could not come to God.  I believe that is why he spoke my name often as he did, so that when I was almost 19 years of age, I would understand who it was that was speaking to me and through my searching I would know his voice and finally follow.

            People have asked me if it is audible –often as a precursor to an argument.  I will say that sometimes it really seems that way, though the tree seems to have fallen in the forest when no one is there to listen –except me.  But in those incidents it has not come from within, it gets my attention, and no one else is present to accredit it to.  Therefore, I believe in some cases it is audible.  Often it is not.  Often it interrupts my thoughts with a command or caution.  Sometimes it enters my spirit without going through my mind and comes out so full and finished that I know it was not the product of my thinking.  Let me interject here that in the writing of it, my own thinking often clouds the word I heard or finishes the sentence that was left incomplete.  Sometimes I honestly have to back up and take out the ‘me’ that I recognize in it.  But sometimes, God gives me his blessing to write from my mind about what he is teaching me without reproof, knowing that I only understand my own language.

            That brings up another question I have been asked. “So you think God speaks English –specifically American English.”  My answer is “Yes. And French and Spanish and Chinese and Choctaw and Portuguese and all the dialects of the earth and all of their variations.”  Let me venture into some cloudy landscape here with a concept that I am only discoving.

            After God created man and breathed into him the breath of life, man and God conversed very well.  Man was still man and God was God, but they were conversant for many centuries.  Then Nimrod began ruling the men of the earth.  He was ‘all that’ and began building a city for his name and for the name of mankind, a city that would bind them to each other, with a tower that would reach into the heavens and be visible from everywhere so that they would not be scattered, they would never get lost.  Genesis 10 and 11

            God did not approve and he reached down with a swift motion and changed their language.  Suddenly they had a barrier that had no precedent and they scattered as they were told to do after the flood.  The great tower was never finished and nations were born into misunderstanding.  God’s language did not change but he knew the individual languages he created on that day.  I don’t believe any man was left with the ability to speak the language of God.  It is my opinion.  And yet, I believe he spoke their languages.

            So when he speaks to me, he doesn’t speak in French, or Chinese or Russian.  He speaks American English and not the old English of the King James Bible.  He speaks with no foreign accent.  If he had a purpose in doing that, he would, but as yet, he does not.  The one problem that frequently arises is that of linguistics.  My belief is that the language of God is far more simple and yet more complex than any of mankind’s languages. 

            Years ago, my husband and I went to France and spent one day in Versailles.  When we first arrived at the palace it was so vast that it became apparent we could not see it all in one day.  We had to make choices.  They offered us tour guides in our various languages and also the rental of headphones that would interpret what we were seeing in our own language.  We rented one set of headphones and joined a tour group led by an English speaking man of mid-eastern decent.  It became apparent that neither of us could understand our English speaking guide and so I gave my husband the headphones and struck off on my own.

            In my first college go round, I took a good bit of Spanish and I found a Spanish speaking tour guide.  It was amazing how much the language came back to me as I listened to her speak.  She was informative and entertaining and by the time we had finished the main tour, I had gained much information about the French monarchy and history and had new insights about the art.  Did I understand every word she spoke.  Oh my, no.  It had been way too long since I had conversed in Spanish.  But I got the gist of what she was saying.  I got the idea of her talk and I learned a lot.  I even understood some of her jokes!

            When God speaks, there is no way to understand all he wishes to tell us for our words are far too inferior.  But we listen and we catch the basic meaning, the main information.  Then because he cares that we understand, his spoken word is reinforced by his creation.  Life, weather, and even the stars teach us things that our words can barely explain.  And it is cemented by his revealed written word to keep us on track.  Jesus told his disciples that he had much to teach them that they didn’t have time for nor could they understand if they had time.  But he promised them His Spirit who would lead them into all truth.

            Now I shall address my first reaction when God told me he wanted me to listen and obey him and not another:  “How can I know it is you and not my own mind?”  Beyond an answer that was customized specifically to my experience and understanding, he also told me to ask for wisdom (reinforced by scripture in Proverbs and James) and understanding (reinforced by scripture often from Psalms to Colossians) and to ask him to show me through his creation.  But when we ask for Wisdom, we are cautioned to accept his voice, his wisdom without doubt and vacillating.  How can we receive anything from him if we always submit it to human terms?  

            He has also told me that some things will be proven in the obeying.  Jesus said “My sheep know my voice and they follow.  The voice of another they will not follow.”

            I do hear the voice of my God.  I learned by hearing it again and again and not explaining it away.  I have learned by the shame of refusing to obey and the frustration of doubt when his words seemed impossible to accept.  His love for me took time to show me his faithfulness even when I was not faithful and teach me his goodness when I was not good.  Often his voice gets my attention so he can teach me through scripture or life or the words of another.  Sometimes it teaches me from the inside out.

            For me, the voice of my God is as diverse and complex as he is.  He will not be categorized or filed away or boxed in to my neat little theology.  The most amazing thing about his voice is that he continues to speak to one like me.

            In conclusion I believe he wants to be heard.  He wants to be followed.  Ask to hear and then attune your heart to listen without questioning everything you hear.  He cares enough about his children to make sure you are not led astray when you are listening.