Being Clay Is Not Fun

Every once in awhile I will hear a sermon that sticks with me for a long time.  A couple weeks ago our pastor preached a sermon that brought to mind a sermon I had heard years ago, a video message by Pastor T.D. Jakes.

In his sermon, Pastor Jakes spoke about us being clay on the potter's wheel. He talked about being molded and shaped into a vessel of the potters desiring.  He told of the potter continually dampening the clay to keep it supple and mold-able, of him stopping the spinning wheel occasionally so he could remove twigs and other pieces of undesired objects from the clay. He demonstrated the wheel spinning fast and spinning slow depending on what the potter wanted to accomplish in the clay. He also stressed the importance of being centered on the wheel if stability was to be achieved.  It was a good sermon, an unforgettable sermon.

So, as I listened to my pastor mention the potter and the clay, the Spirit took me back to Pastor Jakes' sermon eight years ago. The Spirit also took me back to my life as it was five years ago. For the past two weeks I have kept thinking and rethinking all that went through my mind that Sunday morning.  Let me share some of it with you.

Five years ago I was happy in the ministries where the Lord had my husband and me.  At the age of 65 I felt that I had finally found where I belonged--in prison ministry. I was able to use the gifts I knew I had. For one, I was quick to listen and slow to speak. As male inmates got to know me, they poured out their fears, hopes and dreams. listened. I also kept in mind that all I heard was not necessarily the truth. I knew their stories could be complete cons, but I listened anyway and prayed with them when so led.

I loved teaching. The opportunities I had to share and teach in the prison were a blessing to me and also fulfilling. I was often told that what I shared was also meaningful and a blessing to the men in our group--men I know only by name, not by crime. I could be standing face to face with a murderer or a burglar, a rapist or a drug seller.  I had no way of knowing.  All I knew was they were men with moms and dads, wives and kids, friends and enemies, and a desire to be on the outside. They were also men with gifts and talents, deep faith and no faith, and a need for a relationship with Jesus. This was where I belonged. Ironically, this was where my husband also felt he belonged.

During this time, we were also very involved in an international ministry, serving not only locally, but also on the state level.  I spoke at conventions, luncheons, and banquets. As with the prison ministry, I loved doing it, and people expressed being touched by what I shared. Life was good. The piece of pottery God had shaped me into was being used well for its intended purpose.  At least that is how I saw it.

Then came January 2008.  As my beautiful, useful, clay self sat in the middle of the potters wheel, slowing turning, continually being dampened and slightly remolded, feeling like I was almost complete,  my husband admitted he had molested our granddaughters. As a result of my husband's crime, the prison ministry I so loved was stripped away as were the other ministries we were involved in. I felt like the potter had taken his mighty hand and smashed me flat.  In the blink of an eye I saw myself as a shapeless blob on his wheel. I was still centered on it. I was still wet and mold-able. I was still the same clay, but the shape I had known to be me was unrecognizable.  The purpose of "me" I could not find.

I found myself in pain. I was also completely devastated because I assumed the potter no longer needed me. I figured that I had served his purpose. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I was right about being in pain. I was wrong believing that prison ministry was my purpose in life. I was wrong about being smashed flat. I was wrong about no longer being needed or having a purpose. I was also wrong when I thought that the potter and I were starting all over from scratch.

You see, during those Wednesday nights in the prison, those eight years spinning on the potter's wheel, I wrongly assumed I was being shaped for prison ministry. Now I firmly believe he was really giving me an understanding for the years my husband would live behind bars. I am not the prison ministry pot I thought I was.  It is part of my shape and strength, but it is not me. I am still clay in the potters hand, still being shaped and molded.

In those first years following my husband's confession, all sorts of  junk I didn't even know was in me appeared. I don't know where anger, self-pity, shame, worthlessness, depression and... well, you name it were hiding. I wasn't outwardly experiencing such emotions. But with the help of a therapist, the potter was finding them.  It was a slow process. The finding process wasn't too bad, but the removal was not only tedious, but also painful. Thankfully, the potter, my potter, is loving. Most times he was extremely gentle, but others times more stern. He knew what I could take and what I couldn't, what I needed and when. Slowly turning, always probing, pulling, removing, wetting, he worked on.

This refining, cleansing stage has been going on for five years now.  I sense the wheel turning a little faster these days. I also sense that as the potter works he is now adding to who I am. Being the Master Potter, he knows exactly what he is doing, what he is creating me to be. It is my prayer that I won't make the mistake of assuming that who I am today is who I will be tomorrow. Each day, each year, each stage builds on the previous one and is necessary for the next. I need to be the best me I can be today in preparation for the me of tomorrow. Only the potter knows who that will be.

Have a God day today, and be the best you that you can be today because tomorrow you will be a new you.

Fog God

Fog.  That is what greeted me the other morning. Gray, misty, light-shrouding fog.  The sun hadn't risen yet, but the sky was starting to lighten. Fog is nothing unusual around here, but it was thicker than usual and unexpected.  At least I hadn't expected it. As the morning moved on, the fog didn't.  The doe and her twins visited the apple trees and left. The fog stayed. The mailman came and went. The fog still stayed.

The fog stayed until around noon, then quickly thinned out and finally dissipated altogether. I welcomed the warming sun as I walked to my car for a quick trip over to my son's house to pick up some things I needed. I had gone less that a mile when I was confronted by a big, gray, threatening, bank of fog concealing the narrow bridge ahead. Approaching cars were going slowly and had their headlights on. I just about turned around to go back home. I was in no mood to fight the darkness ahead.

 "No," I immediately told myself.  A little fog never hurt anyone if they stay in their own lane. I slowed down, made sure my lights were on, and headed into the dark "abyss".  I had barely entered the gray blanket when I had to blink because the sun was so bright. The fog was suddenly gone. Oncoming cars were speeding along, but their headlight were starting to come on as they approached the foggy bridge from the other end.

That whole experience made me smile to myself.  Isn't that the way life is sometimes?  Everything looks so dark and gloomy on the road ahead that we just want to turn around and go back to the comfort of our homes. We are in no mood to fight, but decide to keep on keeping on. Then we soon discover that what we thought was the worse possible situation wasn't much of anything at all. We had turned on our lights, slowed down, or whatever we thought was necessary only to discover the impending disaster so short-lived that in the big picture, it is almost non-existent.

What does this all mean to anyone, including myself? Well I guess that I need to always be alert, prepare accordingly, and continue moving forward without panic. There is always light on the other side. I think I've heard similar stories somewhere before.

Check out your Bibles. It is full of stories of God's people entering extremely dark. foggy places, not turning back, and ultimately emerging into the Light victoriously.  We might not live in 1800 BC or 45 AD, but as God's children in 2012, we serve the same Fog God those people did. Can we do any less than they? Watch out fog,  we're coming through.

Have a God day. I am.

Served in Elegance.

It is 1:30 pm and I have been looking at a blank computer screen for over 10 minutes trying to figure out what to write.  Here are the options I have pondered:

• I had an unscheduled therapy appointment yesterday.  Dr. B. had an evening cancellation to fill, so I took it. I could write about that.
• I am going to a volleyball game this afternoon, a cross country meet Thursday and Saturday. Love watching those grand kids. I could write about that.
• I received a call from a long-time friend who recently moved back to the area.  I am seeing her tomorrow.  I could write about...
• I'm helping a grandchild with a garage sale this weekend.  I could write...
• I'm invited to a grandchild's birthday party Saturday.  I could...
• It's a beautiful day, but aren't they all.  I...
• Warm socks...
• Lunch...I want some.

I'll be back in a few minutes...

A few minutes later...That was yummy. I toasted an English muffin and spread a little mayo on each side. Added three slices of a Roma tomato, a slice of medium cheddar cheese, some sliced, roasted turkey breast, and a romaine lettuce leaf. I topped the whole lunch off with a small dish of pear sauce I made from a bunch of plum sized Asian pears from my tree.  

Funny thing is I didn't know I even had an Asian pear tree. It is in the midst of several plum trees that don't bear much fruit because our weather is usually very rainy when the plums are blooming.  The blossoms just don't get pollinated. Anyway, I thought the pear tree was a golden plum, and never checked on it this late in the summer. What a pleasant surprise.

I digress.  Lunch is where I was.  When I went to the kitchen to fix something, I had no idea what I was going to make.  It just happened--sort of like, "Let there be lunch, and there was lunch."  Something like that.  It wasn't too hard,

There are other times that are really a challenge. I remember one winter evening when my kids were small and the fridge was pretty bare. Using a bit of creativity, I ended up dicing a lone baked potato left from earlier in the week, and then thawing and dicing an old slice of ham I found in the freezer.  I fried up the potato, threw in the ham, poured in my last two eggs that I had just beat, and finished the pan off with some dried up cheese I had found in the back corner of the meat drawer, and grated. The best part of all was setting the table with the good dishes, Grandma A's silverware, cloth napkins, then lighting some candles and turning off the dining room light.  Voila, a simple, nutritious meal served in elegance. We were all blessed 

Over the past few years there were days I thought that was the way my life was. My internal cupboards were empty--emotionally, physically, spiritually drained.  All I could find were old, stale, dried out remains of what once was good. Not willing to give up, I took what remains I had and let God do the cooking. He took the dried out, frozen, almost gone parts of me and added the best he had to offer. The results? Drum roll please. The Lord had taken what I thought was nothing and transformed me into a simple, growing child, his child, served up in elegance. I'm blessed.

I Wasn't at His Feet

Many years ago I attended a Beth Moore Conference in Seattle with my daughter.  Toward the end of the evening we ladies were asked to close our eyes and picture Christ hanging on the cross. We were to picture the criminal hanging on each side of him. Then Beth asked us to look up into Christ's face, our King's face, to see the agony he was experiencing for us, to see the look of love, compassion, and forgiveness in his eyes, and to feel the drops of his blood dripping on our heads and faces--the very blood that was washing our sins away, and to hear his words, "It is finished."

Wow.  That was a wake-up call for me because as I was picturing Christ on the cross, I saw the three crosses on a far-away hill, but I couldn't make out the shapes of the men nailed to them. I couldn't even start to look into the face of the one called "Jesus, King of the Jews" according to the sign they say was above his head. There was no way I could see his agony, experience his love, compassion, and forgiveness. I was too far away to see anything and the sky was getting darker by the minute.

I wasn't close enough to hear anything either.  Golgotha was too far away. The pounding of soldiers' hammers, the screams of men, their moans, their curses and pleas, were all lost to me. All I could hear was the increasing wind as it blew through my hair.

You see, I was not kneeling at the foot of my Savior's cross experiencing his unconditional love as he gave his all for me.  I was not kneeling at the foot of my Savior's cross where I could hear his final words of "It is finished."  I was merely a distant spectator on a hill far away from the old rugged cross. I could say I had been in the area of the crucifixion, but I certainly could not say that I had experienced it.

That exercise really made me look at my relationship with Christ.  Was it a long distance one, or was it up close and personal.  Have I seen with my own eyes, felt with my own senses, and heard with my own ears what Jesus is telling and giving me.

I realized much more fully what walking with Christ meant. I wanted to walk with him, talk with him, and sit at his feet. I wanted to bring gifts to his manger bed, hear him teach by the Sea of Galilee, kneel at the foot of his cross, and glory at the entrance of his empty tomb.

Never again did I want Jesus to be a far away, unrecognizable figure that could not even be heard, like the one I pictured at the Beth Moore Conference. Never again.

Whirlwind Blessing

I love whirlwinds, as in dust devils but not tornadoes. As a child, when I spotted a whirling, dust-filled column of wind ahead of me, I would either run or ride my bike right into the midst of it.  The challenges were staying in the middle, watching for cars and spinning tumbleweeds while keeping my eyes closed really, really tightly, and holding my breath.  I got pretty good all three.

Why don't I see many such things around here?  Probably because there either isn't enough hot air to start the swirl or there isn't much dry dirt to get caught in the upward air currents if they do appear.  What ever the reason, I have to go east of the mountains to see any dust devils.  The problem is I no longer ride a bike, so the thrill of riding in the dusty whirl is gone.  I also don't run very fast any more either (actually I never ran very fast to start with). I guess that leaves another kind of whirlwind to enjoy--busy weekends.

That describes last weekend--a whirlwind. My son and daughter-in-law came down, tackled the garage power washing-priming-painting project, and won!  My son-in-law's lift-truck was a much needed bonus. The end result is an awesome garage. It looks beautiful. I am so blessed.

My end of the deal? Supply the paint and primer (they brought the supplies), prepare the meals, offer bottles of water, and ooh and aah over the progress.  It worked well. Oh yes, I supplied the garage too.

Unlike running in whirlwinds, I didn't have to keep my eyes tightly closed for this project.  I watched every step in progress. I didn't want to miss out on anything.  I tried to stay in the middle, so to speak. I did have to hold my breath a few times though, not to keep the dirt out of my airways, but to calm myself as I watched my kids on the top of ladders or lying on the roof to prime the trim on the eaves.

Thankfully there were no major mishaps or injuries.  I'm sure there were sore arms and wrists, feet and legs.  I saw lots of paint smeared clothes and spattered limbs. I was blessed by tired kids who didn't complain or gripe, but who worked tirelessly until they were finished.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the whirlwind weekend of blessing.

Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain.
Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain.
Psalm 127:1

I see my home and land as a gift from God.  I am its steward, although I can't do all the work alone. That is why I love Psalm 127:1.  I know it was written about the temple in Jerusalem, but please grant me the freedom to paraphrase it.  This is how it speaks to me.

Because this is the Lord's house, those who paint and labor will be blessed.
Because the Lord watches over this acreage and its inhabitants, I am blessed.

I will add, "Because my family and I are blessed, may we glorify the Lord."

Have a God day.  I plan to.

Maui's King of the Roost

I woke up early this morning.  4:30 to be exact. Then I couldn't go back to sleep.  I finally got up, got dressed, fixed myself a cup of coffee, and read this morning's paper. At 6:00 I chuckled to myself and almost laughed out loud as I heard a rooster crowing--from the bedroom. Really?  Really! My son's alarm was going off. It reminded me once again that I love chickens. The crowing of a rooster, the clucking of a hen, the peeps of chicks all make me smile. I guess that is why I loved the wild chickens at Honolua Bay in Maui, Hawaii.

We went there on Thursday. As my kids got ready to snorkel, I carefully positioned my beach chair on the rocks in the shade of a large tree. As I sat there, I heard a rooster crowing loudly and clearly in the distance.  I didn't see him, but his presence was definitely known. His cock-a-doodle-doos not only alerted his hens to his whereabouts, it also warned the other roosters in the area to stay away. This was his territory, and he meant business.

I don't know how many hens were under the invisible king's authority, but there were at least eight of his ladies resting in the shade of a log when we arrived. In addition, several hens were scratching in the dirt and under leaves for a tasty bug or breakfast seed for their half-grown chicks, all the while softly clucking to them.

The warmth of the sun, the splashing of the waves on the rocks, the chatter of gathering snorkelers, plus the foraging, clucking hens around my chair all ushered me into a blissful state of contentment. I had just closed my eyes and was enjoying the peaceful sounds when all of a sudden, from behind my chair, came an ear splitting COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO that brought my reverie to an abrupt halt.

King of the Roost--Honolua Bay, Maui, Hawaii

Glancing over my shoulder I spied him in all his rooster glory.  The beautifully feathered King of the Roost had arrived for all his subjects to behold. That included me and my camera.

Over the next few minutes he strutted his stuff behind my chair. He strutted over to visit various hens. He occasionally crowed. He even chased away a sparrow before marching off to check on other hens and other possible intruders. There was never any doubt about who was in charge at Honolua Bay.

I couldn't help but be reminded of Jesus' reference to hens and chicks in Luke 13:34b where he laments over Jerusalem, "...how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing." Watching the hens wait for slow chicks to catch up with them, and listening to their constant calling made me ever aware that if danger approached, those chicks would be under the safety of their mothers wings in seconds.

Jesus is a hen to me. He waits for me when I fall behind. He calls to me, letting me know he is near. And, in the presence of danger, he calls me under his wings for safety.  I have to ask myself, again,  do I run to catch up, listen when I hear his call, and flee from danger into the safety of his wings?

The answer is....At times I am a very wayward chick.

Jesus is also a rooster to me.  He is constantly on guard, protecting me from dangers I am not even aware of and chasing off enemies. He proclaims his presence. I always am aware of his voice in the distance, but sometimes he startles me with his closeness, his beauty, his majesty. There is no doubt who is in control. He is truly king.

Please let me share just one more chicken thought with you. As I have been writing about the crowing rooster, these words of Jesus' keep coming to mind, "I tell you, Peter, before the rooster crows today, you will deny three times that you know me." (Luke 22:34) Actually, they first came to mind when my son's alarm started crowing at 6:00 this morning. Maybe a crowing alarm would be a good way to start the day. Before my feet ever hit the floor, I could let cock-a-doodle-doo remind me to acknowledge him in all my ways this day.


"In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:6

Have a God day.  I plan to.