WORSHIP
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My husband is a surrendered giver. But I struggle with giving. I tend to blame my reluctance to give on the fact that I grew up in a shack on the edge of town. My mother often worked two and three jobs a day just to put food on the table.
My husband, on the other hand, grew up in a middle-class family, lived in a very nice house in a beautiful neighborhood, and never had to worry about having his needs met. You can see where my rationalizations took me. Yep – to a place of sin.
God wants us to surrender everything we have to Him because the reality is that giving is the antidote to selfishness. I
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In the year of COVID-19, like so much of the world, our church shut down.
I understood why it had to happen—we were in a pandemic, after all—but I missed it. The preaching and teaching, fellowship, communion, but most of all, I missed the worship. I missed standing shoulder to shoulder with others and lifting my hands and my heart in praise. I missed that intimacy with God, even among hundreds of other people.
As with every other situation in 2020, it was a time to get creative. Like other believers, we worshiped from our living rooms, sitting on the couch, our dog and cat cuddled into our makeshift pew.
It was good. But it wasn’t the same. And I, not
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On the night divinity merged with fleshy humanity as Jesus came on the scene in a stable, things of earth were shaken and stirred with fresh glory and awesome wonder.
A host of heavenly angels appeared in the sky praising God and celebrating the arrival of the long-awaited Messiah. They left their veiled existence to speak and sing to a few lowly shepherds in a field.
Wait, what? Why?
To announce the good news of great joy that came as a gift from God in a cloth-clad baby-package named Jesus. The singing sky-creatures pointed the shepherds to the swaddled Savior who was in a manger near-by and urged them to go and check out the Christ child.
When the shepherds came on
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I’m obsessed with gymnastics and figure skating. Obsessed. For two weeks, every four years. You know… like everyone else in America… when the Winter Olympics games come around. Pour me a bowl of Wheaties, hand me a flag with stars and stripes, and let’s get it on! Stick that landing! Land that triple salchow! You got this! USA! USA! USA!
And you can’t miss the opening ceremonies!
There’s just a beyond-ness to them! Bright colors. Epic music. Intricate costumes. All the things.
Athletes from every nation, coming together in harmony. The pride of each country celebrating their unique heritages, while at the same time vibrantly displaying the beauty of humanity that binds us all together.
Songs are sung, dances are danced, and
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When a skilled jeweler places a diamond under a microscope, he is able to authenticate and determine its value based upon the color, cut, clarity and carat weight of the stone. Flaws are visible in the testing, and any jeweler worth his salt can easily see the difference between a man-made cubic zirconia and a real diamond that’s been forged in pressure over time.
I like to think I can spot fake from a mile away too. It’s everywhere: the lashes, spray tans, hair color, eyebrows, puffy lips, and high cheekbones. Beyond the substitute beauty efforts, there are a million other ways humanity serves up fake… Passing off that gossip as a prayer request. Praying from our lips, but
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Back when jelly bracelets, Aqua Net hairspray, blue eyeshadow and parachute pants were a thing, I wrestled with frustration every time radio disc jockeys talked over the beginning or ending of a song.
Why?
Because before the days of digital, I used to record songs on audio cassettes with my handy-dandy cassette recorder so I could listen at leisure.
Truth be told, we technically did have the option to buy a 45 and spin the song, but I had very little money. So instead, I’d hover my pointer finger over the red-circled record button and wait for a popular song to come on the radio.
When the music began, I’d press the magic button, then dance giddy knowing I’d soon be able
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Gravity. It’s not just the title of amazing songs written by John Mayer and Sara Bareilles, though I completely love both of these songs. Gravity is a mysterious force that holds the universe together. One that sustains flight and orbit. A force that cannot be seen yet cannot be denied. A bit similar to grace!
Gravity echoes the majesty and mystery of our unsearchable Creator. It’s a celestially adhesive influencer. Powerful. Essential. Incredible.
Here on the pale blue dot gravity keeps humanity grounded and presses fleshy body parts to plunge and sag with age. In the distance she spins the world on its axis and dances between the barrier of earth and sky.
The Psalmist wrote of it beautifully. “He set
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Proverbs 1:7 tells us, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge, but fools despise wisdom and instruction.” I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to be afraid.
Case in point. I was a tween with pimples, long, lanky limbs, and an attitude the summer our family went to Ohio to visit friends who lived on a farm. I didn’t much care if these people were nice. I didn’t much care what activities we would do. It wasn’t the beach, and I was disappointed to be in Ohio for a vacation. (No offense, Ohio people.) But I heard they had horses, and that was enough to calm my grump a bit because I was giddy
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After lightning struck and the fire destroyed seventy percent of my home, we rebuilt. Every item seared, soaked and smoked was lifted and sifted. Ashes were removed. All things broken and tattered were excavated and evaluated in pursuit of total renewal and restoration.
Then a new plan was put in place.
A plan paved with promise and purpose.
It was time to rebuild. Time for prayers of protection and direction. Time for beauty to rise. Time for fresh peace and paint to adorn rooms that had been wrecked by a storm that brought fire.
Echoes of healing and hope filled the hallways of home with each swing of the hammer and hanging of drywall.
Relief and resilience rose as painters brushed beams and
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It’s not every day you come close to death, especially when you’re young.
It was a beautiful spring day in Akron, Ohio. I’d just gotten off work and was excited to meet with a manager of the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner for my wedding would be held. One of my bridesmaids was going with me and we were eager to sample the food and select the final menu.
Michele and I met up in the parking lot of my workplace then she followed behind my car in hers as we headed to dinner. The restaurant was in an area called “the valley,” and there was a long, steep hill leading down to it. At the bottom of the hill
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