Metamorphosis!!

Today was a great outdoors day. We harvested many things from our garden including some great looking carrots. As my hubby was removing the leaves and cleaning them up for dinner, he found a special treat--a caterpillar. We of course went right to work making a home for it so our girls could enjoy discovering the many changes that would occur through the next several months. Shortly after completing the home, we went a-Googling to see just whom we had found: a Black Swallowtail Butterfly caterpillar.

After the excitement died down tonight, I went to work, learning more about caterpillars, cocoons, butterflies and the journey these miracles take to get from one form to the other. Oh, WOW. I  happened upon a 13 minute film of the life cycle of a Cecropia Moth. It was a BEAUTIFUL moth, not like those pesky ones that flit about above your dining room table, trying desperately to be absorbed by the light fixture just above. This one was spectacular with its colorings, shapes, and fullness of form. It was something to behold!


The thing is, the process and timeline of this beautiful creature's life was extremely interesting and somewhat sad. Allow me to expound...


A caterpillar goes through up to 5 different phases, called "instars," where it will shed its skin and take on a new look--coloring and all. I never knew this. After all of these phases, it then of course spins itself a cocoon, where it actually spends most of its life. This particular type of moth I was watching only lives a few days as a beautiful winged creature, to lays its eggs and then die.


Something sparked in my brain and spirit when I was watching this short film. Many people--myself included--have eluded to how a person's spiritual conversion is much like a caterpillar coming out of its cocoon, transformed into this amazing and beautiful entity... but now I see that this view is a bit naive. It is the view of what a child believes happens when his mom gives birth to a baby brother or sister. He has no clue as to all of the development that has taken place over the last nine months--he just knows that his mommy went to the hospital and they took out a baby, plain and simple.


The life stages of a born-again believer in Jesus Christ are much like that of the caterpillar. Every so often, we must shed our old self--maybe a way we think, act, or believe about certain things. What I do know is this: in order for the full metamorphosis to take place, there must be many instars, or sheddings, of our former selves. This is how we grow. It is meant to be this way.


This is not to refute the fact that when one is born again, they are a new creation. This is truth. It is biblical. The problem is that we are still living as human flesh in this sin-tainted world. We tend to hold on to what we "know" and traditions of old, even if they prove to be more harmful than good. This is where the shedding must occur. We must continue to take off our former selves--our ways of thinking, acting, even feeling--and assume our new identities in Christ Jesus. This happens over and over until we reach the point of physical death. It is then that we can become truly what the Lord had intended for us to be all along: that beautiful, uninhibited butterfly, soaring through the fields with glorious abandon to the earth and its troubles below.


Now obviously, this idea, this writing, has many loopholes that I would love to work on... however I am not trying to write a book on this subject at the moment... My prayer is that you would simply take what is here and ponder on your own just a bit about what your next instar will be. What will you shed next? How will you look during and after this breakthrough? Remember that these transitions are all part of our wonderful journey and not only do we get to live them, but we also will surely influence those around us as we move through each stage...

...more to come.

9/11 ponderings

On Saturday, we will be remembering the most tragic of events on American soil ever to take place: 9/11. I remember it like it was yesterday. Nine years ago, I was very pregnant, a Christian School Chaplain, and had an out-of-work husband. I remember walking back to my office when a student came running to me, claiming there were planes crashing into buildings in New York... How we set up rabbit ears with the VCR in the church sanctuary (where the school had its weekly chapel services), and we sat, as a school, and watched on the big projection screen as the second tower spilled down into the city below... I remember hearing how the Pentagon was also targeted, and thought about how only a few short days before this attack, my own father--and hundreds of other local politicians from around the country--were walking the halls of that “fortress”... I remember the counseling that took place... The lives forever changed... How hard it was for my husband to find a job... The list goes on.

So now there is talk of a Mosque being built near Ground Zero. Of course, where there is talk of this nature, there is exponentially more controversy, swarming like an angry legion of hornets. I don’t--nor will I ever--claim to be an authority on most things political. I don’t claim to be someone who is fit to comment or advise on anything government-related. What I do proclaim, though, is that I am born again, filled with the Holy Spirit, and can only testify to these things which I know to be true. Many will question my statement, saying, how do I know these things to be true? Well, my response can only be answered with a question. How do you know you are breathing air with an appropriate amount of oxygen? Well, for one thing, you’re not dying. You’re not gasping for breath.  You are, in fact, very much alive, and feel right. “How I know” is something that is a gift. Like the air we breathe. When someone receives the gift of faith, that person is forever changed. Okay, back to the topic...

Many people who have weighed in on this controversy have done so very boldly, opposing anything having to do with Muslims. People are acting out of pain and fear: pain they still feel from this near decade-long injury, and fear that it--or worse--may happen again. We, as Americans, have been injured. 

No living thing takes to injury very well. Think about a dog who maybe has his foot caught in a trap. When a compassionate soul happens upon such a situation, that typically kind-natured animal will lash out, trying to attack its would-be savior. Most often the victim is so inwardly focused that anything external seems threatening. Snapping violently at the hand that could help is a natural tendency. And natural as it may be, what it truly is is selfish. This is not to say that “selfish” is a nasty term; sometimes the pain is so excruciating there is no seeing past it by ourselves. This means looking only at your pain and doing everything in your power to at the very least, maintain the status quo. It means not looking out to anyone or anything for help. It means festering. It ultimately means loss.

While there is something to be said about pain and suffering, there is also much to be said about peace and love--God’s love. As someone who is striving daily to inherit the love that is God while still here on this earth, I had a revelation today. I would like to share it now, as an illustration of the bigger picture, whether that is in response to a proposed Mosque in New York, a homeless person in a small town no one has ever heard of, or within your own family. 

I was driving through my city today, running various errands that took me through some of the more colorful, or interesting areas that I don’t normally see. I began looking at the many people out and about on this windiest of days. I watched: a young man rushing across a street to the nearest liquor store--his long hair whipping across most of his face; an old woman with missing teeth, extremely outdated glasses and a filthy jacket standing idly while waiting for a city bus; a long line of school children processing from the museum downtown; the librarian, watching an obviously drunken man checking out a book; a family taking a walk along Lake Michigan.

While driving, I was listening to a sampler CD playing Kim Walker’s “How He Loves Us,” and two other songs. As the time ticked by, the CD kept rotating these three songs, and the words became overwhelming to me. I am a singer. I sing in the car, like many people do, I admit it. But today, as I was singing, I realized something. I was singing this song with the greatest passion for all of these people.  As I sang the words over them, this tremendous love for each of them exploded from my heart. I realized that most of the time when I have talked or sung about God’s love, I have been thinking of His love as for only those of us who call ourselves Christians. (As I write this, I can’t get past what I have just declared. I am floored.) 

“Oh, how He loves us, oh, oh, how He loves us, how He loves us, oh.” 

God looks down on every individual here on this life-sustaining planet and calls out, 

“I... LOVE... YOU!” 

It is for this reason that we, as born again believers are here, in this place, to reach out and send that love in the most tangible of ways to the ones who have not yet received this gift. Oh, how He loves US ALL. 

So regardless of brick and mortar and what it could stand for, what we do in response to anything should be this: love. Micah 6:8 says it best: “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

We must remember that this is not God’s heaven. This is sin-infested earth. It was tainted by the fall, and will not reach perfection until Jesus brings it about. And whether a Mosque is built close to Ground Zero or not is irrelevant in the grand scheme of eternity. Is it insensitive? Yes, I believe so. Will many people lash out, like the wounded creature that they are? Yes again. But how will we, as those called by Christ, act at that point? Will we stand beside them, shaking our fists in the air, and perpetuating hate, or will be be the ones standing there, not ashamed to say, “Look, I know the pain you’re in, but I know a GREAT Physician,” move in boldly, and remove the paw from the trap.

A New Day

A school day, to be precise. Day two of my two eldest daughters' school year. And the tension was high today. Let me preface today's entry with this: We have been homeschooling now for 3 years, and this year, we decided that it was time to get out into regular school. I never intended on becoming one of those "lifers" in the homeschool world, so we knew this day would come. There simply was a season for it, and now that season is over... but I digress.


My Miriam. Young--could be the youngest in her class, as her birthday falls one tiny day before the state cutoff. Bold. Daring. Excited. Ready. She has been quite the trailblazer thus far, but let's face it--every kid in that class is the same thing: new. They are all embracing this fresh thing called school with the same naivety, the same enthusiasm, the same wide-eyed wonder. Their teacher is expectant of first-day jitters, embarrassing accidents, even the occasional teary-eyed trooper who just can't seem to fit in. 

Then there's my Abigail. My first love, maternally speaking. Abigail will forever hold that place--where my very first motherly instincts rose up from deep within the confines of my selfish heart, broadening its horizons to include other little souls who's lives would fully be dependent upon my actions. She forever will be the one who engaged my heart in one of humankind's greatest journeys: motherhood. This is why today--our second day of school--was worse than yesterday.


You see, Abigail is entering a new school, too. The difference here is that most every other fourth grader has been at this school now for three or four years. Here is what they know: Each other. Teachers. Rules. Building layout. Pretty much everything that matters, they know. And if they don't, they know just how to fake it. Her teacher is wonderful. I can already see this, and for that I am thankful. However, I understand that he probably hasn't dealt with the "new" factor much in his career, like the Kindergarten teachers who face a different batch of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed newbies each year.

Today was the day she felt the nerves rising up inside that slender stomach of hers. She felt sick. Literally. Identifying the problem doesn't make it go away. I knew that it wouldn't, but I had to reassure her that everything would be fine. Second-day jitters, I fear, are worse than their more well-known counterpart: the first-day jitters. With the first day, there is a delightful aspect we keep right on the horizon. We know that the first day is just that. A day. There is a beginning, and a few hours later, an ending. With day two, there is not such hope. Day two is simply a day, and will most assuredly be followed by another, and another, and so on. There is no real short-term end in sight and therefore can be gravely foreboding to any novice.


So today's pondering is a hard truth that we all must deal with at some time or another. In life, sometimes we are forced into situations where we feel completely alone and afraid. Sometimes the excitement wears off and we are left with a bundle of frenzied nerves where our stomachs once were. And if there is one piece of advice or wisdom I may lay at the feet of the trembling, it is this: 

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

Romans 5:3-5

Be at peace friends. Tomorrow is another day to wake up and face it all again. I pray that through all the sufferings, our character is built up and full of love and moxie. And the main vehicle that takes us there, my friends, is perseverance. 

Evan (A short story)

Evan took a long, drawn out look across the dusty road. He knew this day might not ever come again and he wanted to be the first to take it all in. His sandy hair frolicked in the wind--the same wind that was stirring up the powdery, dry dust. As he stood there, his frayed denim overalls hanging a full two inches shy of his ankles, he began to notice the patterns in the clouds. Maybe it was the intense heat. Maybe it was the lack of inspiration. All Evan could see were waterfalls and springs up in that vast, hot sky. Oh how he longed for something to quench his thirst! But he would not leave his post. He dared not, even for a minute. He might miss it! The main event--the reason for such exposure to the arid and dusty hotness that swarmed around his very being--was more important than a mouthful of sweet, cool water from the stream that passed behind the log house that he called home. He would not falter. He would not miss it. 

Almost as if in a dream, his kid sister, Betsy, was standing next to him instantly. Where she came from he did not know, but now he was not alone. This moment--if it was truly going to happen today--would be better shared with a friend by his side. She gently nudged her brother and with a sheepish grin, he acknowledged her presence. Betsy had always admired Evan. Even when he found himself in the most defeating of circumstances he always found a way to bring about joy and contentment to his surroundings. 

There was the time when he accidentally let the neighbors horses out of their corral and ended up spending the entire Sunday morning helping to find them. Ma was the least happy in all of this, for Evan had ripped his new Sunday trousers and had missed the meeting that day. Betsy was the one that stayed after and swept up the meeting room. It was Evan’s job to do so, but he had missed, and she didn’t want him to lose his job. He always shared his earnings with her in the form of penny candy. The townspeople usually had some remark or another about Betsy’s endlessly sticky cheeks, but she didn’t mind.    

When Evan came home that late afternoon, his face smudged with mud, shins scuffed and bruised, and trousers torn, Ma nearly came undone. Betsy remembered the heavy, disconcerted sighs coming from the dining room while Ma mended the new trousers. She knew Ma was going to give Evan a real stern talkin’ to, maybe even a whoopin’, and wished Evan could go back in time and keep those horses penned up! Betsy always had a strong sense of camaraderie with her only sibling. He had four years on her, but that had always proven beneficial for this fledgling pioneer. 

Evan had walked into the dining room and looked at his Ma. Then he spoke for the first time since he had come home. “I know you are mighty upset with me Ma, and I don’t blame you. I’m real sorry I tore my trousers, and missed Sunday meetin’. And I don’t blame you for bein’ angry with me. But Ma, I had to find those horses. It was my fault. And I couldn’t let Farmer Bennigan lose his only two horses. That’s all he’s got. I did what I had to, and helpin’ our neighbor is a mighty important part of livin’ like Jesus would have us to live, right Ma?” Evan had paused. He knew the best part of the morning’s events was about to escape his mouth and he was a little excited, despite the trouble he should be in. He continued, “And guess what? Farmer Bennigan said I could come over and borrow the horses come plowin’ under time. And with Pa gone and all, well, that seems like a mighty nice thing for him to offer.”

Tears welled up in Ma’s eyes and for the next few minutes she sat in silence. Finally she spoke. “Evan, you’re a good boy. Now get on up to bed, son. Get on up to bed.” Even in those times of seeming troubles, Betsy was always amazed at Evan’s ability to turn things around. 

Just then a sharp, hot wind kicked up and blew gritty sand into the faces of the two children. Hands shot up to cover eyes and backs turned into the wind for protection. Evan felt the hot sand sting his dry lips and once again wished for a cool drink of water. “What are you doin’ out here anyway, Evan?” Betsy hollered. “It’s so hot and windy! Why don’t we go find a shady tree to sit under at least?”

“No way,” Evan countered. “I’m not gonna miss it!”

The wind finally gave way to a much softer breeze and the children turned around again, facing that familiar field across the dirt road in front of their paltry farm. “How long you suppose it’s been, Evan, since the last time?” Betsy couldn’t remember, because she had just been a baby when Evan watched for the first and only time the great event had taken place. 

“About four years. Now quiet, please,” Evan implored. “I just wanna watch, okay?”

Betsy didn’t understand what today was all about, but she knew it meant something to Evan. What was so special about watching men walk through a field? But Evan knew. He knew exactly how important this was, and wasn’t going to miss it for the world. And then it happened. It started!

Evan heard the sound of at least a hundred feet, marching in time to a drummer’s cadence. The bobbing heads of nearly five dozen men broke through on the horizon. They cut through the arid, dusty air, marking the path for the men who followed behind, marching, marching. It was truly a sight to behold. The uniforms weren’t much to look at, but the fact that they were marching home was what mattered. Some were bandaged, some were limping. Some hadn’t come home at all. 

Evan stood, still as a statue, as they came closer and closer to the road. It was a terrifying sight to see all those men carrying weapons, but Evan knew there was something of a peaceful resolve because of the very weapons in question. It was finished. The war had ended and the men had come home. How beautiful it was to see familiar faces! 

“So what now?” Betsy had broken the sacred silence that Evan had been reveling in up until that moment. With a bit of indignation and even more sorrow, Evan replied. “Now we wait.”

The two children stood still, watching as every last farmer-turned-soldier passed by. Evan spoke in a voice so small that Betsy thought as though she had imagined it. “Bye Pa. Thanks for giving your life so that we could have ours.”

All at once Evan felt an urge, a need, to run away, to cry, to scream at the top of his lungs, to fall down from sheer emotional exhaustion all at once. He had once lived the life of a care-free child. Playing in the fields, rousing the horses, squirting fresh, warm milk straight from their cow into his mouth, and laughing so hard his sides and cheeks ached with happiness were all a thing of the past for him now. 

It seemed the only thing certain in his life was the little sticky-cheeked girl at his side. Betsy was such a bright, bobbing little tot; always rich enough to give away every smile and hug that welled up from within her. She possessed a heart that Evan knew had no equal and he was thankful for his sister. 

Ma had fallen into a deep sadness the very day they got the news that Pa had fallen in the war. He was such a strong man and a loving husband and father. Evan knew at that moment that life had changed forever. Ma was now his responsibility and he wouldn’t disappoint his Pa. As the days passed into months, and months passes into years, Ma rarely looked on life the way she did before the war. It seemed almost as if Betsy had adopted all the joy that once dwelt within Ma’s beautiful heart. 

But Evan knew that Ma could be revived. She only looked hopeless. Every night, this new man of the house would kneel by his bed and pray into the vast midnight sky for her sake. And every night he went to sleep to the sad melody of his mother’s near-silent cries. He had to believe that she would get better. It was true that he had lost Pa, and there was nothing he could do about that. There was no way he would lose Ma too. And so he became her pillar of strength. At seven years of age, this youth had given up the whimsy of childhood to became a man.

The last soldier stumbled past the somber pair as Evan executed a shoddy salute. It seemed as though even with his practicing, when the time finally came to raise his hand, all energy was stripped from him along with the rest of his composure. He slowly lowered his hand as a sorrowful and heavy sigh escaped from his dry lips. A few moments passed as the children stood, listening to the memory of the drums as pangs of grief washed over them both like stormy waves in the night sea.

Evan and Betsy silently turned and walked into the house, closing the door behind them. They found Ma, sitting at the fireplace, weeping. Betsy ran to Ma’s side, sat down and began stroking her hair. Evan mustered up every ounce of courage he had in his nine-year-old self and said, “You know, Jesus died so we could live, and now Pa has, too. In a way, Pa got a real honor, to know more of what it was like for our Lord. We’ll see him again, Ma. We’ll see him again.” And with that he fell to the floor and joined Ma in remembering the great man who was once husband, father, and friend; who would always be a child of God.

Borrowed...

A young couple moved into a new neighborhood. The next morning while they were eating breakfast, the young woman saw her neighbor hanging the wash outside. "That laundry is not very clean," she said. "She doesn't know how to wash correctly. Perhaps she needs better laundry soap."

Her husband looked on, but remained silent.

Every time her neighbor would hang her wash to dry, The young woman would make the same comments.

About one month later, the woman was surprised to see a nice clean wash on the line and said to her husband, "look, she has learned how to wash correctly. I wonder who taught her this."

The husband said, "I got up early this morning and cleaned our windows."

And so it is with life. What we see when watching others depends on the window through which we look.

Okay, so this was a terrific short story I received from a relative through email and am borrowing for this installment. I have no idea who to give credit for this, but it made me think about my own life, and how I can be so judgmental toward others. My prayer is that I clean my own windows, and make sure that I maintain them as well. This is where the Holy Spirit comes in (well, ONE of the many places He comes in) to bring revelation and lead us into healing and maturity.


Thanks for reading. Now go check your windows. ;-)

My Big Sister: Friend, Hero.

This is a true story that I wrote today for my sister. I wrote it on her Facebook wall in sections, and decided to leave it as such for today's blog, for the poetic aspect of it. So please read and understand this: You may not ever know the impact you have on people in this lifetime.  Make sure you thank someone today for the difference they've made in your life.

Let the story begin...

Tomorrow, long, LONG ago in a faraway land (from me currently, anyway), there lived a beautiful newly wed woman. And her husband loved her very much. Their love was proved true on this fateful day, many moons ago, as they gave birth to...

...a beautiful blond haired, blue eyed miracle. She was amazing and wonderful. Even though she needed surgery right away, her parents knew that she was perfect in every way. They cared for her and loved her and wept, I'm sure...

‎...for theirs was a whole new world now. But this tiny baby grew and grew, and the sparkle in her eyes only ever increased. She grew more beautiful every day, and grew to fall in love with Jesus at a very early age. In fact...

(She's the one on the left! That's me with the King of Broccoli.)

...She is the reason her little sister gave her life to Jesus at such a young age as well. And then, not to be any less of a hero, this brave young maiden rose to the bone-chilling challenge one hot summer day. Across the street from their home...

‎...there was a lake. On the lake there was a dock. On that dock sat her little sister--the one who looked up to this maiden for everything in life--splashing her feet in the cool, yet mirky waters. Well, this little brunette splashed herself right into the depths of the lake. Not knowing how to swim, she bobbed up and down, gasping for each precious, tiny gulp of air that she could. This maiden...

...came to the rescue like no other child her age or older could. She screamed for the mother, who was still across the street, and then reached into the depths of the slippery, mucky water, and grabbed her little sister's hand. With all her strength she held her up, as much as possible, until their mother could come and pull the little one out of the hungry lake. This maiden...

...saved her sister's life not once, but twice. So, to my fairest maiden in all the land, my sister, I say to you: tomorrow is one of my most celebrated days of each year. You are my hero still. I miss you and I love you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

Like a Child

This morning, something pretty relevant happened when my three beautiful daughters awoke and came downstairs. I sat at the dining room table, catching up on emails, checking out a few websites I have interest in, etc., when the french doors opened and in walked my youngest. Immediately, she looked over to where I sat, marched right up to me, and climbed up into my arms for a morning snuggle session. It was beautiful. 

Next entered my middle child. She walked through the french doors, looked over to me, then walked into the dining room and stood about six feet away from where I sat, just looking at me, almost waiting for my invitation for her to come closer.

Last entered my eldest. She walked directly into the dining room and sat at the opposite side of the table without looking at anyone.

Immediately I saw such a parallel to how our spiritual lives--and the human process of pulling away--can be. When we are young in our faith, we seek out our Father, and push our way into His arms, no matter what. As we grow, circumstances of this world teach us to be a bit more apprehensive. We know the place we should go, but stand at the outer edges, waiting for His invitation to join Him. Then as time goes even further, we don't even try to approach personally. We show up at the table, as a child of God, but there's not much interaction with the Father.


So here is the first pondering: In every stage, our Father is so incredibly patient and generous with us. He will give us the invitation, as I did with my middle daughter. I invited her into my arms and she came willingly. After her snuggle time was over, I got up and went to my eldest daughter. It was there, in her space, that I hugged and loved on her. That was what she needed at that time. God meets us where we are, no matter what. He is so faithful!


The second, and even more crucial pondering, which I pray you carry with you throughout your day, is this: We don't ever have to leave that first stage. Jesus exhorted His disciples in this very same manner. We never have to leave the expectation that we can walk directly into God's throne room, climb up into His arms, and receive from Him everything we need. It is this faith, the faith of a little child, that Jesus desires for us all to have. 


So where are you today? Would you climb right up? How about the middle space... would you stand in the sidelines, waiting for an invitation? Or are you even "older"? Would you come in, knowing you belong, but never really interact with your Father? His desire is not to simply have a full table. I believe with all my heart that God's "table" is in His lap. This is the place that sonship is fulfilled. Relationship. Contact. Love. Snuggle up with your Father today. As my youngest and I say to each other in those moments of pure embrace, "You're filling my heart up with love." Let God fill your heart up with love each morning. Never a disappointment. Never a regret in those moments. Love.


Matthew 18:3