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Archive for the ‘WONDER’ Category

539-the-morning-tear

“Whatever is chasing you — no matter what it looks like — it’s grace.

And grace isn’t what makes us feel good: grace is all that makes us more like Jesus …

And nothing can overwhelm me — like grace can overtake me.

No matter when you look over your shoulder, that’s what you find: God’s blessings overtaking you. No matter what a day, a life, looks like, this is what it all stacks up to for every person on the planet: We are all chased by grace.

No matter what is hounding, the hound of heaven is closer — His warm breath of blessing right there on the nape of my neck.”

– Ann Voskamp

As I read the above words I thought of how ‘hounded’ I was feeling that particular day.

Hounded was I by the pressures of relationships, and bills, and work, and making dinner, and seeking the location of just one ibuprofen to take the edge off this pounding headache.

Her words made my eyes fill, and their banks refused to hold the flood back … the dams burst, the water fell.

Later I sought the The Hound of Heaven … the poem I had a vague knowledge of once reading. It was written in the late 1800’s by English writer Francis Thompson. Mr. Thompson had studied to become a priest, then a physician, then lived in terrible poverty (as a writer) where he survived by selling matches. He then suffered with the constant pain of neuralgia, which he treated with laudanum (containing opium), eventually becoming addicted. He last years were spent in a monastery, where he was cared for by friends.

The first link I opened to read the poem, The Hound of Heaven, made the dams burst in another way … tears of joy.

I read the ode, allowing the pursuits to settle on my heart and mind. The pursuits that we make for ‘more’ of this world, and the never-ending pursuit of God for his child.

When I came to the end of the verses, there followed yet more verses … this time written by David …

O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.

 Before a word is on my tongue
you know it completely, O LORD.

You hem me in—behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me.

 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

 Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, [a] you are there.

 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,

 even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”

 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

… the words of Psalm 139 … the words I have been hiding in my heart for months, as though ‘I’ had anything to do with it … as though those words were chosen for me, for such a time as this. As though those words were the instrument of the Hound himself. He who is willing to use whatever means possible to draw us back to Him.

“Whatever is chasing you — no matter what it looks like — it’s grace.

And grace isn’t what makes us feel good: grace is all that makes us more like Jesus …

And nothing can overwhelm me — like grace can overtake me.

No matter when you look over your shoulder, that’s what you find: God’s blessings overtaking you. No matter what a day, a life, looks like, this is what it all stacks up to for every person on the planet: We are all chased by grace.

No matter what is hounding, the hound of heaven is closer — His warm breath of blessing right there on the nape of my neck.”

– Ann Voskamp

 

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This is a re-post from about four years ago … but the memories shared here are remembered every spring.

I lost it, and I don’t know where …

I lost it, and I don’t know why …

I lost it, and I’ll never get it back …

It was my creation, my gift, and there is no way to ever fully re-create it 😦

Now, if you know me, you might think I am talking about my losing my marbles … and … you are probably right. But the loss I am talking about is my original post called “Love = Pussy Willows.”

I wrote it, as a gift for my parents, who DID both read the original… before it got lost in cyberspace. But, I wanted to keep it … for me, for my kids. So that when my mom and dad are no longer on this earth, we could be reminded of the legacy of thoughtful, kind and even romantic love, that they shared for each other, and left for us to duplicate in our own lives.

And so, here I go, trying to re-create that which I’ve already created, and is now gone. I feel a bit like I am one of the scientists who created/cloned Dolly the sheep. I am consulting my sieve-like brain cells for what I can recall (not much hope there). I am mixing memories, words and thoughts with the hopes of a carbon copy result. I even consulted others who also read my post, for what stood out to them. The problem is, that as a writer/creator I cannot duplicate my creation perfectly – I may have all of my childhood memories, phrases I remember writing and the help of others, but I can not go back in time.

I cannot duplicate the humidity or temperature of weather on the day I wrote it. I cannot duplicate the food I ate, the exercise I did or didn’t do, or my hormonal levels of that day. I cannot perfectly replicate the motivation I had for writing it.

So, all that said … just like Dolly the sheep, I might have all the exact pieces to clone my post … but, me, as the creator, will never, ever feel it is possible to look on the clone as anything but a cheap imitation of the real thing.

But, all that said, her I go … again.

My parents will celebrate their 40th anniversary on July 24 of this summer. I am so proud of them … (I’ve been married about half that, and I know that each day provides a new opportunity to re-choose my hubby … and he to re-choose me … and lets get real, there are many days we would like to return the other for a refund).

Mom and Dad are a fairly average married couple. They have loved, fought, struggled, and survived each other.

I was blessed to know romantic, but true, deep love and affection through them … and pussy willows.

My memories of pussy willows are so vivid, so clear, and they go as far back as when I was four or five … but they happened for many years!

In the spring my dad would be driving down a country road, usually taking out weekly trash to the ‘Dump’, or driving to my grandmothers house. And, all of a sudden he would pull over to the side of the road and get our out of the car.

Then he would be in the ditch, unaware of the presence of water, or spiders or snakes (yuck!). And he would reach out for what he was after … pussy willows.

Now this was the spring time ritual for my dad, And, as an adult, I have to say he has the eye for the perfectly developed (not too soon, not too late) pussy willows. I always seem to find them as they are just opening, or once they have gone to seed!

But the ritual didn’t end with a bouquet in his thorn punctured hands, and soggy wet feet. No, mom had her part to play as well.

When dad arrived home, with his freshly cut bouquet, he would beckon mom to the door.

And, every year her response was the same, “Oh Denny, pussy willows.” and then that ever-embarrassing (for any child who has hoped and prayed that the stork truly was responsible for the reproduction of humans) hug and kiss … and gaze into each others eyes (I can hear the adolescent within me say “blech”).

Then mom would scurry to the ‘special’ golden-yellow vase, where last years bouquet of pussy willows (cob webs and all), would still be. She would discard the old, and arrange the new bouquet to perfection. Then, the special golden-yellow vase would be set out on display.

The whole experience of the the pussy willows sticks in my head because of how they were GIVEN, and how they were RECEIVED, by each of my parents. If my mom had pestered my dad to go get her a new bouquet … the receiving wouldn’t have been as a gift, but a duty. And if my mom stuck the bouquet in just any old vase, and discarded them after a ‘respectable’ amount of time … the giving wouldn’t have been received in the manner they were given.

I love this way that my parents, unaware, taught me about giving and receiving. And I hope they can receive this post in the spirit it was intended … that of a gift to show my love.

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One of the most common disorders for adolescents, and increasing in numbers affected, is anxiety.

According to Free Dictionary, anxiety is everything from “uneasiness caused by fear … to apprehension or worry accompanied by physical symptoms common in mental illness or following a distressing experience.”

Anxiety is part of being human. At an early age, when a mother or father leave their child with someone else, and the child experiences the anxiety of separation from those parents who represent safety and security for them. This may produce tears, screaming and death-grip holds on mom and dad.

Anxiety commonly also can occur during the stage of night terrors (nightmares), starting school, moving, death of a loved one, divorce of parents, an upcoming test/exam, a trip, a marriage, an illness and on, and on.

Children with anxiety disorders are missing out on school, on friendships, on life experiences, because they are filled and dominated by fears. 

What is it that has caused the increase in anxiety of children, to the point of being diagnosed with a disorder?

Some claim it is violent video games, addictive use of social media, sexualization of children, and/or the breakdown of the family. All of those things can certainly contribute to feelings of anxiety.

Whatever the reason, the problem is before us, as parents, as people who work in schools and churches and places of recreation. 

So, what can we do for someone in our life who has (or may be silently dealing with) anxiety and fear? 

Be kind.

It may seem like an oversimplified response, and kindness does not dissolve fears and anxiety, but it really can help. 

The thing about kindness is that it can let someone know that they have been noticed, that they matter. Kindness can make someone feel good, make them smile. To receive kindness is to receive an unexpected, often unmerited gift. Kindness can give hope to one who may not feel there is any hope. Kindness can provide comfort, consolation.

Kindness is not the cure, but it might be a little remission from the fears that dominate.

 

 

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As the teenage student spoke of his experience in the small South African town, I found myself smiling, knowingly.

He spoke of people on the streets saying hi to him, waving from a distance, knowing him before he had even arrived from traveling the thousands of miles from the Pacific Northwest. He had visited a place, as a stranger, which had immediately felt like his very own community … because he felt known.

That is what it is to be in a small town … you feel known.

Many people who visit small towns speak of similar experiences. Hubby and I are both from small towns on the East Coast. When people we know visit the East Coast they often return with tales of how friendly the locals were. Hubby and I usually smile, knowingly, then tell them the truth … the people are friendly, but they are nosy too.

I realize now that to have grown up in a small town was a privilege that few get to experience.

When I walked down the street everyone, from the postmistress, to the car salesman, to the corner store cashier, to the town gossip knew my name, who my parents were, and where I lived. If I was hanging out with the wrong person, my parents knew it before I got back home. When I graduated from high school, I received cards of congratulations from many of the people in our neighborhood.

Growing up in a small town can provide a great sense of security, support and community. It can provide an ownership and responsibility to all who you share life in the community with. It can make you feel like you are part of something bigger.

Sometimes, when we are in the midst of an experience, we fail to appreciate the blessing of where we are. What a great experience it was to have grown up in a place where everybody knows your name.

 

 

 

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I worked around my garden last evening, with the bright daylight stretching further with the hands of the clock. My holey, gloved hands covered in the dirt of the Earth, the trees, the shrubs that I touched. Tendrils of my hair, loosened from their elastic, to fall in the middle of my forehead. Muck from the hole that was dug, caked to the bottom of my shoes. Dirt across my pants, from when I ‘cleaned’ my gloved hands.

Dirt, dirt everywhere … enough to line the bottom of my bathtub, later that evening.

And. it. was. perfectly. glorious.

For I was not merely looking at the wonders of Creation, viewing just with my eyes, I was in the midst of the Creation, the wonder, the beauty. I was a part of it, and it was a part of me.

 If appreciating beauty was simply a visual experience, a picture would fill our cup. True appreciation of beauty requires inspection, not just of it’s outer appearance, but studying it fully and completely.

To see the ocean’s edge is lovely.

But, to walk, barefoot on the sand, feeling the cool of the water running over our feet, hearing the gulls above, the crashes of the tides, inhaling the fresh salty air … that is to experience divine beauty, from all around us.

To speed on a mountain bike over a quaint bridge with a brook running under it is adventure.

But, to stop that bike, and hear the symphony of the birds songs while hearing the beat of your own racing heart, and looking at the many shades of green all around, breathing in the most clean scent of fresh rain water falling from above … that is what it is to be united with beauty.

May we each have opportunity, this weekend, to become part of a glimmer of beauty, and to enjoy the refreshment and delight that can come from that.

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I love the definition for integration, in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary :

-“incorporation as equals into society or an organization of individuals of different groups” 

In the world I work, (that of working in a high school) primarily with students who have a special needs diagnosis, integration is most commonly associated with incorporation in classrooms, in study, in learning. That is an important part of integration into a school community.

But, in the world I (we) live, integration is most frequently sought, desired and dreamed of in terms of not the academic, but the social, the relational. Those, who live with delays, disorders, diagnosis, and syndromes desire to be incorporated, as equals, into the world around them … they want friends.

“what a person desires is unfailing love …”
Proverbs 19:22

In the past dozen years of working in middle and high schools I have had the privilege of seeing such integration, incorporation, take place. I have observed students who sincerely care for and about their peers, with or without a diagnosis. I have seen parents of kids with special needs, and without, make the effort to model and encourage respect, kindness and equality for those around them.

Certainly, I have observed bullying, ignorance and exclusion, as well. But, more often I have seen the beauty of human care for each other, human love for each other.

This caring, this loving, this including of each other, it is a messy thing to practice. It is messy whether special needs, illness, or disability are present or not.

Lets face it, equality is messy whenever humans are involved.

But, to truly and sincerely incorporate and integrate as equals … what an awesome thing.

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People often ask how I find the time to write. I guarantee you, I do not find it at all, I have to carve it into my day, much like we carve time to go to work, make dinner, and go to the gym (an area which could use some intentional carving, in my neck of the woods).

Another question I get asked it why do I write. Writing is a skill, and skills require practice, so I write to practice the skill … but that is not the only reason I carve time into my day to write.

Oh sure, it would be delight if my writing could earn an income, but that is not why I write.

It would be amazing if my writing would improve my grammar, and there is so much room for improvement in that area! But, that is not why I write.

It was just yesterday, as I sat at my computer, tapping out of the keys my thoughts on the birthday of my daughter, that my reason for writing was clear, once again.

Each significant event in the lives of my kids, I write about. I write on their birthdays, graduations, special trips, funny events, sad events.

My writing is what I leave for them, my legacy.

I will not have vast accumulations of wealth or possessions to hand down to my favorite creations. I will not leave a vastly changed world, or landscape. So, what I will leave for them will be my words … my love for them through the simple words, of a simple, struggling mom, wife, woman.

Realizing that one is living in the second half of the theatrical performance of life, makes one question what one will leave behind. Though it would be a delight to have an estate to leave to be divided, I write, to leave the sweet (and sometimes sour) tastes of life for my three to remember life, and how ardently they were loved.

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Happy birthday to our copper-headed baby girl …

I wrote those words on my status, then glanced, for a long time, at the picture of your two-year old self.

In an instant I saw your newborn self, pink like the magnolias in bloom outside our sunlight-filled hospital room.

I saw your chubby six month self, with more chins and rolls and dimples than any one mass of skin has ever held.

I saw your first steps, taken on your first birthday.

I saw your eyes of delight whenever your dad or big sister would come home from work or school.

I saw your eyes of amazement, as you’d sneak into the room your little brother was sleeping, to wonder at his tiny hands.

I saw your elfish preschool grin.

I saw your eyes of delight whenever you spied a living thing, from fish, to birds, to creatures with fur, to our gruff neighbor, whose heart you melted, again, and again, and again.

I saw you jumping on the trampoline, with friends, big as our six foot tenant, small as the slugs that you thought would like to jump.

I saw your eyes of delight when you entered your kindergarten class … so many people to befriend!

I saw your face, smiling at your neighbor friend, over chicken strips in my kitchen.

Then I saw your tears, as elementary school was done, and you did not want to leave that place of memories.

Then I saw your tears … adolescence can be such a tough time of navigating body, mind, soul, family and friendships.

Then I saw the times of giggling, events, firsts, friendships … friendships, never was age, gender, size, color or any other differentiator a barrier for you.

Then I saw your head turn, as a boy passed you by.

Then I saw you drive off in a vehicle, without an adult.

And now, you are eighteen.

time. goes. so. fast.

You are eighteen, no longer my little girl. In a few short months you will conclude your years of high school, graduating on to study that which is a passion in your heart.

But, when I look back at your life, my heart always returns to that seven-year old day … when I saw you dance, between the sunbeams of the giant trees, in your white lace crinoline from the dress-up box … twirling and spinning, with great abandon, dancing to your own music, your own tune.

From birth, you have danced to your own tune.

From your belief that sleep was not essential (for your first two years), to your embracing of friendships from anyone (no matter the difference), to your strong will, you have refused to be anything other than who you feel convicted to be. Though this has, at times, resulted in tears (and this will not change, in this life), I know that you will never have regrets for things you have not done.

My prayer for you, today,
is that your past may give you firm footing,
that today you will feel loved,
and that in your future
you wear the wings God gave to you,
always.

 

 

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If you live in the right areas of the world you have the opportunity to view the third ‘blood moon’ in the tetrad (four) series of lunar eclipses. The shadow of the Earth will cover the moon for just under five minutes. It is a rare and exciting event for sky watchers from NASA to those under my roof.

In the Christian calendar, today is the darkest day, but it is not because of an eclipse.

Today, Christians all over the world, participate in a memorial for the sacrificial death of Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus, the sinless son of God, paying with his body and soul, for the sins of a humanity, who could not ever dream of making atonement for ourselves.

Today, I bow my head in prayer, and thank God that my own redemption was worth the death of His Son.

Today, is a day of thanks for the gift, but also acknowledgment of how dark was that day of scourging, torture, crucifixion, and death.

It could be said that, for Jesus, it was a total eclipse of his heart, as the sin of all humanity separated Him from His heavenly Father … a pain far worse than any torture man had done. This is the Passion of Jesus, poured out, as a light in a dark, hopeless, fearful world.

2015/01/img_1911.jpgThe quote, above, describes what was done on that day, when what Satan intended for evil, destruction and darkness, God turned into hope, light and life.

In the following video (at about 1:17), we see how, even in our physical world, darkness cannot eliminate light, through the description of tomorrow’s lunar eclipse:

“Imagine yourself standing on a dusty lunar plain, looking up at the sky.

Overhead hangs Earth, night side down.

Completely hiding the sun behind it.

The eclipse is underway.

You might expect Earth, seen in this way, to be utterly dark.

But it’s not.

The rim of the planet looks to be on fire.

As you scan your eye across Earth’s circumference, you’re seeing every sunrise, and every sunset in the world, all of them, all at once.

This incredible light beams into the heart of the Earth’s shadow, filling it with a coppery glow and transforming the moon into a great red orb, when viewed from Earth.”

http://youtu.be/_70M4lkLKPk

On this day, as we remember the darkness of our sin, may we also see how that dark day has illuminated the light from it’s shadow.

“There will be no more night.
They will not need the light of a lamp
or the light of the sun,
for the Lord God will give them light.”
Revelation 22:5

 

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Spring Break provided me with ample opportunities to be still.

For hours I worked in my garage … painting, sanding, waxing, sawing, nailing. Furniture was transformed, home repairs were made, and my soul was given room to breath.

Spending my time in such a quiet way gives me the opportunity to hear better.

I find having the time and space for quiet allow me to sing (and no other has to hear my horrid voice), to contemplate, to plan and dream, to weep, to smile, to pray.

Just this week, in our departmental prayer and devotion time, the person leading did so without her own words … yet my heart and soul heard so clearly.

As the lyrics to When I Survey the Wondrous Cross play, I heard them afresh, as though the weight of them, the weight of their story, lay firmly on my heart.

An archaic, yet still-relevant, hymn of the faith. Sir Isaac Watts is said to have penned it’s words about three hundred and eight years ago.

I glanced around the room, at the lovely people there … each of us with our own public or private sorrow, weighing on our hearts. Yet …

when we consider, when we survey,

that cross, that wondrous cross,

our own sorrows diminish, fade if only for the length of the song.

“When I survey the wondrous cross
on which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain (deepest pain) I count but loss (no rugged cross)
and pour contempt on all my pride

Forbid it Lord that I should boast (weep for myself)
Save in debt of Christ my God
All the vain things that charm ( me most
I sacrifice them to his blood

See from his head, his hands, his feet
Sorrow and love flow mingled down
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet?
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Were the whole realm of nature mine
That were a present far too small
Love so amazing so divine
Demands my soul, my life, my all

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