Today I heard about someone who heard the Passover story for the very first time.  He came to Christ as an adult, and has been steadily growing in his faith, but he'd never heard the story of Passover and how the Israelites were spared the plague of the death angel because the blood of the sacrificial lamb was painted over their door posts.
The person recounting the story stood in my office, voice and eyes brimming with emotion, and said, "He passed over!  The blood of Christ, God's sacrificial lamb covers me, and God's wrath passes over!"
Oh, that the delight of when we first believed would be so fresh in our hearts each time it is proclaimed.

"On that same night I will pass through Egypt and strike down every firstborn—both men and animals—and I will bring judgment on all the gods of Egypt. I am the LORD.  The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are; and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike Egypt.

 "This is a day you are to commemorate; for the generations to come you shall celebrate it as a festival to the LORD -a lasting ordinance.

Exodus 12:12-14

Passion Week

This week I am doing my best to focus on the glory of Easter, to rehearse the familiar story of the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ in my heart and mind, so that I might somehow celebrate in a fresh way this Sunday morning.

All four of the Gospels provide accounts of the Easter story, but that part of me that needs the practical application of it all is drawn again and again to I Corinthians 15 where Paul outlines the significance of the resurrection for us who believe.

Either it's all true, he says, or we are above all to be pitied.  He leaves us no middle ground.  I find it beneficial to wrestle with this every so often.

But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith. More than that, we are then found to be false witnesses about God, for we have testified about God that he raised Christ from the dead. But he did not raise him if in fact the dead are not raised. For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either. And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.


These verses are just a snippet from the middle.  Check out the entire passage for yourself.  I Corinthians 15.

A Weekend in Houston

My first two summers in college, I worked for a church in Deer Park, Texas, just outside of Houston.  It was where I first learned for certain that I had no future as a children's minister.  Still, I was unbelievably blessed to work for a very godly pastor who taught me many lasting lessons about life and ministry.  And, I had the joy of investing in the lives of some pretty awesome teenagers those summers as well.  I am proud of the women they've become, though I take no credit for that whatsoever with the small exception of their appreciation for old school dc Talk.  I did do that.
Both of those summers I lived in a beautiful home with an even more beautiful family who did not even attend the church where I worked.  I knew during those summers that I was blessed.  I loved them very much.  I felt honored by the way they took me in and made me one of their own, never charging me a cent and insisting that I consider myself part of the family, meaning they bought groceries and paid for outings and invited me on trips whenever I was available.  It was a selfless generosity I found truly baffling at times, and in my youth, failed to fully appreciate.
I visited regularly over the next several years, but somewhere along the way I let busyness take over and stopped being intentional about that relationship and the next thing I knew, 5 years had gone by, the girls were grown, and I'd become a stranger.
This past weekend, I made a trip to Houston to visit.  I was excited but nervous, unsure of what to expect.  Their youngest daughter had been just 18 months old that second summer and a mere 6 years old the last time I'd visited.  She admitted sheepishly she had no memories of me.  The oldest daughter, my constant companion during those summers, is now 18, heading off to college this fall.  She remembers, but with the memory of a young child, and we must relearn how to relate now as grown women.
I don't seem to have words for all that filled my heart this weekend.  Every time I attempted to say aloud the things I was thinking and feeling, the words seemed so inadequate.  All four of them met me at the front door when I arrived Friday evening.  I was hugged warmly four times over, then brought directly to the dinner table where old patterns returned swiftly, strangely familiar again.  We talked non-stop those first few hours, forced ourselves to pause and go to bed at a decent time, hoping to make the most of our full day together on Saturday.  We spent Saturday at Kemah, one of my favorite places in all of Texas.  We ate seafood (something I never learned to do until I met this dear family), sitting outside on the boardwalk, watching the boats, and laughing about how we'd very accidentally and innocently stolen another patron's table.  I let the girls talk me into riding two carnival rides and quickly discovered I was too old to be turned upside down anymore.  I sat peacefully on a bench with my friends, making observations about the day or the crowds while we waited for the girls to take their turn on the next ride.  We browsed through shops, and fed sting rays, and returned home late in the afternoon, where I discovered the sun had turned my neck pink, save for the outline of a large cross I'd been wearing.  We fixed dinner and played dominoes and watched a recorded episode of American Idol, commenting comically on the judges and the musicians alike. On Sunday, I had the joy of worshiping with them in their church, something I rarely got to do while living with them and working in a different church.
As I packed my bags and loaded my car on Sunday afternoon, I felt my throat tighten and my eyes burn with unshed tears, and I knew I'd never be able to say all that I needed to say.  I told them how ashamed I was of the time I'd let slip away, how grateful I was for the wonderful weekend they'd provided me, and how only now, many years later could I truly begin to understand and appreciate all they'd done for me so many years ago.  We hugged tightly and promised to do better and I drove away, my mind already working through possibilities for another visit sooner than later.

Is the Spiritual also Practical?

There are spiritual answers to this question, of course, but I am talking about something more practical. ~ Donald Miller


I read this statement in Donald Miller's blog entry this morning, and paused long and hard over it.  It bothers me.  A lot.  I need spiritual things to be practical.  


To be fair, this statement was not Miller's thesis.  It was his launching spot.  He was on his way to making another point entirely.  I do not intend to discredit or demean him or his writing with this post.  I share the quote only to provide you with background for my own thoughts this morning.  I guess, in a way, it's my launching spot today, too. I'm just headed in a different direction.


Scripture has got to have practical application.  Spiritual truth has to be practical.  If not, what's the point?  Why study it?  Why meditate on it?  Why memorize it?  If God's Word is going to offer me admonition without direction, it's incomplete.  


If prayer is not practical.  Why pray?


But, it is.  It is practical!  It does matter.  It has to -- the implications of anything else are catastrophic.  


Almost every day I pray, "Lord, teach me to love what you love, and to hate what you hate."  If that prayer isn't practical, why say it?  If I don't believe the Holy Spirit dwelling in me has the power and desire to answer that prayer, to steer my thoughts and affections toward things that are pleasing to God and away from things that aren't, why waste my breath?  And, if I don't believe there are practical answers in Scripture to help me discover what those things are, why read it.  If someone else, something else can tell me what pleases or displeases God, why study His Word.  


So, then the answer becomes, "Well, God's Word can tell us that love for others pleases God and that jealousy toward others displeases Him, but we might need some practical help figuring out how to apply those things."  Do we?  Really?  Or, are we lazy?  Lazy students of scripture?  O, God, make us diligent students of your Word!  


I guess the statement about there being something more practical than "spiritual answers" set me off today because of how firmly confident I am that there is nothing more practical than the Spiritual.  Attempting to separate the two fails us both spiritually and practically.  I have devoted much of my life to teaching women how to love God's Word, how to saturate their lives in Biblical, Spiritual truth.  


You know what?  It even has something to say about this for itself!  Check out I Timothy 4:8, "For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come."

I Might Be In a Good Mood If ...

1.  I'm drinking cold water from my purple water bottle.
2.  I'm drinking hot, black coffee from my pink Starbucks travel mug.
3.  I'm listening to country music (by choice).
4.  I'm driving with the windows down.
5.  I take the time to curl or straighten my hair.
6.  I blog about nothing.
7.  I more or less skip/hop (bounce?) from place to place rather than my usual "woman on a mission" march.
8.  I order anything other than water at a restaurant, particularly Diet Coke or Flavored Iced Tea.
9.  I'm writing in purple ink.
10. There's a tiara on my head.

Conversations with Big Dave

**Update: I called home the next night and asked Mom how her lunch was that day.  She answered dryly, "I passed."

Original Post:
Tuesday evening, 5:30 p.m.
Big Dave: You know I make Mama's lunch every day, right?  I make the sandwiches.
Me:  Yes, Daddy, that's very sweet of you.
BD:  Yeah, I like to surprise her sometimes. (At this point, I already know this is going to be a good story.)
Me:  She's mentioned that.
BD:  Yesterday, she said her sandwich was boring.
Me:  Really?  Did you fix that today?
BD:  Yep.
Me:  What'd you put on Mama's sandwich today?
BD:  Pickled jalapeños ... and sunflower seeds!
Me:  Wow, that would be a surprise.  What'd she think? (It is very difficult to continue without howling with laughter at this point, but he's not laughing yet, so I'm determined to play it out.)
BD:  I got a text about 12:15 that said, "I don't like this sandwich."
(At this point, he cracks up laughing at himself and all his cleverness.)
BD:  I'm standing in the kitchen right now looking for a way to surprise her tomorrow!

(It's amazing how you can hear the "twinkle" of mischief in another's voice if you listen closely.)

Bad Dreams

It's a quarter to 11pm on a Monday night and I'm beginning a blog entry.  Why?  Because I'm a little nervous about going to sleep.  I'm not much of a dreamer.  My memories of specific dreams are few and far between.  My memories of bad dreams are even more rare.  This week, however, I have had 3 very memorable bad dreams in a row.  They've all been comical on some level, but they've still caused me to wake with a start, slightly panicked, a little clammy, and breathing really hard.
Last week, I dreamed about something work related.  It would sound silly to tell you about it here, especially if you're not very familiar with my work, but for me, it was devastating.  It was well into my morning, getting ready routine, that I realized it was only a nightmare and not a reality.  And, still, I didn't fully relax until I saw the person involved and heard from her own mouth that it wasn't the truth.
Two nights later, I dreamed about something family related.  Again, it would sound silly.  Trust me, I tried describing it to two different people today and both of them cracked up laughing.  But, again, it was terrible and upsetting, and really unsettling.
Last night, I dreamed something much less entertaining.  I dreamed I was dying.  I dreamed I had a terminal illness, we all knew it, and acknowledged it, and somehow came to the conclusion that it would be best to just go ahead and drain my blood and fluids now rather than waiting for the disease to claim me more slowly.  In my dream, I knew I'd agreed to this, but as the night came, and I was laying on this gurney-like table bed thing, and the man with a scalpel was standing over me prepared to slit my calves (because that's the most obvious place to begin to drain someone's blood, of course!), I began crying and begging the people around me to let me live a little longer, at least until I wouldn't know what was happening to me.  I'm not sure what they decided, since the man with the scalpel was still standing over me when I woke with that sickening start this morning.  I'm still trying to shake that one off.
Because dreams are so rare for me, I tend to attach importance to them, I want to understand them.  It bothers me when I can't figure out where they're coming from, even if the answer is too much red kool-aid before bedtime as my Mom used to always claim. (I haven't had red koolaid in a really long time.)
How about you?  Ever have a nightmare you couldn't shake? What dreams (good or bad) do you remember most?

Why I Tithe

UPDATE:  This just became available ...



Original Post ...

This morning, our pastor donned a red bandanna around his face bandit-style, showed the kids an actual handgun, and told them a story about thieves during the children's sermon.  Then, he read to them the verse in Malachi 3 that asks the question, "Will a man rob God?" and attempted to connect the abstract concept of robbing God to the children's understanding of an old West bandit.
As I was still contemplating this approach, our youth minister and two of his staff arrived on stage, dressed as stereotypical accounting nerds with flashy briefcases, and the intro beat to the "Apple Bottom Jeans" song began playing overhead.  As the youth dudes opened their briefcases to put on backwards baseball caps, sports jerseys, and a little extra bling, they began rapping about the importance of tithing.
At that point, while thoroughly entertained, I really wanted to raise my hand and ask if I might be excused since my tithe check was already written and ready to be passed into the offering plate.  Instead, I pulled out my phone and texted a few friends regarding all that I had seen and heard.  (And, there was more to come!  We concluded the service with a song from a men's quartet about giving.  I wish I could personally interview any first time guests in our congregation this morning!)
This evening, I was with a group of close friends, celebrating birthdays, and this morning's service was the topic of conversation for most of the night.  Those of us who were there described it vividly for those who missed it.  We even checked to see if the rap had been uploaded to YouTube yet!  And, we laughed ... a lot!
But, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about a statistic that was shared this morning.  According to Bro. Al, a full 50% of church attenders give absolutely nothing on a regular basis.  And, across the board, the data from the Southern Baptist Convention says we give an average of just 2%.  As we laughed this evening, I couldn't help but wonder just how true those statistics held even in that room of people I love.
I'd like to have some fantastic story to tell you about learning to tithe.  But, I was a very blessed little girl who was taught tithing from a very young age.  It never occurred to me not to give to the Lord.
What I can tell you is that I've never been wealthy.  As a grown woman, I've never consistently had excess in my finances.  I've never written that check and not wondered how the Lord was going to stretch the other 90% to make it all work out.  Notice I didn't say "if" the Lord was going to do it, but "how."  He always does it!
I tithe because I enjoy knowing that my finances do not manage me.  I tithe because it's a regular exercise in faith.  I tithe because I know that the Lord will do far more with my measly 10% than I could.  I tithe because tithing is one of the few places in scripture where God invites His people to test Him.  Check out Malachi 3:10, "Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this," says the LORD Almighty, "and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it."  


I tithe because I can't afford not to.  

Love Always Trusts

Last night I sent a text message with a question in it to a very close friend.  She didn't respond.  This morning, she emailed me an apology, explaining that she didn't see the text until much later in the evening, and then she offered a response to my question.  Her apology was almost comical to me (in fact, I think I mocked her for it in reply) because it never once occurred to me that she was intentionally ignoring me last night.  In fact, I assumed she was busy and thought little of the delayed response.  Of course, that friendship is one of the most secure relationships I enjoy.  It's relatively easy for me to jump to the best conclusions where she's concerned.
I wish I was always so quick to assume the best rather than the worst.
Far too often, I have second-guessed myself, or worse, others.  I have been guilty of questioning silences and nearly always interpreting them as negative.  I have a tendency to over-communicate out of fear that I'll be misunderstood.  I have eagerly attempted to anticipate and craft the answer someone desires to hear rather than offering up the truth as plainly as I can tell it.
Recently, while listening to Beth Moore's book "So Long, Insecurity" on cd during my daily commute, she described that person perfectly.  I listened and thought, "I know her ... I've been her!"
The kind of insecurity that leads me to assume the worst about a situation or a person quickly turns me into one of the most self-centered people on the planet.  Seriously.  It requires me to believe that others are genuinely spending their days concerned with me.  They're purposefully timing their responses, selectively crafting their words, carefully planning their schedules to either build me up, or more likely, tear me down.  Ha!  I suspect, the truth is more likely that most others are so busy living their lives, they've not had time to give a second thought to me in general, much less specifically!  Assuming the worst is exhausting.
For a while now, I've been intentionally practicing making a new choice when confronted with a situation that tempts me to assume the worst. I'm purposefully choosing to believe the best.  And, you know what?  It's working.  Tonight, I found myself completely at peace with a situation that normally would have had me in knots.  I smiled to myself as I recognized that I hadn't even had to think twice about it, that I automatically jumped to the best possible assumption - which turned out to be the truth!
There's a large scroll hanging on my living room wall with the text of I Corinthians 13:4-7 written in Chinese characters.  I purchased it a number of years ago when I was in China, and I selected that passage in particular because at the time, I was asking God to teach me how to love a particularly difficult individual.  I kept getting stuck on verse 7, "love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres ..."
As I was thinking about this idea of assumptions tonight, I was reminded of that summer and of the lessons I learned from the passage hanging on my wall.  Love always trusts.  Learning to love others involves learning to believe the best.  Always.  This exercise in putting away skepticism and doubt, especially in my close relationships, has served me well recently, and it has freed me up to enjoy others in a much less selfish way.  It allows me to be open and looking for ways to bless rather than scrambling to protect myself from imagined slights.
And, occasionally, when the offense is not imagined but real, my confidence and security remain steadfast because they're no longer pinned on others, but firmly rooted in God who is Love.  Isaiah 26:3 says it this way, "You will keep in perfect peace him whose gaze is fixed on You because he trusts in You."

Is There Anything Better Than March in Texas?

I took the day off today.  Not for any particular reason.  I'd worked some extra hours the last couple of weeks and knew I had a busy weekend coming up with the Grand Opening of the Cornerstone Resale Shop @ 3500 Noble Avenue, Fort Worth, TX 76111 from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. (hint! hint!), so I decided to clear my calendar and spend a day away from the office.  It was much harder than I thought it would be not to check my email or call in, but I think I'll be better for it tomorrow.  
Several people asked me what I did with my day off.  And, the real answer is, "not much."  I enjoyed the novelty of sleeping until I woke up (sans alarm clock).  I caught up on laundry and did some light housekeeping, spent extra time with Jesus and planned meals for the rest of the week, worked out, visited friends, rocked a baby to sleep on my shoulder, and browsed the church library for some new fiction.
Why in the world am I telling you about my day?  I have no idea.  It was gloriously ordinary.  It rained briefly this morning, then the sun came out and shone brilliantly, and the open windows and patio door allowed the scent of Spring to fill my tiny apartment.  And, every so often I had to just pause and inhale deeply and exhale slowly and relish it.  The first days of Spring in Texas fill me with so much delight.  I just feel giddy inside.  Those scents instantly take me to some of my favorite places. Skipping afternoon classes, sitting on the patio at HSU after pledging my freshman year, feet propped up, enjoying the fact that I didn't have to greet anyone I didn't feel like saying "hello" to but suddenly feeling like saying "hello" to everyone who walked by.  Lazy walks around campus at dusk, talking about everything and nothing just because it felt great to be alive.  Senior year, laying out by the apartment pool or frequenting a local ice cream parlor instead of learning more Spanish grammar.  Seminary afternoons, reading by the pond or laying on a blanket in my own backyard.  Using every minute of break during Monday night classes to get outside, walk across campus, and breathe deeply.  
Everything seems possible when the days are this magnificent.  And, I think I cherish them because they pass so quickly.  Heat strikes early in Texas and stays much longer than necessary in my opinion.  But, for these precious few weeks, I pretend like it's not coming.  I walk slowly to and from my car, enjoy any excuse to step outside during the day, and look for reasons to be there just a minute longer.  I leave my screen-covered windows open just a crack, so that wonderful scent drifts in.  I drive with the windows down and don't worry so much about what happens to my hair.  And, I blog about absolutely nothing because my heart is full and it seems like I should tell someone.

Does Jesus Eat Waffles?

When I opened facebook this afternoon, the top news post was a status update about a friend's early morning trip to the Waffle House and the declaration that God eats breakfast at the Waffle House - the one in Weatherford, Texas no less.  Ha!  It was top news because so many people were responding to it, some agreeing, some disagreeing.  I laughed out loud and proceeded to peruse other items.

A short time later, while driving from my parents' house toward my own home, I passed a Waffle House.  Honestly, I shuddered a bit.  My experiences at various Waffle Houses have been few and far between and rarely, if ever, pleasant.  Words like smelly, greasy, and unclean come to mind when I think of this establishment, and that's just to describe the patrons.  As I passed the Waffle House, I thought, "Caleb could not be more wrong.  God does not eat breakfast at the Waffle House.  Gross!"

But, of course, quick on the heals of that thought was that quiet, firm, familiar voice, loud yet not audible.  "Of course I do!  I love smelly, greasy, unclean people.  There's not one of them I don't long to introduce myself to.  Perhaps you'd like to do the honors?"  I think I literally shook my head even though I was alone in my car.  You see, I have a serious prejudice against smelly people.  The idea of my Savior, sitting at a greasy counter, between a bunch of huddled up, smelly, dirty people galls me.

And, it beckons me.  For certainly, if He would be counted among them, then there is a place for me among them as well lest I forget that I have been smelly, too.  All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away. (Isaiah 64:6)  And I hear that voice call, gently, "Come, Kristen, and die.  Die to self.  Die to pride.  Die to affluence that would keep you from abundance."  

My parents attend a large church that actually has a restaurant within its facilities.  Often, when my extended family is in town, we all meet up for brunch there at the church.  This morning, I was sitting toward the back of the sanctuary, near a door that leads toward the restaurant, and the fragrance of waffles and French toast floated through our section each time someone slipped in late.  By the time we sang the last song, and the doors were thrown open, I was craving something I hadn't even been thinking about when I first sat down, and it reminds me that 2 Corinthians 2:14-16 says, in Christ, we have the opportunity to spread a different aroma and stir up a life-changing craving ...

But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.


Oh, that we would not forget that we were once smelly, too.  That we would not fail to see Christ at the waffle counter, or miss the opportunity to spread His life-giving aroma to the world.


Jesus definitely eats waffles.