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Thursday, December 31, 2015

Intercede...or Intervene?

I thought I'd seen it all.

But last night, I was faced with a new dilemma.

And I have no idea what I'm going to do about it.

I intercede for people on the streets all day long. I lift them up in prayer, I speak blessings upon them.

I don't intervene.

If someone asks for help, for counseling or for rehab, I will step in. But I've never considered inserting myself without an invitation.

Until now.

Last night I got a call from Stan, a personable guy who is a caretaker for a woman he calls "Grandma." They aren't related, but she considers him family, having lost her own son years ago.

Stan wants help in finding a home for her.

He says she has become increasingly negative and hard to live with. He's had enough.

I've met "Grandma" a few times and while I know that her life has been tough, I also know that she is able to care for herself, preferring Stan's company to being alone but not needing it to survive.

Yet she signed Power of Attorney over to him.

Which gives him the right to have her put in a home against her will.

I have a pretty good idea of the whole picture.

Stan likes take homeless people in for a few days to help them. He calls us frequently to help, and I know he has a good heart. But he also spends his days out on the streets hanging (and drinking) with the homeless. He feels different because he has a place to lay his head at night yet in most ways, he's living the same life they are.

I know "Grandma" hates it. Stan sees friends; she sees bums.

I imagine her "negative attitude" is nothing more then her expressing her feelings about yet another homeless person camping on her couch. This time, it is a woman we'd just sent to rehab for a second time, who left and hitchhiked back only to find her drug-dealer boyfriend shacked up with another girl.

I'm supposed to go over there this afternoon to talk to her.

Stan wants me to convince her to go into a home so he can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants in her house.

I want to tell her to change her will, removing him as her POA.

I'll probably do neither, listening and encouraging them to work things out instead.

I will pray that the Lord precedes me, making my every step and word His.

Because on my own, I have no idea what to do.




Wednesday, December 30, 2015

You figured it out, now what will you do about it?

That's the question I'm asking myself today and I doubt a resolution will occur before I sign off.

I generally write about a problem post-solution, but today I'm sharing in the hopes that someone will say ME, TOO and commit to making a change with me.

It won't be easy.

I recently came across a "Happy Birthday, Jesus" card I'd written in church last year. In it, my birthday gift to Jesus was my entire life, a commitment I'd made prior to going into full-time ministry.

As a little post-script, I'd asked the Lord for more REFINER'S FIRE.

Herein lies my naivety.

I'd done this once before, prayed for that fire that removes all impurities in my life. Thirteen years later I was ready to emerge from the heat. I'd erroneously believed all I needed was a little polishing.

I swore never to do that again!

Yet here I was, once again asking for the fire, and once again thinking I only needed buffing.

I was wrong. Again.

The fire is hot.

And it hurts.

Despite the leaps and bounds of growth in my quest to resemble a making in His image, I still had a ways to go.

Some issues were easy.

But some remained hidden.

Until last week.

One year after asking for more fire, I was hit with the one thing that has become a major stumbling block for me.

I still have a stubborn streak a mile wide.

And a very, very rebellious heart.

Until now, it hasn't been evident because I've been making the right choices, doing the right things.

My rebellion didn't keep me from being compassionate, or responsible, or loyal.

But it did keep me from walking in the fullness of what the Lord has for me.

And now that it has been revealed, I have to make a decision to make. Change. Or keep on, knowing the Lord has called me to work on this area of my life.

The very issue at heart, the rebellion, instantly rears its ugly head. Why should I have to? I'm doing good things here. Don't tell me to change. If you don't want me as I am, get someone else.

Even as those thoughts enter, I recognize the devil.

So I rebuke them as a new wave hits. What if I can't change? What if I'll never be who God wants me to be?

A little harder to recognize, but even humble-sounding, meek-mannered thoughts are still the devil's when they promote fear and sorrow.

So here it is.

Me with a microscope showing the speck in my eye (which has probably been a beam to everyone else all along) trying to figure out what to do next.

Ever the pragmatist, I long for a list that gives me A-B-C instructions that I can cross off in my quest to banish this rebellious streak once and for all.

Yet also at times a dreamy idealist, I just want to be able to wake up perfect and be able to change the world just as easily.

Since neither scenario is going to happen, I have to walk in faith, submit EVERY thought and conversation to the Lord, and ask the proverbial WWJD when selecting meals, music, movies, and more.

I pray that in time it won't be so hard, that my words and choices become more Christ-like without effort, and that my will is broken and molded into HIS will for me.

This struggle isn't hard, or particularly deep. My moral compass is still pointing due North. But if someone tells me to go left, I often want to go right.

It is the underlying issue, the rebellion, that creates the barrier between me and God.

This is what I am committing to Him. My will.

What about you? Is there an area of your life He has pointed out to you that needs a little work? Something big or something small...it all becomes HUGE if it stands between us and the Lord.

And quite frankly, it is the smaller things that cause the bigger divide.

It's easier to give up the big problems- drinking, drugs, gambling...

Than it is to let go of the small ones...unforgiveness, pride, rebellion..

What better time than now?

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Christmas 2000-something

Twelve years ago I wrote what would now be considered a blog post, but then it was just playing around on the computer pretending that someone would care what I had to say!

The depth of my writing would fill a kiddie pool, and there was very little perspective outside of my own world.

That said, it was fun to look back and see what my thoughts were then.

I thought I'd share them today. (Unlike most posts, NO NAMES were changed!)



Christmas Cards and Status Updates
by Jeanni Thrasher
            I did a little better this year. My Christmas cards arrived at their destinations by Christmas Eve. Last year, my Christmas greetings included the line “Happy Easter” with my signature.
            While the new year is a time for looking forward, Christmas is usually a time for reflection. Family and friends send cards with photos and letters detailing highlights of their year. Of course, no-one ever writes about their son’s failing grades or the plumbing bill that required a second mortgage, but even non-politicians have the innate ability to become spin masters at Christmastime.
            So as I’m reading these newsy updates, I realize how young most of my friends are. We may have been born around the same time, but these people have not aged at the same rate. There’s no evidence of bad knees, sore backs, or memory loss. They are tanned, toned, and joined by adorable little offspring in matching outfits with perfect coifs.  I, on the other hand, am in the running for the female doppelganger of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and on most days, my children appear as if they have just rolled out of bed.
            However, I do enjoy reading these letters, even if they do have suspiciously fictitious undertones. It is a way to reconnect, and to reminisce of days gone by. I remember Christmas 1984 when Beth, Jennifer, and I piled into my mom’s old Bonneville and cruised the local strip for hours. And Christmas 1997 when Melissa and I had the misguided notion that it would be fun to take our combined eight children to a Christmas parade in 37-degree weather.
            Now I’ve found a way to reconnect year-round. During a reunion with my childhood best friend Margaret, after a thirty-year absence, in Tyler, Texas last summer, our conversation turned to former friends and acquaintances. Margaret had updates on dozens of them.
            “How do you know all this?” I wondered aloud. I mean, she knew DETAILS. Where they worked, how old their kids were, what they had for dinner last night. This does NOT happen by sending out belated Christmas cards.
            “Facebook,” she chirped.
            WHAT?!!! This was my law-abiding, rule-following, keep-it-between-the-lines friend. On Facebook? Isn’t that a breeding ground for internet predators?
            I must have wondered that aloud too because she began defending the site with the same ardent defense my teenagers had once unsuccessfully presented to me. But this time, out of courtesy, I listened.
            “No-one can access your page unless you accept them.” Wow, it’s like junior high again. You have to be accepted…She wasn’t exactly winning me over.
            “It’s safe. It’s a lot of fun. It’s a great way to reconnect with people you went to school with.” Now I was a little intrigued. There were people I wondered about. Of course, there were also some that I never wanted to see again, but she assured me that I could “ignore” them.
            Still a little skeptical, we parted with me promising to look into it. So when I got home, I decided to visit the infamous Facebook. I created a profile. I searched for childhood friends, classmates, and relatives. I requested friends, and confirmed friend requests. I viewed friends’ pages. Was everyone really that thin? I dug through the desk drawer to find that Kodak disc that contained pictures from the decade when I could still wear a bikini and uploaded a new profile picture. I laugh when former classmates say I haven’t changed a bit. Thank goodness it’s not a webcam!
            I must admit I was hooked. I spent hours that first week clicking away. I was struck with the odd realization that Facebook was like that old Health talk you got each year. If you “click” on someone, it’s like “clicking” on everyone they’re friends with, and then “clicking” on THEIR friends, and so on… What a network!
            You give status updates. What are you doing now? What are you doing NOW? Well, I wasn’t cooking. I wasn’t cleaning. I wasn’t thirteen either with only the responsibility of making my bed. So I logged off. I do still check my Facebook page every few days and am delighted each time an old friend has signed up and wants to reconnect. It’s like receiving Christmas cards all year long!



Wednesday, December 23, 2015

MERRY CHRISTMAS

I pray that you all have a wonderful Christmas!

Ours is half over, if you count the family celebrations. Having celebrated "Nana and PawPaw's Saturday Before Christmas" Christmas last week-end, we had a great meal and opened gifts with my parents, my sister and her family, and my four kids. Joined by the longtime boyfriends of my oldest and youngest daughters, we enjoyed sharing old traditions and making new ones. (A fairly mild first-ever family game of "Dirty Santa" turned vicious when oldest grandchild Callie stole a S'more Fondue Pot from youngest grandchild Emma.)

We decided this year to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas with the grandkids. My husband's son and his wife just had their fourth child and we are excited to spend the day with them. It's been a few years since our own four kids were living at home and we've miss the childhood excitement of Christmas.

I've been cooking for two days, planning a SHRIMP FEAST for Christmas Eve (shrimp fettucini, lemon pepper shrimp, shrimp etouffee, shrimp cocktail, shrimp and grits, kung pao shrimp, and shrimp mac-n-cheese) and the more traditional dishes for Christmas Day (turkey and dressing, corn casserole, green bean casserole, etc.). Not to mention the fudge! I've made every kind of fudge I could think of: chocolate, chocolate walnut, chocolate pecan, caramel, peanut butter, cappuchino, candy bar, cookie dough, white chocolate...

But I know it's not about the food...or the presents...

Last year, I wouldn't even celebrate Christmas. We just went out on the streets. I felt bad that I had a home and they didn't. I brought turkey plates and desserts.

This year I have a slightly different perspective.

I've been out a few times this week.

And I've brought fudge.

But I should not feel guilty for spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with my family. I should not feel bad that I've spent most of my time cooking (and celebrating my anniversary) this week.

The Lord has given me this marriage and this family to cherish.

That can't take a backseat to ministry.

When it does, everything gets out of order and the ministry ends up suffering more.

So this year I will give my husband a gift he's asked for all year...my undivided attention.

But even that won't detract from the real reason we are even celebrating.

It's about Christ. His glorious birth and life here on earth...

Have you stopped and REALLY listened to Christmas carols lately? The ones we grew up singing?

Oh come, all ye faithful...

Have you been faithful this year to the Lord?

Come... joyful and triumphant...Why? Because, dear Christian, you have overcome the world.

Joy to the world...

Why? Because you get presents? Or a day off of work?

No! Because THE LORD HAS COME...We should be receiving our King.

In our hearts. In our souls. In our lives.

Don't get me wrong. Presents are great. Holiday food is amazing. Family time is the most special time of all.

Just don't lose sight of the reason for the season.

Especially now, when so many places are saying HAPPY HOLIDAYS or SEASON'S GREETINGS instead.

Not me. I'll shout from the rafters....

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! 




Monday, December 21, 2015

Christmas and Street Corners

Christmastime is a time of joy, and goodwill, to all men. It is an excellent time to teach our children the virtues of giving rather than receiving.


With cases of "affluenza" popping up everywhere, there's no better time than Christmas to reach out to those in need and show the younger generation what the true meaning of the season is all about.


Helping the homeless is the mission of many groups and individuals at Christmastime. Homeless camps and shelters receive an abundance of food, clothing, blankets, and toiletries at this time of year.

It is much needed and much appreciated.

Except for those who aren't truly homeless.

This is where it gets tricky.

Every on- and exit ramp on every major interstate in the country has someone standing with their hand out right now.

A small percentage in the increase of visibility can be attributed to the transient nature of homelessness. Some are trying to get "home" while others are just trying to go. Holidays are hard, even for the most well-adjusted.

But the bigger truth is far darker.

Quite simply, most holding signs at this time of the year aren't even homeless.

Because of my work with the homeless, I know most of the homeless population around here. I also know their families, their friends, and their hangouts.

I meet the newcomers to the area and find out where they are headed, what their plans are.

I don't purport to know everything, nor do I consider myself an expert on homelessness.

I do know what I see.

And right now, I see a lot of people out to make an easy buck.

They know that people are extremely generous this time of year. They know the heavy traffic areas. And they know how to write HOMELESS on a sign to tug at your heartstrings.

You buy their drugs, their alcohol, their cigarettes. Your food bags are tossed into the trash can (if not tossed back in your face) and your goodwill and naivety is laughed at.

Be smart!

If you see a new person in an area you travel often, it is best to keep going. You may feel uncomfortable or even guilty, but remember...GUILT is the devil's tool, not God's.

The "homeless" at the I-10 exit by my house right now are 3 guys and 1 couple. They've taken the 4 ramps. The couple live nearby and have spent time in and out of jail for possession. Two of the guys came over from Alabama. They live 30 minutes away but people know them over there so they are spending their days here. They average $200-$300 a day. The fourth guy is from here but is truly homeless. He is a nomad, traveling as a carnie or working truck stops. He has been gone for a few months but came back to this area since it is home. He doesn't plan to see his family, though, he just wants to be here. I understand, having a strong need to go "home for the holidays" myself. But he just panhandles all day and gets drunk at night, then starts over again. I can't do much more for him than I already have, which is give him a tent, a sleeping bag, a first aid kit, and a phone number to call if he wants to give it all up.

Everyone out there on the streets has the same resources. Food, clothing, beds...these are available to almost everyone. Cold weather shelters are open across the country when the weather drops below a certain temperature.

Every homeless person on the streets has a "rolodex" of ministry cards at their disposal. (This was a wake-up call for me initially. I thought I HAD to help, because no-one else would. I was number four on speed dial.)

The reason many are on the streets and not in shelters is that you are required to pass drug tests or breathalyzers to stay there. There are rules.

Some just don't want to follow the rules.

Having been a rule breaker myself, these are the ones I gravitate toward.

But my help is not in cash for them to get drunk or high. I'm even careful with material goods, having seen a few returned for cash.

My advice is simple:


  • If you want to help the homeless at the Christmas, give to a shelter or organization with a proven track record helping the homeless.
  • Don't give money or food to those at street corners or exit ramps. If someone is truly looking for help, they are most likely not holding a sign.
  • If your church or school group wants to donate to those on the streets, get with your local homeless coalition or a pastor with a street ministry to find the real needs. Some of our "Tent City" residents made over $1000 in drug money by selling (and stealing others') boxes of unused goods last Christmas.
  • Do NOT spend money you don't have on helping others. There are so many ways you can help- and teach your kids to help-the less fortunate: serve at a soup kitchen, make Christmas cards to hand out (we bring out boxes of homemade fudge with kid-decorated cards each year..a favorite on the streets), donate used clothes and toys to a shelter...the list is endless.
Have a very Merry Christmas!




Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Boring Isn't Bad

Disclaimer: This post was written in two parts. Two vastly different parts.

Part 1:
Day 2 of Summer Vacation is akin to Day 2 of Christmas Vacation with kids.

A resounding chorus of "I'm bored!" echoes through the house as you start your own countdown to the parental celebration known as School Starts Back.

I suppose I was the same way as a kid myself.

But I'm not a kid anymore.

Nor do I have kids still living at home.

So I now find those days with nothing to do, nowhere to go, and nothing on the horizon rather.....
MARVELOUS!

Boring isn't bad.

In fact, a day with no crises (and plenty of time to confirm that the plural of crisis is indeed crises), is a respite from the Lord, a time of rest to just enjoy the wonder of it all.

String together three or four such days in a row and you have a true vacation!

It was needed.

Not for all that I'd been dealing with, but what was to come.

You don't have to look very far to confirm that we are in the End Times. No longer calling sin sin, we now have highly influential people telling us the Bible is outdated. Acceptance is key, no matter what His Word tells us.

It turns brother against brother. Father against son. Us against Him.

In such times we must remain vigilant...and faithful.

And when we have such times that we have no dilemmas, no drama..we certainly shouldn't create any.

I treasure my mountaintop experiences. Sometimes it seems like a rolling meadow, a glen, as there's no excitement, no "high". But time with the Lord, when you feel like you can just relax, is not only NOT boring, it is the apex of worship.

Part 2:
My respite was not short; it lasted a few days. But it literally ended in the midst of my post.

Over a week later (two weeks?) I'm finishing it up while sitting in a waiting room to see a specialist with my youngest daughter.

A family member had a medical scare the day of the post and set off a chain of events that hasn't stopped.

Susan left the domestic violence shelter and got back with her abuser. For crack.

Scooter went to jail.

Daniel needed a tent as he was headed back to the streets.

I met two new men. One, with a pickle tattooed on his face, was new to town and living under the bridge. Another was passed out drunk by a trash can.

The phone started ringing several times a day again.

Another family emergency.

Three community hospital visits.

We were able to help the two new ones. And Daniel.

But what do I do for Susan and Scooter? They want help but not the kind of help they need.

They NEED Jesus.

And they keep rejecting Him.

I'll keep loving them, though.

And looking forward to some BORING times to come.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Sometimes You Just Have to Scream

Sometimes there's just nothing else to do but grab a pillow and scream into it as loud as you can.

Or go into the woods where only a squirrel can lay witness to your complete and total lack of control.

Because that's it in a nutshell.

You just can't control everything.

For someone like me, who likes to manage the puppet strings of all life within a 1000-mile radius of my own, the realization is infuriating.

It's not wrong, I think, because I want yo do GOOD. So everyone should be GRATEFUL for my interest.

And, of course, do it my way.

It sounds less absurd in my head as the frustration mounts over things I desperately want to control but can't.

So I'm left with a decision.

Suppress it. Shut people out. Get resentful.

Keep trying to change things, justifying that I know what the Lord wants so it's not necessary to actually turn it over to Him.

Or actually let go and let God take the reins.

And scream into a lot of pillows.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

'You Get Two Choices"

I visited Ronnie in the hospital today.

I wasn't even sure I would, wasn't sure what I'd say. After all, Ronnie was the reason I'd had to visit several girls in the E.R.

But, as my husband gently reminded me, he needed Christ too.

So I went. On the way I prayed for the compassion that had eluded me regarding this man since I discovered his dark secrets.

Midway through our polite conversation my husband stepped out to take a phone call and my blunt nature took over.

"Are you just trying to kill yourself?" I asked him. "All this anger..all this rage that comes out with that bat is literally eating you alive."

He was like a caged animal, or a guilty first-grader, rapidly firing off the misdeeds of others and spinning the same tales I no longer believed.

Accepting defeat I sat at the foot of his hospital bed and started to pray the perfunctory hospital clergy prayer.

Somewhere in the midst of the prayer, after binding the spirits that tormented him as well, the real Ronnie emerged.

Broken and repentant we continued our conversation after the prayer ended.

"Ronnie, I know everything and I'm still here. That's the love of Christ. You cannot even imagine how much greater His love is for you."

He started to receive this love then wavered.

"But she..." "But he..." "You know I..."

I cut him off.

"None of that matters when you stand in front of the Lord," I told him.

"You get two choices: He's either going to say 'Well done, my good and faithful servant' or 'Depart from me, I never knew you.' That's it. No one else will be standing there for you to point fingers at. Now do you know what He's going to say?"

I left him with that; he has some soul-searching to do.

What about you? Two choices. On that day of judgment, what will He say to YOU?


Monday, November 30, 2015

For DOG Lovers and GOD Lovers Alike

I continue to learn spiritual lessons from my dogs.


Well, to be more accurate, the Lord teaches me lessons through my dogs.


Which is surprising because I never was much of a pet person.


Until I got my dogs.


Two-legged or four, if you have a strong maternal instinct, you become Mommy to anyone dependent on you. For this empty-nester, it filled a void that had been there since my youngest flew the nest.


We didn't intend on having three. In fact, I didn't intend on even having one. But my husband had pleaded, cajoled, and begged for years until I finally gave in.


We'd just moved into a small parsonage with a huge yard.  I was joining him in full-time ministry and our lives had changed drastically. He thought the timing was perfect. I wasn't so sure.


We visited our little poodle puppy every day from the moment she was born. Actually, we visited her brother. But, being a softie for the underdog, I wanted the runt. The one who seemed to need us more.


For six weeks I prepared to be a dog mom. I still wasn't feeling it but I was starting to come around.


The day before we were supposed to get her we were doing a fish fry benefit at a community center. Next to the center a woman had set up with a box of puppies she was trying to find a home for. Wanting to prepare myself for my new puppy, I played with the one remaining dog in the litter. The runt no-one wanted. He was adorable.


I brought my husband over to look at him.


"Go ahead and get him if you want. Two won't be harder than one," he declared.


A miniature schnauzer, she told us.  A little boy dog to go with our little girl. I barely hesitated before I picked him up.


Buddy, I declared. He's my little Buddy!


The homeless guys who'd gone with us to help with the benefit trailed behind me as we scoured the pet aisles in the nearest store for essentials for my new baby.


We made the decision to pick Princess up that evening instead of the next day so that they could adjust to a new home together.


It worked. There was very little whimpering.


After church the next day, everyone sat around playing with the puppies when one of the homeless men said, "Uh..you might want to rename your dog...this is not a boy!" (I'd not bothered to check; I took the lady at her word. She'd said he was a boy. She also said he was a miniature schnauzer. Wrong on both counts!)


Nonetheless, less than 24 hours later, I was experiencing a flood of hormones as if I'd given birth to these puppies myself. I'd become their mother and that protective instinct kicked in.


I never realized one could feel so strongly about their pets.


I finally understood that connection.


But, as was the case with my other children, as they grew, the whole family experienced growing pains.


Princess and Anabelle (formerly Buddy) refused to be house-trained. In fact, somehow they became trained backwards. They'd run outside for hours, then come in and use the bathroom. They'd chew up training mats and newspapers. They ate my furniture. They took over my bed.


It was frustrating but we loved them.


So we cleaned up after them and waited for the day they'd grow out of their chewing phase.


Then I went to visit my parents.


And the phone call came.


"Tell your husband that the puppy is weaned and he can come pick her up today," the voice on the other end boomed.


Um, what?!


I wasn't clueless; I knew what he was talking about.


In fact, I remembered the conversation well. It had ended with "No, you absolutely cannot have another dog."


I was livid as I called him. "Um, Don said you can come get your dog today," was my accusatory greeting.


He fumbled around for a response before once again telling me that this was a pure-bred Chihuahua who'd normally cost hundreds of dollars that he was getting for free. I reminded him of our tight living quarters and the impracticality of yet another dog.


He insisted on bringing the dog home for a few days to play with our grandson who was visiting and assured me that he'd bring the dog back as soon as our grandson left.


I knew at that moment that we had a new dog.


No way could I spend a week with her and send her back.


This is the very reason I have a hard time taking in foster kids. I bond quickly and deeply.




Isabella made us a family of five.


I will admit that my husband was right when he'd argued that she wouldn't be any trouble. Apart from some initial jealousy with the older two, she fit right in.


Nearly a year old and still only five pounds, self-trained Izzy is probably the dog we should've started with.


Instead I started with two chewing, shedding, mischievous (non-miniature) dogs with a penchant for darting out of the house and into the nearest mud hole the minute someone opened a door.


The day they learned to jump on the furniture was the day I lost control of my house.


Nighttime was no respite as they sprawled out in the middle of the bed, leaving us clinging to the outer edges.


The worst of it all was the smell.


Twice weekly, burn your lungs chemically, complete house bleaching did little to alleviate the odor.


Twice daily sweeping couldn't remove the fine layer of pet hair that had settled on everything, including kitchen cabinets.


It was never-ending and I was getting disgusted.
We'd stopped hosting meals after church.
We'd stopped eating our own meals at home.


We talked for months about the problem. We just couldn't find a solution.


If we found new homes for them, I'd be throwing away my babies. This brought up so many issues of inadequacy as a parent that I bawled for days just thinking about it.
If we separated them, they'd lose a part of themselves. They were twins from different litters.
If we sent them outside, they'd be traumatized. They were inside dogs, conditioned to a warm bed and comfortable temperatures.
So we did nothing.


And the problem got much worse.


Not just a little bad, but of a whole other magnitude.


I hated coming home.
My husband began to feel neglected. The more unhappy he was about me spending hours away from home, the less I wanted to be around him as well.
It turned into a vicious cycle.
It was no longer about the dogs.


The problem grew until we found ourselves at odds about everything. Our marriage, our ministry, our future. Quite frankly, I wasn't sure what was going to happen.


The dogs were still an issue, but we were dealing with so much other stuff that we'd accepted our pet problems as a part of life.


Committing to communicating better for the sake of the church and the ministry, we went back to square one.


He didn't like that I was gone all day and then when I came home, I'd lay on the bed reading. I didn't like that the bed was the only place I could go not covered with pet blankets and dog hair. I hated the smell when I came in and it was hard to feel romantic with doggie doo permeating your nasal membranes so I'd quickly tune out.


We both agreed that it was wrong for us to have let dogs overtake a building owned by the church. We used to host three-four meals a week at our house and now we didn't even want company inside.


There were no other options: the older two had to go outside.


They didn't mind; they loved it out there.


But then nighttime came.


They whined. They scratched on the door. They cried.


I cried too.


They were confused but we spent time outdoors with them. We bought a new doghouse. We bought heat lamps. We move them to the fenced in portion of the yard only when necessary now; ironically, they trained faster in three days outside than they did in a year inside.


It has been an adjustment for all of us, Isabella included. But, as with most cases of hindsight, I had not realized how much of our problems had been caused by the dogs.


With the house back in order, we once again have company over and have enjoyed nice candlelight dinners in our sweet-smelling home. I sit on the couch and read while he works on his sermons or we do crossword puzzles together like we did when we were first married.


I enjoy being home. Most of all, I have JOY.


Before you think this is a missive advocating putting your dogs outdoors, let me be clear. It is not about that at all.


Isabella is still indoors and I couldn't imagine life without her underfoot.


It is about KNOWING there is a problem in your life (for us, the two older dogs being inside) and refusing to do anything about it because it's too hard. They might get hurt. We don't want to hurt. Instead, we turned a blind eye to the problem and watched it escalate to the point where it could've  destroyed an entire community.


Keep ignoring the sin in your life and it will grow. Like a leaky pen in your pocket, the problem will continue to spread.


Whether it's a stronghold in your own life, or you condoning the sins of someone else because you "love them too much to hurt them," you are only throwing a Band-Aid on a gaping gash.


Don't wait too late. Sometimes we just have to do what's right, no matter how much it hurts, and trust in the Lord to take care of it.







Saturday, November 28, 2015

Thanksgiving on the Streets

Another holiday has come and gone, and for many on the streets it was just a reminder that life, with its twists and turns, had taken them down a road they'd never planned on traveling.


I know there are many men and women out there who will tell you they are right where they want to be. No drama, no rules, no hassle....


But in all of my years of teaching, I never had one student write an essay detailing aspirations of being a homeless person when they grew up.


It just wasn't in the plan, regardless of what they say now.


That is never more evident than on a holiday.


My husband and I decided that we were going to cook and bring plates out this year. We'd taken leftover plates out last year and realized the need for spiritual food as well.


We decided to wait until mid-afternoon since there were a few organizations feeding a noonday lunch.


There weren't as many people roaming by then, but we found a few and shared plates of turkey, dressing, and homemade fudge. We shared encouragement and prayed with them, hoping to be "family" to those without any.


We brought the remaining plates to local stores whose employees missed their own family meals.


We came home and enjoyed our own Thanksgiving meal by candlelight, my reward for cooking and serving others first.


On Friday morning we took out bags of turkey sandwiches, drinks, and more fudge.


We saw many still teeming with the hurt and agony that accompanies a holiday.


Family is first on their minds, and their lips, detailing numbers of kids and grandkids, or sharing childhood stories as if it were yesterday.


There's no place like home for the holidays, and for those without a home, the pain of having lost their families is more than they can bear.

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Project Homeless Connect

Last Friday we participated in a program called Project Homeless Connect in a neighboring county.

In its thirteenth year, this event brings together organizations around the coast to provide free goods and services for the homeless population.

There were free haircuts, clothes, shoes, tents, blankets, and food. Veterinarians were on hand for pet shots and grooming. Housing organizations and social services workers helped men and women explore options.

It was a one-stop shop for the homeless.

Bused in or arriving on foot, these recipients had free rein on anything they needed. Carrying it all was a problem though, and despite the provided bags there was more available than people could carry.

One guy solved the problem beautifully. He had a king-sized pillowcase. Durable and roomy, it held several treats.

I immediately sought out the Event Coordinator to share the idea. We're already organizing a pillowcase drive for next year.

Our organization made SOCKS OF LOVE. An idea from my childhood church sent to me by my mom, these socks were a big hit.

Long tube socks stuffed with a water bottle and the matching sock, they were then filled with crackers, granola bars, mini soaps and shampoos, and candy. Tied with bright red strings these socks had gospel tracts and kid-decorated cards dangling from the top.

It was a joy to hand out and I look forward to hosting the inaugural event in our county in April.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

The Baseball Bat

That baseball bat came into play again.

You know the one. It's been the subject of multiple posts.

Nonchalantly dropped when I appeared unannounced in Tent City one day. Used on multiple women in violent sex-for-drugs altercations. Wielded to ascertain power of younger men on the streets.

Same bat. Same wielder.

Until last night.

I'd been responsible for getting Ronnie and Susan out of the woods and into an apartment. I was completely blindsided when the tales of abuse came in a few weeks later. How did I miss that?

Ronnie sat in church services every Sunday for months. He was the only one who didn't drink or do drugs. I thought he was the victim of circumstances. His family stole his check. His son was dealing drugs out of his house. For someone who catches on pretty quick, I missed that one big time.

Once the truth came out, in broken pieces from a variety of sources, I realized the magnitude of his control. Not only did he control them with physical violence, he was buying the drugs to keep the girls there. Or to woo them back after they'd left broken and bruised.

Susan had enough.

Thriving in a domestic violence shelter, she's finding herself again.

Frances, however, went back.

I'm not surprised though I am disappointed. She's gone to the hospital three times at his hands since I've known her. Jail twice for charges he filed on her.

She assured me she would never go back.
Two days ago she did.

There's no question in my mind as to why.
I haven't seen her but I got a call from Scooter last night.

He'd gone over to take a shower at Ronnie's house. (I'm sure there's much more to this story but I've only heard his side at this point.)

Frances was there, high on spice, and went off on him.

With that baseball bat.

He's in the hospital with multiple broken ribs and bruises.

I was so angry at all of them.

Scooter for refusing to get off the streets.

Frances for what she did to Scooter, but more so for going back to Ronnie's.

Ronnie for being an abusive drug dealer posing as an innocent, ailing old man.

I wanted to go get that bat and smash it into the wall. I hate that bat.

I voiced that thought and caught a disparaging look from my spouse.

I knew it wouldn't solve anything. I'd only be removing a prop.

I'm just frustrated.

Why do I want more for their lives than they do?

Sunday, November 15, 2015

Parenting Guilt: Shake It Off

Throughout our lives we are faced with emotions that result from parenting choices, good and bad.


Whether you were the parent or the child,  the choices were healthy or poor, the emotions good or bad, your life was impacted.


Very few people in life have childhoods with no defining moments.


My own childhood was amazing, more so with the hind-sighted tint of rose-colored glasses, and many of my parents' choices  (active in church, strong work ethic, compassion toward others) instilled strong character qualities in me at an early age.


But they made mistakes as well.


The mistakes affected me as well, though on a much smaller scale. Proportionately I'd estimate that the result of my parents' parenting was 10% negative choices and 90% positive ones.


My mother would probably flip the percentages because, as women, we have an extra x chromosome which harbors an inane amount of the guilt gene.


Most children will eventually come to terms with the effects of poor parenting in their lives. At some point, you must accept responsibility for your own life choices.


We met a guy on the streets. Raised in a string of foster homes, he'd seen unimaginable things by the time he was fifteen. Twenty-five years later he still blames his parents for the mess he is in and drinks every day to escape the pain of a tormented youth.


About a year after we met him, we discovered he had a twin brother.


"Yeah, he's spent his whole life in a bottle, complaining about unfair life is," Twin declared when we met by accident one day.


Same childhood, same circumstances, same upbringing.


Different results.


Twin had also struggled with alcoholism at an early age, but decided that he wanted a better life than the one he'd grown up in.


It is not always easy but you can move past the buried hurts of childhood. It is a decision that only you can make, and committing it to God brings immeasurable peace.


But what about when you are the parent?


I had one of those rare, heart--to-hearts with one of my adult children a few days ago and the subject of her childhood came up. My guilt over their upbringing is astounding and something I have to continually bring to the cross.


My percentages would be more like 50/50.


I'd arrange the entire Little League's Closing Ceremonies and Trophy Presentation one week and be on a suicide watch in the local psychiatric ward the following week. (No relation between the two!)


I was unstable, not yet having comes to terms with childhood abuse and the addictions that followed.


I loved my kids dearly, but I was a mess.


And they suffered.


Throughout this conversation, my also-pragmatic daughter was speaking matter-of-factly.  There was no condemnation, no passive-aggressive guilt.


I even tried to apologize at one point but was quickly brushed off.


This child took ownership of her life at six; she wasn't about to give me responsibility for any of it now.


Nonetheless I felt it.


I have a collage of vacation and everyday photos of my four kids next to my bed. I look at it every night. While these were happy memories, I inevitably feel sad. What I see is not the beach, the zoo, and their great-grandmother's house but the kids I blew off for a quick high, railed at in unjustified anger, and sent to relatives when I needed a break.


They had a roller coaster childhood.


And now, my daughter was telling me that one of her siblings has a significant amount of time she can't remember.


My child has blocked out part of her childhood.


It was THAT traumatic.


I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut.


I'd always said that if I could go back and change one thing in my life, it would be the way I handled her.


She was a difficult child and, despite multiple readings of THE STRONG-WILLED CHILD by James Dobson, I had no idea how to handle her.


So I made a lot of mistakes.


And I feel like I broke her.


Our relationship has since mended, but I know that she is still broken inside. I don't think I knew just how much until this conversation.


I can't fix it.


I want to. I'd give anything to. I'd relive every rape, every attack, every harm done to me if I could just go back and change the moment I hurt my daughter so deeply.


But I can't.


Sadly, she isn't the only one still suffering under the mistakes I made.


I see the life choices they are making and can almost definitively tie the mistakes to an area I failed them in. It is heartbreaking and I want so desperately to make things okay.


I think parenting guilt is as debilitating as any disease known to man.


Yet to allow ourselves to wallow in the guilt only models yet another parenting mistake.


No, it's time now to show them that as responsible adults we take responsibility for our mistakes but we don't let them define us. We cannot change the past.


I can hold their hands and help them through a journey of healing even though I know that I'm partly to blame for the injury.


Or, if they prefer, I can watch and pray from afar.


I am sorry and I have told them that. True remorse comes only from changed behavior and they've seen that too.


It's all I can do.


I wouldn't want my mom to spend her life in  distress over mistakes she made with me.


I don't want my kids to spend their lives in distress over mistakes they'll make with their own kids.


So I absolutely cannot live my life in bondage to my own parenting fails.



Friday, November 13, 2015

Domestic Violence

Today's post is going to be less blog and more PSA.


We brought Susan to a domestic violence shelter two weeks ago. We may have saved her life. While she was in danger every time he physically harmed her, she was in a greater danger of drinking and drugging herself to death just to deal with day-to-day life.


She is now sober and once again discovering herself.


For ten years she had lived under one man's thumb, being beaten then plied with drugs every time she'd leave. He had police connections so her fear kept her from seeking help.


She finally had enough. Doctors told her she'd die if she didn't quit drinking and she knew she couldn't live unless she kept drinking.


But she finally took that step.


If you, or someone you know, is in a similar situation, please take that step.


You can go through our ministry if you aren't comfortable calling a domestic violence shelter directly. When we pulled Susan out, the official word was that she was going to rehab. No-one knows, including the boyfriend, where she really went.


You can reach me at 228-623-0387.


Don't wait til it's too late.


(Unfortunately we have preached two funerals for women who didn't think he'd go THAT far.)

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Life...With Bumpers?

My friend Mikelyn and I went bowling yesterday. It was my first time in years and I was quite rusty. After a few gutter balls, I begged for those bumpers they put up for kids' birthday parties. Surely I could break 100 with those!


While catching up on our busy lives, we wondered aloud what our lives would be like with bumpers. Marriage and motherhood go hand in hand with mistakes and we'd made our share of them.


Wouldn't life be nice with bumpers? Mikelyn mused.


After thinking about it for a minute, I decided No, it wouldn't.


Just think about it. If all of your mistakes could be corrected and ricochet back toward the mark, you might get a false sense of security.


There'd be no real consequences and no way to try harder the next time.


You'd go through life never knowing real failure..or success. Was it by accident? Or was your accomplishment all your own?


There are qualities I have now that took years to amass. I'm more patient, less self-absorbed. (I said less, not UN, for family members feeling the need to contribute their two cents!)


I will always be a work-in-progress.


And that's okay.


So no bumpers for me.


Except in bowling.


I still need those!

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Salute to Veterans...Real and Imagined

Happy Veterans Day!


To all who've served, and to the families of our servicemen and women, I want to say thank you.


Your service is often taken for granted or underappreciated but it is why we are in The Land of The Free.


Homeless Coalitions have marked veterans as the top demographic group in prioritizing needs. The goal of the Gulf Coast coalition is to have all local homeless veterans housed by the end of the year.


With Eric, they reached this goal.


Eric was the vet I wrote about a few weeks ago. Mounds of red tape and V.A. backlog drug out a fairly simple process and, after a year, he'd given up all hope.


Nine months in, I was discouraged when I mentioned the delay to director of the coalition.


"No, he's been housed."


"What?" Surely there was some mix-up. I visited his tent twice a week. I knew where he lived. Housed people don't camp in Tent City for the s'mores.


"Right here," she read off his name, DOB, and social security number. An organization assigned to help him marked him as housed.


I came unglued.


I may get mad at my homeless guys, but I'm also very protective of them. This organization thought they'd look good on paper but not do their job?!!


After initially telling me they didn't have him marked as housed, then trying to say someone else had the same name (and DOB and SS, hmmm....), they finally (without admitting guilt) amended the paperwork.


I'd lit a fire and I held that match there for the next three months.


The V.A. was actually very helpful once I became involved, and the original organization started the ball rolling on their end as well. I talked to them both twice a week and even though there were delays, communication stayed open and he moved in right as I went on vacation.


Today was my first day to see him. Having moved nearly an hour away (but next to the V.A.) I'd dropped by once before but he wasn't home. Today, fittingly Veteran's Day, a friend and I caught him at home and we unloaded dishes, groceries, and clothes.


In the last few months, every homeless person I've visited in their new apartment had a home that resembled their homeless camp. Trash, beer bottles, food, dirty clothes littered the floor. I wondered if one could ever actually get out of that mode.


I found out today that the answer is YES.


Eric's place was immaculate. There wasn't any trash anywhere, his new bed was perfectly made up, and his new furniture (shared by neighboring tenants) looked amazing. He was clean-shaven and sober and had a new lease on life.


I was so excited. It is that rare fruit of my labor that the Lord allows me to see on occasion that gives me fuel to continue on.


It is great that I had such a high to rest on since my other two "vet" experiences today were disheartening.


Colonel Robert Sharp, as he calls himself, was out professing his service to mankind today. He "has not reported" this year so he "doesn't know what his duty will be" but he stands and stares at the sky for hours each day as part of his service. I think he truly believes he is a veteran, though.


Pitbull, on the other hand, is extremely lucid and knew exactly what he was doing when he bought an Army t-shirt and cap and headed to the off-ramp of I-10 today. Pitbull has never served in the military but he knows how to play the game.


Having  a son, as well as many other family members who've served or are currently serving in the military, I was offended. It is probably the most upset I've ever gotten with Pitbull, who by the way, was the very first homeless person I helped after moving here and the first step toward it turning into a full-time ministry.


I had to remind myself of that today.


Love the unloveable.


Even when they are in fake military gear.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Can You Tell Me How to Get...How to Get to Sesame Street?

There's one reason I need to get to Sesame Street...and it's not Big Bird.


It's the SUNNY DAYS...chasing the clouds away...that I desperately need to take up permanent residence in my life.


I'd been under a storm cloud for days without even a ray of light poking through.


All of the godly wisdom I'd been dispensing for months flew out the window, snatched away as easily as taking candy from a baby.


Which is fitting because I was acting like an overgrown toddler, expecting the world to shut down until I was ready to come back out and play.


I didn't WANT to talk to anyone.


I didn't WANT to pray.


I didn't WANT to read my Bible.


I didn't WANT to let go of offenses.


And I CERTAINLY didn't want my husband telling me how I wasn't in the Spirit.


I knew that.


And I didn't care.


Well, I did care...but I couldn't seem to change my mood.


It wasn't that easy.


So I withdrew.


I excelled in Words With Friends. I finished three novels and binge-watched two series on DVD.


I did fulfill prior commitments, albeit begrudgingly.


Mostly I stayed home and wondered how I got here. I'd had a wonderful vacation and should've returned refreshed and renewed.


Instead I came home acutely aware of the sacrifices I'd made in a life of mission conditions. The air was out, the washer was broken, four of the eight windows leaked. Not just drip-drip-drip, but there ought not even be glass in them for all the water coming in my house.


I wanted to turn my car around and go back to Mommy's.


I was second-guessing everything and in the midst of the biggest pity party ever.


Surely God hated me. This was His plan. To break me. To get me to this incredible place of servitude and say, "Ha! Ha! You really thought I could use YOU?!!"


The thing was, I knew this wasn't true. I knew where the attack was coming from.


And I did care. I just couldn't seem to get rid of this dark cloud over me.


After a few days I realized it wasn't about the windows, or the air, or the washer. (This was painfully obvious when all three were fixed and I still had the dark cloud looming overhead.)


My prayer life was still suffering but I attempted to find answers.


What is it? I don't even know, Lord, what is wrong with me... 


The answer came in startling realizations and remembrances of prior lessons (apparently unlearned):


  • When you are in full-time ministry, a vacation away from the ministry should not be a vacation from the Lord. Taking off your armor leaves you vulnerable and ill-prepared...
  • Losing sight of thankfulness and gratitude is the quickest way to allow circumstances steal your joy..
  • Getting hurt (by friends, family, co-workers--or in my case, a church member) isn't an excuse to retaliate by withholding godly love. "I'm not hurt because I don't care anymore" was a way of self-preservation and it felt wrong every time I said it.
  • The holiday season is about the birth of Christ, not about gifts or decorations, and I've spent many years with a joy scale directly proportionate to my Christmas spending budget.
  • Confusion is one of Satan's greatest tools. In the midst of discussions about the future direction of the homeless ministry, there are some hard decisions to make and there are often differing opinions. I've allowed the confusion to cloud not only my mind, but my heart as well. 
As I began to see WHY the storm cloud had come and why it had STAYED, I was left simply with a choice.


Is this how I wanted to live my life? With a self-imposed storm cloud lingering over my life, albeit with great justification for remaining.


No, it wasn't.


I expected to begin the slow descent out of the darkness. At least a week or two. That's about how long it took me to get into the hole so scientifically speaking, it'd take the same amount of time to get out.


But my God defies science.


As soon as He spoke it, it was done.


Just like that, my sunshine returned.


It actually was that easy.




******************************************************



Friday, November 6, 2015

Ohio: More Than Football

Ohio has more than football going for it in my book.

I just got off the phone with Derek, a dear homeless friend we sent to Ohio via Greyhound. While it didn't work out at his father's house, he did land at a local mission.

Sober for over three months, Derek is attending classes and working towards rehousing.

Which is where I applaud Ohio.

I assumed Section 8 regulations were the same across the nation since it is a federal program. But this isn't the case.

There are varying rules regarding felons.

In Mississippi, convicted felons are ineligible for Section 8 housing regardless of the crime or time served.

Which at one time I agreed with.

But then I met Derek. On disability and unable to work, Derek couldn't afford to maintain housing on his $700/month income and pay utilities, groceries, and household expenses.

So he lived in the woods.

"Tell me," he'd say, "how if I paid my debt to society, I'm still having to pay for my crimes?"

He'd been out of the criminal system for eight years, having served his time for drug-related offenses.

He had a point. It was akin to double jeopardy.

Besides, I'd rather see ex-offenders in homes somewhere than roaming the streets day and night.

But that is apparently a Mississippi dictum.

He is now on the waiting list for Ohio's Section 8 housing.

It may take awhile, but at least he's being given a chance to succeed.




Thursday, November 5, 2015

I'm No Atticus Finch

I spent the day with Scooter yesterday.

He'd been anticipating his court date for two months, alternating between thoughts of running and accepting a sentence that would give him "3 hots and a cot" (prison slang for 3 meals a day and a bed to sleep in, more reward than punishment for those on the street).

Even on the final day he was vacillating, and the torment drove him to pick up a beer after trying to sober up for court.

The second thing I did when I met him by the store was to encourage him to go.

The first thing was to kick the beer over.
(Only for those I love would I do such a thing. The results would be akin to me pulling steak out of my dogs' mouths mid-chew. Not wise!)

But Scooter wanted help. He reminds me of the student who misbehaves just to keep the teacher's attention.

We went to lunch, then Walmart to get the requisite white shirt and socks allowed in the jail.

Scooter is what's known as a frequent flier in the county jail.

By the time we arrived for afternoon court, he was distraught. The charges weren't great: trespassing and a contempt of court. Plus old fines. Life on the streets usually amasses a few trespassing, loitering, and public drunk charges and Scooter has been homeless for almost ten years.

Fines can be reduced by serving time and he figured it'd take 3 months to serve off all his fines. It worked out well, he realized, that he'd serve it during the coldest months of the year.

I sat next to an oft-emotional man who was finally facing his life choices. When he got out of jail he was going to get things together, he decided. Go back to his wife, sober up, meet the grandkids.

An hour in, his name was called.

How do you plead?

Guilty.

But the judge didn't want to remand him to jail just because he walked on the property of a store owner having a bad day.

So he let him go.

The court officer leaned over and said to me, "He's been out there a long time."

I whispered back, "He's going to die out there. Why is he just letting him go?"

I knew why. I think this judge and I have similar hearts. I've spent many days in his courtroom and I've seen his compassion.

But what now?

Scooter came out, bewildered. Part of me wondered if some part of him was looking forward to winter on the inside.

He still has no home, his last campsite destroyed by recent floods. His current abode is a vacant barber shop.

I wonder sometimes if it makes me an accessory to know where homeless guys are encamped if they are breaking and entering.

It doesn't really matter, though.

On the way to court Scooter asked me why I cared so much. About him, about all of them.

I wasn't sure I even knew the answer.

Yes, I'm doing what the Lord has led me to do. But that isn't all.

I love them. I care about them.

Deeply.

Years ago I prayed to have a heart like His.

Maybe this is just a taste of how strongly He feels about His children.

I need to remember this so the next time I'm asked, I'll have an answer.

I love, because He loved.


Monday, November 2, 2015

Gilded Turmoil

I've found myself experiencing troubles lately and relating them to the thought patterns of those on the street.

The only problem with the comparison is that I'm overcoming my struggles with luxuries many cannot afford.

Like my recent vacation extension.

I'd been visiting family in Louisiana and Kansas for the past two weeks while my husband held down the fort back home.

Two days before I was scheduled to return home I got a call from him.

The washer was broken, the air conditioner was broken, one of the dogs had a stomach virus (with no washing machine to clean soiled rags), and, as if that wasn't enough, torrential rains had flooded the area and three of the front windows were leaking extensively.

I was cool, dry, and clean at my mom and dad's house. This was not a burden I wanted to share.

But I came home anyway.

I realized on the way home, dreading my return and selfishly wanting to continue my "me" time, that this is a pattern many of the homeless get into.

You just get so frustrated that you stop trying. One thing goes wrong, then another...

But I didn't suffer. My vacation was extended as we got a discounted rate at the local Holiday Inn.  A church member is doing our laundry and the windows were fixed.

They can't be opened but they don't leak!

The a/c should be fixed tomorrow.

I've done a few things on the streets in the midst of this all.

But not much.

It is hard to get out of the "me" mindset the longer you stay in it.

Once again I am reminded of how I am not that far removed from those on the streets after all.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Church Beating Death..are YOU guilty?

A church in upstate New York has come under fire this week for the beating death of a young man and assault of his brother.


Reports state that the young man admitted to practicing witchcraft and threatened the pastor along with other members of the church.


This allegedly resulted in an hours-long beating session, ostensibly to beat the demons out of this boy.


They tried to handle a spiritual matter physically.


The weapons of our warfare aren't carnal... (2 Corinthians 10:4)


Their fists shouldn't have been their weapon; the sword of the Spirit would have won the battle.


There were no winners here. The parents are facing jail time; a supposed Christian church has incited a media frenzy, and the pastor is under fire for his methods.


Yet how many times do we do the same?


We tackle a spiritual matter in the physical realm.


Anger: Punching your pillow may be a great de-stressor but when you rebuke that anger that dwells inside you with the Word of God you will experience a true and lasting release.


Addiction/Alcoholism: Sobriety chips and Twelve Steps will help you stay clean but if you want to free from the bondage you cannot just be RECOVERED, you must be DELIVERED.


Abuse: Past traumatic abuse causes us to put up walls to protect ourselves. Some speak out as a way of healing; others hide it even deeper. But for some those strongholds remain, even serving as  fuel to survive. God wants us to pull down these strongholds and be free.


That's just the A's...


Reports also say that the church members were unsettled by the man's admission to practicing witchcraft.


I understand. Many are uncomfortable with the literal interpretation of preaching deliverance to the captives. (Luke 4:18)


But God says that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. (1 Samuel 15:23)


Have you never been rebellious? Manipulative?


Even in my Christian walk I find myself manipulating my husband often when I don't get my way. It's not something I laugh about. I know how the Lord sees it and I've worked on this for years.


But I still do it.


So just because I'm not sticking pins in voodoo dolls doesn't mean I'm not just as guilty of practicing witchcraft.


Often when I make statements like this, people will jump in to try and make me feel better.


"Yeah, but you are doing this..." or "But you aren't trying to hurt someone..."


But the Lord says that whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, is guilty of breaking it all. (James 2:10)


I know where I fall short.


And I don't need to think it's okay.


I'm no different from those on the streets.


Or this man in the church practicing witchcraft.


I know he was under the influence of the evil one.


I don't know why this pastor chose a physical approach. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he was misguided. Maybe he was under the influence of Satan as well.


I can't answer the questions as to why this happened.


I can answer this.


Have I ever tried to deal with a spiritual matter physically?


Yes.


Have you?

Monday, October 12, 2015

A Pastor's Heart...With Medea's Mouth


Some have found my candor refreshing.

They appreciate my honesty and willingness to be transparent. They respect my straightforwardness.

Being direct has always been a part of who I am.

It’s also been a part of what gets me in trouble.

Sometimes I say TOO much.

Like the time I told a girl in an abusive relationship to “wipe the doe-eyed  Bambi look off {her} face”  when she denied knowing why I was there to check on her.

I had channeled TomTom from 13 Going on 30 and hadn’t realized the words were coming out of my mouth until it was too late.

The girl recoiled as if I’d struck the latest blow and I was positively sick to my stomach.

Not even because of what I said because, quite frankly, she’d protected him to the point where it was literally destroying her life.

But her reaction was a mixture of hurt and confusion and I was responsible for that.

I did apologize, though she was not going to accept it.

This allowed her to continue playing the victim, now with another attacker to condemn.

She called everyone, including my husband, to complain. Most, EXCLUDING my husband, found that I’d been very tame in my approach and shouldn’t worry about it.

He, though, had taught me what it means to have a pastor’s heart.  And while he’d thought the same things regarding this girl, he would’ve never called her out.

His philosophy is to plow around a stump until it falls over. This causes the least damage.

I plow around too. Until I get impatient.

Then I throw a stick of dynamite on the stump and back up.

I can see where his way might be better.

But is it the only way?

Sometimes I think my very frank conversations (the ones where I’m not quoting a rom-com mean girl) are what has allowed me to reach people on the streets and develop much deeper relationships.

I have a pastor’s heart…with Medea’s mouth. (Minus the cursing!)

Medea would tell you in two seconds flat what she thinks of you and what you need to be doing, and she will cut off any bull and gore you with the horns.

I don’t want to gore anyone but I don’t want to mince words either.

You have today. That’s all you’re guaranteed.

To paraphrase Garth Brooks...

 If tomorrow never comes…

Will you know how much He loves you?

Will you know how much He cares?

Or will it be too late?

 

Saturday, October 10, 2015

A Raging Debate...Which Side Are You On?


Lately I’ve come under fire for my stance in helping panhandlers.

Some think I’m wrong for not carte blanche helping those in need. Others have accused me of not being a true Christian.

I generally let those remarks glide by, knowing that serving God is enmity with the world.

But I am human and I occasionally let the flesh get in the way. I’m also a woman, and we tend to seek validation from others.

Ultimately, though, my ministry is about Christ so I soldier on.

However, when a questionable comment came from a dear sister of faith, it gave me pause.

Was I wrong?

Her comment was that we should help those in need and let God judge their intent.

For the most part I agree.

If I had a homeless ministry that only helped the homeless who were doing well, it wouldn’t be much of a ministry. In fact, it would probably cease to exist.

The men and women out there that I see on a regular basis are angry, addicted, hurt, abusive, and/or drunk. That isn’t the core of who they are; it certainly isn’t how God made them. We are fearfully and wonderfully made in His image. My job is to help them see the person God intended for them to be. To believe in His promises. To strive for a life pleasing to Him.

And I have the tools to help them obtain that life.

Some aren’t ready. For them, I just maintain a relationship of trust, so that when they are ready they know where to turn.

These are the homeless you DON’T see.

They are the ones in the woods, in shelters, in abandoned houses, in soup kitchens, and behind stores.

They are in need, lost and hurting, and the reason the Lord allowed my ministry to grow.

Occasionally they panhandle.

But to assume all homeless people panhandle is faulty reasoning.

So is assuming all panhandlers are homeless.

Below are snippets from a few conversations I’ve had regarding panhandling:

“It’s my turn to go panhandle tonight to make enough money for dinner for everyone [in Tent City}.”

“I’m going to go fly a sign so I can get a new radio and batteries.”

“I’m going to stay out there {panhandling} until I get enough for a 12-pack.”

“I’ve got to make $200 today before I go back to court or they’ll lock me up.”

These people were all actually homeless.  And while some people would’ve been bothered by how the money was spent, others wouldn’t. These were still needs, at least for them.

Then there were those who weren’t homeless but truly in need:

“I can make more holding a sign for an hour than working for 8 hours at McDonald’s. This way I don’t have to pay for child care.”

“My husband spent every dime he made on drugs so I had to go stand on the corner with a sign just to have money for groceries for the kids.”

Sad, but this happens often.  These people have homes but they are included in my homeless ministry because they are just as much in need.

And then there are the others.

These are the ones I warn against.

It is tough when you are at a red light or driving by at 50 mph to assess a panhandling situation. Even without a sign, if someone has put themselves in a high-traffic, high-visibility area, they are “panhandling.”

You have a split second to make a decision. Help or not?

Some say don’t help at all. One of the most beloved mission directors on the Coast has a rule: “If they are panhandling, I won’t feed them.” Her theory is that if they are able to panhandle, they are able to work.

Before you assume she isn’t a good Christian, let me tell you a little more about her. She feeds 200 people three times a week, conducts church services, English classes, and job training. She refers people for jobs, arranges transportation, and calls local neighbors when she receives more donated food than she can use. I’ve seen her offer to watch a woman’s six kids while she went on a job interview and fix bicycle tires and chains.

This woman is a force of nature and I feel blessed to know her.

That doesn’t mean that I automatically agreed with her stance. Because I didn’t.

Until now.

Maybe it takes being out on the streets, or being in this field of ministry, to get a true picture of what really goes on. To see the ramifications of helping someone you shouldn’t.

Some will say, “Well I gave this person $20. That’s between her and God what she does with it.”

The problem is, it’s not just between her and God.

Sometimes it affects an entire family.

Take Tamera, for instance.

Tamera has two kids. The children’s father isn’t in their lives but he pays monthly child support.

She spends every penny of it on drugs. Along with their food stamp card which is traded for cash each month.

The kids have never lived with her, though according to the court she is the primary custodial parent. Her mom has been raising them since birth, with Tamera in and out of their lives. They are on a fixed income and while these grandparents love their grandchildren, they are old and tired and utterly brokenhearted.

When Tamera runs out of drug money, she sits on the interstate off-ramp with a HOMELESS NEED FOOD sign.

She doesn’t need a home, or food, or cash.

She needs to go home, sober up, and be a mother.

When the kids were younger, she’d bring them along to panhandle. NO-ONE can resist a mom on the streets with kids. The truth is, very few shelters  turn away a mom with kids so to see one on the streets is suspect to begin with.

Her oldest daughter, now a teen, is starting to rebel. She’s following in her mother’s footsteps and has already been picked up by the police once.

The youngest daughter is in counseling after several suicidal comments.

This whole story came out after I visited her in the hospital, two days after she nearly died on a bad batch of drugs.

It’s been three months and I saw her just yesterday, strung out and weaving down the street with her latest boyfriend.

Every twenty-dollar bill pressed into her hand is one more needle in her arm and one more nail in her family’s coffin.

As horrible as this is, I witnessed something even worse this week.

The effects on a church.

Last week we helped a pair of sisters move from one hotel to another, even paying for one night’s stay. Later we found out that they were professional panhandlers and had fabricated their entire story.

For us, we just moved on. My husband and I were in agreement and we knew we’d done all the Lord wanted us to do.

For another local church, it wasn’t so clear.

Some members had helped them move TO the hotel we’d moved them out of, doing the same thing we had just two days earlier. They’d become suspicious when the girls told them they’d gotten a job at a nearby restaurant because the manager was a friend and he wasn’t hiring.

When their pastor encountered the girls, he also wanted to help.

He told the church he wanted to pay for two weeks in the hotel for the girls and rent an apartment for them out of the church’s benevolence fund.

Some church members protested.

This is a pretty small community and many people had already encountered the girls. Knowing their stories weren’t consistent, they had reservations.

They also had needs within their own church.

A debate ensued over helping church members who were in need of groceries and utility assistance over the girls who were clearly not telling the truth.

Those opposed to helping the girls weren’t opposed to helping the homeless or those truly in need. They were just opposed to giving money to these girls.

The pastor did it anyway. He didn’t care what their intent was; he just wanted to help.

Five families have left the church over this.

What people fail to realize is that Satan is EVERYWHERE. Including behind some of the homeless faces on the streets. 

Yes, we may be entertaining angels unaware. We may also be entertaining fallen angels.

The devil destroyed that church through these girls.

Do I think they were aware of the spiritual havoc they caused? Probably not.

But they weren’t totally innocent. They were running a scam and opened the doors to let Satan use them.

In this church both sides were seeking to serve God.

One by helping anyway, even if the motives weren’t pure, to minister to a lost and dying world.

The other sought to be wise and to abstain from all evil.

There were no winners.

Unless you count the devil.

I bet they didn’t even realize when they drew up sides that HE was the real opposition.

And they both lost.

So I guess it doesn’t matter which side of this debate you’re on, after all.
As long as you recognize the true enemy.