One of the things that happens on the streets a lot is a testimony of the miraculous power of God's love.
From five, ten, fifteen years ago.
They are holding on to a mountaintop experience with the Lord because it's all they have.
I know some preachers and church members as well whose messages are solely about what the Lord did for them years ago as if they are in some sort of warped universe where time has stood still.
Jesus is the great I AM...not the great I WAS.
I'm not discounting mountaintop experiences or incredible testimonies of deliverance. I have my own.
And had I not been brought through those dark times, I wouldn't be where I am today.
But it isn't enough.
We put expiration dates on milk and meat, on medications and ID cards, and yet we want to rehash the same stale testimony as our personal witness because it's all we have.
I was slapped with this reality almost fourteen years ago.
I was riding with Lee, the uncle of another child in my daughter Kelsey's 3rd grade class, on a field trip. I'd just met him a few minutes before we left in our parent caravan behind the school bus.
At this point I had been saved and delivered from my addiction for just a few months, but after faithfully serving the Lord some circumstances had opened the door to a profound hurt and I'd recoiled tightly.
After exchanging initial pleasantries, our conversation turned toward the Lord. For ten minutes I went on and on about what the Lord had done for me and what I had done for the Lord. About how things WERE and how I WAS.
He listened politely and when I finally stopped speaking, he gently said, "Okay, so I hear about what you DID for the Lord but what are you doing NOW?"
I'll be honest here. It's like the world faded to black at that moment. I remember we were in the drive-through lane at Burger King getting lunch for us and the kids. I remember nothing else after. It was as if the Lord Himself had just spoken to me. I do not remember getting the food, the actual field trip, or the drive home.
The Lord had chastised me and I had nowhere to hide.
It was another decade before I did anything about it.
I'd give the same testimony. It was stale; I rehashed a singular experience that got older each time I told it.
But those words from the field trip remained.
There's nothing wrong with sharing your "Road to Damascus" revelation and transformation. But if you are still standing on the side of that road, you've missed the point.
Paul didn't stand there and shout about what Jesus had done for him. He went on and shared the gospel of Christ. His experience on the road to Damascus was not his sole experience with God.
It wouldn't be mine either.
I'll never forget those words. They are imprinted on my soul as a reminder that God is not a past-tense God. He is ever-present and our lives should be a testimony of what He is doing today.
I never saw Lee again. Maybe he was put in my life at that exact moment just to deliver that message. I didn't want to acknowledge it right then; I bucked up when he said it and got a little offended. How dare he belittle the mighty experience I had with the Lord? But I received it. Somewhere in the depths of my spirit, I knew. It was truth.
Eventually I did something about it. And now there's a new testimony each day.
Don't rest on something the Lord did for you months, or even years ago. You wouldn't drink stale milk or sip flat soda. Is your relationship with God not more valuable than beverages?
His promises are new each and every day.
So should your testimony be.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Monday, September 28, 2015
Cheer Up, Charlie
I found myself in need of the "Cheer Up, Charlie" song today.
The tradition started years ago when my children were small. An avid Willy Wonka fan (the Gene Wilder version) as a kid, the songs from the movie were ingrained in me and popped out randomly.
"Don't care how..I want it N-O-O-O-W-W-W," Veruca sang as she fell down the "bad egg" chute. I'd attempt to thwart temper tantrums by belting this song. No, I wasn't the one worried about being embarrassed in the grocery store checkout lane when my kids were small. They were.
Especially the time we were at IHOP.
Kelsey was ten and upset about something only ten year olds could be devastated over. My words of comfort were anything but so I slid a napkin to her side of the table. When she opened it, she found the words CHEER UP, CHARLIE.
I'm not sure exactly what happened next- there are differing stories from her brother and sisters- but I think the napkin somehow ended up on the floor under the table.
Two minutes later, Kelsey joined it.
Because what else could I do? If reading the words didn't help her, there was no other choice.
I had to sing it. And with flair. (I did have a theatrical background.)
"Cheer up, Charlie..Give me a smile...What happened to that smile I used to know
Don't you know your grin has always been my sunshine....Let that sunshine show"
Nearby diners were laughing; my other kids were acting like they'd accidentally sat at the wrong table and Kelsey was nowhere to be found.
When she re-emerged she had a smile the size of Texas (forced, of course) but for these last thirteen years she has been a lovely dinner companion.
So over the years it became a song of love, a source of comfort to my kids in their time of need. Whether they were eight with skinned knees or eighteen with a bad day, I'd sing the song.
Just last week, I sang it to my adult son, a former Marine-turned-police officer. Even big boys need their mommies.
But today, this mommy needed to hear it herself.
It was a coveted rainy day Monday so I should have been as content as a fat cat with a bowl of milk. But I wasn't.
It had been a hectic three weeks without a single day off. At times fraught with tension and at others, just super busy. I've been trying to get a few days together in a row that I could leave town and visit my grandmother, who doctors say won't be with us much longer. It hasn't worked out and to make matters worse, my husband and I have had to pick up the slack from those who have bailed on commitments made to the church. It has been exhausting and I've struggled with becoming discouraged.
I also learned that husbands don't take too kindly to being penciled in.
So I decided to slow down. I didn't have any scheduled appointments today so I decided to not address any "pop-ups" either. There was only one phone call, but I politely declined. Most times I'm only one in a Rolodex of resources anyway.
The problem is, I don't do SLOW very well.
I operate at two speeds, full-steam ahead and standstill.
And so when I slowed down, I came to a complete halt.
At first it scared me. But then I realized that all my be-bopping on mountaintops is going to make me weary every time.
We grow in the valley. We get rest in the cleft of the rock.
Maybe one day I'll learn to walk to these places of rest instead of hurling myself off a spiritual cliff.
But for now, I'll hang in this valley and rest.
The tradition started years ago when my children were small. An avid Willy Wonka fan (the Gene Wilder version) as a kid, the songs from the movie were ingrained in me and popped out randomly.
"Don't care how..I want it N-O-O-O-W-W-W," Veruca sang as she fell down the "bad egg" chute. I'd attempt to thwart temper tantrums by belting this song. No, I wasn't the one worried about being embarrassed in the grocery store checkout lane when my kids were small. They were.
Especially the time we were at IHOP.
Kelsey was ten and upset about something only ten year olds could be devastated over. My words of comfort were anything but so I slid a napkin to her side of the table. When she opened it, she found the words CHEER UP, CHARLIE.
I'm not sure exactly what happened next- there are differing stories from her brother and sisters- but I think the napkin somehow ended up on the floor under the table.
Two minutes later, Kelsey joined it.
Because what else could I do? If reading the words didn't help her, there was no other choice.
I had to sing it. And with flair. (I did have a theatrical background.)
"Cheer up, Charlie..Give me a smile...What happened to that smile I used to know
Don't you know your grin has always been my sunshine....Let that sunshine show"
Nearby diners were laughing; my other kids were acting like they'd accidentally sat at the wrong table and Kelsey was nowhere to be found.
When she re-emerged she had a smile the size of Texas (forced, of course) but for these last thirteen years she has been a lovely dinner companion.
So over the years it became a song of love, a source of comfort to my kids in their time of need. Whether they were eight with skinned knees or eighteen with a bad day, I'd sing the song.
Just last week, I sang it to my adult son, a former Marine-turned-police officer. Even big boys need their mommies.
But today, this mommy needed to hear it herself.
It was a coveted rainy day Monday so I should have been as content as a fat cat with a bowl of milk. But I wasn't.
It had been a hectic three weeks without a single day off. At times fraught with tension and at others, just super busy. I've been trying to get a few days together in a row that I could leave town and visit my grandmother, who doctors say won't be with us much longer. It hasn't worked out and to make matters worse, my husband and I have had to pick up the slack from those who have bailed on commitments made to the church. It has been exhausting and I've struggled with becoming discouraged.
I also learned that husbands don't take too kindly to being penciled in.
So I decided to slow down. I didn't have any scheduled appointments today so I decided to not address any "pop-ups" either. There was only one phone call, but I politely declined. Most times I'm only one in a Rolodex of resources anyway.
The problem is, I don't do SLOW very well.
I operate at two speeds, full-steam ahead and standstill.
And so when I slowed down, I came to a complete halt.
At first it scared me. But then I realized that all my be-bopping on mountaintops is going to make me weary every time.
We grow in the valley. We get rest in the cleft of the rock.
Maybe one day I'll learn to walk to these places of rest instead of hurling myself off a spiritual cliff.
But for now, I'll hang in this valley and rest.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
You Can Just Call Me....
Everyone has a name on the street.
Budweiser, T-Bone, Rooster are three of my favorite guys. But I know the Tom, Jake, and Marcus behind the street names.
They always give me their "real" names in private and their street names in public.
At first, I found it a little weird. Were they trying to scare people? Did the nickname come after a stunt or incident? Were the monikers terms of endearment?
Then my mind went back to 1989. Before it became known as Taylor Swift's fifth album (and year of her birth), it was the year I experienced my own street life.
And I had a nickname.
Goldie, short for Goldilocks, and I loved it. Goldie had no fears. She was cool and she was fun.
She didn't worry about any fears or about being hurt. SHE did the hurting.
It was almost like a split personality.
The girl who'd been molested, raped, and ridiculed could safely hide and this new "personality" was in control.
Little did I know at the time that my fear-no-evil persona was actually evil incarnate.
I remember the time well. I hung out at a seedy bar where a girl with my upbringing was treated like a princess. Want to feel good about yourself? Go find a group of people worse off than you.
These guys were on the local Crimestoppers segment nightly.
Once, a girl gave me an envelope with the instructions to open it only if she didn't return. She was headed out of town with one of the mugshot owners above. Apparently she wanted to point police in the right direction if she was killed along the way.
She returned.
I never opened the envelope.
Another time I was forced into the driver's seat after the guy I was traveling with was pulled over. He had a suspended license and was on parole; I took the fall. (I've met many women in prison since then serving time for someone else's crime.)
The alcohol and the drugs buried the feelings of guilt, shame, and fear. I believed I'd overcome the past hurts when all I really did was stuff them down farther and pile new ones on top.
I might have thought I was in control but Satan was my puppet master.
At a party I was handcuffed to a bed and raped.
At another party I was held down and shot up with heroin.
A mentally ill drug dealer stalked me at school and work, threatening if he couldn't have me, no-one would.
Sometimes I wasn't a victim at all. Like the time I went to a party to buy drugs and didn't leave that house for two months. I lived on a diet of cocaine and water.
For the record, I met that drug dealer through a fellow N.A. member. The best "connections" can be found in the signatures and phone numbers of A.A. and N.A. books. That was the first thing I burned when I got saved.
My nickname also served another purpose.
It allowed me to separate from the abominable things I was participating in. It wasn't me; it was Goldie.
There was no mental illness. It was a spiritual battle, through and through. I'd just joined the wrong team.
When I'd go home, I was just me. I'd sip hot chocolate and play SORRY! with my sister, help Mom in the kitchen and enjoy swing talks with Dad.
But on the streets, I was still Goldilocks.
I wasn't sure which one I liked more, which one I wanted to be. I now know the battle in my head was mirroring the war for my soul.
So when I first realized everyone on the streets had two names, I was confused.
But then, I remembered.
And I understood.
They are having the same battles in their heads while the same war is being fought for their souls.
And THAT is why I do what I do.
Budweiser, T-Bone, Rooster are three of my favorite guys. But I know the Tom, Jake, and Marcus behind the street names.
They always give me their "real" names in private and their street names in public.
At first, I found it a little weird. Were they trying to scare people? Did the nickname come after a stunt or incident? Were the monikers terms of endearment?
Then my mind went back to 1989. Before it became known as Taylor Swift's fifth album (and year of her birth), it was the year I experienced my own street life.
And I had a nickname.
Goldie, short for Goldilocks, and I loved it. Goldie had no fears. She was cool and she was fun.
She didn't worry about any fears or about being hurt. SHE did the hurting.
It was almost like a split personality.
The girl who'd been molested, raped, and ridiculed could safely hide and this new "personality" was in control.
Little did I know at the time that my fear-no-evil persona was actually evil incarnate.
I remember the time well. I hung out at a seedy bar where a girl with my upbringing was treated like a princess. Want to feel good about yourself? Go find a group of people worse off than you.
These guys were on the local Crimestoppers segment nightly.
Once, a girl gave me an envelope with the instructions to open it only if she didn't return. She was headed out of town with one of the mugshot owners above. Apparently she wanted to point police in the right direction if she was killed along the way.
She returned.
I never opened the envelope.
Another time I was forced into the driver's seat after the guy I was traveling with was pulled over. He had a suspended license and was on parole; I took the fall. (I've met many women in prison since then serving time for someone else's crime.)
The alcohol and the drugs buried the feelings of guilt, shame, and fear. I believed I'd overcome the past hurts when all I really did was stuff them down farther and pile new ones on top.
I might have thought I was in control but Satan was my puppet master.
At a party I was handcuffed to a bed and raped.
At another party I was held down and shot up with heroin.
A mentally ill drug dealer stalked me at school and work, threatening if he couldn't have me, no-one would.
Sometimes I wasn't a victim at all. Like the time I went to a party to buy drugs and didn't leave that house for two months. I lived on a diet of cocaine and water.
For the record, I met that drug dealer through a fellow N.A. member. The best "connections" can be found in the signatures and phone numbers of A.A. and N.A. books. That was the first thing I burned when I got saved.
My nickname also served another purpose.
It allowed me to separate from the abominable things I was participating in. It wasn't me; it was Goldie.
There was no mental illness. It was a spiritual battle, through and through. I'd just joined the wrong team.
When I'd go home, I was just me. I'd sip hot chocolate and play SORRY! with my sister, help Mom in the kitchen and enjoy swing talks with Dad.
But on the streets, I was still Goldilocks.
I wasn't sure which one I liked more, which one I wanted to be. I now know the battle in my head was mirroring the war for my soul.
So when I first realized everyone on the streets had two names, I was confused.
But then, I remembered.
And I understood.
They are having the same battles in their heads while the same war is being fought for their souls.
And THAT is why I do what I do.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Are You There, God? It's Me, Gigi...
Judy Blume tapped into every female prepubescent mind in the 70's with her best-selling book, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. Millions of young girls everywhere knew they weren't alone after reading that book.
Sometimes we have the same thought.
Are you there, God?
Anyone with a measure of faith KNOWS the answer. An undeniable YES.
It may feel as if He has moved away, but that is generally the result of our sin and our pulling away from Him.
For me, it isn't always Are you there? It's more like....
Are you going to let him/her get away with that? When someone hurts or attacks me, I want God to smite them. However, Luke 6:28 says to bless those who curse you, and pray for them who despitefully use you. So, I pray for them. With my mouth. But my heart is saying, Hey God... remember those plagues?
Did you hear that? This one is usually reserved for my husband's insensitive comments. My feelings get hurt and like a petulant child, I stomp off to the throne and beg Him to do something about it. No plagues, just a little spiritual chastising that results in him dropping to his knees and begging for my forgiveness. It's childish and immature and a terrible habit I'm working hard on breaking.
Can you forget I did that? The short answer is yes, He will cast it as far as the east is from the west. BUT there's some confession first. And repentance. He isn't going to just turn a blind eye to willful sin.
Many Christians want the promises of God while still doing the things of the devil.
Then there are the perpetual victims.
I see these often on the streets. I've seen them in the church too.
You know the ones. My dog was hit by a car and he's the only one who ever loved me, not like my parents who divorced when I was six and my wife who left me just because I lost my job. Everything bad happens to me; it's like I'm cursed.
Or, My doctor says I'm lucky to be alive but I'm just in so much pain and I asked God to make me better but I guess He just doesn't care about me.
Two recent encounters illuminated this unwillingness to confess and believe.
After revival services one night this week we went out to eat at a Moe's. There outside the store was a guy with a suitcase, pacing back and forth.
I was going to try to get his story when he came barreling over to the car, sharing his life's story before we were even in park.
My wife got mad because I drank just one time. Well, two days in a row. Well, maybe three. But I didn't drink before that and she says I didn't love her just because I drank for 3 days or maybe 4 and it's not my fault and can you believe she'd kick me out and this program kicked me out for [using the restroom] behind the church because I couldn't wait til the secretary got back. It's just my luck. I did nothing wrong. My wife is wrong. The preacher was wrong. The director was wrong. Now I gotta live on the street.
A couple of phone calls later I had a clearer picture. Whatever the truth was in the program, this was a pattern he'd been in for six years. The it's-not-my-fault pattern seems to go back even farther.
He's begging for help but he didn't want real help. He wanted me to call and manipulate his wife into coming to get him. (I wouldn't and she didn't.) I wanted to tell him to wake up and stop blaming everyone else for his problems.
He was too lit to have understood so I didn't waste my breath. I did give him my card with the names and numbers of several missions. He called the next day to tell me he was headed to one of them. Sadly, I'm not optimistic. He refuses to accept responsibility for anything.
Another girl called this morning. She and I had gotten close when she was at a shelter here in Mississippi. She's having some problems and many are not by her own doing.
Sometimes this is even worse.
When we mess up, we repent and give our lives to God. This is why some drug addicts turn into mighty men and women of God.
We KNOW we are sinners.
But for some, the need to repent is harder to see.
Carolina is one of those people.
All these drug addicts are doing just fine yet I'm a hard-working single mom and nothing works out for me. Why is God blessing them and not helping me?
I've heard this from her for a year.
Because she doesn't drink or do drugs, she thinks there's no need for repentance.
This is why a lot of churchgoers will die and go to hell.
Make no mistake. There is but ONE WAY to Heaven and that is through Jesus Christ.
If you don't believe He died for your sins and accept Him as your Savior, you will not have eternal life.
Good people don't go to Heaven; saved people do.
On the streets you hear a lot of things.
God doesn't care about me. God doesn't know who I am. I stopped caring what God thought when (fill in the blank) happened.
Or worse.
God made me; He's okay with me just like this.
No, sweetie, He's not.
It's called sin and yours traces back to a man named Adam and a fruit tree.
And God was no more okay with that than He is with you living in your sin.
That's why we have Jesus.
But knowing WHO HE IS and KNOWING Him are two different things.
Once you KNOW Him, you know He is always there.
You won't even have to ask.
Sometimes we have the same thought.
Are you there, God?
Anyone with a measure of faith KNOWS the answer. An undeniable YES.
It may feel as if He has moved away, but that is generally the result of our sin and our pulling away from Him.
For me, it isn't always Are you there? It's more like....
Are you going to let him/her get away with that? When someone hurts or attacks me, I want God to smite them. However, Luke 6:28 says to bless those who curse you, and pray for them who despitefully use you. So, I pray for them. With my mouth. But my heart is saying, Hey God... remember those plagues?
Did you hear that? This one is usually reserved for my husband's insensitive comments. My feelings get hurt and like a petulant child, I stomp off to the throne and beg Him to do something about it. No plagues, just a little spiritual chastising that results in him dropping to his knees and begging for my forgiveness. It's childish and immature and a terrible habit I'm working hard on breaking.
Can you forget I did that? The short answer is yes, He will cast it as far as the east is from the west. BUT there's some confession first. And repentance. He isn't going to just turn a blind eye to willful sin.
Many Christians want the promises of God while still doing the things of the devil.
Then there are the perpetual victims.
I see these often on the streets. I've seen them in the church too.
You know the ones. My dog was hit by a car and he's the only one who ever loved me, not like my parents who divorced when I was six and my wife who left me just because I lost my job. Everything bad happens to me; it's like I'm cursed.
Or, My doctor says I'm lucky to be alive but I'm just in so much pain and I asked God to make me better but I guess He just doesn't care about me.
Two recent encounters illuminated this unwillingness to confess and believe.
After revival services one night this week we went out to eat at a Moe's. There outside the store was a guy with a suitcase, pacing back and forth.
I was going to try to get his story when he came barreling over to the car, sharing his life's story before we were even in park.
My wife got mad because I drank just one time. Well, two days in a row. Well, maybe three. But I didn't drink before that and she says I didn't love her just because I drank for 3 days or maybe 4 and it's not my fault and can you believe she'd kick me out and this program kicked me out for [using the restroom] behind the church because I couldn't wait til the secretary got back. It's just my luck. I did nothing wrong. My wife is wrong. The preacher was wrong. The director was wrong. Now I gotta live on the street.
A couple of phone calls later I had a clearer picture. Whatever the truth was in the program, this was a pattern he'd been in for six years. The it's-not-my-fault pattern seems to go back even farther.
He's begging for help but he didn't want real help. He wanted me to call and manipulate his wife into coming to get him. (I wouldn't and she didn't.) I wanted to tell him to wake up and stop blaming everyone else for his problems.
He was too lit to have understood so I didn't waste my breath. I did give him my card with the names and numbers of several missions. He called the next day to tell me he was headed to one of them. Sadly, I'm not optimistic. He refuses to accept responsibility for anything.
Another girl called this morning. She and I had gotten close when she was at a shelter here in Mississippi. She's having some problems and many are not by her own doing.
Sometimes this is even worse.
When we mess up, we repent and give our lives to God. This is why some drug addicts turn into mighty men and women of God.
We KNOW we are sinners.
But for some, the need to repent is harder to see.
Carolina is one of those people.
All these drug addicts are doing just fine yet I'm a hard-working single mom and nothing works out for me. Why is God blessing them and not helping me?
I've heard this from her for a year.
Because she doesn't drink or do drugs, she thinks there's no need for repentance.
This is why a lot of churchgoers will die and go to hell.
Make no mistake. There is but ONE WAY to Heaven and that is through Jesus Christ.
If you don't believe He died for your sins and accept Him as your Savior, you will not have eternal life.
Good people don't go to Heaven; saved people do.
On the streets you hear a lot of things.
God doesn't care about me. God doesn't know who I am. I stopped caring what God thought when (fill in the blank) happened.
Or worse.
God made me; He's okay with me just like this.
No, sweetie, He's not.
It's called sin and yours traces back to a man named Adam and a fruit tree.
And God was no more okay with that than He is with you living in your sin.
That's why we have Jesus.
But knowing WHO HE IS and KNOWING Him are two different things.
Once you KNOW Him, you know He is always there.
You won't even have to ask.
Monday, September 21, 2015
It's Morning...Shouldn't My Joy Be Here?!
Though the sorrow may last for a night...
joy comes in the morning!!!
(I'm trading my sorrows...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying them down for the joy of the Lord..)
Do you know the song?
It's one of my favorites and one I've been singing for years.
But I got a new revelation about the song this week-end.
It started on my less-than-perfect birthday. Maybe it was because I didn't get my pink pony.
More than likely, though, it was because we have a big revival starting at our church tonight and Satan knew the key to weakening the Spirit of God in the place was to divide the pastor and his wife.
And I played right into his hands.
I got mad over the dumbest things. Over-or-under-toilet-paper-roll caliber stuff.
I spent my birthday dinner eating a Lunchable. Any birthday princess will tell you that is NOT acceptable.
Saturday evening in the parsonage was not the best place to be.
Worse than fighting, there was that awful silence. So thick with tension, it sucked the very life out of you.
Sunday morning came and, to my utter disbelief, was NOT accompanied by an apology.
I expected a breakfast-in-bed, on-his-knees-begging-for-forgiveness apology. I would've settled for a simple I'm sorry.
I got neither.
Alternatively fighting tears, conviction, pride, and anger during the service, I just wanted it to be over so I could retreat to my bed with a book where at least the heroine would get her happily-ever-after.
But the best laid pity-party plans went awry when a friend's teenaged daughter asked if she could stay with us between services.
I wanted to say NO! I've got more sulking to do!
But I already knew that I was willingly sabotaging a revival we'd prayed about for months. And for what?
Seriously, for what?
At that point, I couldn't even remember why I was mad.
How scary is that?
Some of us spend our whole lives so angry and we have no clue what we're so upset about.
It was then that I realized the truth behind the song.
Sorrow may last for the night but joy won't come in the morning UNLESS..
You trade your sorrows.
You can't hang on to them and expect God to still bless you.
I can't put an entire church, an entire community, in danger because I've opened up the doors to the devil in a place I've been given authority in.
All because things didn't go my way.
The revelation itself didn't bring about an immediate change. But I did let her stay and we went to lunch.
On the way, my husband asked me what had happened to my joy.
I wanted to shout, YOU TOOK IT! (Maybe it was a good thing she was with us.)
But the truth was, I gave it up.
And refused to get it back.
That's playing with fire.
Fortunately, as the afternoon went on, I discovered I didn't want to live without it.
That simmering-inside, self-righteous, always-have-an-excuse person? That was the old creature. It has passed away and there's no resurrection. I was a fool for even entertaining the notion.
No matter what the circumstance.
Simple things through the eyes of a child can be so refreshing. Bathing the dogs, playing dominoes. The life in the house when the neighbor teen arrived was electrifying. Life has a way of commanding darkness to leave.
By the time the evening service came, I was renewed. My joy had returned, even with my husband's apparent determination that an apology was not warranted.
It didn't matter.
By that point, it was between me and God.
Sitting here this morning, with a heart full of peace and joy, I can hardly fathom why I'd so quickly relinquished it.
Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage. Galatians 5:1
joy comes in the morning!!!
(I'm trading my sorrows...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying them down for the joy of the Lord..)
Do you know the song?
It's one of my favorites and one I've been singing for years.
But I got a new revelation about the song this week-end.
It started on my less-than-perfect birthday. Maybe it was because I didn't get my pink pony.
More than likely, though, it was because we have a big revival starting at our church tonight and Satan knew the key to weakening the Spirit of God in the place was to divide the pastor and his wife.
And I played right into his hands.
I got mad over the dumbest things. Over-or-under-toilet-paper-roll caliber stuff.
I spent my birthday dinner eating a Lunchable. Any birthday princess will tell you that is NOT acceptable.
Saturday evening in the parsonage was not the best place to be.
Worse than fighting, there was that awful silence. So thick with tension, it sucked the very life out of you.
Sunday morning came and, to my utter disbelief, was NOT accompanied by an apology.
I expected a breakfast-in-bed, on-his-knees-begging-for-forgiveness apology. I would've settled for a simple I'm sorry.
I got neither.
Alternatively fighting tears, conviction, pride, and anger during the service, I just wanted it to be over so I could retreat to my bed with a book where at least the heroine would get her happily-ever-after.
But the best laid pity-party plans went awry when a friend's teenaged daughter asked if she could stay with us between services.
I wanted to say NO! I've got more sulking to do!
But I already knew that I was willingly sabotaging a revival we'd prayed about for months. And for what?
Seriously, for what?
At that point, I couldn't even remember why I was mad.
How scary is that?
Some of us spend our whole lives so angry and we have no clue what we're so upset about.
It was then that I realized the truth behind the song.
Sorrow may last for the night but joy won't come in the morning UNLESS..
You trade your sorrows.
You can't hang on to them and expect God to still bless you.
I can't put an entire church, an entire community, in danger because I've opened up the doors to the devil in a place I've been given authority in.
All because things didn't go my way.
The revelation itself didn't bring about an immediate change. But I did let her stay and we went to lunch.
On the way, my husband asked me what had happened to my joy.
I wanted to shout, YOU TOOK IT! (Maybe it was a good thing she was with us.)
But the truth was, I gave it up.
And refused to get it back.
That's playing with fire.
Fortunately, as the afternoon went on, I discovered I didn't want to live without it.
That simmering-inside, self-righteous, always-have-an-excuse person? That was the old creature. It has passed away and there's no resurrection. I was a fool for even entertaining the notion.
No matter what the circumstance.
Simple things through the eyes of a child can be so refreshing. Bathing the dogs, playing dominoes. The life in the house when the neighbor teen arrived was electrifying. Life has a way of commanding darkness to leave.
By the time the evening service came, I was renewed. My joy had returned, even with my husband's apparent determination that an apology was not warranted.
It didn't matter.
By that point, it was between me and God.
Sitting here this morning, with a heart full of peace and joy, I can hardly fathom why I'd so quickly relinquished it.
Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage. Galatians 5:1
Saturday, September 19, 2015
It's My Party and I'll....Eat Cake If I Want to?!!
Today is my birthday and I've come full-circle.
Not with my personal relationship with the Lord, though that walk could also be classified as at least coming semi-circle.
But the celebration itself has gone from excitedly helping my mom plan themed parties from Raggedy Ann to Ms. Pac-Man to wanting a low-key, handmade-cards-from-the-kids-and-a-chocolate-cake-only affair, and back to shouting-from-the-rafters IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!
It's a special day. I don't need the big party. Facebook has made birthdays special in a way Chuck E. Cheese never could.
I look forward to those calls, texts, and social media posts. I excitedly check the mailbox. It's my birthday. Who knows if I'm nearing, surpassing, or hitting dead-on that halfway mark?
So I was game last night in my early birthday dinner with friends at Red Lobster and forced down ice cream after several rounds of Endless Shrimp while a trio of servers, and many nearby diners, serenaded me with a Happy Birthday song.
My husband hates such displays.
I love them!
After all, birthdays are special.
I once knew a man who hated birthday celebrations, got mad at work birthday gatherings, and even madder if you wished him a happy birthday.
I wondered what had caused him to despise celebrating life itself.
This is why, early on in my ministry, I made it a point to record everyone's birthday and favorite cake.
Mine, by the way, is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing and a chocolate fudge layer in the middle.
I learned how to make coconut cakes, pineapple upside-down cakes, and strawberry shortcake.
For some, it was the cake their moms had made each year when they were kids. For others, it was the only birthday cake they'd ever had in their entire life.
For one day, they felt special.
It was one of the things that fell by the wayside when the ministry load grew.
My last cake, a pineapple upside down cake, was made at midnight. I realized I'd forgotten the eggs after my batter was poured over my only pineapples. After rinsing my pineapples and making a new batch of batter, I was dismayed to find that my pineapple upside-down cake slid into a pineapple-on-the-side cake.
It was a heartbreaking decision to stop.
I do, however, still keep up with birthdays and always at least acknowledge them with a song. Sometimes I even have a plate of cookies.
I still daydream about creating a program in which bakeries or even service organizations bake cakes for the homeless.
Maybe all they need is a birthday celebration to realize how special life truly is!
Not with my personal relationship with the Lord, though that walk could also be classified as at least coming semi-circle.
But the celebration itself has gone from excitedly helping my mom plan themed parties from Raggedy Ann to Ms. Pac-Man to wanting a low-key, handmade-cards-from-the-kids-and-a-chocolate-cake-only affair, and back to shouting-from-the-rafters IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!
It's a special day. I don't need the big party. Facebook has made birthdays special in a way Chuck E. Cheese never could.
I look forward to those calls, texts, and social media posts. I excitedly check the mailbox. It's my birthday. Who knows if I'm nearing, surpassing, or hitting dead-on that halfway mark?
So I was game last night in my early birthday dinner with friends at Red Lobster and forced down ice cream after several rounds of Endless Shrimp while a trio of servers, and many nearby diners, serenaded me with a Happy Birthday song.
My husband hates such displays.
I love them!
After all, birthdays are special.
I once knew a man who hated birthday celebrations, got mad at work birthday gatherings, and even madder if you wished him a happy birthday.
I wondered what had caused him to despise celebrating life itself.
This is why, early on in my ministry, I made it a point to record everyone's birthday and favorite cake.
Mine, by the way, is a chocolate cake with chocolate icing and a chocolate fudge layer in the middle.
I learned how to make coconut cakes, pineapple upside-down cakes, and strawberry shortcake.
For some, it was the cake their moms had made each year when they were kids. For others, it was the only birthday cake they'd ever had in their entire life.
For one day, they felt special.
It was one of the things that fell by the wayside when the ministry load grew.
My last cake, a pineapple upside down cake, was made at midnight. I realized I'd forgotten the eggs after my batter was poured over my only pineapples. After rinsing my pineapples and making a new batch of batter, I was dismayed to find that my pineapple upside-down cake slid into a pineapple-on-the-side cake.
It was a heartbreaking decision to stop.
I do, however, still keep up with birthdays and always at least acknowledge them with a song. Sometimes I even have a plate of cookies.
I still daydream about creating a program in which bakeries or even service organizations bake cakes for the homeless.
Maybe all they need is a birthday celebration to realize how special life truly is!
Friday, September 18, 2015
Meeting, Greeting, and Back-Scratching
By 8 A.M. this (Friday) morning, my schedule for next week was completely full. Mostly with meetings.
It's something I've guarded against fiercely.
Just like with my writing.
If I am spending more time writing about homelessness, or having meetings about my homeless ministry, than the ministry work itself, then I fear I will become nothing more than a clanging cymbal. (1 Corinthians 13:1)
I know that some of it is necessary.
Like in any assemblage, secular or ministerial, the concept of "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" is ever-present.
My husband has had to put me in check a time or two in this area. "Well, they won't take Johnny Z, I don't want to do this benefit for them." (I'm more apt to apply the polar opposite theory of leaving an itch unscratched.)
"That's NOT how we operate," my husband gently reminds me.
He's right. It's not how ANY of us should operate.
But it happens. A lot. And in the homeless/addiction/recovery/shelter sector, it remains very prevalent.
Business cards are passed around at every meeting.
Cell phone numbers are added when you become beneficial to an organization.
It is a ministry version of playing politics, albeit at a slightly more innocent level.
I hesitated at first.
Voicing my reservations to the head of a fellow ministry, I had decided not to partake in the regional homeless coalition despite several encounters leading me there.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," she sweetly said. "If any organization can help my ministry, and my [homeless] guys, I'd be remiss to pass that up." She continued, "You don't know that the Lord isn't using them to help you."
She was right.
That was a year ago and this homeless coalition has enabled me to house dozens of homeless men and women, as well as to get others into recovery programs, disability agencies, and veteran's services.
Earlier this year I joined the coalition's council as the faith-based rep.
My cell phone database increased exponentially.
Seriously, though, I appreciated being recognized as a faith organization. Everyone is doing GOOD work but I want it to be clear that I'm doing GOD'S work.
That appointment validated that.
Lately, though, I've seen a marked increase in organizations seeking my assistance on governing boards or advisory councils. I'd like to think this is because they recognize my ministering heart but I think it has more to do with my type-A personality and my schoolteacher-turned-accountant skillset.
The more organizations I'm involved with, the more resources I have for those I'm ministering to.
And I want to be involved with these ministries and organizations that share the same objectives I do.
So it's hard to say no.
Even when I don't have the time to add another responsibility to my calendar.
I do believe my frontline experiences bridge a gap between theories of homelessness and actual people.
And there's also the aforementioned organizational skills.
I like to spell-check and edit for fun. Send me your paperwork; send your proposals and bylaws; I proofread as a hobby!
But where's the line?
It's a question I often ask myself, in many situations. Spiritually, I want to do what the Lord has called me to do, and not venture off on my own.
Once I start getting caught up in meetings and appointments (all for the benefit of those in need) I sometimes wonder if I haven't gotten off the marked path.
Like the one in 1985.
I was on a ski trip with my church youth group in Winter Park, Colorado. While everyone removed their skis to walk down a small but steep slope on the beginner trail, I decided to go on down it on my skis. I'd never skied before, but it didn't look hard and I wasn't scared. Quite frankly, I thought my fellow skiers were a little nebbish.
Fifteen minutes later, I wondered where the group was. It was a five minute walk at best and there was not a one in sight.
Experienced skiers whizzed by and I got a funny feeling.
Looking around, I saw that I'd somehow ended up on an advanced trail.
Snow was falling, blinding me to the path I'd come from and leaving me with two options: a straight but bumpy trail and a smooth but steep one.
I chose the bumpy one.
I made it about three yards before I lost both skis. Twenty minutes later I'd made it about six more yards and fallen at least a dozen more times.
I walked back to the start of the other trail.
After tumbling a few times I ended up gliding upright down the hill.
I thought I was doing great, and I was.
Except I had absolutely no control.
Careening down a blind hill, I had no idea where I was headed until the edge of the cliff was mere feet away.
Moving fast and trying unsuccessfully to stop, sheer terror coursed through my veins.
A half-inch cable kept me from going over the edge.
As I stood looking out over the edge, I faced my own mortality. At sixteen, I still was under the mistaken assumption that nothing could ever harm me.
I also realized for the first time a lesson I would eventually have to relearn: I needed to stop running off ahead of the plan.
I try to slow down and wait on the Lord. It's the only way to keep my strength renewed (Isaiah 40:31). Sometimes I just get so excited. There are a lot of people out here who want to witness, minister, and be a light in an ever-darkening world.
We are the body of Christ. Our members should be helping each other.
Not just scratching backs!
It's something I've guarded against fiercely.
Just like with my writing.
If I am spending more time writing about homelessness, or having meetings about my homeless ministry, than the ministry work itself, then I fear I will become nothing more than a clanging cymbal. (1 Corinthians 13:1)
I know that some of it is necessary.
Like in any assemblage, secular or ministerial, the concept of "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" is ever-present.
My husband has had to put me in check a time or two in this area. "Well, they won't take Johnny Z, I don't want to do this benefit for them." (I'm more apt to apply the polar opposite theory of leaving an itch unscratched.)
"That's NOT how we operate," my husband gently reminds me.
He's right. It's not how ANY of us should operate.
But it happens. A lot. And in the homeless/addiction/recovery/shelter sector, it remains very prevalent.
Business cards are passed around at every meeting.
Cell phone numbers are added when you become beneficial to an organization.
It is a ministry version of playing politics, albeit at a slightly more innocent level.
I hesitated at first.
Voicing my reservations to the head of a fellow ministry, I had decided not to partake in the regional homeless coalition despite several encounters leading me there.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," she sweetly said. "If any organization can help my ministry, and my [homeless] guys, I'd be remiss to pass that up." She continued, "You don't know that the Lord isn't using them to help you."
She was right.
That was a year ago and this homeless coalition has enabled me to house dozens of homeless men and women, as well as to get others into recovery programs, disability agencies, and veteran's services.
Earlier this year I joined the coalition's council as the faith-based rep.
My cell phone database increased exponentially.
Seriously, though, I appreciated being recognized as a faith organization. Everyone is doing GOOD work but I want it to be clear that I'm doing GOD'S work.
That appointment validated that.
Lately, though, I've seen a marked increase in organizations seeking my assistance on governing boards or advisory councils. I'd like to think this is because they recognize my ministering heart but I think it has more to do with my type-A personality and my schoolteacher-turned-accountant skillset.
The more organizations I'm involved with, the more resources I have for those I'm ministering to.
And I want to be involved with these ministries and organizations that share the same objectives I do.
So it's hard to say no.
Even when I don't have the time to add another responsibility to my calendar.
I do believe my frontline experiences bridge a gap between theories of homelessness and actual people.
And there's also the aforementioned organizational skills.
I like to spell-check and edit for fun. Send me your paperwork; send your proposals and bylaws; I proofread as a hobby!
But where's the line?
It's a question I often ask myself, in many situations. Spiritually, I want to do what the Lord has called me to do, and not venture off on my own.
Once I start getting caught up in meetings and appointments (all for the benefit of those in need) I sometimes wonder if I haven't gotten off the marked path.
Like the one in 1985.
I was on a ski trip with my church youth group in Winter Park, Colorado. While everyone removed their skis to walk down a small but steep slope on the beginner trail, I decided to go on down it on my skis. I'd never skied before, but it didn't look hard and I wasn't scared. Quite frankly, I thought my fellow skiers were a little nebbish.
Fifteen minutes later, I wondered where the group was. It was a five minute walk at best and there was not a one in sight.
Experienced skiers whizzed by and I got a funny feeling.
Looking around, I saw that I'd somehow ended up on an advanced trail.
Snow was falling, blinding me to the path I'd come from and leaving me with two options: a straight but bumpy trail and a smooth but steep one.
I chose the bumpy one.
I made it about three yards before I lost both skis. Twenty minutes later I'd made it about six more yards and fallen at least a dozen more times.
I walked back to the start of the other trail.
After tumbling a few times I ended up gliding upright down the hill.
I thought I was doing great, and I was.
Except I had absolutely no control.
Careening down a blind hill, I had no idea where I was headed until the edge of the cliff was mere feet away.
Moving fast and trying unsuccessfully to stop, sheer terror coursed through my veins.
A half-inch cable kept me from going over the edge.
As I stood looking out over the edge, I faced my own mortality. At sixteen, I still was under the mistaken assumption that nothing could ever harm me.
I also realized for the first time a lesson I would eventually have to relearn: I needed to stop running off ahead of the plan.
I try to slow down and wait on the Lord. It's the only way to keep my strength renewed (Isaiah 40:31). Sometimes I just get so excited. There are a lot of people out here who want to witness, minister, and be a light in an ever-darkening world.
We are the body of Christ. Our members should be helping each other.
Not just scratching backs!
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
My Proverbs 31 Experiment
I saw a book at the library today with the catchiest title: "My So-Called Life as a Proverbs 31 Wife" by Sara Horn.
It looked interesting so I brought it home. I'd always admired the Proverbs 31 Woman and (still) believe that any women's program modeled after that piece of scripture would be successful, whatever strongholds the woman had.
A few hours later my husband picked the book up from the coffee table and brought it to me.
"Look at this," he said excitedly.
I'd been looking forward to delving into Ms. Horn's mind but wasn't sure why my husband had a similar enthusiasm for my new library book. Quizzically I turned to face him.
"What?" Obviously I'd seen the book. I was the one who'd brought it home. What I hadn't noticed was the sub-title.
He did.
Moving his finger under the words A One-Year Experiment... he pretended to be amazed. "Look, she made it a WHOLE YEAR."
Okay, dear. Point gotten.
I tried my own Proverbs 31 experiment last October. I spent the last two weeks of September preparing. I read every Bible translation of each verse, paying special attention to my Granddaddy's Amplified Bible. I filled up an entire spiral-bound notebook with notes and my own plans to implement this sacred chapter in my life.
On October 1st I began a new notebook, one that I'd planned to chronicle my daily journey. Maybe one day I'd publish a book. (I didn't know at the time that Sara Horn had beaten me to it.)
October 1: The entry was okay, nothing spectacular but a little more effort on my part. I'd gotten up early, baked homemade biscuits, cleaned my house, helped my husband, visited a shelter, spent time with the Lord. I even got a sewing machine! (It is still sitting unused in my closet.) I tried unsuccessfully to stay up late but I'd been up since 5 and I was exhausted. Going to bed earlier than my "household" made me feel like a failure. I vowed to do better the next day.
October 2: Homemade biscuits again, cleaned house. My husband was working on some home improvement projects that day. In my life I'd learned two things: make myself scarce when my dad balanced the checkbook and when my husband worked on things in the house. But the Proverbs 31 woman would never abandon her husband to make it easier on herself so I stuck around. I brought him tea and socket wrenches and lovingly encouraged him when he'd threaten to throw the hammer out the window. Somewhere in the midst of this major renovation, he uncharacteristically stopped and told me how much he loved me and appreciated my support. (While that is not unusual on a normal day, it doesn't often happen when he's surrounded by sheetrock and crown molding.) I had no trouble staying up that night as I had tapped in to what few women ever would: the complete and utter joy of being a Proverbs 31 woman.
That evening I floated on a cloud. I felt like a queen. I slept better than ever. I praised God, thanked Him, and felt sorry for all the women who just didn't know that the answer to all their problems was to be more like me.
October 3: I packed a suitcase to move back home to my mother's.
I don't even remember what happened but I know it was one of the worst fights we ever had. I knew instinctively it was related to my experiment and the words "a haughty spirit before a fall" filled my brain. How can I have been so stupid?
I was a dog wounded in a ferocious fight, licking my wounds and cowering in fear. I threw the notebook in a bottom drawer, as if its very presence could harm me.
October 8: I'd spent five days scared to even continue my experiment but I'd made a commitment and I intended to see it through. I basically did what I had always done with two exceptions. I was still on a quest to find the perfect homemade biscuit recipe and I tried to pause before any response, good or bad.
October 9: I'm not sure what happened this day as the date is the last thing in my journal.
And just like that, my experiment was over. I spent more time planning than implementing.
I did manage to find my favorite biscuit recipe (and gain about 25 lbs. that month.)
I also learned that staying calm when my husband is overworked or tired does wonders for our marriage. He also needs to blow off steam sometimes without a major confrontation.
I've continued to pause first (for the most part) when something upsets me, though I no longer try to temper a happy dance when I'm excited. (The Proverbs 31 woman isn't an emotionless robot.)
My dreams for a book vanished on page 3.
But at least I had enough for a blog post!
My Go-To (Sorta) Homemade Biscuit Recipe:
(This was everyone's favorite next to a white flour, cream cheese, butter recipe that I could never duplicate.)
2 cups Bisquik baking mix
1/4 cup sour cream
1/4 cup Sprite
1/4 cup butter
Preheat oven to 400. Melt butter in cast-iron skillet while mixing first three ingredients. Roll out onto floured surface (do not overwork) and cut to desired thickness. Bake for 10-15 minutes.
"Red Lobster-ish" variation: Add melted butter, shredded cheddar, garlic salt, and parmesan cheese to mixture. Drop onto hot skillet. Bake for 8-10 minutes.
It looked interesting so I brought it home. I'd always admired the Proverbs 31 Woman and (still) believe that any women's program modeled after that piece of scripture would be successful, whatever strongholds the woman had.
A few hours later my husband picked the book up from the coffee table and brought it to me.
"Look at this," he said excitedly.
I'd been looking forward to delving into Ms. Horn's mind but wasn't sure why my husband had a similar enthusiasm for my new library book. Quizzically I turned to face him.
"What?" Obviously I'd seen the book. I was the one who'd brought it home. What I hadn't noticed was the sub-title.
He did.
Moving his finger under the words A One-Year Experiment... he pretended to be amazed. "Look, she made it a WHOLE YEAR."
Okay, dear. Point gotten.
I tried my own Proverbs 31 experiment last October. I spent the last two weeks of September preparing. I read every Bible translation of each verse, paying special attention to my Granddaddy's Amplified Bible. I filled up an entire spiral-bound notebook with notes and my own plans to implement this sacred chapter in my life.
On October 1st I began a new notebook, one that I'd planned to chronicle my daily journey. Maybe one day I'd publish a book. (I didn't know at the time that Sara Horn had beaten me to it.)
October 1: The entry was okay, nothing spectacular but a little more effort on my part. I'd gotten up early, baked homemade biscuits, cleaned my house, helped my husband, visited a shelter, spent time with the Lord. I even got a sewing machine! (It is still sitting unused in my closet.) I tried unsuccessfully to stay up late but I'd been up since 5 and I was exhausted. Going to bed earlier than my "household" made me feel like a failure. I vowed to do better the next day.
October 2: Homemade biscuits again, cleaned house. My husband was working on some home improvement projects that day. In my life I'd learned two things: make myself scarce when my dad balanced the checkbook and when my husband worked on things in the house. But the Proverbs 31 woman would never abandon her husband to make it easier on herself so I stuck around. I brought him tea and socket wrenches and lovingly encouraged him when he'd threaten to throw the hammer out the window. Somewhere in the midst of this major renovation, he uncharacteristically stopped and told me how much he loved me and appreciated my support. (While that is not unusual on a normal day, it doesn't often happen when he's surrounded by sheetrock and crown molding.) I had no trouble staying up that night as I had tapped in to what few women ever would: the complete and utter joy of being a Proverbs 31 woman.
That evening I floated on a cloud. I felt like a queen. I slept better than ever. I praised God, thanked Him, and felt sorry for all the women who just didn't know that the answer to all their problems was to be more like me.
October 3: I packed a suitcase to move back home to my mother's.
I don't even remember what happened but I know it was one of the worst fights we ever had. I knew instinctively it was related to my experiment and the words "a haughty spirit before a fall" filled my brain. How can I have been so stupid?
I was a dog wounded in a ferocious fight, licking my wounds and cowering in fear. I threw the notebook in a bottom drawer, as if its very presence could harm me.
October 8: I'd spent five days scared to even continue my experiment but I'd made a commitment and I intended to see it through. I basically did what I had always done with two exceptions. I was still on a quest to find the perfect homemade biscuit recipe and I tried to pause before any response, good or bad.
October 9: I'm not sure what happened this day as the date is the last thing in my journal.
And just like that, my experiment was over. I spent more time planning than implementing.
I did manage to find my favorite biscuit recipe (and gain about 25 lbs. that month.)
I also learned that staying calm when my husband is overworked or tired does wonders for our marriage. He also needs to blow off steam sometimes without a major confrontation.
I've continued to pause first (for the most part) when something upsets me, though I no longer try to temper a happy dance when I'm excited. (The Proverbs 31 woman isn't an emotionless robot.)
My dreams for a book vanished on page 3.
But at least I had enough for a blog post!
My Go-To (Sorta) Homemade Biscuit Recipe:
(This was everyone's favorite next to a white flour, cream cheese, butter recipe that I could never duplicate.)
2 cups Bisquik baking mix
1/4 cup sour cream
1/4 cup Sprite
1/4 cup butter
Preheat oven to 400. Melt butter in cast-iron skillet while mixing first three ingredients. Roll out onto floured surface (do not overwork) and cut to desired thickness. Bake for 10-15 minutes.
"Red Lobster-ish" variation: Add melted butter, shredded cheddar, garlic salt, and parmesan cheese to mixture. Drop onto hot skillet. Bake for 8-10 minutes.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
You'll Never Believe What I Found in the Ashtray in Tent City Today
Roll-your-own cigarettes are a common sight in homeless camps, and sometimes it is difficult to tell the exact substance being rolled.
Since most of these "cigarettes" are disposed of when we walk up, chances are great that they are not smoking mere tobacco.
But what I saw today literally made my jaw drop.
Five little roaches (the end of a smoked marijuana cigarette) in an ashtray.
It wasn't the number of them that caught my attention but the wrapping. I've seen rolled up paper bags, loose-leaf paper, and receipts. But today I saw something I'd never seen before.
The Holy Bible.
Pages from God's Word ripped out and used to roll up and smoke dope.
I was almost scared to be near them.
I didn't say anything, didn't even acknowledge that I'd seen them. Handed out the sack lunches and prayed as always.
On the way back to my car, though, I turned to my husband. "I think I'm going to be sick," I whispered.
"That's why we're here," he replied.
Yes, that's why we're here.
Since most of these "cigarettes" are disposed of when we walk up, chances are great that they are not smoking mere tobacco.
But what I saw today literally made my jaw drop.
Five little roaches (the end of a smoked marijuana cigarette) in an ashtray.
It wasn't the number of them that caught my attention but the wrapping. I've seen rolled up paper bags, loose-leaf paper, and receipts. But today I saw something I'd never seen before.
The Holy Bible.
Pages from God's Word ripped out and used to roll up and smoke dope.
I was almost scared to be near them.
I didn't say anything, didn't even acknowledge that I'd seen them. Handed out the sack lunches and prayed as always.
On the way back to my car, though, I turned to my husband. "I think I'm going to be sick," I whispered.
"That's why we're here," he replied.
Yes, that's why we're here.
Monday, September 14, 2015
Anatomy of a Day Off
7:20 A.M. Alarm goes off. Husband gets ready for radio show. Snuggle in deeper under covers. I LOVE this weather.
7:30 A.M. Husband wakes me up to tell me I set the clock ten minutes ahead and robbed him of 1/6 of an hour of sleep. I burrow down even more.
7:40 A.M. Refuse to get out of bed on my "sleeping in" morning even though my husband and our 3 four-legged babies are making it impossible to sleep.
8:00 A.M. Dogs back asleep; husband gone. I open the windows, grab a book, and go back to bed. I really really love this weather.
8:10 A.M. First call. Kase is in Atlanta and headed back here. He left the sober living house we worked so hard to get him into and now wants somewhere to go. I make a few calls.
8:30 A.M. Go back to the bed once more with my book. My dogs must sense what's coming because for the first time ever they don't try to get on my bed.
8:35 A.M. Phone rings again. I look at my dogs strangely. Raleigh has been given an eviction notice. he says it's because the landlord's daughter is moving back to town and is moving in. Raleigh has a 6-month lease so I could fight the three-month early lease termination but he is in violation of the lease anyway by the constant traffic in and out of his house. Its proximity to the local soup kitchen makes it the hangout for a lot of homeless and drug traffic. Despite our repeated conversations about this, it hasn't changed. He was unable to maintain control before his stroke, now he is a prime target for abuse. I make some more calls.
9:15 A.M. I make the bed up. Snuggling under the covers with a book has lost its appeal.
9:30 A.M. I tell myself I'm not going to clean my house on my rare day off.
9:35 A.M. I clean my house.
11:00 A.M. Three calls, two emails. All work-related. For fun, I check Facebook and Yahoo Top Stories. Share a link to a controversial cheer routine with my oldest daughter.
11:30 A.M. Realize I haven't eaten. Eat a powdered sugar 4-pack of mini-donuts and a snack size bag of Ranch Doritos. Top it off with a Coke. Decide mini and snack sizes of anything don't count calorie-wise.
12:00 P.M. Visit an ailing church member.
1:00 P.M. Make the church bank deposit.
1:30 P.M. Get my oil changed for advertised price of $21.99. Listen to the guy try his hardest to raise my total. Tune out the praises of some kind of super oil while playing Phrase Wheel on my phone. Pay $21.99.
2:00 P.M. Head to library. Kase starts blowing up my phone. He thinks he "might have made a mistake" by leaving the home. I think he's right. Not sure what to do. He won't make it on the streets.
2:20 P.M. Informed that I've been nominated to be President of the Friends of the Library board. Flattered since I've never even been to a local Friends meeting. I have the experience and enthusiasm, but do I have the time? I know the answer to this, yet that inner 20-yr-old feels a strange sense of validation at this prospect. Once again, not sure what to do.
3:00 P.M. Phone discussion of rank & review procedures for Thursday's council meeting. Remember the prophetic words a friend told me right before I even knew what my ministry was: I'll be praying for you as you navigate the lines between church and state. Wonder if she's still praying.
3:15 P.M. Consider driving to Mobile for a piece of crabmeat-stuffed salmon I saw one time at a Publix. Decide the 2-hour round trip in rush-hour traffic might not be worth it. Head to the Pascagoula Wal-Mart instead.
4:00 P.M. Stroll leisurely through the aisles. Realize I'm hungry and move faster. Discover a new Oreo flavor: Brownie Batter. Try to be polite by offering everyone in the checkout line a free sample of these new cookies. They decline. I eat their share. Cashier looks puzzled as she scans half-empty bag. I shrug my shoulders.
5:00 P.M. Became THAT PERSON in line. The one who left her money in the car. The oil change guy, apparently expecting a higher total than 21.99, didn't have change for a hundred dollar bill so I swiped my debit card instead and tucked the bill into my bag. A bag which I had no use for in Wal-Mart. At least until it was time to pay. Red-faced and apologizing, I rushed to my car and retrieved the cash. At least I worked off those cookies.
5:10-5:35 P.M. Talked to husband on way home. Shared the day's phone calls with each other. As of that very moment, we had two people needing a bed somewhere for tonight, two needing to come in for counseling this week, two needing a new place to live, one who needed a gas deposit, another who needed a ride to the next county, one who needed a ride to the doctor Friday, and three who needed some groceries. We will be able to help most of them.
5:45 P.M. Started on dinner while my husband unloaded the groceries. Danced around the kitchen a few times. HE loves this weather too.
6:00 P.M. Sat down to a scrumptious meal of salmon with a crawfish pepperjack cream sauce over pasta and broccoli (no recipe..cooking has become a healthy outlet for me even if the recipes aren't so healthy) and garlic butter rolls. I love the Norman Rockwell feeling of eating at the table, dogs perched at our feet. And at 6 o'clock! The quintessential dinner time.
6:30 P.M. We decided to ditch the dishwashing and head outside. Enjoyed the weather and each other for about twenty minutes until the mosquitos started enjoying me a little too much. Went back in.
7:00-10:00 P.M. The evening has been quiet, save for a phone call or two and a few texts. Tomorrow we have our homeless feedings and we are delivering sacks of groceries and checking on new housing options. It'll be a busy day.
Not at all like today, my day off!
Now we exhort you, brethren, warn them that are unruly, comfort the feebleminded, support the weak, be patient toward all men. See that none render evil for evil unto any man; but ever follow that which is good, both among yourselves, and to all men. Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing.
In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
(1 Thessalonians 5: 14-18)
7:30 A.M. Husband wakes me up to tell me I set the clock ten minutes ahead and robbed him of 1/6 of an hour of sleep. I burrow down even more.
7:40 A.M. Refuse to get out of bed on my "sleeping in" morning even though my husband and our 3 four-legged babies are making it impossible to sleep.
8:00 A.M. Dogs back asleep; husband gone. I open the windows, grab a book, and go back to bed. I really really love this weather.
8:10 A.M. First call. Kase is in Atlanta and headed back here. He left the sober living house we worked so hard to get him into and now wants somewhere to go. I make a few calls.
8:30 A.M. Go back to the bed once more with my book. My dogs must sense what's coming because for the first time ever they don't try to get on my bed.
8:35 A.M. Phone rings again. I look at my dogs strangely. Raleigh has been given an eviction notice. he says it's because the landlord's daughter is moving back to town and is moving in. Raleigh has a 6-month lease so I could fight the three-month early lease termination but he is in violation of the lease anyway by the constant traffic in and out of his house. Its proximity to the local soup kitchen makes it the hangout for a lot of homeless and drug traffic. Despite our repeated conversations about this, it hasn't changed. He was unable to maintain control before his stroke, now he is a prime target for abuse. I make some more calls.
9:15 A.M. I make the bed up. Snuggling under the covers with a book has lost its appeal.
9:30 A.M. I tell myself I'm not going to clean my house on my rare day off.
9:35 A.M. I clean my house.
11:00 A.M. Three calls, two emails. All work-related. For fun, I check Facebook and Yahoo Top Stories. Share a link to a controversial cheer routine with my oldest daughter.
11:30 A.M. Realize I haven't eaten. Eat a powdered sugar 4-pack of mini-donuts and a snack size bag of Ranch Doritos. Top it off with a Coke. Decide mini and snack sizes of anything don't count calorie-wise.
12:00 P.M. Visit an ailing church member.
1:00 P.M. Make the church bank deposit.
1:30 P.M. Get my oil changed for advertised price of $21.99. Listen to the guy try his hardest to raise my total. Tune out the praises of some kind of super oil while playing Phrase Wheel on my phone. Pay $21.99.
2:00 P.M. Head to library. Kase starts blowing up my phone. He thinks he "might have made a mistake" by leaving the home. I think he's right. Not sure what to do. He won't make it on the streets.
2:20 P.M. Informed that I've been nominated to be President of the Friends of the Library board. Flattered since I've never even been to a local Friends meeting. I have the experience and enthusiasm, but do I have the time? I know the answer to this, yet that inner 20-yr-old feels a strange sense of validation at this prospect. Once again, not sure what to do.
3:00 P.M. Phone discussion of rank & review procedures for Thursday's council meeting. Remember the prophetic words a friend told me right before I even knew what my ministry was: I'll be praying for you as you navigate the lines between church and state. Wonder if she's still praying.
3:15 P.M. Consider driving to Mobile for a piece of crabmeat-stuffed salmon I saw one time at a Publix. Decide the 2-hour round trip in rush-hour traffic might not be worth it. Head to the Pascagoula Wal-Mart instead.
4:00 P.M. Stroll leisurely through the aisles. Realize I'm hungry and move faster. Discover a new Oreo flavor: Brownie Batter. Try to be polite by offering everyone in the checkout line a free sample of these new cookies. They decline. I eat their share. Cashier looks puzzled as she scans half-empty bag. I shrug my shoulders.
5:00 P.M. Became THAT PERSON in line. The one who left her money in the car. The oil change guy, apparently expecting a higher total than 21.99, didn't have change for a hundred dollar bill so I swiped my debit card instead and tucked the bill into my bag. A bag which I had no use for in Wal-Mart. At least until it was time to pay. Red-faced and apologizing, I rushed to my car and retrieved the cash. At least I worked off those cookies.
5:10-5:35 P.M. Talked to husband on way home. Shared the day's phone calls with each other. As of that very moment, we had two people needing a bed somewhere for tonight, two needing to come in for counseling this week, two needing a new place to live, one who needed a gas deposit, another who needed a ride to the next county, one who needed a ride to the doctor Friday, and three who needed some groceries. We will be able to help most of them.
5:45 P.M. Started on dinner while my husband unloaded the groceries. Danced around the kitchen a few times. HE loves this weather too.
6:00 P.M. Sat down to a scrumptious meal of salmon with a crawfish pepperjack cream sauce over pasta and broccoli (no recipe..cooking has become a healthy outlet for me even if the recipes aren't so healthy) and garlic butter rolls. I love the Norman Rockwell feeling of eating at the table, dogs perched at our feet. And at 6 o'clock! The quintessential dinner time.
6:30 P.M. We decided to ditch the dishwashing and head outside. Enjoyed the weather and each other for about twenty minutes until the mosquitos started enjoying me a little too much. Went back in.
7:00-10:00 P.M. The evening has been quiet, save for a phone call or two and a few texts. Tomorrow we have our homeless feedings and we are delivering sacks of groceries and checking on new housing options. It'll be a busy day.
Not at all like today, my day off!
Now we exhort you, brethren, warn them that are unruly, comfort the feebleminded, support the weak, be patient toward all men. See that none render evil for evil unto any man; but ever follow that which is good, both among yourselves, and to all men. Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing.
In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
(1 Thessalonians 5: 14-18)
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Isaac Newton, See-Saws, and the Homeless
My childhood years were spent on various playground equipment: swings, slides, merry-go-rounds, and see-saws.
I loved the see-saw.
My sister and I would spend hours going up and down on those things.
I tried to recreate the fun with my own children. I quickly discovered the faulty reasoning I had regarding simple machines and levers. The enthusiasm of the parties on each side was NOT the balancing factor.
Now that they are grown and living on their own, my trips to the playground are few and far between.
Lately, though, it seems as if my ministry is a virtual see-saw.
Up and down. Up and down.
Guys will get so close to getting help and then delve back into their addictions with a vengeance. Girls will finally get out of dangerous situations only to return a few days later.
But then someone will suddenly call and be ready to leave it all behind. These may not have even been on the radar as far as getting help, yet there they are.
A see-saw.
I get so excited when we place someone in their own home or into a rehab facility. I jump for joy when they reconcile with long-lost family members. I love it when they just ask for prayer.
Up. Up. Up.
But what goes up....
Must come down. (Sir Isaac Newton)
This week I feel like I've spent more time going down than up. Frances, who was sober and on track to get her daughter back after three years, was so high that I don't think she knew I was in the same world, much less the same room, with her when I stopped by to visit last week. She had gotten so close.
Kase, who was one of the highest-functioning alcoholics I'd ever known, overcame alcoholism and was doing well in a sober-living house until this morning. He sent me a text; he's back on the streets.
Gave his testimony in prayer meeting last night and snuck out this morning.
It broke my heart.
Sometimes I feel like the person on the see-saw who has to do all the leg work just to keep the see-saw going. It gets exhausting.
Just like see-sawing with children.
But you do it for the joy it brings them.
So I keep on, even when my side gets so weighted down that I don't think I can keep going. Jesus becomes the fulcrum and together the ride continues.
Because those on the other side deserve to know a different type of joy, one that is eternal.
I loved the see-saw.
My sister and I would spend hours going up and down on those things.
I tried to recreate the fun with my own children. I quickly discovered the faulty reasoning I had regarding simple machines and levers. The enthusiasm of the parties on each side was NOT the balancing factor.
Now that they are grown and living on their own, my trips to the playground are few and far between.
Lately, though, it seems as if my ministry is a virtual see-saw.
Up and down. Up and down.
Guys will get so close to getting help and then delve back into their addictions with a vengeance. Girls will finally get out of dangerous situations only to return a few days later.
But then someone will suddenly call and be ready to leave it all behind. These may not have even been on the radar as far as getting help, yet there they are.
A see-saw.
I get so excited when we place someone in their own home or into a rehab facility. I jump for joy when they reconcile with long-lost family members. I love it when they just ask for prayer.
Up. Up. Up.
But what goes up....
Must come down. (Sir Isaac Newton)
This week I feel like I've spent more time going down than up. Frances, who was sober and on track to get her daughter back after three years, was so high that I don't think she knew I was in the same world, much less the same room, with her when I stopped by to visit last week. She had gotten so close.
Kase, who was one of the highest-functioning alcoholics I'd ever known, overcame alcoholism and was doing well in a sober-living house until this morning. He sent me a text; he's back on the streets.
Gave his testimony in prayer meeting last night and snuck out this morning.
It broke my heart.
Sometimes I feel like the person on the see-saw who has to do all the leg work just to keep the see-saw going. It gets exhausting.
Just like see-sawing with children.
But you do it for the joy it brings them.
So I keep on, even when my side gets so weighted down that I don't think I can keep going. Jesus becomes the fulcrum and together the ride continues.
Because those on the other side deserve to know a different type of joy, one that is eternal.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Looking in the Mirror (GET THAT BEAM OUT!)
One of the reasons I relate so well to people on the streets is that I've been there.
Addiction, abuse, despair...you name it, I've dealt with it.
Overcome it.
So I don't judge, I don't condemn, and I don't turn away.
The Lord delivered me, and I know that He can deliver each of them, if they are willing.
But most seem unable, unwillingly to change.
They try. They want to do better. They make some progress.
Then they slide back.
I knew that I'd once lived the same pattern.
Lately, though, I've realized that I'm still living it. And the revelation has knocked me to my knees.
A year ago I found myself in the most incredible, awe-inspiring, magnificent place known to man. Well, to woman.
I could fit into my old high school blue jeans.
I'd go to Cato's and be able to shop in the right side of the store for the first time in over a decade.
Clothes actually made the transition from hanger to dressing room mirror without losing their appeal.
It was so nice to get up in the morning and throw some clothes on without having to use some magazine tip to hide, camouflage, or visually slim-down a "trouble" spot.
It was amazing.
I threw out all my "fat" clothes.
Women keep their skinny clothes for the day when they can wear them again. They DON'T keep their fat clothes for when they gain it all back.
In the beginning, I did great.
I stuck to water only and ate very little meat. The health benefits were incredible. I had energy, I slept well, and I could walk for miles without tiring.
It worked great for my treks up and down stairs under interstate bridges.
Then came the pastor's equivalent of peer pressure.
Invited into homes, it was rude to decline homemade meals and desserts. I politely picked at my food and tried to assure my hosts that the pastor's wife was not picky, nor snotty, nor rude.
She just didn't want to get fat again.
After hurting someone's feelings one too many times, I started to eat a little more.
I even briefly considered throwing up afterwards. (I wish then that I'd seen the spiritual battle forming.)
Before long, my taste buds had fully reawakened.
And it was hard to stop.
I rediscovered Coca-Cola. And chocolate.
But I kept it under control. At first.
I did gain and lose the same 10 lbs. for a few months.
I still managed to stay in single digit clothes.
Then came winter.
I stopped walking every day, cranked up my oven for hot homemade biscuits every morning, and started cooking (and sampling) hot meals and desserts to bring out on the streets.
Every time I bought a bigger size of pants, I swore it would be the last.
As the numbers on the scale grew, so did my self-loathing.
Where was my self-control? How could I have let this happen?
I began to recognize the spiritual battle.
It was hindering my ministry.
I stopped going out to minister as much and I became a little depressed. I was embarrassed and quite frankly, a little mad at God for letting this happen. Like He forced pizza down my throat.
Eventually I realized this was a spiritual battle. Pride was right up there leading the charge against me.
I decided to fight back.
I got things back on track spiritually but haven't made as much progress in the weight loss department.
Still I try. I want to do better. I make some progress then...
I slide back.
Isn't that exactly the same pattern I deal with on the streets?!
I'd been looking in the mirror without realizing it.
There's really no difference. Sure, my activities aren't illegal. But the lack of self-control is the same. The trying, the failing, the giving up...I haven't overcome that pattern at all.
But I'm going to keep working on it.
And I pray that they will keep working on it as well.
Maybe together we can break these patterns for good.
Addiction, abuse, despair...you name it, I've dealt with it.
Overcome it.
So I don't judge, I don't condemn, and I don't turn away.
The Lord delivered me, and I know that He can deliver each of them, if they are willing.
But most seem unable, unwillingly to change.
They try. They want to do better. They make some progress.
Then they slide back.
I knew that I'd once lived the same pattern.
Lately, though, I've realized that I'm still living it. And the revelation has knocked me to my knees.
A year ago I found myself in the most incredible, awe-inspiring, magnificent place known to man. Well, to woman.
I could fit into my old high school blue jeans.
I'd go to Cato's and be able to shop in the right side of the store for the first time in over a decade.
Clothes actually made the transition from hanger to dressing room mirror without losing their appeal.
It was so nice to get up in the morning and throw some clothes on without having to use some magazine tip to hide, camouflage, or visually slim-down a "trouble" spot.
It was amazing.
I threw out all my "fat" clothes.
Women keep their skinny clothes for the day when they can wear them again. They DON'T keep their fat clothes for when they gain it all back.
In the beginning, I did great.
I stuck to water only and ate very little meat. The health benefits were incredible. I had energy, I slept well, and I could walk for miles without tiring.
It worked great for my treks up and down stairs under interstate bridges.
Then came the pastor's equivalent of peer pressure.
Invited into homes, it was rude to decline homemade meals and desserts. I politely picked at my food and tried to assure my hosts that the pastor's wife was not picky, nor snotty, nor rude.
She just didn't want to get fat again.
After hurting someone's feelings one too many times, I started to eat a little more.
I even briefly considered throwing up afterwards. (I wish then that I'd seen the spiritual battle forming.)
Before long, my taste buds had fully reawakened.
And it was hard to stop.
I rediscovered Coca-Cola. And chocolate.
But I kept it under control. At first.
I did gain and lose the same 10 lbs. for a few months.
I still managed to stay in single digit clothes.
Then came winter.
I stopped walking every day, cranked up my oven for hot homemade biscuits every morning, and started cooking (and sampling) hot meals and desserts to bring out on the streets.
Every time I bought a bigger size of pants, I swore it would be the last.
As the numbers on the scale grew, so did my self-loathing.
Where was my self-control? How could I have let this happen?
I began to recognize the spiritual battle.
It was hindering my ministry.
I stopped going out to minister as much and I became a little depressed. I was embarrassed and quite frankly, a little mad at God for letting this happen. Like He forced pizza down my throat.
Eventually I realized this was a spiritual battle. Pride was right up there leading the charge against me.
I decided to fight back.
I got things back on track spiritually but haven't made as much progress in the weight loss department.
Still I try. I want to do better. I make some progress then...
I slide back.
Isn't that exactly the same pattern I deal with on the streets?!
I'd been looking in the mirror without realizing it.
There's really no difference. Sure, my activities aren't illegal. But the lack of self-control is the same. The trying, the failing, the giving up...I haven't overcome that pattern at all.
But I'm going to keep working on it.
And I pray that they will keep working on it as well.
Maybe together we can break these patterns for good.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
I've Got Friends in Low Places
The bottom line is, I consider them friends.
I may fuss and complain, threaten to use a bar of soap on their mouths, but ultimately I'm going to be there for them.
They are a people society has forgotten.
There was a time when I felt the same.
Much too young for the four kids I had, I wanted to be Carol Brady.
I was more like a compilation of MTV's Teen Moms.
I'd attend church services where I grew up. I had been the daughter in a high-profile, well-off family but was now the mom in the food pantry line.
I felt like a second-class citizen.
They say music can reach into your innermost parts, and express your feelings in ways your own words never could.
The first time I heard the song I knew it was written for me.
It described my deepest darkest feelings. Feelings of rejection, feelings of desperation, feelings of a resilience I had yet to tap into.
It gave me the strength to continue on, to convince myself that one day I would no longer feel like a second-class citizen.
It was powerful.
It was encouraging.
It was...
From Aladdin.
(I did have four children under the age of six.)
The reprise came after Aladdin had been told by a prince that he was a worthless street rat.
Riff raff, street rat,
I don't buy that.
If only they'd look closer.
Would they see a poor boy?
No sir-ee. They'd find out
There's so much more to me.
Twenty years later the chorus still comes from a place deep within.
I truly did relate.
I know now that it was how I saw myself, not how others saw me, that made me feel worthless.
Yes, I'd done things that weren't going to win me Mother of the Year awards. I was young and stupid. I don't know what I would've done without Ms. Thelma, the nanny who helped raise my children. She'd also raised me. Truth was, she was still raising me. Barely out of high school, each of my children was born during a college semester.
It wasn't in the plan.
But life sometimes has detours.
I read a sign the other day that said Life's about how you handle Plan B.
I was never good with change.
But here I am now and with surprising clarity I see that every road I went down, every mistake I made, and every heartbreak I endured are laid out on a map for me to help others navigate their way back.
Including my friends on the streets.
They, too, feel like second-class citizens.
But I know that's not true.
No sir-ee. There's so much more to them.
I may fuss and complain, threaten to use a bar of soap on their mouths, but ultimately I'm going to be there for them.
They are a people society has forgotten.
There was a time when I felt the same.
Much too young for the four kids I had, I wanted to be Carol Brady.
I was more like a compilation of MTV's Teen Moms.
I'd attend church services where I grew up. I had been the daughter in a high-profile, well-off family but was now the mom in the food pantry line.
I felt like a second-class citizen.
They say music can reach into your innermost parts, and express your feelings in ways your own words never could.
The first time I heard the song I knew it was written for me.
It described my deepest darkest feelings. Feelings of rejection, feelings of desperation, feelings of a resilience I had yet to tap into.
It gave me the strength to continue on, to convince myself that one day I would no longer feel like a second-class citizen.
It was powerful.
It was encouraging.
It was...
From Aladdin.
(I did have four children under the age of six.)
The reprise came after Aladdin had been told by a prince that he was a worthless street rat.
Riff raff, street rat,
I don't buy that.
If only they'd look closer.
Would they see a poor boy?
No sir-ee. They'd find out
There's so much more to me.
Twenty years later the chorus still comes from a place deep within.
I truly did relate.
I know now that it was how I saw myself, not how others saw me, that made me feel worthless.
Yes, I'd done things that weren't going to win me Mother of the Year awards. I was young and stupid. I don't know what I would've done without Ms. Thelma, the nanny who helped raise my children. She'd also raised me. Truth was, she was still raising me. Barely out of high school, each of my children was born during a college semester.
It wasn't in the plan.
But life sometimes has detours.
I read a sign the other day that said Life's about how you handle Plan B.
I was never good with change.
But here I am now and with surprising clarity I see that every road I went down, every mistake I made, and every heartbreak I endured are laid out on a map for me to help others navigate their way back.
Including my friends on the streets.
They, too, feel like second-class citizens.
But I know that's not true.
No sir-ee. There's so much more to them.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Beware of Wolves in Sheep's Clothing
My husband calls me an ostrich. Not for my long body that
widens near the hips, but for my propensity to stick my head in the sand.
Others word it more kindly. An innocent spirit.
I prefer the latter because it implies childlike wonder, not
teenage defiance.
It’s not that I don’t want to face problems or see the evil
in this world, I just don’t always catch on right away.
In fairness to my better half, he’s right, I don’t always
want to.
In my ministry and my work with local and national organizations to end homelessness, I deal with many shelters and non-profits. I may not always agree with some of the day-to-day operational procedures, but everyone has that "I'd do it differently" mentality from the outside.
So I try very hard not to be critical.
And I certainly can't fault a secular organization for leaving God out of the picture.
But the thing that draws fire from me is a supposed Christian organization using the name of God and operating under the power of the devil.
Jeremiah House is one of those organizations.
When we first moved to the coast, we were introduced to the "pastor" of this facility. It was a renovated church that was being used a temporary homeless shelter for women and families. We jumped on board immediately, a mistake we corrected in the future, and lent considerable time and money to the organization.
Chance, the founder, had an incredible testimony and a heart for those in need.
Or so it seemed.
We noticed a pattern after only a few short weeks. If someone left the grounds, he would tell us they'd been thrown out because they were caught using drugs. Not unlikely, since most came into the facility with drug or alcohol problems. But then we'd see these people and they'd insist they hadn't relapsed.
Knowing the likelihood of a drug addict lying, he maintained our trust.
But then other things started happening.
He was constantly "confidentially" whispering the shortcomings of other ministers and volunteers in the area. He'd create conflicts between churches to keep people from coming together to compare notes of concern.
Little did we know, our own names were being thrown out into the community with similar falsehoods.
Because of our close proximity to this shelter, we had a front row seat to the drama within.
Parolees were terrified because they were forced to attend services in benefactor churches without permission to cross state lines. Children were denied medical attention when ill. Faulty electrical wiring and shoddy construction caused accidents. Family members were unable to call or communicate with loved ones inside and residents couldn't leave the grounds without permission. Fathers trying to get jobs so that temporary shelter didn't become permanent housing were denied permission to leave. Food stamp cards and income tax returns were to be signed over and everyone was required to work at the shelter's thrift store for room and board only.
On more than one occasion, we received whispered phone calls asking us to give them a ride out of there, but they begged us not to say anything after seeing Chance put families with infants out on the street in the middle of the night when he'd find out they were planning to leave.
I called it the "Katie Holmes" exit strategy.
It was disturbing.
While Chance was using the name of the Lord but not showing any of the true nature of Christ, we were bound by the laws of the Word. His inability to walk in the light was not an excuse for us to follow suit.
So we refused to help anyone.
It was his program and we had to recognize him as the authority of the facility.
But we also had to account for our involvement in a ministry we were becoming more and more certain was operating under a spirit that wasn't of God.
It caused a few issues in my own marriage.
Having a pastor's heart, my husband bucked up against my increasing claims that the pastor was a wannabe Jim Jones leading an entire facility to doom under the name of the Lord and we needed to run, not walk, away from the place.
Then our roles would switch.
I'd decide that for the good of the people there, myself having a heart for children, we needed to stick around and be true ministers of Christ. He'd argue that we were accountable for putting our stamp of approval on this place just by being there.
At that point, the clarity with which I now see things was not so transparent. We just didn't know.
Were we imagining things? Were these people lying? Should we hear these residents out instead of cutting them off? Is the devil trying to destroy this ministry because God is involved?
Everything came to a head one week-end.
I was at my parent's house in Louisiana, drinking a cup of hot chocolate on the front porch swing and reading a morning devotion when my phone rang.
It was Steve, a traveling evangelist who was trying to line up a revival in our area. He'd planned to preach at our church one night and at Jeremiah House the next night.
"Okay, I'm all set to come," he told me. "But I'll wait for y'all to work this thing out with Chance first."
No-one knew the magnitude of the prayers we'd sent up at that point. Careful not to say anything publicly--or privately--that would hinder our own ministry, I was confused. What thing?
I asked him to clarify.
He proceeded to tell me the most convoluted story I've ever heard. It was concocted to discredit us and another couple in the ministry, one that had recently left his place after their own disturbing revelations. Ironically, he had previously successfully destroyed the budding friendship between us, so to claim we were now working together to "defraud the system" was ludicrous.
I didn't voice my concerns to Steve; rather, I called the one person who mattered.
Our marriage had suffered the strain of this man's lies long enough.
After I repeated my conversation with Steve to my husband, he took the biblical approach and went directly to Chance in person.
Chance immediately backed up. "Uh, you know those prophet-types," he said, referring to Steve. 'They're always trying to stir up trouble."
My husband started to bring some other rumors up, ones he'd found unnecessary to confront in the past.
"Look, they are all liars. Every one of them. If anyone says I said anything about you, they are lying." Chance exploded before my husband even got started.
That was the moment he knew the truth, and we realized that the devil, by way of Chance, had wormed his way into our marriage and our ministry.
Worse than that, we realized that we had turned away people who were scared and hurting and inadvertently confirmed their fears that Christians can't be trusted.
We later found out that before Jeremiah House, Chance had left a wake in several other ministries. There are still men and women of God who are running around with their tails tucked between their legs because of him.
Our personal involvement with Jeremiah House ended, though we've heard from many who've left there. Their stories unstopped, we now know the extent of the con being run as a Christian ministry.
Everything done in darkness will be brought to light, the Lord promises, so I have no doubt that this house of merchandise will soon fall. In my own walk, I've had to let go and leave it to the Lord.
On a professional level, however, the shelter continues to run across my desk.
I do not mince words. Do not send anyone there.
I'll argue the claim that the shelter is better than being in the woods.
Ask anyone who has escaped and they'll agree.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
INNER 3RD GRADERS
In order to minister on the
streets, you have to see beneath the layers of hurt and anger and fear. You
have to see that child within.
I’m not sure if this is a gift
from God or the result of teaching 3rd grade for so many years but I
see the inner 8-year-old in most people on the streets. It’s what allows me to
love and care for them, despite their appearance, language, and actions.
No-one would turn away from a
hungry, lonely child no matter how disheveled he looked.
Most of these guys (and girls)
out here have been alone since they were little more than kids anyway, their
family lives not falling anywhere near the norm on the spectrum of American
society. They didn’t have the parents to nurture them when their travails down
the road to nowhere hit the inevitable dead end.
Some are the black sheep of their
family, while others are merely the next generation of vagrants and vagabonds.
They live what was modeled.
And they model it for the next
generation.
Sometimes I have to employ the “time-out”
method.
Just like with kids, they have
the “give-me-an-inch-I’ll-take-a-mile” mindset.
If I don’t object to one curse
word, they’ll say three more. If I give a quarter, they want a dollar.
But the worst is, if I don’t acknowledge
falling-down- drunk behavior, they take it as a sign that I’m okay with it.
And I’m not.
“If that is what you choose to
do, you are an adult, and I can’t stop you,” I’ll say. “But I don’t have to
continue to drive you places and bring you food and come sit and listen to you
ramble on and on about how you want to change but then you don’t.”
How is that helping?
So I will pull away, albeit
temporarily, because I’m not going to enable someone to stay in their sin and
give my approval by ignoring the behavior.
I’m going to call you out or I’m
going to skip visiting your camp. Maybe both. Usually both.
Scooter found this out the hard way.
He came up to me at the soup
kitchen the other day. I hadn’t been to his camp in three weeks. His slobbering
drunk phone calls, after making a commitment to get sober, convinced me that he
needed a time-out.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
“No, not mad,” I answered. “Disappointed.”
“Why don’t you come by anymore?”
he questioned.
“Because what kind of friend
would I be to make it easy for you to stay in the woods?” I explained. “I’m not
going to sit by like it’s okay and watch you die like Roger and Alvin.” Scooter’s health has been on a steady decline
and he looks like a walking skeleton.
To my surprise, and delight,
Scooter not only understood, but he seemed pleased that I cared enough to “discipline”
him.
He pulled out a postcard that our
ministry puts in the sack lunches when we do street feeds. On the back was this
note:
YOU ARE DIRTY FOR WHAT YOU DONE. I WONT NEVER COME SEE YOU AGIN.
“Did you write this?” he asked.
“Of course not. Why would I say
that?”
“I don’t know. I compared the
handwriting to a letter you wrote me and it didn’t match but then you didn’t come
out so..” his voice trailed off.
“First of all,” I explained. “I would
never say something like that. Nor would I say it like that. What am I, a 20’s
gangster?” Besides, I want to pull out my
red pen and correct these spelling and grammar mistakes, mistakes I would NEVER
make, I wanted to add, but that was not really the issue here.
I was a little miffed that
someone would use my ministry card to leave such a message and briefly thought
about the time one of our magnetic signs disappeared from the van door. We worried
that someone would use it on their vehicle and cause some problems for us, but
as time passed and nothing happened, we assumed it got lost going down the
interstate or in a rainstorm.
This was a little more personal.
Whoever had written it was
pretending to be me.
It didn’t take us long to figure
out the grammatically-challenged culprit. Neither of us were particularly
upset.
He’d run the boy off from his
camp earlier that week and saw it as juvenile retaliation. Relieved to confirm
it wasn’t me, he was at peace.
I’d dealt with kids forging my
name on letters home to their parents for years.
Like I said, 3rd
graders.
Update: As I was posting this I got a phone call from
Scooter who was excited to tell me he’d gone for a shower, haircut, and shave.
He’d gone to the thrift store to get a new set of clothes and stopped and ate
dinner at the Salvation Army. His voice was strong and clear and we made an
appointment to go to the Social Security Office Tuesday. Maybe time-outs really
are good for grown-ups too!)
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Is the word STUPID stamped across my forehead?!
Today I was faced once again with the question I often ask myself, Am I really helping this person?
A couple of guys had found a landlord willing to rent to them but they needed help with utilities.
They were both working so I agreed to help.
A week later it was like pulling teeth to get the paperwork required for assistance. (Most people just want you to sign a check and move on. It isn't that easy with this particular grant.)
Finally today they called and said they had everything together. They didn't but that was beside the point.
The problem was that we showed up unexpectedly.
You want to know what REALLY goes on in homeless camps and houses, show up unannounced.
There was one big party going on outside.
They looked like teenagers whose parents had just come home early.
Pipes were discreetly dropped to their sides as wafting smoke magically disappeared. Heads ducked down and around as if they were doing neck stretches before looking up and "noticing" us for the first time.
I checked my mirror. I had to make sure STUPID wasn't stamped across my forehead.
We knew them all.
They came to the car, their loud voices and twitching limbs betraying them.
Two asked us to give someone a ride to pick up his check. He'd been in rehab but they let him work and he hadn't been able to get his check. He desperately needed us to bring him.
I fought the urge to check the mirror again.
For the record, most in-house treatment programs do not send you to work outside the facility. Some transitional programs do, but that wasn't where he'd claimed to have gone. Besides that, we had just learned two days ago that the rehab he'd "just left" shut down two months ago.
The term is Jonesing and after watching eight people with severe symptoms even I started feeling antsy.
Curious about the etymology of the word, I later looked it up. One source cites Jones Alley, a drug hangout in Manhattan as the origin, while another attributes it to Harry Jones, a slang term for heroin.
In any case, they were needing a fix bad.
They also were scheming to get around the program rules and I became concerned that the rent check and deposit would somehow be transferred into cash for drugs.
I normally don't like to play judge and jury regarding the allocation of funds.
But in this case, I had to wonder: Am I just supporting a drug habit?
Most times I turn in the paperwork with my opinion. This time, I am not sure I'll even do that.
A couple of guys had found a landlord willing to rent to them but they needed help with utilities.
They were both working so I agreed to help.
A week later it was like pulling teeth to get the paperwork required for assistance. (Most people just want you to sign a check and move on. It isn't that easy with this particular grant.)
Finally today they called and said they had everything together. They didn't but that was beside the point.
The problem was that we showed up unexpectedly.
You want to know what REALLY goes on in homeless camps and houses, show up unannounced.
There was one big party going on outside.
They looked like teenagers whose parents had just come home early.
Pipes were discreetly dropped to their sides as wafting smoke magically disappeared. Heads ducked down and around as if they were doing neck stretches before looking up and "noticing" us for the first time.
I checked my mirror. I had to make sure STUPID wasn't stamped across my forehead.
We knew them all.
They came to the car, their loud voices and twitching limbs betraying them.
Two asked us to give someone a ride to pick up his check. He'd been in rehab but they let him work and he hadn't been able to get his check. He desperately needed us to bring him.
I fought the urge to check the mirror again.
For the record, most in-house treatment programs do not send you to work outside the facility. Some transitional programs do, but that wasn't where he'd claimed to have gone. Besides that, we had just learned two days ago that the rehab he'd "just left" shut down two months ago.
The term is Jonesing and after watching eight people with severe symptoms even I started feeling antsy.
Curious about the etymology of the word, I later looked it up. One source cites Jones Alley, a drug hangout in Manhattan as the origin, while another attributes it to Harry Jones, a slang term for heroin.
In any case, they were needing a fix bad.
They also were scheming to get around the program rules and I became concerned that the rent check and deposit would somehow be transferred into cash for drugs.
I normally don't like to play judge and jury regarding the allocation of funds.
But in this case, I had to wonder: Am I just supporting a drug habit?
Most times I turn in the paperwork with my opinion. This time, I am not sure I'll even do that.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Overgrown Teenagers
My husband Dale and I had four teenagers in the house at the same time. I was also teaching "new" teens in junior high, and he was coaching "old" teens playing college football.
We became quite knowledgeable about the workings of adolescent minds.
Their mindset was simple: We know everything; you know nothing.
Their expectations even simpler: Gimme.
It was quite a time.
But part of the joy of parenting (and teaching and coaching) teenagers is watching as these beautiful souls turn into fully formed human beings.
For every adolescent struggle, there's a victory waiting on the other side.
For every "I hate you!" there's a moment when the only cure is a mother's embrace.
For every derisive remark of a parent's ability to understand, there's a knowing revelation.
That one usually doesn't come until after grandchildren arrive.
But the one thing I've noticed in street ministry is that most are still in their teenage phase.
The mentality is the same. The attitudes are the same.
The only difference is the age.
Kelvin is a 57-year old, highly educated, well-groomed man.
He called me the other night and left a message. The words were nearly identical to three other messages he's left in the past.
"If you could just help me out this one time I will NEVER ask you for anything ever again. I promise."
I think I've heard that five hundred and forty seven million times in my life.
It is precisely that mentality that keeps some of the homeless on the streets. They want what they want, when they want it. They have a sense of entitlement and are often impatient.
I came home today to 27 missed calls on my phone, all from the same number. My voicemail was working but she chose to hang up and call back every three minutes instead.
She wanted someone to pay her light bill.
There were two problems there.
First, we have access to two databases that track charitable donations. I can see that she has gotten an organization to pay her utility bill by using the same story for seven months in a row. I don't think her husband had seven heart attacks.
The other problem is the annoyance factor.
Maybe you aren't supposed to get annoyed in the ministry. But sometimes I do.
You know how kids pester for an answer you aren't quite ready to give? Some people just give in and say yes. I was always the parent to say no because I refused to be hounded into an answer.
My kids caught on quick.
I heard my oldest three advising their youngest sister one day after her multiple requests had been ignored.
"Kaden, you better stop asking Mom. She's going to say no if you keep bugging her."
"But maybe means no," she whined.
"Your whining will be a no," they further counseled. "You just have to know how Mom works. Go make her a glass of tea or give her a foot rub or something."
At least they knew they needed to do something.
Most people on the streets want something for nothing.
Like Javeon. He called last night. He didn't want help with "food, or money, or anything like that." He just needed help paying his bills. I'm guessing paying bills is not the same as giving money in his eyes.
He gave me the story of his wife's medical condition and their inability to pay rent in their apartment. He just needed to pay the landlord or they would be evicted. They'd lived there and paid their bills on time for seven months until this tragedy.
What he didn't realize was that not only had his wife been calling all week with a different story, but he had called me two months ago with a story about his house being burned down in a fire. I didn't even bother calling him out on that.
The address he gave me for his "single-dwelling apartment" was actually the local crack motel. I just told him we couldn't help with motel rent.
He was shocked that I knew.
What can I say? I raised teenagers.
We became quite knowledgeable about the workings of adolescent minds.
Their mindset was simple: We know everything; you know nothing.
Their expectations even simpler: Gimme.
It was quite a time.
But part of the joy of parenting (and teaching and coaching) teenagers is watching as these beautiful souls turn into fully formed human beings.
For every adolescent struggle, there's a victory waiting on the other side.
For every "I hate you!" there's a moment when the only cure is a mother's embrace.
For every derisive remark of a parent's ability to understand, there's a knowing revelation.
That one usually doesn't come until after grandchildren arrive.
But the one thing I've noticed in street ministry is that most are still in their teenage phase.
The mentality is the same. The attitudes are the same.
The only difference is the age.
Kelvin is a 57-year old, highly educated, well-groomed man.
He called me the other night and left a message. The words were nearly identical to three other messages he's left in the past.
"If you could just help me out this one time I will NEVER ask you for anything ever again. I promise."
I think I've heard that five hundred and forty seven million times in my life.
It is precisely that mentality that keeps some of the homeless on the streets. They want what they want, when they want it. They have a sense of entitlement and are often impatient.
I came home today to 27 missed calls on my phone, all from the same number. My voicemail was working but she chose to hang up and call back every three minutes instead.
She wanted someone to pay her light bill.
There were two problems there.
First, we have access to two databases that track charitable donations. I can see that she has gotten an organization to pay her utility bill by using the same story for seven months in a row. I don't think her husband had seven heart attacks.
The other problem is the annoyance factor.
Maybe you aren't supposed to get annoyed in the ministry. But sometimes I do.
You know how kids pester for an answer you aren't quite ready to give? Some people just give in and say yes. I was always the parent to say no because I refused to be hounded into an answer.
My kids caught on quick.
I heard my oldest three advising their youngest sister one day after her multiple requests had been ignored.
"Kaden, you better stop asking Mom. She's going to say no if you keep bugging her."
"But maybe means no," she whined.
"Your whining will be a no," they further counseled. "You just have to know how Mom works. Go make her a glass of tea or give her a foot rub or something."
At least they knew they needed to do something.
Most people on the streets want something for nothing.
Like Javeon. He called last night. He didn't want help with "food, or money, or anything like that." He just needed help paying his bills. I'm guessing paying bills is not the same as giving money in his eyes.
He gave me the story of his wife's medical condition and their inability to pay rent in their apartment. He just needed to pay the landlord or they would be evicted. They'd lived there and paid their bills on time for seven months until this tragedy.
What he didn't realize was that not only had his wife been calling all week with a different story, but he had called me two months ago with a story about his house being burned down in a fire. I didn't even bother calling him out on that.
The address he gave me for his "single-dwelling apartment" was actually the local crack motel. I just told him we couldn't help with motel rent.
He was shocked that I knew.
What can I say? I raised teenagers.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
When It Hits Close to Home
There’s no such thing as hitting
below the belt in spiritual warfare. Satan desires to rob of us of our joy by
attacking our faith, our marriages, our friendships, and our children.
Especially our children.
What better way to rip out
someone’s soul than through their child?
Over twenty years ago I buried a
child. She’d barely had a chance to live, a heart defect claiming her life
after only six weeks.
I was devastated.
I wasn’t sure how to live again,
how to be a mom to the three kids waiting at home when I left the hospital that
final time. Losing my child caused me to nearly lose myself.
William Wordsworth said, A mother’s
love is an unrivaled force of nature.
The ferociousness with which we
protect our kids is animalistic. We’d lay down our own lives to save our children.
So it makes complete sense that
the devil would hit us where it hurts the most.
In the media, in my own church,
and in the life of a good friend in the ministry. I’ve watched mother after
mother sit by helplessly as Satan has pulled away their children, leaving them shocked,
bewildered, and devastated.
Some can’t find the strength to
get out of bed. Others are barely going through the motions of life.
Still others fight back.
But they forget. The weapons of
our warfare aren’t carnal, but mighty due to the pulling down of strongholds. (2 Corinthians 10:4) We
are in a spiritual battle. We need to start permeating the realm of darkness
with prayers. We need to start recognizing the strongholds in our own lives and
breaking them. Anger, lust, greed…we need to shut the doors to sin in our own
lives and start praying for the Lord to help our kids shut their own doors.
It isn’t easy.
For one, we have to sit back and
let God take control. We can’t beat our kids into submission, nor can we shame
them. But we also can’t make excuses for them, nor can we let them manipulate us.
What we can do is stand firm on
the promises of God. These children are the arrows in our quiver. (Psalm 127:4-5) Whether we
released them twenty years or two days ago, we have to trust that they WILL hit
the mark intended by God.
My own arrow did a few loop-de-loops
itself.
In any area I counsel in, my own
attack usually follows. Faith, finances, stress…helping someone overcome a
battle is often “rewarded” by a herculean battle of my own.
Tonight proved to be no
exception.
One of my kids got into some
trouble and I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach when I got the
call.
But what was I going to do?
Treat her differently than
someone on the street just because she was my own kid? I look at everyone out
there like they are my own family. I love them and I care, but I also shoot
straight.
I gave her a call.
“Thank you for not yelling at me,”
she told me as we neared the end of our conversation.
Her surprise caught me off-guard.
But I understood. I wasn’t homeless-ministry
mom when she was growing up. I was
yell-every-time-you-left-your-dirty-clothes-on-the-floor mom.
Still there was nothing to yell
about. She’s a young adult, and she’s got an entire lifetime ahead of her to
make her own choices and suffer the consequences when she makes the wrong decisions.
I can help her by praying for her, by listening to her, and by sharing my own
experiences.
After all, my kids have yet to go down a single
road where their mom hadn’t already left footprints.
I couldn’t get angry; I couldn’t crawl
in the bed and pull the covers over my head.
I had to get to the hospital and
pray with a neighbor who’d just had a heart attack and then meet with a doctor about
a homeless friend who’d just been admitted to the hospital psych ward.
The next time I went to the jail I would remember that this was someone's child, just like my own daughter, who'd made a bad decision.
And I would fight with everything I had.
Because it's all a spiritual battle.
The next time I went to the jail I would remember that this was someone's child, just like my own daughter, who'd made a bad decision.
And I would fight with everything I had.
Because it's all a spiritual battle.
And the battle doesn’t stop just
because it gets personal.
Fight.
Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
Ephesians 6:11-13
Fight.
Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.
Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
Ephesians 6:11-13
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