tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4973533998027600942024-03-04T21:47:20.542-08:00Whispering WindCheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-39923700178666597782019-02-28T13:30:00.001-08:002023-02-04T12:02:12.289-08:00The Birth of a Mother<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NdLa1rP2sJA0_eIPuwH-opwkjolNrGZM5YUBChinb__pYP6YuVWTcMdDfA1mnnkbwSnbl7WyZ0uowXjkTNaFdcUniKCkYFbm122HgKgv9VhXZdkGBEer0etepHTSyUrMeRS0LXb8zMn4/s1600/V__B9C3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NdLa1rP2sJA0_eIPuwH-opwkjolNrGZM5YUBChinb__pYP6YuVWTcMdDfA1mnnkbwSnbl7WyZ0uowXjkTNaFdcUniKCkYFbm122HgKgv9VhXZdkGBEer0etepHTSyUrMeRS0LXb8zMn4/s320/V__B9C3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t think I would write my birth story. But as I lay in
bed that Thursday morning, listening to the sweet breaths of my baby drifting
back to sleep, my mind wandered back. Six weeks ago… I checked my watch. 1:45.
I was struggling to push my little guy out amidst the encouragement of a loving
birth team. They could see his head. I didn’t want to look, because I was
pretty sure they were only seeing that first little peak of hair that appears during
the contraction and then vanishes away. I would wait to see something more
substantial.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I felt a bit like an observer of my own birth. After
assisting with close to a hundred births as a student, I knew the routine
fairly well. First those miniscule contractions that everyone celebrates as the
beginning of labor. I almost felt like I was making them up as my midwife
gleefully timed their duration and intervals. To me, it felt like she was
grasping for evidence that she’d been successful in getting my body started. After
having tried all the do-it-yourself methods at home without success, I was
skeptical that this natural induction would work. First of all, I wasn’t sure I
was ever actually going to have this baby. Second, if this was labor, I had a
long journey ahead. I thought back to those other first-time moms who would
call and tell us their labor was beginning. “I’m having a strong contraction
right now!” they would say, joy ringing in their voices. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh hunny, </i>I would think, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you
haven’t seen anything close to strong yet. </i>No, there would be no
celebrations from me. Not until I felt pain—real, concentrated pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my midwife released us to go to town and run errands, I
left without a fear. No doubt I would return in a couple of hours for more
membrane stripping, still hoping for labor. I fiddled with the GPS, looking for
the Department of Licensing so we could let the state know that we’d recently moved.
Was it just the car making things less comfortable, or was labor really going
to start sometime today? A cramp set in, then a warm burst. “Oh!” This was
definitely a surprise. “Casey, turn around.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why, are you in labor?” Casey flipped on the turn signal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You probably missed your turn,” Mom volunteered from the
back seat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There could be no doubt now—I was definitely wet. I flipped
through my phone till I found the right contact. “Hi Beth? I think my water
just broke.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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So instead of the Department of Licensing, as Casey later
joked, we entered the Department of Labor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the cushy water bag out of the way, it didn’t take long
for the pain to begin. Yes, this was more like the labors I’d seen. Still, I
knew things were going to get worse—way worse. For now, I practiced focusing,
breathing, relaxing. Mom reminded me of body parts I hadn’t thought to relax—my
arms, my hands. Michelle squeezed my hands and rubbed my feet. Beth made sure
the baby and I were healthy and coping well. Casey supported and loved me
through every contraction. Our baby was coming.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My labor had started in mid-afternoon. Beth made optimistic
projections of having a delivery before midnight. Her predictions really did
encourage me—maybe she would be right. Of all the days in October he could have
been born—friends’ and relatives’ birthdays and other cool numbers I had hoped
for as the days came and went—October 18 was the only one I had specifically
hoped he would<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> not </i>arrive on. That
day had been someone else’s birthday 99 years before…someone whose footsteps I
did not wish him to follow. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my heart, though I smiled at my midwife’s encouraging
predictions, I knew my son would not come on October 17. I had a long journey
ahead, with lots of opening to do. Somehow, though in pain, I made peace with the
day I knew would be his birthday. Through the ministry of mothering God was
giving to me, my son would reclaim October 18. He would live to be a much
better man than his unfortunate ancestor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gained about a centimeter every two hours—twice as slow as
“average.” As evening came, I wanted some rest, so we all found places in the
bedroom—me on my side with Casey behind me, holding my heating pad on my back.
Michelle at my feet, Mom at my hands. Beth keeping watch. In between
contractions, I rested. The setting was quiet and peaceful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shortly after I reached 6 cm, I started to feel myself
fighting my contractions. I threw up—not the first time that day, but perhaps
the strongest. It felt like transition, except I wasn’t 7 cm. To help myself
relax and calm down, I got in the tub. It certainly felt like things were
picking up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I got out about an hour later, Beth checked me again.
Not until the end of a contraction did she announce my dilation: 8 cm. Then she
divulged that I had been 7 when it started—but as midwives often do, she helped
me along. She also proudly showed me her bloody glove. For the first time, I
worried that something might be wrong. “Is it too much?” I don’t remember her
answer, because that’s when things really intensified. I found myself wanting
to push, but having to pant it off. In her wisdom, Beth guessed I wasn’t fully
dilated, and she put off rechecking me. When she did, I was only at 9—but once
again, she helped me along. A few contractions later, with both of us working,
triumph rang in Beth’s voice. “Complete!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It felt good to be moving on to stage two, but I felt so
tired. Not only that, but I doubted my abilities in this department. Labor had
been passive—all I had to do was breathe and let my body do its work. Now the
success of my labor depended on me. I had to push. Mom told me this was the fun
part, because I would get to do something. The problem was, I did not feel
convinced I could do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pushed on the bed until Beth had me try squatting, a loved
one supporting me on either side. This was definitely hard work, but my mind
felt clearer than it had before. We all talked softly in between contractions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Then I began feeling too tired to go on. So tired that I
asked Beth if I had to stay squatting. She gave me a number of contractions to
complete. With the goal finished, I went back to the bed so I could sleep
between pushes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stage two (the pushing) went on for two hours. Beth had said
the average was one hour, but I felt thankful I didn’t drag on as long as some
other first-time moms my age I had helped. I distinctly remembered those women
in their early thirties who pushed for four hours. Two hours was plenty long, for
sure, and things got a little urgent at the end. Beth informed me I had to push
out his head on this contraction. When his body didn’t come flying out (as they
often do), I had to finish pushing him out without a contraction, while Beth
pulled as much as she dared. Those last three minutes felt like fifteen because
of the worry in Beth’s voice. Finally, at 2:20, our son was born. The half minute
before his first cry felt so long. “Oh Jesus,” I prayed out loud, “please just
let him cry.” I knew Beth was rubbing his back and feet, wiping his face, doing
everything right. Then it came. My baby’s first vocalization. That newborn cry brought
me a surge of joy and thankfulness. Then, a slippery, wriggling little infant
up on my chest. Beth had me feel the cord—completely done pulsing. Since it
wasn’t a big deal to Casey, Michelle got to cut it. While Beth collected our
baby’s cord blood, I talked to him about what she was doing. His eyes were open
wide. He was sweet and quiet as he searched my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The rest of that early morning was a bit of a blur. He
nursed, Beth examined him, I got a shot of Pitocin and Methergine. I was sore,
very sore. I needed help to get up and go anywhere. My blood pressure was low
and Beth wouldn’t let me take a shower. But I had given birth. I had a healthy
baby. I hadn’t torn. I had so much to thank God for.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Birth had been pretty much what I expected. The thing that
actually surprised me most was how routine it felt. After helping so many other
mothers, my own birth didn’t take my breath away as much as lore would have
it—as much as it had seemed to do for those other women. Casey, too, seemed to
take it all calmly and in stride, as if this were normal. Perhaps emergency
medicine had already taught him so much about dealing with bodily fluids and
drama that this seemed like just another medical event. The miracle moment had
already happened for us the first time we felt our fetus kick. But now that he
was born, we loved our baby as much as we knew we would. I loved gazing into
his little face, and I loved watching Casey holding his son. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real challenges, the real miracles, I soon discovered,
were in the day-to-day struggles of nurturing and raising a baby. The night
feedings. The soreness. The overwhelming sense of everything I expected myself to
do, and not being able to do any of it because I had to keep a baby fed,
changed, and sleeping. The desperation when I didn’t understand the reason for
his cries. The first couple of weeks were magical, but emotional and crazy. As
the days went on, the realization set in that parenting would not be
convenient. That I would not be able to “accomplish” as much as I had thought.
That I would often not know what I should do. That I would love this baby with
all of my heart, but I would also feel frustrated. That I would need God to
save me from my selfishness, my love of ease. That I would need to give every
ounce of myself to this sometimes inconsolable child and not expect anything in
return. That too often my husband and I would have to bear separate burdens, that
we could encourage and thank one another, but hardly even lighten one another’s
loads. That sometimes I would feel too tired to pray, but that I would need
prayer more than ever before. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These were discoveries no one had prepared me for. Perhaps I
hadn’t been listening. Perhaps I’d never paid attention to how much support,
help, and encouragement the new moms around me had always needed. Or perhaps,
like me, they hadn’t been talking. Could it be that we all hide these trials
within ourselves, ashamed to admit that the bliss of motherhood is not without
its sorrows? With all the education, preparation, excitement, support, and
attention devoted to pregnancy and birth, who would be there to offer the corresponding
education and support for me in new motherhood? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Selkirk grew, I delighted in his smiles, his cuddles, his
discovery of the world. In his own way, I could see, this little one loved me,
too. Those smiles were his way of repaying me for the life I was pouring into
him. Those were the moments I began to live for—along with the quiet of
peaceful baby sleep, and the comfort of my husband coming home from work. There
could be no doubt about it—I loved this boy, and although I would do some
things differently if I could rewind, I would also do it all again. He will
always be worth it, no matter how messy, how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>this journey may be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Lying in bed one morning, looking into my little boy’s face,
a voice spoke softly in my heart. “This is how much God loves <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every one </i>of His children.” As much love
and life and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me </i>as I pour into my
infant, God pours even more into me. Later, a verse: “Beloved, if God so loved
us, we ought also to love one another” (1 John 4:11).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because God loves me the way I love Selkirk, and because He
loves others that way too, I ought to love them. It made sense like it never
had before. Over and over, in my quiet moments with God—often nursing, often
walking, often kneeling next to the crib offering comfort to a tired
baby—thoughts of God giving us His Son have come to my heart. Thoughts of God
giving His Son to be taken care of by a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">human</i>—a
scared, self-doubting, clueless girl like me. Who is this God, and how could He
possibly love us that much?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
October 18 is my son’s birthday. As it turns out, October 18
also became my birthday. That day, although at times it still seems surreal, a
mother was born. The years ahead stretch out long before me (although everyone
tells me they will fly by). They will be years of trial, difficulty, and joy.
My patience will be tried, and I will make mistakes. But I will do my best. And
whatever else happens, one thing is certain: I will love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeA0AfpRDkN8pKhQj2BLFVsSc7F2_ZmerASkBWDkTm9FoHmNCMImlxC5Dkl0fSaDu_ULHgJJfvWIuTgJpx5T-WEc8Fz7lFWHK8OF_u3XYwgi6wLi0LMQGu9CutzE70UvLs246CHwFoo8mZ/s1600/V__D9E7.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeA0AfpRDkN8pKhQj2BLFVsSc7F2_ZmerASkBWDkTm9FoHmNCMImlxC5Dkl0fSaDu_ULHgJJfvWIuTgJpx5T-WEc8Fz7lFWHK8OF_u3XYwgi6wLi0LMQGu9CutzE70UvLs246CHwFoo8mZ/s320/V__D9E7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Selkirk Israel Reiswig<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10-18-2018<o:p></o:p></div>
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7 lb. 5 oz.<o:p></o:p></div>
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20 ¾ inches<o:p></o:p></div>
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Selkirk means “manor church,” and is the name of a mountain
range near our home. To me, it represents the church in the wilderness…God’s
cathedral. Israel means “God prevails,” and is the name God gave to an
overcoming Jacob, renaming him “the prince of God.” May God’s grace prevail in
our little prince’s life, and may this little mountain man be a rock of
strength among God’s faithful people!</div>
Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-11225596683500421402015-10-06T20:02:00.000-07:002015-10-06T20:02:10.968-07:00Five Ways to Protect Abusers & Foster Abuse<i><br /></i>
<i>I've been out of the blogging world for years. Although I would love to chronicle my adventures from the intervening time, the purpose of this post is to lend my voice to a topic that has become very important to me. So, here you go: how to protect abusers and foster abuse—in five easy steps!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>1.</b> <b>Do nothing. </b>Abuse in its many forms—physical, verbal, sexual, emotional, spiritual, etc.—are all around us in our churches, schools, neighborhoods, workplaces, and often our own homes. If you would like to protect abusers and provide a flourishing environment for abuse, your task is very simple: Do nothing. (It's the abuse <i>victims </i>that need friendship, counseling, affirmation, support groups, listening ears, recovery programs, and the like.)<br />
<br />
<b>2.</b> <b>Say nothing.</b> To best protect abuse perpetrators, say nothing. That's the easiest thing to do, anyway—especially since abuse is such an awkward, taboo topic in most polite circles. So keep your quiet. After all, it's really the <i>victims </i>of abuse that need courageous pastors to preach, authors to write, neighbors to report, friends to speak out, and teachers to educate on this uncomfortable topic.<br />
<br />
If you must speak out for the abusers, be sure you minimize their crimes and exhort all around you to show a spirit of amnesty and acceptance (which you will artfully term "forgiveness") for even the most unrepentant.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Stay out of it. </b>Skip the articles in your news feed addressing the issue. Avoid educational programs that alert you to the signs of abuse and give you the tools and information you need to speak out and help. If you hear that someone you know has been abused, shrug and move on. And by all means, if you hear of a potential abuser in your community, ignore the tip-off and ask the informant not to tell you any more about the situation.<br />
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<b>4. Don't believe it. </b>If someone who trusts you tells you that they have been or are being abused, the best way to protect the abuser is to doubt the story of the person who has come to you for help—or at least ask them to keep quiet about it. If you hear that someone in your church has been abused, and that the abuser is also a church member, you mustn't believe it. To protect abusers, you need to believe that all innocent-looking people are indeed trustworthy, and you must trust them when they claim to be innocent of the charges. You must never think of upsetting an abuser's peaceful life by breaking the stifling silence they have cast about their victims. Just think about it: All an abuser really needs is silence. All they want is to avoid consequences for their actions. These are easy needs to provide. It's we abuse <i>victims </i>who have many messy needs for shoulders to cry on, friends to lean on, advocates to speak out, counselors and good listeners to help us process, safe places to flee to, tangible help to get us back on our feet, safe churches to grow in, and so on. That takes a lot of effort, and it's detrimental to the protection of abusers. So just don't believe the victims' stories.<br />
<br />
<b>5. Be neutral. </b>If you find your church, workplace, circle of friends, family, or any other social group caught in a controversy about an abuse issue, just be neutral. Especially if a specific victim and abuser has been named, by all means be neutral—<i>especially </i>if you know the accused to be guilty. Even if you don't openly support the abuser, you give them all the protection they need by not standing boldly on the side of the victim. Don't get it backwards: It is abuse <i>victims </i>who need you to stand up and support them in times of crisis. Abusers need nothing but your neutrality.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Disclaimer: The author of this blog does not recommend protecting abusers. Instead, the intent is to point out the many ways in which we as church members, neighbors, family members, and citizens of the world do it every day.</span></i>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-56467239467587839892012-06-16T13:11:00.001-07:002012-06-16T13:11:12.290-07:00Parasites<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGihL2f15OoUEFU8NGkyaK8Tmuf5wXPVmLXAZM8HPexRaG15JExQCbUYEdurv3Ezk2dTAZIAkbi4sOkd0d4eHPp9bcPwMtp5F-XPc6NGGncz1Xc1CpRYP16s50vOrRQ9Pakw7Q1TGWE__I/s1600/P1040481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGihL2f15OoUEFU8NGkyaK8Tmuf5wXPVmLXAZM8HPexRaG15JExQCbUYEdurv3Ezk2dTAZIAkbi4sOkd0d4eHPp9bcPwMtp5F-XPc6NGGncz1Xc1CpRYP16s50vOrRQ9Pakw7Q1TGWE__I/s320/P1040481.JPG" width="299" /></a>I used to chuckle at people who could remember exactly where they'd had a tick embedded in their skin, and how they were when it happened. Truth is, I stopped counting before I learned to count. Tick bites were about as common to me as mosquito bites to kids in Alaska. (Remember the postcards showing off their state bird?)<br />
<br />
Then I moved to Washington state, and in my 8+ years there I saw about as many ticks as I would have seen in a normal week here in Iowa. I certainly never had a Washintonian tick burrow in. In fact, ticks seemed so rare that sightings almost made me feel nostalgic.<br />
<br />
I'll have to admit I enjoyed the reprieve. It spoiled me, though. Compared to my childhood days, I've become downright entonophobic, abhorring the idea of actually being bitten.<br />
<br />
The other weekend, while hiking at the local state park, we hiked a trail that appeared to have not been mowed in several weeks. Since I had instigated turning onto the trail, I took the lead—giving me first dibs on the ticks. Thankfully, I had on light-colored pants, making the vermin easier to see; but the quarter-mile jaunt through tall grass took quite a bit longer than it should have, due to numerous stops. Each time I saw something crawling up from my shoes, I halted the procession—and after removing the initial arachnid, I wound up picking off 3-4 more ticks from my pant legs.<br />
<br />
Back home, I conducted a thorough search. One attached to the top of my foot <i>through my sock. </i>(That was a first!) Two or three more crawling up my legs and trunk in search of prime sucking spots. And I'd already unattached one from my leg in the park restroom.<br />
<br />
There's nothing quite like searching for ticks to get you acquainted with all of your moles. I mean, I'm on familiar terms with the spots on my face and forearms, but I don't know so much about the ones in less-seen locations like my thighs and back. I really don't have a reason to know about those moles...until, of course, I'm on a tick hunt. Then I'm liable to scratch at claw at any innocent mole till I'm fully convinced that it's part of my body. You might say that ticks spur me to greater self-scrutiny.<br />
<br />
There's another parasite in our house these days, and it seems our adorable rascal is to blame. We thought the bald spots on his ears came from scratching at his mites—until, behold, a strange little rash appeared on my neck. Circular, flaky, itchy, scaly, red ring around a pale center...yep, matches the description for ringworm. So much for the joy of having the kitten on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
A day or so after the initial discovery, I identified a patch on my upper arm. And now, I'm keenly aware of every itch on my body. Have you ever just stopped what you were doing and allowed yourself to <i>feel </i>every little itch? I've discovered that at any given moment, there could be several widely separated patches of skin itching at once—especially during Iowa summer. One might be a chigger, one the chaffing of a waste band or tag, one a bug bite and another a tick bite that's still healing up. And then there are those unidentified itches. Itches that come from nowhere and go away without ever being explained. Except that now, all of those are suspect. I've found myself rushing to the mirror to investigate, only to wonder if the itch is red because I just scratched it, or is it dry and flaky? Is it a red mound, like a bite...or is it hollow, like ringworm?<br />
<br />
If I'm not careful to mingle my paranoia with reason, I could easily develop a somatoform disorder over this. The parasites have me scrutinizing my skin like never before.<br />
<br />
Annoyances and trials can have a similar effect. When I realize that life isn't going how I'd like it, or that things are not as they should be, I often find myself becoming extra introspective. What parasites in me are causing this mess? What baggage haven't I dealt with? What flawed perspectives need to be corrected?<br />
<br />
Some soul-searching can be very beneficial: the kind that says, "Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my thoughts." When we enlist God's help, He shows us our wrong attitudes and behaviors for the purpose of uprooting them and leading us toward everlasting life (Psalm 139:23, 24). He restores health to us and heals our wounds (Jeremiah 30:17).<br />
<br />
When I leave God out of it though, my introspection becomes more like selfish, snobby fretting, and I find myself scratching at the wrong itches—things I can't do anything about. When I find myself clawing at the past, for example, it's often simply time to move on.<br />
<br />
After all, benign moles are better left alone.Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-65859151548129331722012-05-25T18:23:00.000-07:002012-05-25T18:28:32.768-07:00How to Tame a Kitten (Or, How to Cure a Kitten of Ear Mites...We Hope)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2z9Y1Vyv3z73565yssi8odQedvHxKh_oz54wZYa_Y7idyYek-CuQlEi33s9Da2XVm3K8_9B7I3kpOOia5n-U8_gumCl0lrrbEYk4vwdBCYs9xOP00ByT6wSBiVQTe82uFxnfu0jKdeoHA/s1600/suitcase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2z9Y1Vyv3z73565yssi8odQedvHxKh_oz54wZYa_Y7idyYek-CuQlEi33s9Da2XVm3K8_9B7I3kpOOia5n-U8_gumCl0lrrbEYk4vwdBCYs9xOP00ByT6wSBiVQTe82uFxnfu0jKdeoHA/s320/suitcase.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
Don't get me wrong. I love our new kitten, and I'm not sure how I got along without him. It's just that this week his predator instinct has kicked in, and naturally, my hands and other appendages make excellent prey. So let's just say that (between cuddling and gushing over his cuteness), we're working on boundaries. Sometimes (when I can't get him distracted with inanimate playthings), catnaps are so welcome. That's why ear mites became a blessing to me.<br />
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The book on natural healthcare for pets said that the cure was to smother the microscopic creatures with olive oil. And so, our little patient has been getting daily treatments. Here's the routine.<br />
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1. Don leather gloves.<br />
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2. Captivate the kitten.<br />
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3. Pull back kitten's ear, and keep open.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zoscr2HpzLoQ_kJmsZkmT_VeovZ4YzNgaQ4moZtD2MPcWxsfo4Bm8IPnujvYQfJTK7zGmWnzr1Q5Me24hREBtO6d-BGd78uWHBWm5yBepMr0jnZMeX4tTs9BSRa16VSZPFTs0tnSIucB/s1600/ear+mites.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zoscr2HpzLoQ_kJmsZkmT_VeovZ4YzNgaQ4moZtD2MPcWxsfo4Bm8IPnujvYQfJTK7zGmWnzr1Q5Me24hREBtO6d-BGd78uWHBWm5yBepMr0jnZMeX4tTs9BSRa16VSZPFTs0tnSIucB/s320/ear+mites.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
4. Squirt one eye-dropper of olive oil into kitten's ear.<br />
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5. Close ear flap before kitten can shake, and hold.<br />
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6. Repeat with second ear.<br />
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7. Hold both ears shut for several seconds, allowing oil to soak in.<br />
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7a. Giggle at kitten's silly appearance.<br />
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8. Massage kitten's ear canals. Wait, how do you do that? Oh, forget it.<br />
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9. Release ears and allow kitten to shake.<br />
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10. Hold ears open and swab with q-tips to remove mite debris.<br />
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11. Release kitten.<br />
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12. Enjoy a peaceful afternoon while the now docile animal obsessively licks himself between naps.<br />
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Of course, Riley hasn't exactly been a willing patient. But, since he's just a kitten, we can control him for at least a few minutes (with the help of leather gloves).<br />
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What he doesn't know is that we actually have his happiness in mind. He may not enjoy his current greasiness, but he will enjoy his freedom from those itchy mites. If he had logic and rational intelligence, we might not need those leather gloves for the treatments.<br />
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He's only a kitten, so I don't expect any more out of him. But I do expect more from myself. When I find myself in the midst of a trying, frustrating experience, I hope I'll remember Riley's ear treatments and thank God for the cure from sin He's working within. Then, instead of attacking my Best Friend, I'll spend the time afterward being a sweet, quiet child...just like my little snoochum after his oil bath.<br />
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<br />Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-46032861210278997552012-05-20T13:04:00.001-07:002012-05-20T13:13:41.723-07:00Persistent Love<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5EvB_FQI_1yZRUcgXrCdPYFMmDTRNnEavFeWMIIuJghqwAPfWUAUiTyiH2hRsM-Kh0ixAbrdLmD2rcTLFUG0CZCrBuJS2BCDC8JCBIvlDyxhzLC94AtR4vkjN_LtC9M2FPyeqivbnLz8/s1600/P1040448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja5EvB_FQI_1yZRUcgXrCdPYFMmDTRNnEavFeWMIIuJghqwAPfWUAUiTyiH2hRsM-Kh0ixAbrdLmD2rcTLFUG0CZCrBuJS2BCDC8JCBIvlDyxhzLC94AtR4vkjN_LtC9M2FPyeqivbnLz8/s320/P1040448.JPG" width="240" /></a>After debating in my mind all afternoon, I finally decided: This event was momentous enough to take an evening off from school. After weeks of searching, we had finally located a gray tiger kitten—and he needed somebody to babysit him while Mom went to the church board meeting on the way home. I brought three biology books along to appease my conscience, but I knew I'd hardly read them.<br />
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Riley came from a house with lots of other cats. In fact, when we pulled up, we immediately spotted 4 or 5 of them in the yard. Soon another one ambled across the street, and the owners said Riley's mom was still inside. A member of the oldest litter, Riley had a whole pile of little baby cousins out next to the shed, and he himself had grown up with 5 sibling kittens. Still, his owner cried when we took him away.<br />
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We knew he's be lonely in our cat-less house, and we hadn't seen any dogs on the premises. At our place, the only available animal companion would be a black lab—at least until we could find an orange tiger kitten to be his playmate. Till then, Riley would need lots of attention and love: two things I wouldn't have a hard time administering. Riley's cute little face and his tiny voice had already captured my heart.<br />
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We spent most of our first evening playing hide-and-seek—except it wasn't really a game. Riley wanted little to do with me, but it seemed he wanted even less to do with his crate. Outside the cat carrier, he ran and hid; inside, he clawed and yowled. In my hands, he kicked and clawed. It proved to be an extra-long board meeting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruidgy2_PIZq1Xq6a6EYSl-XlIs5UAWCP9rb7FUoa9TcN-SCiYO1v2Omu_Bl3TOp3ODbMPxSU5AK4blLiDuZu-XHsAnTWQzvIe8fHG6cl3CoulLoEVdMWFVjFag7w8be74JZrZhSswu9n/s1600/P1040450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgruidgy2_PIZq1Xq6a6EYSl-XlIs5UAWCP9rb7FUoa9TcN-SCiYO1v2Omu_Bl3TOp3ODbMPxSU5AK4blLiDuZu-XHsAnTWQzvIe8fHG6cl3CoulLoEVdMWFVjFag7w8be74JZrZhSswu9n/s320/P1040450.JPG" width="320" /></a>At last I decided on a new tactic: I wouldn't let this kitten down no matter how much he protested. When clasping him in my hands grew dangerous, I cornered him in my lap, a hand above him and one in front of him. As he struggled to get free, I stroked him lightly with my free finger.<br />
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The fight ended suddenly when Riley fell asleep. He didn't wake up till it was time to leave—and by that time, he was mostly OK with me.<br />
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But the victory wasn't really complete. Back home, though he cried with heart-stirring pathos, he made his independence clear by hiding behind the couch and backing away each time I reached for him. Unwilling to let us cuddle him to sleep, he seemed intent on making the couch his kingdom.<br />
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And yet, we knew he wanted companions. And so the next day, I kept up my pursuit, catching him whenever I could for a good pet and cuddle. Although my mom did the same, I fully expected this process to take a challenging week.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgao2MCMyGYOeYQD2M_ifjSqTCN5Sed-0fHQumvKbC1ArTphrBqsmAPLQI3ckuf1h8zUrmnKW0N_kAZGYGsCqYQFVg-jQGRfDMJ7fkuqHlyA8RH_uryy83BevBQVgV8IHJ91unzVV1wZLcm/s1600/P1040443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgao2MCMyGYOeYQD2M_ifjSqTCN5Sed-0fHQumvKbC1ArTphrBqsmAPLQI3ckuf1h8zUrmnKW0N_kAZGYGsCqYQFVg-jQGRfDMJ7fkuqHlyA8RH_uryy83BevBQVgV8IHJ91unzVV1wZLcm/s320/P1040443.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
But (wonder of wonders), it really hasn't. By his second or third day, Riley was about as content a kitten as any I've met. Now, he loves to jump up on my lap, purring loudly while he drifts off to sleep. He gives kittie kisses and invites himself to cuddle up. In between, he explores the house, chases his tail, ambushes his toys, and tries cramming himself into our shoes. He's even getting used to the dog.<br />
<br />
Mom says Riley is a spoiled kitten, with two (doting) mamas all too eager to anticipate his wants and love on him. Still, we know that's why he's adjusted so well. By being intent on loving Riley, we have won his kitten heart. We've become his best friends.<br />
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At first I was tempted to be offended at Riley's rejection and repulsion. Tired and busy, I did have fleeting thoughts of "suit yourself, little cat." But if I had acted on those feelings, I wouldn't have my little study-buddy to distract and delight me. I wouldn't get purrs and cuddles and giggles. I'd be missing out big time.<br />
<br />
It's often the same way with people. Although they are lonely, people often seem to spurn our efforts to make friends. On the inside, they may be longing for companionship, while outwardly they may seem aloof or even haughty.<br />
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I've had more than one deep, special friendship develop with people who at first seemed unreachable. It's always taken perseverance, sometimes hurt feelings, and often creativity. But most important, it's taken relentless, persistent <i>love. </i>Then all of a sudden, we're fast friends.<br />
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Today, I'm thankful for the friendships I worked for. Those people have enriched my life so much. I'm so thankful for the bonds we share, thankful I didn't give up and miss out.<br />
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But I've been on Riley's side of it, too. I've retreated to my inner kingdom and made it hard for well-meaning friends to draw to me out. I've acted like I didn't want them around. I've played immature games of hide-and-seek. I'm so thankful for the ones that kept seeking me out. I'm thankful that they didn't give up. I'm glad they didn't let me have things my way. I'm glad they loved me even when I was being a pest.<br />
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Most of all, I'm thankful for my Jesus. I've hid from Him so many times. I've retreated from His presence, built up walls around my soul. And still, He keeps loving. Still, He keeps seeking. Still, He keeps showing me His relentless, persistent, undying interest. He keeps calming my fears and cuddling my heart.<br />
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This week I want to be like Riley. I want to soak in all the persistent love my Jesus can give.Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-75848355583440410842012-05-12T20:29:00.000-07:002012-05-12T20:38:47.837-07:00Open Wide<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first time I heard the song, the words gripped me:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>They say I am a dreamer, blind and cannot see</i><i>. . . . </i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">They say I am an idealist, blind and cannot see </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">that the principles I cling to won't stand reality.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, if that's what I am, Lord, won't you care for me? . . . </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I haven't met too many people who can't identify with that. In one way or another, we're all dreaming "impossible" dreams. We're all trying to beat the odds of reality and be or accomplish or feel something exceptional. We're all a little bit blind to the way things are, and trying to live something better—or at least different. And it's a good thing, since those dreams often help us find better realities!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I grappled with dreams and reality this week. Dreams of how fast I'd like to finish college, reality of how fast I can pay for it. Dreams of people and places I want to visit, reality of how that affects school and finances. Dreams of being in a healthy, intimate relationship, reality of being single. Dreams of being like Jesus, reality of being like me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I struggled, too, against temptations. Temptations to indulge in passing little pleasures that Jesus didn't endorse. Temptations to covet gifts He hasn't given. Temptations to feel like I'm being cheated if I don't get them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Finding my resistance mostly ineffective, I prayed and studied the Word. He gave me a verse:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text Ps-81-10" id="en-NIV-15228" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">"I am the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> your God,</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-81-10" style="position: relative;">who brought you up out of Egypt. <sup class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-15228A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)"></sup></span></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">Open <sup class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-15228B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)"></sup>wide your mouth and I will fill <sup class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-15228C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></sup>it" (Psalm 81:10).</span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">A wonderful cure-all, diverting my mind, my longings to the truth. Need something? Want something? Feeling empty without something? </span><span style="background-color: white;">Open wide! </span></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">One of those too-good-to-be-true-unless-God-is talking (because then it <i>is </i>true) types of claims. And yet, it takes <i>faith</i>, because there's no guarantee that God's going to "fill it" with my felt need. He's going to fill me with my actual need...which is, ultimately, Him.</span><br />
<span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">Hmm. What about what I want? Another verse. "</span><span style="background-color: white;">And He gave them their request, </span><span style="background-color: white;">But sent leanness into their soul" (Psalm 106:15).</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">OK, never mind! (What I want is not worth <i>that!</i>) <i>Lord, teach me to trust You, that what You fill me with will be best. </i>(</span><span style="background-color: white;">Several times during the week, I actually stretched my mouth open in prayer.)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And He did, every time I claimed the verse and chose to trust Him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Today, a disappointment. Wasn't a big deal, shouldn't have been a big deal. Except that it brought up painful memories from the past. Except that it gave me more to worry about for the future. Except that I'd been looking forward to this all week. Except that it put a cherished dream back in jeopardy. Except that my hurt reaction made me disappointed in myself.</span><br />
<span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text Ps-81-10" id="en-NIV-15228" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">Again, the verse. . . . <i>I am the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant: small-caps;">Lord</span> your God, who helped you with your struggles all week. </i></span><span class="text Ps-81-10" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><i>Open your mouth </i></span><i>wide </i><i>and I will fill <sup class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV-15228C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)"></sup>it.</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I'd wanted to talk to somebody else. I'd saved up stories all week to tell. I'd already talked to God about those things. How could God fill this hole?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then a text from a friend reminded me that God cherishes me and His plan is perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even His plan for today was perfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even the things I didn't enjoy, He can use.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Any part of me that is empty, He can fill. If I will open wide. If I'll let Him fill the compartment in my heart I was saving for someone else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This week will be a new journey, because tonight I'm making a choice. No more "compartments" will be saved for something else. My whole heart will be open for God to fill. And if He's the only one that does any filling, I can be sure that my "cup" will still be running over (Psalm 23:5).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm stretching my mouth open wide in commitment.</span>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-80249999163864518532012-05-05T15:27:00.001-07:002012-05-05T20:28:22.385-07:00Epic Songs<span style="font-family: inherit;">When did <i>epic </i>come into vogue? I feel like it has been two, maybe three years—but I really wouldn't know, since my family has had our own usage of the word for 15 or 20 years. In Francis language, <i>epic </i>refers to something diverse, long-lived, and extraordinary. (Not so far from the dictionary definition, remarkably: "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">extending beyond the usual or ordinary especially in size or scope.") In our family, e<i>pic </i>is most often used to describe particularly notable hikes, but not many hikes achieve "epic" status. In fact, when we were kids, my dad had to approve before we could officially say we'd had an epic day. When we hiked from breakfast till nearly dark, covered miles of changing territory, pulled out our rain jackets (only to shed them, later, and roll up our sleeves), saw rare wildlife, and trekked across rough terrain (think swift stream crossings, high mountain passes, and non-traceable trails)—then we'd experienced an epic day. An epic hike was something to brag about.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">This week we had an epic thunderstorm. Not the kind that build up, boom enough times to convince me to shut down my computer, rain half an inch, and then roll away and let the sun shine as if nothing happened. No, this storm flashed, rumbled, and poured for a good 3 hours: from 1:30 a.m. to 4:30 a.m. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">My room has two big windows without any curtains. I don't want curtains, because a) I live in the country, on the second floor, with no tom-peepers within proximity; b) the pine trim around the windows makes perfect frames for the most gorgeous pictures on my wall: the views toward our pond, the back woods, and my parents' lovely orchard and gardens. Curtains would get in the way of my picture frames, and remind me that I'm inside.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">In an early-morning thunderstorm, of course, it's hard to keep the light out without windows. But who wants to sleep through a show like that? The flashes came so often I couldn't even count seconds between them and the thunder. Which flash went with which boom? More than that, the thunder blended together for minutes at a time, like the continuous roar of a freight train. The clouds shone so brightly I could see the skeletons of the trees out back, their branches careening in the raging wind. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">I lay awake, watching, reveling, smiling, basking, thanking God for the spectacular display and praying that the rain wouldn't flood our gardens and wash away all the topsoil. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">And then I heard them. The frogs in our pond!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">When I'd gone to bed, the frogs had been singing for the joy of a warm, summery night. Their choir could have drowned out an interstate highway (although, fortunately, the nearest one is 90-some miles away). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">The choir had quit performing, now. Instead, two or three lone frogs sang cheerful solos.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">BOOM! Peep, peep. BBBBRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMMMM. Peeeeeeep, peep, PEEP!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">How could a frog sing through this storm? Shouldn't all animals be seeking shelter (even if they do like to be wet)?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">But nothing could stop those courageous, happy little amphibians. Lightning, thunder, wind, pouring rain—these little critters would keep right on singing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">My prayers morphed into gratitude for the frogs. I giggled as I did it, but I asked Him to make me more like those slimy little singers. Would He please teach me to keep singing through the most fearsome storms? Could I learn that joy is not only for the warm and balmy, carefree times—but also for trials, uncertainty, and heartaches? When the rest of choir quits singing, would He give me the joy and courage to keep peeping?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">I think He will. And it's going to be epic.</span>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-58205401186600229092012-04-28T15:44:00.000-07:002012-04-28T15:52:50.921-07:00Laughter's Return<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAziEDDKLuzDhgdXq_FySwNYvRJRF5uOsnyelIqedN97sTX-qEj0mnpd3yFn3JLgeAYfWkWUtCw8ocEdnkJcSCueHXaITIgqO551ZW770oqAOIsJffTCzIdv-CHm5gZ9KaX7n8UpgUOFdG/s1600/laughing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAziEDDKLuzDhgdXq_FySwNYvRJRF5uOsnyelIqedN97sTX-qEj0mnpd3yFn3JLgeAYfWkWUtCw8ocEdnkJcSCueHXaITIgqO551ZW770oqAOIsJffTCzIdv-CHm5gZ9KaX7n8UpgUOFdG/s200/laughing.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
Last week I was naughty. Did you notice?<br />
<br />
I know one person noticed, because he told me. Actually, two. But one was my mom, and moms always notice naughtiness, whether or not they comment on it. This time, though, she gave me license for it.<br />
<br />
You see, last week I preached the sermon at church, and when I was done with that, I spent a big chunk of time catching up with a couple of friends with whom I'd fallen out of touch. By the end of the weekend, I felt like I'd "used up" my blogging energy. And I didn't post. (It's a sorry excuse, I know. But it's all I've got.)<br />
<br />
And so I went on with my study-filled week, with Midwest spring daily offering me contentment and satisfaction. Gone are the lonely brown days that drive wistfulness and repining into the soul. Here, instead, are blooming flowers, leafy trees, growing garden shoots, flitting songbirds, and peeping frogs. I putter through busy days with a smile, and go to bed feeling that all is well.<br />
<br />
Still, I've been missing something. Yet, until Monday morning, I wasn't even quite sure what it was.<br />
<br />
Monday morning, when my nieces woke me up via pre-recorded cell phone alarm, I began my day with a grateful prayer. I thanked the Lover of my soul for contentment, quietness, and inner peace. "But Lord, there's something missing," I said.<br />
<br />
Then I knew what it was.<br />
<br />
Laughter.<br />
<br />
Not just chuckles. I mean laughing hard. Irrepressible laughter. Contagious laughter. Convulsions. (You know: Cheyenne laughter.)<br />
<br />
"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven. . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4).<br />
<br />
<i>Yes Lord, that's it! I've enjoyed the time of contemplation and quietness; introspection is </i><i>refreshing</i><i>. But could You maybe send me back my spirit of laughter, and let me giggle my way through life again? Or is that not who You are calling me to be? </i><br />
<br />
I wasn't sure how God would answer. Maybe He wanted to teach me to be the sober, quiet type, like the picture-perfect model of a good-old fashioned, feminine woman. Still, I could hope. Maybe He would swirl the two: regal femininity with spunk and humor.<br />
<br />
A few hours later, at lunch, my dad teased my mom about her comment that the leftovers had come back to "haunt" us. I giggled.<br />
<br />
As the meal continued, we got into a conversation about potatoes. The potato plants in our garden had been frosted on, and they'd been looking a little sick. Still, my parents were confident they would recover.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I guess they are a cold-weather crop," I said. (I'm definitely not a potato expert, but I think Northerners and mountain tribes depend on them.)<br />
<br />
"I think it gets pretty hot in the Boise valley," Papa remarked.<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm talking about Russia," I blurted.<br />
<br />
My dad's eyes twinkled and teased as he replied: "Well, I'm talking about Idaho."<br />
<br />
That did it. Mom and I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of my Russia comment. I laughed so hard I had to put down my fork as my nose dove for my plate.<br />
<br />
And then it hit me: God had answered my prayer, and fast. I laughed even harder, reveling in my Master's goodness.<br />
<br />
That wasn't even the end of it. The incident tickled me all day. I kept convulsing with giggles I couldn't keep down. I even giggled myself to sleep. And I found plenty more things to laugh at throughout the week.<br />
<br />
Can you really beat a God who cares so much He even answers prayers about details such as laughter? Can you really do better seeking fun in the world? Can you doubt that His plans for you will be fun and rewarding—not just in a sober, religious way, but even <i>humanly, </i>in a deeply satisfying, personal way?<br />
<br />
I can't. My God is so awesome, He makes me laugh.Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-21816217776681320352012-04-14T19:52:00.011-07:002012-04-15T17:48:50.171-07:00Strands of Thought<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8toNARlwOx5Y_2zurNsu76HV2B_7zEPxBzrxShGxgzW28lssPjOo1bARVV8pzPs2hu2ob-QLRdE2jqc2bk-mEzwiFI5oh6o2iDfo9Xjr1ofu0aRyzPGbdAX2U9t_jXJQ2ECJOYIRxeQld/s1600/P1040411.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8toNARlwOx5Y_2zurNsu76HV2B_7zEPxBzrxShGxgzW28lssPjOo1bARVV8pzPs2hu2ob-QLRdE2jqc2bk-mEzwiFI5oh6o2iDfo9Xjr1ofu0aRyzPGbdAX2U9t_jXJQ2ECJOYIRxeQld/s320/P1040411.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731789938510603490" /></a><br /><div>Blue skies and clouds, sunshine and rain, wintry frost and summery breezes. Baby blessing, church dedication, laughing with friends, shedding worried tears. Cold night shivering under the covers, warm nights listening to peeping frogs. Dreaming of the future, reminiscing of the past. Working, studying, praying, reflecting. </div><div><br /></div>What happens when I don't have an exciting week? When "notable" doesn't write itself on the calendar?<div><br /></div><div>I still live in my deep world of thought. I awake wondering what I should talk to God about first, and decide to thank Him for contentment, connection, quietness, and fulfillment. I go through my days contemplating and exploring my Master's love, and pondering and examining the thoughts and behavior of others. I look for little lessons along the journey.<br /><div><br /></div><div>A tufted titmouse chirped in at us all week. The first day it bombarded our windows, my mom decided that since the nights had been frosty and the mornings chilly, the bird must be asking us to fill up the bird feeder. But the birds hardly noticed the return of their easy meals, and the titmouse kept coming. He found us wherever we were: my dad in his studio, my mom in her office or at the kitchen window, me at my desk, and all of us at our dining room table. He flitted up and down our windows, as if going through a ritual dance, staring in at us and chirping all the while. His nickname changed from "honey" early in the week to "deranged bird" by its close. For all we could tell, that little titmouse surely acted like it wanted to enter our home. But what would it have done if we'd let it in? Freak out, no doubt. Artificial human residences are no home for wild birds.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>And what of me? I certainly act like I want to go to Heaven. But would I freak out if God were to translate me there? Would I be like a wild bird in a human house, or would I find Heaven to be my true home? How I spend my time on Earth determines the answer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The assisted living center where my grandfather lives called this morning to ask my parents to take him to the Emergency Room. He'd been complaining of terrible pains in his face, jaw, and neck—and not a stationary ache, but a fluctuating, changeable throb. After a couple of hours checking in on different body systems and functions, the doctor had the diagnosis: blocked salivary glands. The prescription: lemon drops.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's the small things, isn't it, that make life painful or joyful? Who ever thinks about their salivary glands' contribution to their well-being? In 26 years, I've rarely given them a thought; but I have now been made aware of their importance to my comfort. And what about the little courtesies: the gentle tone of voice as we speak with family; cheerful, genuine greetings; hugs, smiles; little acts of service; happy little texts; a few moments to share someone else's pain, joy, or confusion. If these little kind acts get blocked up, life becomes painful.</div><div><br /></div><div>We had almost arrived at church yesterday when something started flapping under the hood. When Mom turned into the church driveway, she found the power steering had failed. In the parking lot, the elders checked out the situation. A couple of belts had come off. After the church service, we called <span style="font-size: 100%; ">roadside assistance to tow the car, and then hitched a ride home with friends. We got so involved in conversation that the driver missed our exit and drove 20 miles past...and none of us noticed. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Do I ever get so caught up in the social realm or the demands of everyday life that I fail to take into account where my life is headed long-term? To make sure I don't lose miles going the wrong direction, am I carefully guarding my health, my character, my relationships, my time?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div>I tracked my blog hits throughout the week, watching Kodiak's story rise to most popular post in a matter of days...even though I didn't post it at the optimum time. How do readers so quickly know when I've bared my raw emotions, shared deep, sensitive feelings...written posts truly worth their click? And given that not every day can be so dramatic, how can I make my normal life an intriguing, open book for all to read the story of God's love?</div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Ordinary, everyday experiences. Without a pause for contemplation, they and their lessons could easily be lost. And yet, all these weave together as strands of thought, collectively forming the tapestry of my worldview. Each experience, with my responses, changes my character in its own subtle way, making me more or less like the deranged bird: more or less a true subject of God's Kingdom.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div>Thank God that it isn't only in the big, startling, powerful revelations that He manifests Himself. Thank Him for each strand of thought in the weaving.</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-50431002747399586572012-04-07T18:23:00.005-07:002012-04-07T20:24:51.362-07:00Canine Devotion—and Divine Love<span ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gjn5D2ny7FbNhPouXaBKL3M3lB8UGyUNoo7dym2GdcefRKZRS_DrSyMSRhk0sQ0D4_zA5FUtRij-hbXwwKj4G_7_qWCe0sU8kAocfg8qNfi1vwy5JThSqTbwOJohn3JDPygwyw27Vu2_/s1600/buddy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gjn5D2ny7FbNhPouXaBKL3M3lB8UGyUNoo7dym2GdcefRKZRS_DrSyMSRhk0sQ0D4_zA5FUtRij-hbXwwKj4G_7_qWCe0sU8kAocfg8qNfi1vwy5JThSqTbwOJohn3JDPygwyw27Vu2_/s320/buddy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728860281124465538" /></a><br /></span><div style="line-height: normal; "><span><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I could talk for hours about that dog. How he used to "knock" on the door to let me know it was time for our jog. How he knew the difference between friend and stranger, greeting my friends with affectionate enthusiasm yet barking protectively at anyone potentially threatening. Of his love for hiking with me in the wilderness, and how he frolicked, dashed, and danced through the meadows. About the time he foolishly charged at a moose, and the time we lost him on the trail. How he delighted in a fresh snowfall, springing joyfully through the drifts. How he loved car rides, and would stand in </span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">the console on </span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">his front paws to nuzzle and cuddle me as we drove. About his floppy ear, and how everyone adored him, not only for his overwhelming handsomeness, but for his pure and golden heart.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I'd never really been a "dog person." Much to the contrary: I favored cats. Anyway, cat or dog, I didn't have time for a pet. I took long trips away from home and often went away for the weekend.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">And then a stray dog showed up in our neighborhood. Everyone else had enough pets already. My landlords were trying to decide whether to feed him or take him to the shelter. I'm still not really quite sure how it happened, because I wasn't interested in animal adoption. But somehow, the neighborhood kids prevailed upon me to keep him, promising to look after him when I was away. Looking at the canine tied outside my screen door, I shook my head, not believing that I had just adopted a DOG of all pets. Still, I had to admit he was pretty cute. With his thick, long coat, he looked like a bear. I knew his name instantly: He was Kodiak.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2eEWpa3R8XdnmZdqvY7TQf_hyphenhyphenWOWr7RNoqITot7NM7dU7-UpR91CcZO1ge2JjnulutxYePhRc5LhvaXyoncYbKopuhITS-wvnSi4QbgXohK-nipgkpvEKb1ySTvuUeugMZJFs9lJF92x/s1600/Hug.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2eEWpa3R8XdnmZdqvY7TQf_hyphenhyphenWOWr7RNoqITot7NM7dU7-UpR91CcZO1ge2JjnulutxYePhRc5LhvaXyoncYbKopuhITS-wvnSi4QbgXohK-nipgkpvEKb1ySTvuUeugMZJFs9lJF92x/s320/Hug.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728860285278550354" /></a></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">He had come at an emotionally trying time in my life. Six days previously, I had called it off with a guy I had been casually seeing for a few months. Now, I felt lonely and unwanted. Then came the dog, and he did have one good quality: He wanted my attention. We started jogging together every day—sometimes twice. In the evenings, I'd sit in my yard and stroke his fur and just hug him. He seemed to understand and hug back, leaning against my chest and resting his head on my shoulder. After all (Heaven only knows why), </span><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">he too had been abandoned...alone and unwanted. It didn't take long to fall in love with </span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">this angel dog. He had a darling personality, and I knew God had sent him. </span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">Through him, God reassured and encouraged my hurting heart—and let love and happiness return to my world.</span></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTaV8x08BN6Q2WBHE_1AxFY5HWwjjm0bsR1T-adWhOIfz6PNdaFasb6zHz_ZxtUZj7ReXqlXL_kN_tDNvMOIiu7_D2ZvNP7u-S9d7_npT-hEDBFUvA6cTSUUyxfhl7oNLT0QviXqJ2WoU/s1600/hiker+dude.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUTaV8x08BN6Q2WBHE_1AxFY5HWwjjm0bsR1T-adWhOIfz6PNdaFasb6zHz_ZxtUZj7ReXqlXL_kN_tDNvMOIiu7_D2ZvNP7u-S9d7_npT-hEDBFUvA6cTSUUyxfhl7oNLT0QviXqJ2WoU/s320/hiker+dude.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728860285388006834" /></a><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">That first summer I was so paranoid of losing him that I kept him on a leash or chain almost perpetually—even out in the wilderness. Nobody was going to wrench that lifesaver from me! He tolerated my protectiveness, but I knew he'd be happier off his chain. He had such a free spirit, and he wanted nothing more than to be exploring or else right next to me. When I had to chain him several feet away, he howled and wined till I tied him up closer.</span></div><span><br style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">The first backpacking trip we took together, my dad slowly taught me to let him be free to run in the wilderness. Dogs like Kodiak, he told me, were meant to run free and wild. I soon discovered that when I let him off the leash, Kodiak still wouldn't stray far—and when he did, he'd be back to check on me. I grew to love watching him bound freely through the woods and meadows, nothing to hold him back—no damper to his joy. Off his leash, Kodiak nearly burst with bubbly, exuberant energy.</span></span><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">We spent three wonderful years together...almost. I took him everywhere I could, and felt terrible when I had to leave him behind. As I cherished him, I learned to like other dogs, too. Still, none of them could compare to my Kodiak. He was the best dog in the world, and I depended on him to always be there and love me.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1fQLiJLcqDI6HYflQkgAAby9G5UvbKmxvykINvn4rrXbm3-esA_jElWj0SzVPRwW24Jia2ACIgoWPNUzvLzxFuZJXL002eNpw3VXjiNP6H6w74qspEBJSqZvIf7swrDcbwSMMEBkde_7/s1600/P1020395.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1fQLiJLcqDI6HYflQkgAAby9G5UvbKmxvykINvn4rrXbm3-esA_jElWj0SzVPRwW24Jia2ACIgoWPNUzvLzxFuZJXL002eNpw3VXjiNP6H6w74qspEBJSqZvIf7swrDcbwSMMEBkde_7/s320/P1020395.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728860291319502898" /></a></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">And then the day came. A girlfriend and I had a planned a snowshoeing "date," and of course Kodiak would be coming along. He could hardly contain himself that day, so excited to be heading into the mountains with me. As Jessica and I got our backpacks ready, he whined in the car, wanting the adventure to begin. Then, he jumped into the front seat and out the open door. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Once outside the car, he explored the little parking area, totally uninterested in the vehicles trickling past. Finally, we set out down the road to pick up the trail. I had his leash, but the highway didn't seem busy, and we didn't have far to go. Besides, Kodiak was being obedient and staying on the side of the road.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Then one of us stooped to retie a shoe, and I took my eyes off him. He bounded across the road, to the snow drifts. </span></span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">As he </span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">jumped from drift to drift, </span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">I couldn't remember ever seeing him happier. He made me grin. So much energy and joy.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Then in one fated moment, he plunged down the snowbank to cross back over to me. Just then, a truck rounded the corner.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">That scene has haunted me now for a year. Even as I write, I have tears streaming down my cheeks. I just couldn't believe it. No, not now, not my precious Kodiak. I had just broken up with my (much more serious) boyfriend a month before. I needed my doggie hugs and jogs. Oh, why hadn't I put him on the leash? I felt like a murderer.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Then something unthinkable happened. At the sound of my voice, Kodiak raised his head and scooted over to me on broken legs. He would cross that road and be next to me if it was the last thing he did.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">I knew he couldn't last long. Stooping next to him, I stroked his beautiful fur and told him I loved him and was so sorry, that it wasn't his fault. Then we loaded him into the back seat and headed for the vet. </span></span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Trembling, I listened for his belabored breaths. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Then my angel raised himself up, struggled forward, and rested his front paws and his head on the console, looking up at me with loving, hurting, yet unaccusing eyes. "Oh buddy," I choked. "No, no." I didn't want him to use up his strength. I wanted the vet to be able to fix him. But he insisted on being there with me. Weeping, I patted his head and told him I loved him.</span></div><div><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">He stayed there a few moments. Then he crawled into the back seat, nestled onto the floor, and breathed his last. Only then did I realize what he had just done. In one of the most loving gestures I have ever witnessed, Kodiak had told me of his devotion to his undeserving master. </span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">One last time, </span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">he had told me he loved me.</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">That night I couldn't sleep for anything. The darkness was too still and quiet without his barking lullabies. I didn't know how I would ever face the neighbors. If only I would be the only one to suffer from the loss of my treasure...but Kodiak had been everyone's dog. All my friends loved him. They would all be devastated. Ashamed, I kept thinking of that poor wounded dog I thought had already died lifting his head and crawling over to me. Looking up at me with those big trusting eyes, not accusing me of my horrific negligence. Struggling to get close to me to say his last good-bye, his eyes saying nothing but "I love you, sweet master." I couldn't understand it. Why did he love me so much? </span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">Suddenly, as I gazed in imagination into those riveting eyes, the picture changed. Now it was Jesus dying on the cross, with the same big brown loving eyes. Only, He knew I was the one killing Him. He threw Himself in the road for me. And even though He understood it all, He just wanted me to know that He loved me anyway. </span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">A transcendent moment. </span></span></div><div><span><span style="line-height: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><span style="line-height: 14px; ">Awestruck, I let the mini vision soak in. </span></span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">The death that I've caused 10,000 times over is so much more heinous than the foolish yet unwitting failure to keep my dog from harm's way. But Jesus loves me anyway, and He's willing to bear the brunt of all my sorrows, even the ones that I cause. I couldn't understand it, but I found myself in awe of that love.</span></span></div><div><span><br style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I still miss my buddy terribly, but I've clung to that vision of divine love. And, though I tremble to admit it, I dare say it has been a fair trade.</span></span></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XAUGCPY1EUXsjpCNKQIdSnLQqZnv5WuXPkoFUDWmo5_CcsqZ153Ns0hrag-iqVoqe99iE0muD3ID-MQ5rt4MLjW869fF2jbTMXYo1ZxeGlj1cA_VUKoPCCyz-hTFV6sQJHnbokhrsbW7/s1600/P1012716.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XAUGCPY1EUXsjpCNKQIdSnLQqZnv5WuXPkoFUDWmo5_CcsqZ153Ns0hrag-iqVoqe99iE0muD3ID-MQ5rt4MLjW869fF2jbTMXYo1ZxeGlj1cA_VUKoPCCyz-hTFV6sQJHnbokhrsbW7/s320/P1012716.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728860297506637746" /></a><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwnJDbvuYPjYWmfjmnxEQzAiki-z1WiN2db2cNdesXOLSJYvFcOLvUkVkVegGElABFCKTbUgni8kwriiT9fdw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-19467079278887336002012-03-31T18:25:00.005-07:002012-03-31T20:02:12.671-07:00Broken Screws"You've had an Iowa license before, right?" The lady in the DMV office compared my birth certificate, Social Security card, Washington driver's license, and Iowa bank statement.<br /><br />I nodded. My first driver's license had come from Iowa. When I traded it in for my Washington license at age 18, the friendly DOL man had punched a W-shaped hole in my Iowa license and given it back to me. I glued it fondly into my scrapbook, expecting it to be my last Iowa-issued form of ID.<br /><br />Now I found myself in the county courthouse, trading in my Washington license. Not only that, but this time, I had license plates to swap, as well. So, $91 later, I walked out of the office with my temporary driver's license, Iowa vehicle title, registration paper, and license plates.<br /><br />Washington license plates stay with the vehicle, even when sold—for as long as it remains registered in The Evergreen State. Apparently, every 7 years, the state issues new license plates to make sure they're still reflective. However, because of my history with vehicles (think: snowy, muddy, deer-infested mountains), that never happened to me. Hence, I've never had to change the plates on any of my vehicles.<br /><br />Until Thursday.<br /><br />I had a busy week, between work deadlines, college deadlines, and midwifery appointments. Although I actually brought the plates home on Wednesday, I put the job off until Thursday evening—and I only did it then because I needed to drive the vehicle on Friday. I expected this to be a quick job, that even a mechanically disinclined, domestic and desk trained little woman could accomplish. After all, I know how to use a screwdriver.<br /><br />But Queen Vashti proved quite unwilling to change her identity.<br /><br />The front plate unscrewed without too much hassle. When it came time to replace the grand sketch of Mount Rainier with a peaceful, pastoral farm scene, though, I had to take a cue from the previous owner and get a bit creative with duct tape. (Nothing fraudulent here, mind you. The tape held the washers and nuts in place long enough for the screws to bite in.)<br /><br />The plastic screws in the back, however, spun and spun and spun—in both directions—to no avail.<br /><br />So now Queen Vashti had divided allegiance. I could just picture myself explaining these incorrigible screws to an officer.<br /><br />I must have twisted those screws 10 minutes before my parents came back from their evening walk. Just the opportunity I'd awaited. Giving my distress call, I perched on my heels and waited for Papa to come and show me the easy, obvious solution.<br /><br />Instead, he walked me through a difficult process: sticking our hands into a cramped space up behind the bumper, grasping the nut, and unscrewing. Well, that worked for the bottom two—but there was no getting even my little hand up to grasp the nuts behind the top two screws.<br /><br />So he broke the heads off.<br /><br />Next came the most difficult portion: again wiggling my hand up behind the bumper—but this time hanging onto the nut all the way. Finagling it into position, and keeping it steady while he screwed the Iowa plate on. By the end of the evening, I had tiny fiberglass splinters in my hand.<br /><br />For the top right corner, Pa found a screw in his workbench that bit in just right without any nut behind it. The top left...well, it's true. My car now has a missing screw. But let's be optimistic. After 50+ miles, the license plate is still on and doesn't appear to be loose. Vashti has been forced into Iowa citizenship.<br /><br />She's just a car, and doesn't have a choice. And yet at the time, it surely seemed she was putting up a fight. "No! Take me back!" she screamed through her unwilling screws. "I am a Washington car, and I want to stay that way!"<br /><br />I've heard a few other screams like that, this week—coming from within. Sorry Northwesterners, but I'm not actually talking about wistfulness to move back to the mountains. I'm thinking more of my eternal citizenship.<br /><br />By birth and by choice, I became a citizen of Earth. But I have an invitation to immigrate, and I'm working on my "papers." I've told the Master that I want to be a citizen of Heaven.<br /><br />Sometimes, though, when He turns the screws, so to speak, without even realizing it I start resisting. I freeze up and say, "Nope, this screw doesn't come out, Sir. I have this way of thinking, this desire. I really want it, and it's not changing. Sure, go ahead and put in Your new screws. I want to integrate them, but I'm sure that You'll see they don't fit in the hole where You're trying to place them."<br /><br />The Master pauses. "I thought you wanted to be a citizen of Heaven."<div><br /></div><div>"Well, hmm. I thought so too. But are you sure about this screw? It wouldn't budge even if I wanted it to."<br /><br />Maybe I should be specific, since this week I encountered a very specific "unwilling screw." I've been hung up on the concept in this brief thought: "There is no love greater than Mine in earth or heaven. [Your] greatest happiness will be found in loving Me."*<div><br /></div><div>Really? But I really want an exclusive love. God has six billion other people plus millions of angels. Doesn't that make me less special? After all, I'm one of many, many daughters.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wrestled with it, grappled with it, turned it around and looked at all the sides I could find.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, I realized I had a simple choice: Believe Him that His love was the greatest I could ever find, and that I would never be happier than when worshiping and loving Him. Or keep insisting on a specific kind of love I want—and if God isn't lying, never be satisfied.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trust Him that He's God and can love me like there is no one else, even though there are plenty of others—that He can love me and His others better simultaneously than anybody could love me with their complete, undistracted focus. Or keep searching.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rest in Him. Or keep striving and wearing myself out.</div><div><br /></div><div>Keep myself in the immigration process—or drop out and remain subject of Earth.</div><div><br /></div><div>"OK, Father. Go ahead and break the screw."</div><div><br /></div><div><br />* <span style="font-style:italic;">The Desire of Ages,</span> page 57.</div></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-48281314954115954202012-03-24T13:35:00.007-07:002012-03-24T15:21:57.370-07:00Rearview Reflections<span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The sun shone hot last Sunday afternoon as I turned the key in Queen Vashti's ignition. It had been a fun and refreshing weekend at Lydia's, but I had studying to do at home. For now, though, my biggest decision was whether to run the AC or open the sunroof.</span></span><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span>Easing out of the tight parking slot, I craned my neck to be sure not to hit the electrical pole smack behind me—or the neighbor's car in the driveway next to it. They really didn't leave much room in this alley...or this parking spot...you had to turn the wheel just right....</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span>Scrape.</span></i></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span><br /></span></i></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Oops.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>In concentrating behind me, I'd failed to check the front corner of the car. Judging from the dents in the downspout on the corner of the garage, I was not the first to make this mistake. Thankfully, the damage to the pipe was negligible, and Queen Vashti's could have been much worse. Still, she did have a white bruise on her bumper. Not a dent <i>(phew)</i>. Her own paint seemed mostly intact, but a bit of white paint from the pipe <span style="font-size: 100%; ">had rubbed off onto her. Nothing big.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Still.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Well, no sense crying over scraped bumpers. I enjoyed the sunny ride, alternating between AC and open sunroof. </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Back home in my driveway, I peeled off as much of the white paint as I could. Then I scraped at it with my fingernails. Then I rubbed at it with a rag and some mild solvent.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>My efforts greatly diminished the damage. But I'm afraid I can't undo all of it. </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>As I scrubbed, scratched, and peeled, I thought about how much of my life I'm spent looking behind me. Looking back on the trail to see how far up the mountain I've come. Looking back to relive happy memories—sometimes to long for the "good old days." Looking back to examine my childhood through adult eyes. Looking back to remember how God has led me. Looking back to find the roots of my present thoughts, feelings, and behavior. Looking back to recount to others the lessons I've learned along the way. Looking back with remorse, confusion, or sorrow. Looking back with nostalgia, delight, and contentment. Sometimes, looking back with bitterness. Other times, looking behind me with deep gratitude.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Looking behind us has useful functions. If I had a </span>bogey<span style="font-size: 100%;"> man behind me, I'd want to know. If a child is following me, I need to keep track of her. When I'm in reverse, I want to know what's behind me. (Honestly, I'd rather have scraped the corner than hit the pole!) Sometimes, we need to look backward, even move backward, before we can move forward again.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Someone wise has said, "We have nothing to fear for the future except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us."</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>"And you shall remember that the Lord your God led you all the way . . . to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not" (Deuteronomy 8:2).</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Sometimes we need to look back and remember. We need to see our mistakes, feel our pain, understand what went wrong—and see God's faithfulness, how He's cherished and led us. We need to learn from what is behind us so that we can use the lessons as we move forward.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>But it is possible to look back <i>too </i>much. If I'm living in the past instead of the present—it's too much. If I'm looking back so much that I'm not looking forward, it's too much. "I press on . . . forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal" (Philippians 3:12-14).</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>As the wise man wrote, "To everything there is a season" (Ecclesiastes 3:1). We should make time for reflection—but not to the exclusion of projection! Tears have their place; so does laughter. Today must be a mixture of yesterday's experiences and tomorrow's dreams.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>A little white bruise on my car will remind me.</span><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOXgbZURlmg_K5VXTSjePUKnKHAPUnZR7yulESItoVYeQ-A5NxNKuliP1WkrQ4uXbMdC_C21vRuc-b28wYr05m_6UImYmNaLecn54AKUq_JV9Hxa_qH3tat7I5oqXSZQBbsM1RhNqWQ5Mj/s1600/Vashti%2527s+bruise.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOXgbZURlmg_K5VXTSjePUKnKHAPUnZR7yulESItoVYeQ-A5NxNKuliP1WkrQ4uXbMdC_C21vRuc-b28wYr05m_6UImYmNaLecn54AKUq_JV9Hxa_qH3tat7I5oqXSZQBbsM1RhNqWQ5Mj/s320/Vashti%2527s+bruise.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5723591687692362018" /></a>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-40136452238522354452012-03-16T20:11:00.017-07:002012-03-16T21:27:38.718-07:00Beautiful Choices<span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKZJeif4d57lYR4VVDXtFwVVaiwF8YP1saVUxiW_D5mtRkA-D_8W1NWk2BndwNYacac7SV3lbEWUdIFbwLz-6CS4HjXCZBjPpyqsWyYZTSQSjdeZqDORyyiyYiPzzAgjhZP4h49Y-uHfv/s1600/P1040364+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKZJeif4d57lYR4VVDXtFwVVaiwF8YP1saVUxiW_D5mtRkA-D_8W1NWk2BndwNYacac7SV3lbEWUdIFbwLz-6CS4HjXCZBjPpyqsWyYZTSQSjdeZqDORyyiyYiPzzAgjhZP4h49Y-uHfv/s200/P1040364+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720699150843771922" /></a></span><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span><span>Breezes drifting in my window.<br />Turtles sunning themselves on the edge of the pond.<br />Crocuses, hyacinths, and daffodils blooming.<br />A Labrador dashing up and down the flowing creek.<br /></span><span>Trees budding and leafing. Seedlings growing in the greenhouse.<br />Puffy clouds in a clear blue sky.<br />Green grass. Lettuce in the cold frames.<br />Birds chirping and frogs peeping.<br />Pussy willows budding and fuzzing out.</span></span></div><div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9bth9ZXarD_3qM6Nd7VOz1YaYTbxMW8Uk6GIw1PVPQNmvvYGBJhdgwa9VFQQElwyvUSUD3VGCG5NjD57NPmKnEjiaevSKfIKNx0UkcemNcE77KrEd-I1AwzjiP_-QDxwFEVyoCrN5s3H/s1600/P1040397+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9bth9ZXarD_3qM6Nd7VOz1YaYTbxMW8Uk6GIw1PVPQNmvvYGBJhdgwa9VFQQElwyvUSUD3VGCG5NjD57NPmKnEjiaevSKfIKNx0UkcemNcE77KrEd-I1AwzjiP_-QDxwFEVyoCrN5s3H/s200/P1040397+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720700568247220514" /></a></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Welcome e-mails from cherished friends. </span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Skyping in to Melissa's birthday party.<br />Meeting new friends and strengthening bonds at the midwifery association meeting.<br />Evening worship. Discussing life in the kitchen with Mom.<br />Talking with church family at Friday night vespers.<br />Prayer and meditation. An excellent new book.<br />Lying awake talking to God.</span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bh1VkAW9UsUOQaP8qfH3H_CZqT_pSewTBRSVuXZB4giqCztkxfv27Ca2lgskepiI1iv_pp8bkS_df7mYnkZVwBnknisfh2hv57joIVlwiFA8U-NMxfu6zsnMCtEMhQKALp1q5WifoYPH/s1600/P1040366+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><span><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bh1VkAW9UsUOQaP8qfH3H_CZqT_pSewTBRSVuXZB4giqCztkxfv27Ca2lgskepiI1iv_pp8bkS_df7mYnkZVwBnknisfh2hv57joIVlwiFA8U-NMxfu6zsnMCtEMhQKALp1q5WifoYPH/s200/P1040366+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720704337511659058" /></span></a></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Short sleeves and bare feet.<br />Jumping in a friend's pond and swimming across.<br />Good scores on Western Civilization I practice tests.<br />Catching mousy invaders in my car.<br />Writing letters long overdue. Perfecting a song on my guitar. Progress on memorization goals. </span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHE1fr5oRbpD2ab0HqCPoEE90p2KbvMKmjyiZzjp67u-ukZAJ90DMjAB4t-76h7B8wcHUGMCyfjRiyOYxrct04LxrqLD98ER44ihJJLThd7GcjfUrfiWJ15zPmQ5FC5K12XVehmDzsiH2/s1600/P1040376+%2528640x640%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHHE1fr5oRbpD2ab0HqCPoEE90p2KbvMKmjyiZzjp67u-ukZAJ90DMjAB4t-76h7B8wcHUGMCyfjRiyOYxrct04LxrqLD98ER44ihJJLThd7GcjfUrfiWJ15zPmQ5FC5K12XVehmDzsiH2/s200/P1040376+%2528640x640%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720700557817488530" /></a><br /><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Beauty. Relationship. Adventurous achievement. </span></p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-style:italic"><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">Purpose. Worth.</span></p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Priceless to my feminine soul.</span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; ">Not everything I experienced this week was lovely. </p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GOSr4sv64DgASjoC6J1D2sH7qPtjfRTl10l8y5vVGfTGxtpgLW-fwmNDNz634OQOqcRI-1Z1st_8Wl_CbmqbHUwT5ALo7Lq_zbdw7JFbPNQlo_sS5NoJ_T_o2ziaCd03ID0nF_07RYfk/s1600/P1040368+%2528640x640%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9GOSr4sv64DgASjoC6J1D2sH7qPtjfRTl10l8y5vVGfTGxtpgLW-fwmNDNz634OQOqcRI-1Z1st_8Wl_CbmqbHUwT5ALo7Lq_zbdw7JFbPNQlo_sS5NoJ_T_o2ziaCd03ID0nF_07RYfk/s200/P1040368+%2528640x640%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720704323060038450" /></a></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span>Twinges of loneliness at such short contact.<br />Frustration with not accomplishing everything I'd hoped.<br />Cliquey politics and illogical discussions.<br />Tiredness. Battles with the enforced circadian shift.<br />Temptations and emotions.<br />Cuts, bruises, splinters, and thorns.<br />Painful reflection on lies I've accepted from hurtful experiences of the past.<br />Pimples. News from family and friends who are struggling.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And, most infamously, a frightening run-in with a big, ugly hognose. </span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">(Is it OK to turn and run away from scary snakes?)</span></p><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD3WVFtZlD7e-YfYKUTxM4c46UAcVgp7qM2Gp96sBcPEZrWt4G8-a490gQKu9jdpb8OYZSIyz7XfyXkDnJdFgDtxaLlmJZQRjgB7eY-vK8oGdigaSsVUQxuyRUMwh-rW5HtKzPYmm4pyW/s1600/P1040394+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><span><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD3WVFtZlD7e-YfYKUTxM4c46UAcVgp7qM2Gp96sBcPEZrWt4G8-a490gQKu9jdpb8OYZSIyz7XfyXkDnJdFgDtxaLlmJZQRjgB7eY-vK8oGdigaSsVUQxuyRUMwh-rW5HtKzPYmm4pyW/s200/P1040394+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720704336276871538" /></span></a></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><u><br /></u></div><div style="font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Reminds me of a profound statement I read last night: </span></p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "><span>You really won't understand your life until you understand this:<br /><br /></span></p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "> </p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "><span>You are passionately loved by the God of the universe.</span></p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "><span>You are passionately hated by His Enemy.*</span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvidxF3SJzthv81Sx8FZ3VBAZ_jFSecpYYDbmKHVzqQaMxr6E7TDyOeT3_CwM4_XaChDtvPI-6a5m_ZG1wyYYWSk2v_fxkDr6SqyGp1BPeP_JeKmyWtLdHzVmMAped_xe86i94hMGjnrs/s1600/P1040361+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvidxF3SJzthv81Sx8FZ3VBAZ_jFSecpYYDbmKHVzqQaMxr6E7TDyOeT3_CwM4_XaChDtvPI-6a5m_ZG1wyYYWSk2v_fxkDr6SqyGp1BPeP_JeKmyWtLdHzVmMAped_xe86i94hMGjnrs/s200/P1040361+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720700572212186306" /></a><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>The God who loves me puts beauty, relationships, and adventures in my path to show me His love and teach me who He made me to be. </span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span>He wants to experience His beauty with me—to let it inspire my soul and nourish my heart. </span>He wants to be my chief love, to let all my relationships model His unselfishness, to add richness and depth and companionship to life.</span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnAqsY5JpiWU3l-3ozS1ozjXcPKaE7Ok9TNYr_veSNE61kZBAuTCT3YvVP6_42neArCt6P_rqLOgZ3tw6S7QEGNdBTC2busVeCTEH-VxJTXx7jHQ-A9hRii138LkIZJYv0aGWFfodjxbc/s1600/P1040373+%2528640x640%2529.jpg" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><span></span></a><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnAqsY5JpiWU3l-3ozS1ozjXcPKaE7Ok9TNYr_veSNE61kZBAuTCT3YvVP6_42neArCt6P_rqLOgZ3tw6S7QEGNdBTC2busVeCTEH-VxJTXx7jHQ-A9hRii138LkIZJYv0aGWFfodjxbc/s1600/P1040373+%2528640x640%2529.jpg"><span><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnAqsY5JpiWU3l-3ozS1ozjXcPKaE7Ok9TNYr_veSNE61kZBAuTCT3YvVP6_42neArCt6P_rqLOgZ3tw6S7QEGNdBTC2busVeCTEH-VxJTXx7jHQ-A9hRii138LkIZJYv0aGWFfodjxbc/s200/P1040373+%2528640x640%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720704325703729266" /></span></a></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>He wants to lead me through all my adventures, to teach me to trust Him in ways I have yet to fathom. He wants to create beauty, tenderness, and courage in me.</span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>He wants to give me every good and perfect gift.</span></p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "> </p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>The Enemy wants to distort God's beauty and make me altogether unlovely.<br />He wants to mar my relationships and use them as a razor and a trap.<br />He wants me to fail and give up, or to strive after unworthy goals.</span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s200/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720700563119624498" /></a></span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><span><br /></span></a></p><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><span>I get to choose where I'll place my focus. I decide who gets my faith and my trust. I pick who I will believe.</span></a></p><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span></p><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; display: inline !important; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; ">My permission determines who controls my thoughts and my life.</a> </span></span></span></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; "><span><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; display: inline !important; "><span>Who and what I turn to in those yucky moments slowly molds how I think and who I become.</span></p></span></a><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; "><span><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p></span></a><p style="font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgtwlZx2GiTO7OfnVkDhiEgkAKJSfH1ldjlkPweKysgjTn7ypqjwq-7pUQqiRyMoMIKglyvEFjSnGv7KQZ84baAc2vsFL9zt4o5A3M48L5WouuKnst4G_O0KzMXRTuuciC8_5aQDRVwbk/s1600/P1040378+%2528640x480%2529.jpg"><span>And that moment-by-moment choice changes my world.</span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKKS4M_MXxoz6BKn-MhwvwFjScQWIimy49jiCOSxK3Mb00nyGHgEaF2agpfjkZSw-6vzIuAKNW9OIT8_g1OCxh1H1glGtO5JBpkjkvGYjoCW978BaVjZvfcHBB6X26NOGSmLvqCkwSZZ3/s1600/P1040390+%2528480x640%2529.jpg" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKKS4M_MXxoz6BKn-MhwvwFjScQWIimy49jiCOSxK3Mb00nyGHgEaF2agpfjkZSw-6vzIuAKNW9OIT8_g1OCxh1H1glGtO5JBpkjkvGYjoCW978BaVjZvfcHBB6X26NOGSmLvqCkwSZZ3/s200/P1040390+%2528480x640%2529.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720700563134054610" /></a></p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.375in; font-style: italic; "> </p> <p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><br /></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span>*Eldredge, John & Stasi, <span style="font-style: italic; ">Captivating: </span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span style="font-style: italic; ">Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul, </span>page 91.</span></p></div></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-16041231859132057502012-03-09T23:00:00.000-08:002012-03-09T21:01:00.834-08:00Thanks for the Pain<span >Being an effective writer means being vulnerable. It means delving deep into the inner realm of human emotions and putting to words what everyone feels but few express. It means opening our secret chambers to view to let others see that their eccentricities, awkward thoughts, and inner agonies do not isolate them from the rest of humanity. Writers unlock the vault of emotion and allow humanity to feel united through our common, unspoken struggles.</span><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Still, it is more comfortable to share through the voice of a third party—a story of <i>someone else's </i>experience. Sharing other people's struggles still makes us dig within ourselves to find and express the unspoken thoughts and feelings of humanity—but without the incrimination of its being <i>our </i>story. If we must share our own, the most comfortable choices are historical events far enough behind us that we can laugh, shrug, or at least assure ourselves that we have since grown.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >But nobody's experiences are finished up and neatly sealed off. (We call those memories, and even most memories have unresolved threads.) It's what we <i>are experiencing </i>that creates our need for help.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >When I was a toddler, my dad dubbed me "the one who admits it." As it turns out, he made both a descriptive and prophetic statement. I hereby publicly accept the calling.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I had a crazy week—and by that I mean that I felt loco. I only left the 40 acres once, but my emotions sang the scale below Middle C almost all day, every day. I went to bed burnt out and woke up wishing for bedtime—or at least my afternoon walk. I fought tears and lost three or more times most every day.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >There's a big problem with this. <i>It isn't me. </i>I'm the girl who laughed, smiled, and acted normal enough the day after a major break-up that my closest girlfriend wondered if the ordeal was still bothering me. (It was, of course—but the <a href="http://cheyennewind.blogspot.com/2012/02/tears-of-soul.html">tears of my soul</a> often flow inside sealed chambers.)</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >This Monday morning, I found myself kneeling in prayer and sobbing. Now, usually, I would pray it through, tell my face muscles to smile, start singing Steve Green's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fq2R2GbWsbA&feature=related">"Always"</a>, and go have a great day. Or at <i>least </i>pretend to have a great day.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span>This time, as I prayed, the still small voice </span><span>seemed to tell</span><span> me to go ask my mom for a hug.</span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >I didn't exactly want to. I knew Mom would be tender and understanding, but it isn't my style to <i>ask </i>for emotional help. Still, the thought persisted, so I dragged myself to her room.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >When Mom saw my tears, her mouth dropped open. "What happened?"</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >That was the problem. "Nothing," I had to whimper. "I just need a hug." I clung to her and sobbed on her shoulder for quite awhile before I could admit that my tears had been caused by something that had happened 51 weeks before. Humiliating—but I learned something. Compassion doesn't put people through an application process. When people are hurting, I shouldn't judge if they have a legitimate reason, and give them a glorified "move on and get over it." I should take the raw pains of years gone by just as seriously as yesterday's wound.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >The week continued, and I just kept struggling. I'd think of my dog's death, and the tears would well up. I would try to study for my Western Civilization I CLEP exam, and feel like the biggest history dunce ever. I'd remember a friend in Washington, and cry just for missing them. </span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Then I'd send up a prayer and claim a promise. I'd choose to be happy. Get a drink of water. Have a happy mealtime conversation. Go for a walk. It wasn't that the usual fixes didn't work—they just didn't work for long. Sooner than I wished, I'd be standing in the need of prayer once again.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >On Tuesday I roamed the woods like usual, talking to God about how humiliated I felt to be struggling with...should I call it depression? Had this ever happened to me since I'd learned about choosing to be happy? And since even this week I'd repeatedly claimed and reveled in His precious promises, why would this ache not go away? What was going on with Cheyenne? I want to be who He is making me into, I let Him know; but I really did like the way He'd had me before.</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><i>Or did I? </i>Hadn't I been praying for compassion?</span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span ><br /></span></i></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span ><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">"Blessed </span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">be</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, </span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God" (2 Corinthians 1:3, 4).</span></span></i></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >A strange awareness welled up inside. Could it really be?</span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >"God," my voice quivered, "thank You for the pain. Thank You for allowing me this unexplained struggle so that I can sympathize with others who are struggling."</span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >Thursday evening. Crying into my pillow. Mom came in for worship, and began telling me other friends' sorrows. Big things. Bad things. Recent things. Not the historic drama causing my tears.</span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >"Oh, honey, are you crying?" Mom's face melted in sympathy, and she laid her head down next to mine. I could see the pain in her eyes just from seeing mine. I hadn't even started talking yet.</span></span></div><div style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >When I did, she listened and helped me sort out what's really going on.</span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Today on my walk, I thanked God for the pain again. I really do want that compassion He's teaching me. </span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span >Even more, I want helpless reliance on Him. I want to know to the core where to hang my soul—and how. </span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span ><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">So, in the sea of seemingly silly sorrows, I have kept afloat through the power in prayer, sympathy, and the Word. <i>"I will bless the</i></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-variant: small-caps; ">Lord</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">at all times; H</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">is praise</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">shall</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">continually</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">be</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">in my mouth.... </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">I sought the</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-variant: small-caps; ">Lord</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">, and He heard me, </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">And delivered me from all my fears. </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">They looked to Him and were radiant, </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">... </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">This poor [woman] cried out, and the</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-variant: small-caps; ">Lord</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">heard</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">[her], </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">And saved [her].... </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">There is</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">no want to those who fear Him.</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><b>... </b>T</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">hose who seek the</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span class="small-caps" style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-variant: small-caps; ">Lord</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">shall not lack any good</span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">thing" (Psalm 34:1, 4-6, 9, 10).</span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >Jesus <i>chose </i>to be brutalized by human pain so that He could understand me and test the strength of His promises. Now He offers me the same blessed experience.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >Yes.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >Thank You.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span >Amen.</span></span></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-32445450322284770012012-03-03T18:12:00.001-08:002012-03-03T16:13:29.927-08:00Daring Dreams<span style="font-style: normal; ">Perhaps it's because I opted not to put up curtains, and the moon shines through my windows freely. Or maybe it's because my major current occupation is thinking (in several variations). Or perhaps it's because my social life has been quiet, and my mind likes to hatch up plots. Anyway, lately I've awakened remembering more dreams than average.</span><div style="line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span>Usually, I've been glad to end the involuntary imaginations. For instance, I dreamed that my late (yet still beloved) dog, Kodiak, had been kidnapped and needed rescue. I dreamed of learning a dark secret from a good friend's childhood. I dreamed that a hiker buddy died. I dreamed I went back to Inchelium, WA, and didn't quite fit in anymore. (I dreamed plenty of less dramatic plots as well. I'd tell you about them—if I could remember.)</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span>I dream in the daytime, too; but daydreams are merely the products of ordinary wistfulness. Conversations I'd like to have with friends. People and places I'd like to visit. Hugs. Special events. How to get to know people better. How to heal from hurts and frustrations. What to do with the rest of my life.</span></div><div style="line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>But dreams differ significantly from goals. Dreams can be ridiculous, emotional, over-sized, lofty, or repining. Dreams are fairy tales you wish would just happen. Goals are determinations you intend to <i>make </i>happen.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>The non-traditional, accelerated college program I'm enrolled in* starts out every student's studies with a <i>Life Purpose Planning </i>workbook, with pages full of exercises to help young people answer the question, "Why am I here?"</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>I'll admit it. I was skeptical at first. I'm 26, and I think I have a good idea of who I am, what my interests and passions are, and what I'd like to experience and accomplish in life. But, since I also enjoy healthy introspection, I plunged in. I answered those questions about my strong and weak points, activities I enjoy, how I learn and relate, people who have influenced me, callings I have accepted for my life, lifelong dreams & aspirations, and who I feel particularly drawn to minister to. I thought about failures and successes. I pinpointed the "biggest need" I see in the people around me, and how to model my life to address that need. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Then, I wrote out a "life purpose statement." Mind if I share?</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="line-height: 20px; text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i>I am resolved to live in total surrender to God and to let my heart be immersed and satisfied in the truth of His love—and to share this fulfilled experience with all who are hurting and longing for something better. Through writing, speaking, friendship, teaching, listening, and mentoring, I seek to influence, encourage, and disciple children, teenagers, young adults, and women in all walks of life (but especially the abused, oppressed, and forgotten) so that they too can find in Jesus the fulfillment of all their needs, and reach their own full potential. I want to share with all I can influence that the Lord heals the broken-hearted, that He satisfies the needs and longings of the heart—but that we need to be real, candid, and honest with ourselves and Him for this to happen. I want to help others see that they have an incredible worth—an unshakeable worth rooted in the love of God for them—worth that can't be annulled by the careless and uncaring people around them. I want to exemplify a life totally set apart for God, totally willing to follow and obey (wherever He sends me), and totally willing to share my own deep experiences for the enrichment of other lives.</i></span> </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 20px; text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><i><span><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>A lofty dream. I found myself enamored. My college coach responded: "Pure beauty. . . . How?"</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>How. A question that pulls us down from the euphoric heights of daring dreams, to the human reality of finiteness.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>I had two choices: allow my dreams to remain beautiful, untainted, unfulfilled <i>dreams</i>—or to turn them into <i>goals. </i></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><i><span><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><i>Goals </i>are practical. They aren't always glamorous. Goals can be simple, plain, and unsung. But goals propel us toward our dreams, and because of that, goals are priceless.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>I took my daring dream to the God who gave it to me. I asked Him how to make it realistic. Then, together, we started breaking the dream down into strategies, large and small. </span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; "><ul><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Pray & study to understand God's love and my worth to Him.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Memorize texts on God's love & human worth.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Intercede for people I know are hurting.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Write articles that are relevant to people's lives.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Blog.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Send encouraging letters.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Deepen superficial friendships, seek out new friends, and take time to listen to friends who already trust me.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Seek personal healing through the Word, books, DVD series, etc.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Minister through tangible acts of service.</span></span></li><li><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Study great communicators.</span></span></li></ul><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>The list goes on. But even these items can be a bit too lofty for real, nitty-gritty, everyday life.</span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>So (with the help of the workbook), I've made a calendar. By the end of March, have Psalm 34 memorized. In April, do Psalm 37. In March, start re-reading <i>The Desire of Ages. </i>Start writing weekly notes to encourage friends and acquaintances (I've even got specific names on the docket). Observe the people I associate with at midwifery study groups and try to pinpoint in what ways they are hurting. Read a new book a friend recommended, about finding our worth in God. Pursue a friendship with a girl I've just become reacquainted with. Make a prayer list. Pray for compassion.</span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>All of these items have dates and deadlines attached to them. They are specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-sensitive (S.M.A.R.T. goals). They may not be dazzlingly romantic, or even the essence of the "pure beauty" reflected in my life purpose statement. But they are threads in the tapestry. They are pieces of the picture. They are steps up the mountain I seek to climb. They are things I can work toward today. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Because of this, I can look at even my little goals as <i>daring dreams. </i>Except<i> these </i>dreams I know how to accomplish.</span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><i><span><br /></span></i></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Some dreams (like the ones I wake up remembering each morning) are better discarded. Some are sentimental, wistful, even silly. But a golden few are just <i>too good</i> to not come true—especially when we can choose and determine to <i>make </i>them happen.</span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 20px; "><span>Will you dare to make your dreams come true?</span></span></div></div><div style="font-style: normal; line-height: normal; "><i><span><br /></span></i></div><div style="line-height: normal; "><span><i>*College Plus. See <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); line-height: 14px; ">http://www.collegeplus.org/tf/9009.</span></i></span></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-28983508165549775062012-02-26T17:11:00.005-08:002012-02-26T18:41:05.251-08:00Mice<span><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The mittens in my trunk supplied all the evidence needed for the indictment. Their warm </span></span> <span><span style="font-size: 100%;">layers, from the soft Thinsulate inner lining to the weather-resistant nylon shell, had been shredded to bite-sized crumbs that now littered the floor. Annoyed, I snatched up my down jacket for an inspection. Phew! The mouse hadn't munched on it. </span></span></span><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>My dad advised me to haul in everything chewable from my car...and I thought I had. Still, each time I got into my car after that, I found more evidence of the unwanted resident. Papers from my trash bag shredded on the floor. Scat underneath the driver's seat. More holes in cloth items I hadn't noticed when I cleaned out the trunk. </span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>The first time I set traps, I found the peanut butter licked off clean, the trigger still set and ready to fire. The second time it happened, I brought the traps in for inspection. My dad and I played around with them for awhile to see how to work around the poor, hard-to-trip design (a "safety" feature?). I didn't reset them right away...and then, well...I guess I forgot about it.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>The kitchen at church belies the presence of mice, too. Last month we came in to find one of the ladies wiping the counters with bleach. We have to wash out the dishes before we use them to serve the fellowship meal. The deaconesses keep saying they're going to get some traps or poison and dispatch the church mice.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Curled up on the couch in the youth room yesterday after lunch, I thought I detected a slight movement on the floor. Not feeling well, I didn't really want to sit up and check it out. No problem—I still got a good viewing. The mouse scurried into the middle of the room, looked around, then arced back toward the other couch and sat looking at me from the safety of the shadows. <span style="font-size: 100%; ">His perfect little profile made me smile: big, funneled ears; plump body; long, slender tail; and pointy nose twitching as he looked sweetly on.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Then I remembered who he was. Dragging myself up, I shuffled out to the kitchen to tell the ladies about the sighting. "Why didn't you catch it?" they laughed.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Nestled again on the comfy couch, I got another good sighting of my little friend. I don't know why I went to tell the other women again. When I saw them involved in conversation, I simply turned and went back to my hideout. This time, the mouse kept hidden, too.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Stretched out on my own bed later that evening, I thought again about the mice. When I remembered the damage to my mittens, the evasion of the traps, and the troubles they caused in the church, I felt silly for my affection for the cute mouse in the youth room. A more stereotypical response would have been a shriek; a more appropriate emotion, disgust. But that mouse, I liked. If he could promise not to do any damage, I'd want him to stay.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>But of course he can't promise that. He's a mouse! Mice belong outside my car, outside of buildings, and certainly outside the church—the way sin belongs outside my heart. If either one is caught inside, they've got to be exterminated.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>And then it hit me. Just this week I'd been admiring a cute little sin. I let it stick around awhile, just looking and thinking how it didn't seem to be hurting anything. Most sin, I agree, is raunchy. But this? I shamefully admit it<span style="font-size: 100%; ">—I found this little sin rather sweet.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I'd had a talk with God about it, told Him I didn't understand what could be wrong with what I wanted permission to do. When He didn't seem to answer, I realized I needed to take His written Word for it. Wrong is what God defines as wrong</span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">—not what I see as hurtful. And then, o</span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">nce I repented and surrendered, He let me see how my cute little sin really did hurt people.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A few days later, as an extra reminder, He sent a cute mouse to reinforce the lesson.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I found the mouse traps again today, and set them out in my car. I've been too laid back about these critters, but now I'm ready to take them on. Once I dispatch the car mouse, I'll take the traps to church, as well.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">More importantly, I'm going to restock my spiritual defenses with prayer, watchfulness, and memorization. I've been too lackadaisical there too, or else I wouldn't have found my sin the slightest bit cute</span>. Mice chew up fabric and dirty up buildings. Sin tears and smudges the human soul<span style="font-size: 100%; ">. I can't afford to let it stick around my heart!</span></span></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-8908836690680485752012-02-19T18:08:00.000-08:002012-02-19T19:53:26.003-08:00Hidden Grime<span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Company: the kind of people you clean your house for. Prestigious company: the kind who motivate you to <i>scour</i> it. When I got out the long-armed feather duster on Friday, Mom thanked me but said she intended to dust properly today. So, putting away the "quick 'n' dirty" tool, I got out the rags and oil soap.</span></span><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span>Although it had been awhile since we'd formally dusted, the house really looked fine to me. After all, we don't burn wood for heat, and the snow and mud haven't given the road a chance to kick up plumes of dust. Never mind. We had company tomorrow.</span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Maybe it's </span><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">because we always keep the dishes washed and the rooms picked up and tidy; or perhaps I don't notice the grime my mom sees because the place doesn't belong to me. Still, I think it's more than that. In the absence of </span>grandkids<span style="font-size: 100%;">, o</span></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">ur house is a never mess, because Mom </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">doesn't give it the chance to get </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">truly</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-size: 100%; ">dirty. But for company, of course, we'd make it perfect.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>I expected to fly through Friday's dusting and be on to the next task; but today, of course, I had to be extra thorough. The first rag collected more filth than I'd expected to find in all the house! The crevices in the wooden furniture had actually accumulated thick layers. The feather duster hadn't gotten up close underneath the candles and other knickknacks. The lampshades had a thin film I'd never noticed before I started cleaning. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Most shocking of all were the corners. Behind the draping leaves of a viney houseplant I found cobwebs, dog hair, dead ladybugs, and wads of dust caked onto the legs of the plant stand. How could such grime be hidden in our cleanly dining room? Why had I never even partially noticed it? The ordinary film on the horizontal surfaces I'd seen and intended to whisk away—but this was no typical accumulation of dust. This was <i>filth.</i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Hidden grime, obscured behind the beautiful, trailing leaves of a plant I've often admired. Even the best of housekeepers could miss it—till the leaves were drawn aside. It probably would have stayed hidden longer, if it hadn't been for the company, because no one would have investigated behind those lovely leaves.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>It felt like an insult, finding that hidden grime in our clean house. Insult? Hmm...maybe a <i>rebuke. </i>Not that we'd put the plant there to hide the filthy corner; we'd simply forgotten to clean the corner because the plant had it covered so well. Neglect, all the same.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>This time, I lingered in that corner, carefully cleaning away the grime. I didn't mind the work, because it inspired deeper thoughts. How many corners hide filth in my mind, my character, my soul? Behind the traits that others admire, what grime have I stashed away? Bitterness, resentment, egotism, jealousy, lust, pride, distrust, unbelief? Do I even know myself what's there—or have I been satisfied with my good housekeeping?</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>It takes extra investigation to find dust in the soul I've always tried to keep tidy. It's not intuitive to peek behind my strong points and check for ghastly faults and sin-inflicted wounds. Still, it's worth the probing. After all, a prestigious Visitor wants to be my guest. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me" (Revelation 3:20).</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span>Then again, I need His help to find and eliminate my hidden grime. I think I'll just let Him in "as is," and we can work on those corners together.</span></div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-25709887616187689582012-02-11T17:25:00.000-08:002012-02-11T19:44:29.747-08:00Tears of the Soul"Your Aunt Janis is in the newspaper!" Mom handed me the Saturday issue of the <i>Des Moines Register. </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>From the headline, I knew why my aunt had made the state news. Aunt Janis heads up the annual Suicide Survivors' Walk in Des Moines, Iowa each year, and she speaks regularly on suicide and drug abuse at churches, schools, and special events. I scanned the article, looking for a quote with my aunt's name behind it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I found a whole page full of the stories of teen suicides. Not a line or two, but several paragraphs had been devoted to Neil Linquist. I tried to distract myself by reading other stories, but my cousin's name in bold type drew my eyes back. My throat constricted and my stomach tightened. It was like seeing his obituary all over again. As I read the column of print, I marveled at my aunt's courage to travel around the state telling his story in unashamed detail. Forcing down the last few bites of breakfast, I fled to my room.</div><div><br /></div><div>Falling to my knees, I burrowed my head in my elbow and leaned against my the bed. Bitter tears and sobs shook my torso as memories of my little cousin played in my mind's theater. Would it ever be possible to "get over" this pain? Other hurts I have grieved over, forgiven, and nearly forgotten—others I am still working through. But more than six years since the day I got the horrific phone call, I found myself weeping as though it had been last month.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mind drifted back to the days, weeks, and months following my trip to the funeral. The first few days, my friends had been sympathetic and freely asked how well I'd been coping. But all too soon I had found myself alone to deal with my pain—states away from my family, surrounded by an environment that felt too awkward to rehash the pain. I could understand. I wouldn't have known what to say to me either. Still, my ragged heart yearned for someone to listen and not act self-conscious about my family's dark sorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to be able to share the tears of my soul. Instead, I cried them into my bottled heart and sealed the lid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not alone. Those few special people who share their hearts with me tell me of deep chasms of pain, anger, and confusion that go unspoken to the world. In the lives of many who don't tell me, I can read the story of neglect, abuse, disappointment, and bitterness—tears of the soul bottled up so well that often even their possessors don't know they exist. We buck up and bear it before our friends and colleagues, but inside we're ravished with pain, unfulfilled longings, and shame.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, knowing this, I'm still guilty. I treat people as though they aren't hurting and longing for a deeper life. I let misdirected expressions of someone else's own pain offend me. I build walls around my heart and shut out those whose own stinging chronicle of woes prevents them from being able to understand mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>To all of these troubles, there is one shining solution: Understanding <i>my </i>worth to God. For in doing so, I find One who will listen to every sad tale I could tell. In Him I have a Friend who doesn't feel awkward about my recital of the shame of my past or the ache in my heart. His love soothes the pain and fills the emptiness. And through His eyes of love for me, I begin to understand how He sees those who hurt and neglect me—how He loves them—how they, too, are suffering deep wounds.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Blessed be God, Who has not turned away my prayer, nor His mercy from me!" (Psalm 66:20)</div><div><br /></div><div>"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God" (Psalm 68:5).</div><div><br /></div><div>"Surely He has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows" (Isaiah 53:4). "In all their affliction He was afflicted" (Isaiah 63:9).</div><div><br /></div><div>" 'With everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,' says the Lord, your Redeemer. . . . For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from you" (Isaiah 54:7, 10).</div><div><br /></div><div>"Thus says the Lord . . . I have called you by your name; you are Mine. . . . Since you were precious in My sight, you have been honored, and I have loved you" (Isaiah 43:1, 4).</div><div><br /></div><div>"He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds" (Psalm 147:3).</div><div><br /></div><div>"You hold me by my right hand" (Psalm 73:23).</div><div><br /></div><div>"Beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness" (Isaiah 61:3).</div><div><br /></div><div>"The Lord delights in you" (Isaiah 62:4).</div><div><br /></div><div>"For great is Your mercy toward me, and You have delivered my soul from the depths. . . . You, O Lord, are a God full of compassion, and gracious, longsuffering and abundant in mercy and truth. Oh, turn to me, and have mercy on me!" (Psalm 86:13, 15, 16).</div><div><br /></div><div>"Because Your lovingkindness is better than life" (Psalm 63:3).</div><div><br /></div><div>Comforted in the realest love the universe knows, I find strength to continue my day. Challenged and humbled by that love, I join in a new resolution with a dear friend: "A friendship that dreams up ways to help and bless others instead of laughing at them or gossiping about petty annoyances." Stirred by the pain of unnumbered hurting treasures, I purpose to be a comforting, safe, encouraging friend—unashamed to hear, cry, and feel the tears of the soul.</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-23540161645832669572012-02-04T17:40:00.000-08:002012-02-04T19:48:28.861-08:00Wilderness PeaceI haven't always been in love with the wilderness; the passion developed along with my ability to reason logically. As a young child out hiking with my family, I infamously stated that I'd rather be staring down the hole of an outhouse than walking this (spectacularly scenic Yellowstone) trail. My childish sarcasm gained me nothing but teasing from my siblings and a story I'll never live down. The family continued to drag me out hiking. Step by step, my appreciation for the wild outdoors grew, until by my teens, I had developed the family addiction.<div><br /></div><div>The best kind of wilderness begins a whole day's hike in from the trail head, where the expanse of mountains, prairie, lakeshore, or desert land spreads out untainted and seemingly endless. The sunset's flaming colors paint soul-stirring magic on the wild countryside. Only the campfire, moon, and stars light up the black night. Only coyotes and owls, the crackling fire and the whispering wind break the stillness of your humbled, inspired thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Threads of thought tangled by the stresses and trauma of life begin to uncoil that first night in. Perplexing problems start finding solutions. The soul relaxes from its daily strain and hears more clearly its own voice and that of its Lord.</div><div><br /></div><div>God used the wilderness to shape many of His human heroes. Before Moses confronted the king of Egypt and led Israel to the Promised Land, he spent 40 years in the wilderness communing with God and herding sheep. Before beginning his mission to the Gentiles, Paul spent time alone in the Arabian desert studying, meditating, and praying. John the Baptist spent most of his life in the wilderness, and it was there that he received his education for his life calling to announce Jesus as Messiah. Jesus Himself spent 40 days in the wilderness, to be alone to contemplate His mission, to fast and pray and brace Himself for His work—and be tempted and overcome sin on our behalf.</div><div><br /></div><div>Time in the wilderness isn't wasted. Though no goods are produced, no words spoken, nobody influenced and no "good deeds" accomplished, time apart establishes clarity within one's thoughts, strengthens faith, and cements one's goals and life purpose. It gives the soul space to see and hear and understand God.</div><div><br /></div><div>Out in the woods of the back 40 acres, the Iowa wilderness stirred my soul. White tailed does scampered out of my way as owls hooted and songbirds twittered. The wind rustled in the fallen leaves, and chattering squirrels scurried up regal old oaks. And the voice of the Spirit whispered inside my soul.</div><div><br /></div><div>My wilderness isn't far from civilization, but that makes little difference. What matters is the delicious hollowness in my heart—emptiness, silence, openness; a quiet, undemanding readiness to be filled. </div><div><br /></div><div>For at its core, my zest for the wilderness is a lifelong quest for peace.</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-15336721741030431622012-01-28T18:40:00.000-08:002012-01-28T20:09:45.277-08:00BruisesThe big purple blotch on the top of my foot spread from toe to toe, and halfway back to the base of my ankle. It looked like it ought to hurt—and yet, I couldn't remember incurring the injury. I pressed on the bruise with a finger. Sure enough! It felt tender and sensitive. How had I hurt myself? Had I tripped, fallen, dropped my suitcase on my foot . . . ? I could only guess.<div><br /></div><div>Although this bruise did rival others in size and ugliness, it didn't alarm me. Ever since I was small, I've been accruing scrapes and bruises, wounds and scars by various klutzy maneuvers. I promptly forget the ouchy incidents—after all, they're too numerous and minor to save in long-term memory. And yet, the reminders remain. Under my skin, broken blood vessels regenerate their walls and clean up the damaged cells. Burns blister and scab over. Broken skin knits itself back together, often leaving faint scars as records of pain I can't even recall. My quick dismissal of my little accidents doesn't lessen the labor my cells must go through for healing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another kind of wound surprises and concerns me more than bruises and broken skin. Sometimes I find hurts buried inside my heart, ignored and neglected so long that I can't even remember who or what inflicted them. In fact, I often don't know these "bruises" exist until—whoops—I've found myself reacting to life and relationships in unhealthy ways. When I stop to notice, I find unresolved bitterness, pride, pain, and resentment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unlike superficial injuries, this sort of wound can't be healed by busy cells without my conscious effort. It takes careful examination and a trip to the Divine Doctor to truly resolve these internal issues. His love and His instructions can soothe and heal any hurt. Frequently, though, the healing process intensifies the pain for a time, and that can sometimes be hard to enjoy. Too often I'm tempted to cover my hurts back up and ignore the root issues; it seems much more convenient to remain in "ignorance" of my wounds and their origins. Unfortunately, this only increases my sinful responses—and the bitter ache.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd be concerned if that bruise on my foot hadn't healed by now. Thankfully, it has. And now to tend the ones inside. Guess what? I'm finding it's worth it!</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-63579941946612687282012-01-21T19:00:00.000-08:002012-01-21T19:05:49.654-08:00Why I Love the Country<p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span >A list I started while living in Boise, Idaho. I'm sure I'll be adding to it my whole life long. Want to join the project? I'd love to see your reasons in my comments!</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span style="font-weight:bold" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No one-way streets. </span>The way you got there is the same way you'll find your way back…no GPS required.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No street lights. </span>You can sleep deeply—without curtains! Plus, you can see the stars.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No traffic noise. </span>Instead, you get frogs, insects, and wind in the trees.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Fresh air. </span>Feels so much better than exhaust fumes!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Quiet walks in the woods. </span>The trees and grass in the back 40 acres may not be groomed like a city lawn, but the truly natural space can give you that awestruck, reverent feeling like nothing else can.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No easy access to fast food. </span>We're healthier that way.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Going to the store is relatively rare</span>—which<span style="font-weight:bold"> </span>makes it a fun event. Besides, you get to buy in bulk. Every time you come home from town, it's like Christmas!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">More genuine…less artificial. </span>Reality beats reality shows.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No stopping at green lights. </span>In fact, at country stop signs, a rolling stop will usually suffice.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Parables and object lessons all around…</span>that point to the character of God instead of how wicked humanity has become.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Big sky. </span>No congested skyline to trap in the spirit.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No congested traffic. </span>Ahhhh…stress-free driving. In fact, driving rural roads busts stress!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Dogs run free. </span>Wouldn't you rather be a country dog that needs no leash or fence?</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Birds and wildlife. </span>Who needs the zoo? The pussy willow bush RIGHT outside the window teems with nature's aviators!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Big gardens and orchards. </span>The produce tastes great…and it feels great to work out there!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">No close neighbors = no need for blinds. </span>The location is plenty private, so let the sunshine in!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Free communion with God. </span>Fewer distractions! So much more creation to lift my thoughts to Him.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Sunrise and sunset. </span>That beautiful flash of color that leaves you contemplative and poetic. Out here, sunset lasts an hour!</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Awesome storms. </span>There's something fantastic about watching the wind whip the trees back and forth as the sky lets loose a downpour—especially if it comes with lightning and thunder.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight:bold">Self-sufficiency. </span>When you live in the country, you know the power might go out, or the road might not get plowed immediately—and you're ready for it.<br /></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span ><span style="font-weight: bold; ">Simpler lifestyle. </span>We may not get out as much—but that gives us more time for what's truly important.</span></p>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-26338088386776037712012-01-20T16:56:00.000-08:002012-01-21T19:47:39.132-08:00Limestone, Lentils, and a Life LessonThe water from my parents' shallow well could win a contest for limestone content. I've never tasted a more bitter clear liquid. When we moved into the house, my parents shopped for water softeners—but were told that the hard water would quickly corrode and destroy any softener. And so, the shiny stainless steel kitchen sink soon acquired a white crust, despite frequent vinegar treatments. The kettles, faucets, porcelain surfaces—any fixture that had frequent contact with the water—soon had distinctive limestone deposits. Not only that, but we girls had to learn that every shower here creates a bad hair day—and there's only so much we can do to improve it.<div><br /></div><div>I've been away from home for some time, living with a well of average mineral content—tame compared to what comes out of taps here. Because (thankfully) we haul in soft water to drink, I'd forgotten how much the hard stuff can affect everyday life—forgotten the tricks we use to foil it. Enter the mystery of the uncooked lentils.</div><div><br /></div><div>I like lentil stew. It tastes good, it's nutritious, and it's quick and easy to make: just throw water, lentils, carrots, onions, and potatoes in a Crockpot overnight and season it in the morning. When I woke up Thursday morning, however, I was surprised to find the lentils as chewy as ever. I took my stew to the midwives' potluck, anyway, turning up the temperature. Thankfully, I don't think anyone tried to eat them, because after cooking 5-6 more hours on high, the lentils still weren't done.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning Mom put the Crockpot on so we could eat the lentil stew for lunch. After a couple of hours, I went to check on them. Still hard. I put them in a pot to boil.</div><div><br /></div><div>For three hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mom and I began discussing what could be the matter. Had my Crockpot worn out? That wouldn't explain why the boiling did nothing. Was it the salt I added <i>before </i>instead of <i>after </i>cooking? I couldn't remember ever having to worry about that with lentils the way I do with beans.</div><div><br /></div><div>Suddenly, Mom remembered. "OH!" she exclaimed. "Did you use the hard water?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I blinked. "Yes." Could we not cook with tap water, here?</div><div><br /></div><div>Mom chuckled. "I've been using soft water to cook beans," she said. "They never seem to get soft with the hard water."</div><div><br /></div><div>The stew soon found its new home in the compost—not much hope for legumes brewed in limestone, it seems. We could have continued to boil them indefinitely, and they would have stayed as hard as ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grew up with something else just as hard, ugly, distasteful, and destructive as the Francis tap water: my own sinful heart. No matter how long and determinedly I try, I can't make my heart soft, warm, tender, and inviting. Years of training can't change its rocky core. Left to itself, it wounds others, gives me grief, and leaves a legacy of pain and dysfunction behind.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Thankfully, God doesn't relegate me to the compost. Instead, He makes an incredible promise: "A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh. And I will put My spirit within you, and cause you to walk in My statutes" (Ezekiel 36:26, 27).</div></div><div><br /></div><div>With an offer of such a beautiful existence, who would want to keep their old chunk of limestone?</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-16974744256056965432012-01-12T20:14:00.000-08:002012-01-21T19:48:47.857-08:00Birth PainsTwenty-six years ago today, Mom and I finished a hard day's work together. I don't remember it, but she does. She did most of the work, of course, but I think I did some of it, too: not just in being born, but in learning how to breathe and nurse and cry and recognize people and understand the world.<div><br /></div><div>Incredible changes happened in my circulation that day, thanks to an ingenious design. All of a sudden, my bloodstream switched from a gentle, low-pressure system with all its needs supplied by my mom to a pulsating, high-pressure stream of blood that had to be oxygenated by my very own lungs and fed by my tummy. In a matter of minutes, arteries and veins that had shunted blood to and from my umbilical cord suddenly constricted, soon to become ligaments. The pressure difference between the atria in my heart caused my foramen ovale to swish closed, separating the left and right atria so the blood could no longer course freely through, bypassing my little lungs. I didn't have to work at that. God had it all planned out ahead of time, and He made sure it worked for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mom and Pa made all my decisions back then, and they chose the kind of birth that gave me the healthiest start in life, completely alert and unmedicated. It helped us bond closely in those first few hours, and it made my job of breathing and nursing and adjusting to the world much easier. Mom chose to work hard and feel the pain because she knew it would be best for us in the long run. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I make my own decisions, but I appreciate the choices Mom made back then. She got me off to a robust start. As a new year of life begins, I want to emulate those choices that benefited my first day of life. I want to choose daily to work hard for what's worthwhile. More than that, I want to choose to <i>feel the pain</i> that brings deep personal growth, and not try to dull it. After all, just as Mom's pain brought me into life, my own pain brings me back to the Author of Life.</div><div><br /></div><div>And He works miracles in my heart that outdo even the transformation from fetal to neonatal circulation...every time I let Him.</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-57870512278757284842012-01-09T07:30:00.000-08:002012-02-01T06:44:09.516-08:00Published Outside YDMy hours of writing and then submitting variations on an article to every newspaper in Iowa have begun to be recognized. <i>The Gazette </i>is a large Iowa newspaper based in Cedar Rapids, and they accepted it as a guest opinion article. Other papers, including the <i>Des Moines Register,</i> are taking it as a letter to the editor. It's a good day in Mount Sterling. :-) Pray for change all over Iowa!<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://thegazette.com/2012/01/09/state-should-support-the-practice-of-midwifery/">http://thegazette.com/2012/01/09/state-should-support-the-practice-of-midwifery/</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://dmjuice.desmoinesregister.com/article/20120114/OPINION04/301140023/1038">http://dmjuice.desmoinesregister.com/article/20120114/OPINION04/301140023/1038</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.thonline.com/news/opinion/article_a04a5c9d-564d-5334-b759-1d94559fbd11.html">http://www.thonline.com/news/opinion/article_a04a5c9d-564d-5334-b759-1d94559fbd11.html</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.freemanjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/517605/Hero-or-felon-.html?nav=5070">http://www.freemanjournal.net/page/content.detail/id/517605/Hero-or-felon-.html?nav=5070</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.press-citizen.com/article/20120111/OPINION05/301110018/Are-midwives-heroes-felons-?odyssey=nav%7Chead">http://www.press-citizen.com/article/20120111/OPINION05/301110018/Are-midwives-heroes-felons-?odyssey=nav%7Chead</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://keotaeagle.com/index93.htm">http://keotaeagle.com/index93.htm</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.reinbeckcourier.com/page/content.detail/id/509358/Cheyenne-Francis.html?nav=5003">http://www.reinbeckcourier.com/page/content.detail/id/509358/Cheyenne-Francis.html?nav=5003</a> </div><div><br /></div><div>The paper for the University of Iowa published it even though I'm not a student! <a href="http://www.dailyiowan.com/2012/01/19/Opinions/26552.html">http://www.dailyiowan.com/2012/01/19/Opinions/26552.html</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I even saw that somebody had reposted it to their blog. :-)</div>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-497353399802760094.post-53936543181167281972012-01-08T19:03:00.000-08:002012-01-21T19:50:09.199-08:00The Test of a Calling<p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>In every notable room in my parents' house, simple wooden shelves whisper volumes to anyone who stops to observe. They tell the purpose and function of not only the room, but also the people who use that room most. This ordinary furniture tells the secrets of thoughts, goals, dreams, and desires.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>In my mother's office, the bookcase is loaded with volumes on two topics: spiritual instruction, and natural health and healing. The shelves in my father's studio host an eclectic assortment of artsy trinkets—and music books. The bookcases in the living room reflect their shared interests: gardening, traveling, family photos, hiking, nature identification. Like the pictures on the refrigerator, bookcases—full, empty, or absent—can help you get to know even a stranger. </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>I thought carefully when selecting the books for the shelves in my bedroom. I chose the books that I thought I would read and refer to most—and I boxed the rest up. Only later did I realize what the bookcase had to say about my passions, dreams, and interests.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>Three of my seven shelves support books on birth, midwifery care, and home remedies. I placed them in the bookcase first, since I am, after all, a midwifery student. Two more shelves hold my spiritual books—not all of them, but the most <span style="font-size: 11pt; ">special, as well as the ones I plan to read this year.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>The remaining two shelves didn't make as much sense to me when I unpacked my books; I simply arranged them how my heart mandated. A few inspirational self-help books on personalities, relationships and <span style="font-size: 11pt; ">romance, healing from past hurts. A handful of music books. My dictionary and thesaurus, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; ">Chicago Manual of Style, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; ">and </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; ">Stein on Writing. </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; ">Three empty journals received as gifts, twelve already filled, and one in progress. My writer's notebook, my binder full of </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; ">Writer's Digest </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; ">articles, and my writer's portfolio.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>"The test of a calling, to me, is this," a friend recently remarked. "Can you do anything else? If so, do it."</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><span style="font-size: 11pt; ">When I left my job at </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; ">Young Disciple, </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; ">I didn't expect to be quickly called back into writing. Sure, I knew I would always have a writer's heart and I'd always dabble around with words. But, reasoning that the world has plenty of good authors (and no end to the mediocre), I planned to make my difference in the tangible world of mothers and babies.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>And yet, as the bookcase testifies, the writer's calling has its stronghold in my soul. I can barricade myself with other pursuits; but like my friend, I have found that "God won't let me do anything else." As I cultivate new skills, knowledge, and interests—exploring the potential of new callings, to midwifery and other ministries—I have come to understand that in order to thrive, I must remain true to the calling God has already placed on my life, the talent He has already given. That's why, without abandoning my midwifery apprenticeship, I've added freelancing jobs and studies in journalism (plus a blog) back into my life, concurrently.</span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; font-size: 11pt; "><span>Do you know your calling, or would you like to discover it? Perhaps—just maybe—your bookcase already whispers it.</span></p>Cheyennehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05993739798520976305noreply@blogger.com3