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Love of My Life

~ mercyfortheday ~ Leave a comment

I think back to the day I married him.  35 years ago.  Some things have changed.  Some things have remained the same.

I think of the things that drew me to him.  I think of the things that I love about him.

His love for God

His humor

His musical talent

His work ethic

His honesty

His straightforward answers

His knowledge of the Bible

His love of pepperoni pizza

His patience

His love of sweet iced tea

His gift of helping others

His Christian heritage

His love of the color green

His playful spirit

His ability to avoid vegetables

His positive attitude

His leadership

His appreciation for good food

His love for family

His business insight

His mean sax playing

His ability to cut his own hair

His fondness for watching movies

His need for noisy distractions

His love of dogs

His taste for Peter Pan peanut butter

His eagerness to explore unsafe areas of new cities

His giving spirit

His love of a good joke

His interest in history

His beard

His respect for his dad

His act of honoring his mom in her final years

His willingness to serve others

His support

He’s the love of my life.  He’s my best friend.  I would marry him all over again.

 

Words Matter

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He enjoyed his work.  The actual work, that is.  He had built strong relationships with co-workers.  People respected him.  People asked for advice.  They asked for his opinion.  They valued him.  They sought him out.  He felt accepted.  He mattered to them.

Then there were others.  They didn’t show respect.  They micromanaged.  They second guessed.  They nitpicked.  They changed the rules without explanation.

Little by little their words chopped off pieces of his heart. His love for the mission was muddled.  His tolerance was short.  His attitude grew cold.

He felt underused.  Devalued.  His years of experience were pushed aside.  His expertise was left unused.  His strengths and skills were overlooked.

I’ve been there.  I’ve had people in my life who were insecure.  Trying to prove their worth by belittling others.  By putting someone in their place when they didn’t know their own place.

Words are powerful.  They can make you feel like a million bucks.  They can make you feel penniless.  Empty.

His love language is words of affirmation.  Too many important people in his life have not affirmed him.  He’s crying out for acceptance.  For validation.  The people who should have said those words never said them to him.

How can a person live life to the fullest when others’ words have damaged them to the point they believe those words?

Be kind to yourself, or you may have less tolerance for people who criticize and belittle you.  No one should be made to feel worthless.

Words

They’ve made me feel like a prisoner
They’ve made me feel set free
They’ve made me feel like a criminal
Made me feel like a king

They’ve lifted my heart
To places I’d never been
And they’ve dragged me down
Back to where I began

Words can build you up
Words can break you down
Start a fire in your heart or
Put it out

Let my words be life
Let my words be truth
I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

You can heal the heartache
Speak over the fear
(Speak over the fear)
God, Your voice is the only thing
We need to hear

Words can build us up
Words can break us down
Start a fire in our hearts or
Put it out

Let my words be life
Let my words be truth
I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

Let the words I say
Be the sound of Your grace
I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

I wanna speak Your love
Not just another noise
Oh, I wanna be Your light
I wanna be Your voice

Let my words be life
Let my words be truth
I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

Let the words I say
Be the sound of Your grace
I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

Words can build us up
Words can break us down
Start a fire in our hearts
Or put it out

I don’t wanna say a word
Unless it points the world back to You

My Crush

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I remember his name.  I remember that he piqued my curiosity.  I’m not sure why it was him.  But it was.  I thought he was the most handsome guy I’d ever seen.  I listened to his every word.  I noticed what he wore.  I thought about him every day.  I watched him playing sports. I tried to memorize his schedule, hoping to run into him.  I listened for his voice.  When I walked past him, I hoped he would make eye contact.  I wanted him to notice me.

I could imagine our first date.  He would hold my hand.  Smile at me.  Whisper sweet nothings into my ear.  We would pack a picnic lunch and sit under a tree.  Just the two of us.  It was a sweet dream.  Never a reality.

I’ve crushed on many boys during my youth.  Most of them didn’t seem to know I was alive.  Some were personal friends.  Others were classmates.  Still others were long distance crushes.  They were all very real to me.

I have found the one in whom my soul delights.  Song of Solomon 3:4

I know someone who has a crush on me.  He knows everything I think.   He sees everything I do.  He hears everything I say.   He wants only the best for me.  He knew me before I was born.  He says he loves me.

He teaches me lessons.  He gives me tests.  He lets me make my own decisions.  He fights my battles.  He protects me.  He provides everything I need.  He’s an artist.  He’s a creator.  He is original.

Sometimes I feel like he’s trying to get me out of my comfort zone.  Then I realize he’s the one who made me.  He knows my strengths and my weaknesses.  He knows I need some pruning, and he knows there are parts worth keeping.

I’m not sure why he chose me.  After all, I sometimes ignore him.  At times, he’ll ask me to do something and I get so scared.  I think he asks too much of me.  Other times, I just don’t feel good enough for his love.  I want to be like him, but I feel like I’ll never measure up.  He still says he loves me.  No matter what.

There are some things about him that I just love.  I can talk to him anytime.  Anywhere.  For any reason.  Plus, he is always faithful.  He is always available anytime I need him.  He never leaves me.  If I mess up and confess, he forgives me.  Every time.  He’s the best.

He has one son.  He asked his son to die for me.  So he did.  He died for me.  He. Died. For. Me.  I read that he died for you, too.  He said he did it because he loves me.  He lives in a place called heaven.   He asked me to move in with him someday.  He’ll let me know when that day comes.  Until then, he’s getting my new home ready.  He’s also preparing a feast for me.  He said the invitation is for anyone who will accept it.  All we have to do is believe.

I’ve accepted his invitation.  Now I wait and do my best to become just like him. I want him to recognize me when he sees me.  I want him to welcome me home with open arms.

This guy’s a keeper.

 

Liar Liar

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I know someone who lies.  It’s just what they do.  They tell small lies.  They tell big lies.  I’ve heard them tell whoppers.  More than once.  And they never bat an eye.  It’s as if they’re telling the truth.  In their mind, maybe they are.

Others have noticed.  When the storyteller isn’t around, someone will mention that story.  They knew it wasn’t true.  It was too obvious.  It was an almost unbelievable story.  I don’t know how she thought up such magnificent details on the spur of the moment like that.

If someone makes a point of lying just to look better than others or to get out of a tough spot, does it ever feel natural?  Does lying ever feel good?  Do habitual liars feel guilty?  Do the lies just taint any truth they may later tell?

I always assume that people are telling the truth.  I’ve made a habit of being truthful.  I don’t like lies.  Oh sure, it would be easy to lie.  In the moment, it would be easy.  But there are always consequences.  Consequences are never friendly.  They’re heavy, unnecessary lessons to be learned.

The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in those who tell the truth.           Proverbs 12:22

I sometimes think about it.  That lie I told.  That lie I never confessed.  To anyone. Ever.  I knew there would be trouble if I admitted it.  I wasn’t sure what the punishment would be.  So I didn’t tell.

I’ve thought about that lie over the years.  The first few years after the lie, I wondered if I should send a note and confess.  By then I lived in another state, and it no longer mattered.

I did something I shouldn’t have done and then I lied when asked about it.    I didn’t think about getting caught or being questioned about it when I did it. But people knew that someone had done something they shouldn’t have done.  And it was me.

When the group of us were sitting in the room being questioned, I assumed everyone suspected me.  I was the youngest.  The least experienced.  No one blamed me.  But I knew.  I knew they thought it was me.  I knew that I wasn’t going to confess to anything or to anyone.

The thing is.  I knew when I was doing it that it wasn’t right.  But someone before me had written wrong instructions.  I followed the instructions.  So was it really my fault?  Even though I knew better?

I knew their instructions were confusing. I could have corrected their mistake.  I had seen their mistake before and avoided it.  Maybe they didn’t see it as a mistake, but their intentions were misleading.  I knew better, though.  I just didn’t act on it.  I took the instructions literally.  Why didn’t I avoid it this time?  I always had before.

So I lied and said that I wasn’t the one who did that thing.  I felt bad about it.  I didn’t want to get in trouble.

Afterwards, no one ever spoke of it again.  Ever.  That was a huge relief.  I still felt it in my heart, though.  I knew I should confess.  I never did.  I. Never. Did.

I’ve learned from that lie.  I’ve learned that I don’t want to make lying a habit.  I don’t want to have to constantly remember the story I told and who I told it to.  I don’t want to have to be on my guard.  Always watching what I say and who I say it to.  Wondering if others can tell I’m untruthful.  I don’t want consequences.  It’s easier and safer to just tell the truth.  That way you don’t have to remember.  The story is always the same.

So Close to Eternity

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Today on Father’s Day, I think of two men.  Two men who never knew each other.    Different values.  Different lifestyles.  Different beliefs.  Different worlds.  They both were fathers.  That appears to be their only common ground.  I don’t know why the first man even comes to mind.  But he does.

I remember when Saddam Hussein was killed.  Some witnesses videotaped his death.  His hanging.  I saw parts of the video on the news.  It was graphic.  It was disturbing.  It was unsettling.  He died.  People wanted confirmation that he was gone.  There it was.  Ugly and haunting.

He seemed so calm in the last moments of his life.  He wasn’t fighting his captors.  He was as a lamb being led to the slaughter.  Quiet.  Reserved.  Defeated.

I wonder if he had been drugged.  I wonder what he was thinking.  When they opened his cell door for the last time, did he know he was going to his death?  Did he know that in just a few short minutes he would be in eternity?  A never-ending place where he would reap the rewards or punishment for his life on earth.  Did he know?  Was he ready to meet his Maker?

If he knew, what was he thinking?  Did he try to make peace with God?  Did he ask forgiveness for the atrocities he had committed?  Did he shake his fist at God and curse him?  Did he believe in God? What were his final thoughts?

It isn’t mine to know.  It isn’t mine to judge.

The Lord knows the thoughts of man.  Psalm 94:11

I remember another man’s death.  I wasn’t with my dad when he breathed his last breath, but my sisters were there.  He had been on hospice for 3 months.  During those final months and days, my dad exhibited peace and contentment.  He knew he was dying.  He knew he was going to heaven.

Some days he would want to hold your hand and tell you that he loved you over and over.  Other days, tears would roll down his face.  At times, he would look up to the corner of the room with a far-off look.  He was seeing a place he had only read and heard about.  Heaven.  He would sometimes see people.  Others who had gone before him.  He would call them by name.

He had said he was waiting for my  mom.  He never wanted her to be alone.  He waited for her.  In those final three months of his life, he portrayed a sacrificial love for the woman he had pledged his life to 60 years earlier.  He kept his vow.  Till death us do part.

His heart was weak.  His body was frail.  His voice was soft.

His love was strong.  His faith was sure.  His eternity was secure.

During his final days, he would reach with outstretched hand to heaven.  Trying to touch it.  Wanting to enter those pearly gates.  As the end drew near, he would lie there with his eyes closed.  No longer speaking.  Not in this world.  Not in the next.  Hovering between two worlds with a smile on his face.  He was seeing heaven.

He had made peace with his life.  He had waited for his beloved to go before him.  He was ready to meet his Maker.

His last words.  So close.  So close.

Acquainted with Grief

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She walked over to me that Sunday morning after church.  In a quiet voice, she said, “How do you do it?  How do you get through each day?”

A year earlier, I had lost my older brother.  Five years before that, my husband had lost his sister.  I am acquainted with grief.  She knew that I knew what she was asking.  My friend had lost both of her parents just a few months apart and was having trouble coping with the loss and the pain.  I recall feeling bad for her, because I couldn’t fathom losing my parents, let alone just a few months apart.

As we talked through our hurt and loss, we shared a common bond.  Grief does not discriminate.  It hits everyone who has lost a loved one.  It’s not a club you want to join, but you can’t refuse membership once it’s offered.  Membership is free, but you’ve already paid a great price.  You’re in the club in that moment of loss. With that one phone call.  Or with the knock on the door.  He’s gone.  She’s not going to make it through the night.  The test results are in, and it doesn’t look good.  There’s been an accident, and there are no survivors.

Little did I know at the time of our conversation, that only a few years later I would once again be circled by grief as I lost my parents eleven days apart.  Eleven. Days. Apart.

I am acquainted with grief.  I am acquainted with loss.  I am acquainted with the replaying over and over in my mind of how the scene of death played out for my loved ones. What were his last words?  When was the last time I saw her alive? Those thoughts filled every moment of every day for months on end.

What I realize now is that we really do need each other.  In those times of loss and uncertainty and unfamiliarity as we face a future without those loved ones, we need others who have walked that path.  We need someone to hold us up and to encourage us to grieve.  To live through the hard parts of life without our loved one.  We need someone to be there for us in those times when we can’t hold ourselves together.  When the memories and the loss are flooding down on us, and we feel like we can’t breathe.  When we don’t know if life will ever feel normal again.  We need to tell our story of loss over and over again.  We especially need someone to listen to our story. To hear our hurt and our pain.  To let us know that there is hope.  To let us know that as life goes on, we should cherish the memories we have and hold onto them.

As Reuben Welch said, “We really do need each other.”

Love one another, as I have loved you.  John 15:12

Heart Problems

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She said my name with a sense of urgency.  She wanted me to do something that was her responsibility.  She had forgotten about it.  It was now urgent.  Do or die time.  And now it was my burden.  I had now been tasked with the responsibility to make things right.

Your lack of planning does not constitute an emergency on my part.  Someone close to me uses that phrase.  But somehow I couldn’t say those words.

I could feel the bad attitude rising quickly within me.  I could have used words that would have reduced her to something small.  But that would have made me smaller.  I could have slammed a file down on the desk.  Or stomped off.  That would have caused more problems.  Instead, I stewed.  Boiling on the inside. No one can see stewing, can they?

Words can hurt people.  Actions can hurt people.  You can’t take those things back.  Both words and actions are devastating.  Thoughts and attitudes are just as destructive.  Is my bad attitude harmful to others?  Who is harmed if I think ugly thoughts?  If I don’t act on them?

Bad thoughts and attitudes are destructive to the one who thinks them.  They make a person bitter.  Or rude.  Or greedy.  Or judgmental.  And they spill out onto the next person.

Let my words and my thoughts be pleasing to you, Lord, because you are my mighty rock and my protector.  Psalm 19:14

Whatever comes out of the mouth begins in the heart.  Maybe I should put duct tape over my mouth to keep the ugly words out.  Is it possible to duct tape my heart, as well?  Would that keep the ugly thoughts away?  Would that stop the bad attitudes?

Then I remembered.  I’ve been trying to approach situations as if I’m doing everything for Jesus.  If Jesus had been the one asking me to do this thing, would I have created stew?  Would my attitude be different just because the messenger is different?  Is it fair to be willing to do for one what I’m not willing to do for others?

As soon as my thoughts turned to who I was really working for, I felt a shift of my attitude.  I was willing to do this.

It was actually a simple task she asked of me.  It was just scheduled over an event I had already planned.  My schedule had to change in order to accommodate someone else’s need.  I knew that no matter what my attitude was, I would still have to do what was asked of me.  I didn’t have a choice.  Maybe that was the problem.  I didn’t have a choice.

Sure, that person messed up.  I could help them out.  I’m sure they were going to get a talking to later, so why should I make the situation worse by being difficult.  It’s all a matter of the heart.  The attitude.  Whatever is in the heart comes out in actions and words.  Kind or unkind.  Pleasant or ugly.  Good or bad.

There is a choice.  It’s really a simple choice.  Remove the emotions and treat someone the way you would want to be treated.  Sounds so simple, yet sometimes the struggle is very real.

 

What Brings Me to Tears

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There are certain events and experiences that bring me to tears.  Events that make me proud.  Actions that show respect to power and authority.  Experiences that are personal and meaningful.

I think of a bride.  Walking down the aisle on her father’s arm.  See the white dress.  The bouquet.  The veil.  The vows.  The kiss.  The anticipation of a life together.   The respect of the sanctity of marriage.  My eyes well up with tears.

I hear the national anthem.  The Star Spangled Banner.  I see the flag rise above the crowd.  People stand.  Right hand over their heart.  Pride in our country.  Thankful for freedom.  Respect for the courage of battles fought.   My eyes well up with tears.

I have served on jury duty.  I have been a juror.  People in the court room stand each time the jurors enter and exit the court room.  All conversations and activities cease.  All eyes are on the jury.  The group of twelve who will decide someone’s fate.   They know the power of this group.  They respect the sacrifice the jury is making to perform their civic duty.  The weight of the decision is in their hands.  My eyes well up with tears.

I have driven in a funeral procession.  Loss of a loved one.  Near and dear to my heart. People standing along the street.  They stop and pay respect.  Remove their hats.  Stop mowing their lawn.  Stand still for someone they’ve never met.  Traffic stops and lets the stream of cars interrupt their busy day.  They respect the loss of a loved one.  My eyes well up with tears.

I think of the man who died on the cross.  For me.  For you.  I think of his sacrifice.  He died willingly.  To save every sin everyone born on this earth has ever committed.  So we can enter heaven’s gates. So we can see Him face to face.  His mercy is new every day.  His love and compassion are never ending.  His sacrifice is our eternity.  My eyes well up with tears.

In Christ Alone.

Soldiers of Christ

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I see them differently now.  I didn’t realize I was holding them to my standard.  Expecting them to be the same as me.  I was struggling with the realization that we’re all not the same.

I’ve been a Christian for many years.  I was taught the Bible from my earliest days.  I’ve always had the desire to be good.  I’ve always known of God and his power.  I’ve always known his love.

Some of them haven’t.

We all come from different walks of life.  Different family issues.  Different hurts.  Different life experiences.  Different regrets.  Different brokenness.  We each come from a different place in life.  Alike but different.

We sit together studying the Bible.  Wanting to learn.  Wanting to have a closer relationship with the God who created us.  With the one who loves us.  With the one who gave His Son’s life for us.  We want to be like Jesus.  That’s why we’re there.

We share our thoughts.  Our struggles.  Our learnings.  We laugh together.  We cry together.  We love together.  We pray together.  We realize God has brought us together when we most needed each other.  We are thankful.

We are sometimes silly together.  We eat pizza together.  We play games.   We learn fun things about each other.  We laugh.  We relax.  We’re friends.

Sometimes we learn sad things about each other.  Sometimes it’s hard things we learn.  Life hasn’t always been easy for us.   We all carry burdens.  We carry each other’s burdens.

We are all soldiers of Christ.  Fighting our battles in our daily lives.  Learning to be brave warriors of the cross.   We wear scars and battle wounds.  Some are seen.  Some are unseen.  Sometimes we struggle to keep the unseen scars hidden.  It feels safer that way.  No one knows.  No one sees.

But when a wound is exposed is when the healing begins.  It’s then that the soothing ointment of love and acceptance is spread over that seeping wound.  The hurts are shared.  The disappointments are relived.  The pain is rediscovered.  It is then that healing begins.  Scarred but healed.

It is a safe place.  A place where everyone cares.  And listens.  No one judges.  We don’t all agree on everything.  We don’t have to.  Our common bond is our need for a Savior.  Our strength is our faith in God.   Our joy is sharing the journey together.

Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.   And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.   ~Hebrews 10:23-25

We’re all walking the path to heaven.  Each view.  Each bend in the road looks different.  Each of us is at a different mile marker.  But we’re headed in the same direction.  Some will get to the destination sooner.  Others will take much longer.

My prayer is that no one gets off the path.  My hope is that each one continues to learn and grow as we study God’s word.  Heaven is real.  Eternity is forever.  I want to be with each of these women in heaven.  Sharing the rewards God has given to each of us for our faithfulness and commitment to him on this earth.

You see.  Our life on earth is our test.  For heaven.  It’s pass/fail only.  Sixty years.  Eighty years.  Maybe forty-five.  The number of years on this earth seems important now.  But really.  These years are just a blip on the big screen of eternity.  Because eternity is forever.  Forever.   Never ending.

When my time comes, I want to share heaven with these women.

Legacy

~ mercyfortheday ~ 1 Comment

I grew up in a Christian home.  I am one of 7 kids.  We grew up on a farm.  My parents were God-fearing, God-loving, God-serving people.  We lived a simple life. It was a good life.  Structure, authority, hard work, laughter, security, trust, faith, values. Those are words that describe our family.  We weren’t perfect, but we were loved.

This is the story of the life and love lived in front of me every single day as I was growing up.  This is the legacy handed down from my parents.

My parents took us to church.  Sunday School.  Sunday morning worship.  Sunday night services.  Wednesday night prayer meeting.  Revival meetings.  Youth revival meetings.  Missionary meetings.  Zone rally meetings.  Vacation Bible School.  Teen talent contests.  Bible quizzing.  Summer camp.  We were in church every time the doors were open.  We were there.

You may think that was a lot of church.  And it was.  But it taught me to respect the Sabbath.  It taught me the importance of meeting with other Christians to worship God.

My dad was the Sunday School superintendent.  He was the church treasurer.  He was a Sunday School teacher. He was a board member. My mom took care of babies in the nursery.  She helped in Vacation Bible School.  She served meals in our home for visiting preachers.  She served at funeral dinners.  She babysat for our pastor’s children. My parents were involved in the church.

My parents the year they were married.

M&D 1954

This is what I know.

I know what it’s like to have my parents take me to church every Sunday.

I know what it’s like to see my dad write out his tithe check.

I know what it’s like to hear my mom pray for her children by name.

I know what it’s like for our family to have devotions together every night before bed.

I know what it’s like at age 8 to go to the altar with my dad and ask Jesus into my heart.

I know what it’s like for my mom to tell me at age 12 that it was time for me to start having daily devotions.

I know what it’s like to see my mother go to the altar to totally surrender her life to God, when she realized she needed a deeper relationship with Him.

I know what it’s like for my parents to help pastors of neighboring churches by filling their freezer with food.

I know what it’s like to see my mom deliver a Sunday dinner to the lonely old man living in a shack down the road from us.

I know what it’s like to see my dad kiss my mom on the cheek after Sunday dinner to thank her for the wonderful meal.

My parents’ relationship was solid.  My parents’ relationship with their God was solid.  They were humble servants of a God bigger than them, and they faithfully served Him.

I am so thankful for the foundation of faith that was lived out in front of me.  I’m thankful for the prayers and discipline that was part of our home.  I’m fortunate for this legacy.  I have been able to avoid many poor decisions and life experiences because of the rich heritage that was passed down to me.

I realize many people won’t be able to relate to my story.  They may be jealous.  They may ridicule me.  I remember thinking as a child that I was thankful to be in a family where God’s love was taught. I realized some of my friends didn’t have that.  They didn’t have parents who prayed with them or for them.  They didn’t own a Bible.  They didn’t know God’s love.

I’ve always been aware of God and his love for me.  I owe that to my parents.  I’ve known from an early age that I needed Jesus to forgive my sins.  I knew I wanted to go to heaven.  I wanted to obey God.  And I made the decision to serve the God of my parents.  They taught me well.  And I’m thankful.

The office where my dad would study his Sunday School lessons and my mom would kneel and pray for her children.

Office