I have heard it said many times - there are many paths to __________________(heaven, enlightenment, God, etc. - fill in the blank) and I have always wanted to ask who said that? Where did this thought originate? I didn't know until this morning.
I am struggling to stay on this path. In my quiet time this morning, God led me to the book of Ephesians 2:10. This verse states that we are His masterpiece and created to do the good things that He planned for us long ago. As I read that verse, it occurred to me that I am on my path, the one created just for me and should I depart from this path, I would miss out on God's plan for my life, the very reason for which I was created. And I wondered, could this be the thought behind the "many path theory"?
Should I choose to leave my personal path, God would not love me any less. But I did imagine a heavenly scene as I make my arrival into heaven. The scene opens with my arrival at the gate. I would whisper the secret code Name and the gate would open. (And while there may be many paths, the Bible states there is only one entrance Way.)
Jesus would take me by the hand and we would walk down Memory Lane together. On the side of the road I would see many items hidden under a blanket of dust. As we approached each item, He would gently lift the cover, wipe off the dust, and I would see all that could have been, the fullness of life God planned for me to live. A life greater than all of my dreams, desires, thoughts and prayers, left undiscovered by the side of the road. Then, He would replace the cover for there these dreams must lay, unused and left behind.
We all have a path to walk. And while I can share the blessing and treasures along the way with many, my path is only wide enough for two - God and I. This byway displays the occasional "orange-barrel" that I must navigate around and sometimes a sudden storm so severe the road disappears. But if I persevere, along the way are people to love, places to experience and treasures beyond even my imagination.
God allows us to choose our way. We can take the dimly lit, adventurous path or we can detour to the wide multi-laned, double-decker bypass built for those who either never found their personal road and or settled for the easier-to-follow marked highway. Either way, our final destination is the same.
But if I choose the bypass, I will leave the adventure package designed just for me. And I know that should I make that choice, when my time on earth is done, my heart will ache when I see the blessings and presents God had planned along the way - the ones that the dust will uncover. So, for today, I will choose to remain on my path. And when I struggle again, I will return to this verse and hold on tight.
I will take the hand of those who don't know the way, who can't see where they are going. I'll be a personal guide to them, directing them through unknown country. I'll be right there to show them what roads to take, make sure they don't fall into a ditch. These are the things I'll be doing for them - sticking with them not leaving them for a minute. (Isaiah 42:16)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
The Power in a Telephone Call
What power the telephone holds! I am always amazed how a few short rings can alter one's day or night. Timing plays a major role in predictability. We know from experience that those incessant rings that rouse us from sleep in the wee hours of the morning rarely bear good news. Of course, there are some exceptions. For example, I called my parents in the wee hours of the morning to announce I was off to the hospital to deliver their first grandchild.
Calls coming mid-morning though- well, they are the unpredictable ones. These are the calls that catch us off guard and hold the power to redirect our day or, at the very least, evoke an emotional response.
My phone rang this morning. Caller ID brought the anticipation of a warm call from a beloved family member. And I was not disappointed, that is until the end of the call when I was informed, as a matter of fact, that Ken Lay had died this morning. After the initial shock, my first thought whispered the question, "Was it suicide?" No, it seems it was a matter of the heart.
And my own became very heavy as well. It is my prayer that the final chapter of a truly great man will bring healing to all seeking vengeance and closure to the rest of us who have learned our lessons well and are desperate to put Enron and its fall from grace in its final resting place. God bring Your comfort to his family and friends.
Calls coming mid-morning though- well, they are the unpredictable ones. These are the calls that catch us off guard and hold the power to redirect our day or, at the very least, evoke an emotional response.
My phone rang this morning. Caller ID brought the anticipation of a warm call from a beloved family member. And I was not disappointed, that is until the end of the call when I was informed, as a matter of fact, that Ken Lay had died this morning. After the initial shock, my first thought whispered the question, "Was it suicide?" No, it seems it was a matter of the heart.
And my own became very heavy as well. It is my prayer that the final chapter of a truly great man will bring healing to all seeking vengeance and closure to the rest of us who have learned our lessons well and are desperate to put Enron and its fall from grace in its final resting place. God bring Your comfort to his family and friends.
Friday, April 21, 2006
My Anniversary
Yesterday, I celebrated my five-year anniversary. He had waited years for me to get this far but would wait no longer. But this was not a decision to be taken lightly. He insisted, "You cannot wait any longer." But every argument I raised was met and dismissed - not a flippant dismissal like the ones we receive when someone is simply too tired to argue - no, my arguments simply became lame in the light of such intelligence.
"Okay, okay, I surrender. Now please stop talking in my head," I begged. He was appeased, silent at last.
Sunday came, April 22, 2001. As I showered and carefully planned my outfit, I was determined to make this commitment even if it killed me and, I mused, it very well might. Okay, that was an exaggeration but still something inside of me was reluctant. I had wrestled with this vague unsettled feeling all week long. "What is it?" I asked in frustration. It felt like one of those frustration dreams where you almost can see the thing you are chasing but you can never quite get there - so close but yet so elusive.
"Tell me please?" I asked. "I know it's not the pride thing. I got over that and I am willing to humiliate myself in front of several hundred people," I proudly exclaimed.
He wrapped me in love before answering and simply said, "Because you know what out-of-control looks like."
Memories flooded my entire being and I could no longer stand up under their weight. On the floor sobbing, tears poured out in rivers of painful memories. "Oh yes, I do know what out-of-control looks like and it is terrifying," the 14-year old in me cried.
Where had I stored all those tears from so long ago? They had been safely locked up in my heart rarely to be seen by others while I fought hard to carefully control my surroundings so I could never be hurt or disappointed again. But salt water rusts and, I must admit, my heart had become like the Tin Man rusted shut from lack of use.
He held the key to my broken heart in one hand and I had a choice to make. I could take the key back or, relinquishing control, grab His other hand - the one that was being held out - the one with the nail prints. You see, five years ago yesterday, responding to an altar call at my church, I walked down the aisle and gave control over my life to One I cannot see but One who loved me enough to break down the rusted door to my heart.
How I would love to tell you that it was an easy choice. But I would be lying. It was not easy then and it is not easy now, five years later.
However, what I can tell five years later is this: There has not been one day, not one moment, that I have regretted my decision. And why, you may wonder, was God so insistent that day five years ago? He alone knew how my year would unfold. It was a year like no other but that is another story.
"Okay, okay, I surrender. Now please stop talking in my head," I begged. He was appeased, silent at last.
Sunday came, April 22, 2001. As I showered and carefully planned my outfit, I was determined to make this commitment even if it killed me and, I mused, it very well might. Okay, that was an exaggeration but still something inside of me was reluctant. I had wrestled with this vague unsettled feeling all week long. "What is it?" I asked in frustration. It felt like one of those frustration dreams where you almost can see the thing you are chasing but you can never quite get there - so close but yet so elusive.
"Tell me please?" I asked. "I know it's not the pride thing. I got over that and I am willing to humiliate myself in front of several hundred people," I proudly exclaimed.
He wrapped me in love before answering and simply said, "Because you know what out-of-control looks like."
Memories flooded my entire being and I could no longer stand up under their weight. On the floor sobbing, tears poured out in rivers of painful memories. "Oh yes, I do know what out-of-control looks like and it is terrifying," the 14-year old in me cried.
Where had I stored all those tears from so long ago? They had been safely locked up in my heart rarely to be seen by others while I fought hard to carefully control my surroundings so I could never be hurt or disappointed again. But salt water rusts and, I must admit, my heart had become like the Tin Man rusted shut from lack of use.
He held the key to my broken heart in one hand and I had a choice to make. I could take the key back or, relinquishing control, grab His other hand - the one that was being held out - the one with the nail prints. You see, five years ago yesterday, responding to an altar call at my church, I walked down the aisle and gave control over my life to One I cannot see but One who loved me enough to break down the rusted door to my heart.
How I would love to tell you that it was an easy choice. But I would be lying. It was not easy then and it is not easy now, five years later.
However, what I can tell five years later is this: There has not been one day, not one moment, that I have regretted my decision. And why, you may wonder, was God so insistent that day five years ago? He alone knew how my year would unfold. It was a year like no other but that is another story.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
The Jesus Papers
"Never attribute to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity." Hanlon's Razor
"Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap." Galatians 6:7
"Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap." Galatians 6:7
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Hair Color
It was the question on this blog that started it! What would my hair say? Trivial, perhaps but not this morning. This morning my hair screams "brioche?" I will admit, it is an interesting color for hair in the realm of blonde, brunette, red, black. What is it about this "hair" thing that preoccupies my thoughts (3 hours yesterday to end up with brioched-hair)?
Hair color speaks of identity. It is the outward image of who I am on the inside and usually, the first thing we say when describing ourselves to someone. "I am blonde." "I am a redhead." The color takes on characteristics of its own. Blonde speaks of Hollywood platinumed glamor, preferred by gentlemen, dumb (likely coined by a brunette), sun-kissed California beaches and golden tans, money(how much is required to remain blonde, live in California and spend time on the beach). A brunette is more serious, a redhead more fiery.
Ethnicity has a hair color that may sometimes surprise but most often allows us to identify country of origin. Jesus as a blond - possible (He is God!) but not likely considering his Jewish heritage and birth in the Middle East. A Southeast Asian with red or blonde hair is a sign of malnutrition, a fact I just recently encountered on a recent trip to Cambodia. A South African blonde speaks of colonialism, and so it goes around the world until, of course, we get to America, the melting pot of hair colors.
So a desire to change our hair color would suggest a deeper desire to change our identity somehow, to remove that thing that the color says about us and take on that thing we want so much to be. And stupidly, we think we can accomplish all of this from a box in a drugstore or in a visit to a salon four times a year for touchups!
Since I was a teenager in the Beachboy surfing crazed years, I have longed to be a California blonde. Born the only brunette in a family of blondes, I so wanted to stand on the beach, surfboard in hand and live the carefree life of a beach bum. Instead I was a brunette straight A student in an all-girls parochial school from a working class family who couldn't swim, let alone surf! Not that the waves were big enough to drown anyone on Galveston Island unless a hurricane was approaching, but still!
Oh the stories I could tell about my various shades and hues. Life changes always seemed to come first, then the hair color selection would follow. And so it remains today. I would like to say I am returning to my roots but that would be a lie. My roots are gray but I am not! I am returning to the person God created - a layered, vibrant brunette with gold and red highlights or, at least, I will be just as soon as I get back from the drugstore.
Hair color speaks of identity. It is the outward image of who I am on the inside and usually, the first thing we say when describing ourselves to someone. "I am blonde." "I am a redhead." The color takes on characteristics of its own. Blonde speaks of Hollywood platinumed glamor, preferred by gentlemen, dumb (likely coined by a brunette), sun-kissed California beaches and golden tans, money(how much is required to remain blonde, live in California and spend time on the beach). A brunette is more serious, a redhead more fiery.
Ethnicity has a hair color that may sometimes surprise but most often allows us to identify country of origin. Jesus as a blond - possible (He is God!) but not likely considering his Jewish heritage and birth in the Middle East. A Southeast Asian with red or blonde hair is a sign of malnutrition, a fact I just recently encountered on a recent trip to Cambodia. A South African blonde speaks of colonialism, and so it goes around the world until, of course, we get to America, the melting pot of hair colors.
So a desire to change our hair color would suggest a deeper desire to change our identity somehow, to remove that thing that the color says about us and take on that thing we want so much to be. And stupidly, we think we can accomplish all of this from a box in a drugstore or in a visit to a salon four times a year for touchups!
Since I was a teenager in the Beachboy surfing crazed years, I have longed to be a California blonde. Born the only brunette in a family of blondes, I so wanted to stand on the beach, surfboard in hand and live the carefree life of a beach bum. Instead I was a brunette straight A student in an all-girls parochial school from a working class family who couldn't swim, let alone surf! Not that the waves were big enough to drown anyone on Galveston Island unless a hurricane was approaching, but still!
Oh the stories I could tell about my various shades and hues. Life changes always seemed to come first, then the hair color selection would follow. And so it remains today. I would like to say I am returning to my roots but that would be a lie. My roots are gray but I am not! I am returning to the person God created - a layered, vibrant brunette with gold and red highlights or, at least, I will be just as soon as I get back from the drugstore.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Coincidence? Only God knows!
South Dakota Building Too Tough for Demolition
Saturday, December 03, 2005
SIOUX FALLS, S.D. — Thousands of spectators gathered Saturday to watch the demolition of the city's tallest building — but the Zip Feed Mill tower was no pushover. The 202-foot-tall concrete structure dropped slightly, leaned a little — and stopped. Onlookers at viewing spots all over downtown groaned and gasped — with a few jokes mixed in. "The leaning tower of Zip," one woman said. "The building won!" yelled another man, to the cheers of onlookers.
I was visiting Sioux Falls on Labor Day weekend as a vendor at the 2005 LifeLight Festival. It had been an intense 4-day event with great Christian music, amazing testimonies and great conversations with the many people stopping by my booth. After perusing my graffiti photos, a few locals told me about some building "art" in downtown Sioux Falls. In a quick drive-through on my way home, I couldn't find the graffiti but I did capture this shot with its poignant message. And maybe it was this side of the building, though not newsworthy, that caused the onlookers to cheer the building on.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
What is it about puppets?
What compels a grown woman to put a furry creature on her arm, stand behind a black curtain, manipulate the rods attached to little furry arms to the beat of the music and "sing" a song to an audience? There are days when I wish I could answer that question especially for those who look at me with that look - you know the LOOK. The one that wordlessly says, "you have lost your mind" as they quickly change the subject or quietly back away to prevent any further conversation.
Every show brings a memory of something noteworthy. Usually it is someone in the unseen audience that the puppeteer can hear that causes an arm to be a little straighter and a performance to be just a little better. Like the time we performed at the Ronald McDonald House in Houston, Texas for patients undergoing cancer treatment at M. D. Anderson. There sat a dad next to his little baldheaded daughter singing at the top of his voice along with the puppets to "I Believe". Then I am grateful for the curtain between us so he can't see the tears pouring down my face as I hear his desperate plea to God. Or the mother who thanked us because she hadn't been able to get to church in a strange town and just needed to hear worship music. Or the little girl who wanted a copy of the music.
But puppets are not just for children. They are, however, for the child at heart. Our most enthusiastic adult crowds have been at the Richmond State School, Brookwood and The Center. Singing along to the music, dancing even when wheelchair bound, clapping and hooting to the moves of the puppets, our audiences of those physically and mentally challenged remind us life is an "all out" affair and how much more so for those of us without physical or mental limitations.
Puppets can teach, inspire and for a brief moment, touch the child in all of us - the child of wonder, the child of innocence, the child of unconditional love - that is what it is about.
Every show brings a memory of something noteworthy. Usually it is someone in the unseen audience that the puppeteer can hear that causes an arm to be a little straighter and a performance to be just a little better. Like the time we performed at the Ronald McDonald House in Houston, Texas for patients undergoing cancer treatment at M. D. Anderson. There sat a dad next to his little baldheaded daughter singing at the top of his voice along with the puppets to "I Believe". Then I am grateful for the curtain between us so he can't see the tears pouring down my face as I hear his desperate plea to God. Or the mother who thanked us because she hadn't been able to get to church in a strange town and just needed to hear worship music. Or the little girl who wanted a copy of the music.
But puppets are not just for children. They are, however, for the child at heart. Our most enthusiastic adult crowds have been at the Richmond State School, Brookwood and The Center. Singing along to the music, dancing even when wheelchair bound, clapping and hooting to the moves of the puppets, our audiences of those physically and mentally challenged remind us life is an "all out" affair and how much more so for those of us without physical or mental limitations.
Puppets can teach, inspire and for a brief moment, touch the child in all of us - the child of wonder, the child of innocence, the child of unconditional love - that is what it is about.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)