Personal Walk with God

A Cold Pot

A hurry-up Sunday dinner was underway: spaghetti sauce was bubbling, salad was tossed into bowls, the oven was preheating for crusty bread, and the water for pasta was ‘well, it was supposed to be boiling. It was certainly taking its own sweet time, I grumbled as I peeked under the lid. I sliced and buttered the bread and checked again. Still no bubbles; nothing was happening. ‘Boil, pot!’ I ordered. I waited a few more minutes and checked again. Not even a simmer. Maybe, I thought, that front burner has finally died. But the problem wasn’t with the stove. In my rush, I had never turned on the heat. Poor pot. Without a flame, she couldn’t work up a boil, no matter how hard she tried.

Neither can I. That morning I had sat in my Sunday pew like a pot on a cold stove. My fire had gone out, and my joy had left with it. Rather than being ‘fervent in spirit, serving the Lord,’ I was listless and apathetic, going through the motions of ministry. I held myself aloof from people who needed warmth because I knew I had none to give. I dragged myself stiffly through the duties of the morning, wondering miserably what had blown out my flame.

Staring at my cold pasta pot, I understood what had happened to me. I had been trying to generate fervent, passionate service all by myself. In the morning rush, I had not taken time to plug into the power of the Holy Spirit’my only source of spiritual energy. Without a steady connection to Him, I was doomed to laboring through ministry chores with a cold heart. The Holy Spirit had not left me. He was as close as my Bible. As soon as I could, I opened it, and He pointed me to truths that defrosted my spirit. I unbolted the doors of my cold heart, and He cleansed and warmed the chilly rooms my sin had closed off to Him.

I lit the burner, and the pasta pot was soon bubbling cheerfully. And once the Holy Spirit had re-ignited my spirit, I was no longer only a stiff shell of a servant. He thawed my heart and proved this promise true: ‘And God is able to make all grace abound toward you; that ye, always having all sufficiency in all things, may abound [boil over] to every good work’ (II Corinthians 9:8).

Abba

Do your family members have special nicknames for each other? We do. They’re as a sort of verbal shorthand for communicating love, instant reminders of our ties. They keep us connected when we are apart. They sound the sweetest to us when we hurt, for they convey a tenderness that soothes aches, heals wounds, and calms fears. They are hugs spoken out loud.

We aren’t eager to tell strangers our nicknames. You might tell us they sound silly (and you’d be right). If you join our family, you can use them. You’ll even get one of your own. But until then–sorry, but these names are private. Family names are reserved for family.

That’s what makes this verse so amazing: ‘Ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father’ (Romans 8:15). Believers are encouraged to call on God using the intimate term ‘Abba,’ a family name used by young Jewish children, the name Jesus used when He prayed to His Father in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Picture Him in the garden. Sweat mingled with great drops of blood as He prayed alone. Behind Him was betrayal; before Him was the cross. Shuddering at the terrible trial He was facing, ‘sorrowful and very heavy,’ He poured out His heart to His Abba-Father. Then, in surrender to the Father’s will, He rose and headed for the cross.

Because He died on that cross, you can join God’s family. And then, as His child, you receive the family privilege of calling on Him as your Abba-Father, Who cares about every doubt, every fear, every hurt of His child. You don’t have to cower as a slave or approach Him timidly as a stranger but can come boldly, with confidence in His affection for you. When you are filled with distress, in your own place of private pain, you, like Christ, can call out confidently to your Abba-Father.

Why should the God of the universe care that much about you? I can’t explain His love, but I can assure you that it is yours to enjoy. You could not earn a place in His family, and you don’t deserve your family privileges. But they are unquestionably yours. How glorious it is to have them, and how sweet to use them!

Are ministry burdens weighing heavy this morning? Do you need your Abba-Father? He is eager to hear you call out His name. After all, you are a cherished member of His family. Use, and enjoy, your family privileges!

Attics

I have a goal for the new year: to clean out my attic. I made this resolution while helping my parents move from the house they have enjoyed for many years, crawling around in dusty corners, bumping my head on rafters, peering into long-forgotten boxes, and thinking about attics.

If you’re like most people, your attic holds mementos of happy days and souvenirs of special events’and a plethora of junk. Anything you’re not yet ready to toss goes up the ladder–out of sight, out of mind, until the attic is so crammed that you have to face reality: you’ve accumulated a pile of useless stuff, and you’ve got to get rid of it. As you clean and sort, you’ll be astonished at what you find. Why did I keep that? What made me think this was important? Why didn’t I toss that a long time ago?

I don’t have an ordinary attic. I live in an RV, and since RV’s don’t have attics, I can’t hang on to much junk. But I’m resolved to do some attic clean-up of a much more personal nature–ridding the crannies and cubbyholes of my mind of clutter and debris. My brain holds many precious memories of cherished friends, lessons learned, and answered prayers. I’m keeping those treasures. But lots of garbage is up there, too, and it’s time to get rid of it.

Junky fears left over from a painful experience have caused me to dread the future (it could happen again!). The rubbish of a bad first impression has made my spirit dark toward another believer. The garbage of injustice has left me with lingering bitterness. The litter of gossip has made me suspicious. A thoughtless comment has caused resentment which I have hoarded, though it’s just trash that should have been discarded long ago. I wonder, as I look honestly at this mental garbage: why did I think this was worth keeping? Why did I cling to it?

I’ve clung to it, of course, as a fleshly response to difficulties my sovereign Lord allowed. I’ve tolerated it in disobedience to the command of I Peter 1:13 to “gird up the loins of [my] mind.”
But I’m determined to hoard trash no longer. By His grace, any thoughts that are not “true, honest, just, pure, lovely . . .” are going straight to the dump where they belong. To store them anywhere else would displease the God Who “searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts” (I Chronicles 28:9).

I’m delighted that cleaning up my mind won’t involve moving any more cardboard boxes! I’ll be bending my knees, not my back, in a sincere prayer of confession and repentance, and His blood will cleanse my unrighteousness.

Up in my parents’ attic I uncovered the chronicles of their long, fruitful ministry and mementos of the growing-up of their three daughters (including the flawed middle one). Nothing shameful or dishonorable was stored up in their attic. Maybe this year you and I can keep the rubbish out of ours, too.

Erasing

My computer is my comrade and servant. I appreciate everything it does for me, but two of its little keys, I adore! To understand why, you had to have learned to type the way I did, on a manual typewriter in a 1960s high school business-typing class.

Typing was easy, but typing flawlessly was impossible. Since we were expected to turn in papers with no visible corrections, erasing was a skill I learned early and used often. My stiff rubber eraser was a flat disk with a brush attached to sweep away eraser crumbs and paper dust. I would type and re-type, type and re-type, erase and erase and erase until there were holes both in my paper and in my good humor.

Those clackety, cumbersome machines lacked the two miraculous keys found on my laptop: ‘backspace’ and ‘delete.’ They did have a key labeled ‘backspace,’ but all it did was laboriously reverse the carriage, one space at a time. Finding and fixing mistakes was up to me and my awkward eraser. And as for ‘delete’–that was only a typist’s fantasy.

When typing paper was invented that needed only a simple pencil eraser, it seemed like a gift right from heaven. Soon correction fluid, correction tape, and (amazing!) self-correcting electric typewriters came along to save both my time and my sanctification. But none of those innovations can compare to my beloved ‘backspace’ and ‘delete.’ My kind computer silently, discreetly underlines a misspelled word. I press the backspace key and my goof is gone! Longer passages yield just as quickly to the delete key.

I’m considering having those two keys installed on my forehead. Then at the end of every day, I can backspace to my poor decisions, hasty words and wasted opportunities and try again. I can backspace even further to the most dismal moments of my past, and discover how God’s providence was even then working all things together for my good.

And a mental delete key would be even more useful. I could erase discouragements and record instead, in bold italics, His blessings. I could expunge memories of self-inflicted failures but save those of faith-empowered successes. When the devil reminds me of confessed and forsaken sins, I could just press ‘delete’ and do instantly as God does: remember them no more. After all, those sins have been eternally erased’without even any eraser crumbs or paper dust left behind as evidence.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad way to learn typing after all. I didn’t learn only keyboard skills; I learned patience through tribulation! And now I can really appreciate the marvels of computerized word-processing. I will never take for granted the wonders of ‘backspace’ and ‘delete’–on the keyboard or in my walk with God.

Home

The emergency room was crowded and my wait had been long. Finally I was called to the desk to answer a string of questions before I could see a doctor. As we moved down the list, the young man helping me began to look more and more bewildered.

Then he stopped staring at his computer screen to look directly at me, and said, ‘Mrs. Barba, you have an Indiana address, a South Carolina phone number, a Tennessee driver’s license, and you’re at a North Carolina hospital.’ And he just stared at me–expecting some sort of rational explanation, I knew. But any explanation would have been terribly complicated, and I was feeling awfully sick, so I just responded, ‘Does that seem strange to you? It does to me, too.’ And I left it at that.

I’ve had similar experiences when meeting strangers who have politely and innocently asked, ‘Where are you from?’ It’s a simple question, but the answer requires a paragraph and more details than they want to hear, for every few months, my husband and I move our RV to a city where a new church is being planted, making that town our temporary home. Many cities are familiar to me, but I belong to none of them. Do I live everywhere or nowhere? Am I always at home or never at home? After thinking it through, I have arrived at a comforting conclusion: I am always at home, for home isn’t a place at all. It’s a Person!

Home is a place to live . . . I dwell in Him (Psalm 90:1).
Home is where families gather . . . He is my Father and I am His child (I John 3:2).
Home is safety . . . He is my refuge (Psalm 91:9).
Home is tranquility . . . He is my peace (Ephesians 2:14).
Home is belonging . . . I am accepted in the beloved (Ephesians 1:6).
Home is security . . . I am a sheep of His pasture (Psalm 100:3).

Maybe you’ve been called by the Lord to serve Him in a familiar, hometown setting. More often, He leads His servants away from the comfortable and customary to a place where the scenery is strange, the accents alien, and the customs peculiar. If that’s your assignment, do you ever yearn for home? Take heart’home is closer than you think!

From here to there, and then from there to here
The people of this planet circling roam,
And I, as well’but oh, one truth is clear:
I live in God, and God himself is Home.

From hither and from thither comes the call,
Perhaps to places near, perhaps abroad,
But anywhere I am, and through it all
My heart’s at home, for Home is Sovereign God.
–Anne Ortlund

Impossible Prayers

If God had a dictionary, the word ‘impossible’ would not be in it. It’s in mine, though. I have goals I can’t reach, circumstances I can’t improve, and people I can’t change (including myself). So I pray, knowing that ‘with God nothing shall be impossible.’ That’s what the angel Gabriel told Mary: the impossible was about to happen. She was a virgin, but she was going to have a baby, and the baby would be God. This fully human young woman saw God do what only God can do’the impossible!

Have you been asking God to do something that’s impossible? Maybe a family member is far away’physically, emotionally, or spiritually’and you ache for a homecoming. Discord is damaging your ministry. Gossip and slander are causing you anguish. Your work for the Lord has produced exhaustion but little fruit, and you are discouraged. You are struggling with disease or pain. You pray continually for deliverance, for just for relief, but it seems that nothing is happening. Remember Gabriel’s message–God can do the impossible!

God can do the impossible by His grace. The angel said, ‘Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor with God’ (Luke 1:30). ‘Favor’ is the same Bible word as ‘grace.’ She was worthy, but that’s not why she was blessed. God gave her an unmerited gift because of Who He is, not because of who she was. You can ask for the impossible to be done by His grace, not because you deserve it. Don’t insist, threaten, or bargain, but do go ‘boldly to the throne of grace’ when you need God to do the impossible.

God can do the impossible by the work of the Holy Spirit. The impossible came to Mary by the Spirit’s power (Luke 1:35). And the Holy Spirit can accomplish the impossible for you, too! ‘The Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered’ (Romans 8:26). Right now, as you read this, the Spirit is interceding with the Father for you. No words are needed between them because they have the same goal in mind’God’s very best for you, and for the ministry and people you love. Present needy people and painful circumstances to the Holy Spirit and ask Him to intercede for the impossible.

God can do the impossible when you submit to His will. Mary bowed as ‘the handmaid of the Lord,’ a willing bondslave who welcomed whatever God would send. What came was painful. A sword pierced her soul. But because she submitted, God did the impossible’He saved you! When you want His will more than you want your own, God can do the impossible for you, too.

God can do the impossible when you believe. ‘Blessed is she that believed,’ Elisabeth said of Mary, ‘for there shall be a performance of those things which were told her from the Lord.’ Faith is the solid conviction that God will do the impossible–as certain as if He had already done it. Right now, you may not have even a mustard seed’s worth of faith. But remember that faith itself is a gift of God, not ‘worked up’ by you. Instead of bemoaning your feeble faith or abandoning prayer, ask Him for faith. And don’t forget that God, as He proved with Elisabeth’s husband Zacharias (Luke 1:20), can accomplish the impossible even if you don’t believe!

What is your ‘impossible’ prayer? Don’t have one right now? Just wait a while. You will. And that’s when you’ll need Him to work’the God of the impossible!

Kitchen Cleanup

I’m not sure why I was sitting on the kitchen floor that Monday morning. I think it had something to do with Max. But there I sat, nose to nose with my very short dog, looking around, appalled at what I saw. Morsels of dried up food in dark recesses. Splatters of milk and grease on cabinet doors. Splotches of I’m-not-sure-what on the floor by the stove. Dead flies. And that greasy grunge along the edge of the refrigerator–yuck.

Yesterday when company was here for Sunday dinner, I was sure this kitchen was clean. It had certainly looked clean when my eyes were up at eye level where they usually are. I remembered my pride in its shininess. This pastor’s wife could manage it all, I had thought. Even on Sunday, she glides easily through her duties, both public and domestic. How smug I was. And how fortunate that yesterday’s guests were too dignified to inspect my kitchen’s grubby crannies–or maybe they did notice but were too polite to mention it. This kitchen wasn’t clean at all. It was sparkling on the surface but grimy underneath.

I was tempted to ignore the covert dirt. If nobody else knew about it, I could just pretend I didn’t either! But my housewifely conscience soon conquered my laziness, and I pulled on plastic gloves, grabbed a rag and a strong cleanser, and attacked. It wasn’t a quick or pleasant job, but it was satisfying. Soon the kitchen was genuinely clean, the hidden crud banished. No one else noticed, but that didn’t matter. Max and I knew, and that was enough.

Memories of that morning came to me recently as I studied Psalm 51’King David’s psalm of private repentance. ‘Wash me completely, thoroughly, fully,’ he begged the Lord. ‘Eradicate my sin. Cleanse me with hyssop, like a leper is cleansed. Purify my inward, hidden parts. Make my heart as white as snow.’ David was not satisfied with outward show. He wanted absolute purity. It was not enough for him to look kingly; he longed for inward righteousness. Nowhere in his prayer-song did he ask God to restore his reputation or the respect of his court. He just wanted to be right with God.

As I read, I wondered: do I care more about what church friends think of me than about what God knows me to be? Do I sit smugly, self-righteously, in my queenly pastor’s-wife-pew week after week, hoping that all those wicked sinners listening to my husband’s sermon will get right with God? Why I am so seldom found kneeling in repentance during the invitation? (What would people think?). Am I complacent about my sin as long as I believe nobody else knows? Am I only superficially righteous? Those questions sent me to my knees, where the Lord peered into the grubby crannies of my heart and showed me the grime of secret sin. Once I saw it, there was no place for lazy apathy. I asked for the immediate application of Christ’s cleansing blood, and He forgave!

The problem with cleaning the kitchen is that it gets dirty again in a hurry, and it’s already time for another on-the-kitchen-floor dirt hunt. Come help me, and then we’ll have dinner. But as for my heart, that’s a private, daily cleaning project that keeps me on my knees. You may not ever notice, but God and I know, and that’s enough.

Loneliness

The ‘saints of old”were they ever lonely?

Obediently hammering and sawing away for 128 years while almost everyone on earth thought he was a lunatic, did Noah feel lonely?

When Abraham left home and family for the unknown just because God told him to, did he suffer pangs of loneliness? Leaving his servants behind, trudging knife in hand toward the mount to sacrifice his son and heir–did he feel alone?

Or Hagar, weeping bitterly in the wilderness of Beersheba as her child lay dying under a shrub–did she think she too would die alone in that wasteland?

And consider Moses’ isolation on the backside of the desert. He knew his exile was due to his own failure but not that the number of those lonely years would end at 40. Did he believe himself permanently separated from his own people?

Job knew not only the loneliness of sorrow and disease, but also the painful distance from God that comes from complete bewilderment at His working. Harassed by his wife, mocked by his enemies, blamed by his friends, Job suffered alone.

Running from furious Queen Jezebel, cowering under a juniper tree in exhaustion and depression, Elijah conveyed desperate loneliness when he moaned, ‘I, even I only, remain.’

Was Daniel lonely in the lion’s den? Jeremiah, in the muddy pit? Paul, three years in Arabia? And how about our Savior? Jesus endured the loneliest hours of history while hanging on the cross, abandoned by His friends and forsaken by His Father.

You’re probably lonely. Loneliness follows a ministry wife through church doors and onto the mission field. In the grocery store and in the pew, she senses the apartness that comes with spiritual leadership. Loneliness is common to her calling. But since God created her to crave and enjoy companionship, how can she endure loneliness? She can seek God! A woman who seeks Him hungrily will be satisfied, for He will come to fulfill all her longings. She who seeks Him silently will hear His voice; she who seeks Him early will find her thirst for companionship quenched by the sweet water of His presence.

To lonely saints in scripture, He came! He came with a validating flood and a covenant promise. He brought along a lamb and a well of water. He spoke from a burning bush and a whirlwind. He delivered food and drink, reassurance and resurrection. At the moments of their greatest loneliness, He came as Deliverer, Promise-keeper and Friend, showing Himself true and proving Himself enough.

And this God is your God. If He is allowing you to be lonely right now, maybe it’s because He craves your company. Seek Him, and soon your heart will be singing, ‘Whom have I in heaven but thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire beside thee. My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever’ (Psalm 73:25-26).

Old Dry Stick

She’s the perfect ministry wife: bursting with love, constantly sacrificing her desires, time and energy for others, filled with joy, her mind in a state of ceaseless delight and perfect peace. Her patience has no limit. She’s unfailingly kind and compassionate, even to the most irritating people, and has impeccable manners. She never forgets an obligation or neglects a task. Her emotions (and her tongue and appetite) are under control. But she doesn’t know how fine a person she is. She’d be genuinely surprised to hear herself called ‘humble.’

I’d like to be her. But I’m not. I try to love people, and most of the time, I do. But people can be demanding, and I crave time to do as I please. And as for ‘ceaseless delight and perfect peace”well, occasional calmness and intermittent tranquility more accurately describe my state of mind. I’m not often deliberately rude, but I do sometimes forget my manners and show impatience with infuriating people. I also forget duties (only important ones, of course). My self-discipline regularly fails when confronted by chocolate, gossip, or any opportunity to feel sorry for myself. And I enjoy praise, especially for my humility.

Wretched me. No matter how much I long to be a bearer of sweet fruit, too often I’m just a dry stick instead. A dry stick is a branch that has stopped hanging on. With no connection to the vine, it withers, and ‘cannot bear fruit of itself.’ But when a branch hangs on to the vine, amazing things happen. Fruit appears at unexpected moments. When the branch would normally be irritated, she is loving instead. Joy arrives when she expects to feel grumpy and peace when she expects anxiety. Patience, gentleness, goodness, faithfulness, meekness, self-control’all the lovely fruit of the Spirit ripen at just the right moment. Nobody is more surprised than the branch, but everyone is blessed.

There is no way I can produce any sweet fruit by myself, but if all I have to do is hang on to the vine, I can manage that. I can stick my nose in the Book every morning and stay there a while. I can pray without ceasing. I can meditate on God rather than pondering my problems. I may never become the perfect ministry wife, but that’s okay. I know I’ll be more pleasant to live with and more pleasing to the Vinedresser as a fruitful branch than as an old dry stick.

Safety Latches

Preparing our fifth-wheel home for travel is like getting ready for an earthquake. We roll up, take down, fold flat, or otherwise secure anything that can wiggle, jiggle, or crash. My final pre-travel checkpoint is at the refrigerator door, where I listen for the satisfying click that tells me the door is shut tight. Then I do it again. And again. I’m obsessive about this, because I do not want a repeat of the Great Refrigerator Disaster.

The Disaster happened years ago during a western trip in a trailer that had a removable safety latch which had to be put onto the refrigerator door before every move. We left central California early on a beautiful morning, wound through the mountains a while, and stopped for a break. Before going into the ‘Casa de Coffee’ with the rest of the family, I quickly checked inside the trailer’and discovered that I had forgotten to set the safety latch.

The door had opened on a curve, and the refrigerator had hurled its contents onto the carpet. Heaped in a bizarre and colorful mound were spaghetti sauce, a dozen slimy eggs, an entire gallon of milk, a quart of maple syrup, and numerous other less-recognizable, formerly-edible substances.

I cried, laughed, and cried again. I shoveled, scraped, scrubbed, and tossed out the mess. But that was not the end of it. Milk soon soured in the carpet and reeked for weeks. The spaghetti stain survived a barrage of carpet cleaners. Sticky egg and gooey syrup left the carpet permanently stiff.

That safety latch was just an unimportant-looking two-inch piece of black plastic, and neglecting to set it was just a tiny bit of forgetfulness. But that mistake caused me hours of work, sour smells, stains, and frustration. I never was able to completely eradicate the reminders of my blunder. I reaped much more than I sowed.

The sowing of one small sin can bring any ministry wife a large, unwelcome harvest. One lie, one bit of gossip or lost temper, one impure act, one neglected duty, or one root of bitterness can lead to personal heartache and ministry difficulty. She may never be able to erase its scars or ease its effects. She can be fully forgiven, but she may not ever fully recover.

Sounds discouraging! But the Lord is her Helper, ‘touched with the feeling of (her) infirmities . . . in all points tempted like as (she is), yet without sin.’ She can ‘come boldly unto the throne of grace, that (she) may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need’ (Hebrews 4:15-16). When she asks Him to, the Lord will set His supernatural safety latches on her mouth, mind, and heart. She can almost hear the reassuring ‘click’ as He gives her power to resist temptation.

‘Set a watch, O LORD, before my mouth; keep the door of my lips. Incline not my heart to any evil thing . . .’ (Psalm 141:3-4).

‘O keep my soul, and deliver me: let me not be ashamed; for I put my trust in thee.
Let integrity and uprightness preserve me; for I wait on thee’ (Psalm 25:21).

We will all sin, and we will all have regrets. But the Lord’s safety latches can prevent most disasters. We just have to remember to use them.

The Roosters

We once parked our fifth-wheel trailer next to some odd neighbors: The Roosters. There were eighteen of them living in individual wire cages, with not a hen in sight. They were beautiful birds, with elaborate combs and tails, colorful and proud. They were also talented; they could sing!

I am a city girl. I had the notion that each farm had one red rooster who flapped to the top rail of a white fence at sunrise and gave one polite crow to notify the farmer that it was time to rise and shine. I don’t know what I thought the rooster did next. Went back to bed for a while, I suppose.

The Roosters did no such thing. They crowed in the dark, in the light, in the rain. They sang duets, trios, and quartets. They competed to see who had the loudest and longest crow. For a day or two we slept with pillows over our ears and contemplated rooster stew. But then something changed. Gradually, we got used to the noise. Occasionally we would notice an especially shrill crow, but soon we were able to ignore the racket enough to sleep through the night, and in general were no longer disturbed by it.

People are adaptable. Whatever we hear continuously begins to sound normal. Hearing a lie often enough may be all it takes to convince us that it is true. Seeing the wrong for a long enough time, we begin to believe it is actually right. After enough exposure, even evil begins to look like good.

Roosters are crowing loudly these days, and ears are growing numb. We whose assignment it is to proclaim truth need to stay as far away from deceit as possible, as close to His truth as we can be, and to speak it loudly enough to be heard above The Roosters.

I didn’t have a choice about living next door to those annoying birds, so I got used to them. But you and I do have a choice about living too close to sin. May we never get used to it. May our moral senses never go numb.

Fish Fry

Our friends had invited us to what they called a ‘Friday night fish fry,’ so I dressed the way any good Southern girl would dress for catfish, hushpuppies, and sweet tea. But we weren’t in the South anymore. When we arrived at the address we had been given and were offered valet parking for our Volkswagen bug, I knew I was in trouble.

Fish fry? It was a gourmet seafood buffet in an elegant setting–china, crystal, string quartet, and all–and everyone but me had known to dress up. Way up. Our friends quickly forgave my fashion faux pas. At least they seemed to get over it much faster than I did, and it did give us all something to laugh about. But a very young pastor’s wife living in a new city wants to do everything just right, and I still wince when I remember being so badly dressed.

After that, I learned to ask more questions and so far have managed not to repeat that exact mistake. But more often than I’d like to admit, I’ve been a poorly-dressed ministry wife, clothed in garments entirely unsuitable to my calling.

That’s not the Lord’s fault. The day He took me as His own, I gave Him my filthy rags and put on Christ instead. Since He’s faultless, I ought to be always perfectly turned out. But sometimes, without planning to, I slip back into my wretched, stinky rags. Temper, resentment, envy, fear, egotism, and deceit slink out of some secret closet in my heart and slither onto me before I even notice. Yikes, those clothes are ugly–and sometimes I even wear them to church! Others may not notice (hypocrisy’s a handy cloak), but I know without doubt that I’m badly dressed, and that it’s certainly nothing to laugh about. The Lord’s not impressed with my ensemble, either. It’s not just unsuitable; it’s hideous. And prickly and uncomfortable besides.

I can’t wait to change, and I don’t have to. Even in the middle of the church lobby, I can turn to my Savior and by His grace swap those ill-fitting works of darkness for the armor of light. Suddenly I’m dressed just right’in the tender mercy, kindness, humility, meekness, and longsuffering that are always in style for a ministry wife, entirely appropriate for every occasion.

What did you wear to church yesterday? If the answer makes you cringe, don’t despair. The Giver of all good gifts will gladly provide perfect garments. Whether it’s to church or to a ‘fish fry,’ you and I can always be dressed just exactly right.

(Isaiah 64:6, Galatians 3:26-2, Romans 13:12, Colossians 8:12)

Humble Cemetery

I was driving down the valley when I passed a wooden sign standing in the grass by the road: HUMBLE CEMETERY. I drove on but my mind wandered back. I wondered: what is a humble cemetery? A meek little place set way back in a hollow–rarely mowed and seldom visited? Or maybe a humble cemetery is one that requires people to prove their meekness before they’re allowed to buy a plot. But how would they go about doing that? Would a genuinely humble woman be willing to offer a tribute to her own humility? In a humble cemetery, do the most ordinary people get the grandest headstones? Or wouldn’t that be sort of counter-intuitive?

I wanted answers, so I made a quick u-turn. I followed the sign and my curiosity down a narrow lane that led straight through a cornfield and wound along the base of a steep hill. Soon I came to a white wooden fence, and there it was’the Humble Cemetery’not plain at all, but a lovely place, lush with the green of a mountain summer, glowing in the late afternoon sun. I wandered under tall oaks until I found the Humbles: Addie, Claude, and Clinton. Fred, Hollis, Loy, Margaret, and Milla Humble. Oley, Robert, and Ruby Humble. I read their epitaphs and wondered: were they humble in more than name?

And I began to long for a humble cemetery of my own. Not that I’m ready to lay my whole self to rest. I love being alive! But I would very much like a place to’once and for all–lay to rest my wretched pride. In a shady corner of my cemetery I’d bury my smugness, self-righteousness, and vanity. Nearby I’d dig a deep hole for my sensitivities, my love of praise and dislike of correction, and the self-focus that triggers shyness, resentment, and envy. Finally I’d bury every thought that begins with ‘I deserve.’

Come with me! Bring along your own vanities and we’ll work together. When we get back home, we’ll find that the ministry has become pure delight, for all the irritating ego-prickers that come from working with people will have lost their sting. We will become famous for our humility!
If only it were that easy. The problem is that no matter how often pride is buried, it resurrects itself and reappears in the most unexpected ways and unfortunate moments. It’s the original sin, so it’s had a lot of practice. We’d have to return to rebury our conceit so often that we wouldn’t have time to do anything else.

So if you ever see me driving through that cornfield down the valley, you’ll know where I’m going, and why. Call me back. Remind me that humility can’t be found on one quick trip. It’s at the end of a long road of dying daily for the sake of the One Who humbled Himself and made Himself of no reputation. As we travel down that road, we’re gradually emptied of self and filled with Him. That’s the way it works–and that’s the only way to get to the Humble Cemetery.
Copyright 2012 – Press On! Ministries

The Dump

At our Tennessee house, we don’t have garbage pickup, so instead of one of those big plastic trash bins with wheels, we have a designated corner in the garage where stinky bags of garbage can sit quietly waiting for a lift into town. After a week or so, the eau-de-rubbish wafting from the corner reminds me to load the bags into the trunk of the car and head for the city dump.

The dump has a more sophisticated name, of course. Sanitary disposal site? Eco-friendly recycling center? Refuse refuge? I really can’t remember. Only the town-councilpersons ever use its proper name. The rest of us just call it the dump. I think it actually deserves whatever fine name it was christened with, because it’s one of the nicest dumps I’ve ever had the privilege of visiting. It’s impressive in a small town sort of way–mostly clean, with an oddly sweet smell. There are neatly-labeled bins for anything anybody would ever feel like dumping. It’s arty, too, with colorful towers of cubed, compressed soda bottles hovering over long squiggly rows of dead kitchen appliances. The combination of sculpture garden, dumpish Stonehenge, and cultural comment is fascinating.

But my favorite place at the dump is the general-household-garbage compactor. Sometimes a friendly helper hurries over with a cheerful, ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ (valet service at the dump!), but I really like to do it by myself. I pop the car trunk and with a few mighty swings toss the stinky bags up, over, and into the giant green monster machine. Whoosh, thump, and my garbage is gone, never to be seen again. I’m not sure what happens to it next. I can’t imagine who would want it. But I do know that I love the moment when I drive away with no trash in my trunk and no stink in my nose. Freedom. What a relief!

That’s how I felt at the end of one very dark night. The night followed a day filled with bad news that I had reacted to with every negative emotion ever invented. I tossed and turned in bed for a while and then moved to the couch to wallow in–okay, I admit it–self-pity. I could give you nice words for what I was feeling (‘justifiable concern’ comes to mind) but that’s rubbish. No matter what happens, a beloved child of the Sovereign of the universe has no reason to ever allow such faithless fear, anxiety, bitterness, and self-protective anger to rot in any corner of her heart.

I held a long counseling session with myself’the kind I’ve often held with other women. After a painfully honest conversation, I admitted how wrong I was. I turned from my sin toward the Savior, and the One Who is ‘good, and ready to forgive, and abundant in mercy’ (Psalm 86:5) took the garbage out of my heart. Suddenly it was gone, never to be seen again. I know where it went, by the way’to the cross to be covered by His blood (1 John 1:7), as far away as the east is from the west (Psalm 103:12), down into the depths of the sea (Micah 7:19). With a clean and peaceful heart, I went back to bed and to sleep. Freedom. What a relief!

Sometimes when the trash bags are not terribly stinky, I have been known to load them up, do all the other errands in town, and totally forget to drop them at the dump. When I get home and put the bags back in the corner of the garage, I don’t feel one bit smart. But I’m determined that I will never, never again let any of those grubby sins back into my heart. Even I am smarter than that. At least I hope I am. I fervently hope I am.

But just in case, whenever you notice I need it, feel free to remind me to visit the dump. I’ll do the same for you. Hey–maybe we’ll meet there someday!

Coming Home

She looked like she was only about 8, but that’s plenty old enough to use an IPad to talk to a dad who’s been deployed to the other side of the globe. Feet tucked under as she sat on the couch, she squinted through the screen at his fuzzy image, bit her lip and asked, ‘Daddy, where are you?’

I couldn’t hear the answer, but she echoed his last few words, ‘You’re . . . you’re . . . in the . . . GARAGE?’ Her eyes opened wide as her daddy stepped into the living room, still in combat fatigues, phone still at his ear. One flying leap and she was in his arms, weeping and hugging as though she would never let go. Daddy was home!

And I was in tears. I wasn’t there in person, nor do I know that daddy and daughter. I was just watching a family’s cell phone video of a surprise homecoming being broadcast on the news. I can’t even fully relate to the scene since my daddy never went off to war.

But I have felt like that little girl on the couch, talking to Someone I love through a blurry screen. Though prayer is one of the most precious privileges God gives His children, communicating with Him can seem as awkward and difficult as though He were not as near as breath, but on the other side of the universe instead. At its best, prayer is still ‘through a glass darkly.’ And when His voice is muffled by self-imposed distance or the cloud of circumstances, I have even been known to ask, ‘Abba, Father, where are You?’

Oh, how often I have longed to talk to Him unhindered by the static of the world or the frailty of my flesh, with no barriers of time or space or doubt, face to face, knowing as I am known.

That day will come. Maybe this morning He will come through the clouds and you and I will see Him at the same moment! Or maybe He will call my name and take me home. Either one would be much more a blissful moment than that little girl’s daddy walking into the room. Better than any Christmas surprise could ever be.

The Lord, of course, won’t be the one coming home from war’that will be me. The battle will be over, wounds healed, and enemy banished. I will have fought my fight, finished my race, and kept my faith. His voice will be clear in my ears and His providence plain to my eyes. I will be at home with my Abba-Father. No strenuous climb of good behavior will have gotten me there, but just one simple step of faith in the blood that was shed for me.

That sweet hope keeps me pressing on. There’s a great day coming, and even though I have no idea when it will be, He does! He has it marked on His calendar for my life, and He is looking forward to it as much as I am. This day is His gift to me, a day to serve Him with all my heart, right here where I am. But that one is going to be the best day ever–the day my Abba-Father gathers me close, never to let me go.

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