Category: Cling to the Vine

Creme in Your Coffee?

Last week, someone whose name  I won’t mention, surprised me by cooking dinner. I came home to the delicious smell and rich taste of steaming Potatoes Gratin. I paid my compliments to the chef by licking my plate, not knowing I’d want to hit him with a rolling pin the next day.

I’m not a violent person, but I’m not a morning person either. I need my coffee first thing, and I drink decaf. Go figure.

Saturday morning I made my usual French Pressed coffee: grind two scoops of whole coffee beans, pour two cups of boiling water over them, and steep for three minutes. Then I pour the coffee into my Drama Mama mug and add three tablespoons of Half and Half.

I repeat: add three tablespoons of Half and Half.

Like Sherlock Holmes in search of a dairy product, I looked behind every container in my refrigerator. I plowed my way through soggy, limp lettuce leaves in the vegetable bin.

My personality went from being like Smeagol to Gollum in Lord of the Rings. Instead of a ring, I wanted my precious Half and Half.

Desperate, I added 2% milk into my cup, took two sips of bland, lukewarm coffee, and dumped it down the sink. When the chef whose name I won’t mention woke up, I asked, “Did you use Half and Half in the Potatoes?”

“Yes. Did you need it for your coffee?”

“YES!” I hissed like Gollum.

“Sorry about that.”

I counted to ten and a half and half, and went away to have my quiet time with the Lord. Coffee or no coffee, it’s difficult to read God’s Living Word and not be convicted. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control…” (Gal. 5:22,23)

My fruit was lacking. But even in this, the Lord used my Half and Half to show how quickly I fall off my holy high horse when I don’t get what I want when I want it. Rather than cry over spilled milk, I confessed and…

Went to the store where I bought a gallon of Half and Half to share with the chef whose name I won’t mention. Only now, he’s afraid to touch my Half and Half. And I think it’s beginning to curdle.

“Why do you worry?”

Everyone in the house is sleeping. But me. Audio tapes of previous conversations and questions about tomorrow play in my head. The cooing of a White-winged Dove outside my bedroom window draws me out of bed.

I venture outside to sit alone on my folk’s back patio; alone with my thoughts. But the whistle of a train passing through this small town interrupts my silence.

In a brown oak rocking chair, I watch the day unfold like a stage play. White-winged doves fly from one mesquite tree to another; resting on the branches, eating cracked corn from pet bowls sitting on the picnic table. Overhead, a  T-38 jet from the neighboring Air Force base zooms by, drowning out the chorus of Grackles and Finches.

A cornfield separates me from the rural highway where people in cars speed by. They rush to jobs, run errands, hurry to medical appointments. But time doesn’t rule me today. I can read scripture and pray before the household wakes up.

Tradition brings me to the Lone Star state each year. Four generations gathered round the dining room table on Easter weekend. Thankful for God’s provision, and His Son who died on the cross and rose again. Thankful for family despite the drama.

Now it’s a weekday morning. The others have gone, and my family is staying a few more days. But who’s counting? Unless it’s true that ‘company and fish stink after three days.’ In which case, it explains why my folks have been sniffling.

I randomly open my Bible to Matthew 6:26, 27. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single day to your life?”

A yellow Aspen leaf is pressed between the pages. I’ve been here before; the words in verse 28 are underlined: “why do you worry.”

“Why do you worry?” Take action. Pray for that person’s employment, that person’s health, that person’s relationship with Christ, and with others.

“Why do you worry?” Spoken by Jesus knowing the excruciating death that awaited Him. Knowing all but one of His disciples would be martyred. Knowing believers would be scattered and persecuted.

God, the Alpha and Omega, knows my past regrets, present concerns, my future.  And still He says, “Why do you worry?”

I can rock frantically back and forth, getting no where. Absorb the drama, stand on my soap box, worry about tomorrow.

Or I can sit still in His presence. Rest on His Word and obey, “Do not worry… but seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness….” (verses 31-33)

The choice is mine…

Even in this.

God’s Grace is Enough

It’s Communion Sunday. A time of repentance, remembrance, rejoicing.

Repentance ~ Silver plate passes in front of me. I take the bread, symbol of Christ’s broken body. Next comes the fruit of the vine, poured in thimble-sized, plastic cups.

Lord, I don’t deserve this. I’m not worthy.

But still, God loved me enough to send His Son, Jesus to ransom me

So I eat and drink in….

Remembrance ~ For this is My blood of the covenant which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins.” (Matthew 26:28)

Can’t comprehend the magnitude of God’s love, can’t fathom the cost.

But still, I raise my hands and …

Rejoice ~ that God’s grace is enough. I’ve been purchased with His own blood. (Acts  20:28)  and “nothing can separate me from the love of God.” (Romans 8:38,39)

It’s a truth I’ll need to cling to because

That same day, I’m on a walk when a turkey vulture circles overhead; in search of death, a hearty meal.

I think of my “adversary, the devil, who prowls about like a roaring lion, seeking someone to destroy.” (1 Peter 5:8)

Not knowing, that someone is me.

While the sweet fruit of the vine lingers on my lips, I trespass once again. And in a blind moment, God’s grace and love appears dim as I listen to the enemy’s accusations.

Karen, You are not worthy. 

I weep, knowing my best can’t close the gap between my filth and God’s holiness.

But still, God loves me. And His Spirit that dwells within me, because I am purchased by His blood, guides me to a passage that confirms His benevolent grace.

In Zechariah 3:1-4, Satan accuses Joshua, the high priest of Israel, who stands before the angel of the Lord wearing filthy garments. Instead of defending Joshua, God says, “Remove the filthy garments from him. See, I have taken your iniquity from you and will clothe you with festal robes.”  

God’s grace is enough.

Tears cloud my vision, as I read verse 8 aloud, “Behold, I am going to bring in My servant the Branch…and I will remove the iniquity….”  

“The Branch,” Jesus the Messiah, who “was crushed for our iniquities” (Psalm 53:5)

Crushed for MY iniquities, and brought

Reconciliation ~”God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them…. “ (2 Corinthians 5:18)

Defeated, the enemy slinks away in silence; his tail between his legs.

Elated, I rejoice once again that my perfection is based on my relationship with Christ and not my petty performance.

I Love the Imperfection

Last week, I went into an antique store to browse old furniture. The man who worked there showed me a handmade fireplace mantel. He pointed to the scratches in the wood, and the uneven design along the front. Then he caressed a round, black stain on top of the mantel where a wet glass or candle had stood.

“I love the imperfection of it,” he said.

“What did you say?” 

“I love the imperfection,” he repeated, “because that’s what makes antique furniture unique and have character.”

Unique is not a word I’d use to describe the queen-sized bed frame I recently bought. It was manufactured in China, came in a cardboard carton, assembled by yours truly, and seemingly without defect … unlike the reflection of imperfection that stared back at me from a hazy, antique mirror.

I combed my hair with my fingers and left the store asking myself, do I love the imperfection in myself or others?

Absolutely not! I’ve been programmed from birth to look my best, be my best, and do my best.

Imperfection, the flawed condition of humanity, hides behind good intentions and exasperation. “I’m sorry, but I’m doing the best I can!”

But my very best falls short of the commandment to “Be perfect just as my Father in heaven is perfect.” (Matthew 5:48)

Why would a holy, perfect God love me; the poster child of imperfection?

I try to wrap my mind around His love and grace, but imperfect emotions distort my vision. I return to His Word where truth resides:

And put my faith in the finished work of Jesus Christ: “For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.”(2 Corinthians 5:21)

Earthly perfection is impossible this side of heaven. But like the Apostle Paul, I can be “confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in us will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.”(Philippians 1:6)

IF I rest in that knowledge, I can stop striving to be perfect, and instead, “fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith….so that we will not grow weary and lose heart.”(Hebrews 12: 2,3)

Since my visit to the antique shop, I have enjoyed the warmth of a crackling fire on a winter’s day. The polished wooden mantelpiece is smooth to my touch; it is not old or unique. But the words of a stranger, “I love the imperfection,” stirs my heart because it shows me how God “whose way is perfect” used even this to bring Himself praise.

Broken

It is nine days into the New Year and I’m just now packing Christmas decorations. Thirty-two years of Christmas past can’t be shoved thoughtlessly into a closet.  

Round, colored ornaments go into boxes with individual slots that resemble egg cartons. Hand-made ornaments and souvenirs, that look ordinary to any stranger’s eyes, are swaddled in tissue paper and placed in protective plastic bins ….accompanied by family memories I revisit every year.

I also collect nativity sets that require special handling. My favorite one was purchased in 1981 B.C. (before children) when my husband and I first moved to California. The figurines are wide-eyed children, forever young, although there are signs of aging: Joseph’s broken staff, the angel’s missing halo, and the shepherd boy’s glue-filled cracks.

When the Shepherd fell off the mantle, years ago, I glued him back together like Humpty Dumpty with the exception of a hole that remains in the back of his head. Nobody notices. We have to get close to see the scars and know he’s BROKEN.

I’ve been broken more than once. Have you…………..

Ever felt brokenhearted over the death of a loved one, or by the betrayal of someone who “supposedly” loved you?

Ever been like King David who felt alone, “forgotten …like a broken vessel?” (Psalm 31:12)

Has chronic pain, anxiety, or depression given you a “broken spirit that dries the bones?”(Proverbs 17:22)

Nobody notices. We have to get close and personal to see the scars and know someone’s BROKEN.

Psalm 147:3 says “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” Sounds patronizing, but I know His Word is true. Three miscarriages in a row taught me to rely on the Lord to bind up my wounds from a broken spirit, and show me I could trust Him even in this.  

God restores broken lives, but brokenness is a good thing when it makes us aware of sin and leads us to repentance. “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” (Psalm 51:17)  

Before I wrap the Shepherd boy like a mummy and place him in a box, I put the tip of my index finger into the hole on his head.

Thoughts trigger. Wasn’t it Thomas who insisted on putting his finger into the holes on Jesus’ nail-scarred hands? The apostle refused to believe in the resurrected Christ unless he also put his hand into the hole on Jesus’ side (John 20:24-28). And when this proof came, Thomas cried out, “My Lord, and My God.”

Tears spill on my cheeks, “Lord, life is hard, forgive me when I doubt your love and goodness. Your ‘body was broken for me’ (1 Cor. 11:24) and that is all the reason I need to bring you praise.

      With that happy thought, I wrap tissue paper around the broken Shepherd boy and place him in a box, to rest in the coming year next to Jesus.