The Next Thing

I didn’t want to do it. Everything within me rebelled at the thought of walking around my three-mile loop.

Emotions whined, “It’s cold outside,it’s getting dark.”

Body resisted, “I’d rather not, thank you.”

Mind reasoned. “Good idea, but I have important things to do.”

Will Power coaxed the other three into compliance. “Let’s just put on our tennis shoes and get some fresh air. The husband is pounding the pavement. Surely you can walk to the end of the driveway.”

Outside, I breathed in the damp air and walked past my driveway…. just to stretch my legs.

“See? This isn’t so bad. Do you think you can take that hill?”

Twilight gathered round me like a cloak, but Will Power challenged me. “Walk one mile and then you can turn around.”

 A week’s worth of rain had left ribbons of still water along the edges of the road. And the deep voices of croaking frogs hidden in the shadows cheered me, “You went this far, keep walking.”

Even when my aching knees protested and darkness enveloped me, Will Power spurred me onward with the words,One more step.” Until at last I was home free.

When faced with challenges or marathon trials, life may boil down to sheer will power and the decision to take one more step.

Elizabeth Elliot wrote, “Have you had the experience of feeling as if you’ve got far too many burdens to bear, far too many people to take care of, far too many things on your list to do? You just can’t possibly do it, and you get in a panic and you just want to sit down and collapse in a pile and feel sorry for yourself.”

She goes on to describe a Saxon legend carved in an old English parson somewhere by the sea. The legend is “Do the next thing.”

A poem about the legend says, “Do it immediately, do it with prayer, do it reliantly, casting all care. Do it with reverence, tracing His hand who placed it before thee with earnest command. Stayed on omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing, leave all resultings, do the next thing.” 

Some days, the next thing is all we can do.

But it’s enough.

Daffodil Delight

Daffodils, a few of my favorite things, are in full bloom.

Despite snow  and winter rain, they rise from the frozen earth like yellow trumpets to announce the coming spring.

These Narcissus are the first born among a parade of perennial flowers that appear in my yard throughout the year. They are beacons of hope on a winter’s day; a promise that new life is present even though the naked trees appear dead and weeds encroach my dormant flower beds.  

In late November, I planted 60 bulbs on a hill in my backyard. When February came, daffodils from the bulbs I’d planted years ago, resurrected in my front yard. But there was no sign of yellow life on my daffodil hill.

I walked around the neighborhood and witnessed the mass of daffodils and wondered what I did wrong. Did I plant too early, too late? Was there too little rain, not enough sun? Maybe the gophers…..

And then a few days ago, my heart leapt. Short green stalks stretched heavenward; right on schedule.

When it comes to being a Christian, I’m impatient. I want to see immediate growth. I want my sanctification, the perfection of my faith, to be instant rather than a process.

If only I’d learned certain spiritual truths yesterday instead of today I’d be further along in my Christian walk.

Not to mention all the faith seeds I planted in other people’s lives. Why aren’t they growing in the Lord?

In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, “I cannot, by direct moral effort, give myself new motives. After the first steps in the Christian life we realize that everything which really needs to be done in our souls can be done only by God.”

Truly, I’m a work in progress. And the power that raised Jesus from the dead is at work within me. As a believer, I’m not dead in my sins even though in the winter of discontent I appear to be so.

I’m alive in Christ! And “I am sure of this,

that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6)

Like my daffodils, I will rise and bloom in His presence….. right on schedule.

By His will and for His glory!

   

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I Think I Can

My repertoire of culinary fiasco could fill a cookbook.Oddly enough, I didn’t let it stop me from joining a Dinner club two years ago. I warned the other couples I couldn’t cook, but they needed some comic relief.

Last week, we chose to make a Cajun meal. They asked me to prepare a New Orleans  dessert called Bananas Foster. It’s easy (heard that one before) and requires few ingredients. Sliced bananas, brown sugar, cinnamon, fresh lemon juice, and rum. Bananas Foster is traditionally flambeed before serving, and the alcohol in the sauce is allowed to burn until the flames die down.

Knowing I couldn’t make dessert ahead of time was nerve wracking. I underlined the words: “Before flambeing, make sure to roll up long shirtsleeves, and tie back hair.”

The night of the dinner party, we sat at a long dining table covered in white cloth and ate like King Neptune: crab cakes, shrimp salad, seafood gumbo, and jambalaya. Someone requested dessert. I felt like a pressure cooker as I stood at the stove with seven people breathing down my neck, asking questions.

I heated the heavy-bottomed skillet and listened to the oohs and aah’s of my audience as I sliced, sprinkled, stirred, and squeezed ingredients into the warm pan. Then the moment they’d been waiting for…..

They aimed cameras as I poured the rum into the skillet and waved a lit match over the pan. Fumes ignited and burst into a roaring flame higher than my head.

One man grabbed a fire extinguisher while the hostess grabbed a straw ornament hanging behind the stove.

While I, with the flare of New Orleans chef, Emeril Lagasse, gently shook the skillet to distribute the blue-tipped flame over the entire pan. Within seconds, the  flames subsided, leaving a caramelized sauce in which I sauteed sliced bananas to a glossy, golden brown.

Laughter and applause filled the kitchen as I poured the sauce into bowls of vanilla ice cream.Bananas Foster was an exclamation mark of the night.

And I was hailed by my fellow chefs as a member in good standing!

Yum, nothing like the round flavor of victory, instead of the bitter taste of…….

Comparison.

Compare myself to women who bake from scratch, grow herb gardens, and serve gourmet meals on china plates. No wonder I label myself, laugh at myself, stop believing I can do anything new or worthy……

Stop listening to voices of defeat, the enemy’s accusations that I’m no good, I’m unable, I can’t……

Instead choose to be like The Little Engine that Could, and face the uphill climb, the impossible dream, and “think I can!”

By believing,

I can do all things through Him who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13)

even flambeing Bananas Foster.

It’s My Birthday

It’s my birthday, February 27th.

I’m in a fetal position in my warm bed, resting, waiting in the dark; not unlike the first nine months of my existence in mother’s womb. When it’s time to emerge from my bed, I stumble to the bathroom sink where the overhead light makes me squint like a newborn babe. But an AARP woman looks back at me from the mirror.

Do I feel another year older?

No, just another day older. Although lately, I feel like I’m going through an age spurt.

I cringe at my reflection, the naked face before I paint it with mascara and under eye concealer. I pull my cheeks towards my temples, erasing the lines, tightening the pores; and wish someone would invent flesh-colored staples.

Remember being a pimple-faced teen and the school boy who called me “ugly.” Decades later, I don’t feel any lovelier, but the cosmetic industry has thrived promising me, and a million other women, the “perfect face.” Who invented mirrors?

And let’s not even talk about the pull of gravity on my body. A Burka would be a nice addition to my ward robe, but I don’t look good in black.

But enough of that! No use bemoaning the inevitability of age.

I touch the crow’s feet next to my eyes and thank God for laughter. I trace the lips that planted a thousand kisses on my loved ones, the eyes able to see God’s wonders. I even bless the bump on the bride of my nose that caused my younger brother to call me ‘Barbra Streisand’ while we were growing up. It’s all good…….

“I will give thanks to God, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:14)

It’s my birthday, and I refuse to read the article that pops up on my AOL news, “Secrets to Staying Slim at Your Age,” I kid you not!

Instead, I meet with my creator, the omnipotent One who weaved me in my mother’s womb. The omniscient One who knows the days that “were ordained for me,” the omnipresent One who loves me with an everlasting love.

I turn the dog-eared pages of my Bible and see my history unfold like a diary. There’s the tear-stained calendar dates written in the margins, next to scripture that nourished me in hard times and gave me hope. I see the small hearts drawn next to words that exemplified God’s character. Notice the tiny handwritten notes and underlined verses made during sermons.

It’s my birthday, and I am happy knowing: “Since my youth, O God, you have taught me, and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds. Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.” (Psalm 71:17, 18)

Seek and Find

Rather than pull the blanket over my head, I make myself get out of bed with dawn’s first light and meet with the Most High God.

I ignore my “to-do list,” the one scrawled in ink the night before, in favor of the one thing I can’t ignore: Intimacy with God.

The past week entailed church, women’s Bible study, jail ministry, and a Christian writers group. Wasn’t there enough of God in my week?

Never enough. Besides, serving the Lord and learning about Him doesn’t replace being alone in His presence. I need that one-on-one.

Unlike intercessory prayer or Bible study, I come before Him with no personal agenda. The pine trees outside my window are bathed in bronze light as the sun rays peer over my roof. Surely God is in this place. I am still and Know that He is God.

If only I could stretch the hour and worship Him on the mountain top without interruption, but duty calls. I leave my sweet spot, my space with God, and rouse my sleeping son for school.

 As I spread mayonnaise on wheat bread, I remember this morning’s verse, “Now to each one is given the manifestation of the Spirit (the evidence, the spiritual illumination of the Holy Spirit) for the common good.” (1 Corinthians 12:7)

Not my good, but the common good. Life isn’t all about me.

I bend my knee, and surrender the day to Him. You’re will, Lord. Not mine.

Drop my son off at school, drive to the local shopping center, and park. Just before I walk into the dry cleaners, my cell phone rings. I pause my agenda to greet the voice of a long-distance friend. We haven’t spoken in months, but I’m not surprised. I knew God would make Himself known. I knew He’d bring the unexpected. And I tell her so.

We talk, sharing words of encouragement and conviction. We share what His Spirit puts on our hearts, for the common good so the body of Christ is built up.

I stand outside; talking on the phone, stand between the dry cleaners and grocery store. And my skin tingles. Surely God is in this place too.

“To the degree that we seek Him, we will find Him.”