"Do not call to mind the former things, or ponder things of the past. Behold I will do something new, now it will spring forth; will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert." Isaiah 43: 18,19
HAPPY NEW YEAR! I pray He will do something new in each of our hearts.
The other day my Mom gave me a tiny Santa candle. On my very first Christmas, when I was less than two months old, he was one of my presents. He is standing proudly on a shelf on the hutch in the dining room - right in front of the snowmen. When I look at him, I see a long line of Christmases stretching out behind us. We've seen a lot of them, we two.
It causes gratitude to well up in my heart:
- for the absolute joy of having Mom and Dad here with us
- for the dear faces around the table - familiar and loved - precious family and friends
- for the priceless privilege of hearing "The Story" from my earliest memory - for having the Baby always at the center of it all
- for Christmas greetings from far away places
- for the promise of hope that Christmas brings
- for a love that confounds and amazes - that He would come for me
I hope you had a wonderful Christmas. I pray the true meaning of it lingers in your heart and fills you with joy and peace.
I am going to take a few days off. I'll be back before the New Year. The Lord has been whispering a new word for this coming year.
I remember them from my childhood. Every Christmas a plate of them sat tantalizingly on the hutch in the dining room - calling to me. I could never resist. Whenever I walked by,I would pluck one from the golden pile and pop it in my mouth. They were melt-in-your mouth good. Yummy!
I was reminiscing about them a few weeks ago, and Mom decided we would add them to the cookie baking list. We saved them for last. Today was the day.
It really is a "two-girl project." Mom dropped the little bits of dough into the hot oil, and I coated them with honey.
Lots of sprinkles, and they are done!
All that remained was to sample them. Mmmmm mmmmm good!
"That night there were shepherds staying in the fields nearby, guarding their flocks of sheep. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared among them, and the radiance of the Lord's glory surrounded them. They were terrified, but the angel reassured them. 'Don't be afraid!' he said. 'I bring you good news that will bring great joy to all people. The Savior - yes, the Messiah, the Lord - has been born today in Bethlehem, the City of David. And you will recognize Him by this sign: You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger.' Suddenly, the angel was joined by a vast host of others - the armies of heaven - praising God and saying, 'Glory to God in highest heaven, and peace on earth to those with whom God is pleased.' When the angels had returned to heaven, the shepherds said to each other, 'Let's go to Bethlehem! Let's see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.' They hurried to the village and found Mary and Joesph. And there was the baby, lying in the manger. After seeing Him, the shepherds told everyone what had happened and what the angel had said to them about this child. All who heard the shepherd's story were astonished, but Mary kept all these things in her heart and thought about them often. The shepherds went back to their flocks, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen. It was just as the angel had told them." Luke 2: 8-20
There the story of the shepherds ends. What a story it is. Heaven itself opened up to these humble men and the glory of the Lord surrounded them. Surely their lives could never be the same.
I have thought about them - about what happened in the days following those miraculous encounters. The scriptures tell us they went back to their flocks, back to their ordinary lives. Did they wonder what would happen next? As the days slipped into weeks and eventually into years, and the images of that long ago night began to fade, did they begin to have nagging little questions and perhaps a bit of doubt? During the long lonely nights on the very same hillside, did their gaze shift heavenward hoping for a further sign? Did they long to hear news of the baby and His parents? Were they discouraged when it looked as though He had simply vanished?
Thirty years later, did word reach them about the young carpenter from Nazareth who said He was the Messiah? Did they hear of the miracles and did their hearts race at the news? Were they waiting expectantly for the Promised One to take His rightful place? Did their hearts break when news of His crucifixion reached their little town?
I wonder (I hope)if the news of His resurrection somehow reached them. If it did, did the vision of that long ago night burst into their hearts once again? Did they see, in their mind's eye, that little baby now become their Savior? Did they rejoice once again knowing the long wait was over; the promise was fulfilled? Fulfilled in a way they could not possibly have foreseen. How could they have known that the little baby they saw that long ago night would one day live in their hearts? It was even more glorious than they had imagined.
What does this story of the shepherds have for us? What would they like us to know and understand? Perhaps it is this:
Have you ever had a glorious word from the Lord, a promise that He spoke to your heart? Perhaps the promise of something you had prayed for with great urgency or a dream He birthed in your heart. Not only did you have that word, but it was confirmed in ways that could only be from Him. You believed and waited for the promise to take form.
Days slipped into weeks, weeks into years, and you began to doubt that you heard correctly. Discouragement filled your heart, and you thought the promise would never materialize. But remember...
The shepherds didn't know what had become of the baby. They didn't know that "...the child grew up healthy and strong. He was filled with wisdom, and God's favor was on Him." (Luke 2: 40) While they waited, the promise was taking form. While they wondered when He would appear again, He was working at a carpenter's bench. When they grew discouraged, He stepped onto the stage and began the work His Father has sent Him to do.
While we wait, the Father is working. In His way and in His time, He will do what He has promised.
"Let us hold tightly without wavering to the hope we affirm, for God can be trusted to keep His promise." Hebrews 10:23
The days are slipping by so quickly, and I long to slow them down - to savor this time. I love soaking in all the beautifully written things about the true meaning of Christmas, listening to the familiar carols and looking with wonder at the miracle of the Gift.
I have a little confession to make, however, that involves my childhood, Santa, visions of sugar plums, stockings hung by the chimney with care and leaving milk and cookies by the easy chair. I wonder if it would be all right to take a lighthearted look at Christmas...just for a little bit; because intermingled with all of the spiritual, I have images of make believe that always surface during this season. There is one in particular that is as vivid today as it was nearly fifty-five years ago.
I was old enough, that year, to have come to the bitter-sweet conclusion that Santa Claus wasn't real. However my little sister , four years younger than I, was still a firm believer. My Dad, Mom and I became co-conspirators in keeping the dream alive for just a little while longer. We never lost the baby Jesus in all of this, we just allowed Santa to have a part too.
It began snowing earlier in the day that Christmas Eve and was accumulating quickly. The snow plows had cleared the streets of our little sub-division, but by the time darkness fell we were snowed in. The little houses and yards were nestled under a soft white blanket, and the world was hushed.
Little sister was already tucked into bed, having set out the plate of Christmas cookies and glass of milk for Santa, when the silence was broken by a knock on the front door. We couldn't imagine who would be out on such a night. We looked questions at one another as Dad went to open the door. There on the front stoop stood a rotund figure clad in red and dusted with snow. He stepped into the living room, and we were transfixed.
Dad went to get the little sleepy head and carried her, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, to see our night-time visitor. I will never forget the look of wonder in her eyes. It was a magical moment.
I don't remember what was said. I just remember the sweetness of the moment. Santa didn't stay long. He had a long night ahead of him. When he stepped out into the night, we gathered at the door to watch.
He walked down the center of the snow-filled street. The soft light from the street lamps illuminated the swirling flakes and shone down on Santa as he disappeared into the night. That picture, like the most beautiful of Christmas cards, is imprinted on my heart. I take it out every Christmas and marvel.
I see the picture of one who came with no other motive than love. One who gives lavishly with no thought of receiving anything in return. One who is no respecter of persons - visiting both the lowly and the mighty - knowing each by name. One who takes the time to make dreams come true even for little girls.
Perhaps, forgive me if I over-step, just perhaps Santa might be a tiny picture of The One who came with no other motive than love to bring the greatest gift of all.
I was blessed to grow up in home where Christmas was always a magical time. For a little girl with an over-sized imagination, it was easy to get caught up in the idea of Santa Claus, Christmas presents and bulging stockings. There was one Christmas, however, that changed the “visions of sugar plums dancing in my head” into something quite different.
It was the Christmas I was finally old enough to belong to a girls group in our church called C.G.I.T. (Christian Girls in Training). It was to become a significant part of my life right through my teenage years, and this year I would take part in the Candle-lighting Service.
As one of the littlest girls I was at the end of the line as we made our way down the center aisle of the sanctuary. Our little church seemed magically changed with the lovely candles glowing in every window and the beautiful tree in front of the choir loft. I felt a sense of awe as we stood in front of the congregation and sang the ageless Carols and recited Luke 2 from memory.
I had a special part in the program that night. Two other little girls and I did hand motions as one of our leaders sang “There’s A Song In the Air” in a clear soprano voice.
As the evening drew to a close we slowly filed down from the stage, picked up a snow white candle and formed two lines up the side aisles of the church. Then the oldest girls lit their candles and turned to light the candle of the girl next to them. Down the rows the tiny flames burst into life as each girl in turn lit the candle of her neighbor.
I cannot put into words the feeling that filled my small heart as the lights in the church were turned out and we stood holding our lighted candles. We sang a final Carol, and I felt Christmas – the “real” Christmas – flood my heart with joy.
The Light of the World had come to dispel the darkness, and it was a gift that had no equal.
“Again therefore Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world; he who follows Me shall not walk in the darkness, but shall have the light of life.’” John 8:12 (NAS)
When I turn the calendar page from November to December, I turn on the Christmas Music. I love it all from the traditional carols to the contemporary songs. There is one, however, that stands out from all the rest. When I hear it, the goosebumps start and tears fill my eyes. It can, quite literally, bring me to my knees.
To read the rest of this devotional please click here. I'm writing at Laced With Grace today.
Today Ann's book, "One Thousand Gifts" goes on sale in the Kindle edition (the book will be released in January). I am so excited for her, I can hardly contain myself. There is an excerpt from the first chapter here. It is as lyrically beautiful as I knew it would be - moving and inspirational.
I have known Ann for several years now. She is indeed a very special, gifted young woman. Her deep humility and passionate love for the Lord have been such a blessing to me. She lives out her faith, shares from her heart and always, always calls me to a deeper, higher place.
My prayer for her is that the Father will use this book in a powerful way. I know that every word was written with a heart turned toward Him. I pray He will go before her as this book makes its way into the hands and hearts of those who desperately need to hear the story of grace.
All the details for ordering the Kindle edition are here. If you have never met Ann, you are in for a rare treat. She is a precious soul.
"For the Mighty One is holy, and He has done great things for me. He shows mercy from generation to generation to all who fear Him." Luke 1: 49-50
Giving thanks today for:
- the opportunity to serve through music this weekend; our Christmas Program at church was such a blessing
- our annual Christmas Bingo party; time spent with precious friends - great food, lots of talk and laughter, praying together
- Dad's "4 star" report from his dialysis doctor - her very best patient. How we thank you Father.
- the hope, joy and love that permeate this season
- the house all dressed up for the birthday of all birthdays
- houses twinkling with beautiful Christmas lights
- memories of Christmas past
- Christmas music
- a husband who willingly does the grocery shopping for my Mom and Dad while we girls baked cookies
- the gift
I am thankful for all of you - for the beautiful, encouraging, uplifting posts you've been writing. How you bless. You add so much to this Advent season.
I have been feeling that I need to spend less time on-line over the next few weeks. There is that tugging on my heart - urging me to slow down and savor these days. I will still write a bit (because I just need to), but please forgive me if I don't visit and leave comments for just a little while.
"What child is this, who, laid to rest, On Mary's lap is sleeping? Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, While shepherds watch are keeping? This, this is Christ the King, Whom shepherds guard and angels sing: Haste, haste to bring him laud, The babe, the son of Mary.
Why lies he in such mean estate Where ox and ass are feeding? Good Christian, fear: for sinners here The silent Word is pleading.
So bring him incense, gold, and myrrh, Come, peasant, king, to own him. The King of kings salvation brings, Let loving hearts enthrone him."
William Chatterton Dix (1837-1898)
William Dix was born in Bristol, England and spent most of his life working as manager of a Maritime Insurance Company in Glasgow. When he was 29, he suffered a near fatal illness and was confined to his bed for several months. It was out of this period of time that many of his hymns were born.
He set these beautiful lyrics to the song "Greensleeves" by an unknown composer.
She has always baked dozens of Christmas cookies. My memory is filled with visions of tins stacked in the basement to keep cool, the piles growing higher and higher as December 25th approached; watching wide-eyed as an entire gingerbread village took shape under her deft hands; of tantalizing smells that filled every room of the small home of my childhood.
She is recovering well from her broken hip - determined to do everything to get well again. She is even taking tentative steps without the aid of a cane, but...."I just don't think I can bake this year." These days she is , she says, mourning the loss of the things she simply cannot do any more.
"We will come, and we'll do it together!" So three generations gathered in her kitchen yesterday, and the baking began.
There was a brief interruption when a certain young man called from Paris.
Then back to business.
We began with Russian tea cakes.
Then it was Thumbprints. When those were baking in the oven, she said we had done enough for one day. So we set a date for next week. We plan to fill more tins with delicious cookies and our hearts with precious memories.
I don't know what next Christmas will bring. One will be an ocean away. I am thankful for this Christmas; for this day. I leave my tomorrows in His hands. He gives good and perfect gifts.
"O the deep, deep love of Jesus! Vast, unmeasured, boundless free; rolling as a mighty ocean in its fullness over me. Underneath me, all around me, is the current of Thy love; Leading onward, leading homeward, to Thy glorious rest above.
O the deep, deep love of Jesus! Spread His praise from shore to shore; how He loveth, ever loveth, changeth never, nevermore; how He watches o'er His loved ones, died to call them all His own; how for them He intercedeth, watcheth o'er them from the throne.
O the deep, deep love of Jesus! Love of ev'ry love the best: 'Tis an ocean vast of blessing, 'tis a haven sweet of rest. O the deep, deep love of Jesus! 'Tis a heav'n of heav'ns to me; and it lifts me up to glory, for it lifts me up to Thee." Samuel Trevor Francis 1834-1925
Samuel Frances was born in London, the son of a merchant and artist. As an adult he was a member of Plymouth Brethren Congregation and an open air preacher.
As we focus our hearts on the precious gift given to us in the form of a little baby boy, this hymn reminds me of the great love that compelled Jesus to leave heaven and all that encompassed, to come to earth to redeem a lost and dying people. The enormity of the sacrifice takes my breath away.
"In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins." I John 4:10
"And she gave birth to her first-born son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." Luke 2:7 With the eyes of my heart I look over the young girl's shoulder and watch as she begins to wrap the newborn baby in the cloths she had packed all those days ago before they began the long, arduous journey. She cradles His hand in her own, counting the tiny fingers once again - pressing them to her lips in a tender kiss. The promised gift has come in the form of helpless babe.
The years slip swiftly by, and I see the questions and wonder in her eyes as she looks across the table at hands grown calloused from work at the carpenter's bench - hands that held tightly to hers not so very long ago.
I see tears fill her eyes as the day comes for Him to leave the childhood home and begin the work He has come to do. What pride and joy shine from those same eyes as she watches those hands reach out to heal and minister to the needs of those that follow after Him.
Just three short years later, and there is unbearable pain and anguish in her eyes as she looks at those precious hands splayed out on a wooden beam - pierced and bleeding. Hours later, did she once again tenderly cradle those hands as they prepared His body for burial?
Afterward they gathered together, those who had loved Him and were devastated by the loss. Was she there too? Did she look with eyes filled with fear when He suddenly appeared in their midst, or did those mother eyes recognize her child in this risen Lord? Did she hear Him say:
"See My hands and My feet, that it is I myself; touch me and see, for a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have." Luke 24:39 Those precious hands, once so tiny and helpless, now forever scarred with the imprint of a love that cannot be measured. No longer the hands of her child, they were the hands of her Lord.
A dream set in motion by heavenly word A child to be born she would one day call Lord. A dream that invited her heart to take wing, Seeing the time all would see Him as King.
Did she see in her dreams from her small, humble home A day when this Son would stake claim to the throne? Did she even imagine the way of the cross, The pain and the heartache, the deep sense of loss?
Though it seemed like her dreams had just slipped through her hands, The Maker of dreams had a far greater plan. A dream far more glorious than any she'd known, A dream for the ages to take us all Home.
I, too, have dreamed dreams that I thought were His will, And I've stood in the ruins, shattered and still. Yet He comes to assure me that His dream is best He asks, as He asked her, to trust Him and rest.
linking to One Stop Poetry (this is a repost from the archives)
We moved to a new town when I was seven years old. It was right in the middle of the school year, and I entered Mrs. Hewell's second grade classroom as the new kid. It was excruciating for someone as shy as I was. I couldn't find words to bridge the chasm that seemed to separate me from everyone else.
One day, while I was in the restroom, a few of the girls came in. They didn't know I was there, and I soon realized they were talking about me. They were saying they didn't like me because I was so stuck-up. I waited until they all left before stepping out - my heart was broken. I desperately wanted them to understand that it was only because I was shy.
All these many years later, I still worry about being misunderstood. Part of being shy, for me, means that I am not very demonstrative. I envy those who cry easily, who bubble over with enthusiastic gratitude and jump up and down with joy; the ones who dance with abandon during praise and worship. It isn't that I don't do all of those things deep inside myself. It's just that somehow they don't make it to the surface when I'm with other people.
When I am alone the tears flow freely; I dance and sing to praise music and fall on my face in gratitude. It would be easy for others to look at me and think I don't feel anything; to wonder if I am truly grateful for something they have given me. I long to be better at it because the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt someone's feelings.
There is a song that I like to think was written just for me. It gives me great hope and makes me dance and sing - when I'm alone here at home of course! Here are the words:
"When I Get Carried Away"
"Well, I don’t know why I become a little shy When I get around a whole lotta people And I can’t figure out why I never can shout About the love that floods my soul. I must confess, I can’t express The feelings deep inside me; The things I know and cannot show One day will overflow.
I’m gonna let the glory roll when the roll is called in glory. I’m gonna get beside of myself when I get beside the king that day. I’m gonna have the time of my life when the time of my life is over. I’m gonna get carried away when I get carried away.
Well, I’ll pass the clouds and shout so loud, It may sound like thunder. My tearful eyes may fill the skies Until it looks like rain. When I leave this world past the gates of pearl And stand before my Savior, I let my soul let the glory roll If from the roll He calls my name.
I’m gonna let the glory roll when the roll is called in glory. I’m gonna get beside of myself when I get beside the king that day. I’m gonna have the time of my life when the time of my life is over. I’m gonna get carried away when I get carried away."
Phil Cross
And this is how it sounds when Ivan Parker sings it:
Oh yeah - one of these days I'm gonna let the glory roll!
The cold front blew in late Thanksgiving Day. It is always the same. The wind comes with sudden force, as though someone had thrown the switch on a gigantic fan,and a balmy day suddenly turns cold. We had arrived wearing short-sleeved shirts and left wishing for winter jackets to cover our bare arms. We also left with two gifts - our granddaughters, coming to spend the night.
The air was crisp and cold the next morning, and bright sunshine filtered in through the kitchen windows. We sat at the kitchen table eating Papa's scrambled eggs with sausage and toast. They chattered away about the things they have been doing, school and plans for the day. Watching "Cinderella" (I've lost count of how many times we've watched it together.)was definitely on the list along with playing games, building with legos and a trip to McDonald's for lunch.
I told them it all sounded good, but I had a little something I thought they might enjoy doing first. Earlier in the week, we had purchased little wooden ornaments, paint and paintbrushes in the hope that they might enjoy making something special for their Christmas tree. Happily, they decided that was a great idea! We cleared the table and got out all the supplies.
while they painted, I filled the kitchen sink with hot soapy water and for a moment just stood quietly absorbing the scene. Christmas music played softly in the background. The girls sat at the table with Papa, engrossed in decorating wreaths, painting angels' wings and mixing colors, little heads bent in deep concentration. There was such a sense of peace and joy bubbled up in my heart. I could hardly hold back the tears.
I am so deeply grateful.
Thank You Lord: - for these precious girls - for bright, sunshine and crisp, cold air - for music - for the way this miraculous season fills the heart with joy and peace - for the legacy of faith in our family; we are so richly blessed - for this life, this day, this moment
"My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness; I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus' name.
Chorus: On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand; all other ground is sinking sand, all other ground is sinking sand.
When darkness seems to hide His face, I rest on His unchanging grace; In every high and stormy gale, my anchor holds within the vale.
His oath, His covenant, His blood, support me in the whelming flood; When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay.
When He shall come with trumpet sound, oh, may I then in Him be found; Dressed in His righteousness alone, faultless to stand before the throne."
Edward Mote
On January 21, 1797 Edward Mote was born into a family that was not only very poor but also had no belief in God. He wrote about his growing up years: "My Sundays were spent in the streets. So ignorant was I that I did not know that there was a God." There was not even a Bible in the school he attended.
When he was old enough, he was apprenticed to a cabinet maker and was quite successful in that trade. It was his master who took him to hear the famed preacher John Hyatt one evening. After hearing the gospel message, Mote received Jesus as His Savior.
He settled in a suburb of London where he earned a reputation as a skilled craftsman and a devoted churchman. When he was fifty-five he was instrumental in the building of a Baptist church in Horsham, Sussex, England. He became the Pastor of that church and served there for twenty-one years when ill health caused him to retire. He died one year later.
Just before his death he is quoted as saying, "The truths I have been preaching, I am now living upon, and they do very well to die upon." "For other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ." 1 Corinthians 3:11
It is time to write my post and link my heart with the hearts of others at Ann's Gratitude Community as we count the blessings that have come to us from the Father's hand. Usually I try to list all of those special moments when I have seen His grace and goodness in my life and the lives of those around me. They are, inevitably, the good moments - the joy and unexpected glimpses of His presence.
Some weeks it is a bit more difficult to write a long list - not because He is any less than who He always is, but because I am somehow not able to see the blessings. They are obscured by clouds of darkness. It is at those times I remember that He has told me to "give thanks in all circumstance..." (I Thess. 5:18)- to tell my heart who He is and what He has done. And it is in the telling that gratitude begins to fill the dark corners of my heart and indefinable joy bubbles to the surface.
It has been a week filled with joy and sorrow, good things and hard things, hope and disappointment. I wasn't going to write a post today. Then I heard this song, and my heart remembered.
"God Wants to Hear You Sing"
Their chains were fastened tight Down at the jail that night Still Paul and Silas would not be dismayed They said, “It’s time to lift our voice, sing praises to the Lord Let’s prove that we will trust Him come what may”
God wants to hear you sing When the waves are crashing ’round you When the fiery darts surround you When despair is all you see God wants to hear your voice When the wisest man has spoken And says, “Your circumstance is as hopeless as can be” That’s when God wants to hear you sing
He loves to hear our praise on our cheerful days When the pleasant times outweigh the bad, by far But when suffering comes along And we still sing Him songs That is when we bless the Father’s heart."
Rodney Griffin
I thank You Father:
- for Your promise to never leave us or forsake us
- for the comfort of knowing that You are the same yesterday, today and forever
- that Your plans for our lives are good plans
- that Your love is unconditional and Your grace immeasurable
- that You are good, all the time
- for the perfect joy of time spent with loved ones
- for laughter and tears
- for shared heartache and tender embraces
- for listening hearts
- for good books, worn from the reading, that bring such a sense of comfort and peace
- for grandchildren who grow inches when your back is turned for a few seconds
- for answered prayer and unanswered prayer and the knowledge that You see beyond this moment and know what is best
"Open my eyes, that I may see Glimpses of truth Thou hast for me Place in my hands the wonderful key That shall unclasp and set me free. Silently now I wait for Thee, Ready my God, Thy will to see, Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit divine.
Open my ears, that I may hear Voices of truth Thou sendest clear And while the wave notes fall on my ear, Everything false will disappear. Silently now I wait for Thee, Ready my God, Thy will to see, Open my ears, illumine me, Spirit divine.
Open my mouth, and let me bear, Gladly the warm truth everywhere Open my heart and let me prepare Love with Thy children thus to share. Silently now I wait for Thee, Ready my God, Thy will to see, Open my heart, illumine me, Spirit divine."
Clara H. Fiske Scott
Clara was born in 1841 in Elk Grove, Illinois. In 1856 she attended a musical institute in Chicago and then went on to teach music at the Ladies Seminary in Lyons, Iowa. She married Henry Clay Scott in 1861.
In 1882 she published The Royal Anthem Book. It contained over three hundred hymns that she had written and was the first anthem collection ever published by a woman.
She died, tragically, on June 21, 1897 in a buggy accident.
In an interesting side-note, the hymnal I am using lists Charles H. Scott as the author of this hymn. A little mystery....perhaps just a bit of confusion about the first name.
Hidden beneath the surface of an extremely shy personality, there was a little girl who wanted to be a star. In her own home she was a ballerina, but when her Mommy took her to dancing class she cried and wanted only to rush back to that place of safety. She wanted to be popular and out-going, but cried and cried for days when she had to go to kindergarten, sitting quietly alone and speaking to no one.
It seemed she just couldn't be what she so envied in others, but she could pretend she was. She could be Shirley Temple, singing and dancing in the confines of her own little room or a beautiful princess dressed in borrowed clothing.
When she got older, she tried desperately hard to be like the popular girls - but naturally curly hair just won't cooperate and stay straight, and making clever conversation was like speaking a foreign tongue. She pored over magazines, longing to look like the models pictured there, imagining that somehow she did.
Eventually she found her place in the hierarchy of her high school, coming out of her shell and participating in everything she could fit into her schedule - and then some. But there was always that longing to be like someone else - someone who seemed to be so much her superior. She spent long quiet hours, imagining that she was.
It wasn't something she outgrew in adulthood. It simply changed a bit. Instead of longing to be like someone she knew - or like one of the beautiful, gifted people she read about or saw on television or in the movies - her focus shifted to well- known Christian women. She would read about their lives and long to be just like them. Once again, she imagined herself to be something other than what she was - trying to pattern her life after theirs. It became a substitute for spending time nurturing her relationship with the Lord.
Somewhere along the way, the emptiness of pretending to be something she was not became too much to bear. She finally began to understand that she was special in the most important way that mattered. She was special to the Father. And not only special - but uniquely created by His own design. She began to feel more comfortable in her own skin - to live in the reality of who He had created her to be.
I am a grandmother now, and the days of pretending I am someone else have slipped away. However, there is, I have found, still that temptation to look at the lives of others and long to be just like them. It subtly creeps in when I read blogs written by women whom I cannot help but admire. There is a longing to be more, to be better, to do better - to be like them.
Once again the Father gently reminds me that He likes me just fine the way I am. Certainly there are things to work on - and that longing is good as long as it is not born out of a need to be just like someone else or to gain the approval of others. When I long to be more like Him, to be fully all He intended me to be, He draws me to Himself and says, "Yes."
She came into our hearts and home when she was just three months old - the answer to fervent prayers for a little girl to complete our family. The years have passed so swiftly. I blinked, and she was all grown up. There were moments I longed to freeze time - to keep them all just as they were for a little while longer.
However, time is a relentless foe and somehow she is all grown up, and we are planning a wedding for the coming spring. I am, once again, trying to slow down the days, trying not to think too far past the wedding.
For when it is over, she will move away - far across the ocean - to begin this part of her life in a new country. I don't want to think too much about that.
She has lived on her own since her college years - owns her own home about a forty minute drive from our house. I am used to her not being here every day, but this will be very different. We talk on the phone nearly every day and visit often. Each call and visit becomes more precious.
Occasionally she will call, and I will hear that certain tone in her voice and know what is coming; "Is Dad there?" Something is wrong, and she wants her Dad. It could be car trouble, a clogged sink, advice on how to handle a problem...she just wants his help.
I hand him the phone, and he listens. Usually he listens a long time, as she pours out her frustration and complaints and then tells him the problem. He never interrupts or gets impatient; he just listens. Eventually, when she has unburdened herself, he begins to talk her through the problem - patiently explaining what she should do. Sometimes she bursts in and begins to go over it all again; he simply waits.
She knows he will tell her what to do, and if that doesn't help she knows he will come and take care of it for her. It doesn't matter what time of the day or night she calls, he is ready to go to her. She has that absolute assurance. He loves her more than his own life.
You and I have the same assurance about our heavenly Father. I think of the times when I cry out to Him in desperation, or anger, or pain, or doubt, or fear. He lets me pour it all out, and He listens. He always listens. He always has the time and is never impatient. And when I am finally spent, He assures me that all will be well. I don't always know how He will work, but I know without a doubt that He will.
There have been times when my husband wasn't able to take care of things for our daughter simply and easily. Times when it cost something to make things right. But he has always been there with her, seeing her through the difficulties.
So it is with the Lord. There are some things that are simply hard, and He promises to give us the help that we need to get through them. He is wise enough to know when to take care of it all for us or when to be with us as we walk through them. He is there with grace and strength to get us to the other side. He loves us more than we can possibly measure.
"Jesus, Savior, pilot me over life's tempestuous sea; Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rocks and treacherous shoal; Chart and compass come from Thee, Jesus, Savior, pilot me.
As a mother stills her child, Thou canst hush the ocean wild; Boisterous waves obey They will when Thous sayest to them 'Be still!' Wondrous Sovereign of the sea, Jesus, Savior, pilot me.
When at last I near the shore, and the fearful breakers roar 'Twixt me and the peaceful rest, Then when leaning on Thy breast, May I hear Thee say to me, 'Fear not, I will pilot thee.'" Edward Hopper
Edward Hopper was born in New York City on February 17, 1818. After attending seminary he pastored two Presbyterian churches in the New York area with great distinction.
In 1870, he began serving as the Pastor of a small church in the New York harbor area - the Church of Sea and Land - where he remained for the rest of his life. Here he ministered to the sailors who were working on the many ships.
During this time he wrote the hymn, "Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me." It became a favorite of the sailors, but for years they didn't know who the author was. Edward Hopper, a gentle, humble man had written it anonymously. It wasn't until he was asked to write a hymn for a celebration of the Seaman's Friend Society that the secret was revealed. Instead of writing a new hymn, he read this beautiful one. Of the many hymns he wrote, it is the only one we still sing to this day.
Edward Hopper died in 1888 at the age of seventy. Down through the ages his words have ministered to countless souls.
Have you ever thought you had at least one area of your life pretty much under control only to discover that you couldn't have been more mistaken?
We were coming to the end of our visit with the grands. I was sitting at the large kitchen table (large is the only size that will do when you have five children) with my grandson as my husband walked by on his way to put something in the car. "Why don't you grab the suitcase as long as you're going out?" I helpfully suggested.
My grandson looked at me with one of those worldly-wise smiles teenagers tend to give their elders and said, "You're so bossy and naggy!" We both had a good laugh at my expense, but his words left me feeling a bit unsettled.
I thought about his little jibe for days afterward. Is that really the way I sound Lord? I thought I was just being "helpful." I began listening carefully to my own words, and while J. may have said made that comment in jest, I realized there was something about them than rang very true.
I seem to be forever saying things that begin to sound a bit more like orders than "helpful suggestions." I like to be organized and have a plan (some might say I tend to be rather controlling), and since my husband is with me all the time he gets the "benefit" of hearing me verbalize those plans....often. I'm beginning to cringe inwardly every time I hear myself sounding, for all intents and purposes, like a little drill sergeant.
Those verses in Proverbs reverberate in my head:
"It is better to live in a corner of a roof, than in a house shared with a contentious woman." Proverbs 21:9 "It is better to live in a desert land, than with a contentious and vexing woman." Proverbs 21:19
I am tempted to make excuses; argue that I'm not being contentious. Perhaps not, but I have been naggy and bossy, and it is just as unpleasant. And, come to think of it, I can be rather argumentative - in a "pleasant" sort of way you understand.
My grandson preached me a much needed sermon - succinct and to the point. I'm asking the Lord to help me - to put a guard on my tongue. I've also apologized to my husband. I would so much rather have this said about me:
"She opens her mouth in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue." Proverbs 31:26
"Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips."Psalm 141:3
These are the two heroes in my life - my husband and my father. My father is a D-Day survivor. He landed on Omaha Beach with the 29th Division (the one portrayed in the movie "Saving Private Ryan") and spent the rest of the war fighting in Europe. My husband and I were privileged to attend the 55th Anniversary celebration of D-Day in France with my Mom and Dad. It was an unforgettable experience. The people of the little villages they liberated honor the veterans as the heroes they are. They cannot do enough for them to show their gratitude.
My husband served in the Army in Vietnam. It was a different time and a vastly different war, but he went with the same attitude and commitment that my Dad did. They both wanted to serve and protect the country they love.
They, and all those who have served and are serving, have my deepest respect and gratitude.
Whenever we visit our grandchildren, my husband arrives loaded with special treats. They vary from peanuts to chocolate bars to pistachio nuts, but the one constant is Fruit Gushers. They would all be disappointed if he didn’t include those.
Last time we visited he brought the boxes with a variety of different fruit flavors and colors. The first time he doled them out, our youngest granddaughter got a little bag filled with red gushers. She was a bit disappointed but cheered up when we pointed out that next time she might get something different. However, next time she got a little bag full of red ones…again. She was more than a little disappointed. She stood holding the unsatisfying treat and voiced her unhappiness.
You will find me and "the rest of the story" at Laced With Grace today. I would be so happy to meet you there.
I give You my sorrow, that I might have Your joy. I give You my fear, that I might know Your peace. I give You my striving, that I might know Your grace. I give You my doubts, that I might walk in faith.
I give You my disappointments, that I might have hope. I give You my life, that I might find it in. I give You the thorns, that I might breath the fragrance of the rose.
i thank you God for most this amazing... e.e. cummings
i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth day of life and love and wings:and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any--lifted from the no of all nothing--human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
Thank You Gracious Father for:
- cloudless skies of brilliant blue
- fresh breezes that bend the boughs of trees and then rush through the house, ruffling the curtains
- touches of color contrasting sharply with the hues of green
- cooler temperatures wrapping around us, sending us running for sweaters hidden in the back of the closet
- the anticipation of holidays that turns our hearts to thoughts of You and family and dearly held traditions
- the warmth and comfort of home
- for early darkness that quiets us
- for the seasonal reminder of Your faithfulness and unfailing love
"O Love that wilt not let me go, I rest my weary soul in thee; I give thee back the life I owe, that in thine ocean depths its flow may richer, fuller be.
O Light that follow'st all my way, I yield my flick'ring torch to thee; my heart restores its borrowed ray, that in thy sunshines's blaze its day may brighter, fairer be.
O Joy that seekest me through pain, I cannot close my heart to thee; I trace the rainbow through the rain, and feel the promise is not vain that morn shall tearless be.
O cross that liftest up my head, I dare not ask to fly from thee; I lay in dust life's glory dead, and from the ground there blossoms red life that shall endless be."
George Matheson 1842-1906
George Matheson wrote this exquisite hymn in 1882. He was visually impaired when he was a young boy, his vision gradually worsening until he was almost totally blind. However, he was very gifted academically, attending university and the Seminary of the Church of Scotland.
"An actual account of the writing of this hymn was found in Dr. Matheson's own personal records. Something happened to him that he described as 'known only to myself, and which caused me the most sever mental suffering.' He went on to relate that he completed the hymn in five minutes under the most unusual anointing, and that it was the fruit of that suffering. 'I had the impression rather of having it dictated to me by some inward voice that of working it out by myself. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high. I have never been able to gain once more the same fervor in verse.'" *
*from the book "O Worship the King" by Joni Eareckson Tada John MacArthur Robert and Bobbie Wolgemuth
Mom was sorting through the antique chest that holds much of her handwork and discovered several skeins of wool. She says she can't even remember why she bought them but wondered if I could knit her a sweater.
Of course I could. She has filled my home and heart with the beautiful work that flows from her hands - quilts, pillows, dolls, a little braided rug - so many things that add that intangible something that makes a house a home.
She found a pattern she liked, and I began. All went well until I noticed a dropped stitch. It was several rows down, but I managed to weave it up to the row where it belonged. Whew! I wanted this sweater to be perfect, and a dropped stitch would never do.
I continued knitting and purling row after row, and the sweater began to grow. I pressed it flat with my hands to check my work and there it was - one stitch that was noticeably bigger than the others. It must have been the stitch I had had to pick up. Somehow I hadn't gotten it quite right. I tried hard to ignore it, but - to my eyes - it stood out like a sore thumb.
I continued to knit, trying to decide if I could live with that flaw. There was a part of me that wanted to rip it out down to that imperfection and begin again from there. There was a time when I would have, did in fact. I just couldn't bear to have mistakes in my work.
Perhaps it is the passing of time, the years it took to realize that I don't have to be perfect, that allowed me to overlook the mistake. More importantly, it is the understanding that I don't have to be perfect to win the Father's approval. He understands that I am but dust. He extends the love and grace that make it possible for me to fail, find forgiveness and then go on.
In His kingdom, I find a place where I can come with my dropped stitches and imperfect sweaters and know that He loves me just as I am. And miracle of miracles, He will take what is imperfect and make of it something precious in His sight. He only asks that I keep on "knitting."
He, who knows no beginning or ending numbered my days before I lived even one. They came to me, a precious gift, with the admonition to use them wisely.
It seemed an endless chain when first the gift was given, but the links slipped through my fingers with alarming speed when once I paused to see.
Now, with lengths of chain gathered at my feet, I hold the remaining links in tender grasp - treasuring each one as it falls to join the others.
It has grown far too quickly, this mass of linked days, I pray for wisdom to use those that remain wisely. Ever thankful that one day it will truly be an endless chain.
We heard the first rumblings just before the evening news began. Then the gentle tapping on the windowpanes. Inevitably we rush to the windows, just to see it - and so we did. Sure enough - rain. Glorious rain!
Later, I huddled under the covers watching as lightening flashed into the darkness. I love the sights and sounds of a thunderstorm in the nighttime hours. It is comforting to be inside our cozy home while the storm rages on the outside. I imagine myself tucked safely against the Father's side.
We woke to a clear, windy, sparkling morning. The rain gauge reported the good news - 3/4"!
And we give thanks. "Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer; And give heed to the voice of my supplications~ In the day of my trouble I shall call upon Thee. For Thou wilt answer me. There is no one like Thee among the gods, O Lord; Nor are there any works like Thine." Psalm 86: 6-8
"Do not call to mind the former things, or ponder things of the past. Behold I will do something new, now it will spring forth; will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert."
Lots of sprinkles, and they are done!
Christmas Blessings,
Today Ann's book, "One Thousand Gifts" goes on sale in the Kindle edition (the book will be released in January). I am so excited for her, I can hardly contain myself. There is an excerpt from the first chapter here. It is as lyrically beautiful as I knew it would be - moving and inspirational.
There was a brief interruption when a certain young man called from Paris.
We began with Russian tea cakes.
Blessings,
creating a masterpiece
Blessings,
i thank you God for most this amazing...
