Please pray for our missions trip to Hungary and other Eastern European countries. We leave tomorrow and return August 2nd. Dani is staying in Corona to watch our grandson. Don, is joining a group of 15 from the church where Josh and Ashley (son-in-law & daughter) minister.
We will be working in orphanages, rest homes, and doing street evangelism. With your prayer covering, surely this will add up to more souls in front of the Throne forever.
Pray for the kingdom to expand.
We'll let you know what happens...
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The Sweet Spot
In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength… Isa 30:15
Wack! The ball scampered from the tee tripping over itself to hide in the bushes. “Humph,” I exhaled. My golf-pro-grandma calmly set another ball and repeated one more time: “Feet apart, knees bent, elbows in, right shoulder down, focus on the back of the ball, swing from the hips.” Thwock! Now that sounded right; it felt right. “You sure can hit far,” Granny said as she squinted after my ball. It arched well past the hole and onto the next fairway. I’d found the sweet spot on the ball.
There is a sweet spot in Christian living and I know well what it is to swing hard and miss it. All too many times I’ve landed in the bushes of confusion or the sand trap of sin. There is no joy in those places. Ah, but when it all comes together there is an effortless, graceful, connection where life in Christ fairly soars.
Right behind Jesus—that is the sweet spot—after I’ve returned to hide myself in His grace. I come out of the wind and rest in back of His strength and love. I stop trying to find satisfaction someplace other than in the folds of His robe. I quit relying on my own savvy to get me through. I run behind Him and sit quietly in His shadow breathing His gardenia-scented goodness.
I am learning I don’t have to wait for a trial or temptation to chase me behind Him. I can admit my weakness and proclaim His glory in a morning discipline. Then, with a bit of effort, I can rest in His presence throughout the day. The result is the sweet spot; my salvation and my strength; a relaxed life lived on His terms. When I do that, it feels so right my heart soars in joy. Repentance and rest, quietness and trust—that is where I want to stay.
Prayer: Mighty Jesus, may I hide in Your sweet spot this whole day.
in quietness and trust is your strength… Isa 30:15
Wack! The ball scampered from the tee tripping over itself to hide in the bushes. “Humph,” I exhaled. My golf-pro-grandma calmly set another ball and repeated one more time: “Feet apart, knees bent, elbows in, right shoulder down, focus on the back of the ball, swing from the hips.” Thwock! Now that sounded right; it felt right. “You sure can hit far,” Granny said as she squinted after my ball. It arched well past the hole and onto the next fairway. I’d found the sweet spot on the ball.
There is a sweet spot in Christian living and I know well what it is to swing hard and miss it. All too many times I’ve landed in the bushes of confusion or the sand trap of sin. There is no joy in those places. Ah, but when it all comes together there is an effortless, graceful, connection where life in Christ fairly soars.
Right behind Jesus—that is the sweet spot—after I’ve returned to hide myself in His grace. I come out of the wind and rest in back of His strength and love. I stop trying to find satisfaction someplace other than in the folds of His robe. I quit relying on my own savvy to get me through. I run behind Him and sit quietly in His shadow breathing His gardenia-scented goodness.
I am learning I don’t have to wait for a trial or temptation to chase me behind Him. I can admit my weakness and proclaim His glory in a morning discipline. Then, with a bit of effort, I can rest in His presence throughout the day. The result is the sweet spot; my salvation and my strength; a relaxed life lived on His terms. When I do that, it feels so right my heart soars in joy. Repentance and rest, quietness and trust—that is where I want to stay.
Prayer: Mighty Jesus, may I hide in Your sweet spot this whole day.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Facing East
I saw the glory of the God of Israel coming from the east.
His voice was like the roar of rushing waters, and the land was radiant with his glory.
Ezek 43:2
I am facing the eastern sky. The interminable, confusing night is nearly over—not quite—but there are signs making hope dissolve into reality. A few stretched clouds are the first to respond. They redden as a bashful girl at her first compliment. Their passion is stirred by the clash between the cursed night and the joy of the day that is about to be. They are no longer clouds; they are visual incarnations of the wrestling between night and day. Paul says “we groan and are burdened” until “what is mortal may be swallowed up by life” (2 Cor 5:4). These blood-touched clouds are caught between groaning and singing. We groan as well. It awakens our voices for the coming singing.
I am facing the eastern sky. I am looking at a red so loud I’m left wondering what more God could say to assure the Son’s coming. Behind me the sky is black, people slumber, and evil prevails. Facing that way provides no indication of the unfolding miracle. So I set my eyes on the east. I am straining toward where the Son is expected; where the Lover of my soul will materialize. My heart-compass has long given this bearing. The arrow gets jostled around the directional points, but it always settles back to east. As I move, Christ seems to move and consummation of my joy eludes me into the horizon. So I stretch toward the promise He will soon become solid and I’ll reach Him. And here is this red, groaning sign.
I am facing the eastern sky. Logic tells me warmth from Sol’s amber beams will not be felt for a while, but it also says the crimson blossom at the bottom of the night means he is coming. God’s Spirit pining in me for our broken world is the red break in the night of my soul. It is my guarantee the Son is even now rising in the east with a thunderous voice like rushing waters and a brightness that will bathe the land radiant with His glory.
Prayer: Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
His voice was like the roar of rushing waters, and the land was radiant with his glory.
Ezek 43:2
I am facing the eastern sky. The interminable, confusing night is nearly over—not quite—but there are signs making hope dissolve into reality. A few stretched clouds are the first to respond. They redden as a bashful girl at her first compliment. Their passion is stirred by the clash between the cursed night and the joy of the day that is about to be. They are no longer clouds; they are visual incarnations of the wrestling between night and day. Paul says “we groan and are burdened” until “what is mortal may be swallowed up by life” (2 Cor 5:4). These blood-touched clouds are caught between groaning and singing. We groan as well. It awakens our voices for the coming singing.
I am facing the eastern sky. I am looking at a red so loud I’m left wondering what more God could say to assure the Son’s coming. Behind me the sky is black, people slumber, and evil prevails. Facing that way provides no indication of the unfolding miracle. So I set my eyes on the east. I am straining toward where the Son is expected; where the Lover of my soul will materialize. My heart-compass has long given this bearing. The arrow gets jostled around the directional points, but it always settles back to east. As I move, Christ seems to move and consummation of my joy eludes me into the horizon. So I stretch toward the promise He will soon become solid and I’ll reach Him. And here is this red, groaning sign.
I am facing the eastern sky. Logic tells me warmth from Sol’s amber beams will not be felt for a while, but it also says the crimson blossom at the bottom of the night means he is coming. God’s Spirit pining in me for our broken world is the red break in the night of my soul. It is my guarantee the Son is even now rising in the east with a thunderous voice like rushing waters and a brightness that will bathe the land radiant with His glory.
Prayer: Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Baptisms Because of Barbara
It makes you think when someone close dies. What happens to them now? What will happen to me? At the passing of Dani’s mother, Barbara, many of us are asking these questions. Thankfully there are real answers. Several have been baptized to signify their full-on acceptance of the Bible’s answer, Jesus.
First was Dani’s Aunt Jeanne. Along with her we baptized Barbara’s dear friend Mary Anne—right there in the Jacuzzi bathtub. Next was Dani’s sister, Judy. What a blessing to see her seal a long standing commitment to Jesus in a turquoise Hawaiian lagoon. Nice and nephew Sarah and John were also baptized into Christ at the perfect ages of 13 and 14.
Thank you for your prayers. Thank Jesus for the 2nd life.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Over-Churched
When (Jesus) said this, he called out, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." Luke 8:8
Woe to the over-churched. That’s me; raised in the pews. God looked down and saw me sitting there. He formulated a razor-sharp communiqué and handed it off to the Spirit. The Spirit breathed it into my pastor’s sermon. Charged with conviction, the message flew from the pulpit. It arced through the air, hooked a hard corner into my ear, spiraled down the cannel, hit the eardrum, and bounced onto the floor. I had been practicing A.S.D. (Auditory Selective Dullness) for some years. Born in the church, the effervescent words of life were poured over me before they had meaning. When I was old enough to understand, they were already the words without meaning. Jesus is the blah, blah, blah. It is a malady I fight today.
After I determined God was for retirees and recluses I moved on to reaching for 10’s on the fun-o-meter. “I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure” (Eccl 2:10). Such living never brought joy. My truest desires were not even greeted at the door let alone invited into satisfaction. Behind the temporal games was a longing to live touching the presence of God. I began to wonder if the gateway to the enormous life in Christ lay in grasping the true meaning behind all those churchy phrases. Washed in the blood, raised with Jesus, dead to sin, covered by grace; they were so much white noise for me.
One morning I woke and there beside me was what I needed to open the tired phrases. It was a box of instruments which included faith, desire, a well worn Bible, meditation, and prayer. I used the tools to crack, pry, and incise the trampled muddy walnuts until they burst open to reveal resplendent gems of every color. Emeralds of hope. Blue sapphires of love. Diamonds of truth. “Christ in me” was no longer a ho-hum by-line. It became my oxygen. The words were the same but the power exploding out of them began waking me from the stupor I used to call life.
Prayer: Lord, dynamite my crusty heart with fresh understandings.
Woe to the over-churched. That’s me; raised in the pews. God looked down and saw me sitting there. He formulated a razor-sharp communiqué and handed it off to the Spirit. The Spirit breathed it into my pastor’s sermon. Charged with conviction, the message flew from the pulpit. It arced through the air, hooked a hard corner into my ear, spiraled down the cannel, hit the eardrum, and bounced onto the floor. I had been practicing A.S.D. (Auditory Selective Dullness) for some years. Born in the church, the effervescent words of life were poured over me before they had meaning. When I was old enough to understand, they were already the words without meaning. Jesus is the blah, blah, blah. It is a malady I fight today.
After I determined God was for retirees and recluses I moved on to reaching for 10’s on the fun-o-meter. “I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure” (Eccl 2:10). Such living never brought joy. My truest desires were not even greeted at the door let alone invited into satisfaction. Behind the temporal games was a longing to live touching the presence of God. I began to wonder if the gateway to the enormous life in Christ lay in grasping the true meaning behind all those churchy phrases. Washed in the blood, raised with Jesus, dead to sin, covered by grace; they were so much white noise for me.
One morning I woke and there beside me was what I needed to open the tired phrases. It was a box of instruments which included faith, desire, a well worn Bible, meditation, and prayer. I used the tools to crack, pry, and incise the trampled muddy walnuts until they burst open to reveal resplendent gems of every color. Emeralds of hope. Blue sapphires of love. Diamonds of truth. “Christ in me” was no longer a ho-hum by-line. It became my oxygen. The words were the same but the power exploding out of them began waking me from the stupor I used to call life.
Prayer: Lord, dynamite my crusty heart with fresh understandings.
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