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Tomorrow evening, Falcon and Patriots fans will celebrate their team’s accomplishment as they face off in the Super Bowl. The rest of us, the non-Falcon and non-Patriot fans, can choose to cheer for one of them (please not the Patriots) or just show up for the commercials. I view the time as four hours to chill out and eat my weight in junk food.

There will be celebrations over sacks, hard-hitting tackles, field goals, and touchdowns. I hope to celebrate the evening with some belly laughs! With a 5 million dollar price tag for commercial spots,  there better be off-the-chart entertaining  commercials!

As the final seconds ticks away, confetti will reign down and the Lombardi trophy will be kissed and passed around. For the victors, there will be much to celebrate.

On Friday evenings, I sit in a circle of women and we celebrate victories, some big, some small. There are no touchdown dances, mostly tears, hugs, and knowing smiles. We gather for Celebrate Recovery; a safe place to admit our habits, hang ups, and hurts.

Celebrate Recovery is the creation of Pastors John Baker and Rick Warren at Saddleback Church in southern California. Warren shares, “The Bible clearly states “all have sinned.” It is my nature to sin, and it is yours too.  Because of sin, we’ve all hurt ourselves, we’ve all hurt other people, and others have hurt us. This means each of us need repentance and recovery in order to live our lives the way God intended.”

About 30 men and women come seeking recovery, a reason to celebrate. We want to live our lives the way God intended: whole and free. All of us desire to be free of whatever entangles our minds and bodies. To show up on Friday night, feels like reason in itself to celebrate. Some share reports of a good week, some tear up over their hard week.

We come to the local church as believers in Jesus Christ, that is who we are. Our identity, the very core of who we are, is in Him. Our habits, hang ups, and hurts do not define us. They are not who we are. They are our struggles but we do not struggle alone. That realization is another reason to celebrate.

The Super Bowl offers hype and hoopla. Celebrate Recovery offers hope. Tomorrow night, many will celebrate. But on Friday evenings in a small classroom tucked inside a local church, the purest, truest, and deepest of celebrations are occurring. To God be all the Glory!

Celebrate God all day, every day. I mean, revel in him! Make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you’re on their side, working with them and not against them.Help them see that the Master is about to arrive. He could show up any minute! Philippians 4:4,5 (MSG)

moving dirt

Gathered around circular tables at a writer’s conference,  several attendees share their calling. They know they are called to write, speak, lead, or perhaps all three.  There is no hesitation or wavering in their proclamations. Their certainty rattled me and opened my doubting floodgates, then and now.  I continue battling my calling uncertainty in this new season of my life.

What is my calling? How can anyone be so sure?  Why do others see their calling so clearly and I see only fog?

Is writing my calling? I’m not sure. Is knowing my calling the same as knowing God’s will for my life? Probably. But to me, a calling elicits a more personal confirmation. I envision receiving my calling directly from God on His holy cell phone.  Yes, please.

I believe God can and does reveal His calling on our lives but the ‘how and when’ keeps many guessing and waiting.  However, I am realizing more and more, while I am waiting, I need to be busy. I can sit around and fret while eating leftover Christmas cookies or I can move some dirt.

The movie, The Martian, starring Matt Damon is a 2015 sci-fi movie highlighting human strength and the will to survive. During a mission to Mars, Damon is presumed dead and left behind. But he is still alive. Against all odds, he must find a way to contact Earth in the hope that scientists can devise a rescue plan to bring him home.

While he is waiting for a rescue plan, he must attempt to stay alive. Damon must do something, anything. He needs to get busy so he can physically stay alive and also survive mentally. So he moves dirt. Lots and lots of dirt. He shovels dirt into bins and moves them inside in an attempt to grow potatoes on Mars, a planet where nothing grows. He moves dirt while waiting to be rescued.

So, 6 days into 2017,  I am picking up my shovel and moving dirt.  I accomplish my first shovel full by submitting an article to a Christian magazine. Will anything happen? I don’t know. Will my calling be affirmed or denied ? I don’t know. But it felt good to move some dirt, to do something within my control.

Moving dirt is an action step of faith. Damon doesn’t know if his experiment will work but he gives it his best shot. I don’t know if the editor will accept or reject my article, but I gave it my best shot. It felt good to flex my faith muscles which have fallen flabby recently.

Hebrews 11 highlights great dirt movers. Noah started moving dirt when no rain was in sight. Abraham moved dirt in faith as a nomad while waiting for a promised land.  They picked up their shovels and began moving dirt without all the answers and most times, without seeing the end result.

All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. Hebrews 11:13 NIV

While awaiting my rescue call, I will continue to move dirt.  If you can grow potatoes on Mars, anything is possible.

Happy New Year!


Growing up, we were blessed to enjoy meat and potatoes at most of our suppertime meals. On our farm, we grew potatoes and raised pigs and Black Angus cattle. Butchering time provided meat for the freezer and lard for the cast iron skillet. Everything tasted better fried in lard. (Later, I would learn the effect of lard on my arteries.)

In our family of six, there were few leftovers following our meals.  But when there were, my mother made good use of them. Mashed potatoes were a frequent leftover and the following day we enjoyed yummy potato cakes.  My mother’s hands shaped the chilled mashed potatoes into patties, plopped them onto a plate for flouring, and then dropped them into a hot cast iron skillet bubbling with lard.  I ate a lot of potato cakes growing up and loved every one of them. 

Too often,  my leftovers get pushed to the back of the fridge, lost in the shadows of milk jugs and orange juice cartons . They are eventually discovered well past their safe consumable date and into the trash they go. I need to be more aware of what is lurking in my refrigerator.

For this past month, I have been offering only leftovers to God. Falling into bed exhausted by the hustle and bustle of the season, I see my closed Bible on the nightstand as I mumble a few half-hearted prayers before drifting off to sleep. All I am serving to my Lord and Savior these days are leftovers.

But other areas of my life are receiving extra helpings from a full Krista buffet: shopping, cooking, cleaning, driving, wrapping, and decorating. Let’s not forget, eating! What remains for God? Leftovers. Bing and Burl are getting more daily servings than the birthday boy Himself.

But my loving God waits patiently. Day in and day out. He is waiting because He wants me, all of me. He wants my first, second, third courses plus dessert too! He wants me when I am smiling, when I am shedding tears, when I am loving others, and when I am failing. He wants every bit and every bite. He deserves the filet mignon and prime rib of me; not bits and pieces of forgotten scraps pushed to the back of the fridge.

So I am challenging myself to reconsider my choices and my priorities. Why is my life-menu so full? Why haven’t I allowed any time for the Prince of Peace? I know I can do better. I want to do better. I want to love the Lord with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength. Mark 12: 30 (NIV) Nothing there implies leftovers.

Today, I open up my Bible and begin reading His love letter to me. I left God several weeks ago in Galatians.  I read and lean into my Abba, Father. In the quietness of the day, I offer Him – me. Pausing, resting, and intentionally making time for Mighty God, I serve Him a helping of my heart, my soul, my mind, and my strength. A main course holy reunion, no leftovers lurking anywhere.

I might even find time to check my fridge too.

Merry Christmas!





As the real meaning of Christmas gets buried under piles of cookies and gifts, the joy of Thanksgiving is preserved through storytelling. These stories have been told and retold and have grown larger than life. Just like wine and cheese, our stories get better with age! As I gaze around the table, I am thankful for the storytellers and for the mischievous ones who star in them. These stories remind me to whisper a simple ‘thank you’. For me, Thanksgiving is not running to the mall but lingering around the table sharing stories.

My father-in-law tells great stories and can weave a tale. If you listen carefully, you may hear some bits of truth. Our classic Thanksgiving stories are mostly about hunting and football since both are in season in late November. A must-tell is the ‘Shootout at the OK Corral’ story; a deer hunting story where the number of dead deer outnumbers the hunters. (I never said these stories involved legal activities.) It is always a crowd pleaser and signals Thanksgiving has officially arrived. Another favorite is the ‘Forearm Shiver’ football story involving a car’s broken windshield. Funny stuff.


Over the years,  we have expanded our repertoire to include stories about fire. Who doesn’t enjoy stories about setting things on fire and then panicking to put them out? Let’s keep telling these belly busters! Let’s keep passing them down!  Storytelling strengthens our family bonds. Storytelling is life preservation.

I love hearing these same stories, year after year. Why? Their familiarity comforts me deep in my soul.  I am thankful to be part of these crazy family stories. They say I have a place; I belong. Not everyone can say that. Yes, I am thankful. I know the endings to all the stories, but I still love hearing them. Tell me again!

As I read God’s Word, year after year, the familiar stories give me comfort and peace. The more I drink from the pages, the deeper I thirst. Daniel’s steadfastness still amazes me. Esther’s and Ruth’s bravery still inspires me. Stephen’s stoning still gives me goosebumps. Paul’s transformation still gives me hope. Tell me again!

If you are blessed to be surrounded by loved ones tomorrow, pause between bites of turkey to tell a story. Someone needs to hear it.

Have a very thankful Thanksgiving!






What do you wish you would have heard your parents say? That question on a Christian radio station got my attention. As adults looking back, what do we wish we would have heard our parents say? 

Some of the deep and heart-tugging responses shared by the call-in listeners were: I wish my parents would have said they loved me. I wish my parents would have told me they were proud of me. I wish my parents would have apologized for making me be the parent at times. 

I considered this question on my drive and later broached the topic with my husband. I wasn’t ready for his response. We dated 6 years before getting married 33 years ago and this man continually surprises me. In certain areas, he felt he could not live up to his parents’ high expectations. I never knew he carried those feelings. 

Admittedly,  I wish my parents would have said they loved me. Over the years, I have justified not hearing those 3 magical words as a generational shortcoming or a result of their strict upbringing. Whatever the reason, feelings weren’t shared or discussed. But I told my husband, I knew they loved me. Without any doubt, I knew it. Their unspoken love was exhibited in many, many ways.

I knew they loved me by how hard they worked and by the sacrifices they made to provide for our family of 6. I knew they loved me when we gathered around the supper table and we had plenty to eat. I knew they loved me when we piled in the car on Sunday mornings to head to church. And when we piled back into the car for a Sunday afternoon drive and ended up at Baskin Robbins for an ice cream cone. I knew they loved me.img_0230

I knew they loved me when they knelt beside my bed holding a bowl and catching the remnants of too many pieces of apple pie. I knew it when they painstakingly helped me through homework battles. I knew they loved me when they steadied the back of the bicycle after removing the training wheels and when they bandaged  my skinned knees when the ride went awry. I knew it when I was tucked in my bed safe at night. Yes, my parents loved me without saying the words.

Walking on the road to Jesus, we come upon the stumbling block of not being able to hear or see Him. We decide to sit and question. Why can’t I hear or see God?  How do I know He really loves me? So we stay longer.  Satan, the prowling lion, encircles and whispers lies and doubts as we rest upon that block. Will we get up and take the next baby step of faith? Our Heavenly Father awaits with open arms and big love but it takes faith to move forward. It takes believing without seeing or hearing. It takes embracing His unconditional love without hearing audible words.

I know God loves me.  Without any doubts, I know. When I prayed a sinner’s prayer on a college dorm room floor, I found His love. When I held my newborn children for the first time, I experienced His love. When I look out my windows and see the tree line ablaze with reds, yellows, and oranges, I witness His love.  When I cry out for forgiveness, I feel His love. When I open up His Word and read His love story written to me, I drink-in His love. With a broad brush stroke, God paints His love for all to see from Creation to the Cross to Eternity.

This is how much God loves me: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. John 3:16 (MSG)

Yes, God loves me, big time! His unspoken love is revealed in many, many ways. He shows it, displays it; the mountaintops and ocean waves thunder His love message loud and clear. His love is ultimate and complete without saying a word.

Parents, children, and others will occasionally disappoint and hurt us with their spoken and unspoken words. But I know I am loved deeply and extravagantly by my Creator and Savior.

I know my parents loved me because they took me to Sunday School where I learned this song:

Jesus loves me this I know

For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
They are weak but He is strong
Yes, Jesus loves me
Oh, yes Jesus loves me
Yes, Jesus loves me for the Bible tells me so




The massive displays of pumpkins, mums, and candy signal autumn and Halloween are here. October 31 is one of my favorite childhood memories. For one night a year, I enjoyed a fun costume and received candy from people I didn’t know. What is not to love?  But looking back, my appreciation of that evening isn’t in the cool costume or the big bag of sugary delights. Now, I realize it was an evening spent with my father. It remains a special place in my heart.img_0204

My sisters and I hurried to get our homework done before donning our simple, hand-me-down costumes. A ghost, a witch, or a skeleton were reused year after year. They consisted of a step-into jumpsuit with a single tie in the back and a plastic mask secured to our sweaty faces with a tiny band of elastic. If someone wanted to be mean, they could snap that piece of elastic and sting your head. Like I said, if someone wanted to be mean.

I believe my father got the trick or treat assignment because we traveled to his neighborhood where he grew up and worked. He knew the homes where we would be welcomed. He was familiar with the side streets and back alleys which added to the excitement. Just picture this small group of short hobgoblins scurrying through the dark alleys, the fallen leaves crunching under our feet as we chattered excitedly,  Where we going next, Daddy?

Our evening began at my father’s childhood home where my grandparents made the first deposits into our empty bags with the good stuff: Milky Ways, Snickers, and Mr. Goodbars. My grandfather had a sweet tooth so there was always candy around. From there, we headed out though the little town of Paramount, Maryland.

We followed my father. We knew we were safe and in good hands. He knew the way; he knew the route. We just needed to follow and keep up. We trusted him to lead us.  House after house. Trick or Treat. Thank goodness, no one ever demanded a trick. I had no tricks up my little ghost sleeve. Just thankful for the yummy treats.

My father would hang back as we made our way up the front steps, half blinded by our lopsided masks and drooping costume pant legs. Trick or Treat. Then my father would come out of the shadows and make some small talk with the neighbor. We made sure to say thank you. Manners always.

Where we going next, Daddy? 

“This way”, he would respond with a little bit of mischief in his voice.  He enjoyed this as much as we did! Later, I discovered this precious joy of parenthood: enjoying fun activities with my own children.

With simple, childlike faith we followed our father. We didn’t have to be concerned about the direction; he knew which way to go.

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.  And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.  And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me. Matthew 18: 1-5 (NIV)

I enjoy revisiting my childhood memories, like Halloween night. Life was imaginative, playful, and spontaneous.  The foundation of my faith was built in tiny Sunday School rooms with flannel graph pieces illustrating the stories of Jonah, Daniel, Paul, and Jesus. I believed and followed with childlike faith.

Unfortunately, now I have allowed too many adult-like doubts and questions to cloud my once joyful relationship with my Heavenly Father. I want to return to a childlike faith that is wholly trusting, transparent, carefree, and full of joy. I want to follow my Heavenly Father with childlike faith through life’s alleyways, just like I followed my earthly father through the dark alleyways those chilly but magical Halloween nights.

Where we going next, Daddy? 

This way. Follow me. 





Growing up on a farm, I found many places to play, hide, work, and think. The apple orchard was one of those places. In the spring, pink-tinted fragrant blossoms filled the air.  During the hot summer months, lower branches invited me to climb and stay awhile, delaying my chores.  In the fall, I gathered and enjoyed the free-falling fruit. The wintertime barrenness signaled it was time for the orchard to rest.

Proverbs 25:11 is wise King Solomon’s metaphorical use of ‘apples of gold’ to praise good speech and the value of words.

Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a ruling rightly given. (NIV) 

Other versions say it like this:

Timely advice is as lovely as gold apples in a silver basket. (TLB)

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver. (KJV)

The right words spoken at the right time in the right way is as pleasing as beautiful pieces of fruit in a silver setting. Choose words carefully. Speak words that bring joy and life to the recipient. Give apples of gold: give words of comfort, praise, counsel, and encouragement. The right word from the right person at the right time is life-giving and priceless.

A story from Greek mythology highlights the appeal of golden apples. The young and very beautiful Atalanta is a skilled hunter. Originally abandoned by her father, they are reunited and dad is eager to find a spouse for his daughter. Although, many suitors come seeking her hand in marriage,  Atalanta is hesitant to marry.

But to keep daddy happy, Atalanta agrees to marry but with one stipulation. Her suitor must beat her in a foot race. Since Atalanta is extremely fast, no suitors are able to beat her. Her singleness remains preserved.

Then one suitor, Hippomenes, develops a plan. Armed with three golden apples, he drops one at a time during the race to distract Atalanta. It works. Atalanta stops running long enough to retrieve all three golden apples. Hippomenes wins the race and Atalanta’s hand in marriage.

The golden apples distracted Atalanta.  Was she hungry for pretty objects? Did they catch her eye and she just couldn’t resist?I don’t blame her. Golden apples get my attention too. Kind, inspiring, and life-giving words get my attention. I will stop what I am doing and gather them.

Someone once advised me to keep an encouragement file. Harsh criticism naturally comes with leadership but hang onto the supportive and uplifting ‘apples of gold’ when they come. Start a file, a place to gather golden apples. Then feast on them during the dark and hard days.

When a golden apple comes my way, I gather it, keep it, and savor it. If inspiring words come as a note, I keep it. If it is an uplifting email, I print it and file it. They serve as drops of soothing cool water during the dry, dusty, challenging days. I stop, gather, and collect golden apples representing  words of praise and reassurance.

Since I know what apples of gold mean to me,  I want to be a giver of golden words. Thoughtful words to inspire and uplift. What words do others need to hear from me? I want to offer golden words just like the Golden Rule based on Matthew 7:12: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

It is apple harvest time. If Atalanta slows down, I will join her and we will pick up golden apples tossed our way.

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. Ephesians 4:29 (NIV)






stacking stones

There is a small flower garden tucked behind the historic jail museum in the small coastal town of Southport, North Carolina.  Within the garden, there is a pathway of engraved stones called Heritage Stones. These Heritage Stones honor individuals who had a significant impact on the development of Southport. Some commemorate the signers of the 1792 original charter. Others represent women and men of various professions: postmistress, pastor, principal, artist, historian, and civic leader. Each left their mark on this town.

One Heritage Stone names an event, not an individual, that left its indelible mark. An event that forever changed Southport and eastern North Carolina: Hurricane Hazel. When Hurricane Hazel arrived on October 15, 1954, she brought with her 120+ mph winds and a storm surge of 15 feet. Southport and surrounding areas would eventually recover but the landscape would never look the same.

In our lives, people and storms change our trajectory and our lives are never the same. We are headed one way; but then our direction is altered. When that happens, it is important to pause and remember. It is time to stack some stones. The Heritage Stones invite the residents and visitors of Southport to pause and remember. Remember the people who gave unselfishly. Remember the Storm.  Do not forget. To help remind us, they placed stones.

Stacking stones as spiritual markers began in Genesis. In chapter 31, Jacob and his relatives stacked stones following their covenant with Laban. This monument of stones and this stone pillar that I have set up is a witness, a witness that I won’t cross this line to hurt you and you won’t cross this line to hurt me. Genesis 31: 51,52

Later in Joshua 4, the stone stacking continues. Each of you is to take up a stone on his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the Israelites, to serve as a sign among you. In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever. Joshua 4: 5-7

Stacking stones so those whom come after us will see and remember. Remember how the mighty God brought us through this situation. Do not forget. Stack stones.

If I were to stack stones representing my life-altering events, one stone would be for my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Cordell.  He inspired and encouraged me to be a teacher. His love for his students and for teaching left a mark on my life. My life was changed because of Mr. Cordell.

I would need another stone for Bill and Ruth, my Sunday School teachers. They took time, tons of time, to share about love, life, and God. They walked their faith everyday. They changed my life.

Another stone would represent my junior year at college: 215 Seavers. My 5 roommates drew me closer to God and made me laugh daily. It was crazy fun. They changed my life.

One more stone would be for a country that feels like my second home, Tanzania. I love the people. I love who I am when I am there. I love the beautiful children. I feel closer to God. Tanzania has changed my life.

There are many more stones that have shaped, molded, and altered my life. When I pause to remember, I know I am very blessed.

What about you? What names are on your stones? Who are the people who helped mold you into you?  Have you named your storms that altered your lifescape?  Let’s pause to remember.

We need to stack some stones for those who come after us. They will see the stones, and they will know we were here. But more importantly, they will know God was here.

Stacking stones claims ordinary moments of life for God. And when someone comes along and asks you, “What do these stones mean?” tell them the story of what God has done. ~ Jayne Hugo Davis



Teach us, O Lord, the disciplines of patience, for to wait is often harder than to work. 

~ Peter Marshall

Waiting is hard. Waiting for the light to change, the line to move, the game to start, and the phone to charge. I wait for the laundry to finish, the microwave to beep, and the repair person to show up.  I wait for my food to come through the magical drive-thru window and for the line to snake through the amusement ride queue. Please stop me if I ever insist on waiting five hours for Disney’s newly open Frozen Ever After ride. A five-minute boat trip through the mythical land of Arendelle is not worth the wait!

Winter-lovers await the first quiet snowflake. Summer-lovers await their first beach day. Moms and dads wait for doctors’ reports while comforting their sick child. Children, women, and men around the globe wait for their freedom from abuse and exploitation. My friend, Tommy, spent 8 days waiting on a boat while fleeing Communism in Vietnam. Some waiting is cruelly defined by life or death.

Waiting isn’t easy; it requires patience and perseverance both qualities I am recently lacking. I am a doer, by God’s design, not a wait-er. I want to go and do, not wait and see. Waiting is starting to freak me out. I am becoming  grumpy and fidgety. Let’s get on with it!  I don’t own a git ‘er done t-shirt but maybe I should as a visual reminder to God of my inner workings.  Nike and me: Just do it!

So here I am, anxiously waiting.  I am waiting for an answer, actually 2 answers. One answer from a lady regarding my writing. I am pretty sure what her response will be, but I am waiting to hear it in her own words. I pray she is kind.

The other response?  I am waiting on God. I am waiting for Him to tell me my purpose in life. My I-am-turning-55-and-at-a-crossroads purpose in life. You would think I would be willing to be extra patient for such an important answer, but no.  I am growing impatient with God. Sadly, my impatience is creeping toward anger. Why doesn’t God answer me? Doesn’t He hear my cries? Doesn’t He care?  I am starting to believe I am no longer a blip on God’s radar screen.

Perhaps my impatience is being fueled by a post mid-life crisis. Approaching birthday, getting older, slowing down, stepping away from ministry responsibilities, too much gray hair, too thick at the waist and other areas, too many new aches and pains. All those red flags which scream, Help me find my usefulness, my purpose in this life! Wherever I drive, speed limit signs remind me of my age and my anxiety gauge ticks up a few notches.

I know I have turned the page of a new life chapter,  but did God forget to turn the page? Is He a few chapters behind?

I need Him to show me my new path, my new game plan. What does He want me to do? How can I serve Him? I am seeking His direction, which is a good thing. But I so desperately want a map. A nice big, clear map, since my eyesight left a long time ago.  I need to know the next play.  Football players receive their next play through their helmets. I will strap on a helmet, if need be. I want to get busy for God; my hands aren’t happy idle. As these waiting days flow into each other with no answer, the grayness thickens. The darkness is getting uncomfortably close. How long will I have to wait?

When will God answer me? Not sure. Sarah spent many years in the harsh grip of childlessness while waiting on God. God’s people waited in Egypt for 400 years before hearing His response to their cries. How long did Simeon wait to see the child Jesus in the Temple? Paul waited in jail for two years before arriving in Rome.

Two requests before God and silence. The deafening kind of silence. I want answers, yesterday. I recognize my time-table is so nearsighted, so finite.  God’s time-table is beyond comprehension, certainly beyond my limited vision.

David reminds me over and over again in Psalms to wait and do so patiently.  Psalm 27:14,  Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord. Psalm 37: 7a,  Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him.

As I learn to wait, perhaps I will find God is patiently waiting for me. Is He waiting for me to become still? Is He waiting for me to start trusting Him again? Is He blessing me with time to be quiet but I am narrow-mindedly discarding it as wasted time? Is this waiting time a precious gift from my good, good Father?  Time to rest and refresh, not whine and complain. During this waiting period, I need to accept the open invitation to climb onto His lap and be close to my Heavenly Daddy. A gift of time to rest in His embrace.

Time to pull up a chair, grab a soda, and lots of chocolate. Time to wait but also time to read, pray, be still, and just enjoy Him. Maybe being in God’s waiting room isn’t so bad after all. Maybe I can learn to embrace this time and utter thank you, instead of hurry up. 

As I look around, I see I am in very good company. So many pictures of those who have passed through this same waiting room. Some waited longer than others, but all have waited. Joseph waited in a pit and prison. Job waited. Hannah waited. Father of the prodigal son waited. So many have waited and so many are still waiting. I am not alone here.

I will wait expectantly of what God will do. I will wait as He authors the next chapter in my life.

I will wait; for I know He is working.

Biblically, waiting is not just something we have to do until we get what we want. Waiting is part of the process of becoming what God wants us to be. ~ John Ortberg



open hands

With the close of the  2016 Olympics, I have my evenings back. More time to do whatever I did before the athletes paraded into my life.  No more late nights in the Olympic Zone and counting medals. This geography geek is putting her map away. FYI: Bhutan is in South Asia and has never won any medals.

I enjoyed learning tidbits about little known countries, like Burundi. Mentioned by ABC News as one of the countries with snazzy outfits, Burundi (FYI: south of Rwanda in Africa) entered the arena with each athlete wearing a traditional African attire featuring animal prints and carrying a wooden staff. They completed their look with neon  Nike shoes, combining traditional with modern. The 9 Burundi athletes returned with one medal, a nod for Best Looks, and tons of country pride.IMG_9781

Choosing to sacrifice my sleep time, I enjoyed women’s beach volleyball.  Looking beyond their ridiculously tiny uniforms, I was amazed by their athleticism on display in the big sandbox.

I noticed many of the female volleyball players stood waiting to receive a serve with open hands, palms up. The American, April ‘the Boss’ Ross would take her stance with open hands, palms up, and wiggle her fingers too. She was ready and waiting for whatever was coming her way.IMG_9780


Do I come before God with open hands, palms up, and fingers wiggling? Does my Father see me ready and willing to do His work? Does my stance convey the message, I am here and I am ready to be used by You?

Too often, I fear God sees my hands, tightly closed, like fists.  He sees me clinging to things that don’t really belong to me. I, like the selfish seagulls in the movie, Finding Nemo, declare to God, “Mine. Mine. Mine.” I foolishly and arrogantly believe all I have is mine. I am so wrong.

My family, my belongings, my life, my next breath: all from God. Everyone and everything in my life represent the blessings and perfect gifts from a loving Father.  Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17

Only open hands are ready to receive all the blessings and perfect gifts from a loving Father.  Only open hands can be used by Him to give and receive blessings. Only open hands can embrace a loved one and can reach down to pull up the fallen.  Only open hands can serve another. Only open hands can clap in praise and wipe away tears.

The open hand is blessed, for it gives in abundance as it receives. ~ Biddy Mason.

 Only open hands are ready to return a wicked volleyball serve as the beach volleyball players demonstrated.

What can I do with open hands? When offered in love,  everything!

Then, with a wink in His eye, I will hear my Heavenly Father say, “Mine.”




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