I have entirely too much time that I am not putting to good use. I procrastinate. There are things to be done but I need this extra push to get started.
Going to go to my Mom's this weekend.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Faith
Sept. 28, 2005
My Struggles Are About Him
by Max Lucado
What about your struggles? Is there any chance, any possibility, that you have
been selected to struggle for God's glory? Have you "been granted for Christ's
sake, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for Him, but also to suffer
for His sake" (Philippians 1:29)?
Here is a clue. Do your prayers seem to be unanswered? What you request and
what you receive aren't matching up? Don't think God is not listening. Indeed he
is. He may have higher plans.
Here is another. Are people strengthened by your struggles? A friend of mine can
answer yes. His cancer was consuming more than his body; it was eating away at
his faith. Unanswered petitions perplexed him. Well-meaning Christians confused
him. "If you have faith," they said, "you will be healed."
No healing came. Just more chemo, nausea, and questions. He assumed the fault
was a small faith. I suggested another answer. "It's not about you," I told
him. "Your hospital room is a showcase for your Maker. Your faith in the face
of suffering cranks up the volume of God's song."
Oh, that you could have seen the relief on his face. To know that he hadn't
failed God and God hadn't failed him-this made all the difference. Seeing his
sickness in the scope of God's sovereign plan gave his condition a sense of
dignity. He accepted his cancer as an assignment from heaven: a missionary to
the cancer ward.
A week later I saw him again. "I reflected God," he said, smiling through a thin
face, "to the nurse, the doctors, my friends. Who knows who needed to see God,
but I did my best to make him seen."
Bingo. His cancer paraded the power of Jesus down the Main Street of his world.
God will use whatever he wants to display his glory. Heavens and stars. History
and nations. People and problems.
Rather than begrudge your problem, explore it. Ponder it. And most of all, use
it. Use it to the glory of God.
Through your problems and mine, may God be seen.
The above is from one of my devotional readings but I believe it originated in Max Lucado's book "It's Not About You". It is once again a reminder to me to stop looking at what is going on around me and keep my focus on Jesus.
I see my home situation gradually returning to what it once was. I am not the same person I was so some of my reactions and feelings are different but mostly I need to be reminded that it is not about me. It is about God and His glory.
Help me Lord to be who you want me to be. Thank you for being faithful to me even when I walk away from you.
My Struggles Are About Him
by Max Lucado
What about your struggles? Is there any chance, any possibility, that you have
been selected to struggle for God's glory? Have you "been granted for Christ's
sake, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for Him, but also to suffer
for His sake" (Philippians 1:29)?
Here is a clue. Do your prayers seem to be unanswered? What you request and
what you receive aren't matching up? Don't think God is not listening. Indeed he
is. He may have higher plans.
Here is another. Are people strengthened by your struggles? A friend of mine can
answer yes. His cancer was consuming more than his body; it was eating away at
his faith. Unanswered petitions perplexed him. Well-meaning Christians confused
him. "If you have faith," they said, "you will be healed."
No healing came. Just more chemo, nausea, and questions. He assumed the fault
was a small faith. I suggested another answer. "It's not about you," I told
him. "Your hospital room is a showcase for your Maker. Your faith in the face
of suffering cranks up the volume of God's song."
Oh, that you could have seen the relief on his face. To know that he hadn't
failed God and God hadn't failed him-this made all the difference. Seeing his
sickness in the scope of God's sovereign plan gave his condition a sense of
dignity. He accepted his cancer as an assignment from heaven: a missionary to
the cancer ward.
A week later I saw him again. "I reflected God," he said, smiling through a thin
face, "to the nurse, the doctors, my friends. Who knows who needed to see God,
but I did my best to make him seen."
Bingo. His cancer paraded the power of Jesus down the Main Street of his world.
God will use whatever he wants to display his glory. Heavens and stars. History
and nations. People and problems.
Rather than begrudge your problem, explore it. Ponder it. And most of all, use
it. Use it to the glory of God.
Through your problems and mine, may God be seen.
The above is from one of my devotional readings but I believe it originated in Max Lucado's book "It's Not About You". It is once again a reminder to me to stop looking at what is going on around me and keep my focus on Jesus.
I see my home situation gradually returning to what it once was. I am not the same person I was so some of my reactions and feelings are different but mostly I need to be reminded that it is not about me. It is about God and His glory.
Help me Lord to be who you want me to be. Thank you for being faithful to me even when I walk away from you.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Be still, My child, and know that I am God!
Wait thou patiently—I know the path you trod.
So falter not, nor fear, nor think to run and hide,
For I, thy hope and strength, am waiting by thy side. —Hein
If we have hope, we can go on.
Life is full of challenges. I have found over the years that what has occurred before is a building ground so that each new situation you face has the advantage of past experiences.
I am not who I want to be, I am not what I am going to be but thank God I am not what I used to be.
Kelli is in for the weekend. Just the nights actually. In a little bit I hope to start cleaning my windows--fall cleaning. The weather is just right for it. Nice and cool. But first I think I will take a short nap--it is Saturday and I can choose my schedule.
Blessings to all who may read this.
Wait thou patiently—I know the path you trod.
So falter not, nor fear, nor think to run and hide,
For I, thy hope and strength, am waiting by thy side. —Hein
If we have hope, we can go on.
Life is full of challenges. I have found over the years that what has occurred before is a building ground so that each new situation you face has the advantage of past experiences.
I am not who I want to be, I am not what I am going to be but thank God I am not what I used to be.
Kelli is in for the weekend. Just the nights actually. In a little bit I hope to start cleaning my windows--fall cleaning. The weather is just right for it. Nice and cool. But first I think I will take a short nap--it is Saturday and I can choose my schedule.
Blessings to all who may read this.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Why Me?
Why Me?
Read:
Luke 17:11-19
One of them, when he saw that he was healed, returned, and with a loud voice glorified God. —Luke 17:15
Bible In One Year: Ezekiel 31-33
A few years ago, an unkempt, poorly adjusted youth named Tim (not his real name) was converted to Christ in an evangelistic crusade. Several days later, still unkempt but bathed in the love of Christ, he was sent to my home so that I could help him find a good church. And so it was that he began attending with me.
Though Tim needed and received much loving help in personal grooming and basic social graces, one characteristic has remained unchanged—his untamed love for his Savior.
One Sunday after church Tim rushed to my side, looking somewhat perplexed. He exclaimed, "Why me? I keep asking myself, why me?" Oh, no, I thought, he's become another complaining Christian. Then with arms outstretched, he went on to say, "Out of all the people in the world who are greater and smarter than I am, why did God choose me?" With that he joyfully clapped his hands.
Over the years I've heard many Christians, including myself, ask "Why me?" during tough times. But Tim is the first one I've heard ask that question when talking about God's blessings. Many were converted the same night as Tim, but I wonder how many among them have humbly asked, "Why me?" May we ask it often. —Joanie Yoder
I know not why God's wondrous grace
To me He hath made known;
Nor why, unworthy, Christ in love
Redeemed me for His own. —Whittle
Gratitude should be a continuous attitude.
The above is from Our Daily Bread devotional. Lately what has kept coming to mind is that it is important what I allow to come into my mind--through my eyes, my hearing etc. It reminds of the little children's song that we used to sing in children's church--Oh be careful little eyes what you see... There is so much out there to influence and confuse--I have a choice what I allow to influence me. It is important for me to remember that this is not "IT". This is only a small blip in time compared to eternity. To remember who God is and be in awe of Him. Oh Lord thank you for allowing me to have glimpses of who you are and to feel your presence.
Read:
Luke 17:11-19
One of them, when he saw that he was healed, returned, and with a loud voice glorified God. —Luke 17:15
Bible In One Year: Ezekiel 31-33
A few years ago, an unkempt, poorly adjusted youth named Tim (not his real name) was converted to Christ in an evangelistic crusade. Several days later, still unkempt but bathed in the love of Christ, he was sent to my home so that I could help him find a good church. And so it was that he began attending with me.
Though Tim needed and received much loving help in personal grooming and basic social graces, one characteristic has remained unchanged—his untamed love for his Savior.
One Sunday after church Tim rushed to my side, looking somewhat perplexed. He exclaimed, "Why me? I keep asking myself, why me?" Oh, no, I thought, he's become another complaining Christian. Then with arms outstretched, he went on to say, "Out of all the people in the world who are greater and smarter than I am, why did God choose me?" With that he joyfully clapped his hands.
Over the years I've heard many Christians, including myself, ask "Why me?" during tough times. But Tim is the first one I've heard ask that question when talking about God's blessings. Many were converted the same night as Tim, but I wonder how many among them have humbly asked, "Why me?" May we ask it often. —Joanie Yoder
I know not why God's wondrous grace
To me He hath made known;
Nor why, unworthy, Christ in love
Redeemed me for His own. —Whittle
Gratitude should be a continuous attitude.
The above is from Our Daily Bread devotional. Lately what has kept coming to mind is that it is important what I allow to come into my mind--through my eyes, my hearing etc. It reminds of the little children's song that we used to sing in children's church--Oh be careful little eyes what you see... There is so much out there to influence and confuse--I have a choice what I allow to influence me. It is important for me to remember that this is not "IT". This is only a small blip in time compared to eternity. To remember who God is and be in awe of Him. Oh Lord thank you for allowing me to have glimpses of who you are and to feel your presence.
Monday, September 12, 2005
the room
The ROOM
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote.." It also was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them-notes from classmates and teachers,his homework.
Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life.. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr Moore said.
Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him."
Brian's Essay: The Room...
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A fi le! named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature
When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.
I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and bu rn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it.. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide th e key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.
No, please not Him. Not here... Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.
He seemed to intuit ively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card fr om Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side...
He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."-Phil. 4:13 "For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you can so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours?
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote.." It also was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them-notes from classmates and teachers,his homework.
Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life.. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr Moore said.
Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.
The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him."
Brian's Essay: The Room...
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A fi le! named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature
When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.
I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and bu rn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it.. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide th e key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.
No, please not Him. Not here... Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.
He seemed to intuit ively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card fr om Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side...
He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."-Phil. 4:13 "For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you can so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours?
It's as though a sinister stranger comes knocking on your door. You must let him in, for he knocks insistently and will not go away. He is sorrow personified.
You believe no one sees your tears and you feel all alone—but God sees them and He understands. "All night I make my bed swim; I drench my couch with my tears," David said in Psalm 6. "The Lord has heard the voice of my weeping" (vv.6,8). "You number my wanderings; put my tears into Your bottle; are they not in Your book?" (56:8). Though "weeping may endure for a night," it is a transient houseguest, for "joy comes in the morning" (30:5).
We remember, as David did, that God's love and favor last for a lifetime. He has promised never to leave us nor forsake us. When God's love comes into our thoughts, our feelings of sorrow and dread flee. Our mourning is turned into dancing, our garments of sackcloth and sorrow are stripped away and we are girded with gladness. We can rise to greet the day with shouts of ringing praise for His mercy, guidance, and protection. We rejoice in His holy name (30:11-12).
No matter our circumstances, let's sing to the Lord once again! —David Roper
Praise is the voice of a soul set free.
Although there is much we have no control over----our soul can soar despite what is going on around us.
You believe no one sees your tears and you feel all alone—but God sees them and He understands. "All night I make my bed swim; I drench my couch with my tears," David said in Psalm 6. "The Lord has heard the voice of my weeping" (vv.6,8). "You number my wanderings; put my tears into Your bottle; are they not in Your book?" (56:8). Though "weeping may endure for a night," it is a transient houseguest, for "joy comes in the morning" (30:5).
We remember, as David did, that God's love and favor last for a lifetime. He has promised never to leave us nor forsake us. When God's love comes into our thoughts, our feelings of sorrow and dread flee. Our mourning is turned into dancing, our garments of sackcloth and sorrow are stripped away and we are girded with gladness. We can rise to greet the day with shouts of ringing praise for His mercy, guidance, and protection. We rejoice in His holy name (30:11-12).
No matter our circumstances, let's sing to the Lord once again! —David Roper
Praise is the voice of a soul set free.
Although there is much we have no control over----our soul can soar despite what is going on around us.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Back from a great "mini" vacation to Columbus. The weather was perfect and everything went well. The zoo was beautiful--so much to see. The trip to Easton ended too quickly--lots of stores to check out--there is always next time. It was great to see how well Mark is doing and I enjoyed visiting with the people from the community.
Went back to work today rested and anticipating a full workload.
One of my readings for the day:
Went back to work today rested and anticipating a full workload.
One of my readings for the day:
Sept. 7, 2005
A Good Heart, But...
By Max Lucado
(Scene-Sunday A.M. assembly; silent prayer)
Max: God, I want to do great things.
God: You do?
Max: You bet! I want to teach millions! I want to fill the Rose Bowl! I want all
of the world to know your saving power! I dream of the day-
God: That's great, Max. In fact, I can use you today after church.
Max: Super! How about some radio and TV work or ... or ... or an engagement to
speak to Congress?
God: Well, that's not exactly what I had in mind. See that fellow sitting next
to you?
Max: Yes.
God: He needs a ride home.
Max (quietly): What?
God: He needs a ride home. And while you're at it, one of the older ladies
sitting near you is worried about getting a refrigerator moved. Why don't you
drop by this afternoon and-
Max (pleading): But, God, what about the world?
God (smiling): Think about it.
It's the little things in life that are important.
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