Picking the perfect Mother’s Day card has always been a challenge for me. I can spend hours at the card shop reading sentiments like You’ve been the best influence ever or You’re my best friend. These thoughts are beautiful and touch my heart, but don’t come close to the relationship I have with my mother.
Forgiveness is a powerful thing. Consider what could happen if we practice it more.
All I wanted from our server was for him to tell us what the specials were, to make a few recommendations, and then bring us our food, quickly and hotly (is that a word?). Instead, he seemed offended at everything, recommended nothing—except that we go somewhere else—and then brought us the wrong food, slowly and coldly. When I complained, he said he’d had it with my attitude. Ahem, my attitude?
A few months later, I told our new roommate my “waiter from hell” story, thinking it might serve as an icebreaker. It didn’t. Dave paid his rent on time, did his dishes, and respected the house rules. In return, all he asked was to not be probed with churlish personal questions like, “Hello.”
When someone is moody I have to know why. It’s probably equal parts snoopiness and compassion, but whatever it is I keep at it. So I kept at Dave…
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Stories of people with broken spirits are threaded throughout the scriptures. Elijah wanting to die (1 Kings 19). The widow with the last of her olive oil (2 Kings 4). The woman the issue of blood (Luke 8:40-47). Even Jesus wept, asking His Heavenly Father to take the cup He needed to drink from him (Luke 22:39-45).
Turning to God for help made the difference, and it makes the difference for us. Here’s a short poll for those how have a favorite go to scripture to get them through dark times. I know I have mine own. But I want to hear yours!
I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1 (KJV)
For those of you that read Michelle Count’s post, Nothing to do with Baseball from May 19, 2015, you will remember she survived the brain surgery. Here’s a followup on her story.
Funny, even my own neurosurgeon said it would take a miracle to bring me through my surgery. But if you’re like me, it is sometimes through our greatest struggles that we feel Christ the most. I think this experience has left me with a gratefulness I will never be able to repay. It has been three years since my surgery and with every passing month I feel stronger. As I reflect on this experience I realize how important my faith is to me.
Recently my husband was reading from one of our bibles. He asked me, “Do you remember the date July 14th in the early 1980’s?” Continue reading
Would you be bold enough to challenge God with your life? Helen Bancroft did in Lori Roeleveld’s, Red Pen Redemption.
It’s a story of Helen’s self-justification and self-indulgence. She is both hero and villain. I loved her and hated her. I wanted to reach through the pages and shake her by her shoulders, then I wanted to hug her close to protect her. Ironically, it wasn’t until I was closing into the end of the story that I realized I had seen myself—my own life—reflected in parts of this story.
Roeleveld’s use of scripture soothed, guided, and enticed me as a reader. She also expertly offered example after example how Helen tried to look God in the proverbial face, only to blink and turn away. Just as I had tried in the past, and if you dare to read this, you may see yourself, too.
I rarely give five stars ratings. I think five-stars are reserved for mothers to give their children. But this book has what it takes to change lives. A tall order for a piece of fiction. Lori Roeleveld’s, Red Pen Redemption is slated to be a beloved Christmas Season staple for years to come.
Even though my family of origin was pretty dysfunctional, one of my favorite pastimes when I’m feeling a bit low is to remember stories about my dad and how he honored my feelings and held them close to his heart.
I always jumped at the chance to be with Dad in his room—the Gun Room. It was a treat to steal away with him when he went upstairs to his room. He kept guns, cameras, family photos and film equipment, and special sentimental pieces from his childhood there. I am certain he kept us out for our own protection when it came to the guns. We were all told the only time we were allowed to go in there by ourselves was if the house was on fire and we could safely get the family’s 8mm films out and save them from being destroyed. Other than that, the Gun Room was strictly off limits. Whenever I saw him in there, I would beg to join him. And he always obliged. While he worked away on whatever project he was concentrating on, I looked around his private sanctuary with marvel. I would fold my arms behind my back holding tightly on to my wrists, just to make sure I did not touch anything. I did not want to run the risk of inadvertently grabbing for something and causing harm.
I felt the clamminess of my palms as I rang her doorbell. She and I had been friends years ago, but the choices I had made now separated us. Would she entertain rekindling a relationship with me again?
I went to her house to tell her I was sorry for doing the things I had done—that I hoped she could forgive me for all my foolishness and sinful behavior. I wanted to tell her I realized I hadn’t taken into consideration how others would be affected by my actions. That I had made a real mess of things—my life. I wanted to say I was sorry.
I wanted to tell her there was good news! I had learned from my mistakes. I had turned the corner. I was on the way to becoming the person God intended me to be. I had hoped she’d be happy for me. I thought she’d celebrate a Prodigal Daughter finding her way back home.
That’s what I thought. But I was wrong.