Polyester Pants and Perfectly Feathered Hair

It was time.

The hot Louisiana summer days would now melt into miserably sticky school days.   

Middle school.

 Jr. High as we called it back in the day.

Yeah, eons ago. When 6th grade was part of elementary school.

I was filled with a kinda sorta happy-sad-scared-excited-worried-nervous energy.

I had ridden the same bus. I think it was bus #6. I always sat close to the center and slid in next to the window. Not because the bus would be full by the time we got to school. More because it was the best place to see how close our bus driver got to hitting signs and street light poles while turning tight corners. Mere centimeters. No kidding! That close!

There I sat, in my polyester stretchy knit pants and my perfectly feathered hair. Don't laugh, if you had been on that bus that day you would have sported the same stylish look.

The bus pulled in and kids were everywhere. Old friends who had missed each other over the long summer break were gathered together in small frenzied circles. That's right, missed each other. This was back when phones were cemented to the wall and you had to push seven numbers to make a call. Facebook was not even a glimmer in Mark Zuckerberg's eye...Mark Zuckerberg was not yet even a glimmer in his parents eyes...

I'm not sure why I did it.

The fear of the coming monsoon of algebraic formulas that my mind was not wired to understand?

The anxiety over switching classes...finding new rooms in a new school filled with new teachers?

There's really no explaining it.

I stood at my middle-of-the-bus seat.

Stepped into the aisle and walked toward the door.

Arrived at the top step and looked out at all the kids.

And I did it.

I jumped.

Yupp, I jumped.

Having totally not thought this through, I miscalculated my height and how high I jumped and how low the roof of the bus was...

BAM!

I hit my head on the top edge of the bus door and landed on my heals in the pea gravel surrounding the circle where the buses parked. I can still hear the swooshing sound of all those little rocks as they scattered under me as I landed on my butt and careened to a devastating stop.

The rest is a blur of little tweeting birdies circling my head and muffled laughter.

At that moment I had no idea just how lucky I was.

This was the pre-cell phone era.

The time in history when no stupid thing we did was recorded for all the world to see. It was that golden age when we would sit for hours with our cassette recorder near the radio waiting to hear our favorite Bay City Rollers song so we could push record/play and pray fervently that our bratty little siblings wouldn't burst into the room and ruin our prize.

I know, you're wondering when I will get to the point of this story.

That moment in my life is etched in my memory, but I dare say my friends who watched the painful spectacle unfold that day...and laughed with the rest of the crowd...don't even remember it.

That morning I was so sure my career in Jr. High was over the very day it began. I just knew this impetuous leap would follow me into High School and I would be forever known as THAT girl.

Decades later, I am here at my computer, and the poetic words of Psalm 103 are playing in my heart. My shame, transgressions, sins, stupidity--God took them and tossed them as far as the east is from the west. As far as the sunrise is from the sunset.

There is no record of that morning and there is no record of my lifetime of sin.

The moment I sought forgiveness for my sins and asked Jesus to be my Savior He gathered up all the garbage in my soul and tossed it out.

God is grace and mercy. God is rich in love. God's love is ever and always present. He doesn't treat me as I deserve to be treated. He has separated me from my sins.

My point? Your past mistakes, years ago or yesterday, don't define you when you are God's child. Don't allow the enemy (or people) to pound you with them. They are pea gravel under your feet.

That girl in the polyester pants and perfectly feathered hair--yeah, that's me.

His grace covers me.

 

 

 

 

Bullet Points

Have you noticed the rise in devotion and Bible curriculums that promise little time investment with great return? You know, the "Sunday School Lessons in a Minute" and "Daily Devotions on the Move" kinds of things?


They try to appeal to busy people whose days are packed with deadlines, appointments, and multiple schedules. I'm pretty sure most of us fall into that category. We rush to complete one task so we can get to the next. Our checklist grows almost as if it were a living, breathing creature of sorts. In fact, with as much as you have to accomplish today, I am glad you are using a few of your minutes to read this blog.


As writers, we've been told that people don't want long paragraphs. They want

• Bullet
• Points
• And
• Short
• Easy reading
• Snippets

I can't argue with it. If I discover lengthy discourses when I scan an article or flip through a book my interest level plummets. I will

• Pass
• Skip
• Put it down
• Scroll on

Technology, McDonalds, Readers Digest, and multi-vitamins have all taught us we can have it our way with little investment in time and energy.

When I open my Bible, it communicates the opposite. God says

• Be still
• Linger on His precepts
• Don't be satisfied with milk
• Rest in Him
• Pay attention 

 

I am certain God's plan for His kids is one of depth and strength through time spent with Him. He never meant for us to be a mile wide and an inch deep in our devotion or service.


I've looked. There is not a single bullet point in my Bible. I don't want to be a shallow believer. The storms of life pop up unexpectedly. I want to be deeply rooted so when the

• Wind blows fiercely
• The waters rise rapidly
• The sun's heat scorches

I will be found faithful and productive for His glory. Bullet points in my devotion? I think I'll scroll on.

Heart Matters

She was in 6th grade.

She wore a 70's halter top and shorts.

Her hair was not brushed.

There was dirt on her face.

She lived in the mobile home park nearby and had walked over.

And she met me at the entrance of the church.

I was 17 and taught the 4-6 grade Sunday School class at First Baptist Church, Reserve Louisiana.

I was happy to see her but fear ran through me.

What will everyone think if she goes into church looking like that? Maybe I should send her home to clean up, change clothes and put some shoes on.

She was so glad to be there.

Mr. Bill walked out and I hurried over to him.

"What should I do?" I said in a hushed voice. My back was to her and she couldn't hear me.

He was confused. "Do about what?"

"Her. What she's wearing. She's here for church."

He looked at me in a fatherly way and gently said, "God doesn't care what she's wearing. He cares about her heart. Invite her in."

A wave of relief washed over me, followed by shame. Relief to have permission to walk in with her. Shame that the truth  of the matter was I really cared more about what people would think of me than what they thought of her.

We walked in together and she attended Sunday School.

This is the church where I had given my heart to Jesus just a couple of short years earlier.  The church where God healed my spiritual blindness and allowed me to see my own sin and a beautiful glimpse of His perfect love. The church where our youth group was a family and our Sunday School teacher allowed us to be imperfect as we learned and grew. Mr. Ed laughed with us as he taught us.

 Not too many Sunday's after that memorable Sunday, I married the pastor of that small, precious church.

This is the church where I learned to serve God by giving the gifts He gave me back to Him to use as He saw fit.

This is the church where I learned more about His mercy, grace, love and presence through the loss of two babies through miscarriages.

This is the church where I began to learn the act of forgiveness as church folks aren't always the kindest people towards their pastor and his family.

This is the church where God planted the seeds of dreams in my heart and longings in my soul. The thought of seeing them become reality in my life scared me terribly.

This is the church where He laid a foundation on which He is building a memorial to His faithfulness through a lifetime of joys and sorrows.

Fast forward more than 35 years. I am still learning. I still have my judgmental moments; those times when I assume I know more than I do. You know, that instant shake of the head or click of the tongue over someone else's behavior.  Then comes the shame. Feeling so embarrassed over my own piety, or the true lack of it.

And I often hear Mr. Bill's words as God uses them even now, as if I heard them yesterday. I hear God remind me to be kind and unassuming towards others; He's still working on them. And He's still working on me.   

God really is concerned with the heart.  

 

I Can't Wait to Go to Camp!

Who is in my cabin?

When do we eat?

What are we gonna eat?

That was so fun!

Are we going to ride horses?

When do we eat?

Why do we worship so many times?

Can we sing Gorilla Man Gun?

Do you have a Band-Aid?

Can I ring the dinner bell?

We need more time to work on our skit.

My counselors are awesome!

Pastor Tim is funny!

When do we eat?

Does the Bible really say that?

I'm not going to play those kind of video games anymore.

Thank you Pastor Tim.

I asked Jesus into my heart last night.

I wish camp was another night.

Can I come back as a counselor?

 

And as I walk through the dining hall on Thursday nights after the kids have all gone back to their cabins for devotions, I glance down at the booklets we give them for taking notes when Pastor Tim is teaching. Some have been left open. I smile because not only are these kids taking notes, they are "getting it." They scribble in the margins, not a bunch of squiggly lines and curly Q's, but things they are going to do God's way instead of their own way because of what they have learned.

I thank God for Long View Ranch, Pastor Tim, our super counselors, and a generous church family that provides scholarship money for kids who can't afford camp. I thank God for the kids, each excited face and hyper-active little human being that has been entrusted to me these short days. I thank God for the parents and caregiver the kids will go home to on Friday morning. I wonder how God will use what the kids have learned in the lives of their families...

And I'm just like the kids. Do we have to go home tomorrow? Let's stay just one more night!

The Reality of It All


Some people think it's all about games.
Others believe it's about fun.
Countless, no doubt, are sure it is the cookies and Kool-Aid.
Many rely on their memories, going back 30, 40, 50 plus years. They recall the stand-up and sit-down chords and smile.


My memories of Vacation Bible School include a peanut butter and baloney sandwich in a paper sack lunch. I don't even have to close my eyes to feel the warm Minnesota sun on  my face, feel the rock on the back of my legs as we sat along a rock wall with our food, and taste that sandwich my mother made. I wouldn't eat it today, but in my memory it tastes like love.


It is here that I first heard Behold I stand at the door and knock and it is here that I felt God's love through the words, hands, and actions of people that didn't even know me. It was in that Lutheran church basement that my young heart felt sadness and responsibility as I heard what people did to Jesus.


Fast forward and I get to play a part in this amazing week each summer. Most of it is extreme fun. One very important part, however, is difficult.


How can a person peel back the layers of games, fun, and cookies & Kool-Aid in the memories of most adults in the church pew? How does one help them see the reality of it all?


Each year, when it's time for folks to volunteer, the number of people saying "Call me if you get desperate" increases. These are wonderful people, they just aren't thinking of the reality of it all.


I am not desperate. The children are. The children and their families are desperate and they don't even know it. Many church kids are desperate because they are growing up without the memory of Bible school--they are in sports camps all summer. The kids in our communities are desperate because they have adults in their lives who only use the name of Jesus in a curse word. They are desperate because they have never heard how special they are to God. The reality of it all is Hell celebrates while Christians rest.


Wonderful, sweet Christian people are missing out on the opportunity to give of their time so that children who have never heard that Jesus lived a sinless life, died for each one of us and came back to life so we can have a relationship with Him that leads to peace while we are on earth and an eternity in heaven.


I am not the one to cause folks to see the urgency of this open door in the lives of kids. That's up to the Holy Spirit. Sometimes it's hard for  me to trust Him and I want to run ahead of Him.


We haven't used those stand -up/sit-down chords in a long time. God's love hasn't changed and the gospel hasn't changed. And all summer children, who have never heard, will enter churches all over America and there will be people waiting who know the reality of it all.


I'm so thankful someone took the time to teach me all those years ago.


I pray you see the reality of it all.