Unprepared

Opera House Red and that's just her living room walls (until her husband makes her paint it). Kim's got more color in her life than a fruit salad, mixed in glorious chaos with elegance, wit, perseverance and unshakeable conviction. She doesn't like to talk about integrity because she's too busy living it. She's passionate, obstinate, and sometimes sounds like Whoopie Goldberg on truth serum. I've loved her dearly for nearly thirty years. Read her own blog: Mountain Home Companion, but today enjoy her guest post here:

Ordinarily I find my monthly reminder of the curse bearable. I know what to expect. A couple days of irritability and depression and the strong urge to cry, probably a day of really bad cramping followed by a lightening of mood that is nearly euphoric because it follows hard upon such a depressive low. Generally I manage not to act out too much because I know what to expect and I know the feelings are hormonal, and thus are a magnification of small disappointments, hurts and sorrows. I deal by keeping my mouth shut and warning people when I am on edge a bit, and by apologizing a lot when I over-react. This past week I found myself floundering, not because anything was that terrible, but because my expectations weren’t met. Guys may age with thinning hair or an ever-increasing forehead, and I’m sure some of what they go through stinks, but I find the hormonal changes at this early age unexpected and really annoying.

This month, for added fun, the cramping and depressive mood hung on for days. Five very long days. Ask anyone in my house. It was a very long week. Oh not the first day, which I expected, but when the expected mood lightening didn’t happen, and I never felt that wonderful lift in spirits I have come to expect over the last several months, I gave in to the black mood. I had geared myself up for a short sprint and used up my strength, having no idea that this was going to be a cross-country run.

I would love to tell you that I turned to the Lord and allowed him to empower me with his strength, but I didn’t. Even the wonderful joy I experience being part of the worship team, and the excitement and pleasure in singing praises to God didn’t reach the deep level of exhaustion and weariness. One day this week, finally realizing that I could not continue as I was, I headed out to a friend’s house several miles and a world away. When I called to ask if I could come I heard the hesitation in her voice, but then she said “If you don’t mind if I work.” She had to give haircuts to 13 of her 50 goats, the ones she is showing at the Boulder County Fair this coming weekend.

I rushed home to change into clothes that can get stinky, dirty, and torn without causing me any distress and headed out. It was mid-afternoon and I had put in several work hours already, but had been relatively unproductive. It was a hot, humid afternoon, and the barn smelled of goats, hay, manure, and sweat. Not a bad smell, but earthy.

For the next several hours I swatted flies away as I watched my friend shave one goat after the other in the sweltering barn. We were able to catch up a bit, and in the sharing, the heat, the sweat, the animals, and the fresh, albeit “earthy”, air, running the goats out to pasture for a bit, watching them feed, petting, playing, and having several goats chewing on the hem of my shirt, my good humor returned.

The tension and anxiety I’ve felt building lately, that had only gotten worse with my monthly visitor, was washed away, and I slept better than I have in ages. Even tramping through a field of ragweed and the headache that followed didn’t dampen the effects of simply being with my friend in her simple but hard-working life.

Today I find myself thinking about Elijah, who had his time of discouragement just after God has done a mighty work through him against the prophets of Baal. In a very public triumph, God showed himself powerfully, but upon the completion of that task, and after watching God do mightily, Elijah showed his human weakness. But God did not scorn him, he cared for him and sent ministers to him, revealing himself in a still small voice. There is such comfort to me in my own times of weakness and depression in how God treated Elijah. Were there recriminations? No. There was restoration for body and spirit.

Okay, I know that dealing with the monthlies is not the same as battling the prophets of Baal and their wicked queen, but we battle many things in this life that are discouraging and try to sap our spirit. For me it is physical disability, financial distress, family discord, and sometimes just the feeling that I am very alone in this world with few to understand me. It may be spiritual warfare, lack of visible improvement in situations we pray for, whatever. Perhaps for you it is the daily battle to remain true and upright in a godless workplace, trying to stand for righteousness without being self-righteous, being gracious in a graceless society, or living out grace and mercy in a church that preaches it but doesn’t live it. Perhaps your family doesn’t share your faith, so you are constantly being tugged in two directions. Perhaps you are raising kids on your own after the man/woman to whom you pledged your life walked out the door. Perhaps you are mourning the loss of a loved one. Perhaps you are dealing with your own failures, bad choices, missteps and misdeeds. Or perhaps, like Elijah, you have just come through a time of seeing God work mightily through you, and now that the work is done and you have come down off the mountain, normal life is overwhelming you and depression

Perhaps your restoring time won’t be on a goat farm, but I pray that you will have that time. It can be alone with God, where his simple presence heals and restores your spirit or it can be when you are with someone who shares your faith and lets you fall on your face without judgment. Perhaps it will be simply being with those who believe in the God who cares and who can remind you that even when life is at its worst that you are loved. May you have your time of restoration.

Blessings on your head.

Sterling Silver

Julie is at once the most gentle and unassuming, quietly courageous person I know. We've prayed mountains together for five years. You can read Julie's own blog
Truth, Justice and the American Way, but today I asked her to guest-post on Living From Her Heart.

Some people might say he shouldn’t have been born. His mother is confined to a wheelchair, abandoned by the man who got her pregnant. With no father to provide and a disabled mom, what kind of future could this child possibly have? Quite likely, he would grow up in poverty. And think of the burden he would be to his mother—not to mention society. Wouldn’t it be kinder just to abort him?

But his mother made a life-giving choice, and Sterling came into the world. The first time I saw him, he was in diapers. When his mom turned her back, he opened a drawer filled with kitchen knives and had the sharpest and longest one in his hand. I was ready to yank it out of his grasp, but my husband knelt down behind him. Gently putting his arms around the two-year-old, Alex said in a soft, sing-song tone, “Sterling, be a good boy and give me the knife.” Disaster was averted as Sterling relinquished his prize.

Today, Sterling is eight. His attraction for kitchen knives has matured into a full-fledged passion for swords. “Let’s play sword fight!” Sterling would say to Alex whenever he saw us coming out of our house. Over the years, I’ve watched the two of them play catch, build snowmen, hunt for frogs, and curl up in front of the TV watching movies about—you guessed it—sword-fighting swashbucklers.

Although his last name isn’t really “silver,” I like to call him that because of what he has meant to us over the years. We met him and his mom after leaving a gospel tract on their doorstep, inviting them to our church for Easter. We included our phone number, and she invited us over to get acquainted. Although attending church would be difficult because of her disability, she agreed to study the Book of John with us in her home. We also introduced her to our church family, who welcomed her into their lives.

While in first grade, Sterling told his mother he wanted to go to church, so she arranged for the local Salvation Army to take him to their children’s service. But Sterling had never gotten on a bus by himself, and when the church bus arrived, he was too scared to get on. When his mom told us what happened, we knew this was a God-sized opportunity. “We’ll take him to our church,” we said.

This became a weekly ritual that included a visit to McDonalds or the park afterwards. As we watched Sterling play with other children, we saw him develop godly character traits and a heart for the weak. One day, a group of siblings from another ethnic group wouldn’t let him play ball with them, and he gently chided them, “You should share.” Moments later, their younger brother, a toddler, lost his grasp on the ball, and it rolled away. The boy started crying, and Sterling retrieved the ball and gave it back to him. The children’s parents were visibly moved.

One of our most treasured memories from our days with Sterling was when he accompanied us on the Walk for Life for the local crisis pregnancy center. His mom informed us that he had signed up for event at church, but she felt uncomfortable with his participation because she’s pro-choice. When she tried to talk him out of it, Sterling said, “But Mom—it’s for babies.” She was at a loss

I assured her that the proceeds for the walk would be used to help unwed mothers and their little ones, so she agreed to let him go. Sterling has no idea of the political ramifications surrounding a walk for life; he only knows he loves babies.

And he knows the love of his Heavenly Father, even though his earthly father rejected him. In his school journal he has written volumes about the love of God, saying things like, “God is my friend.” An assignment for school asked Sterling to write about a boy who was happy. He wrote, “My name is Sterling, and I’m happy because Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so!”

Since we moved to another part of town, we don’t see Sterling as much as we used to, and he doesn’t seem interested in going to church anymore. But we know that God brought him into our lives for a reason, if only for a brief season. We stay in touch with his mother, who now has a hand-operated van that a believer donated to her. Our prayer is that someday, she will drive into the church parking lot with Sterling next to her.

Meanwhile, Alex and I pray that the seeds we planted in their lives will blossom and bear much fruit for the Kingdom.

Oh, I Wish I Was in Dixie!

When I was nearly six, my family drove from British Columbia to Georgia. I had left Georgia at the age of 11 months and learned to walk on the boat en route to Tokyo. So on that first trip back, I really couldn't remember Dixie much less the "old times there ne'er forgotten." Nevertheless I belted out "Dixie" mile after thousands of irritating miles, much to the annoyance of my elder siblings and parents. I thought this would be a good time to teach that song to my kids now as we undertake the ol' familiar sojourn to my Southern roots and family. Irritating one's parents OR children on road trips is a time-hallowed tradition.

Among other family reunions, with my co-worker Karen's permission to do this without her in attendance, I plan to hold a meeting of the Pastor Luke Fan Club, Southern Division, at Jim 'n Nick's BBQ.

And Pastor Denny, I will wave as I drive by. Maybe another trip we can do lunch in Wichita!

You know, I think people are amazing, and my friends are amazing. Few things make me happier than sharing my friends with my other friends. While I am away, please welcome some of my nearest and dearest, old friends and new, who will be guest-posting on both my blogs, Living From My Heart and Healing School.

I guarantee you will be blessed.

Spring Fever Colorado-Style

Warmer weather affects us Coloradans in a variety of ways. One day, not so long ago, the conversation went like this:

“I’ve got some Black Angus heifers.”

“Oh? You going to rent pastureland down in Alamosa?”

“No, I’m putting some electric fence up behind the house.”

“But you live on the side of a hill!”

“It’s OK, cattle can pick their way up a steep slope.”

“So when will you get them?

“They’re here already. They’re in the Great Danes’ kennel until I get them up the hill.”

“OK, I'm afraid to ask - where are the Great Danes?”

“In the cattle trailer – where else?”

“And how will you get the heifers up the hill?”


(The hill slopes on a 45 degree angle, full of boulders, pine and scrub, interspersed with cactus and yuccas. If it had a trail, a tractor might climb it. Not a cattle trailer.)

“Oh, I built this contraption. It’s pure genius.”

At this point, I should probably disclaimer this as an apocryphal e-tale.

It’s not like I would have the slightest hesitancy in acknowledging acquaintance with the sort of person who would attempt to maneuver an ornery 600-lb Black Angus up a hill using a portable corral carried by three people, two of whom have less knowledge of cattle than Billy Crystal.

“Pure genius,” the backyard rancher told me. Pure hilarity, I’m thinking.


But then I’m not the one cowboy-surfing the hill with a rope wrapped securely around one forearm, Angus-propelled and airborne, but not quite clearing the cactus. Roadburns slightly smaller than the state of Texas. And this cow was mad, not in the pathological sense, merely ornery and more than customarily put out. I’m confident the heifer is healthy, but the rancher might need some kind of testing.

Incredibly, one bovine (the smallest and most docile) was indeed ushered to her hillside paradise in this manner. As for her companions . . . well, there’s been a change of plans. Seems the grass is greener downhill, by the mailbox, where the anti-Alpine critters can be trucked.

Still, as they say, the worst day wrangling your own cattle is better than the best day warming a desk chair for somebody else.

Perhaps the backyard cowboy is the sane one, after all.

National Office Bird Sanctuary

I saw it as I reached for the handle to open the heavy glass doors of the National Office, coming in to work Friday. An insignificant emerald mite, hanging at my knee level on the pebbled wall surface, just outside the entryway. I’m no expert on hummingbirds, but I’d never seen one sitting still. Normally their little wings look like ceiling fans in motion. I don’t like to get involved in other creatures’ malaise any more than you do, probably less, and I had no idea how to care for it. But I love hummingbirds, and at least thought I would kneel for a closer look.

It flew onto my head.

A cry for help, for sanctuary, I thought. Later, I realized her desperate burst of flight was aimed at my purple hair scrunchy, which she hoped to be of the nectar-containing variety.

And if that isn’t remarkable enough, within 30 seconds, Astrogirl came walking up the steps – quite possibly one of the few in the building who might have known what to do.

“Deb, do you know anything about hummingbird?” I asked her urgently. She answered in the affirmative, and I said, “Good, because there’s one on my head.”

Deb is on my Most Intriguing People list because she possesses astronomical knowledge, so to speak, on a wide span of topics, including, as it turns out, how to feed a starving hummingbird.



“It’s torpid,” she explained. “You mix one part sugar with four parts water.” I kept asking her, isn’t it going to die? It huddled listlessly on her open hand. I mixed the magic brew and she dribbled some on its beak, then gently submersed it. She assured me it would be fine, just needed to regain energy. Although clearly it would have starved to death had we not intervened. Deb knew by the tiny spots on its breast that it was probably a juvenile, perhaps inexperienced in food-gathering.

Incredibly, I could see the infinitesimal rippling of the water as its tongue (the same length as its beak) drank. We did this several times and just allowed it to rest on our hands. Like holding a cotton ball with a toothpick attached.

Deb crooned to the little thing. We watched as its eyes grew brighter.

Then, all at once, she was airborne, hovering right on the ceiling and touching the tiles with her beak. We opened the outside door, and after a few moments, she found her way out and was gone.

You might just find a torpid hummingbird sitting on your front step today. I don’t mean a bird. I mean a hurting co-worker or friend, someone who’s just used up all his or her fuel, maybe from flying around helping others.

Take a minute, give them a little sweet encouragement, let them rest on your strength. Soon they’ll fly off and leave you, recharged. It doesn’t cost much. Be a sanctuary.

Can You Hear My Love Now?

We snuggled close at bedtime, and she leaned her head against my chest, then looked up at me.

“Mama, I can hear your love!” she told me.


“I can hear because you love me sooooo much!”




How about you, and those you work with, serve, live with or preach to – can they hear your love?

They can . . . if you let them close enough.

Mundane Monday

I'm fighting discouragement today, just seems like I'm constantly overwhelmed with all there is to do. I try to tell myself to look at all I have gotten done instead.

Had one breakthrough moment last night during a conflict with Mitch. To put it in a nutshell, I like to talk through (often in repetitive circular motion) to reach resolution, he likes to quickly take action to reach resolution.

So a recurring pattern is that I'll say one thing, meaning to vent, and he'll quickly respond with a decision, when that wasn't what I intended at all, plus I feel short-circuited, shut-down.

Last night it finally occurred to me during one of these that he doesn't mean to shut me down and he isn't being spiteful to respond so quickly, he's just seeking resolution. And I tried to explain to him that I need to hash through things, and I need him to stay and listen to the whole thing and just process through it. He's not real big on that.

But the good part is that for one fleeting second, instead of feeling abandoned and hurt, I caught an insight that it's just his temperament and not trying to hurt me.

I've been thinking lately that married people don't reveal enough about our conflicts, so single people may think we're just more spiritual and perfect than them, and younger couples don't learn as they could from more experienced couples. So I've been thinking I should blog more about marital conflict. But it's obviously touchy, one doesn't want to say EXACTLY what one is thinking, right at the time. But if you never say anything at all, then how can we learn and grow from each other?

So for you who like "raw" blogs, there's my bit of sushi for a Mundane Monday.

A Neighborhood Fourth

One of the million things I love about America: Small neighborhood get-togethers.
Two of my neighbors organized a bicycle parade, inviting everyone to decorate bikes, strollers, and wagons. We had dogs, roller-bladers, flags waving, and a pair of balloon-decorated SUVs fore and aft to keep the kiddies safe from any traffic. Neighbors watched on lawn chairs as we marched by. People yelled "God Bless America" and "Happy Fourth." One SUV blasted Lee Greenwood's God Bless the USA on repeat. I didn't mind. I never get tired of it.

Afterwards - lemonade and cookies for all at a driveway lemonade stand. The sign proclaimed "25 cents" but the host dad waived that for those who didn't bring cash.

What a great chance to meet neighbors and celebrate our freedom, and our common joy in our children.

Independence Day

In Jesus’ inaugural address (his first public appearance where someone took notes), he chose to introduce himself like this:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
for he has appointed me to preach Good News to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim
that captives will be released,
that the blind will see,
that the downtrodden will be freed from their oppressors,
and that the time of the Lord's favor has come.”
Luke 4:18-19 NLT

Jesus consistently set people free:

“Wasn't it necessary for me, even on the Sabbath day, to free this dear woman from the bondage in which Satan has held her for eighteen years?” Luke 13:16 NLT

And no doubt you know that God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power. Then Jesus went around doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the Devil, for God was with him. Acts 10:38 NLT

Freedom is one of God’s core values. Bringing release from any kind of oppression. This is why our myths, legends and stories abound with tales of breaking dark power so liberty can flow once again. It’s who we are. It’s who He is.

Often it’s the frail and nondescript who do the breaking. A middle-aged hobbit with no history of adventure, sent with three bumbling companions against an evil more powerful than comprehension. They’ve got a snowflake’s chance in Mordor. Four children sent to melt an ice age of cruelty, and sent again to overthrow a despot. How laughable. As Trumpkin put it, “I suppose I’d better go back to King Caspian and tell him no help has come.”

Real-life stories also have unlikely heroes. A stuttering octogenarian, reluctantly dragged from the back side of nowhere to herd people instead of sheep. A little brother comes to bring lunch, then stays to bring down the enemy’s ace. Corrie ten Boom, a 60-something tea-drinking spinster, fond of embroidery and playing cards, finds herself in a more dangerous game of underground resistance, hiding Jews from Nazis.

They’re not who we would have chosen. Or how we would have chosen. But liberation happened in spite of our wildest disbelief.

Ultimately, a covert operation. An invasion of one. A baby, born into a kingdom oppressed by an empire’s taxing grip. Thirty-three years later, the coup de grace: one man’s death, unimaginably brutal.

And, we would have thought, unimaginably futile.

This is your idea of setting at liberty those who are oppressed? I’m supposed to find healing from cancer, in 2006, somehow related to the fact that in AD33 or thereabouts, your back was ripped to bloody dangling shreds of flesh?? You have got to be kidding.

Who would have thought God's saving power would look like this?

But this is how the stories go. Those who believe the unbelievable, see unbelievable results.

To me, that is the value of our core legends. It’s easier for me to believe in the myths of Aragorn, of Matthias the Warrior Mouse who saves Redwall Abbey, than to believe in what could happen in my own story.

I need to remember whose idea liberty is, and believe He wants me free, too.

That’s worth shooting off fireworks about.