Creation's Applause

It was windy today. It was supposed to be 70 degrees, but you know how it is when there’s a strong wind...it always feels several degrees colder. I washed my hair in the morning, then took a brisk walk down the lane... the wind snatched onto every bit of my hair and threw it over my face and around my shoulders as I walked. It was a beautiful feeling! I could throw my head back and see the endless blue sky through cracks in the overhanging tree branches. The branches formed a kind of arch over the lane and the brittle limbs were all rattling and rustling in the breeze as I passed underneath. When I thought about it, it sounded like a whole arena of people clapping. That’s it, I thought, God’s creations are applauding Him! He’s told us that if no one else praises Him, even the rocks will cry out in adoration – so why couldn’t the trees be clapping for their Creator?

The Lord is evident in all of Creation. The Psalms tell us, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the firmament shows His handiwork”... He has painted evidence of His love and power and infinite wisdom into every blade of grass, every upturned flower bud, every wispy white cloud. I can hardly comprehend it, yet it’s right there before my eyes: endless rolling meadows, hazy purple mountains, and towering green trees, all pointing upwards into the incomprehensible blue sky.

It’s more than I can fathom. But if I could fathom it, it would steal this wonder I feel – and how could I bear to lose that!

For the Dreamers

I love to daydream and I’ll admit it’s a pleasant diversion from reality, but sometimes I get so set on a dream that when it slips away, I fail to see it was only a castle in the sky—a mere desire—and not a true conjecture of the future. Have you been there too?

In her book, A Path Through Suffering, Elisabeth Elliot gives her famous ‘open hands’ illustration, saying that open hands demonstrate the posture of surrender – a willingness to hand over what God wants to take and a willingness to receive whatever he chooses to place back in them. Clenched fists, closed tightly over our precious, hoarded dreams, don’t demonstrate an attitude of open surrender! I think we set too much store in our dreams. A good majority of us probably even cry when our treasured dreams turn to nightmares and slide out of our grasp. I know I certainly have!

Lately I’ve been taking even more comfort in the power of prayer and its gradual effect on my way of thinking. There was one dream in particular that I’d been treasuring for many months. At least once a day and sometimes more often, I would present my dream to the Lord and ask Him to reveal my motives for wanting it—then, I asked Him to close the doors that needed to be closed and only open the ones He wanted me to walk through. Lastly, I begged for the ultimate decision to be clear and easy. Every day, I dragged this burden to the throne of grace, until I got a long-awaited phone call. Let me say, I have never heard a door slam so loudly—I almost jumped! And not only did the door slam, the key turned decisively in the lock. Don’t you love those clear paths?!

I’ll admit I cried. I walked blindly through my room, seeing nothing, only saying “thank you, Lord” because I got exactly what I asked for—an easy decision. The sorrow wasn’t any less, but the length of mourning definitely was! Sorrow can’t last if we pray “Thy will be done” and really mean it. That simple prayer may not change our desires right away, but it will definitely adjust our outlook on the situation and ease the pain of the ‘acceptance stage’.

So, fellow dreamers, dream on and relish the pleasure, but remember to hold your dreams in open hands—wide open—ready and accepting of God’s plan, which is ultimately the perfect dream.

Worth Waiting For

Make me worth waiting for,
Lord, let me deserve my man
And whether I be rich or poor,
Give me strength of hands

I ask you for a smiling face
Pleasant as I grow old
I don’t ask for beauty outside
But for a heart of gold

Help my head be high,
And my thoughts be pure,
Give me peace of mind
And cleanliness of soul

A gentle spirit, God, that gives
When nothing’s to be found
That thinks not of itself, but lives
To wipe away a frown.

Let me believe the best of those
Who touch my life each day
And put regrets behind to know
This is the straight, the narrow way.

Though terror I may never choose
Guide me unfearful through the way
And help me see the things I lose
Are really blessings gained.

I want to be worth waiting for,
So help him patient be...
And if I’m worth it, Lord, I pray

You’ll help him know and see.

The Perfect Woman

There is a woman I greatly admire. In fact, I want to be just like her. Without alteration or reserve, I can say that she is my absolute role model, and I would like to dedicate this entry to her.

She's trustworthy, hardworking, and always willing to get down on her hands and knees to do rough or tedious work—she even gets up early to do it! She makes sure her family eats well and has proper clothes to wear. She's on top of all that goes on in her house and she keeps a strict schedule, never slacking off in her housework or childcare.

She's generous and thoughtful and never hesitates to share her resources with those less fortunate, though she exercises strict discretion in business transactions. She never squanders her money—in fact, once, after careful consideration, she even invested in some real estate that she transformed into a prospering business.

She's always building her strength: strength of character, strength of body (pushups anyone?), and strength of mind. Her life may be busy, but she remains dedicated to her husband, her children, and her occupation.

Her wardrobe is practical and stylish, and though she probably wouldn't like attention drawn to it, she's sewed every item herself. She's even designed and sewn clothes for a local retailer—that's how skilled she is!

She's like a walking dictionary, but that doesn’t make her lofty. She chooses her words carefully and only offers her two-cents when it's necessary. When I think of someone who really speaks the truth in love, I think of her.

She's a gentle companion to her husband, never belittling or ridiculing him, but being a gracious helpmeet, helping him sort through major decisions and offering her support or knowledge when it’s necessary. Because of this, he absolutely adores her...and tells her so! Even her kids thank her for their great upbringing because she's truly raised them with a firm and loving hand.

She'd never grace the cover of Glamour magazine or draw eyes in a crowd, but she possesses a beauty that can't be found in a bottle. It glows from within and totally radiates from her life. She may not be one of the most fun, popular women, but she's widely respected and loved by those who know her...and she loves them right back. But most of all, she loves Jesus with her heart, soul, and mind, and her life is an amazing testimony of what God can do in a redeemed heart.

"Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman that fears the Lord, she will be praised."

He Really Did It

It all started when Mr. and Mrs. William Banks had their first child. Robert Evan was his name. He was a detached, scholarly child with an angular nose, and a dark unibrow. Though most scholarly children do seem to be a bit detached anyway, he was detached in a very odd sense of the word. He did not allow himself to feel any affection towards mother or father - towards anyone for that matter. Even as a baby, when hugged or held, he would strain against their arms, and wail until he was released. Perhaps this detachment implies independence. Oh no. Not Robert. He was thirty-one and still living quietly at home at the time this story took place. He expected his mother to come in every morning, sit softly on the edge of his bed, and stroke his hair until he woke up. He then required her to hum Rachmaninov's Suite No. 2, Op. 17 outside his door as he prepared for the day.

"Rob, are you quite done dressing?"

"Just working on the tie, Anne." (He never called her "mother".) "Start from the beginning. I'll comb my hair while you're at it." As you can see, he liked to savor every note. Oddly enough, this fine specimen never sang a song, or played an instrument in his life.

He was a very private person - never shared his thoughts or feelings with anyone, which is one of the underlying reasons for his status as a bachelor.

He had never been 'in love', neither had he ever been 'out of love'. Every time he left the house, a trail of at least seven females followed him at indiscreet distances, casting obvious looks of dislike at the others as each considered herself to be the Chosen One for Robert. His own mother could not understand why the women followed Robert until he himself informed her that they did so because they admired his unibrow, of which he was very proud. He groomed it carefully with a toothbrush every morning, and enhanced it with a stick of drawing charcoal.

"Rob, dear, I'm sure it's because of something else. Perhaps your money?"

"Nonsense, Anne. I know it is because of my unibrow. I'm sure they are all artists and must study me carefully to make the proper translation from mind to paper. A unibrow is a highly difficult feature to duplicate."

His mother folded her lips into a thin line and said nothing more. The mere thought of seven women following her son because they admired his unibrow...it was too much. She had heard the expression, "he had a face only a mother could love", and this saying wounded her deeply: was she that poor a mother that she found her son so hideously repulsive? But every morning as she studied him across the breakfast table, trying to find even one feature to admire, she only found him more revolting, more gruesome than before. He nose seemed longer and more pinched, his eyes more beady, and his unibrow more bushy and black. And was that the hint of a goatee creeping along the chin that fell miles below the bulbous forehead? She could not restrain the involuntarily shudder that came after each careful morning study. She could only take comfort in one thing: since Robert's birth no one had ever said to Will or her, "oh, he looks JUST like you!", for indeed it was not true; there was very little family resemblance to be found between the three of them.

Robert eventually began to sense his mother's vague displeasure about something, but couldn't put a finger on what it was all about. He spent many evenings reflecting on this development, when he finally received a revelation at a most unexpected time. It was not what he was doing, but was he wasn't doing.

He'd just finished attacking his dinner in the most vulgar way - spreading his vicinity with bread crumbs, gravy, and gristle from his steak, and finally dousing the whole setup with the remains of his wine, when he broke his cup across his plate.

"Robert! Just look at you!" his mother shrieked, rising.

He walked over to mirror and examined himself carefully, dusted a few crumbs from his coat, inspected his hand for possible glass splinters, and returned to the table.

"Yes?"

"Your place is like a pig trough!"

"Yes?"

"You're thirty-one years old!"

"Yes?"

"I'm ashamed of you!"

"Apparently so."

His mother grabbed the back of a chair and squeezed it until her knuckles were bulging and white. "Why can't you live up to your name? Your father has led a successful life! What about your grandfather?"

"What about him?" Robert responded coolly.

"He started his own business; he made it very well in life."

"So you want me to live up to my name?"

"Yes, I do. Do something worthwhile."

"All right, I will." A look of ominous calm passed over Robert's features.

"And please clean up your place."

"I think you just mentioned the word, 'worthwhile'?" He turned halfway up the stairs and nodded to confirm his statement. "Goodbye, I'm going out."

She watched him climb the stairs with a sinking feeling. Could she never penetrate that dense, self-infatuated head?

"What's the trouble, Anne?" Will wondered, entering the room, and draping his suit jacket over the back of his chair.

"It's Robert," she said, turning. "Look at his place."

Will sighed. "I know, but you've allowed him to do it for the past thirty years; I'm sure he won't change now."

"How do you--" Anne broke off as Robert walked through the room, hat on, and walking cane in his hand.

Turning, he tipped his hat and bowed slightly before slamming the door. Anne and Will moved towards the window as one, and watched as the inevitable stream of females began to file after him. Suddenly, Robert did an uncharacteristic thing. He turned and began shouting and waving his cane violently at them. They stopped short, terrified, but did not start to run until he wheeled and rushed towards them, cane whistling sharply through the air. They did not return to continue their pursuit.

"What's gotten into him?" Will wondered after his son's lone figure disappeared in the distance.

"I only lectured him - probably not enough to put him in a bad mood... I told him to clean up his place, and I also told him to..."

"Told him what?" Will wondered, scared by the shade of white creeping over his wife's face.

"Told him to...live up to his name," she said in a barely audible whisper, then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

"About time someone told him that," Will grunted as he went off in search of the smelling salts. Suddenly he stopped, mid-step, freezing in holy fear. "No."

Yes, the room replied. Yes, he will.

"He wouldn't!"

He is.

Will thudded to the floor - the first time he'd fainted since Rob Banks had entered their formerly happy home thirty-one years ago.

Poor Rob Banks.

Control Freaks Can Grow Up

I never knew the true definition of the title, “Control Freak” until I was in charge of something. Suddenly, everything changed. Suddenly, nothing could be done properly unless I was the one at the helm. Suddenly, the word ‘surrender’ made me nervous.
Really nervous.
This story takes us back to March of this year when my sister, my aunt, and I decided to start our own Christian newsletter. This is a long and painful story, so I will summarize and spare you the gruesome details. Basically, I was “somehow” appointed editor. I understood that it was my job to pull the newsletter together, organize details, process mail, develop our mission statement, and formulate a set of guidelines. It sounded so easy...
Two weeks later, my life hurtled into a brick wall. Maybe I glanced off, maybe the wall toppled over on me – my memory of that time is still a little blurry. All I know is that I had taken on WAY TOO MUCH. I was spending over thirty hours a week trying to file and manage hundreds of email addresses: a nightmare. I was trying to respond to mail, appease the rude, express gratitude to the gracious, make plans to keep people’s interest, design the layout to look professional and easy to read, encourage the other two columnists to meet the deadlines, trying to remind myself that friendships were more important. And this was supposed to be a small-operation thing!
Then everything came to a grinding halt.
“I QUIT!” was the only explosion that sounded from the computer desk when the keys stopped rattling and the smoke cleared.
And indeed I did. For all of five days.
What a miserable five days they were too. My aunt and I were, at one point, dabbling in hysterics in the back yard, trying to apologize to each other for a minor misunderstanding (the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back), when we got the phone call that we were about to do a filming – our actors were on the way! Ice cubes under the eyes proved to be a heaven-sent miracle. So did a little foundation.
Here was the problem – our problem, my problem: when I quit, I was selfishly dragging the whole thing down with me. “I quit” meant, hypothetically, “it’s all over”. When the other two involved offered to ‘share the load’ my heart almost stopped beating.
“What’s the password?” they asked, “We’ll add the email addresses, we’ll type commas between addresses from now ‘til Kingdom Come; we’ll put the newsletter together”.
Visions of formatting gone awry flashed before my eyes.
Three beats short of a heart attack, I hopped back in the pilot’s seat, determined once more, to do everything myself. “Thanks anyway guys, but I think I’ve got everything under control.” (Translation: “No thanks, I’d rather be in control.”)
No man is an island. Eventually I learned that it was OK to accept help from others, hand the reigns to someone else, even if only for a short time. My sanity was spared because of this.

Guys, I am not writing this to show you how I can behave at my worst: I’m trying to say that so many of us have a little of this hidden inside. We believe that things can work out properly only if we are in charge. We would rather drive than take a plane because we trust our hands, not the pilot’s. We paint our own rooms because our friends would do a lousy job. We format our own articles because someone else would do it all wrong.
My solution is not, “Hang out with some phlegmatics; life will get really easy.”
My suggestion is: die to self and be humble (i.e., don’t be so proud and selfish!).

Control freaks are not people who are naturally more selfish than others: they are people who succumb to their intrinsic selfishness and...yes...let it take control of them.
As the title of this article suggests, control freaks can grow up. They can submit and...yes...even surrender.
When we humble ourselves, then we are lifted up.

Pride: I can do this better than you...

Selfishness: ...And I will do it — without your help!

It Profits Nothing

Based on a true story related to me by a friend...

It was by pure chance that my car broke down, I’m sure. It’d been a very faithful car in the past; serving me well, saving me gas money, getting me where I needed to go. Some people would like to call such a thing a coincidence because I broke down in front of a church, but I like to call it a mistake. I had no amazing conversion experience as some of the stories tell, and what’s more, I don’t intend to ever go back.
I’d heard that church people are known for their compassion. Seriously! So, I trudged the short distance across the parking lot, mounted the steps, and knocked on the door. It was opened directly by a corpulent man in the biggest black suit I’d ever seen.
“Can I come in?” I asked, keeping my voice rough, but quiet. I said it at exactly the same time as he said, “Welcome!”
It was an awkward moment. He stood there grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, while my fingers linked and scrambled and sweated together behind my back. What to say?
“My...umm...my car—”
We did it again. This time I caught him mid-sentence saying, “Thank you for coming today; I’ll help you find a seat.”
Also awkward.
He waved for me to follow him and started to lead me toward some swinging doors where a woman stood with a stack of folded papers. I could feel her roving eyes taking in every aspect of me. I felt terrified as she approached me waving a long tee shirt.
“Here, honey: why don’t you put this on over your shirt during the service,” she suggested.
I stared.
And took the offered tee shirt.
The woman stuck out her hand and grinned a 100-watt grin. “I’m Dorothy. We’re so glad to have you in our service today.”
“My car...” I broke off. She’d already turned away.
The dumbly grinning man beckoned me on, but again halted before the doors. He leaned over and muttered something in Dorothy’s ear. I waited, cheeks flaming. Apparently, they were talking about me. Did they know about my car? If not, how should I interrupt and tell them? I really needed to get going.
Dorothy was approaching again.
“Honey, I hate to tell you this, but jeans aren’t allowed in the service. It’s disrespectful to the Lord. If you’d like to come with me next door, though, I can quickly fix you up with a nice skirt!” She grinned like the canary before the cat swallowed it. Sort of twitchy and nervous.
I felt my blood burning; my legs trembled.

“I’d not like to come next door. My car just broke down outside—”
“Aww honey, what bad luck!” she crooned.
Mr. Can-Do-Nothing-But-Grin was busy scribbling something on the back of a folded paper. “Here’s the number of a good towing company. I know the fella who owns the place; he’ll fix ya up nice. I’m ‘fraid he’s not a believer – that’s why he’s open today – but he’ll still do you a good job.” He grinned, and folded his arms atop his expansive abdomen.
I don’t remember how I got outside the doors; all I know is that eventually, I did. I turned and looked through the glass only long enough to see the Cat and the Canary looking towards the door and leaning together in conversation.
I knew who they were talking about.