Four Eyes are Better than None

When I first laid eyes on Graham's new glasses, and felt the thickness of their lens, I wondered if his quarter-sized eyes would still glisten like an emerald forest, but more importantly, I feared that his eyes might catch on fire when he looked at the sun.

I was reminded of the first time I met Lacy. She lived down the street, and I knew her both as the girl whose fluffy poodle got swallowed by a German Shepherd, and the girl whose glasses were so thick, her eyes looked like tiny marbles swirling in a pool of water. Everyone knew that when she turned her glasses around she could gaze into the past, and that she was the only girl on the block who could wish upon a star, and see something waving back.

I was surprised to find that glasses have come a long way, and that even the strongest prescription can make a fashion statement. Graham walked into the eyeglass store looking like an average boy, and walked out looking like a child-star who just grabbed the world by the cheeks and said, “Look at me, I’m created in God’s image, and He is adorable!”

On the way home, Graham noticed that trees looked taller, houses looked wider, and of course he noticed that my face looked bigger too. It must be disturbing to see your mother’s face expand before your very eyes, while her airbrushed appearance changes from Grace Kelly on her best day to Danny Bonaduce midway through puberty.

He sat in silence for awhile, looking out of the window, breathing in the beauty of the new world blooming before him.

I felt his excitement, thankful for the opportunity Graham had to observe the world around him. Looking down at the little man in the shiny new glasses, I understood that we’re all given attributes that not only make us different, but that also continually shape who we are. God didn’t make a mistake when he created Graham’s quarter-sized green eyes, but rather each cell of this little being was carefully crafted so that one day, this four-eyed man would glorify God.

In the Psalms, David illustrated the formation of a child within its mother’s womb, telling how God wonderfully crafted each part of our being:

"Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out; you formed me in my mother’s womb...bit-by-bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, the days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day." Psalm 139:13-16, The Message


The formation doesn’t stop at birth, in fact, throughout life, the Master’s hands curiously continue to shape us.

Life is a recipe. We are given several ingredients to put into our baking pans of time, and those are the things that we sift through, separate, measure, and yes--sometimes those things are whipped and beaten by the world around us. As bad as one thing may seem in this little life growing before me, I see a delicacy that the Master Chef is creating.

I always thought my occupation as a stove would be done after the fourth bun popped out. I hadn’t understood that I would always be an oven as long as my children are rising under my care.

The way I see it, is that I’ll keep the fire burning for as long as I possibly can, and if my pilot light ever goes out, I’ll just hold Graham’s glasses up to the window to ignite that fire again!



Read my monthly column here at CWO:
"Live Well! Reshaping your Body, Spirit, and Soul."

When a Blog Comes Together...

When I got to my parents place, it was a nice feeling to see that they both had my blog up on their computer screens.

It's odd at times to see two seniors--who avoided 'new fangled' banks cards until recently--sitting in front of a PC. Make that 'each their own PC'! When did they master the calculator and move on to a PC? They're growing up too fast, before I know it, they'll be moving out in search of a care home. Seems like just yesterday they were changing my diapers...

I wanted a pie. It's been too long since I had a coconut cream pie. This reality was triggered by a question that my children asked me on Friday morning. "Mom, what's your favorite pie?" Maddy asked.

"Is it berry pie?" Nathaniel wanted to know. "Do you like raisen pie?"

"No, I don't like raisen pie," I shivered thinking about the abundance of sugar that oozed from that pie. I was just about to answer 'blueberry pie', but then I remembered my ultimate favorites, which are Lemon Merangue and Coconut Cream. "I love coconut cream," I answered, as a plan started unfolding in my head.

So there I was, standing in my parents livingroom still trying to figure out how this plan to get a pie was going to unfold. I decided to start with mom, but after she explained to me that Dad is the one who makes all the pies, I took it up with him. "Dad, you haven't made pies for a long time, and I'm dying for a coconut cream pie."

"That's right it's been a while," he said, trying to figure out why my sidebar wasn't showing up on his computer screen.

He was close, but not committed, so I figured it was time to pull out the sympathy card, "I bet Bonnie would love a pie," I said. Lucky for me, Bonnie's back was so bad she couldn't even get out of bed--it wasn't so lucky for her--unless she had a hankerin' for pie too--then it was lucky for both of us.

After Dad got Blogger to load my page, we went back into the livingroom to sit with Mom where they argued about whether real whipped cream or artificial whipped cream would be best for the pies. I sat around adding in my two cents, sipping a diet Coke, and rubbing the belly of a pup whose leg shook in the air.

"The sooner you leave, the sooner you'll get your pie," Dad said.

I left.

At 6pm, the doorbell rang, and Dad was standing outside with a fresh coconut cream pie topped with real whipped cream. He didn't have time to stay because he had another pie waiting in the drivers seat to be delivered to Bonnie's kitchen.

When I sit down to write, I usually start with a single thought, and sometime the tapping of my fingers on the keys make a story come to life, while other times they don't. I'm never quite sure what that story will be.

This week I discovered that my thoughts were on grace. After writing this story about coconut cream pie, the first verse that came to mind was "by love serve one another." I had no idea what context that verse was in, but after reading the context of the verse, I have no doubt that it was placed in my heart for a reason, and that reason is to sum up grace.

"It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom." Galatians 5:13-14

I love it when a blog comes together. Thanks for the pie Dad, and thanks for your service of love!

In Him... Darlene

Refuge

When Michael and I built our deck this summer, we picked up a pergola to sit on top of it. If you don’t know what a pergola is, basically it is four pillars that hold up a row of beams, and acts as a type of roof. It doesn’t keep out the rain or the sun, but it’s a great system for growing vines that will eventually hang over our heads. I love it.

It’s been standing all summer without a problem, so I figured that all was good—until last Saturday that is. When I walked in the kitchen, I heard an unrecognizable sound booming from the back yard.

“The per—pergola!!!” I screamed to Michael, who I’m so thankful was sitting in the living room, rather than putting in a day at work. “The pergola!” It was all I could think to say as I saw this enormous structure leaning outside on our dining table.

Within seconds, Michael, our neighbor, and I were hoisting the pillars all back in place. It was windy, but we had seen far worse winds over the summer. I have no idea why the pergola decided to come down on this particular day, and then threaten to come down over and over again as I witnessed it sway in the wind.

Immediately Michael shot out the door en route to the lumberyard. He had put off fastening it to the deck since he didn’t have the required screws, but now we had no choice. It had to be fastened. My nine-year-old daughter, Maddy and I were left to hold the pillars, just to ensure it didn’t come down again.

It’s been a very long time since I felt my heart beating as fast as it was. Every time a gust of wind shook the structure I feared it would come down once again. My legs were shaking as were my arms, but I stood there holding the pillar as best that I could. Then I did what I always do in situations like this—I called my dad. One of the kids brought the cordless phone to the pillar, and with shaky hands I dialed his number.

It’s nice that my parents live close by, especially when toilets are overflowing, ovens catch on fire, or pergolas are swaying in the wind. Dad was there within ten minutes, sitting on a chair propped up against a pillar while I leaned on a table propped up against another. Dad is always calm in a storm. Always. There’s just something about that man that doesn’t sway him when tragedy hits, even in those moments when it hits real hard. I can always rely on him to calm my nerves and to guide Michael and I through difficult times. It’s a gift I suppose, that not only reminds me that I’m safe because he’s there, but also the fact that most of all that I’m safe in this world because I have a heavenly Father who I can find refuge in through every storm of my life.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.” ~ Psalm 46:1-3

In time, those vines with grow, adding shade to our yard, and protection from the sun. I look forward to those days--abiding in the vine, as I fellowship in the cool of the day, with my Lord.

When The Snow Flies Again

I wrote this at my blog the other day, and since it's chilly once again, I'm reminded of those days of beauty when I sup with the Lord--just He and I...

Yesterday was a cold morning, and I wondered if I'd ever see another deck day this year before the snow flies, but God heard my thoughts and brought sunshine.

He invited me out on the deck to sit for a spell, and we did. With feet up on the orange lounge chair I supped with my Lord, flipping through pages of Philippians, then 1 Peter, until finally ending our chat somewhere in the pages of Proverbs. He had much to say, while I listened intently. Finally with the warm sun on my face I began to nod off. It was time to pick up King James and head back in the house.

In my Father's house there are many mansions. Little corners, nooks, decks and stairwells, where for eternity we'll sit and sup with our Lord in the warmth of His light. Until then I'll wait Lord, perhaps You'll send some more deck days my way, or perhaps you'll return, before the snow flies again...

"Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know." ~ John 14:1-4

Blessed Interruptions

I find that things out of the ordinary intrigue human beings. Having a picnic on the living room floor, sleeping in the family room with the kids, or visiting a new park are all things that appeal to us because they take us away from the norm and bring variety into our lives.

I try to surprise the kids a few times each school year by showing up at the school and taking them out to lunch. Today was that day. "Get in the car, Babies!" I hollered while we all piled in, excited to explore any road leading from the dullness of same-old-same-old.

I passed our friends truck, and gave them a wave yelling, "We'll meet you guys there!" But as I did, I was stopped by her frantic wave urging me to stop.

We had an issue, and since my mechanic background is limited to the occasional lift of a hood (once to be exact), we were pretty much stuck. My friend’s key was locked in the ignition. It wouldn't turn over--it wouldn't pull out--it wouldn't do anything but remain where it was. All of the kids were excited to go, but it was obvious that we had a big problem to deal with.

It turns out that instead of going to McDonald's as planned, I had to rush through the drive through and get back to the school with food for both families. We ended up sitting together in the kindergarten room while the car with the key remained on the street. It wasn't our ideal lunch date, but it certainly was a road that led from the dullness of same-old-same-old.

If I hadn't slowed down to notice, I would have missed my friend completely, who would have then been stranded with three kids and no lunch. This wasn’t a major issue in either of our lives, but it did get me thinking about the major issues that I do pass by.

Interruptions are a wonderful gift from God. They're the moments that not only remind us that we're not alone in this world, but also that we have opportunities to serve those around us.

Our days are filled with endless opportunities, but too often we rush by, never slowing down enough to take note of a need. One way to change this is to make request in our prayer lives to have an ever-growing desire to serve those in need. Eyes to see what others would miss; ears to hear the cry of ones heart, and hands to hold on to another in pain.

“And Jesus answering said, A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead.

And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.

Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves? And he said, He that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.” ~ Luke 10:30-37

Shabbat Shalom

Today, is Labor day--a day of rest. And while we're resting, it's a wonderful day to discuss Sabbath rest.

I was corresponding with Ruth from It's True Sighed Roo, and her words were so perfect, I asked if I could share them. I notice that Ruth doesn't capitalize her words, but I'm leaving them because I love the way she writes.

She's truly a beautiful soul, and this is what she wrote me...

i've been remembering the parable of the wise and foolish virgins and seeing my self (unforchunately) so often pulled to the foolish side of the fence. they were all waiting to meet their bridegroom! the dresses had been bought -- the hair had been styled -- the lamps were in their hand......

when i was in israel serving at a christian coffee shop in the old city of jerusalem....i would literally count the hours until i could have my quiet time. i so longed for that intimacy with my creator. i remember getting up at 6 or 7am every day...and going to the roof top and reading my bible and praying and journalling and singing until 12 noon! nearly everyday. my heart was soooo full.

and now, i am aching to get back to that. somehow it slipped away on me. sure,life is different now and i am a mommy and a wife with other responsibilies. but truth be told, i often allow little foxes/distractions to take away moments i should be spendingwith HIM.

may we know TRUE SHABBAT in every part of our lives...so that we can be living water to those are are sooo very thirsty. love ya darlene...

A few days ago, Ruth sent me a letter telling me what Shabbat Shalom was...

Shabbat is a hebrew holiday. God gave to Israel in the OT. (GEn 2:1-3 - EX 20:8-11 - Ex 31:12-17 - Lev 23:3 - Duet 12-13) I know you will remember hearing about "Shabbat" in the bible. And traditional Jewish families continue to celebrate this custom today. The Shabbat meal is one of the most beautiful meals I have ever experienced in all my life.

The greeting "Shabbat Shalom" comes from the literal meaning of "SABBATH PEACE" or "SABBATH REST". In israel you will hear the greeting "shalom" wherever you go but on "shabbat" (which begins at sundowon on friday and ends at sundown on saturday) you will hear "SHABBAT SHALOM" as a greeting. On shabbat there is no work allowed. It is to be a day of rest. (Something we know very little of in our culture)

The greeting is meant as a blessing and the definition is heavy with richness and meaning. I've spent some time in israel and it changed me. It's amazing to go to a land you have read about - heard about your entire life and see with your eyes the very places you heard about in sunday school.

And spend time with the very people and the very culture that your Lord and saviour came through.

The feasts in the OT all mirror or forshadow things that relate to the Messiah. Our Messiah and so when we give the greeting "SHabbat SHalom" it means so much more to believers then just the tradtional greeting given once a week. It symbolises the rest and peace and blessing and prosperity we are called to walk in as believers in JEsus Christ. And not just once a week. ALL WEEK LONG. ALL DAY LONG. something i often fail in but I know is possible only through Him.

There's more...but I don't know where to stop with stuff like this!!! ahhh. Shabbat Shalom Darlene. May the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.....the God of Israel continue to lead you in his peace.

Thank you Ruth. You inspire me to dig into Old Testament books!

_______________________________________

visit Ruth at her blog, It's True Sighed Roo

Those Amazing Gifts We Share

Our church just finished off another week of vacation Bible school, this year it was known as "Avalanche Ranch." It was time to saddle up the old doggy and send the sheep into the pasture. But it was wonderful while it lasted.

I couldn't help but notice the decorations this year, and while I did I wondered who had spent the countless hours putting it all together. The cross with glowing Christmas lights, the forrest of trees, the sherrifs office, the barn, the hay bails, and the wildlife that looked all too life-like for words. It was amazing.

What was even more amazing was the dedication that the crew leaders put in each year. Several adults spend their vacation time teaching our children so they will have a lasting reminder that God is alive. And those who don't work full time--stay at home moms like me--are also there doing their thing, or better said--sharing their gift.

It takes all kinds of people to make a lasting impact. There's the fun loving bald guy who encourages the children to break down the walls of Jerico, as they charge through the field and grass stain their knees, but there's also the grey haired woman in the kitchen preparing the snack. All working for the glory of God.

Outside the walls of "Avalanche Ranch" life is much the same in the family of God. No matter where you are in your life, sister--remember this...God can use your gifts to make a lasting reminder in someone's life. A reminder that God is alive. There's days when we might wonder why we're just a housewife...just a mother...just a friend, but average women might be "just" what God calls us to be, and there's nothing average about being used by the Lord! Whether we're serving at the pulpit, in the kitchen or while tumbling in the grass, we are servants of the Most High King.

From whom the whole body fitly joined together and compacted by that which every joint supplieth, according to the effectual working in the measure of every part, maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of itself in love. ~ Ephesians 4:16



Visit me at my personal blog: DarleneSchacht.com

Releasing the Strongholds

One common thread runs through my family, unfortunately, which is, "money in—money out." I’m bad for that, as are my husband and kids--with one exception. For Graham, a dollar made is a dollar saved. He was just born that way I guess, because while he should have, he didn’t learn it from me. I try to save, but I usually break down the moment I walk into the first home decorating store.

Graham started off earning three dollars a week allowance. Once he saved fifty dollars, I added ten, and once he earned a hundred, I added twenty. I was amazed to see this kid saving $3.00 x 33 weeks without spending a dime. So I raised his allowance to $5.00 this year to match his sisters, who spends like her wallet’s on fire.

The other day we all piled into the car for a Slurpee run. That’s another common thread in our family, which must be genetic, they all love Slupees--just like their dad! Whether it’s 80 degrees or thirty below they pile into the store every Saturday filling their cups with slush.

I heard something interesting this summer, when as usual we pulled into the 7-11 parking lot. While the kids were piling out of the car a little voice broke out from the back seat, “Can I stay here, Mom?” Graham asked.

“Why, it’s hot in here,” I answered. “Don’t you want to come in with us?”

“No, if I go in with you, I’ll just want to spend my money. So, if it’s ok, I’d rather stay here,” he said.

It took that little guy with his big courage to remind me of the path that leads us into temptation, “But every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed.” ~ James 1:14 And the danger we face each time we step into a situation that we know could potentially lead us into temptation.

It only takes one step to start the process of releasing those strongholds, but the same holds true for the opposite. It only takes one step of courage to step back and begin the good fight. Sure we might fail from time to time as we strive to overcome temptation in our lives. In fact human nature tells me that the likelihood is good. But if you take three steps forward and one step back, you’ll still arrive at your destination, right? Keep making the choice to move on everyday.

Our lives our filled with temptations of every kind. Little secrets we hide in our closets away from the world, but they don’t have to remain there. Each little step we take in faith toward those goals set before us add up. If Graham can save a hundred dollars on three dollars a week, you can too. Just keep up the good fight, and remember that God is your source of strength, and through Him we find peace.

Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him. ~ James 1:12



Visit my blog at: Darlene Schacht.com

The Image of God

I'm off for a few days with my family to enjoy the great outdoors. I had planned to write my article in the car, and to post it when I got there. Ahhh--there's a little snag with internet in "the great outdoors," apparently. So, Michael and the kids are packing their stuff in the car, and I've decided to share one of my "In 'other words' posts" with you, as I really enjoyed this one.

It's about searching for, and accepting the true reflection of God...

I remember an important rule in art class which is this: if you are drawing an object, ensure that you draw what you see, not what you think it should be.

Inexperienced artists will always place the eyes 1/3 third of the way down from the top of the head, while an experienced artist will recognize that although it goes against everything he feels it should be, he has studied that face long enough to know that the eyes are somewhere at mid point. The nose is longer than he'd like it to be, and the mouth is much lower than he expected it would be. Although the model is smiling there's no upward curve to her lips, but rather a line that rises and dips accross the pink tone of her skin. Her cheekbones gracefully mark the side of her face but remain different one from the other. And her eyes are far darker than one would expect, with a subtle glow reflecting the same light that caused a shadow to fall on her neck.

Look at the two sketches in comparison at the end of the class and you'll see that one is a true reflection of the model, while the other is simply a lifeless graven image without dimension, depth or character, drawn according to the image one thought it should be. One holds beauty and life while the other does not.

Stressful moments and times of unease are pivitol points in our lives that cause us, like artists, to either choose the true image of God or rationalize why that image of God should be changed. What we're left with is either a deeper relationship in a life that reflects the image of the Almighty God Who is and Was and Will be, or we begin to create a golden calf to be worshipped according to our own image of God.

It's important for me to not only study the true image of God, but to trust it enough to leave it alone rather than trying to change it into something I think it should be. To understand the difference that one holds beauty and life while the other does not.


"Every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before... either into a creature that is in harmony with God, ...or into one that is in a state of war with God. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other."
~ C.S. Lewis ~
Mere Christianity

A Moment With Him

This past week, fellow blogger Christine sent me a quote for "In 'Other' Words" which read,

"As Christians, we are called to convert our loneliness into solitude. We are called to experience our aloneness not as a wound but as a gift--as God's gift--so that in our aloneness we might discover how deeply we are loved by God."

~ Henri Nouwen ~

It was God's way of whispering, "I wanted to spend that moment with you." I knew exactly what that whisper meant as my mind travelled back a few weeks to an evening of loneliness when all I could do was drive, and pray, and wipe the tears from my cheeks. Not a wound waiting to be healed. Not a space needing to be filled. A gift. Although I hadn't realized this gift at the time, I did later when I reflected on the alone time I spent with my Lord. The answered prayers in the morning, confirming that He heard my hearts cry. The gift itself wasn't the answer to prayer, it was that moment when my spirit of weakness was laid in His hands.

Every once in a while we find ourselves emotionally stripped, as all that life holds is swept away. We find ourselves kneeling at the feet of our Lord, grateful that He's there--His spirit a balm to our weary soul.

There have been times that I've felt this throughout my life, and like this time, each one has brought me a little closer to my Lord.

I pulled up in the driveway yesterday, and just before I stepped out of the car, the same feelings of loneliness crept up for a second--just a wee second--before a smile spread over my face. "Your grace is sufficient for me Lord," I whispered back at Him, "Thanks for this moment with You."

"To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."
~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10



Visit me at my personal blog: Darlene Schacht dot com :)

I Am A Servant

I had just walked in the door after managing to dodge the heavy rainfall. It felt good to be home--warm and dry. The crazy morning had me on the run, and I was finally ready to sit back, dig into email, and put my painted toes on a chair. The phone rang.

In that moment it took to pick up the phone, I made a covenant with myself. It was a quick covenant because the phone only rang two or three times, so I'm guessing that I can talk at record speed in my brain. Whoever is on the phone, I told myself, is going to get my full attention and care. I'm taking this moment out of my life just for them, for in serving others, I'm serving God.

It was my teenaged son. "Mom, you probably don't want this call right now, but it's raining, and I wondered if you could pick me up from school. Sorry to bother you."

I had a choice to make--either I could lecture this kid on how I just passed his school 15 minutes ago, but didn't stop because he wanted to stay there, or I could stick with the plan, honor the covenant, and be a servant. I stuck with the plan.

"Not at all!" I said, "I'd love to pick you up, where are you right now?"

I think the boy must have fallen over, which is a long way to go since he's six feet tall, but if so, he managed to pick himself off of the floor to tell me he'd be at the back door of the school in ten minutes.

He made apologies when he got in the car about how he should have told me to pick him up in the first place, how he could have taken the bus in the rain, how he would try to come up with a better plan next time...

"Don't worry about it," I said, "I'm happy to spend this time with you."

And I was. The rain poured down quenching our thirsty land, as the Spirit moved, quenching my thirsty soul. It felt good to be living my purpose.

This little covenant, got me thinking... Since I practiced it yesterday, it served as a constant reminder today to put others first, I mean really put them first--by taking that "moment" out of my life to warm someone elses. To be a servant for the Lord.

Yesterday is was this ride from the school; today it was patient understanding in miscommunication. And what will you require of me tomorrow Lord? I am your servant.

"And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men; Knowing that of the Lord ye shall receive the reward of the inheritance: for ye serve the Lord Christ."
~ Colossians 3:23, 24

I am a servant, getting ready for my part

There's been a change, a rearrangement in my heart

At last I'm learning there's no returning once I start

To live's a privilege, to love is such an art

But I need Your help to start

Oh please purify my heart I am Your servant...

~ Larry Norman

Visit me at my personal blog: Darlene Schacht dot com :)

Storms

Speckled and freckled beneath the waves of his sun bleached hair, is a five-year-old boy who's "all growd up." The sun has stained his cheeks to a rosy shade of pink, but he takes little notice of this, as he's only particular about his adorable wavy blond hair. This new obsession of his has led to the fact that Mommy's brush is MIA most everyday.

I can't bring myself to cut it, nor can I stop myself from brushing my lips against the softness every chance I can get. So I do--unless he runs. Last night he ran.

I chased the giggling boy around the coffee table, through the diningroom, out of the kitchen, and into his bedroom, until he was cornered. Smothering him with hugs and kisses, I savoured the scent of his freshly washed hair, while feeling the soft wave of feathers against my nose and my cheek.

After crossing his arms, his bottom lip slipped forward in defiance. "What's your problem?" asked his sister, who was standing in the hallway.

"I wanted to try going to sleep without hugs and kisses tonight!" he huffed, once again releasing the lip that marked his desire for independance.

With little assistance, he tucked himself in, and waved me off into the night--his crown of curls encircling his rosy red cheeks on the pillow. I let out a yawn, and slipped off to bed myself.

About four hours later, we awoke to the clap of thunder, a flash of lightening, and the little man standing at the foot of our bed, hoping to crawl in beside me.

"I'm scared," he announced, then he slipped in beside me and pulled the covers up to his neck. For a while, I watched his young silhouette rise and fall with each breath he took. I smiled knowing that this little man was not "growed up" at all. He still needed his momma, and together we needed the storm.

I got to thinking about the storms of life that shake us, bringing us down to our knees. Perhaps it's financial, or a matter of health, or perhaps it's losing the trust of someone you've grown accustomed to leaning on. Maybe it's shaking your faith, but hopefully it's doing the opposite--drawing you closer to the arms of the one who protects.

We need the storms. For without them we wouldn't see that we have need for Christ. We are all sinners, and we all walk the same soil that trips us up from time to time leaving us feeling alone in the storm. But like my son who wants so desperately to stand on his own, we aren't alone and shouldn't be. I praise God that He is there to comfort me, to cleanse me, and to shelter me under His wing. I need my Father, and because of Him, I can weather the storm.



Visit me at my personal blog: Darlene Schacht dot com :)

Bung Balogna

Bologna is the most innovative food there is. It can be used to stuff cheeks at a picnic, win friends and influence people, and promote dance among the canine population. I fondly remember my bologna days during those quirky moments when my mind travels back to my childhood…

When he's inclined to do so, my dad plays a mean fiddle. I popped the weasel in “the day” more often than I can count; yet each time, I danced with my sisters like it was the first time the tune tickled the drum of our ears.

Lisa was our toy poodle--not to be confused with Preacher’s Wife, who’s clearly not a toy poodle. Although Lisa suffered a traffic accident the day she slam danced with the tire of a moving car, she could dance. Lisa didn't need Fantasia Barino to teach her the “Bobo,” she relied on nothing more than a wiggling slice of bung bologna.

After removing the fiddle from it's felt lined case, my dad always made a trip to the kitchen with his bow in tow, before sitting down to play. There he would carefully hook a piece of meat to the end of that bow so Lisa could join in the fun.

I know that Lisa danced because she was eager to get that meat in her mouth, but I sometimes wonder if perhaps part of that little dog just wanted to dance with her sisters--I know that I did.

Little Lisa was raised by two hand raising, tongue speaking, spirit shaking, Pentecostals--my parents. Little pleased them more than to say, "Praise the Lord!" in front of church friends, only to see our dog hop off of the couch and raise her paws in the air.

Lisa was a special little thing who I enjoyed immensely, but was created for a reason, and that reason was to please God. Sure, I know that Lisa was only doing a trick to please her owner when she lifted her paws in the air, but I do marvel about the spiritual aspect of creation that my mind still can’t wrap its way around.

Luke 19:40 says, ‘But He answered and said to them, “I tell you that if these should keep silent, the stones would immediately cry out.”’

And my sister, who’s planting her garden, tells her flowers in no uncertain terms, that they were created to please the Lord, and so she’s cheering them on as they bloom. Ok, my family is odd, but you should see her beautiful garden…

The Psalmist often wrote about creation praising God. Each time I hear those words, "Let every living, breathing creature praise GOD! Hallelujah!" I'm reminded of Lisa with her arms in the air, and I sense the pleasure she brings to the Lord. I sometimes wonder if perhaps part of that little dog just wanted to dance before the Lord--I know that I do. Just like it was the first time His voice has tickled the drum of my ears.

Dig In!

Thursday, on the drive home from school, I told my daughter that I was digging a garden. Plants have become the newest passion for this little girl, so much so that 5-year-old Nathaniel bought one on Wednesday, and surprised her by placing it on her window sill before she got home. It's all she's been talking about lately, so we couldn't pass by the Gerber daisies without wondering what Maddy might say if we brought one home just for her.

Talk of the new garden in the backyard, got all of the kids excited. In fact, the minute I parked the car, they all ran to the back yard so they could get involved. You should have seen my kids in the garden, it honestly was the most precious thing I've experienced in ages--maybe ever.

So, we started digging the garden I had started earlier--each one of them are helping out. It's adorable to see them pitch in because they are excited that we're creating something pretty. We took turns using the shovel, the spade, the fork, and even the garden gloves. Little muscles rolled back sod, grunting, and puffing all the while, then the teenaged eating machine came out and made the job easier for us until either his back was sore or the kitchen was calling his name.

I see so much love going into this garden, that I know I'll cherish it for as long as I live. Right now we're only preparing the soil, but they've already asked if they can be in charge of planting or watering, or weed digging--too cute. About an hour into the project, I could tell that Maddy was a bit annoyed. Being the girl with the passion for plants, she wants to do it all. She didn't like the fact that her little brother was stronger and had more schutzpa when it came to tugging on the sod, nor did she like the fact that her older brother was a better digger than all of us put together. The last straw came when Graham said, "Mom, I want to water this garden every night, ok?" I could tell it was the last straw because she threw down the shovel as the pink rose in her soil stained cheeks.

I guess you probably know the lesson that little girl needed to learn. It's the same lesson we all need to hear every once in a while as we're planting this garden of love for our Father...that "he that planteth and he that watereth are one."

"Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same Spirit. And there are differences of administrations, but the same Lord. And there are diversities of operations, but it is the same God which worketh all in all. But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to every man to profit withal. For to one is given by the Spirit the word of wisdom; to another the word of knowledge by the same Spirit; To another faith by the same Spirit; to another the gifts of healing by the same Spirit; To another the working of miracles; to another prophecy; to another discerning of spirits; to another divers kinds of tongues; to another the interpretation of tongues: But all these worketh that one and the selfsame Spirit, dividing to every man severally as he will." ~ 1 Corinthians 12:5-11

Just this week, my friend leaned on the fence, looked at the soil and said, "They say that you're closest to God when you're out in the garden."

Hmmm...you know what? Metiphorically speaking, that just might be true, but the question is are we in there working with our brothers and sisters, giving it all that we've got, or have we thrown down the shovel to let the pink rise in our soil stained cheeks?

Grab a shovel ladies, we've got a garden to plant! :)

Distraction

The music starts while heads turn to the back of the church where a crowd of little ones has gathered. Palm branches suspended by small hands wave in our sight, Hosanna’s escape from lips like butterfly kisses that float in the air. Eyes searching for parents, elbows bumping one to the other, they make their way to the front, where they lay their branches on the altar. I smile hoping no one will notice the pink in my cheeks, and the tears that burn in my eyes, threatening to spill over staining my cheeks. I take a deep breath, lift hands to my mouth and exhale.

Paths crisscross with children searching for seats; I wave to Madison who holds the hands of her brothers, trying to guide them toward us. They find their seats, settle in, and the music continues to play. I sing a little, but wonder if perhaps it’s best I hold back, my throat is sore, and congestion has gotten the best of me. Noticing the woman beside me has flashed a smile my way, I pull lint from my sweater and smirk, revealing my imperfections in hopes that they may mask another. I continue to sing.

Nathaniel is clapping alone, unaware of the beat, until my husband grabs hold of his hands and leads him along. He doesn’t notice or care that he’s a one man marching band, so he continues to clap while we worship. Then he stops, tugs on his big brothers sleeve and speaks over the music, “Can I sit on your soldiers?” he asks.

Brendan unable to understand what he wants throws him a puzzled look. “He wants to sit on your shoulders,” I translate.

Brendan smiles, but shakes his head, “Not right now guy.”

I continue to worship.

The pastor speaks, while I write. He asks us to turn to the book of Matthew, and I do while in wonder I ask myself why I carry the Bible when the words appear on screen. I leaf through the onionskin pages, till my eyes rest on the passage at hand where I follow along. Marveling at the annotated reference notes, I wonder if others know the secrets I’m learning, my eyes rest on the page for a while until the silence tells me I’m lagging behind. My eyes rise to meet the eyes of the pastor, while I lean in to hear more.

Michael moves closer and whispers pointing out how the couple in front of us looks identical to the other couple just down their row. Together we study the back of their heads, discovering that they do look alike except for the fact that the women have slightly different lengths in hair, and the color is a shade or two off.

The woman sitting to my right passes her baby behind her. Taking the opportunity, I turn and smile to the people behind me, admiring the baby they hold.

I pick up my pen and continue dictation, trying my best to absorb all that I can.

Hearing the music I return to my feet, smoothing my skirt and clearing my throat. Tugging on Michael’s sleeve with one hand, and scratching his nose with the other, Nathaniel calls out, “Can I sit on your soldiers Daddy?”

We smile, while Michael answers, “Maybe later, my soldiers are sore now, ok?” Nudging his arm I hold in a laugh.

The music winds down, while closing words dismiss us from the service. I drop to my seat, and pick up my pen sliding it past the smooth leather wallet where it finally comes to rest. Picking up the notebook, I take one last look at the scratches I’ve put down on paper, hoping to remember all that I’ve learned.

What kind of worshipper are you? It asks…

Are you one of those who found themselves caught up in the moment singing “Hosanna in the highest” waving her palm branch high in the air, because it felt right? Perhaps you’ve said, “Why not? It seems fun.”

Or, are you one of those who liked the company of this man who took care of her. Perhaps He fed you in the group of five thousand, or healed a friend that was sick. You like Him because there’s something in it for you.

Or, lastly perhaps unlike the others, you know what the cheering is really about because you have a relationship with the One that you worship. You know that there’s nothing else that you’d rather do than cheer and wave your palm branch high in the air; you know that He is the one and only King of Kings and Lord of Lords. You want nothing else but to find your way through the crowd to get a glimpse of the one they call Christ.

Bowing my head I whisper a prayer, “Teach me to find my way through this crowd I call the world that pushes around me and takes my eyes off the one that I love. And, when it does press in, Father,” I ask, “can you lift me high on your shoulders, so that I might glimpse the man who died for my sins?”

The Power of Life

I tiptoed my way toward the teddy bear crib hoping to steal one last look before going to sleep. Crumpled up in his bed like a kitten slept the little man who was placed in my care. This baby, though only a few months old had already been through the valley of the shadow of death, but by the grace of God he lives—by the stripes of our Savior he’s healed. With such a marvelous glory before me I couldn’t help but to brush his cheek with my hand before leaving.

Standing outside in the hall, I looked down at the palm of my hand, still feeling his warmth. This hand was a familiar one that I had seen somewhere before—adorned with a simple wedding band, marked with a touch of arthritis, and clothed with lines and creases liken to roads of years traveled—what I recognized were the hands of a mother.

A vintage suitcase marked with stamps collected through journeys, my hands have traveled to far away places. Now bursting with riches they can hardly contain, these hands hold a treasure of memories locked deep inside.

They held my own mother’s arms that pulled up my trousers, while I felt the warmth of her breath on my neck. They curiously turned the handle to peer at my father while he undressed for the shower—yes, the same hand that stifled a giggle as I ran from his voice. They held their first cup of milk careful to not spill a drop, and later their first glass of Coke as the bubbles jumped from the cup.

My hands have waved high in the air, hoping that one would be seen and be heard. They’ve held the hands of fair maidens in the kingdom of friendship. They held the hand of new love, and took another in marriage. They’ve placed coins in the hands of the poor, and received coin when times have been rough. They’ve felt the coldness of death and the warmth of a newborn’s first grasp. They’ve reached out in the dark to give and get love.

They’ve pushed the back of a swing that soared through the air, and tied the laces on skates making sure that each leg was tight. They’ve learned to hold on and let go.

Then I see a different pair of hands, but unlike mine, they’ve been scarred from the journey. These hands have held his mothers arms as he felt the warmth of her breath on his neck. They’ve been used to stifle a giggle and place coins in the hand of the poor. They’ve held hands of royal princes in the kingdom of God. They’ve reached out in the dark to give love, and bring life. They felt the coldness of death and the power of life. These hands are familiar ones that I can only imagine to see—the hands of a Savior—my Jesus.

My little man, Graham is seven years old now. Living and breathing against all the odds. I have seen him so near to death that a team of doctors rushed to his crib late at night, and the same child so near to the glory of God that his face reflected the light.

Herein lies the power of life—the hands of a savior—my Jesus.

“But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5

Aroma

I was a foolish young bride who listened to the un-wise counsel of those who advised, “Hide your dishes in the oven, away from your guests.”

I had just finished spreading the dough for our pizza when the doorbell rang. Michael got up to answer while I tidied up the kitchen. Grabbing all of the dishes I could find, I threw them into the oven (ditsy Little Darlene!). It seemed like a good idea at the time since my cupboards were sparking clean in less than 40 seconds flat.

“Hello,” I smiled as our guests walked into the room, “dinner will be ready in about 20 minutes.”

Enjoying the company in my kitchen, I finished layering the pizza, while my darling groom poured some drinks for the guests. “Done,” I announced, setting the oven to heat at 425, “let’s go sit down in the other room.”

About 10 minutes later, our guests were standing outside on the back steps gasping for air while my husband did damage control in the kitchen. Every few seconds a melted bowl or two flew by my red face landing in the grass of our postage stamp yard.

Thus marked the early years of marriage. My mom on the other hand--married for over forty years--usually has the smell of a pie in the oven or a roast that greets us the moment we walk in the door.

Our lives are much the same as these ovens, as we live out our sacrifice each day—one with a stench in the stove, and the other a sweet aroma to her Lord. We can pretend that we’re this, or we’re that, but the aroma of our life is unmistakable to God.

Abel wanting to be washed clean brought a sin offering to God from his flock, while his brother Cain on the other hand brought a tithe offering of the fruit from his gardens (Genesis 4:1-5). In essence, Cain was hiding his “dirty dishes” in the oven rather than taking them to the Lord to be washed as a symbol of his faith in the coming atonement. The Bible says that God had no respect for Cain or his offering.

When we live a life that is pleasing to Him as Abel did, we show faith in the atonement of Christ, becoming that sweet aroma that He talks about in 1 Corinthians 2:15: "For we are unto God a sweet savor of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish."

Mmmm… Something smells good…

Options...

I sensed that something wasn’t right by the tone in her voice, the way she turned the monitor away from my view, and the discomfort she expressed before excusing herself from the room. Something was terribly wrong—again.

A solemn look washed over the doctor’s face as he walked into the room. “There seems to be a problem, …” he said as he began to explain the severity of what they were viewing on the monitor.

I was sent for fetal assessment where they could survey the situation in detail. It was all too familiar a place, since I had been a regular there in the past. The same doctor who urged me to consider “my options” was there, as well as the nurse who made it abundantly clear that I “still had time to abort.” The smile on my face, and the calm reply to their horrifying news gave them only one conclusion—she doesn’t get it. Perhaps that’s why they called my husband at work, and rang me at home several times--to make sure that we did.

We sat in the same office again looking at a new little being, marvelously and wonderfully made. Being only six inches long, his kidney was already enlarged to about an inch. “This one is a case far worse than the last. He will have severe kidney problems if he even makes it to term. You have options…”

The only option I had was that of prayer. And we did pray, fervently and in faith before God.

Lying in bed one night alone in the dark, I felt the gentle voice of God whisper, “Nathaniel,” in my ear. Nathaniel? I wondered, Why Nathaniel? It hadn’t been a name that had ever crossed my mind.

I jumped out of bed, clicked on the lamp, and flipped through the pages of my reference Bible till my finger rested on the words… Nathaniel: Gift from God.

I turned that name around in my thoughts the next day wondering why. Why “gift from God?” why not John or Mark, Luke, or Ichabod—why? Until the answer came to us, clearly and directly as though God was speaking Himself.

Sitting in my living room that very night a woman prayed, “Every day that this child lives is a gift from you, Lord.” We knew from that very second that his name would be Nathaniel.

I went back to fetal assessment for what would be the fourth look at the little man that God was forming inside me. The child who gave me only one option, and that option was to pray--and pray fervently before God. The little man who, one day, would be my living, breathing, giggling, praying, cart-wheeling, hand-holding gift from God--my Nathaniel.

After looking at the screen, the nurse excused herself from the room.

I sensed that something was right by the tone in her voice, the way she turned the monitor away from my view, and the confusion she expressed before excusing herself from the room. Something was very right.

An astonished look washed over the doctor’s face as he walked into the room. “There seems to be a mistake, …” he said as he began to explain the miracle of what they were viewing on the monitor.

The confused look on his face, and their inability to explain this miracle gave me only one conclusion--they didn’t get it. Perhaps that’s why God called me to their office several times--to make sure that they did.

Martin Luther said, "To be a Christian without prayer is no more possible than to be alive without breathing." In Nathaniel’s case, as with most of my children that’s true in the literal sense.

When pain rips through your life taking down everything you’ve tried so hard to hold on to--perhaps even life itself, your left with only one option and that option is to pray--and pray fervently before God.

Iris is hosting "In 'Other' Words" this week. Head over to Sting My Heart to read her take on the quote and meet other participants.

Inspired by the Father…

We’ve lived in our house for two years now and the feeling of “new” has slipped from my grasp--slowly but surely over time. The smell of new carpet and drywall compound used to greet me when I walked through the door, but that left some time ago along with the smell of fresh paint.

Picking up after four children has caused me to wonder how my grandma ever survived being the mother of eighteen children, and how my mom ever managed her six. It seems that I just get the house cleaned, finish mopping the floor, and “swoosh” a jug of Kool-Aid comes racing across the room like a tidal wave washing away a small village.

My husband suggested a maid service--bless his heart. He said that I could use some help around the house and suggested I give them a try. Some call it “maid service,” but I call them feather dusters, because as I see it, if the feather dusters come through the house on a Friday, I need to have the house cleaned on Thursday night before they get there or they won’t even find the house for the laundry.

“Why don’t you get Dad?” my mom suggested. “He’s a good cleaner.”

I hadn’t considered my Dad. In fact he’s probably the last person I’d consider to clean my house, but the truth is, he’s also the best. So after further consideration and a phone call, Dad showed up at 9 am with mop in hand, determined to get the house clean.

My Dad has never been one to shy away from dirt; in fact when Dad walks into a room, the dirt cowers, because it knows the furniture is getting pulled away from the walls, and that no pillow will be left unturned.

At 9:15, the fridge and stove both rolled into the center of the kitchen while Dad shoveled Thanksgiving Dinner 2005 off the floor. I made my way to the kid’s bathroom with determination in one hand and Vim in the other.

Unfortunately since we returned from vacation any level of determination I’ve used has not been sufficient to whiten our toilet. It’s a story I shouldn’t get into detail about, so I’ll just warn the obvious: ensure that all toilets are flushed before going away for any period of time, especially if the little one has a tummy ache that morning.

After scrubbing for a good ten minutes, I went back to the kitchen announcing to Dad that I was going to have to buy a new toilet. “The finish must be ruined on this one,” I said. “No matter how much I scrub it or soak it, it just won’t come clean.”

Dad went straight to the washroom, looked down at the mess and without hesitation said, “Ok, get me a cup, I’ll clean it.”

A cup? I wondered, How is he going to clean it with a cup?

He bailed the water out of the toilet till all that was left was a dirty porcelain dish; then he proceeded to clean it with an SOS pad—clever.

As I walked back to the kitchen to mop up the floor, I smiled in awe of the servanthood of my father. The tagline I use at my website is “Inspired by the Father every step of the way…” because the life of my earthly father has been instrumental in showing me the kindness of my Heavenly Father, and through it I’m inspired to press on.

There was a time in my life that I don’t talk about too often because of the shame. I was married young and divorced. Sure I had reason to leave because of physical and mental abuse, but the guilt and shame of remarriage stayed strong in my life for ten years. I lost five babies to miscarriage and blamed myself, saying that God was punishing me for my sins. Divorce wasn’t something I did. It was something, and always will be something I am.

Like my house, that feeling of “new” had slipped from my grasp--slowly but surely over time. The look of innocence used to greet me when I looked in the mirror, but someone I didn’t want to face had replaced her somehow.

I met a few feather dusters throughout the years who made me feel good for a day or a week with empty words and flattering lips, but they never could remove the shame of sin that had become a solid wall between God and I.

I couldn’t accept forgiveness because I couldn’t turn back that which was done. So I lived in darkness and unforgiveness for ten years until I finally repented and accepted that Jesus took the punishment for that sin.

Through my experience, I learned one thing. There’s no sin that the Father isn’t able to clean, no matter how dirty or disgusting it might seem. He may be the last person that you want to let in, but to tell you the truth--He’s the best.

Sin cowers when God steps into your life because it knows that there won’t be a stone left unturned that God isn’t going to clean. He doesn’t shy away from sin and He doesn’t shy away from us.

The difference with me today is that I do my best to follow what I know to be right and wrong, because I choose to follow His will for my life. God will clean up our sin, but it’s up to us to respect Him enough to keep it that way.

So there you have it, the “dinner 2005” that’s been hiding behind my stove. With determination in one hand and understanding in the other, I’m finding paths I would otherwise never have found through joy and forgiveness and grace. Just a girl on a journey--inspired by the Father every step of the way…

“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” 1 John 1:9