God on the Mountain

I cheated on my devotion this morning. I read ahead. Our scripture was in Matthew 4, verses 1-11. Instead of stopping there, I finished the chapter and continued reading into chapter 5. It was there I met God on a mountain. In Chapter 4, we hear how Jesus was taken to the wilderness to be tempted for 40 days. During that time, Satan took him to the top of the temple and, in essence, mocked Him and His Father - "If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down." He even quoted scripture to him, "for it is written, He shall give his angels charge concerning this: and in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone." When that approach didn’t work, the devil tried again, this time taking Jesus to "an exceeding high mountain." He offered to give him "all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them." Jesus is more bold in his rebuttal, even calling him out by name, "Get thee hence, Satan." "Then the devil leaveth him, and, behold, angels came and ministered unto him." On the very next page, a mere 15 verses later, Jesus is again on a mountain. The Bible doesn’t say how high the mountain is, only that "he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came to him: And he opened his mouth, and taught them."  This leads me to think Jesus was at least high enough that "the multitude" could see him and listen to His profound words. No doubt the crowd that Jesus saw from His position on this mountain was far greater than the view presented by the devil just a short time earlier. How many times has the devil tempted me with what appeared to be a high point in my life, showing me all that could be mine? "Work is coming in, your bills are paid. You've got it made. You can afford this." How many times have I believed him, only to end up crashing to the ground? Too many times. I have also had those occasions when I have been strong. Times when I didn't give in to the devil and his temptations. And I have been better off for it. No I didn’t get the shiny new thing I (thought) I wanted, or I didn't get to do what I (thought) I wanted to do, but I had faith to believe that God knew what I needed more than I did. Following my "stand" against the devil, I often find myself again on a mountain. This time I won't not see glorious kingdoms at my feet. I may only see dirty floors and piles of bills. But God sees the bigger picture. I'm where He wants me. This is where He can use me. He gives me the strength and ability to resist the devil, and He gives me the words to be able to share my testimony with you. Jesus had His sermon to give on the mount. He spoke the beatitudes and parables and performed miracles before thousands upon thousands. Maybe the best message I can give is with simple words found while standing over mounds of laundry. I may never be on "an exceeding high mountain," but I'm excited about where God will lead me. Whether it be on a mountain or in the wilderness, I know He'll be there. Not with mocking or vain illusions, but with the promise of His provision, everlasting love and eternal life.

Comin' 'Round the Mountain.....again

     I’ve been tossing this thought around for a couple of days, not sure if posting it would be the right thing to do. I feel like I’m repeating myself, just going around and around the same mountain, learning the same lesson over and over. I decided to go ahead and put it out there. Maybe some of y’all can give me some pointers on how to get out of this pattern. Or maybe I can let one of you, who may be doing the same thing, that you’re not alone. So here we go:
     I have always enjoyed revival. A time to get the spiritual juices boiling. Seeing the Spirit touch so many people in so many different ways, personal to each one, it just stirs something inside me I can’t explain. By the end of the week, I always feel revived and ready to go to work for my Lord. But this year, I didn’t want to spend the week getting revived. I wanted to be revived before the week started. I wanted to enjoy the services on a deeper level. I didn’t just want to watch other people losing themselves in the Spirit, I wanted to get lost in it myself.
     I prayed. I prayed a lot. I asked the Lord to allow me to feel his touch like I never have before. I would love to shout like Sis. So-n-so. I wish I had the ability to testify like Bro. What’s-his-name. I prayed for God to give me strength to do whatever He laid on my heart. I prayed for Him to give me a mind set on defeating the devil with my spiritualness.
     Well, we are halfway through this summer revival, and nothing yet. As I lay in bed pondering the situation, I wondered what was wrong. My first thoughts were, “It’s not fair, the men have prayer room for 30 minutes before church starts and they get started before the rest of us.” “The preachers didn’t give us a chance to testify.” “You’ll look silly.” “Everybody will think you’re just trying to get attention if you do something out of the ordinary.” Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing this long enough to know that that’s just the devil talking to me. No sooner had the thoughts entered my mind than I pushed them right out again. They were simply not true and it was obvious who was putting them in my head.
     After several attempts, the evil one hit me with the one thought that I always fall victim to. “You don’t have anything special to say so God doesn’t want you to do anything.” Yep. That one gets me every time. I know I can always say the simple “I love the Lord.” But I want something more than that. And again I find myself waiting on some blinding light to shine down on me out of heaven as confirmation that when I stand the words will flow out of my mouth like honey. (It would make for a special moment in a movie scene, but not likely to happen just like that here in real life.)
     So I was convinced. God just doesn’t have anything for me to do right now. I have nothing special to say. No earth-shattering revelations or profound statements to express my beliefs and love for God. Then I felt it. It was like a slap in the face. I had hurt Him. I could actually see the hurt in His eyes as He whispered, “Really? I died for you. That’s not earth-shattering?!” I have felt that hurt. The ache in your heart when you realize all you’ve done isn’t appreciated. No matter how jokingly it’s presented, the words and actions bring a stabbing pain to my gut. On my good days I can smile through it and continue on. Other days it brings me to tears.
     That’s how I had made my Jesus feel. Unappreciated. Like what He did for me in some way wasn’t enough. What was I thinking?!  HE SAVED MY SOUL! I am no longer bound for hell! If He never does anything for me ever again, that in itself is enough! I should proclaim it daily, several times, loudly. Even that wouldn’t be enough to thank Him for loving me so much. He knew what He was getting when He saved me. He knew I would let Him down; that I wouldn’t do exactly as He wanted; that I would need Him more and more every day. He knows how many times I will have to go around this mountain before I find my way out of this pattern.  But he did it any way.
     HE loves ME. I’m saved. What more is there to say?

The Present

This week's Five Minute Friday topic is "Present." For more info and some great stories, click here. Reminisces and hopes for the future.  That seems to be my life lately.  Thinking back about summers past, times when the kids were little, the booboos, the funny stories, the "remember whens."  Looking forward and preparing for road trips, planning activities to do while we're out of town, dreading the drive home and the clean up that will be required when we get back.  Next week we're giving my niece a baby shower.  School starts back in only 6 weeks.  My daughter brought her boyfriend "home to meet the family."  Where has the time gone and what does the future hold? I have spent the morning reflecting on what I have and haven't accomplished this week.  I've read blogs on how to be better organized and accomplish more goals for next week.  But today, right now, I have only 5 minutes to tell you about my present.  I don't feel like "doing" my hair today, and that will just have to be ok because I'm out of hairspray.  There are piles of laundry that need to be washed, but I'm out of laundry detergent too.  The dishes were done earlier, but now the kitchen needs cleaned again.  I probablay need to deposit some money in the bank before I mail the check for the mortgage payment.  I am uncomfortable in my clothes - that in between stage when some are too big and others too tight.  I need to brush my teeth.  I need to replace the toilet paper roll. I need to put the clean clothes away. My house smells like lighter fluid and I'm sure I don't want to know why.   I am alone in this room.  I pray for my daughter, she said she's having a frustrating day.  I pray for my oldest son, he's at work, outside, in the heat, probably on a roof.  I pray for my husband and my youngest son because I just saw them walk past the window shielding the flame of a lighter and heading toward the brush pile and, well did I mention the smell of lighter fluid.  Oh, um, excuse me won't you?!

The Cure For My Insomnia

Insomnia is not something I have ever been personally associated with.  On the few occasions I have had trouble sleeping, it was usually because I had too many things on my mind.  Once I sat down and made my to-do lists and don't-forget to get lists, I was fine.  I have always joked that I could sleep upside down in a corner.  Even my sister-in-law can testify to you that I can fall asleep mid-sentence.  True story.  I can sleep anywhere.   So as I lay awake this morning, waaayyy too early for the too-many-eth time, I couldn't help but feel uneasy.  I went over and over in my mind the things I had to think about.  We were leaving for the beach in a few hours.  I had packed everything (well, everything that was able to be packed already).  I had made my lists days ago and checked them off.  I got up and paid a couple of bills online, balanced my checkbook, thinking that might help.  But sleep still avoided me.   As I made my way back to bed, I figured I'd just will myself to sleep.  Just lay still, slow deep breaths, relax, relax, relax.  Nope, too quiet.  Then I remembered what I had told my children when they were little and were scared or couldn't sleep - Talk to Jesus. Sure, why not? I talk to Jesus all the time right?  "Pray without ceasing," that's what the Bible says.  Several times a day I would take a second to mention someone who crossed my mind up to the Lord, for him to touch them in whatever way they needed.  This should be easy. "Okay Lord, I'm having a little trouble getting in these last few hours of sleep.  Can you help?"  Quiet.  "Hello?  It's been five minutes and I'm not asleep yet.  Did you hear me Lord?"  Quiet.  uh-oh.  And it hit me.  I hadn't stopped and taken the time to truly pray one-on-one with my Jesus in quite a while.  "Ahem, um, Lord, I'm here.  I need you.  Can you please come help me?  I don't know what's wrong.  Can you show me?"  It was almost as if He said, "Well, hello my child. You should call your Father more often."  Two hours later, I had actually overslept thirty minutes. And it continues.  This conversation between me and the Lord this morning.  It moved me so that I had to take a time out from gettng ready to tell you about it.  No worries.  If we leave a little later, the beach will be there waiting.  God's got this all under control.

Where Did You Grow Up?

"Where did you grow up?"
     I’m not sure what prompted facebook to add this question to my profile page. Maybe it was the fact that I turned 40 a couple weeks go. Maybe it was a change in their format. Maybe it was just a random pop-up question that was there for a few days. Either way, the question got me to thinking. "Where did you grow up?" It’s not as easily answered as you might think.
     I was born in a hospital in Decatur, Georgia, and, as best as I can remember, my parents lived in an apartment in Stone Mountain (the city not the rock). I know we also lived across the street from my grandparents in Snellville, Georgia, in a house owned by Mr. and Mrs. Meadows. I believe this is where we lived when my younger sister was born.
     Then, on my 3^rd birthday, we moved to a small town not even on the map at the time, Flat Rock, Alabama. That’s where most of my Daddy’s family lived. I have a few memories of the three houses we lived in during our first stay in Alabama. The last one was where we lived when I started school. This is also where we lived when I had my appendix removed and where I got the chicken pox. Our first time in Alabama lasted exactly 3 years.
     Our next move was on my 6^th birthday, just after I finished 1^st grade, this time to Clarksville, Tennessee. My Daddy worked construction and sometimes you just have to go where the work is. I attended Burns-Darden School. This is where we lived when my sister started kindergarten and my mom was put in the hospital for a hernia (I believe) she got "because she swallowed an aspirin and it didn’t go down good." During the 1½ years we lived in Tennessee, we lived in three different houses. I don’t remember much about them, only that one was a two-story brick house in Bel-Air Estates, one was on Lafayette Street, and the other had a room that smelled bad.
     This is where time starts to get a little fuzzy for me. I know we spent a summer in Pensacola, Florida, although I’m not sure what year. We were up early every day, watched the Muppets and Richard Simmons, packed lunch in a cooler and spent most mornings at the beach with friends. I remember going shopping with my friend, Francine, and her getting her first pair of culottes (I think back then we called them gauchos). I remember so many fire ant beds! During our time in Tennessee and Florida, I remember several trips to Alabama and Georgia for funerals. I remember day trips and road trips. I remember family coming to visit.
     Then it was back to good ol’ Flat Rock. The house we rented, to me, was absolutely lovely. Huge living room, hardwood floors, a toy room in the back, a bathroom with a separate tub and shower, and a detached garage. There were beautiful, huge trees in the front yard (which got rolled with toilet paper...a lot). I remember raking up pine straw and leaves to make "houses" and "roads." The house was right next door to the First Baptist Church, which was right across the road from the school. This is where we lived when I accepted Jesus as my Savior. This is where we lived when my Daddy rededicated his life to the Lord and was baptized.
     Then one night my Daddy came home and told us he had bought a trailer (now the correct term would be "mobile home"). We moved into that trailer on a lot rented from Mr. J.W. Mason at the top of the hill, just down the road from my Aunt Mae, and her family. We became close to them as that’s where we spent all our time while we were out of school and Mama and Daddy were at work. At her house we shucked corn, shelled peas, snapped green beans. We played with legos and Hot Wheels and made our pretend houses under her grapevines. It was while we lived here that I planted my first flower bed, morning glories. It was here where I remember having our first dog, B.J. It was here where Daddy got the bright idea to burn out the fire ant hill in the yard by pouring gas on it and lighting it on fire. Unbeknownst to him the ants had a tunnel that ran clear across the property and into the neighbor’s driveway. Whoosh!
     A couple years later, my sister spent the night with a friend in Fabius (actually still part of Flat Rock). When we went to pick her up, my Daddy got into a conversation with her dad and we ended up looking at, and eventually buying, the land next to them. We got off the school bus one day, and our trailer had been moved to its new location. We were expecting it, but it was still a little unnerving. I think I was in the 8^th grade at this point, around 13 or 14 years old.
     Over the next couple years, we helped Daddy build on to that trailer and turn it into a house. We laid block for the foundation, we nailed down plywood for the floors, we hung and mudded sheetrock for walls. I graduated as valedictorian of my 8^th grade class (a class of about 30) and moved up to the high school at Pisgah, which was roughly a 20 minute bus ride to and from the Flat Rock school.  My first room of my own was finished in time for my grandparents to visit around my 15^th birthday.
     That fall is when I met my future husband. We dated for a year and a half before we married on April 14, 1990, a little over a month before my 17^th birthday. We moved into a home two houses down from my parents in Flat Rock. We lived there until that November, when our daughter was 6 weeks old, and we moved into the home of his parents in Dutton, while he went to work out of town with my Daddy. It was while we lived here that I graduated high school and started college. We lived there for almost a year, when we bought our first trailer/mobile home and moved a few miles down the road to Section. It was here that I learned what it really meant to "keep house." It was here that my daughter had her 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd birthdays. It was while we lived here that I graduated college and got my first "real" job.
     After 2½ years in Section, we bought a new (now called) "manufactured home" and moved to the 6½ acres of land my husband had bought alongside his brother in Crossville, some 60 miles from our first marital residence. It was here that our first son was born, I became a stay-at-home mom, and where my children first caught the bus to school. Then, about five years later, in January, 2000, we built a house on the back side of that property. It was at this same time that I started my career as a legal secretary. It was this house that I brought my youngest son home to, and the only place he has ever called home. It was while we lived here that I rededicated my life to my Lord, and all three of my babies accepted Christ. We’ve now been in this house for 13½ years.
     So, where did I grow up? There’s no specific town I call my starting point. I was raised in the South. I grew up under the discipline and freedom of my parents. I grew up beside my sister who, though she annoyed me greatly, was the person closest to me. We share the same memories. She will understand my answer to this question. I grew up at the knees of saintly women, playing under the quilts as they "discussed" life’s issues and offered sisterly "advice." I grew up under "hell fire and brimstone" preachers and the wisdom of truly caring teachers. I grew up at family reunions and weekend volleyball games. I grew up rolling yards and having rubber band battles (skills learned from my lovely Mama). I grew up on the backroads of small communities where everybody knows everybody. I grew up on the interstates between the Tennessee-Kentucky state line, North Alabama, Atlanta and the Florida panhandle. I grew up in the cab of a red 1979 Chevrolet Silverado and the back seat of a 1973 VW Bug, and any other vehicle my Daddy might bring home. I grew up in the yard playing with first, second, third (and maybe even some fourth) cousins. I grew up at my children’s bedside, soothing little ones through sickness, surgeries and broken hearts. I grew up beside hospital beds and in funeral homes. I grew up at home with my parents, I grew up at home with my husband, and I grew up in the home of strangers (before I came to love them as family).
     I grew up in love. Loved by so many, in so many different places. I grew up in several earthly houses; I grew up in the House of God; I grew up believing I have an eternal home built just for me in Heaven.

George Jones and Daddy

     The past week could be considered a sad time for many of us. We as a country lost a great entertainer in the passing of George Jones. On the local scene, however, it was the absence of the McDonald’s restaurant that was the subject of so many conversations. How in the world are these two topics related? To the average individual, probably not at all. But for me, they are closely knitted together in a very emotional memory.
     You see, my Daddy worked for a company that, for many years, built only McDonald’s. They later branched out and began building other restaurants, but it was the McDonald’s that I grew up hearing so much about. Lots of times Daddy would bring home some very interesting pieces from restaurants he would remodel. For years our kitchen table was from one of those restaurants. Not one of the plain, stuck in the floor kind, but the ones with the swivel seats! I believe at one time we even had a couple pieces of the old playground equipment - you know the "rocking horse" type on the big springs. Yeah, those were fun! Even my older two children had a fantastic wooden playset, the one with the swinging bridge and the "tower." It stood concreted in the ground until just a few years ago.
     Now, whenever I see one of those white trucks with the Hudson logo on the side, I can’t help but feel a light tug at my heart. I know what kind of man (or I guess, nowadays, woman) is in that truck. He’s a man who has probably traveled far from home to help bring those Golden Arches to some deserving town. He takes pride in his work. Each time he builds a playground, he makes sure it’s up to the standards he would want if it were his kids or grandkids playing on it. Each time he remodels a bathroom or a kitchen, is it safe enough or clean enough for his wife or daughters to use. He’s frustrated for being behind schedule and over budget. And if you were to take a peek inside his work trailer, there is a picture in his desk drawer under his list of local contractors, lightly covered in sawdust and dirt, of the family he has waiting back home.
     OK - to tie all this in with Mr. George Jones. My Daddy was not a "die-hard" fan of any particular performer or even genre of music. We listened to everything from oldies (rock and country) of the 50s and 60s, to the current country hits, and even some classical tunes by Floyd Cramer. It was not uncommon to hear him occasionally (attempt to) sing along with the radio. It was with songs like "White Lightnin," and the "she was hotter than a two-dollar pistol" song that I remember hearing him try to duplicate the deepness of George Jones’ voice. Whether he was on key or not, I couldn’t tell you. But I thought my Daddy sounded pretty good.
     Fast forward many, many years. George Jones was scheduled to perform at a local establishment one Friday night. I thought it would be a great idea to take my Daddy and enjoy the show with him. We had been to a Loretta Lynn show a few years prior and had a blast listening to all the old songs and seeing her and others up close and personal. The problem was that I was scheduled to go out of town for a conference the weekend of the George Jones concert. I dealt with conflicting emotions of wanting to spend time with my Daddy and needing to attend this conference for my business. I remember the morning we were to leave for Atlanta. I had a very uneasy feeling in my heart and in my gut. I mentioned it to the ladies I was with, and we decided that it was just excitement over the trip. Still, there was the feeling of unrest. That was on Friday morning. The George Jones concert was that night. I wasn’t going to be back home until Saturday evening. My Daddy died Sunday night.
     So, with the passing of George Jones this past week, the memory of that missed concert rises to the top. I still regret not staying home and making a point to spend those last days with my Daddy. But we can’t change the past. I only now have the feelings I get when I hear a George Jones song or a story about him in the news. My first thoughts are usually, "I gotta remember to tell Daddy."
     Today the Grand Ole Opry was host to thousands as they pay their last respects to the late Mr. George Jones. As I drove past the construction site where my beloved McDonald’s once stood, the radio played a tribute to him. "Who’s gonna fill their shoes? Who’s gonna stand that tall?" Yes, who indeed.

What Would Jesus Do?

     Road trips are biblical. I have proof. You need only to read the book of Matthew to find several accountings of Jesus’ travels. My simple understanding of all these stories is that Jesus felt overwhelmed sometimes just like me. So much to be done, so little time. I barely finish one thing (if I even get it finished) before somebody wants or needs something else. It’s constant going and going, and doing and doing. Sometimes tasks pile up, and I can’t do everything at once. Occasionally, while I’m tending to one thing, somewhere another perishes (as in the story of Lazarus). With enough faith, though, that one can be resurrected and all will be right again.
     What I see is that Jesus did what was required of Him. He did what He could do, and then some, but then He needed rest. While the multitudes followed and beckoned Him, He would go out on the water or into the mountains. These journeys took him from the place He was to the place He needed to be to prepare Him for what was to come next. Sometimes He took the people closest to Him; sometimes He went alone. Sometimes He prayed; sometimes He shared what God had revealed from His previous tasks or what missions lay ahead. Though He was constantly in touch with His Father, it was at those times that Jesus spoke to God one on one. And after He had rested, He went back to the multitudes.
     I love the fact that I am able to do what I can for those who need it. Most days I enjoy the work that I do, at home, at church, at my job. I appreciate the abilities God has given me and the opportunities he provides. But sometimes, it gets to be a little much. Sometimes I just need to get away. Whether it be a girls’ trip to the beach for a few days, a week-long family vacation with the kids, a trip to my Mom’s, or even just a ride alone to do my grocery shopping - mostly it’s just a break from the routine that refreshes my mind. It always amazes me how a simple ride will renew my spirit and remind me of the beauty of God’s creation. It gives me time to think and pray and listen. It calms me.
     So the next time you hear I’m planning a trip, don’t think I’m being lavish or thumbing my nose at my responsibilities. I’m just doing what Jesus would do.

"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,

and I will give you rest."  Matthew 11:28