DOG

Once upon a time, we had a dog. She was half black lab and half golden retriever. Her name was Anna Belle. She looked just like a golden retriever, except she was black. She was soft and furry. One of my many nicknames for her was my Black Beanie Baby. Time passed and eventually she grew old and feeble. My heart hurt. One day, I got down on my knees, and out of my broken heart came a prayer that went something like this: "God, you put our love for this dog in our hearts. You brought her to us in a way that only You could. Now we all hurt. Bring her to you, Lord. And Lord, heal our hearts. Lord, she has been such a good dog. I know that this is asking a bit much, when there are so many awful things in this world, but Lord, could you send us another dog just like her? Another half black lab, half golden retriever? One that looks like a golden retriever, except it's black? Thank You." I pondered these things in my heart for a while and then one day, I felt the Holy Spirit pricking me that I was perhaps being a bit too specific in my prayer. Shouldn't I love whatever dog God so chooses to drop into my lap? So I prayed again. And this prayer went something like this: "God, was I being too specific? I don't know. I do know she is still dying and my heart is still hurting. And Lord, I still pray for a dog just like Anna Belle. But if you choose to give us one that is not so beautiful and loving and kind, I will love that dog too."

Anna Belle continued downhill. Then one day, in the midst of her slow decline, I received a call from a daughter. She said something like this: "I know where there are puppies. They are the same breed mix as Anna Belle. And they are about thirty minutes from your house." Enter Moose. Now, dog people will know that just because the breed is the same mix, it does not mean that the dog will inherit the same given traits of each individual breed. But Moose did. Only larger. And more goofy. Moose is large and soft and silky and prone to barking at balls that escape under the sofa. He is a beanie baby on steroids.

And Anna Belle continued her decline. Then one day, my husband came home and said something like this: "I know where there is a stray dog. It is behind my office." Enter Scarlett. Now, dog people will also know that rescue dogs are often special in their own way. And Scarlett is. When I first laid eyes on her, she was as skinny as a whippet dog. Her fur was extremely coarse. Beauty was not present. We took her to the vet and found out she had heart worms. Then she snarled at the first dog she saw. And when she snarled, she went from lacking beauty to downright ugly. U.G.L.Y. With no alibi. Ever. Still, we took her home and loved on her and fed her and watered her and treated her for her heart worms.

In time Anna Belle left us to be with God. Moose grew. And grew. And Scarlett grew fat and her fur grew softer. And she grew to love Moose. And her looks became more endearing. Except. Except, when she snarls. And she snarls at all dogs that she considers strangers. Which is all but a select few. Only God knows what is going through her mind when she does this. But what we know is that she is the ugliest looking creature when she snarls. I could try for an entire paragraph describing her vicious demeanor, but suffice it to say she, um, does not meet the standard of a werewolf in London, much less the standard in the middle of a pack of hyenas.

But lo and behold, lo and behold, one day it dawned on me: God had heard my prayers and answered them. Yes. He. Did. He cared enough for me, in my own personal hour of hurt and need to listen to me and to answer me. He gave me both dogs that I had prayed about. Moose and Scarlett walk before me every day as living testimony to God's listening ear and loving heart.

Which brings me to yesterday. Yesterday I had some quiet time. And I needed to get some things straight in my heart. I struggled a bit. But the Holy Spirit finally impressed upon me something like this: "You are not to depend on man. Not your husband, though he is good. Not the doctors, though they are smart. Not your friends, though they are kind. Not your family, though they are loving. (Well, most of them, anyway.) You are to depend on God." At that moment, my eyes were opened, literally and figuratively. For there, curled up beside me on the bed, was Moose. And the Holy Spirit said, I kid you not, something like this: "DOG. Depend On God. You have heard that before. It is not a new slogan. But see here. I have illustrated it for you. I have illustrated it for such a time as this. DOG."

"I am the vine. You are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit. Apart from me, you can do nothing." John 15:5 --- DOG

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses. But we trust in the name of the LORD our God." Psalm 20:7 --- DOG

Dang! I Forgot the Side-mirrors!

          There are times in my life that I feel dry in my prayer life. I feel like I am not connecting, as if I am half-hearted, and perhaps God doesn’t listen to half-hearted prayers. My best prayers, I believe, are simply when I lose myself in honest conversation with God…no flowery words, no great depths, just honesty and a desire to communicate with Him.

            I felt off-kilter in my prayer life during the spring and early summer of this year. So I grabbed a few books on prayer and started reading. I must confess that I still haven’t completely figured this prayer thing out. But I did learn something at this time. I remember reading about prayer and persistence. The book(s) got a bit deep, but I picked up a few things that made sense to me.

            It was at this point in my reading that my youngest daughter came home and announced that she and some friends wanted to go to the beach for the day. The beach is about 3 hours from our home. Young people, you know, do these sorts of things. They have that kind of energy. In fact, I remember doing these things myself: get up, drive, lie in the sun allllllll day, and drive home long after sunset. This works for youth. She asked me this question about a week in advance of the planned day. As she is in college and was home for the summer, we had no problem with these plans. She is a responsible young woman, with Godly values and Godly friends. But perhaps I should correct myself. As she was in college and was home for the summer, I had no problem with her plans. But I did have a problem with the plans of the other umpteen thousand people that would be on the road at the same time as she and her friends. I particularly had a problem with the thousands of people that would be on the road at the same time after dark. On a Saturday night. Late, on a Saturday night. Especially the drunk ones.

            So, being in a bit of a praying mode, I began to pray. I prayed the entire week, leading up to this trip. I prayed all over that car. I prayed left-side, right-side, front, back, above, underneath, and within….not to mention each and every tire.

            And so the day arrived. They went. They had fun – sun, shrimp, and sea.  Eventually, the sun set. We had set a determined time for them to start home. I believe it was somewhere around 8:30pm or 9:00pm. Our thought was that this would get them home sometime around mid-night and we could at least sleep more soundly from mid-night onward. She did contact us and ask to extend our deadline by 30 minutes. Beach-town crowds, we reasoned, and dinner time, make for long lines, and thus we agreed to her decision.

            I gamely watched a movie for the evening, with my husband. But I must be honest. I love to sleep. It is one of my gifts. I’m not sure what purpose it serves, but it is a God-given talent. My husband, on the other hand, has the blessing of needing less sleep. So, at movie’s end, despite the parental concerns rumbling inside of me, I went to sleep; I left my trustworthy husband to stand guard for our daughter’s return.

            One must know that, being a Godly mother, I had calculated, down to the minute, the approximate time our daughter and her friends should be arriving at our house. One must also know that I did go to sleep. One must further know that as I went to sleep, I drifted off praying vehemently for their safety. I saturated that car in prayer. Then I went to sleep.     

            I would like to say that in that motherly type of knowing mode, I awoke mysteriously about the time they were due home. In retrospect, however, I suppose it was the dogs barking at their arrival that awoke me. But, the second I heard the dogs bark, I knew they were home, right on time.

            I ventured forth to give my best sleepy, motherly hug to my daughter. She hugged me back and then looked me dead in the eye and said, “I got hit by a drunk driver.”

            I was aghast. I asked her to repeat herself, which she did. I looked her up and down to check for signs of injury and found….none. Now I was acutely awake and thus asked for an explanation, to which she obliged.

            Fifteen minutes from home, as she got on the by-pass for our town, she noticed a car rapidly approaching from behind. She momentarily thought it was going to rear-end her car, but at the last second, it veered into the other lane, missing her bumper by inches. Before she could breathe, however, the SUV came alongside her and she and her friend heard and felt a loud THWACK and the SUV sped onward. In that instant, they realized what had happened: the two cars had essentially high-fived each other with their side-mirrors. It was a glancing blow at high speed, which resulted in a high release of adrenaline for both my daughter and her friend. The offending SUV did not stop and my daughter, realizing there was no real damage, wisely did not stop either.

            So she came home, shaken, but safe. I went back to bed, wide-eyed, but tired. Eventually, I fell back asleep. Sometime during the night, however, I popped into consciousness. The words “First Thessalonians” came into my mind. What? “First Thessalonians 5.”  If I’m lying, I’m dying. While I did not hear these words, they were impressed upon me in my mind. As I leaned over to reach my Bible came, “First Thessalonians 5:7.” So there I am at , I don’t know, 2:30am, with my reading light, oddly flipping through my Bible to find First Thessalonians 5:7, which reads clearly and unmistakably, “ For those who sleep, sleep at night, and those who get drunk, get drunk at night.”

            I stared at the page. Really? Are you laughing, God? Really. You had to throw that verse to me. You had to wake me up for this, it was so good. Stop it, You’re making me laugh. What? Have you got a verse appropriate for everything? Seriously?

            Later, I pondered the verse. Oh, I think God was winking and smiling and laughing right there in the pages, right there between the lines. But I also think He had a point to make, several points, really.

            First, trust in Him. For anyone out there, but especially for parents, it comes down to simply: trust in Him. Do you or don’t you? If you’re going to trust in Him, you sleep at night. You either do trust or you don’t. If you trust, you trust, and sleep. Yes, there are drunks out there. God acknowledges this. They especially like to get drunk at night. And drive. Which leads me back to trust. Trust like a child, and sleep.        

            Secondly, there’s this: I forgot the side-mirrors. In all my praying and in all my covering that car with prayer, I never once asked God to protect the side-mirrors. Is that why the side-mirror got whacked? One can study prayer and read about prayer and even pray about prayer. One can ask questions about prayer, endless questions. Do I actually affect God’s actions by prayer? Should I be persistently repetitive in prayer? Or does God hear me the first time and that’s good enough? If I miss a detail, does that leave a gap in the prayer, in the cosmos? I have no idea. I have no theological training. I don’t know. But here is what I do know: I prayed. I talked with God and I had faith. That’s it.

            I know there is a lot I could learn about prayer. And I welcome learning. But intellectual knowledge aside, I just know that when I bow my head in respect for the Maker of the universe and thank Him for His Wondrousness, He listens. I know He listens. And He so very much cares. His answers aren’t always what we want or expect. I’m not so naïve as to think that. I know otherwise. I know people who well know otherwise. But He cares. And I trust that He cares. Even if the side-mirrors get whacked. Or worse. He cares. And I trust. And sleep.

Jake & The Whitewater

Jake and The Whitewater

This blog post is dedicated to Jake Malone, a double black diamond ski dude, who well knew Jesus trumped the highest of mountains and the roughest of rapids.

            About thirty two years ago, John and I went on one of our first “dates” together, on a whitewater rafting trip. This trip was through my church at the time. Jake Malone organized the trip. I don’t really remember when I first met Jake. I just knew him – a big man with a big voice and a big heart- knowledge about God’s love. Jake ultimately went on to get his PhD in seminary. John and I ultimately went on to get married.

            So it’s fitting that I write this post today, because at approximately 12:30am today, Jake went Home. And my post today is about whitewater. Of course it’s about whitewater. Our middle daughter is engaged to a wonderful young man, who, in his spare time, river guides down the Chatooga. Suddently, whitewater returns to our lives. (Hey Jake, are you listening?!)

            On a beautiful Sunday in July, we ventured down Section III of the Chatooga River, with three daughters, one son-in-law, one future son-in-law, and one friend. As we were a crowd, my husband and I split off from our group and joined another raft. In addition to us and the guide, our raft group consisted of a father-son team and a young couple. The father-son team manned the front of our raft. The son had earned this trip as his 14^th birthday present. It was his first experience of this kind. The couple was young, and immediately indicated this outing was somewhat of a venture beyond their comfort zone. When she paddled forward as the raft guide yelled “paddle backward”, this was somewhat confirmed. John and I brought up the rear of the crew, with the guide behind us. The team looked dubious to me.

            As we approached the first or second rapid, enthusiasm ran high. That is, until the raft guide pitched forward and an uncontrolled domino effect followed. The entire maneuver is somewhat murky as I was the second domino to fall. As my head popped back above water, my mind screamed about 6 things at once, “Point your feet downstream! Keep your feet up! On your back! Move toward the raft! You’re drowning!” and maybe “It was a good life!” Eventually those of us that took in the drink were hauled back aboard, invigorated.

            On the next rapid, we were instructed by our trusty guide to follow his instructions carefully. Very carefully. I’m sure the words “Very Important” came out of his mouth. As in “do what I say.” I was pumped to comply. The paddle forward/backward girl was somewhat pumped to comply. The father-son duo were shaken, but game. The guide patiently explained that on the next rapid, there would come a moment  when we would want to stop paddling out of fear, but it was at that precise moment when he would screamingly ask us to paddle. Ignore the fear, he said. It is important to paddle at that moment, he said. You are safe, if you paddle, he said.

            And so that moment came. I do not know what happened. I paddled. When he bellowed, I put my back into it and paddled. That’s what I did. However, something didn’t go quite right. While we did not again drink the water, we did bump and rebound off a rock. During the rebound, I caught a distinct vibe that perhaps we were not meant to hit that rock. As the water calmed down, our ever-so-patient guide said ever so patiently to Paddle Forward/Backward Girl: “Sweetheart, when I say paddle backward, you must paddle backward, not forward.” To the shaky duo in the front, he proffered, “There is a time to drop inside the boat for safety. And there is a time to paddle. And when I say paddle, it’s time to paddle, not drop inside the boat for safety.” For the record, the guide said this, beautifully walking the line between guidance and correction, a feat much admired by me at the moment.

            Later, on the river, I saw what you may have already seen. Forgive me if I didn’t see it then, because I was too busy paddling. But while I am no expert, I am aware of certain things on rivers. I know there are currents, and there are currents beneath the currents. I don’t know all the cool lingo that these things are called, but I know they are there. And I know that people have died on this river. I know that there are rocks that will whap you, breaking your neck, even, and currents that will take you down and hold you under, pinned for eternity. And I know that the guide knows all of this information. That’s why I paddled when he said paddle. The others? I think they saw white water and they freaked. Paddling to them did not appear to be the smart, safe, expedient thing to do. Except it was. It was the smart, safe, expedient thing to do: to listen to the guide and follow him.

            And there’s the analogy that I couldn’t see until I relaxed a bit. Sometimes, with our Guide, we don’t want to listen. Everything in us screams one thing, while He’s saying another. But we don’t know what’s underneath those rocks. We don’t know those currents. We don’t have the first clue as to how close we are to death, figuratively or otherwise. We just have to trust that He knows; and that when He says “Paddle,” we paddle with our utmost. We put our back into it, and we paddle in whatever direction He tells us. He knows the currents. He knows the dangers, and He knows we are shaking and want to drop back in the boat. But the boat is not the true safety. He is. We don’t go off and do our own thing and we don’t quit. We keep on paddling…whichever dang way He tells us to paddle. Listen and follow The Guide.

            Isaiah 43:2 – “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.”

Chik-Fil-A Combo Meal: $1000.00

My husband and I found ourselves alone for dinner the other night, via a telephone conversation: he at the office and I, at home. Yes, we are in that phase, transferring into the Empty Nest. We are trying to do right by our marriage, trying to spend time together. But with wedding planning and other family health issues, we’re not talking fancy vacations; we’re talking small talk. Hey, I suggested, let’s meet at Chik-Fil-A. This is always a good plan. Further, John ventured, let’s look at a few possible chairs for the office. Date night!

Quickly, I gathered my things and got the dogs properly fed and situated. I say properly fed and situated, because Moose recently ate three quarters of a loaf of pumpkin bread. Happy Thanksgiving. I wasn’t having any of that nonsense again. So as I left, I cast my eyes about the kitchen for any would-be tempting bit o’ food, and found none.

The meal was standard Chik-Fil-A: good, up-lifting and pleasant.  The warmth of chicken sandwiches, the swarm of evening life, and the flow of conversation, all combined for a nice outing.

From there, we went to LaZy Boy to look at some chairs. We did not rush. We sat in chairs. We compared chairs. We looked at height and width and durability. As it was for the office, I left John calculating the details. I then called our daughter. You know, the one getting married. Hey, come look at these chairs. There was, after all, a sale. She eventually breezed in and we continued to browse the store, this time, in buying-for-home mode.  John studied his choices and we scanned our choices. In the end, none were perfect and we decided to head home.

So our daughter headed to the gas station and we headed back to our dogs. Recently, we placed our rescue dog, Scarlett, on Rimadyl. Since then, with joyous joints, homecoming has become even grander at our house. Oh yes. We walked through the door and joy abounded! We were so loved. Joy!

In that joy, I was reminded that it was time for Scarlett’s evening dose of Rimadyl. The joy crescendoed. The dogs view this act as treat time. I maneuvered through their tip tapping paws to open the Rimadyl bottle, along with Moose’s treats, only the Rimadyl bottle was not there. Oh, scatterbrained me. Where did I put it? There’s a certain strategy to positioning Scarlett’s Rimdyl bottle. I have a specific place for it. Yet I have found that when I put it there, I often don’t see it and then forget to give it to her. This does not bode well for her joints. Thus, sometimes, I move it into a more obvious spot. Thus, sometimes I forget where that obvious spot is. Hence, I found myself in the kitchen, looking for the obvious spot. Where did I put it? Hey, at least I remembered I was supposed to give her the Rimadyl. Now if I could only remember where I put it. In a moment of senior moment solidarity, John joined in the search. The dogs continued to prance in bewildered anticipation. Nothing. John then took Tactic B and walked into the great room, planning to distract the dogs while I continued the fruitless search.

I say fruitless. Because that’s when we discovered the search was fruitless. My ears detected a low exclamation from John. For the record, cursing was not involved. But it was, well, not a Christmassy exclamation. I turned my addled attention to him, only to find the entire child-proof bottle of 180 count Rimadyl on the floor, chewed to shreds, with no Rimadyl to be found. Anywhere. The dogs pranced. My stomach lurched.

John and me? Well, after 29 years of marriage, I can tell you we both have very different reactions to emergencies, which is a good thing. We sort of go together to complete the needs of the moment, in very different ways. I tend to morph into a chicken, whereas John tends to morph into a mastodon. As my stomach was lurching, I sprang into action. I re-gathered my purse and my keys as my mind registered that it was going to be a long night. Then I buzzed back to take out my contacts and retrieve my glasses (Sleepless Night Move #1), yelling that we needed to call the vet. I then started clucking out instructions to our daughter, newly arrived from the rather mundane activity of topping off her car with gas. John, very deliberately, knelt to gather the evidence. The dogs continued their tap dance.

Next, I grabbed a jacket and darted to the garage to get the leash, simultaneously buck-bucking the vet’s phone number to John, who concentrated on making very sure he dialed the right number. The dogs, by this time, were feverish with delight. They were due a treat! Mommy was excited! And, they were going for a walk?! Yelps ensued.

John’s conversation with the emergency vet went as expected, clear and orderly. John knew the drug, the dosage, and from his clear brain, he calculated the number of pills Moose had eaten. By the time he got off the phone with the vet, he could tell me, milligram per kilogram, exactly what kind of predicament Moose was in. The mother within me knew this approximately four minutes earlier, but recognized that the solution lay in the numbers.

Five minutes into the ordeal, we whirled out the door, leaving behind one concerned daughter and one very bewildered Scarlett. Moose, on the other hand, was having a great joy ride. John drove, carefully. And I sat like a chicken at sundown. Quiet. Really quiet.

In fact, speech ceased to be important to me. The Zone of Guilt and Prayer ensued. And I stayed in that zone for about forty eight hours (48). John, reliably, maintained his reliability. Meanwhile Moose, well, he entered into the Zone of, um, Unpleasant Experience, which is bad enough. But I knew enough to know that as bad as the experience was for him, it was about the numbers. The lab numbers. 

To shorten this Christmas tale of tail, we waited and watched those numbers, while Moose waited and watched um, other things. And God answered my prayer in the affirmative. He allowed us to dodge a bullet. One hundred (100) Rimadyl later, and Moose’s liver and kidneys, and indeed Moose, survived.

His lab numbers blessedly cooperated. The monetary numbers? Well, dang, that Chik-Fil-A  sandwich was worth about a thousand dollars  ($1000.00). One thousand smackaroos. And we thought Scarlett’s heartworm treatment made her a fine dog. Moose surpassed even her.

Moose is home with us now. His prognosis is good, but his tummy is a bit rumbly. And that place where they put the IV? You know, the place on his leg where they shaved him for the IV? Well, he’s licking it. Incessantly. He’s driving me wonderfully insane, as in stop-licking-your-leg-or-I’ll-kill-you insane.

During the night, in-between his frequent trips outside and his incessant licking, while I was lying on the couch, I had an idea. I know how to stop the licking. I think today, perhaps, I shall go to PetSmart and buy a Cone-of –Shame. My remaining question is: do they have one for humans, too?

ON LETTING GO

Aug. 16, 2012

I knew this day was coming. So many years ago, I knew it. My emotions are so mixed and so torn and so trite that putting them into words serves almost no purpose, except to satisfy myself. I cannot project outwards. Like a dog licking its wounds, I can only focus on my own heart. God forgive me that I lapse into self-searching.

Self-searching. Odd, that 24 years ago I began the journey that taught me so very well that it wasn’t about me, that it wasn’t about self.  From the first moment of my ever-present pregnancy nausea, I learned I was living for another life. And then another. And then another.

I gave it my all. I did not give it perfection, because I can’t.  But I gave it my all. For 24 years, I have tried to keep my eye on the ball of motherhood.  It was a marathon of sorts – denying self and plugging on and on and on.

But enough of that. All good mothers know what sacrifice is. Further, the sacrifice begets so much gain: so much love, so many special moments, so much joy.

There will be more of all of the above. But first I have to let go. I have to let go of the messy household. I have to let go of the chaotic routine. I have to let go of the variant noise. I have to let go.

And it hurts. In letting go, there is freedom and there is pain. What am I going to do with it? I don’t know. I will never stop being a mother. Never. But my role has changed. And I’m not sure into what.

I didn’t know what I was getting into 24 years ago. And I certainly don’t know what I’m getting into now. What does God want of me? I only know that most likely it will be big, in its smallness. I know that He wants me to get up every day and live for Him. I know that most of life is mundane, but it is mundane for Him. I cannot see His will for me until I begin to walk His will.

And the first step in His will is to let go. My question is: can I cry my way into joy? Can I howl at the letting go? Yes. I can.

I am not in control. And the sooner I acknowledge this, deep down, the sooner I can get back up and get on with life. When one attempts to stand in the undertow of the ocean, one quickly learns she is not in control. I am not in control. And right now, the One that is in control is telling me to let go.

And so I will.

To Whom Do You Belong?

Some sweet friends of mine are around the world right now, on a mission trip to Swaziland. That got me to ruminating on something that has been turning over in my mind since long before I went on this very mission trip one year ago. Question:

If you travel across the world and meet a Christian that does not belong to your own church, do you hold that against them? The answer is a resounding NO! They are brothers/sisters in Christ! How stupid, hateful, and silly to think otherwise. Question: Do you hold it against a fellow Christian, right in your hometown, to belong to a different church? Beloved, why the change of heart?

We are each unique, gifted, talented, loved ones of God. We are called, according to God's good, pleasing, and perfect will (Rom. 8:28) -- each according to the plans God has laid out for us (Jer. 29:11).

Who do we belong to? Do we belong to Christ or to a church? Certainly, we are called to support and be active in church. But the larger answer is Christ. The community is Christ.

Perhaps God's movement/direction of people upsets some -- for it does not fall within their own designs for their will, their church, their community, their world. Ah, but you see, it is not their world, their community, their church. And it is not about their will. It all belongs to God -- we are called to walk responsibly in His will -- and sometimes, He makes changes. Christianity is not a club. It is a bending of the knee to Christ -- a bending of the will. It's not about our plans and our vision -- it is about Him. Period. End of sentence.

SPLAT

 

This morning, I sat down to eat breakfast and read the Wall Street Journal. This has become a rather indulgent habit at the encouragement of both my mother and my daughter, Darcy. But that’s another story; I digress.

What was I eating? You might ask. I was eating wonderful cantaloupe. It was cold and juicy. It was full of taste. It was good. It was fruit; this means it was guilt-free. I would stab a piece with my fork, eat it, and joyfully read about multi-million dollar houses for sale all over the world. Boy, was that cantaloupe good. Om nom, as some would say.

Coming to the end of my bowl of cantaloupe, I stabbed the last juicy piece. I continue reading details of earthly riches as I moved it toward my mouth. Then I bit into nothing but the fork. In a split second, my eyes grew wide and I looked downward as I heard the decided sound of splat. Splat? There was my very last oh-so-cold-and-juicy piece of wonderful cantaloupe on the kitchen floor. This registered sorrowfully to my senses.

Immediately, my brain kicked into high gear and brought forth the by now well-known Five Second Rule. But even for me, who is not known to be a neat person, even for this soul, this sad sight was too much for the Five Second Rule. All that juice. All those germs.  Alas, that last piece had to be sopped up with a paper towel and woefully discarded into the trash.

Sadness. My poor mouth was left with nothing but the hard clang of the fork against my teeth and hungering for more cantaloupe. But just then, God started chuckling. And just then, I saw the connection He was making.

God’s Word was the cantaloupe. I took my eye off God, looking at the world instead, and I was left with cold, hard metal and an inconsolable longing for more.  Funny, that had been my quiet time the other day. Whatever is going on in this world, stay focused on Me. Take in My Word as your nourishment. Look toward Me, and I will feed you. How many times does Jesus say that in the Bible? Lots.

Fortunately for us, the Five Second Rule does not apply to God’s Word. It may go splat sometimes when we read it….when we’re not really paying attention or taking it to heart. But it never collects germs. We can always go back, pick it up, and taste it again. So stop for a minute and think if you missed something this morning, if you missed something this day. Did you miss a God-moment? Did you miss His Word? Center Him in your vision. Ask Him to show you what you missed and let your senses continue to enjoy Him.

Psalm 34:8; Hebrews 12:2