I am doing an on-line book study with some other women. It’s been great. If you want to join or just read comments, click the button at left to go to Lelia’s site. We are reading a book by Lysa Terkeurst called What Happens When Women Say Yes To God.

Here are my thoughts:

If you are a Christian you have had to say “Yes” to God at some point in your life — “Yes, I am a sinner and yes, I need your salvation God.” But saying “Yes” on a daily or even moment to moment basis is a difficult, even a monumental task. Given everything that God has given us, you might not think it would be so hard, but when I am honest, I have to admit that it is.

In chapter 4, “You Never Know How God Will Use You Until You Let Him,” Lysa writes, “Only the pursuit of God’s righteousness leads us to His best.” God always wants the best for us. When we seek God — pursue — God’s righteousness that leads us closer to God. But sometimes this can be a scary place.

Jesus went to the poor, the weeping, the sinners, the prostitutes. They aren’t places that I normally want to go to. But God calls me to those places.

As I was reading, I was reminded of a woman I worked with whose two boys were in foster care and she was 8-9 months pregnant. I did fairly well with many of my clients even if I didn’t agree with their choices. But this woman grated on every nerve I had.

We were not obligated to transport parents. In fact, it was common to expect them to make their own way to visits and appointments. For many of my clients this meant the bus. Even though our city isn’t huge, getting from point A to point B could take and hour or more. They were dropped off down the road and then had to walk the rest of the way to our facility.

It was hot and sticky and after the visit, she had to walk back down the road and stand and wait for the next bus. She asked me if I would drop her down the street. It was not one of my better moments and I said, “No.” I rationalized it as a natural consequence for her choices. I rationalized it that I didn’t have extra insurance and I was using my own car and if something happened she would undoubtedly sue for every dime she could get. But really, it was just that I didn’t like her.

I didn’t like her. Ouch. That haunted me the next several days. The next week, I asked her if she wanted me to drop her at the end of the road. But God said, “That’s not quite enough.” Though it lengthened my day, I began to drive her across town and then transport the little ones to the foster parents’ home.

I can’t say that anything miraculous happened. I left the agency before the case closed. But, in saying “Yes” to God in those moments, I began to see her not simply as a client — and one I didn’t like — but as someone who was made uniquely in God’s image. If it were Jesus who needed a ride, would I hesitate? But then God reminded me that it was Jesus who needed the ride.

One of the things that struck me was Lysa’s comment that Satan’s name means “one who separates.” Indeed that is what he does. He is constantly pulling and tugging and enticing us away from God and His best for us.

In church today, the altar is usually in plain sight. My church doesn’t even necessarily have an altar per se. (We use a horse trough for baptism!) In Jesus’ day, a curtain separated the altar from public view. When a priest would go in, they tied a rope around his foot in case something would happen and they would need to drag him out.

But when Jesus died on the cross, the temple curtain was torn. It is so specific that it says from top to bottom rather than bottom to top. We could not rip it up and reach up to God. So God, reached down and made the way.

Lysa writes, “The truth is the name of Jesus causes us to pause and redefine ourselves. The truth is that love compels us to embrace the calling to be Jesus’ ambassador. The truth is freedom to soar above this life and learn to live beyond ourselves and our circumstances.” I sense the dangerousness of it, but “Lord, make me pause in that redefining way. Lord, help me choose to embrace your calling on my life and to say ‘Yes’ every moment.”

It’s easy to say and harder to walk out. There are some situations right now that aren’t very pretty in my life. I won’t air them here, but please pray that I would say “Yes” in a moment to moment way and that I would choose that over separation from others and, most importantly, separation from God.”

One last thought from Lysa that touched my heart:

With God’s amazing love settled in our heart, we have His power to keep our faith steady and to experience lasting hope and joy independent of our situation.

It’s true — God wants it all. and it’s in exchange of what we want for what God wants that we experience the adventure and freedom and power of saying yes to God.

I rarely answer my cell phone when driving, but when it rang that April afternoon, I answered. I almost didn’t have to. I answered, knowing instinctively what the news was. My friend asked me where I was and I explained I was driving back in town from an appointment. She told me to call her when I was back in town.

When I had left the hospital for an appointment in a nearby town, Bill had been “relatively” stable and I had planned on going right back. But I drove home instead because I knew, as my friend would confirm, that Bill had died.

Bill and I had dated for several months, spending daily time together and talking about the future. At the end of March we took a break, but I anticipated getting back together. In April, Bill (at the age of 41) had an aortic aneurysm. He lingered for a few days, but never regained consciousness.

Recently, I came across a book, Amish Grace by Kraybill, Nolt, and Weaver-Zercher concerning the West Nickel Mines Amish school shootings. I fell upon a passage regarding the Amish and the grieving. It explained that in public settings, Amish who are grieving wear black. The length of time that they wear black depends upon their relationship to the one who has died. What struck me was the reason behind the wearing of black. Simply put, they wear black to remind others in their community to take special care of grieving.

How different from our fast paced society! We don’t say it, but there is a compartmentalization of those who grieve. While the grieving may be intently cared for a few days after the death and funeral, it is a struggle for us in our busy lives to care well for the grieving over the long haul. And it is a long haul. Experts estimate that grief takes 18 months or more.

Bill was not the first person in my life to die. I’ve lost all of my grandparents at various ages and my mother when I was just twenty-three. I’ve lost people quickly and have experienced death that has lingered. Neither is easy. As I’ve grieved Bill, I’ve gone to a grief support group and met others who are grieving. Here are the top three things I’ve learned about those who grieve and how to help them.

Keep asking how you can help. Better yet – don’t just ask but pitch in. Your friend may not know at first how to tell you to how to help, but keep asking or think of things and offer specifics. This could be helping go through belongings or writing out thank you notes. It could mean making phone calls. I’ve learned from those in the support group that death is complicated. There are forms to fill out, names to change, wills to find, people to contact. If you have the time and energy, help with those nitty-gritty details even if you have never done it before. Your friend may not have done it before either, but it will help to have someone to bounce ideas off of.

Stay connected and have a ready ear. Especially if your friend lived with their loved one, the sudden isolation can be staggering. For those who have lost both parents, there may be the sobering realization that even though they are adult, they are now an “orphan.” Be willing to listen to stories about the loved one or even the death over and over. Be patient. This talking it out is part of “framing” the grief. Eventually, this part of grief moves from something handled daily to that which can be hung on the wall. It’s still there, but it no longer takes center stage. Rather, it can be taken down periodically and good as well as sad remembrances can be shared.

Care for the grieving over the long-haul. Write down the date of death and write a reminder in your calendar 1 month, 3, months, 6 months, 9 months, and 12 months out. On those dates, send a note, make a phone call, or have a cup of coffee. For some reason the “threes” are particularly hard. While no one can tell me why that is, those who work with the grieving and those that grieve know that it is. My theory is that those come with the changing of seasons in most areas and are a reminder that the loved-one is no longer present.

When we walk with the grieving, we walk in the footsteps of Jesus. Isaiah 53:3 describes Jesus as “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (KJV). In John 11, Jesus learns that his friend, Lazarus, has died. When he sees Lazarus’ sister Mary weeping, it says that Jesus was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled” (John 11:33, NIV). And in versus 35 it says, “Jesus wept.” (NIV).

I am fascinated that Jesus wept even knowing that he would raise Lazarus from the dead. He was moved by Mary’s grief and wept with her. I think we often shy away from the grieving because we don’t want to feel such raw emotion and don’t like not knowing what to do or say. Be yourself and let yourself be moved by your friend’s grief – to weep with them, to listen to them, to serve them, to be Jesus to them.

Bill died April 23, 2007. As might be expected, he has been on my mind a bit lately. I’ll probably share more about him over the next week. He was a special person in my life — a gift even if I only had him for a short while.

Sorry if this is a bit more “article” sounding. I wrote it to submit for publication, but I thought I would share it with you as well.

I have known for a while that the time was coming, that soon a piece of my life would be no more or at least not in the same form. Even though the cover had been loose for a time, it was hard to see the cover completely torn away from this much used book.

With most things in the kitchen, I make do. I cobble things together, sometimes shooting an email to a friend to find out what is really meant by “browning” or “saute” or any other cooking type word. However, I do really well with baking. My specialty is chocolate chip cookies. Though I’ve given the recipe with explicit instructions to numerous people, aside from my sisters no one has ever managed to duplicate them. Someone with whom I reguarly share my cookies, recently bemoaned the fact that I had brought them. She is on a “plan” and cookies aren’t part of them.

The book in question is my mother’s old cookie cookbook. It has her name and the year, 1979, signed on the opening page. While there are hundreds of recipes in the book, it naturally falls open to the stained and dog eared page that announces “Best cookie of 1945″ and my blue sticky note doubling the recipe.

I am not a great collector of things. But when my mother died many years ago, I snagged her cookie book for my own. There is always a bit of nostalgia in using it.

The thing that makes it precious are the memories it evokes. My mother was hard to please and I often wondered if I was ever good enough. She rarely said, “I love you.” But the one way I knew her care was in the baking. When we were young she would tease that the cookie or brownie fairy had come while we were playing outside or at school. We would eat them warm, oozing with chocolate.

My sisters and I are far flung. They have married and have children of their own. There are in laws to see on holidays and no one wants to travel at Christmas — prefering that their children wake up to see Santa’s presents under their own tree.

I am graciously and warmly included at a friend’s. But at times the talk will turn to “remember when . . . .” At times like these it seems to me that when one goes home it is to where the memories are kept. Home is where the shared memories, the shared past, binds hearts together.

The last time I was involved in a tug of war was when I was a college student at camp. We did it in the sand by the bay. Everyone kept yelling, “Dig in! Dig in!” While this was probably good advice, it wasn’t all that helpful in sand unless you had a pretty good size trench. The whole time we were stepping on each other and falling down. I have no clue which team won but I do know I didn’t enjoy it at all. Later when I went to camp as a staff, I opted out of that event!

Today I talked to Julie about a conflict I’m in with someone. She made the observation that we appear to be in a bit of a tug of war. She had some great advice. She said, “If you want to end a tug of war, you can lay down your rope and walk toward the other person.” I struggled with that a bit after she said it. My emotional gut level reaction said that I should “dig in.” When I dig in, I don’t usually just do it with my feet. My trench has to be at least waist deep!

Julie is one of those people who can say things softly but still get the point across. Much of the time, I spoke about not feeling “safe.” SAFETY is HUGE for me. I think there is some element of that involved. But Julie just said, “I cannot tell if you aren’t feeling safe or if you have dug your heels in.”

Honestly, I think it was some of both. I’m still not feeling totally safe regarding the situation. But, tonight I sent an email in an attempt to “lay down my rope and walk toward the other person.” We’ll see what happens.

Even though it doesn’t feel totally safe, some of the angst about the situation dissipated in sending that email. Perhaps, it is simply because I am choosing not to tug back. Depending on the response I get, I may have to keep choosing to let that rope lie there rather than pick it up. Even if the other person tugs it a few more times, there shouldn’t be much harm (as long as I don’t grab it back) because tug of war by yourself is completely useless and I can’t imagine anyone keeping at it when no one is pulling back.

So, I’ve laid down the rope and now I have to wait and see about a meeting in a few days. Please pray for me to let that rope stay right there on the ground and be able to trust God for the sense of safety I need.

Are you in a tug of war? What do you think would happen if you stopped tugging?

I am really enjoying working at Barnes and Noble. (The pay could be better, but the atmosphere is great.) I worked 1 day in the last 4 days but have popped in there 3 out of the 4. Today, I went to pick up one of Lysa’s books for someone.



I was hailed to go to the register at the other end of the row of registers. As I was going, I mentioned that I was picking up a book and the manager snagged it for me. It was, as is customary, wrapped in white paper. She said, “You know we have to check it out.” I laughed and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty scandalous stuff.”



When she handed my purchase to another bookseller, Will, to ring up, she said, “Yeah, it’s really racy all right.” Will looked pretty perplexed. We do see some racy things come through our lines, but I don’t think he would have put What Happens When Women Say Yes To God in that category!



Speaking of that book. I’ve been reading it on line at Lelia’s site with some other women. It’s kind of fun to read everyone’s reactions. I picked this copy up to give to a friend.



But the chapter and the Barnes and Noble banter got me thinking. We don’t typically think of Christianity as scandalous. Scandalous is the affairs of public figures or whatever is happening with Brittney Spears or any number of stars on a any given day. Scandalous is all about money and power and sex. Honestly, we are so saturated by it, that it takes more and more degrees of “scandal” for anything to register.



We are the frog in the pot of water. Put a frog in a pot of boiling water and it quickly jumps out. Put it in a pot and then slowly turn up the heat, the frog will stay put while it boils to death. Culturally, it is the same thing.



Shouldn’t Christianity be scandalous? Shouldn’t Jesus followers be the talk of the town? Too often we aren’t. We are milk toast not spice. Jesus created a “scandal” most of where He went:

• To start, His entire birth was a scandal — unwed mother kind of stuff.
  
• His lineage could be considered a scandal. It includes Rahab, the prostitute, and Ruth, the Moabitess. God chose not to have His son come from a “pure blood” line.
  
• He talked to known sinners and tax collectors. He even had dinner with them.
  
• He didn’t put anyone ahead of anyone else just because of who they were. For example, when Jarius’ (a big wig in town) daughter is ill and dying, Jarius comes to him in a panic. Jesus stops for a woman — a lowly woman — who had been bleeding for 12 years.
  
• Jewish people weren’t big on cemeteries in that coming in contact with the dead made someone unclean. But Jesus travels across the Sea of Galilee to cast out a legion of demons in a man that the town really had no use for. Jesus healed him and instead of marveling at that and praising God, they got angry about their pigs. They cared more for pigs than people.
  
• He challenged the religious authority of the day. He let them know when they had things backwards.
  
• He was gentle with children but capable of enough anger that He overturned tables in the temple courtyard.
  
• He went out of His way to talk to the Samaritan woman.

And the list goes on and on. Jesus was gentle with those who needed tenderness but didn’t mind shaking up those who needed to be shaken up a bit.

In What Happens When Women Say Yes to God, Lysa talks about radical obedience. In some sense, it is being willing to do whatever God asks even if it doesn’t make sense to our culture, our friends, our family, or even ourselves. Lysa writes, “Obedience becomes radical when we say, ‘Yes, God, whatever You want,’ and mean it. We release our grip on all that we love and over it back to Him, who loves us more.” That is hard to do, but it is the heart of the matter. Do we love God enough to give Him all that we hold precious and dear — finances, family, friends, dreams, hopes . . . .

There is saying about the news: If it bleeds it leads. The power and hope of the gospel is that Jesus bled for us, He paid a blood debt we could never pay. Few of us really comprehend what that means at the core. Or if we glimpsed it when we became Christians, it’s lost it’s power as it has become “familiar.”

A friend sent an email to me recently. It was about a prof who taught religion and sensed that the class didn’t grasp the reality of the cross. Anyway, he brought donuts to the class and asked the first person if they wanted one. They said, “Yes.” He had one of the other students do 10 push ups so the first could have a donut. And so it went through out the class with the same student doing the push ups. Soon, students were saying they didn’t want the donuts because they saw the exhaustion on the face of the student doing the push ups. They were becoming horrified that their donut was costing so much. But the prof had one student do them anyway. In the end He said, “Now, wouldn’t it be a shame to leave that donut sitting on the desk after all that was paid for it.”

Perhaps, we should all be horrified, scandalized on a daily basis on what our salvation cost Jesus. If it bleeds, it leads. Maybe we should remember on a daily basis that Jesus died and rose again. And since He loved us enough to bleed and die for us, shouldn’t we follow His lead with radical obedience? Shouldn’t He be the talk of the town because we are loving prostitutes and junkies, caring for widows and orphans, standing up for things in small and big ways in our jobs and schools and communities, getting our hands dirty, changing the way we spend our money, our time, our talent, asking God for His direction even in the mundane things of life, . . . .

Shouldn’t we be creating a daily scandal because we have a scandalous hope?

We are in the transition from winter to spring in central Illinois. However, last week, it was still – in my opinion – pretty cold. I also have this thing about comfort. I love my fleece pj’s. (Getting to wear fleece is one of the few good things about winter.)



Last Tuesday night I went to put my snugly pj’s on. It had been a hard day. I had a migraine and all that kind of stuff going on. I wanted — I needed –my comfortable pj’s. Much to my dismay, I could not find the pj bottoms. Typically, they reside with the top waiting for me on the bed. I had done a load of laundry, so I checked to see if they had gotten thrown in there. Nada. I looked all around and couldn’t find them. I thought that maybe it was that I was tired and that I would find them on Wednesday



Wednesday — no pj’s. I still had the top but that wasn’t working for me and my summer nightgown wasn’t cutting it. I added an additional couple blankets and bemoaned that losing a pair of pj bottoms when you are the only one in the house is surely a sign of losing your mind as well.



Tonight, I dropped something on the floor. As I was picking it up, I noticed that a book had slid partially under the bed, so I knelt to retrieve it. Low and behold, I found a treasure trove of odds and ends — most importantly pj bottoms — that have turned up missing one by one over the last couple of weeks. Most of the items were cloth — socks (that I had assumed the dryer had eaten), a sweat shirt that I had no clue where it had gotten to, 4 hand towels, and a scarf. They were all balled up in a neat little nest of sorts in the very center under the bed.



Mali is my scavenger. She is a stray at heart. I thought that it was mostly confined to food, but it appears otherwise. No, I’m not just picking on Mali. It’s just I’ve had her growl at me over a dishcloth before. I had assumed that it was because it had just been used and smelled like food. Never assume anything. These items were all relatively clean (if you discount the cat fur). She apparently needed them for comfort.



Just like Katy, Mali typically shares my bed with me. (Actually, they get the lion’s share.) But apparently Mali wanted a bit of space to herself . . . . So, if I start to complain about missing items, please remind me that I live with a scavenger and I should check under the bed and any other hidey hole a cat might use.



Case solved. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry that I’m losing my mind!

What can you say in six words? There is a new book out that says a lot or at the very least makes you wonder some about the person who wrote it. It is titled NOT QUITE WHAT I WAS PLANNING: SIX WORD MEMOIRS BY WRITERS FAMOUS AND OBSCURE.

I know about it because of working in the bookstore. It’s one of the books we are “encouraging.” I’m not sure it is one that I would personally pick, but it does garnish a little interest. Not sure if it is urban legend or not, but the story goes that someone once challenged Ernest Hemingway to write a story in six words. He reportedly wrote “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” Thus, the idea for the book.

At the bookstore, the rage has been to come up with your own six word memoir. They usually elicit more questions and quizzical looks than anything. My first try said more about where I use to be than where I am at: Phobic horse, anxious dog, grandiose delusions. (1. I use to take lessons on a horse with a phobia of concrete 2. I had an anxious dog at the same time that was on anti anxiety meds 3. I swore that if I had a parakeet it would have delusions of grandeur and think itself an eagle.) Not so great since it took 5 times as many words to explain.

I finally settled on one today. Drum roll: Born pessimist choosing to find hope.

I think I was born a pessimist. If I wasn’t born that way, early life experiences taught me to suspect the worst. But this year I am taking that journey of hope. I am choosing to find in amidst the ups and downs, the thrills and disappointments of life.

I’ve only been at it since the beginning of December — just about 4 months since my first post on hope. And I am finding it to be a choice. It’s an attitude that says that God is present in the midst of every heartache and every laugh. Sometimes it takes a bit of looking to see His fingerprints on the situation.

There is a juvenile detention center in town. It has struck me several times that it sits right next to a popular summer water park. I wonder if it is torture to those kids to see others having so much fun and not be able to join in. I think it would be hard! I imagine there are two ways of dealing with it: pulling the blinds and denying it’s there, squelch the longing or gaze out the window and dream and plan for the day when you could join.

As a pessimist, I probably tend to be the first. But I like to think my journey of hope is making me the second. I want to be one who in the darkest of nights turns my face to the east because I know that is where the first rays of the sun will crest. Psalm 121:1-2 puts it this way:

He called us friend and put on house slippers and a cozy sweater. He talked to us (but never down to us) and took us on make believe adventures. I’m dating myself, but Mr. Rogers was an integral part of my early life. And he always asked, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”

We weren’t close to a lot of people growing up, but I did at least know who my neighbors were on the left and right and catercorner and across the street and several houses up . . . . I knew who the parents were and which kids to avoid and who might want to play a game of tag.

It appears that it is less and less like that today. I live in a row of town houses. I know the people on either side and a couple down the alley but not many more than that. Still, I was totally caught off guard by two calls today at the office.

I work in the county recorder’s office with deeds and mortgages and all that type of stuff. A gentleman called up and wanted to know why the site needed a password and user id. (It was locked down last summer due to social security numbers being on older mortgages and miscellaneous documents.) I explained how he could get a user id and password. As part of the process I asked him what he might be using the site for. “I want to know who my neighbors are,” is the answer I got. Hmm. Apparently, each year, for some reason, he takes a survey of the names of the people who live around him.

Not 10 minutes later, I got a call from a woman who said that the house next to her had been foreclosed on and she wanted to know which bank now owned it. I told her that to do a search I would need the parcel id number or the name of her former neighbors. She had no clue as to the name of her neighbors.

Hmm for second time in a day. Hmm. Seems like a plate of cookies and a handshake would do more than looking on line.

But, perhaps, I’m not the best one to talk. While I do know a few people, I don’t know them well. Even at church I can be reserved.

Every Sunday we have KidStuf — the children’s church. I’ve been helping with that. There is singing and dancing and laughing and skits. It’s great fun. I’m not particularly coordinated. So, sometimes I skip the dancing. But lately I’ve been taking pictures and when you are up front taking pictures you are more visible and it’s more conspicuous if you stand there like a bump on a log.

But a couple of times, we have done a partner dance. And though I would like to duck out, I’ve noticed a child without a partner. I can overcome my fear of being a klutz to make a child smile, so I’ve found myself ducking less and dancing more.

I need to have the same perspective with “big kids.” My thought with the children is always, “What can I do to make them happy or more comfortable?” Now what if I translated that to the adults around me? I think it would pass along hope in little ways.

And wouldn’t Jesus say that everyone is our neighbor? So, friend, “Won’t you be my neighbor? I’d like to get to know you!”

Well, after a week or a bit more of not blogging on Xanga, I’m back. I decided I couldn’t do without the community here. I hope you all will forgive me for bailing on you…..

Amy

Hi All.

Just wanted to give you all the heads up that while I’m keeping this account open, I’m really only going to be posting at my blog spot blog. I love the community and hearing from you, but I’ve found it difficult to keep them both going — even just cutting and pasting all the time.

I hope you’ll consider subscribing to my other blog! (You’ll get an email when I update. Just don’t forget to verify once you put your email in.) I plan to keep reading my subscriptions here and dropping a note now and again.

My other blog is www.amylbrooke.blogspot.com

Blessings

Amy