How precious are your thoughts about me oh God. They are innumerable. I can’t even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand. When I wake up in the morning, you are still with me. Psalms 139:17&18
I believe our journey in life is a process of discovery. Some of us are born with huge amounts of confidence and move through life without self-doubt and insecurities, while others seem to be plagued from day one.
In spite of the talents God has given me, I’ve never felt completely comfortable to express those gifts. Fear has often consumed me when I’ve attempted to sing or play the piano- even though I have worked very hard to bring those gifts to a place of excellence, even perfection. Mother started my piano lessons at the age of six, and I continued my studies for the next 23 years. You’d think all that practice would make perfect! When I’m at home, singing or playing to an imaginary audience, I’m fine- no stage fright or nausea, But, get me in front of a crowd, regardless of the size- and I’m a wreck. Even thinking about a performance will make my palms perspire and my stomach do flips.
There have been many times of triumph, where I have successfully performed the music without mistakes or concern, but more times when I have fallen short of the mark, disappointing myself and those in the audience of listeners.
Those inconsistencies wreak havoc with the self esteem. Oh how I admire those talented individuals who, time after time, stand before the crowd without an ounce of self-doubt and deliver their offering with such grace and composure. I envy their assurance and self-possession.
Why is it some of us suffer from a lack of self-esteem? I had a doting father who was quick to affirm me in every way possible. He thought everything I did was ridiculously spectacular. From homework to piano recitals- I could do no wrong in his eyes. Mother on the other hand, was far less complimentary. Her favorite saying was always ‘pretty is as pretty does.’ It wasn’t until I was a mature woman with children and responsibilities, feeling fat, frumpy and haggard, that my mother told me I looked lovely.
The most severe onslaught to my self-esteem took place during my 25 years of marriage. My husband didn’t grow up with kindness and encouraging words- and consequently was clueless as to the art of their delivery. After years of living with a man who was unable to compliment or confirm, I felt inadequate, unattractive and incapable. The fragility of our self-esteem is often made the more vulnerable by our environment and the people who are in our lives.
I’ve meet a countless array of women who have offered up the same complaint. They have allowed their self-esteem to be compromised by the people closest to them. The God-given talents and abilities are over-shadowed by the contempt, jealousy and need to control demonstrated by those nearest. It’s the one’s who are dearest to our hearts that have the ability to deliver the most fatal blows.
I’m sorry to say, that I have looked for confirmation, affirmation and love in the wrong places from time to time. And I’m sure many of you have too. These unsuitable paths have offered a temporary fix to my lagging sense of worth, but certainly no permanent answer. The end result is dire uncertainty and a dark dismal road with no end or destination. When we look to individuals to build our confidence, we will be constantly disappointed. Over the years, I’ve made that predictable mistake, and have always found it to be true. We can not develop our self-esteem by depending on the accolades of others. This is a foundation that is sure to crumble. There are simply too many variables in the character of men or women, to base our importance or rest our confidence on the words of human wisdom.
We must know who we are in Christ Jesus. This is the beginning of our journey toward discovering our self-esteem and it is also the destination. In Christ alone do we find the purpose of our lives, the use of our talents and the will to continue the passage in spite of self-doubt. Our Creator is the only one who knew us before we came into existence. You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139:13 He endowed us with our abilities and foresaw the ways in which we would utilize our gifting. God has given gifts to each of you from His great variety of Spiritual gifts. Manage them well so that God’s generosity can flow through you. 1 Peter4:10 And most importantly, He loves us even when we don’t live up to the gifting or make the most excellent choices. Do we find that to be true of the people in our lives?
I now know that regardless of my musical performances or the directions I may choose in my pursuit of contentment, the Lord is my only constant. I’ve learned to ask myself this question; ‘who am I going to lift up today?’ I find when I choose to exalt the Lord, rather than self, and make my choices about Him, rather than me, the deep seated fulfillment I attain offers the greatest increase to my self-worth.
He’s the rock I stand on, the lifter of my head, the healer of my distress and the comfort of my spirit. He is the author and finisher of my faith. He is the lover of my soul. There is no other place I can go to find authenticity. There is no other path for my feet, or road to travel. I belong to Him and He, to me.
Jesus is the gentle protector of my self-esteem. He defines who I am in every way that bears importance. The words of others pale in comparison to His words over me.
How precious are your thoughts about me oh God. They are innumerable. I can’t even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand. When I wake up in the morning you are still with me. Psalms 139: 17&18
Monday, January 21, 2008
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Our Self Esteem is God's Design
“I knew you before I formed you in your mother’s womb. Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my spoke man to the world.” Jeremiah 1:5
Recently my beloved mother passed away. She was a delightful 85 years old, and would have turned 86 on June fifteenth. I had her for 47 years, but 47 years was not nearly enough. Neither for me, nor for any of us who knew and loved her.
Her funeral was a cornucopia of people from all walks of life, various faiths, ethnicities and socio-economic backgrounds. There was one resounding quality in mother’s life that brought all these people together in a tiny, overcrowded and uncomfortably warm room. They all wanted to give back a little bit of what she’d always given to them- love, acceptance and encouragement.
When I was a small child, my parents owned a nursing home called Hampton Manor. It was located on a narrow winding street, on the north end of town, surrounded by big gnarly trees with canopies of lovely green leaves, offering their shade to anyone passing by. There were beautiful flowers planted out front- all pinks and reds, because these were Mother’s favorite colors. Their fragrance welcomed every visitor who entered Hampton Manor.
“How in the world are you today, Mr. Pulley? You must be fine, because how could anyone be anything but fine on a day like today!” Mother’s positive demeanor and uplifting cheerfulness had a way of setting the mood for all the visitors who entered that home. Her beautiful smile could light up a room.
She knew every patient- all one hundred and fifty by first and last name, their personalities, like and dislikes, their family’s names, what they preferred for dinner and certainly what they didn’t. No matter how cantankerous some of those folks could be, Mother always knew precisely the right thing to say to quiet the troubled soul.
My summers were spent as a teen working in the nursing home, feeding patients, changing bed sheets, wheeling people down the hall in their wheelchairs and basically learning the art of the nurse’s aide. I found out then, just how hard my mother worked. I discovered how taxing people could be when not feeling well, or when they realized they were in the twilight of their lives.
Mother was always thinking up something to keep people in touch with the present, not allowing them to live only in the memories of their past. She’d organize picnics outside on the grounds and have visitors bring their pets to the event- a hilarious blend of critters and patients, all co-mingled together in giggling heaps, surrounded by metal walkers, wheel chairs and IV bags. It was quite a sight.
We celebrated every fall by the return of the Geese traveling south for the winter and the patients would make arts and crafts to commemorate the return of the winged wonders. There was a little pond close by the nursing home property and the geese knew exactly where to go. Every year, curious faces of all ages were pressed against windows in silent awe as the beautiful creatures made their graceful descent. It was a time of curiosity and fun at the nursing home as the wandering geese returned home. Mother encouraged a sense of exploration and mental stimulation for those in her care, as she was by nature a fun-loving and inquisitive person.
After hours in that place, walking endless miles from the north, south, east and west of the building, she’d still find time to come home and make the most amazing meals. My personal favorite was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and her special home-made rolls. The smell of that food made everyone’s mouth water and we would dig in greedily with no thought about anyone else. Mom would always get stuck with a wing, or some other unfavorable piece. She’d just smile and say, “Oh honey, don’t you know the wing’s the tastiest of all?” Who was she kidding?
As I grew older and had a family of my own, I came to realize just how amazing my mother was. She handled both a wonderful career and a family with great finesse, and I never heard a word of complaint. She was grateful for all God’s great gifts and the wonders of life, her family and her ministry to those less fortunate.
My mother’s self-esteem, her confidence, came from the knowledge that she was doing exactly what God had called her to do. She was fulfilling her purpose and carrying out the mission appointed to her. She was making a difference in the world- one life at a time. My mother’s greatest gift was the ability to look beyond her own anguish and see the suffering of others.
I find myself getting so caught up in my own world- the struggles and battles of my existence. I often forget that there is a world of people who are at the same moment dealing with pain and heartache.
Watching her example, I understood that all of us have been given gifts and talents- unique abilities to make a difference in the lives of those around us. It may not be as considerable as caring for one hundred and fifty needy patients in a nursing home. It may be as simple as considering the requests of a neighbor, or reaching out to a friend. But our self esteem is surely bolstered to new heights when we take the time to extend a helping hand to those in need and find a way to use our God given endowments to produce a positive change in the world around us -one opportunity at a time.
Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my spokesman to the world. Jeremiah 1:5
Recently my beloved mother passed away. She was a delightful 85 years old, and would have turned 86 on June fifteenth. I had her for 47 years, but 47 years was not nearly enough. Neither for me, nor for any of us who knew and loved her.
Her funeral was a cornucopia of people from all walks of life, various faiths, ethnicities and socio-economic backgrounds. There was one resounding quality in mother’s life that brought all these people together in a tiny, overcrowded and uncomfortably warm room. They all wanted to give back a little bit of what she’d always given to them- love, acceptance and encouragement.
When I was a small child, my parents owned a nursing home called Hampton Manor. It was located on a narrow winding street, on the north end of town, surrounded by big gnarly trees with canopies of lovely green leaves, offering their shade to anyone passing by. There were beautiful flowers planted out front- all pinks and reds, because these were Mother’s favorite colors. Their fragrance welcomed every visitor who entered Hampton Manor.
“How in the world are you today, Mr. Pulley? You must be fine, because how could anyone be anything but fine on a day like today!” Mother’s positive demeanor and uplifting cheerfulness had a way of setting the mood for all the visitors who entered that home. Her beautiful smile could light up a room.
She knew every patient- all one hundred and fifty by first and last name, their personalities, like and dislikes, their family’s names, what they preferred for dinner and certainly what they didn’t. No matter how cantankerous some of those folks could be, Mother always knew precisely the right thing to say to quiet the troubled soul.
My summers were spent as a teen working in the nursing home, feeding patients, changing bed sheets, wheeling people down the hall in their wheelchairs and basically learning the art of the nurse’s aide. I found out then, just how hard my mother worked. I discovered how taxing people could be when not feeling well, or when they realized they were in the twilight of their lives.
Mother was always thinking up something to keep people in touch with the present, not allowing them to live only in the memories of their past. She’d organize picnics outside on the grounds and have visitors bring their pets to the event- a hilarious blend of critters and patients, all co-mingled together in giggling heaps, surrounded by metal walkers, wheel chairs and IV bags. It was quite a sight.
We celebrated every fall by the return of the Geese traveling south for the winter and the patients would make arts and crafts to commemorate the return of the winged wonders. There was a little pond close by the nursing home property and the geese knew exactly where to go. Every year, curious faces of all ages were pressed against windows in silent awe as the beautiful creatures made their graceful descent. It was a time of curiosity and fun at the nursing home as the wandering geese returned home. Mother encouraged a sense of exploration and mental stimulation for those in her care, as she was by nature a fun-loving and inquisitive person.
After hours in that place, walking endless miles from the north, south, east and west of the building, she’d still find time to come home and make the most amazing meals. My personal favorite was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and her special home-made rolls. The smell of that food made everyone’s mouth water and we would dig in greedily with no thought about anyone else. Mom would always get stuck with a wing, or some other unfavorable piece. She’d just smile and say, “Oh honey, don’t you know the wing’s the tastiest of all?” Who was she kidding?
As I grew older and had a family of my own, I came to realize just how amazing my mother was. She handled both a wonderful career and a family with great finesse, and I never heard a word of complaint. She was grateful for all God’s great gifts and the wonders of life, her family and her ministry to those less fortunate.
My mother’s self-esteem, her confidence, came from the knowledge that she was doing exactly what God had called her to do. She was fulfilling her purpose and carrying out the mission appointed to her. She was making a difference in the world- one life at a time. My mother’s greatest gift was the ability to look beyond her own anguish and see the suffering of others.
I find myself getting so caught up in my own world- the struggles and battles of my existence. I often forget that there is a world of people who are at the same moment dealing with pain and heartache.
Watching her example, I understood that all of us have been given gifts and talents- unique abilities to make a difference in the lives of those around us. It may not be as considerable as caring for one hundred and fifty needy patients in a nursing home. It may be as simple as considering the requests of a neighbor, or reaching out to a friend. But our self esteem is surely bolstered to new heights when we take the time to extend a helping hand to those in need and find a way to use our God given endowments to produce a positive change in the world around us -one opportunity at a time.
Before you were born I set you apart and appointed you as my spokesman to the world. Jeremiah 1:5
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
We Are Extremely Valuable to the Heart of God
And because you have become His children, God has sent the spirit of His son into your hearts, and now you can call God your dear Father. Now you are no longer a slave ( to sin and to the law) but God’s own child, everything He has belongs to you. Galatians 4:6&7
My son Jordan turned thirteen this past October and he felt it was time to purge his closet of the “little boy” toys he had accumulated over the years. I watched, my heart aching and a knot in my throat, as he carefully took the large plastic containers from the closet shelves and began to go through every Lego, Bionacle, Hot Wheels car, book, and Beanie Baby. He tossed them in the large, white plastic garbage bag as though they were worthless junk, while all those toys had a story and a particular memory for me- each more valuable than gold.
While he was sorting out the toys, deciding which would go to Goodwill and which to trash, I was working my way through his closet, taking down the shirts, shorts and pants that he had outgrown over the past year. I glanced over at my son, who when standing, was eye to eye with me, and wondered how we got here so fast.
I remember the day he was born. I can still hear his first piercing cry and how his father comforted him in the birthing room by singing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ Jim sang that song to Jordan every day he was growing in my womb. In clear recognition, Jordan stopped crying and lay peacefully on the warming table, his tiny hand gripping Jim’s finger.
Jordan’s manly voice interrupted my stroll down memory lane.
“Mom, what do you want to do with this? Throw it out?” I glanced over my shoulder as Jordan held up a small, azure blue shirt, with painted angels on the front- the eyes made of those little plastic disks with the movable black center. My son created that work of art in his kindergarten class and kept it as a sleep shirt over the years. It was so big on him when he first fashioned it, that it reached past his knees, and now he couldn’t get it over his chest.
“Put it in the shirt pile, babe. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.” I knew that little, blue angel shirt was a keepsake. I planned to tuck it away in my drawer and never part with it, but for now, my hands were full of clothes that needed to be boxed up and taken to Goodwill.
In the middle of the mayhem, the doorbell rang. It was the air conditioning repair man there to work on our failing AC system. I left Jordan to himself to finish the purging.
Returning a few hours later, I found my son triumphant, surrounded by big white trash bags overflowing with items to be taken to charity. I swooped up the bags and headed to the nearest drop center placing the plastic bags in a bin filled with discarded treasures. I wondered if other mothers had felt the same sadness in parting with a piece of their offspring’s childhood. A deep sense of loss settled over me as I drove away from Goodwill that day, knowing my son had reached a milestone in his life, one I wasn’t ready for, but one I had to face. Jordan was becoming a man.
I went up to his room that evening to give him a kiss good night, when I remembered the blue angel shirt and frantically glanced over at the corner where I’d seen Jordan place it. All gone. Everything was gone…including that wonderful little shirt. Tears welled up in my eyes and I thought my heart would break as I stood helpless in his bedroom. There was no keepsake to hold onto, just an empty closet with only a few books remaining in those big plastic bins that once held the wonders of childhood.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Jordan asked, absolutely bewildered at my tears.
“Oh, Jordie, I was really hoping to keep that angel shirt you made in Kindergarten. I wanted to add it to the things I kept of your sister’s to help me remember you both as babies.”
“Oh man, Mom….I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you wanted that shirt. I was so busy cleaning out the things I didn’t need anymore, I just threw it in with the other stuff in the plastic bags.” I could see the painful look on his face as he realized how much my heart was breaking. I lay down in his bunk bed with him, put my arms around him and wept. I wasn’t crying so much for the loss of the shirt, but for the passing of Jordan’s childhood. He was my last, and there wouldn’t be another. Mothers have a hard time letting go.
As I was lying there, I imagined trying to describe that angel shirt to the ladies at Goodwill, as I dug through mountains of discarded clothing. Suddenly, Jordan sat straight up in the bed, a look of hope in his eyes.
“Mom, I put one bag of trash downstairs in the garage container. Why don’t you go and see if the shirt is in it?
With a half-hearted effort, I made my way down the stairs and pulled out the white plastic bag with broken toys, all the things that were unfit to give away. I dug, and pulled and rummaged through that bag with very little hope of finding the angel shirt. When I finished, I retied the knot and reached up to place the bag back in the garbage bin. A tiny reflection of azure blue shone through the bottom tip of the translucent white bag. Not stopping to untie it, I tore into the bag with gusto and watched with amazement as little plastic angel eyes looked up at me. It was there! Jordan’s little boy shirt. Not another piece of clothing was in that bag.
I sat on the cold concrete floor of my garage and laughed and cried and held that shirt to my heart. There wasn’t a thing in this world that could have possibly meant more to me.
I began to thank God for allowing me to find Jordan’s shirt, and in that moment I gained new insight and understanding about the depth and height of the love of God for His children.
The Word says He knew us before we took our first breath- even before we were conceived in our mother’s womb. God loved us when we were just a thought- a plan in His heart. He’s always known the number of days we would live, how many hairs on our heads, how many times our heart would beat, where we would go, what we would do, and all the decisions we would make, both for good and for evil.
He knew I’d be sitting on the garage floor, holding Jordan’s tiny blue angel shirt at that moment in time. The overwhelming love I felt and will always feel for my son and daughter is a reflection of the immeasurable love God has for all of us. Jordan’s worth, his value to me knows no boundaries or limitations and neither does our Heavenly Father’s. What a revelation of our significance.
And because you have become His children, God has sent the spirit of His son into your hearts, and now you can call God your dear Father. Now you are no longer a slave to sin and to the law, but God’s own child, everything He has belongs to you.
My son Jordan turned thirteen this past October and he felt it was time to purge his closet of the “little boy” toys he had accumulated over the years. I watched, my heart aching and a knot in my throat, as he carefully took the large plastic containers from the closet shelves and began to go through every Lego, Bionacle, Hot Wheels car, book, and Beanie Baby. He tossed them in the large, white plastic garbage bag as though they were worthless junk, while all those toys had a story and a particular memory for me- each more valuable than gold.
While he was sorting out the toys, deciding which would go to Goodwill and which to trash, I was working my way through his closet, taking down the shirts, shorts and pants that he had outgrown over the past year. I glanced over at my son, who when standing, was eye to eye with me, and wondered how we got here so fast.
I remember the day he was born. I can still hear his first piercing cry and how his father comforted him in the birthing room by singing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ Jim sang that song to Jordan every day he was growing in my womb. In clear recognition, Jordan stopped crying and lay peacefully on the warming table, his tiny hand gripping Jim’s finger.
Jordan’s manly voice interrupted my stroll down memory lane.
“Mom, what do you want to do with this? Throw it out?” I glanced over my shoulder as Jordan held up a small, azure blue shirt, with painted angels on the front- the eyes made of those little plastic disks with the movable black center. My son created that work of art in his kindergarten class and kept it as a sleep shirt over the years. It was so big on him when he first fashioned it, that it reached past his knees, and now he couldn’t get it over his chest.
“Put it in the shirt pile, babe. I’ll figure out what to do with it later.” I knew that little, blue angel shirt was a keepsake. I planned to tuck it away in my drawer and never part with it, but for now, my hands were full of clothes that needed to be boxed up and taken to Goodwill.
In the middle of the mayhem, the doorbell rang. It was the air conditioning repair man there to work on our failing AC system. I left Jordan to himself to finish the purging.
Returning a few hours later, I found my son triumphant, surrounded by big white trash bags overflowing with items to be taken to charity. I swooped up the bags and headed to the nearest drop center placing the plastic bags in a bin filled with discarded treasures. I wondered if other mothers had felt the same sadness in parting with a piece of their offspring’s childhood. A deep sense of loss settled over me as I drove away from Goodwill that day, knowing my son had reached a milestone in his life, one I wasn’t ready for, but one I had to face. Jordan was becoming a man.
I went up to his room that evening to give him a kiss good night, when I remembered the blue angel shirt and frantically glanced over at the corner where I’d seen Jordan place it. All gone. Everything was gone…including that wonderful little shirt. Tears welled up in my eyes and I thought my heart would break as I stood helpless in his bedroom. There was no keepsake to hold onto, just an empty closet with only a few books remaining in those big plastic bins that once held the wonders of childhood.
“Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Jordan asked, absolutely bewildered at my tears.
“Oh, Jordie, I was really hoping to keep that angel shirt you made in Kindergarten. I wanted to add it to the things I kept of your sister’s to help me remember you both as babies.”
“Oh man, Mom….I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you wanted that shirt. I was so busy cleaning out the things I didn’t need anymore, I just threw it in with the other stuff in the plastic bags.” I could see the painful look on his face as he realized how much my heart was breaking. I lay down in his bunk bed with him, put my arms around him and wept. I wasn’t crying so much for the loss of the shirt, but for the passing of Jordan’s childhood. He was my last, and there wouldn’t be another. Mothers have a hard time letting go.
As I was lying there, I imagined trying to describe that angel shirt to the ladies at Goodwill, as I dug through mountains of discarded clothing. Suddenly, Jordan sat straight up in the bed, a look of hope in his eyes.
“Mom, I put one bag of trash downstairs in the garage container. Why don’t you go and see if the shirt is in it?
With a half-hearted effort, I made my way down the stairs and pulled out the white plastic bag with broken toys, all the things that were unfit to give away. I dug, and pulled and rummaged through that bag with very little hope of finding the angel shirt. When I finished, I retied the knot and reached up to place the bag back in the garbage bin. A tiny reflection of azure blue shone through the bottom tip of the translucent white bag. Not stopping to untie it, I tore into the bag with gusto and watched with amazement as little plastic angel eyes looked up at me. It was there! Jordan’s little boy shirt. Not another piece of clothing was in that bag.
I sat on the cold concrete floor of my garage and laughed and cried and held that shirt to my heart. There wasn’t a thing in this world that could have possibly meant more to me.
I began to thank God for allowing me to find Jordan’s shirt, and in that moment I gained new insight and understanding about the depth and height of the love of God for His children.
The Word says He knew us before we took our first breath- even before we were conceived in our mother’s womb. God loved us when we were just a thought- a plan in His heart. He’s always known the number of days we would live, how many hairs on our heads, how many times our heart would beat, where we would go, what we would do, and all the decisions we would make, both for good and for evil.
He knew I’d be sitting on the garage floor, holding Jordan’s tiny blue angel shirt at that moment in time. The overwhelming love I felt and will always feel for my son and daughter is a reflection of the immeasurable love God has for all of us. Jordan’s worth, his value to me knows no boundaries or limitations and neither does our Heavenly Father’s. What a revelation of our significance.
And because you have become His children, God has sent the spirit of His son into your hearts, and now you can call God your dear Father. Now you are no longer a slave to sin and to the law, but God’s own child, everything He has belongs to you.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Self Esteem, the path and the process
O Lord you have examined my heart and know everything about me. You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my every thought when far away. You chart the path ahead of me and tell me where to stop and rest. Every moment you know where I am. Psalms 139:1-3
It was an extremely cold January day in St. Louis, and I was bundled head to toe in a plaid, wooly winter coat, fuzzy gloves, tall black leather boots, and a red woolen cap. All that was visible was the tip of my frozen nose and my blood-shot eyes weary from hours of studying for final exams.
It was mid-week service night and I was the piano player at church. It was necessary to get out on this cold, snowy evening and make the twenty- five minute trek to the assembly or the poor saints would have to do the hymns accapella. As miserable as I was, I didn’t want the Lord to have to endure such an assault on his divine ears.
I drove through the snowy, winding roads from Webster University, through the little town of Kirkwood, before finally reached highway 44 when I noticed my car was pulling hard to the left. The undeniable struggle of a flat tire was not a welcome problem for me on that cold, dismal evening.
I pulled the car to the side of the road and sat there for a long while, not sure what to do. Believe me- I had never changed a tire in my life, and was in no mood to learn in the freezing cold, being more given to high heels and frilly blouses, than lug nuts and motor oil. Cell phones were not available in those days and it’s not very often you find a pay phone neatly parked on the side of the interstate. So, I did what seemed the only logical thing to do. I prayed! Long and hard, fast and furious, I asked God to help me figure out what in the world to do about the flat tire.
Thoughts of being found frozen and snow-covered in my car shadowed my mind, but I had to push those growing fears aside. I sat for nearly an hour hoping a police officer would see my hazard blinkers and come to my rescue. Where’s the knight in shining amour when you really need him? I usually only had the honor of meeting my soldier in blue when I was ignoring a stop sign or exceeding the speed limit, (unfortunately, a common occurrence in those years.)
I knew I didn’t deserve to have my prayers answered. I couldn’t blame God if he left me out there on the highway to freeze to death. Even though I had faith in him and considered myself a Christian, I’d certainly made some blunders. In those times of need when we call on God, it’s our sins that run through the mind like a motion picture in living color- reminding us of our unworthiness. At that moment, all I could think of was what I’d done wrong- the lies I told, my lack of kindness and compassion, the blatant and rebellious choices I knew were against God and his word- they all ran through my mind while I sat in a cold car with a flat tire on a snowy evening.
Another hour passed and I knew the service was over and the hymns sung without me. It’s amazing how insignificant one can feel all alone in the cold. I was beginning to feel pretty sorry for myself when the headlights of a car, pulled up behind me. My heart began pounding so fast I could hardly catch my breath. I was excited that someone had finally come to my rescue and at the same time, frightened because I didn’t know the identity of my rescuer. I opened the car door and frozen snow and sleet blew into my face as a large man in a heavy brown coat approached me.
“Looks like you have a flat there, M’am.”
“Yes, I do, and I sure hope you can help me,” I replied, the anxiety and the cold causing my voice to shake.
“I saw your car on the side of the road as I was driving east, and felt like I should turn around and come back to help you. I’m not sure why I did, because I’ve never done this before, but I just felt like I had to.”
Without another word he popped my trunk, pulled out the spare, jacked my car up and in twenty minutes had my tire changed.
I didn’t have a dime in my pocket or a dollar in my wallet to give this wonderful man, but I thanked him profusely and offered my fuzzy-gloved hand to him in appreciation for his kindness. He just smiled at me, shook my hand and returned to his vehicle. I watched as he drove away and asked God to give him a special blessing for his amazing compassion on such a miserable night.
As I drove away, all I could think of was God’s mercy and his love for me, in spite of my shortcomings and mistakes. Why did he value me so much? I knew it wasn’t justified. I hadn’t earned his favor, and never could. And yet, he loved me just the same- as though I was pure and perfect with no fault.
O Lord you have examined my heart and know everything about me. (And even so, you love me still.) You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my every thought when far away. You chart the path ahead of me and tell me where to stop and rest. Every moment you know where I am. (Even in a car with a flat tire by the side of the road.)
In those times when I doubt myself and wonder if my life will ever amount to much, I think back to that snowy night by the roadside. My self- esteem will never be defined by my accomplishments or my failures, but rather by a loving God who knows everything about me and still calls me his own.
It was an extremely cold January day in St. Louis, and I was bundled head to toe in a plaid, wooly winter coat, fuzzy gloves, tall black leather boots, and a red woolen cap. All that was visible was the tip of my frozen nose and my blood-shot eyes weary from hours of studying for final exams.
It was mid-week service night and I was the piano player at church. It was necessary to get out on this cold, snowy evening and make the twenty- five minute trek to the assembly or the poor saints would have to do the hymns accapella. As miserable as I was, I didn’t want the Lord to have to endure such an assault on his divine ears.
I drove through the snowy, winding roads from Webster University, through the little town of Kirkwood, before finally reached highway 44 when I noticed my car was pulling hard to the left. The undeniable struggle of a flat tire was not a welcome problem for me on that cold, dismal evening.
I pulled the car to the side of the road and sat there for a long while, not sure what to do. Believe me- I had never changed a tire in my life, and was in no mood to learn in the freezing cold, being more given to high heels and frilly blouses, than lug nuts and motor oil. Cell phones were not available in those days and it’s not very often you find a pay phone neatly parked on the side of the interstate. So, I did what seemed the only logical thing to do. I prayed! Long and hard, fast and furious, I asked God to help me figure out what in the world to do about the flat tire.
Thoughts of being found frozen and snow-covered in my car shadowed my mind, but I had to push those growing fears aside. I sat for nearly an hour hoping a police officer would see my hazard blinkers and come to my rescue. Where’s the knight in shining amour when you really need him? I usually only had the honor of meeting my soldier in blue when I was ignoring a stop sign or exceeding the speed limit, (unfortunately, a common occurrence in those years.)
I knew I didn’t deserve to have my prayers answered. I couldn’t blame God if he left me out there on the highway to freeze to death. Even though I had faith in him and considered myself a Christian, I’d certainly made some blunders. In those times of need when we call on God, it’s our sins that run through the mind like a motion picture in living color- reminding us of our unworthiness. At that moment, all I could think of was what I’d done wrong- the lies I told, my lack of kindness and compassion, the blatant and rebellious choices I knew were against God and his word- they all ran through my mind while I sat in a cold car with a flat tire on a snowy evening.
Another hour passed and I knew the service was over and the hymns sung without me. It’s amazing how insignificant one can feel all alone in the cold. I was beginning to feel pretty sorry for myself when the headlights of a car, pulled up behind me. My heart began pounding so fast I could hardly catch my breath. I was excited that someone had finally come to my rescue and at the same time, frightened because I didn’t know the identity of my rescuer. I opened the car door and frozen snow and sleet blew into my face as a large man in a heavy brown coat approached me.
“Looks like you have a flat there, M’am.”
“Yes, I do, and I sure hope you can help me,” I replied, the anxiety and the cold causing my voice to shake.
“I saw your car on the side of the road as I was driving east, and felt like I should turn around and come back to help you. I’m not sure why I did, because I’ve never done this before, but I just felt like I had to.”
Without another word he popped my trunk, pulled out the spare, jacked my car up and in twenty minutes had my tire changed.
I didn’t have a dime in my pocket or a dollar in my wallet to give this wonderful man, but I thanked him profusely and offered my fuzzy-gloved hand to him in appreciation for his kindness. He just smiled at me, shook my hand and returned to his vehicle. I watched as he drove away and asked God to give him a special blessing for his amazing compassion on such a miserable night.
As I drove away, all I could think of was God’s mercy and his love for me, in spite of my shortcomings and mistakes. Why did he value me so much? I knew it wasn’t justified. I hadn’t earned his favor, and never could. And yet, he loved me just the same- as though I was pure and perfect with no fault.
O Lord you have examined my heart and know everything about me. (And even so, you love me still.) You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my every thought when far away. You chart the path ahead of me and tell me where to stop and rest. Every moment you know where I am. (Even in a car with a flat tire by the side of the road.)
In those times when I doubt myself and wonder if my life will ever amount to much, I think back to that snowy night by the roadside. My self- esteem will never be defined by my accomplishments or my failures, but rather by a loving God who knows everything about me and still calls me his own.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The First Steps toward Self Esteem
Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. The very hairs on your head are all numbered so don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to Him than a whole flock of sparrows. Matthew 10:29-31
My father, a beautiful man with thick, dark, wavy hair and a towering stature of 6’3”, was my hero and my mentor. Whatever Dad was interested in, also intrigued me. I have vivid memories as a child of five of my brother Richard purchasing a Harley Davidson motorcycle. His enthusiasm was so contagious that it didn’t take long for Dad to catch the bike bug, and procure a motorcycle of his own.
When he first drove up the driveway with his beautifully chromed out, vivid gold Honda Road Cruiser, I could hardly wait to jump on behind him and go for a ride around the block. The wind whipped my hair in knots and my tiny white blouse flapped in the breeze as we sped around the corner. I held on to Dad with all my might, my petite hands barely reaching half way around his middle. He drove all the way to Herrin Park, with one hand on the handle bars and the other clasped firmly to my forearms. I couldn’t have been more proud or more entertained. This was sure to be a wonderful adventure we could all enjoy!
One fine Sunday, Dad and my brother Richard, decided to take a three day trip to the lush, green hills of Kentucky and see God’s wonders and the beauty of life on the road. I watched intently as he loaded the saddlebags on the sides of the bike with clothing, food and beverages, all the while pacing back and forth in a jealous stupor, fully aware this trip did not include me.
“Daddy, are you sure you have to go away? I asked. “I really wish you’d stay home. I don’t want you to go.”
“Now, you know your brother and I have planned this for several weeks, and you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be back by Wednesday.”
“But, Daddy, I really don’t feel good about this trip. Something’s going to happen to you if you go. I just know it.” There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the growing envy in my little heart. I was genuinely concerned about his safety and had a strong sense that something was going to happen to him if he chose to leave.
Dad and Richard waved goodbye to Mother and me, as they made their way out of our
driveway and onto the road. Mother and I watched as they finally became so small they
slipped from our sight. Mother turned with a pat on my head and walked into the house, but I couldn’t budge from my spot. Standing tip toe, my small hands shading my eyes, I strained to see the tiniest glimpse of that gold Honda road cruise, hoping against hope that Dad would turn around and come back home to me.
The call came on Monday around noon and as the color drained from Mother’s face and her hand began to shake, I could see that whoever was on the other end of the phone had nothing good to say.
As Dad was merging onto the highway, a speeding car didn’t see his road cruiser in time, and although the driver made a sincere attempt to miss him, slammed into the back end of that beautiful bike, sending my father thirty feet into the air, and coming down to land on the roof of the car that hit him. He rolled onto the pavement and lay motionless on the road. Richard heard the squealing tires and turned his bike around to witness a terrible sight.
Richard knelt by Dad and tried to find a pulse, but there was nothing. He wasn’t breathing and his heart had stopped. Cell phones weren’t in existence in those days and there was no pay phone in sight. Strangely a man began to approach on foot from the distance and as he got closer, Richard could see he was carrying what appeared to be a little black medical bag. The man didn’t speak a word, but knelt down by my father, checking for a pulse and listening for a breath. Without warning, he began to beat on Dad’s chest, then reached into his black bag and pulled out a syringe. He filled it with liquid from a bottle and gave Dad a shot directly into his heart. Seconds after, Dad’s heart began to beat and he took a deep and desperate breath. Slowly the man stood, shook my brother’s hand, and introduced himself as Dr. Smith. He told Richard my father would be fine.
The scream of an ambulance siren pierced the air, catching my brother’s attention along with all the onlookers of the accident scene. As Richard turned back to thank Dr. Smith, he was no where to be found. Richard pushed through the crowd, and asked if anyone had seen where the doctor had gone, but no one saw him leave.
Dad ended up in the hospital for several weeks with broken bones, nasty bruises and a concussion, but otherwise very fortunate. Richard tried for several months to locate Dr. Smith. No one in the two state area had heard of a Dr. Smith that matched Richard’s description.
It was after this event that I first realized my importance to God. I understood He genuinely cared about the things that were of value to me. I asked sincerely for my father to return home safely and he did. Dad could easily have been killed in that trauma, but God sent an angel, a guardian in the form of a doctor to answer the prayers of a five year old child.
God hears all of our prayers, knows the cries of our heart and is willing and able to answer our petitions. We are the most important thing to Him, near and dear to His heart. When we grasp our importance to the Father, we begin the journey toward the development of our spiritual self esteem.
Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. The very hairs on your head are all numbered so don’t be afraid.
My father, a beautiful man with thick, dark, wavy hair and a towering stature of 6’3”, was my hero and my mentor. Whatever Dad was interested in, also intrigued me. I have vivid memories as a child of five of my brother Richard purchasing a Harley Davidson motorcycle. His enthusiasm was so contagious that it didn’t take long for Dad to catch the bike bug, and procure a motorcycle of his own.
When he first drove up the driveway with his beautifully chromed out, vivid gold Honda Road Cruiser, I could hardly wait to jump on behind him and go for a ride around the block. The wind whipped my hair in knots and my tiny white blouse flapped in the breeze as we sped around the corner. I held on to Dad with all my might, my petite hands barely reaching half way around his middle. He drove all the way to Herrin Park, with one hand on the handle bars and the other clasped firmly to my forearms. I couldn’t have been more proud or more entertained. This was sure to be a wonderful adventure we could all enjoy!
One fine Sunday, Dad and my brother Richard, decided to take a three day trip to the lush, green hills of Kentucky and see God’s wonders and the beauty of life on the road. I watched intently as he loaded the saddlebags on the sides of the bike with clothing, food and beverages, all the while pacing back and forth in a jealous stupor, fully aware this trip did not include me.
“Daddy, are you sure you have to go away? I asked. “I really wish you’d stay home. I don’t want you to go.”
“Now, you know your brother and I have planned this for several weeks, and you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be back by Wednesday.”
“But, Daddy, I really don’t feel good about this trip. Something’s going to happen to you if you go. I just know it.” There was a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the growing envy in my little heart. I was genuinely concerned about his safety and had a strong sense that something was going to happen to him if he chose to leave.
Dad and Richard waved goodbye to Mother and me, as they made their way out of our
driveway and onto the road. Mother and I watched as they finally became so small they
slipped from our sight. Mother turned with a pat on my head and walked into the house, but I couldn’t budge from my spot. Standing tip toe, my small hands shading my eyes, I strained to see the tiniest glimpse of that gold Honda road cruise, hoping against hope that Dad would turn around and come back home to me.
The call came on Monday around noon and as the color drained from Mother’s face and her hand began to shake, I could see that whoever was on the other end of the phone had nothing good to say.
As Dad was merging onto the highway, a speeding car didn’t see his road cruiser in time, and although the driver made a sincere attempt to miss him, slammed into the back end of that beautiful bike, sending my father thirty feet into the air, and coming down to land on the roof of the car that hit him. He rolled onto the pavement and lay motionless on the road. Richard heard the squealing tires and turned his bike around to witness a terrible sight.
Richard knelt by Dad and tried to find a pulse, but there was nothing. He wasn’t breathing and his heart had stopped. Cell phones weren’t in existence in those days and there was no pay phone in sight. Strangely a man began to approach on foot from the distance and as he got closer, Richard could see he was carrying what appeared to be a little black medical bag. The man didn’t speak a word, but knelt down by my father, checking for a pulse and listening for a breath. Without warning, he began to beat on Dad’s chest, then reached into his black bag and pulled out a syringe. He filled it with liquid from a bottle and gave Dad a shot directly into his heart. Seconds after, Dad’s heart began to beat and he took a deep and desperate breath. Slowly the man stood, shook my brother’s hand, and introduced himself as Dr. Smith. He told Richard my father would be fine.
The scream of an ambulance siren pierced the air, catching my brother’s attention along with all the onlookers of the accident scene. As Richard turned back to thank Dr. Smith, he was no where to be found. Richard pushed through the crowd, and asked if anyone had seen where the doctor had gone, but no one saw him leave.
Dad ended up in the hospital for several weeks with broken bones, nasty bruises and a concussion, but otherwise very fortunate. Richard tried for several months to locate Dr. Smith. No one in the two state area had heard of a Dr. Smith that matched Richard’s description.
It was after this event that I first realized my importance to God. I understood He genuinely cared about the things that were of value to me. I asked sincerely for my father to return home safely and he did. Dad could easily have been killed in that trauma, but God sent an angel, a guardian in the form of a doctor to answer the prayers of a five year old child.
God hears all of our prayers, knows the cries of our heart and is willing and able to answer our petitions. We are the most important thing to Him, near and dear to His heart. When we grasp our importance to the Father, we begin the journey toward the development of our spiritual self esteem.
Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. The very hairs on your head are all numbered so don’t be afraid.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
It's Tempting to Play the Blame-Game
“Have you eaten the fruit I commanded you not to eat?” “Yes,” Adam admitted, “but it was the woman you gave me who brought me the fruit and I ate it.” Then the Lord God asked the woman, “How could you do such a thing?” “The serpent tricked me,” she replied. “That’s why I ate it.” Genesis 3:11b-13 NLT
My son Jordan had an important Science Fair project to complete over a period of a few weeks. He was running tests to find out which consumable product was more damaging to the teeth. He put each tooth into a different solution such as Sprite, Coca-Cola, lemon juice and canned Iced Tea, and each week made careful notes about the visible changes in the deterioration. We drove all over town searching for shark’s teeth to be used in the experiment, because they were the most attainable and a good substitute for human teeth.
You’d think shark’s teeth would be readily available in Florida but, most sharks teeth are treated with a coating or petrified, and consequently are unable to be used in this type of research. After a long and exhausting hunt, driving to every little shell shop and sea creature boutique we could locate, we finally found the uncompromised, sharp incisors and Jordan went to work on his project.
I want you to picture clear plastic cups set up on the kitchen counter, each with a tooth floating in various colors of liquids. Over the days and weeks, the project began to stink, and I was having a hard time making dinner each night with smelly shark’s teeth on my counter. By this time, it was hard to tell what Jordan had poured into those cups!
Each time I inquired of him how the assignment was coming along, he’d say, “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got it all under control.” Since that was usually true and Jordan wasn’t the kind of kid to be irresponsible, I gave the Science Fair project little thought, doing my best to just ignore the aroma.
The days sped by and before we both knew it, the time was upon us and we had to lug his project board, research logs and the teeth in question to the school. I was confident Jordan would obtain a good grade on his endeavor, because he usually received high marks for his work. Imagine my surprise when he walked through the door at the end of the day, forlorn and despondent and announced he’d received a ‘C’ on his Science Fair task.
My first reaction, like other mothers reading this story, was to pick up the phone and make some heated inquiries into the reason for his low grade. I was ready to put on my boxing gloves and take someone out in the first round. (And to think, I was forced to smell that odor for weeks—how could he possibly have scored so low?)
Fortunately, I choose the wiser road and sat down with my son to discuss the issue at hand.
“Mr. Taylor didn’t explain what he wanted, Mom. He wasn’t clear with us on the requirements of the project. Steve and Alex and Jim needed me to help them, so I really didn’t have the time to work on mine as much as I wanted to. Besides, Mom, you know I haven’t felt so good lately.”
I listened to his explanation and then stood and walked over to his black and red backpack. After a few moments of searching through broken pencils, wadded up paper and half-used erasers, I pulled out the instruction sheet for the Science Fair Project. Wouldn’t you know it- everything that was required for an ‘A’ was clearly outlined on the assignment list.
I sat down next to Jordan and handed him the paper. He looked at it, then looked at me and the expression on his face was priceless -much like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
He was to take pictures each week of the visible changes in the teeth, and record everything in detail in a log. Also, he was to be prepared to give an informed and educated speech before his instructors about the project, the process and the outcome. Because he didn’t follow the rules carefully, his grade was lowered. There wasn’t an excuse in the world that he could offer to make up for his carelessness.
Ever since Adam blamed Eve for eating the apple, lack of responsibility has been a pandemic in our culture. We have all looked for a scapegoat for our bad behavior. Isn’t it always someone else’s fault when we make a mistake? It’s incredibly tempting to point the finger in a direction away from us, whenever our actions are brought into question. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Who hasn’t?
Legitimately, our actions can be the result of someone else’s choice, but nevertheless, we are always responsible for what we choose to say and do, regardless of the deeds of those around us. We are accountable to those we interact with, to the laws of the land, and most importantly, to God.
I’ve learned over the years, that it’s far better to simply stand up and take the hit for my poor choices than to try to elude reprimand. I want my son to understand that he is accountable for the path he chooses to walk. Every choice he makes has a consequence for either good or evil. Nothing is hidden from God, and I really believe when we admit our mistakes and take the high road instead of the road most traveled, our Father is proud of us.
Jordan never spoke a word of regret or remorse over his actions, but the next time a project was due, I noticed the assignment sheet was right next to the computer, adhered to with careful calculation. Now, what more could a mother want?
My son Jordan had an important Science Fair project to complete over a period of a few weeks. He was running tests to find out which consumable product was more damaging to the teeth. He put each tooth into a different solution such as Sprite, Coca-Cola, lemon juice and canned Iced Tea, and each week made careful notes about the visible changes in the deterioration. We drove all over town searching for shark’s teeth to be used in the experiment, because they were the most attainable and a good substitute for human teeth.
You’d think shark’s teeth would be readily available in Florida but, most sharks teeth are treated with a coating or petrified, and consequently are unable to be used in this type of research. After a long and exhausting hunt, driving to every little shell shop and sea creature boutique we could locate, we finally found the uncompromised, sharp incisors and Jordan went to work on his project.
I want you to picture clear plastic cups set up on the kitchen counter, each with a tooth floating in various colors of liquids. Over the days and weeks, the project began to stink, and I was having a hard time making dinner each night with smelly shark’s teeth on my counter. By this time, it was hard to tell what Jordan had poured into those cups!
Each time I inquired of him how the assignment was coming along, he’d say, “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got it all under control.” Since that was usually true and Jordan wasn’t the kind of kid to be irresponsible, I gave the Science Fair project little thought, doing my best to just ignore the aroma.
The days sped by and before we both knew it, the time was upon us and we had to lug his project board, research logs and the teeth in question to the school. I was confident Jordan would obtain a good grade on his endeavor, because he usually received high marks for his work. Imagine my surprise when he walked through the door at the end of the day, forlorn and despondent and announced he’d received a ‘C’ on his Science Fair task.
My first reaction, like other mothers reading this story, was to pick up the phone and make some heated inquiries into the reason for his low grade. I was ready to put on my boxing gloves and take someone out in the first round. (And to think, I was forced to smell that odor for weeks—how could he possibly have scored so low?)
Fortunately, I choose the wiser road and sat down with my son to discuss the issue at hand.
“Mr. Taylor didn’t explain what he wanted, Mom. He wasn’t clear with us on the requirements of the project. Steve and Alex and Jim needed me to help them, so I really didn’t have the time to work on mine as much as I wanted to. Besides, Mom, you know I haven’t felt so good lately.”
I listened to his explanation and then stood and walked over to his black and red backpack. After a few moments of searching through broken pencils, wadded up paper and half-used erasers, I pulled out the instruction sheet for the Science Fair Project. Wouldn’t you know it- everything that was required for an ‘A’ was clearly outlined on the assignment list.
I sat down next to Jordan and handed him the paper. He looked at it, then looked at me and the expression on his face was priceless -much like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
He was to take pictures each week of the visible changes in the teeth, and record everything in detail in a log. Also, he was to be prepared to give an informed and educated speech before his instructors about the project, the process and the outcome. Because he didn’t follow the rules carefully, his grade was lowered. There wasn’t an excuse in the world that he could offer to make up for his carelessness.
Ever since Adam blamed Eve for eating the apple, lack of responsibility has been a pandemic in our culture. We have all looked for a scapegoat for our bad behavior. Isn’t it always someone else’s fault when we make a mistake? It’s incredibly tempting to point the finger in a direction away from us, whenever our actions are brought into question. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Who hasn’t?
Legitimately, our actions can be the result of someone else’s choice, but nevertheless, we are always responsible for what we choose to say and do, regardless of the deeds of those around us. We are accountable to those we interact with, to the laws of the land, and most importantly, to God.
I’ve learned over the years, that it’s far better to simply stand up and take the hit for my poor choices than to try to elude reprimand. I want my son to understand that he is accountable for the path he chooses to walk. Every choice he makes has a consequence for either good or evil. Nothing is hidden from God, and I really believe when we admit our mistakes and take the high road instead of the road most traveled, our Father is proud of us.
Jordan never spoke a word of regret or remorse over his actions, but the next time a project was due, I noticed the assignment sheet was right next to the computer, adhered to with careful calculation. Now, what more could a mother want?
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Temptation by Chocolate
This High Priest of ours understands our weaknesses for he faced all the same temptations we do and yet he did not sin. Let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy and find grace to help us when we need it. Hebrews 4:15-16 NLT
I still remember the first chocolate cake my mother made from scratch for the family at my brother Richard’s birthday party. It was one of those delicious double Decker cream-filled types with the chocolate icing. The layers were so thick you had to stick your finger deep in the swooping waves of chocolate to get a stealthy taste. Pray Mother didn’t see you sneak a dip. It was absolutely prohibited to touch her cake before the unveiling, and though I was the angel of the family, it was impossible for me to resist slipping the tip of my tiny index finger into the side of that warm, silky, luscious cake! I’m still mystified as to how she could possibly know about my clandestine taste, but I’m certain God and my mother had a direct channel of communication that was second to none. Even when I was absolutely certain no one had seen the sneak, Mother always knew.
I thought perhaps God revealed my indiscretion to keep me honorable and upright, but really I think He knew that I’d have a serious difficulty with temptation-by-chocolate in my adult years, and in His great compassion was attempting to spare me from my own demise. How merciful.
The first time I ate an entire bag of fat-free tootsie rolls, I felt so guilty I couldn’t decide whether I needed to throw up or run a relay race. The only consolation for my indulgence was the comforting words fat free. And still, I wondered why I didn’t have the will power to put that compelling bag back in the cupboard. But, I’ve never been a girl who was satisfied with just one chocolate. It had to be at least two or three to silence the demons. And so, it stands to reason, that a whole bag of chocolate cream-filled Oreo cookies is far more preferable than a measly two or three. It wasn’t uncommon for me to skip lunch if the possibility of chocolate anything was lurking nearby. Chocolate for breakfast, lunch and dinner was a perfectly acceptable choice as far I was concerned. Isn’t chocolate one of the six food groups?
We’re all created beings and are always looking to fulfill that deep-seated longing in our hearts. I don’t think chocolate is the cure. As much of it as I’ve eaten over the years, if a hole could be filled with that delectable temptation, mine would be full to the brim and overflowing. Whether our indulgence of choice is cocoa, hamburgers and French fries, foie gras, or fried chicken, the bottom line is simply this: overindulgence of any kind will never fill the longing of our soul. Whatever controls us, owns us.
I believe that women overeat to gain a sense of comfort, a protection from the world and its abuses. Whether we struggle in a difficult marriage, our children are testing our limits and patience, our jobs are filled with stressful demands that are difficult to meet, whatever the outside source of our distress, one of the things we can always depend on to comfort us is food. It’s readily available and accessible, it doesn’t argue with us, or test our endurance, it doesn’t cause undue anxiety- at least not while we’re consuming it, and it gives us a sense of temporary satisfaction and safety.
Food, though accessible is only a momentary fix for a deeper underlying problem. It will never be able to offer us a long-term solution to the things that trouble us. We can either continue to address our hurts by using substitutions, or we can get the help we really need to reach the source of our distress. I’ve never yet met a woman who hasn’t needed some in-depth counsel to help her deal with the offences of the heart.
When we let these abrasions and spiritual injuries go untreated, we set ourselves up for a long and painful journey. I really believe forgiveness is key to healing. Matthew 6:14 &15 says, ‘If you forgive those who sin against you, (hurt you, misuse you) your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father God will not forgive your sins.”
Let’s examine this briefly. Forgiveness is a choice, often difficult to make, but God requires it. He knows our spirit is set free by acquittal. He understands that it is a choice of our will and one He can not make for us. When we hold on to blame and refuse to release the ones who have wounded us, a barrier is formed between our spirit and God’s. He cannot forgive us because we have chosen not to forgive. Our hearts then become hard and embittered, and the longer we wait to let go of the pain the more difficult it becomes to relinquish it.
Believe me, I know it’s easier to sit down and eat a full bag of Tootsie Rolls than it is to address the areas of unforgiveness that we carry in our hearts and to spiritually face those who have inflicted the injuries. It’s much easier to cover the pain with outside sources and placate our bodes with a false sense of security.
The indescribable joy of release obtained through the gift of forgiveness is worth more than gold. The spirit soars to the heights God intended when gifted with absolution. There is nothing more liberating than to be in right-relationship with the Father and nothing more valuable to our overall well being: spirit, soul and body.
I’ve been in the position many times to choose between the bag of Tootsie Rolls, or time on my knees before God. I must tell you, the allure of chocolate has been the winner more times than I care to admit, but I’m finally in a place where I realize the temptation to over-indulge is masking a deeper issue, and it’s easier now and certainly more fulfilling to choose the better path.
But let me tell you, there are just times a girl needs her chocolate! All things in moderation, so the Word says.
I still remember the first chocolate cake my mother made from scratch for the family at my brother Richard’s birthday party. It was one of those delicious double Decker cream-filled types with the chocolate icing. The layers were so thick you had to stick your finger deep in the swooping waves of chocolate to get a stealthy taste. Pray Mother didn’t see you sneak a dip. It was absolutely prohibited to touch her cake before the unveiling, and though I was the angel of the family, it was impossible for me to resist slipping the tip of my tiny index finger into the side of that warm, silky, luscious cake! I’m still mystified as to how she could possibly know about my clandestine taste, but I’m certain God and my mother had a direct channel of communication that was second to none. Even when I was absolutely certain no one had seen the sneak, Mother always knew.
I thought perhaps God revealed my indiscretion to keep me honorable and upright, but really I think He knew that I’d have a serious difficulty with temptation-by-chocolate in my adult years, and in His great compassion was attempting to spare me from my own demise. How merciful.
The first time I ate an entire bag of fat-free tootsie rolls, I felt so guilty I couldn’t decide whether I needed to throw up or run a relay race. The only consolation for my indulgence was the comforting words fat free. And still, I wondered why I didn’t have the will power to put that compelling bag back in the cupboard. But, I’ve never been a girl who was satisfied with just one chocolate. It had to be at least two or three to silence the demons. And so, it stands to reason, that a whole bag of chocolate cream-filled Oreo cookies is far more preferable than a measly two or three. It wasn’t uncommon for me to skip lunch if the possibility of chocolate anything was lurking nearby. Chocolate for breakfast, lunch and dinner was a perfectly acceptable choice as far I was concerned. Isn’t chocolate one of the six food groups?
We’re all created beings and are always looking to fulfill that deep-seated longing in our hearts. I don’t think chocolate is the cure. As much of it as I’ve eaten over the years, if a hole could be filled with that delectable temptation, mine would be full to the brim and overflowing. Whether our indulgence of choice is cocoa, hamburgers and French fries, foie gras, or fried chicken, the bottom line is simply this: overindulgence of any kind will never fill the longing of our soul. Whatever controls us, owns us.
I believe that women overeat to gain a sense of comfort, a protection from the world and its abuses. Whether we struggle in a difficult marriage, our children are testing our limits and patience, our jobs are filled with stressful demands that are difficult to meet, whatever the outside source of our distress, one of the things we can always depend on to comfort us is food. It’s readily available and accessible, it doesn’t argue with us, or test our endurance, it doesn’t cause undue anxiety- at least not while we’re consuming it, and it gives us a sense of temporary satisfaction and safety.
Food, though accessible is only a momentary fix for a deeper underlying problem. It will never be able to offer us a long-term solution to the things that trouble us. We can either continue to address our hurts by using substitutions, or we can get the help we really need to reach the source of our distress. I’ve never yet met a woman who hasn’t needed some in-depth counsel to help her deal with the offences of the heart.
When we let these abrasions and spiritual injuries go untreated, we set ourselves up for a long and painful journey. I really believe forgiveness is key to healing. Matthew 6:14 &15 says, ‘If you forgive those who sin against you, (hurt you, misuse you) your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father God will not forgive your sins.”
Let’s examine this briefly. Forgiveness is a choice, often difficult to make, but God requires it. He knows our spirit is set free by acquittal. He understands that it is a choice of our will and one He can not make for us. When we hold on to blame and refuse to release the ones who have wounded us, a barrier is formed between our spirit and God’s. He cannot forgive us because we have chosen not to forgive. Our hearts then become hard and embittered, and the longer we wait to let go of the pain the more difficult it becomes to relinquish it.
Believe me, I know it’s easier to sit down and eat a full bag of Tootsie Rolls than it is to address the areas of unforgiveness that we carry in our hearts and to spiritually face those who have inflicted the injuries. It’s much easier to cover the pain with outside sources and placate our bodes with a false sense of security.
The indescribable joy of release obtained through the gift of forgiveness is worth more than gold. The spirit soars to the heights God intended when gifted with absolution. There is nothing more liberating than to be in right-relationship with the Father and nothing more valuable to our overall well being: spirit, soul and body.
I’ve been in the position many times to choose between the bag of Tootsie Rolls, or time on my knees before God. I must tell you, the allure of chocolate has been the winner more times than I care to admit, but I’m finally in a place where I realize the temptation to over-indulge is masking a deeper issue, and it’s easier now and certainly more fulfilling to choose the better path.
But let me tell you, there are just times a girl needs her chocolate! All things in moderation, so the Word says.
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