We are studying Genesis in my church on Sunday mornings and the last few weeks have centered around the stories of Abraham. Abraham and his wife, Sarah, are held up as examples of faith because they believed God's promises, even when they seemed impossible to fulfill.
Who among us, if told that we would bear a child in our nineties, would act as Sarah first did and laugh out loud? My guess is, most of us. Sarah may have been skeptical at first, but eventually both she and Abraham grabbed onto God's promises for them.
For the most part we are familiar with this story, and we admire Abraham and Sarah's tenacity, but when faced with similar tests of faith we hold ourselves to a lesser standard. Our idea of keeping the faith is waiting a few weeks. Ask us to wait a few months or years to see God work and we begin to question: What's taking so long? Did God really promise...
Maybe it's our fast food mentality, or maybe it's lack of faith, pure and simple, but I have yet to meet anyone who has held onto God's promises for the length of time and with the surety that Abraham did. Abraham's story serves as a reminder that God does keep His promises, even when they seem impossible to accomplish, and even if it takes decades or centuries for His perfect timing to come about.
Recently, I was talking to my sister about the book I am writing and I was flippant about the subject of publishing. I expressed my belief that I may never become a published author...and she bit my head off. She didn't reprimand me for being unsure of my own talent, as I thought she would. Far worse, she admonished me for my lack of faith in God. According to her line of reasoning, God is the One who endows us with our gifts, so for me to doubt my gift of writing is to doubt God. When did she get so smart, anyway?
So here is the challenge. What promises has God given to you? Do you still trust Him to fulfill those promises, or is your faith losing ground in the face of impossible circumstances?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Let Religious Freedom Ring
I was listening to Christian radio this morning and heard a story about a gathering held by Louis Palau in France. According to the radio host, this was the first Christian conference allowed in a public venue in Southern France. This is just one example of the spiritual struggle in Europe. Sadly, though we may consider Europeans our equals on nearly every front, including technological and financial, and though our Christian heritage was handed down to us through them, Europe has become a spiritual desert over the last three centuries.
I find the whole idea quite disturbing the more I think about it. While Christians are still the majority in the United States, in nearly every other corner of the world they are the minority, and not just the minority, but a persecuted minority.
Those of us living in the U.S. don’t generally realize how blessed we are to have the religious freedom that we do. We get angry because public schools no longer pray or say the Pledge of Allegiance, but really we should be thanking God that we have a government that allows us to pray, read the Bible, and preach openly, without fear of retribution. Many of us don’t realize how rare those rights are compared to the rest of the world.
This post seems rather appropriate coming on the heels of our Independence Day celebration. While barbequing, swimming, and setting off fireworks to celebrate our country’s independence, we should be thinking about the specific freedoms that our country grants us, such as the ability to worship God freely.
In particular, we should be thinking about the responsibility that our religious freedom carries. The responsibility not only to take advantage of that freedom for ourselves in the form of personal worship, but also the responsibility we have to “Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation” (Mark 16:15). In other words, if we aren’t serving God in our spheres of influence, using the gifts He gave us, we are wasting the freedom that has been bestowed upon us by God’s grace, at the expense of the countless soldiers who have died defending that freedom.
I find the whole idea quite disturbing the more I think about it. While Christians are still the majority in the United States, in nearly every other corner of the world they are the minority, and not just the minority, but a persecuted minority.
Those of us living in the U.S. don’t generally realize how blessed we are to have the religious freedom that we do. We get angry because public schools no longer pray or say the Pledge of Allegiance, but really we should be thanking God that we have a government that allows us to pray, read the Bible, and preach openly, without fear of retribution. Many of us don’t realize how rare those rights are compared to the rest of the world.
This post seems rather appropriate coming on the heels of our Independence Day celebration. While barbequing, swimming, and setting off fireworks to celebrate our country’s independence, we should be thinking about the specific freedoms that our country grants us, such as the ability to worship God freely.
In particular, we should be thinking about the responsibility that our religious freedom carries. The responsibility not only to take advantage of that freedom for ourselves in the form of personal worship, but also the responsibility we have to “Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation” (Mark 16:15). In other words, if we aren’t serving God in our spheres of influence, using the gifts He gave us, we are wasting the freedom that has been bestowed upon us by God’s grace, at the expense of the countless soldiers who have died defending that freedom.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Holy Thursday
I am having another bad day today, the worst I've had in a while. I wasn't able to crawl out of bed until one o'clock this afternoon, and even then I was still suffering from a splitting migraine (which has calmed now - thank you, Excedrin). I missed another class and the kids had to get ready for school by themselves. It is so frustrating to be held captive by my own body. Once I got moving, however, I realized that my focus needs a major readjustment.
Today is Holy Thursday. In the chronology of Holy Week, this would be the day that Jesus celebrated the Last Supper with his disciples. Many of us commmemorate the Last Supper on a regular basis by partaking in Communion, but how many of us celebrate the origins of this very important ritual? Jesus instructed his disciples to eat and drink in remembrance of Him. So shouldn't we also take this opportunity to remember the significance of the Last Supper? Shouldn't this be a day to teach our kids about Communion, it's origins and importance?
I realized today that for many of us Easter is a meaningful holiday, but that our tendency is to limit our celebration to the two hours we are at church on Easter Sunday. But doesn't Christ's death and resurrection deserve more than a passing nod? All of this week my focus has been on everything other than Christ. My sickness, my homework, my hectic schedule...me. It's time to shift the focus to the One who sacrificed His life for mine.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Hello, Mortality!
I was rudely reintroduced to my physical limitations today. I have been at Creighton for over two years, and today is the first time I skipped a class because of MS. I have missed classes when the kids were sick, and a couple of times from being snowed in, but never for being sick myself. I’ve even gone to school with pneumonia before, more than once as a matter of fact.
Of course, this year has been kind of an experiment for me anyway. With my youngest starting school, I decided to start attending classes full time during the day, which means Tuesdays see me at school from nine in the morning until ten at night. This would be a challenge for even the healthiest of people. Add to that the fact that I have been without go-juice (narcolepsy medication) since Thanksgiving due to insurance issues (What’s that? The government doesn’t like spending thousands of dollars a month on my medications? Well, I don’t like having MS. Wanna trade?), and it might be more appropriate for me to look at today as a blessing.
In two years this is the first time I have had to miss a class because of MS. What an amazing feat! One accomplished only by the grace of God, I assure you. It is days like this, when I am faced with the stark reality of life with MS, that I am reminded of the lesson that the Apostle Paul learned himself through experience: God’s grace is sufficient for me, for His power is made perfect in my weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Of course, this year has been kind of an experiment for me anyway. With my youngest starting school, I decided to start attending classes full time during the day, which means Tuesdays see me at school from nine in the morning until ten at night. This would be a challenge for even the healthiest of people. Add to that the fact that I have been without go-juice (narcolepsy medication) since Thanksgiving due to insurance issues (What’s that? The government doesn’t like spending thousands of dollars a month on my medications? Well, I don’t like having MS. Wanna trade?), and it might be more appropriate for me to look at today as a blessing.
In two years this is the first time I have had to miss a class because of MS. What an amazing feat! One accomplished only by the grace of God, I assure you. It is days like this, when I am faced with the stark reality of life with MS, that I am reminded of the lesson that the Apostle Paul learned himself through experience: God’s grace is sufficient for me, for His power is made perfect in my weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Short Story, Part II
Are You There, God? Part II
Two days before Christmas, Shelly’s brother, Tom, pulls his forest green beater into their parents’ gravel driveway. Shelly climbs out into the Minnesota snow, burying her pink Uggs a good four inches before standing up and closing the door. A glance at her brother, already unloading her bags from his trunk, makes her giggle. His flaming red hair is sticking straight up, poking above the green trunk door like the red star topper of a Christmas tree. Tom leans over to glare at her, “You could help, you know. After all, it’s your crap.”
Shelly forces her mirth aside, pulling her mouth into an exaggerated frown. “I’m so sorry, dear brother,” she teases, making her way to the back of the car, “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Shelly ducks Tom’s half-hearted swipe, slipping back into laughter as she helps him wrestle her three bags into the red brick farmhouse standing before them, the one that always reminds her of the third pig’s house in the story, “The Three Little Pigs.” She drops her Dad’s old duffel bag on the floor and slips off her boots on the snowman checkered welcome mat, leaving Tom to carry the other two bags up to her room. Her parents are still at work so she saunters into the sunny yellow kitchen to scavenge for a snack.
As she paints peanut butter on four pieces of her Mom’s favorite seven grain bread, Shelly considers her homecoming. On the one hand, she is glad that her parents could afford to fly her home for the holidays, and she is really glad that they have kept her room for her, instead of turning it into an office or an exercise room, like some of her friend’s parents have done, but on the other hand, she is not looking forward to explaining her report card when it arrives. She turned in as much extra credit as she could talk her History teacher into allowing, but it can’t possibly have been enough to make up for the D she got on her research paper.
By the time Tom stumbles into the kitchen, tripping over himself like the gangly teenager that he is, Shelly is washing down her sandwich with a glass of skim milk. “Way to go, Loser,” Tom grumbles, “so glad you found time for a snack while I played bellhop. This isn’t the Hilton, you know.”
Shelly pushes a plate across the laminate countertop and gives Tom a playful glare. “If you’d open your eyes, Loser, you’d see I made a sandwich for you, too.”
“Oh, well, thanks,” concedes Tom. “By the way,” he mumbles around a mouthful of sticky-as-tar peanut butter, shoving a stack of mail towards Shelly, “this is all yours.”
Shelly can feel the heat rising in her neck, and suddenly the peanut butter sandwich begins rolling around her stomach like a ball caught in a lottery barrel. She sifts through the pile of mail, pushing aside American Express applications and L.L. Bean catalog’s in her search for Northwestern’s purple logo. A quarter of the way through the batch Shelly finds what she is looking for. In fact, there are two envelopes from Northwestern.
She rips open the first envelope determinedly, while at the same time her heart is praying, Please, God, don’t let this be as bad as I think it is. Finding a letter, rather than a report card, Shelly does a quick scan, expecting the annual alumni request for monetary donations, but pausing when her eyes catch the word, ‘TriQuarterly,’ the title of Northwestern’s online literary print journal. She can feel her heartbeat speed up, pitter-pattering like a spring rain, as she zones in on the document, now searching for a different group of words, “Keeping the Faith.” There it is! “We are pleased to inform you that your Slice of Life article, “Keeping the Faith,” has been accepted for publication in our next issue of TriQuarterly Online.”
By this time, Tom has finished his sandwich and moved on in search of entertainment in the form of Halo II, so Shelly is free to do her happy dance without fear of ridicule. “Woohoo!” she yells, kicking her legs in a sickly imitation of an Irish jig. Thank you, God, for this validation!
Plopping back onto the warmed vinyl barstool, Shelly takes a cleansing breath and tears into the second envelope. A glimmer of hope begins to waver within her, like the first sparks of a campfire that have yet to be fanned into flame. Victory! She pumps her fist into the air as the enormous weight of senior year research papers and finals float up to the ceiling – through it, even, up to the heights of heaven, where God waits with a catcher’s mitt at the ready.
Two days before Christmas, Shelly’s brother, Tom, pulls his forest green beater into their parents’ gravel driveway. Shelly climbs out into the Minnesota snow, burying her pink Uggs a good four inches before standing up and closing the door. A glance at her brother, already unloading her bags from his trunk, makes her giggle. His flaming red hair is sticking straight up, poking above the green trunk door like the red star topper of a Christmas tree. Tom leans over to glare at her, “You could help, you know. After all, it’s your crap.”
Shelly forces her mirth aside, pulling her mouth into an exaggerated frown. “I’m so sorry, dear brother,” she teases, making her way to the back of the car, “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Shelly ducks Tom’s half-hearted swipe, slipping back into laughter as she helps him wrestle her three bags into the red brick farmhouse standing before them, the one that always reminds her of the third pig’s house in the story, “The Three Little Pigs.” She drops her Dad’s old duffel bag on the floor and slips off her boots on the snowman checkered welcome mat, leaving Tom to carry the other two bags up to her room. Her parents are still at work so she saunters into the sunny yellow kitchen to scavenge for a snack.
As she paints peanut butter on four pieces of her Mom’s favorite seven grain bread, Shelly considers her homecoming. On the one hand, she is glad that her parents could afford to fly her home for the holidays, and she is really glad that they have kept her room for her, instead of turning it into an office or an exercise room, like some of her friend’s parents have done, but on the other hand, she is not looking forward to explaining her report card when it arrives. She turned in as much extra credit as she could talk her History teacher into allowing, but it can’t possibly have been enough to make up for the D she got on her research paper.
By the time Tom stumbles into the kitchen, tripping over himself like the gangly teenager that he is, Shelly is washing down her sandwich with a glass of skim milk. “Way to go, Loser,” Tom grumbles, “so glad you found time for a snack while I played bellhop. This isn’t the Hilton, you know.”
Shelly pushes a plate across the laminate countertop and gives Tom a playful glare. “If you’d open your eyes, Loser, you’d see I made a sandwich for you, too.”
“Oh, well, thanks,” concedes Tom. “By the way,” he mumbles around a mouthful of sticky-as-tar peanut butter, shoving a stack of mail towards Shelly, “this is all yours.”
Shelly can feel the heat rising in her neck, and suddenly the peanut butter sandwich begins rolling around her stomach like a ball caught in a lottery barrel. She sifts through the pile of mail, pushing aside American Express applications and L.L. Bean catalog’s in her search for Northwestern’s purple logo. A quarter of the way through the batch Shelly finds what she is looking for. In fact, there are two envelopes from Northwestern.
She rips open the first envelope determinedly, while at the same time her heart is praying, Please, God, don’t let this be as bad as I think it is. Finding a letter, rather than a report card, Shelly does a quick scan, expecting the annual alumni request for monetary donations, but pausing when her eyes catch the word, ‘TriQuarterly,’ the title of Northwestern’s online literary print journal. She can feel her heartbeat speed up, pitter-pattering like a spring rain, as she zones in on the document, now searching for a different group of words, “Keeping the Faith.” There it is! “We are pleased to inform you that your Slice of Life article, “Keeping the Faith,” has been accepted for publication in our next issue of TriQuarterly Online.”
By this time, Tom has finished his sandwich and moved on in search of entertainment in the form of Halo II, so Shelly is free to do her happy dance without fear of ridicule. “Woohoo!” she yells, kicking her legs in a sickly imitation of an Irish jig. Thank you, God, for this validation!
Plopping back onto the warmed vinyl barstool, Shelly takes a cleansing breath and tears into the second envelope. A glimmer of hope begins to waver within her, like the first sparks of a campfire that have yet to be fanned into flame. Victory! She pumps her fist into the air as the enormous weight of senior year research papers and finals float up to the ceiling – through it, even, up to the heights of heaven, where God waits with a catcher’s mitt at the ready.
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