I Believe in You

     We were walking in from recess, leaving the battleground of the softball diamond behind us. As teachers are wont to do, I listened in with interest to the conversation of a couple students walking a few feet away.

    "Next time," said Lamar, "I'm gonna hit it to the volleyball court." 

    Verle looked at him with a challenging air. "OK, do it then."

    I wondered where the conversation would turn. I've heard far too many such responses result in boys bragging of doing the impossible or else start running each other down. To my surprise, Lamar answered humbly.

    "Well, I'll try," he said.

    Verle's answer was simple and pure: "I believe in you," he responded.

    If only we found ourselves being that supportive! Do we lift up those around us as they share their fondest hopes and dreams, or do we drown out their flickers of inspiration with the cold waters of skepticism and healthy doses of pessimism?

    Imagine the possibilities if we give others our confidence! Envision the hope and courage we can spread if you and I tell others we believe in them. Try it. Give someone else room to grow. Lift someone up. Grant them confidence.

   Have a good week. I believe in you!

Gate Beautiful

    Oh, so you would like to hear my story? I'm glad to share it with anyone who asks. I guess I'll just start at the beginning. 

    I'd lain by Gate Beautiful for years. I had seen the seasons come and go, little girls blossom into young ladies, and fathers turn gray. I recognized the many faces that visited the gate every day, and I looked with interest at any new ones.

    Do you see the man over there, the priest with the blue robe bordered by tassels? My presence always made him a bit uncomfortable. I could tell. He avoided the place by the wall where I half sat, half  lay.     The jolly little wife of the tax collector near the market? Now she always greeted me as though I were a real person, not scum that had escaped from my rightful place in the dank alleys of starvation. Not a popular woman because of her husband's occupation, but a good heart.  

    Over to my left, the young man there, he keeps sheep. I know he doesn't get paid much, but he often used to toss me a coin as he passed before the miracle happened.

He was saving up, hoping to marry, but he still shared what he had. 

    Oh, and there's the spice merchant up ahead. He was always liberal with his giving. I know the Jewish people didn't approve of him, for he was not one of them, but sometimes he would even bring me a honey cake his wife had made. A good cook she is!

    No, it wasn't pleasant, my life as a man lame from my mother's womb, but here in these bustling streets I learned to be content with my lot in life. There were days I wanted to cry in frustration, yes, but deep inside I knew that surely the God of old had not forgotten me, just as He never forgot Abraham or Isaac. 

    I remember it like yesterday. It was hot, the dry time of year, and the dust made little clouds around the sandals of the two men approaching the gate. I thought perhaps they were Galileans. Maybe fishermen, but I couldn't be sure. Though to judge by their swarthy faces and strong shoulders they certainly spent much time outdoors.

    There was something in their faces that set them apart from the rest of the noisy crowd. I saw there the same light that shone in the face of the tax collector's wife and the young shepherd. Somehow I felt sure that they would be willing to share a coin with a lame man.

    I raised my voice and called to them as they approached. I was used to begging. I'd done it for years, but still it was humbling to rely on the goodwill of others for one's daily bread.  I lowered my eyes and held out cupped hands, just like this, waiting for the thud of a cool silver coin. 

    Instead one of them spoke. "Look upon us," he said.

    Startled, I raised my eyes until I was looking fully into his.

    "We have no money," he said.

    I felt so confused. Why, then, had he stopped before me?  

    "But I have something greater," he continued. "By the power of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, get up and walk!"

    I had heard the name before. A Holy Man, some, I heard, called Him the Messiah. I hesitated. I had never walked a day in my life. Even if some miracle occurred and I was given strength, I wouldn't know how!

    Then, as I paused, the man reached down his hands and grasped mine. Firmly, they raised me to my feet. Then my hands dropped to my sides and I was standing. Standing all alone, with no brace, no support, no crutch or cane or aid of any sort! I felt something course through my body. I felt alive like I had never been before.

     In moments I was walking! How? How did the mere name of Jesus possess so much power that I, crippled since before my birth, could learn to walk? 

    I have learned much since that day beside the gate. I've learned of the things that one must believe to have eyes that are kind. I've learned how the soul of a man can be bothered by a thing he doesn't understand in someone else, and how he tries to avoid those things. I've learned of a power that can do much more than heal the lame.

    Do you lie at the gate called Beautiful? No? Do you feel that you are lame? There are many ways to be lame, you know.

    I was lame on my feet. My legs would not hold me. But I have seen men and women who are lame in their souls. One can see it in their eyes. Hurts that they are carrying. Fears that haunt them. Grudges that need forgiving.

    The priest, the one in the blue robe, he is lame I can tell, but I don't think he knows it. I can hardly understand the love that healed me, yet one thing I know: It is there for you, too. 

    If you find yourself lying by the gate of Bethany, look up. He is waiting, with out-stretched hands to help you stand. He is not hampered by how lame you are. Take His hand. If you manage to rise, but worry you will not know how to walk, do not fear, He will stay beside you. 

    Yes, I'm glad to share my story. I only fear how few take advantage of His name.  You are going now? Remember what I've told you, don't fear what He asks... the sacrifices are worth the joy of being healed.

    God bless you, my friend. 

Changes

     As I was pondering allegories, wishing for a new one to read to my class, I had an epiphany. Not a single allegory I could think of allowed the main character to remain in his or her native home. Some are sent on a long journey to a distant land, others are given the care of a castle, or sent off to fight a battle, but none are allowed to remain in environments they are used to.
    I believe it is safe to say that for most of us in relatively comfortable situations, change is not something we look forward to. We dread the idea of being uprooted from familiar places and dropped into the midst of some unknown land. Being someone that has moved several times in my life, I feel I can claim at least some level of authority on the matter.
    There is, I decided after some thought, a very good reason allegories all follow the same pattern. When we become transformed through the blood of Christ, we aren't allowed to stay in one place. The things that our humanness clings to as familiar are left behind as we move on to a new place. 
    Our journey, though, does not end there, though we sometimes wish it did! Instead, God has a way of asking us again and again to move on to different places. Some of these moves may be physical- a move to a different congregation, accepting a new job opportunity, or a term in a foreign mission. Others are moves in our hearts that perhaps are not so very obvious to anyone but God. Maybe He's asking us to draw closer and rely on Him when our tendency is to fear. Perhaps He is gently asking us to move beyond a hurt from our past that is holding us back. It may be for someone His request is simply to move a beloved pair of shoes from the closet to the garbage!
    There are so many ways in which God requires us to leave the place to which we've become accustomed! It's not easy. We sometimes cry many tears. Some days we may just feel like fighting His gentle, beckoning call. Yet to draw nearer Him, there is only one way, and that is the way of change.
    The mere mention of change is enough to make me cringe. Are the changes easy? No. Do they feel disastrous? Sometimes. Will they be worth it? Always. Clinging to His hand, you and I can walk our allegorical paths and know that each step of the journey is one step nearer Him. 
    

Mystery Stories

     It must have started with Boxcar Children and Bobbsey Twins. Somewhere along the way I got introduced to Encyclopedia Brown, and I was hooked. For years, I wasn't that interested in something that wasn't a mystery. Soon it was Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, and The Three Investigators. At last I ended up with Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Jane Marple.  Today, I read an occasional mystery story, but I am equally happy to satisfy myself solving the mysteries one finds in an occasional escape room. 
    One thing I have learned throughout my long education of mysteries is that things are almost never what they seem.  I discover suddenly on chapter eighteen that a main character simply can't be trusted. Stone walls are never solid, and many times contain secret chambers behind them. The famous painting being guarded day and night turns out to be a clever forgery hung there by some devious guard working with a thieving gang. 

    I always find myself breathing a sigh of relief as one by one the mysteries are unmasked and truth is set free. Such a relief it is to finally see the complete and honest picture when the hoaxes are all ripped away! 

    Although the façade we find in stories seem futile, we don't have so much of an aversion to them in real life. I've noticed it starts in third or fourth grade. Suddenly it is no longer socially acceptable to like your teacher. We start to worry about what brand of shoes are the best. Those that struggle in sports or in their schoolwork do their best to hide behind cutting up, a no-care attitude, or loud bluster.

    As we grow older, it extends to other areas. We find ourselves trying to mask things that we think other people won't like about us. Desperate to fit into what we think is the mold, we cover up our real feelings. We hide the fact that we had fun hanging out with someone that's not in the popular group. Our houses must be in perfect order before we can invite company lest someone realize that we actually don't have everything under control.

    Of course I'd like to encourage everyone to drop the mask, slide out from behind the perceived safety of a façade and grasp the courage to be the real you, but that's not the thought that impressed me today. My heart turns to the perceptions we have of our Heavenly Father. Sometimes we imagine He somehow is wearing a mask just like we do. We began to suspect that He is just pretending to care about us. There are days we imagine Him leaving us to fend for ourselves, and tossing us only a few leftover blessings if He thinks of it.

    But He is Truth! His love for each one of is not a hoax. It is real and living. His care for us extends to every little detail. The hard things that come to us are not proof that our Father has left us alone. His heart is still with us, His hand still reaching for ours. His Truth will never change. There are no hoaxes, no facades, no masks.

   The greatest mystery, as far as I can tell, is how He is able to love us just as we are, with all our faults and failures. How He is able to see past our feeble efforts at masking our inadequacies and love us for exactly who we are. Someday I look forward to discovering the answer in the glorious home He is preparing for us all where Truth will stand eternal. Will you meet me there?

    

    

    

    

Strawberry Pie

    "I can hold that if you want," I told my co-teacher, Raelynn. 
    "I can hold it," she said confidently, starting the car. 

    I surveyed the situation dubiously from the passenger seat. The mostly full pie plate was balanced delicately, and Raelynn was supposed to be driving. 

    All went well until we swung into the driveway. The pie, escaping from Raelynn's grasp, flung itself facedown all over the center console. It was a mess. 

    Luckily, Raelynn was of a cheery disposition and saw the humor, even amid the strawberries and cool whip now adorning her car. If only she had let me help her out and hold the pie, the disaster could have been averted. Instead of cleaning the console, we could have been polishing the last bits off our plates. 

    So often we think we can make it on our own. We don't need others in our lives. We are holding the pie and are sure we can manage it just fine. And then everything we thought we had under control flies to pieces. 

    It takes humility to admit our need for others. It takes giving of ourselves to be there for someone else. It's sometimes scary and painful to depend on others, but the blessings far outweigh the pain. 

    As we travel through life, we need to share each others burdens. There is little hope for a person who chooses to try living a life void of others. Reach out a hand and lift a burden. Relinquish a weight you are carrying to a friend. Perhaps someday, after we've helped each other home, we'll all sit down and enjoy a piece of pie together.

A Real Artist

     Norman Rockwell refused to call himself an artist. He saw real art as being more a Rembrandt thing, not the homey images he was so popular for. He tried different painting styles, searching his soul to see if there was a "real artist" hidden somewhere inside. When there was an outcry from his publisher, he stopped. Though America at large lauded his prowess with the brush and the way he was able to bring people to life upon a canvas, he never gave himself a title other than illustrator.
    I understand, I think. many times I've tried to search myself to see if I am a "real artist" or a "real writer" or a "real teacher." Maybe you've been there, too, wondering if you are truly completing your mission as a mother, a friend, a daughter, or whatever other position you find yourself filling. The standards we set for ourselves can be very high. 
    There is one area of life that I sometimes discover it is difficult to search: my relationship with God. The feeling I get is akin to being atop a very tall building and being afraid of looking down. What will I see? What if I fall? What if I can't do it? It's just easier to stand back and say, "Oh, yes, I'm sure I'm a Christian."
    As time on earth draws to a close, searching my relationship with God is the most important thing of all for me to ponder. Unfortunately it's not very pleasant. It seems much easier to compare myself to those I see around me. My high standards disappear, and I'm quite happy to say, "See? I'm holding a paintbrush. I must be an artist!" We forget that anyone can slap paint on a canvas, but it takes an artist to make the colors blend into a picture.
    We would like to think that just because I follow most or all of the Church's guidelines I'm OK. A living, breathing, passionate relationship with Christ is smothered by our own ideas and the hope that we'll be all right depending on customs, traditions, and head knowledge.
    It's not enough. We've got to go deeper. It's not our standards that matter, but those of God. Yes, it's scary to let God lead us deeper. Our knees tremble as we stand looking down into the depths of our own hearts, but there's no alternative for those who wish to be saved.
    Are you a "real Christian?" Don't depend on your own discernment alone. Open up to a friend. Talk to your minister. Seek advice from an elder you trust. But above all, take it up with God. Don't be afraid of where He will lead you. His heart wishes only to draw you nearer to Him. His steady hand will help you hold the brush and guide you in living the life of a true artist. 

Launchers

    James was working in his desk again. The lid was up and he was furtively doing something inside. As I approached, the lid went down quickly and he got to work on the math page in front of him. 

    "What have you got going on here?" I asked, as I lifted the desk lid. I viewed with trepidation the collection of bent paper clips, tiny springs, and other small pen parts that seem to intrigue fourth and fifth grade boys.

    "It's my workshop," he said explained.

    "What are you building?"

    "Oh, a launcher," he said. 

    I groaned inwardly. I love the creativity of my students, but why, oh why, do they try to build when there is other work to be done? They know they will only get in trouble. And why is every boy on the face of the planet obsessed with things that launch?

    Sometimes we, too, build things, even though they will lead us to trouble. We build them covertly where others cannot see. Often they may never notice that something is happening. But you and I know. In the secret places of our hearts we erect idols.

    They may start out small, but invariably they grow. Maybe it's the idol of perfection or peer pressure. Maybe it's the the idol of wealth. You know your idols better than I do.

      Almost without us realizing it, these idols take our eyes off God, the Master Teacher. Suddenly, devotions aren't so important, church becomes an option, our fervent love for Him is cooled.

    God hates idols. We have it in His Word in Ezekiel 14. Tear down your idols. Turn your heart toward God. Get back to work on the assignments He has given you. They are so much greater than any idol you will ever construct.