Storehouse

I recently read a couple of lines that were written as a side note, but impacted me as if they were the primary message.  Tucked away treasures, hidden, yet full of potential to change hearts that take the time to ponder.


They were two small sentences from an author named Mark Batterson in his book, All In.  "[The life I live] is an answer to the prayers my father-in-law prayed for me.  His prayers did not die when he did."


And there it is.  Such a profoundly startling truth.  And such a deeply moving one.


When I close my eyes and think of the people in my life who I know have prayed for me over my lifetime, and not just said a sentence or two, but repeatedly approached the throne of Heaven on my behalf, I immediately see my grandparents.  As a child from a blended family, I have had the honor of having three sets of grandparents to speak into my raising.  And all of them prayed. 


Two grandmothers are still with me, all the rest of that generation are gone.  But, their prayers remain.   


Still effective.  Still reaping.


I once stood innocently in the produce aisle at the grocery store, putting my entire concentration into the choosing of carrots when a man walked behind me.  I never saw him, but I smelled him.  And his cologne was the one my grandfather wore.  I don't even know the name of it, but I know the smell, and I instantly found my face wet with tears.  I have them in my eyes  right now just writing that sentence, just remembering the smell of a tall man who loved to laugh, used big words, fed my infant son his first taste of ice cream without thinking to ask the mother, and walked several miles every morning.  And prayed. 


A man who prayed for his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren.  Every single day.


And I'm so grateful that his prayers for me and for my family are still bringing the fragrance of remembrance into the presence of God himself.  


I often wonder if my husband and I serve in the same area that my grandfather pastored in because God thinks generationally.  But, now, I also wonder if we are not here as God's way of answering my grandfather's prayers that are still rising, the ones that must have so often been prayed for this land and for its people.


Scripture says no word from God lacks power (Luke 1:37), and I'm coming to realize that when His word is in our mouths, our words are never without power either. 


Nothing can stop the power of God.  Certainly not death.  This means that the prayers I pray today, the words and truths of God that I declare with faith, will continue on after I am gone.  They will become their own fragrances, ones that rise again and again.  They will find their way into the halls and rooms of Heaven and into the presence of the One who loves to say Amen to His words spoken by His children.  It also means that I can give a gift to my children, my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren.  I can leave a treasure for my church, my city, my nation.  I can build a storehouse of blessing. 


My prayers.  They will not die when I die.  They will live, and bring life.

Looking Forward

Our oldest turned sixteen last Sunday.  It's taken me a week to wrap my head around that.

Sixteen.

I remember turning sixteen.  I remember writing in my diary that night that a woman had told me she wished she was sixteen again.  I felt sorry for her and told my future self not to live looking backwards. 

And now my son is sixteen. 

He was born two weeks early, we brought him home wrapped up in a blanket on a hot August afternoon, we blinked, and now I'm calling to schedule his driver's test.

And I'm so proud.

And I'm so thrilled.

And I'm so sad.

And I'm so very desperate.

Desperate to remember the here and the now because I never thought I'd forget how soft his baby skin was or what his toddler voice sounded like, but now they are memories that are hard to conjure up.  And I don't want today to become the hard to remember moments of tomorrow.

And yet that's how life works.  Time really does march on.  Memories  really do fade.  And we are left with the new here and now.

So my sixteen year old self might have had the right idea.  I can't live looking backwards, trying to hold on to the moment that was meant to be enjoyed in the moment. 

But, I can love this moment.  And I can love the next moment. 

And I can treasure the young man who will be pulling out of our driveway all alone this week.  And I can tell my arms that are aching to hold the baby version of him one more time that it's not over. 

It's never over.

There will always be the here and now.

And when the here and now moves into eternity, I know beyond a shadow of doubting these arms will find their way around this boy of mine and his brothers and his sister. 

And I'm really going to love that moment.

Home (reposted)

Author's Note:  As I am returning from vacation, I chose this post from the archives about the glory of coming home.  One of the most frequent spiritual questions my pastor husband is asked is, "What will Heaven be like?"  I think the best answer to that is, "Like returning from a long trip to the home you love."  I pray you are blessed today as you ponder your eternal home.

Growing up in West Texas meant cotton fields and burnt grass and thunderstorms and sunsets that reached from one end of the horizon to the other. It meant dried up tank beds and pump jacks and incessant wind. It meant tractors and cows, boots and skirts, and slow-talking men in donut shops who still went out of their way to open the door for a lady. It meant mesquites for trees, cactus for flowers, and rain showers being the cause for celebrations featuring children in swimsuits running wildly through brown yards and neighbors gathering on porches giving thanks. It meant unlocked doors, Friday night football games, and Sunday afternoon naps after church. It meant catching horned toads and going barefoot and staying out until it got dark. It meant sweet tea and chicken-fried steak, pecan pie and rib-eyes, and gourmet being something that had a sprig of parsley on the side. It meant people whose hearts were as wide open as the sky.

The older I get, the more I realize this land is in my blood. When I come home after being away, I breathe easier and my smile comes faster. Home, with all its faults, is right here where my heart leaps.

And then I find myself wondering, what will this land be like when He comes and makes all things new? How will it reflect His beauty then? What part of Him will be newly birthed in the fields, the trees, the wind? Will I recognize my homeland and all my old lanes of memory, or will I need a welcome tour?

And I find a prayer on my lips that when the time comes, He will take my hand and show me how it was meant to be, the old passed away and the new wine running free.

Grief Unlike the World's

The moment I have been dreading since we moved into our home nine years ago happened this weekend.  Our precious 85 year old neighbor died.  First the phone call, then the visit from the grieving son, and then the telling to our children that their elderly playmate was gone.


It was their first true loss, the first time they learned what it meant to want to hold a hand, to hear a voice one more time, and not be able to.  It was a long time we sat together and cried, the sounds of grief coming and going like waves lapping. 


And slowly, the words came.  How we always pictured him taking care of his yard, his farmer's hat attempting to shield his weathered skin.  How thankful we were that he once rescued our third born wandering close to the street in his diaper, coming over later with a new latch for our gate.  How he had laughed watching boys sling mud in the moat they built with their own hands.  How we would treasure his gifts, the pocket knives that spoke of manhood to hungry boy hearts.  How we wished we could turn back the clock to see him one last time.  How we would miss the light in his workshop.  How we didn't understand.


Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. According to the Lord’s word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage one another with these words. (I Thessalonians 4:13-18)


And we spoke of hope.  And we spoke of the joyful expectation we now carry of seeing him again, healed and whole.  And we spoke of praise, for He is good, and it is when we hurt the most that our hearts must praise the loudest.


And we waited until each one could give voice to their praise, holding and rocking in between. "I love you, Jesus.  I praise You, for You are good." 


My children woke this morning with new wisdom.  They are discovering what it means to treasure the ones you love and to make each parting a benediction.  They are learning what it means to care for the orphans and the widows.  They are beginning to understand that it is in the sacrifice of praise that faith comes alive.


And they now know what it means to look forward to the day when we shall once more be neighbors with those our hearts miss.

Home

Growing up in West Texas meant cotton fields and burnt grass and thunderstorms and sunsets that reached from one end of the horizon to the other.  It meant dried up tank beds and pump jacks and incessant wind.  It meant tractors and cows, boots and skirts, and slow-talking men in donut shops who still went out of their way to open the door for a lady.  It meant mesquites for trees, cactus for flowers,  and rain showers being the cause for celebrations featuring children in swimsuits running wildly through brown yards and neighbors gathering on porches giving thanks.  It meant unlocked doors, Friday night football games, and Sunday afternoon naps after church.  It meant catching horned toads and going barefoot and staying out until it got dark.  It meant sweet tea and chicken-fried steak, pecan pie and rib-eyes, and gourmet being something that had a sprig of parsley on the side.  It meant people whose hearts were as wide open as the sky.

The older I get, the more I realize this land is in my blood.  When I come home after being away,  I breathe easier and my smile comes faster.  Home, with all its faults, is right here where my heart leaps.

And then I find myself wondering, what will this land be like when He comes and makes all things new?  How will it reflect His beauty then?  What part of Him will be newly birthed in the fields, the trees, the wind?  Will I recognize my homeland and all my old lanes of memory, or will I need a welcome tour? 

And I find a prayer on my lips that when the time comes, He will take my hand and show me how it was meant to be, the old passed away and the new wine running free.