Chance, or Something Else?

My husband recently wrote a piece entitled "Ten Quotes That Changed My Life."  I was intrigued by the thought as I read it, and my mind has been composing my own list ever since, making me realize my life has indeed been impacted and forever altered because of both written and spoken words.

Coupled with that realization was a recent walk through a bookstore and the face of a book I spotted with a title along the lines of Chance Encounters That Changed My Life.  I didn't pick up the book, but the title started another list of top tens in my mind.  When I pause and consider my life as a timeline, I can see the random encounters with a few people pop up in big, block letters.  It was those "chance" conversations that altered a course, changed my direction. 

The friend who casually invited me to a youth group where I met a youth pastor who invited me to a missions organization's rally where I heard about a group I would eventually travel with to a far-away nation where I would have my life forever marked with a passion for sharing the gospel on foreign soil.

The aquaintance who happened to tell me about a drama team that was auditioning for new members, which I attended and where I met my future husband.

The pastor I met at a friend's wedding rehearsal who would eventually become our pastor and take us under his wing, sending us out to the city in which we lived for fourteen years as leaders of a church plant.

The church meeting we attended at someone else's church and by someone else's suggestion where we happened to buy a book that changed the course of our ministry and gave it sustaining purpose.

Seemingly small conversations that led to big revelations.  Seemingly small events that led to huge changes.

Chance encounters that weren't by chance, after all, but rather part of the big picture we can not see as we live out the minute moments of our lives.

Those life-altering words could happen in the very next phone conversation.  The course of your future could change through one encounter on the very next trip to the grocery store. 

And I find myself wondering if there were others.  Other words, other encounters that I sailed right through, never picking up on their significance, never seeing the stamp of God on the ordinary that was meant to change my life.

So I kneel and pray that I don't miss them. 

I pray my ears will always hear His voice, speaking when I least expect it, "Pay attention to this, baby.  I'm sending these words, this encounter to you, and they come with a gift attached.  Don't miss out on the opening."

And I look forward to the next package, wrapped in the chance encounter.

What To Do When You Disagree With A Fellow Believer

"MOM!!!!" 

I always knew that particular sound.  The one that said someone was angry.  It might be that someone stepped on his feelings, it might just be that someone stepped on his cookie, but he wasn't happy.  It was an angry brother.

And when my boys were young and prone to disagreements, I was hearing that angry cry far too often and became a little desperate in looking for a way to help them move past their differences and celebrate the sheer fact that they were brothers.  I often tried lecturing, but I knew they really didn't need to hear a lot of preaching.  They knew everything I was trying to tell them already, they just didn't want to do it in the heat of being wronged.  I needed something else.

And that's how it was born.  A simple tactic, really, but it seemed like it was magic in how effective it was.  First, I would make them stop. 

"Just stop what you're doing and look at each other."  This was usually followed by unhappy stares, but also silence, so that was a win.

"Now, put your arms around each other."  This would be followed by grumpy grunts, with chubby arms stretching to circle around someone's midsection.

"Okay, repeat after me."  Silence.

"I like you."  Sometimes a pause, but eventually two voices in unison, "I like you."

"I love you."  Another pause, followed by, "I love you."

"I highly respect you."  Getting faster now.  "I highly respect you."

"I greatly esteem you."  I'm not sure they even knew what this word meant when we started, but they figured out by context it wasn't the slam they were wanting to give.  "I greatly esteem you."

"And I think you smell good."  And that's where it worked.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Because when you're a pre-school boy, you just instinctively know that not only does your brother decidedly not smell good, you don't either.  So somehow, saying those words produced giggles and guffaws and sheepish faces.  And after the shared laughter, there was some kind of bond, some grubby little olive branch that helped them move past the offense.

Granted, we still sat down and hashed things out when they needed to be, but this simple act put it all in perspective.  We are family.  We don't just love each other because we have to, we like each other and we respect each other.  We speak to each other with honor.

And in this tense political season, with harsh words flying all around our culture's airwaves, I find myself wanting to have a family meeting with other followers of Jesus Christ.  Because we are family.  And even when we disagree, we shouldn't be grudging with our affection.  Jesus calls us to a much higher level of accountability than that.

In fact, his words were "love each other as I have loved you." (John 15:12)  And I am so grateful that my Jesus didn't love me begrudgingly, holding out his affection and respect for me until I towed the line in every aspect.  If He had waited until my thoughts were in perfect alignment with His before He allowed Himself to esteem me, or even like me, I would still be lonely and afraid apart from Him.

But, instead, He took me as I was.  And He loved me in the most honoring way any person could love another.  He gave His life for me.

And so, if I could call that huge family meeting for Christ's brothers and sisters, I'd make them put their arms around each other and look each other in the eye.  I'd remind them that no one group has it all figured out.  There's always places where we don't yet smell so great.  But, it doesn't mean we won't.  And it doesn't mean we should be treated without honor while we search for the bubble bath.

"I like you.  I love you.  I highly respect you.  I greatly esteem you.  And I think you smell good---it must be the fragrance of Christ."  (2 Corinthians 2:15)

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.

Love Stories

I received something for Christmas this past year that I've always wanted.  In fact, I've spent my whole life searching for it, but could never quite find it. 


The perfect sweatshirt. 


And now I have it, thanks to my husband.  It's the perfect weight...light, but still warm.  It's the perfect color...the cozy gray that says "go ahead and stay home all day, you deserve it."  And it has the perfect sentiment written across it in large, black, block letters.


It says, "I LIKE TO PARTY.  AND BY PARTY, I MEAN READ BOOKS."


Oh yes.  I told you it was perfect for me.  It's everything I've ever wanted in a sweatshirt.  That's why it's the first thing I put on when I get home from work.  Every single day.  I have become the sweatshirt person.  But, I don't judge myself.  It's too perfect to permit judging.  I only regret I didn't own it sooner.


But, how did this man know me so well?  How did he know just what would make my introverted heart so exquisitely happy?


Well, besides the secret Pinterest board entitled "Things I'd Like To Own" that I created just for him, he probably knew because I read.  I read a lot.  It's the way I learn best, and it's the way I relax the best.


So, it makes sense that it's also the avenue that has taught me quite a bit about love.  When I read people's stories, either in works of fiction or non-fiction, it's what I'm always looking for.  The love story.  The relationship that redeemed the past and made things new.  The heart connection that turned everything around. 


And I know I'm not alone.  Our culture celebrates love stories, and I think it's because deep down, we're all searching for a love story. 


Whether we realize it or not, every heart yearns to hear the thread of narrative that echoes the truths of the greatest love story ever told.  The story that stretched from a far-away realm to our world, right here in all of its ordinariness.  The story of an epic battle between good and evil.  The story of a man who came searching for His bride, to redeem her and make her his. 


The story of Heaven, looking to make its home in us.


Author's Note:  As our culture celebrates love this week, I pray you will enjoy this collection of my favorite quotes from fiction that echo the happy ending we've all been offered.  And if you're looking for a sentiment to pen into a Valentine's card, you can't go wrong with any of these.  You just might also want to make sure the card is attached to the perfect sweatshirt, if you want it to be a holiday long remembered. 




"Was he willing to blend into the life of another human being for the rest of his days, and have hers blend into his? That, of course, was the Bible’s bottom line on marriage: one flesh. Not separate entities, not two autonomous beings merely coming together at dinnertime or brushing past one another in the hallway, holding on to their singleness, guarding against invasion. One flesh!" - Jan Karon, A Light in the Window


“Oh, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person: having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them out. Just as they are—chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness, blow the rest away." - Dinah Mariah Craik, A Life for a Life, 1826–1887”


"Love, in its truest form, is not the thing of starry-eyed or star-crossed lovers, it is far more organic, requiring nurturing and time to fully bloom, and, as such, seen best not in its callow youth but in its wrinkled maturity. Like all living things, love, too, struggles against hardship, and in the process sheds its fatuous skin to expose one composed of more than just a storm of emotion–one of loyalty and divine friendship. Agape. And though it may be temporarily blinded by adversity, it never gives in or up, holding tight to lofty ideals that transcend this earth and time–while its counterfeit simply concludes it was mistaken and quickly runs off to find the next real thing.”  - Richard Paul Evans, The Letter 


“I come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is and always will be yours.”   - Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility


"My love isn't a weapon, it's a lifeline, reach out and take hold, and don't let go!” - Francine Rivers, Redeeming Love

"I lived with visions for my company,

Instead of men and women, years ago,

And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know

A sweeter music than they played to me.

But soon their trailing purple was not free

Of this world's dust, — their lutes did silent grow,

And I myself grew faint and blind below

Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come ... to be,

Belovèd, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,

Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same,

As river-water hallowed into fonts)

Met in thee, and from out thee overcame

My soul with satisfaction of all wants —

Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame."

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese, 26

The Story I Love to Read

I recently loaded up my kids and went to visit my grandmother.  She gets tired pretty easily, so we don't ever stay a long time, but it was a sweet visit.  All the children took turns sharing their latest accomplishments with her, we ate together, and we heard a few more stories from the treasure box of her memories.

And somewhere in there, I slipped away to my Papaw's study to do what I always do when I visit.  I plucked one of his notebooks off the shelf and read through it for a moment.

My grandfather was a preacher.  My earliest memories of him involve pulpits and Vacation Bible Schools, where he would let the children who brought guests snip a piece off his necktie.  I loved visiting him at the church, getting candy from his secretary and even more candy from the janitor.  I loved that he was always willing to travel good distances to witness the important events in my life, always being the one who gave the biggest hug and told me how proud he was of me.

I was the oldest grandchild in the family and the first to marry.  It was Papaw who conducted our ceremony, and it was Papaw who sat us down for pre-marital counseling.  I remember blushing furiously when my aging grandfather talked about the honeymoon with me and my future groom, but I have always been grateful for the wonderful foundation he helped us build in so many facets of our communication with each other.

I had only been married two short months when Papaw had a stroke.  He would eventually recover completely physically, but would never fully recover in his ability to speak.  For the next ten years, it would be a struggle to communicate with him.  He was always able to convey love, but gone were the eloquent sermons, the heart to heart conversations, and the huge words he loved to use. 

And then he was gone.  Suddenly, and without a chance for many of us to say goodbye.

And that's why I love to slip away into his study and pick up a notebook.  There are quite a few to choose from because he was a preacher in the days before computers.  His sermon files aren't on a hard drive.  They're all in notebooks, on the top shelf of the study. 

A lifetime of sermons.  A treasure of words.

When I read his writings, mostly typed, but with many handwritten notes in the margins, I can listen to his voice again.  I can hear a heart that loved his God.  I can recall his wisdom, the kind that's earned the hard way.  I can remember his love for me.

And this last time, as I held a notebook entitled "Philippians" in my hand, I wondered what my legacy would be.  What treasure do my notebooks hold?  What am I leaving for those who come after me to remember and ponder? 

My life is telling a story.  I pray it's as beautiful as the one on the top shelf.

Love Tanks and Simple Acts

This past month was "Pastor's Appreciation" month.  It just might be my family's favorite four weeks out of the year, made fun by the fact that our church appreciates us well.  This last Sunday, all six of us sat in the living room floor and read a huge stack of notes and letters that had been given to us by our congregation that morning.  They had been handed to us in a huge bucket the church had titled our "love tank."  And those letters really did fill our love tanks. 

Some were short, some were long, all were encouraging, and all were precious. 

My children have only ever known the life of being pastor's children, and I believe they handle it well.  My husband and I have worked hard to help them understand that while they are our "first church," we also serve a body.  And that service will require sacrifice and will require it often.  They have become used to Dad needing to step out of the room to answer a phone call or leave for the office again after he's already come home for the evening because someone needs him.  They understand that much of the weekend, when they are home from school, is his busiest "work" time.  They have made peace with the truth that their parents "jobs" involve ministering to people's hearts, and people's hearts still have needs after regular business hours.

So, it was a joy for me to include them in the reading of the letters.  To see them receive the encouragement, thanks, and respect that came through the lines of the many, many pages.  It was a joy because I knew they were being able to see their dad's sacrifice, as well as the sacrifices we make as a family, are worth it. 

Yes, they will always come first.  And they know they have complete access to us, whenever they need us.

But, they also now they are appreciated for the way they share us.

And all because people took the time to put pen to paper and let their thoughts be known.

Such a simple act.  Such profound results.

Whose love tank do you need to fill today?

Yes and Amen

This last Monday, as I was preparing to leave for a few days away, I hurriedly packed a lunch for my son.  He still likes a note in a lunchbox (a fact that pleases me to no end), but prefers them to be funny or have some kind of riddle to solve.  In other words, no mushy love notes that might cause him to get the wrong kind of lunch-time attention!  Our compromise: we have an understanding that if any mushy notes find their way into his lunchbox, they will be buried on the bottom, under the sandwich, and marked "TOP SECRET."  That way, he can read it on the sly and no one's the wiser.  (I hesitated to write of our secret, but I figure there probably aren't any fifth grade boys reading "Treasure the Ordinary," so I think I'm pretty safe!)

Monday morning called for a mushy note, as I wouldn't see him for three days.  And just as I buried the napkin declaring my love for a certain blonde ten year old, his sister saw what I was doing.

"A top secret note?  I want a top secret note!" she pleaded, her huge gray eyes lighting up.

"But, you're not taking your lunch today.  You're eating in the cafeteria." 

"Well, maybe I should take my lunch, then."

That did it.  I didn't have the time to start on another lunch at such late notice.  I quickly headed off the morning rush catastrophe by telling her I would put a Top Secret note inside her backpack for her to read while she was at school.  This solved everything--a secret note AND the school's chicken burger, which she happens to really like.  It's a both/and world she's living in.

Only it wasn't. I forgot. 

I have no idea how it happened.  Too many things on my mind, I guess.  But, it wasn't until I was two and a half hours down the highway that I remembered.  And I was miserable, picturing a little girl excitedly opening her backpack to find her top secret note and discovering that she must have been disavowed as a spy, or, even worse, that her mom didn't keep her word.

And that's what was really bothering me.  For the last fifteen years, as we've been on this wild adventure of parenthood, my husband and I have had one very important commitment to our children.  We keep our word.  Which is not always easy.  It's taught us to be very careful as to what we commit to.  We learned pretty quickly not to announce our plans way in advance, as plans can change, and we we wanted our kids to know that if we said we were going to do something, we were going to do it.  It's probably why we're still in the habit of not announcing the "special treat plans" until we are in the car, backing out of the driveway!

So, my forgetfulness left me in a dilemna.  I finally decided I needed to make amends via the phone, which meant recording a "top secret" voice message and sending it to her daddy with the strict instructions that only a very specific eight year old girl could listen.

Success. 

I was forgiven of my absent-mindedness in the thrill of receiving a spy-worthy voice recording.  Oh, sweet absolution.

And while I'm grateful for the second chance in the promise-keeping department with my little girl, I'm still very aware of how many times I fail to keep my word in my other relationships. 

The offer to pray for a friend that I don't think about again.

The commitment to myself not to do "that" again.

The promise to the Lord I gave in a moment of earnestness that too soon fades into apathy.

And my shortcomings make me grateful.  Grateful that I serve a God who does not forget His promises, and has never failed to fulfill even one of them.

"For no matter how many promises God has made, they are 'Yes' in Christ. And so through him the 'Amen' is spoken by us to the glory of God." (2 Corinthians 1:20)

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!" (Isaiah 49:15)

His promises are written all throughout His word, and each and every one has been bought and paid for. 

Each and every one are still redeemable, with no expiration date. 

And each and every one are for me.

Just another reason why I love the Promise Giver.  And just another reason I want to be like Him.

Words From the Heart

My husband and I went out of state this week.  We took our oldest two with us, but left the younger ones at home in the capable hands of good friends.  It's not their favorite thing, really, to be without mom and dad for three days.  They enjoy spending time with friends, but would rather it not be at the expense of missing their parents.

It was a last minute decision as we were rushing out the door, already behind schedule.  I grabbed a couple scraps of paper, fumbled for a pen in the junk drawer, and hastily scrawled a love note to each of them.  I tucked it on their pillows, right next to the beloved stuffed animals.

Just a quick note.  A heart reminder of how much they are loved.

But, oh the joy it brought.  Both little voices told me so when I returned home, the notes carefully saved on the "treasure" shelves.

I shouldn't have been surprised.  It's these two who have still not given up the practice of me making their lunches and have let me know their lunch is not complete without a note scribbled on a napkin.

Such a small act of love to make such a big deposit into a little heart.

And it's not just the little hearts that are blessed by surprise messages.  Even my own heart, at the ripe old age of 36, feels nurtured when my husband writes me a letter or my daughter draws me a picture with a few misspelled words to tell of her love for me.

It's the power of the love note--the words that are able to say "I was thinking of you when you weren't around and I wanted to let you know how much you mean to me."

And no matter what form they come in, whether it be on a banana in a lunchbox or fine stationary in the mailbox, they are treasure indeed.


Some ways to send a love note to your treasured one today:

• Make a collage out of magazine words that spell out your love sentiment.
• Send a facebook message to that far-away friend that's been on your mind.
• Find a free e-card that expresses your heart and send it to someone special's email address.
• Bake some cookies and attach a sweet note.
• Roll up a letter, tie it with a ribbon, and slip it under a pillow.
• Tape a note in the shower entitled "10 Reasons I Love You."
• Jot a message on a napkin and have it waiting with a treat in your loved one's car when they get out of work.
• Write a long letter and put it in the mail, even if it's just coming to your house.
• Write a letter of love to yourself, just like my sweet girl did.

The Wrestling Match

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."  - Ephesians 4:29

My husband read this beautiful verse in a church staff meeting today.  He read it slowly, pausing to emphasize each phrase.  That's how the words "according to their needs" stuck out so profoundly.

I usually have a lot I could say.  (Most women do.)

I often have a lot of helpful things to say.

But, to say helpful things...at the right time...in order to meet someone else's needs?  That is the gift I want to be able to give, again and again, to everyone around me.

And so we did that, right there in staff meeting today.  We went around the room and shared what we admired, respected, and appreciated in each staff member. 

And it was amazing.

The entire atmosphere of the room changed.  We entered a slightly tired and more than slightly overworked group of people, and we left with smiles on our faces and a spring in the step.

Because needs were met.  The deep needs that everyone has.  The need for someone else to notice what you do and call it important.  The need to be appreciated.  The need to feel like you're a part of a community who values you as a person and would miss you if you weren't around.

And I've thought about it all day.  How easy it was, really, and yet how hard.  Hard to speak about the impact someone's had on your life when they're right there across the table from you, looking you in the eye.  Harder still to be spoken to and told how special you are in someone's life without feeling the need to deflect it or make a joke.

And why should it be so hard?  Why doesn't it come naturally to build up other people, every day, all the time?  Why doesn't it come naturally to allow ourselves to be built up by another person's words?

And why should it be that hard when gossip and sarcasm come so easily?

This last question must be answered, in every heart where Christ resides.  And not a passing, flippant answer should be given.  It must be wrestled with it until victory is won, with all the poisonous talons of the enemy rooted out and cast aside.  It must be dealt with soundly until Ephesians 4:29 becomes the standard of all thought and every word.

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." 

May it be so, Lord.  May it be so in me.

Closing The Door

I found myself in that same place again today.  Doing the thing I have told myself I will not do.  Speaking the words that I have promised not to utter.  Wishing I could start over on the conversation and not draw attention to my wounded place.  Regretting that I opened the door to the sin that crouches and watches for the smallest opportunity to storm in.

Paul knew what he was talking about.


 “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good.  As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me.  For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature.  For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.  For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.  Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it.

So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!” (Romans 7:15-25)

And I wish I could pull up a chair beside him over a cup of Starbucks and ask how he changed it.  What went through his head right before he succeeded in kicking out the unwanted habits and closing the door to sin that one last time?  What did it practically mean to see that deliverance from slavery in his mind and over his mouth?

But without Paul, and Starbucks being forty-five minutes away, I sit on my couch instead and I read the last sentence over and over again.

“Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

And I give thanks that He is here.

And I give thanks that He knew when I woke up that I would mess up today, and He spoke love to me this morning anyway.

And I give thanks that He knows what it means to be wounded.

And I give thanks that He works on healing me, again.

And I give thanks that I can see what He’s changing in me.

And I give thanks that some day I’ll sit in Starbucks and explain to a hungry heart what went through my head right before I closed the door that one last time.

Nicknames and Blessings

My nickname growing up was "Birdlegs."  It was bestowed upon me by a gruff grandpa who didn't know how to express affection.  His best attempts were the call signs he gave to each one of his grandchildren.  With my overly skinny body and complete lack of curves, the name was fitting, but never flattering.  Have you ever looked at a bird's legs?  Not pretty.  And while it's true I wouldn't mind hearing that nickname now, with a not so skinny body and plenty of curves, it wasn't something I delighted in at the time.


It could have been worse, though, much worse.  Many kids' nicknames are worse.  And it doesn't stop at nicknames.  Words, and the tone they're spoken in, have the power to profoundly wound.  They leave marks that may not be visible to the eye, but shape the heart and form the lenses through which that little person will view themselves and the world around them.


Words have the power to label, and children must be labeled correctly.  They must be identified by their strengths and not their weaknesses.


If we were to follow God's example, the labels we bestowed upon our kids would be blessings.  When God gives a new name, it's always a step up.  Abram the Father to Abraham the Father of Many.  Jacob the Deceiver to Israel the Prince.  Simon the Reed to Peter the Rock. 


When our Father labels us, it's always for our good.  It always calls us higher.


When people give names, it's usually an attempt to reduce in size or to remind everyone who hears of the person's failure in an embarrassing memory.


I want to be like my Father. 


And so I choose to call my third born a warrior.  Yes, there are days he fights for the wrong things and in the wrong way.  That's why I'm here, to teach and keep on teaching, until he gets it right.  But in the meantime, my words will remind him of his calling and not his shortcomings.  I will praise him for the gifts God has placed in him to war for the underdog and to stand for what is right.  I will teach him to use his strength to heal and not to wound.  And I will help him remember how God sees him.

Lord, make the words of my mouth be a blessing to those I speak to.  May the names I give speak of the treasure I see in the people who bear Your image.  Even when I speak to myself, may my pronouncements be those that build up, honor, and encourage.  And when I can not see good to speak of, open my eyes and let me see what You see.  And may Your words in my mouth bring healing.  Amen.