The Honor and the Glory

After I said yes to the apartment ministry last March, everything moved really quickly. The details fell into place beautifully. For example, my son Ethan and his wife agreed to rent my house, and their lease was up the same month that I wanted to move to the apartment complex: August. This was a blessing to all of us since they would be paying hundreds less per month in rent, and I wouldn't have to worry about my house being well cared for in my absence.

Another important detail was securing a handicap-accessible unit since my sister Amy would be living with me, and our mom would stay with us part of the time. The apartment that was available to tour in June was the perfect place for us: it had a handicap space right in front of it, and the hall bathtub had been converted to a walk-in shower. Further, it was located directly next to the World Relief clubhouse where we'd had the coat drive that started this whole adventure. If we lived there, we would be able to step outside our door and take a few steps to arrive at the park where women and children played each evening. 

That unit, however, was about $300 more per month than the two other available four-bedroom apartments on the ground floor. "Lord, this is the place I want to live," I prayed. "Please, would you bring the price down for us? Even so, not my will, but yours." 

One of the details that did not work out as planned was having to take both of my cats with us. I had hoped that Ethan would reclaim Arwen since she had been his cat in the beginning. Even though she is my favorite cat--sorry, I can't help it--I knew that no one would be willing to take the other cat, CiCi, because she is mean to everyone except me and Allyson. Two cats seemed too many for a cramped apartment with no garage for the litter box, and I tried to convince Ethan to at least take Arwen on a trial basis. 

Ethan regretfully stood his ground. They already had three cats and a dog, and they couldn't add any more animals to their household. 

The Two Cats Sharing Some Tuna Juice

Since the only place their litter box could go was the closet in my office and part-time bedroom, I decided to do something I'd wanted to do for years: I bought an automatic litterbox, the computerized kind that not only cleans itself after every use, but even tells you which cat went, and how long it took. My friend at work had assured me that this box was virtually effortless and had absolutely no stink.

She was right about there being zero stink, but only because both of my cats refused to use it. Even though I let their other box get even smellier than normal, they utterly ignored the fancy round box with the pristine litter. I tried everything I could think of, including planting a turd or two in it so that one cat would think the other was using it and get jealous. They were not fooled. 

As the date of our move approached, I asked everyone I knew to pray that the cats would use their new box. Someone did use it, but only once. I was getting desperate, fearing I had wasted a lot of money and that I would have to cohabit with a smelly litter box. 

One evening at dinner, I asked Mom if she would pray that the cats would pee and poop in the box since Amy and I had already prayed several times. Having never been presented with such an odd prayer request, she began her prayer rather sheepishly. Once she got warmed up, however, she prayed fervently and very thoroughly. "Lord, I ask that Arwen and CiCi would have a desire to pee and poop in their new box," she prayed. "Let them feel comfortable in it and think, 'This is a good place to poop.'"

I pressed my lips together hard and turned my head away from Amy even though my eyes were closed; I could hear her barely contained snickers, and that made it harder to hold my own laughter in. When Mom wrapped up her prayer with, "And we will give you all the honor and the glory for this," Amy and I both lost it and burst into laughter. Hearing the words honor and glory juxtaposed against the topic of cats peeing and pooping was just too much.

My fear that Mom would be offended was immediately allayed when she, too, burst into uncontrollable laughter. "I've never prayed about something like that," she said, as soon as she could speak. 

"Thank you for praying, Mom," I said. "I'm sure God will answer your prayer."

That evening, Mom suggested putting catnip in front of the box. I happened to have some on hand, so I sprinkled it liberally on the high-tech mat which had been designed to trap scattered litter. 

Within an hour, I found Arwen rolling luxuriously all over the mat. Next, CiCi emerged from the garage through the cat door and zipped like a pinball all around the living room. I knew she'd been rolling in catnip, too.

The catnip must have been divine inspiration, because the next day the litterbox app alerted me that someone had used the box... two times. Over the course of the next week or ten days, the cats used the box sporadically, but they also used the old box. After a week or so, I quietly removed the other box. 

We all agreed that it truly was glorious. The box was always clean, and there was very little smell even though the garage was very hot. All I had to do was scoop more litter into the silicone tray each day and empty out the litter drawer once a week. 

Meanwhile, the handicap-accessible apartment that I'd wanted dropped into my price range. I was thrilled! On the day I signed the lease, though, the leasing agent half whispered, "Are you sure you want that unit? The lady who lived there said there were a lot of mice."

Now I knew why Arwen needed to make the move with us. She is a skilled hunter, able to kill any creature that invades our home, from water bugs to garter snakes. "Oh, I'm not worried," I assured the agent. "I have two cats." 

The last detail to work out was a big one: Amy needed to find someone to adopt her beloved dog, Macey. The apartment had a limit of two pets. We asked everyone we knew, but no one knew of anyone who wanted an elderly Chihuahua mix. Hearing Amy's heartfelt prayers brought tears to my eyes. She asked God to help her let go of Macey and to trust Him to place her with someone who would be blessed by Macey, just as Macey had been a blessing in her own life. 

Amy with Macey Shortly After Her Stroke

We were down to the wire by the time I posted a request on the NextDoor app, a social media site similar to Facebook but for neighborhoods. Most of the responses were overwhelmingly negative because people assumed we were discarding the dog because she was old. But a woman named Heather said that she had been looking for a Chihuahua because she'd lost hers almost a year before. She had just started praying about finding a dog when she spotted Macey's picture, which revealed an uncanny resemblance to her old dog. 

We brought Macey over to meet her the next day, and it was love at first sight for both of them. After a couple of playdates, in which Macey lay in the bed and watched dog movies on Disney, she went into her new home without hesitation. Although Amy was sad to leave her, she knew that Macey would be dearly loved and spoiled much more than she would have been in our house. 

We've stayed in touch with her new owner, and we are delighted at this glorious answer to not only Amy's prayers, but also Heather's.

Everything was now in place for our move. But that's a story for another day. 

Any Place, Any Time, Any Manner - A Personal Invitation

I have so very much to tell you. I'd better start at the beginning. Last November, I participated in a coat drive with my church at a local apartment complex with a very large refugee community. I watched in astonishment as women and children from all over the world streamed to the World Relief clubhouse inside the complex, forming a line the length of a city block; I'd had no idea all of these people lived in my own city. Most of the women wore head coverings, and few of them spoke English.

Only a couple of women were allowed entry at a time, and they could only take coats for children who were present with them. No matter how ill-fitting a coat might be, or whether a boy had to take a pink coat, the children and their mothers were overwhelmingly grateful. Within an hour or two, we were completely out of coats, and I cried in frustration. Why had I not purchased more coats myself? 

Sometime during my brief shift that day, I felt a strong tug in my heart. I wanted not only to help these women, but to know them, to be a friend to them. Before I left, I spoke with a World Relief volunteer and picked up a brochure with the application information. 

I fully intended to fill it out and start assisting newly arrived families with adapting to their new surroundings, but I could never seem to find the time between working full time, cooking for my special dietary needs, and trying to keep my house somewhat clean. 

Around January, I started a Priscilla Shirer Bible study called Discerning the Voice of God with the women in my family. At the beginning of the study, Priscilla asked us to start praying about a specific situation in our life where we needed to hear God's direction. I decided to pray about whether to volunteer with World Relief. If I couldn't even find time to fill out the application, I wondered, how could I find time to volunteer? Still, I couldn't stop thinking about those beautiful women and their children. So I continued to pray as I did my homework each week.

"Is this the right time for me to volunteer?" I asked. "Or am I too busy? What can I do to make more time in my life? Would you please give me a sign about what you want me to do?"

One Saturday morning in early March, less than a week after I prayed for a sign, I had a burning desire to return a little drain cover to Ace Hardware. That part had been sitting under my kitchen sink for a year, maybe two. I'd run across it when my niece, Savannah, helped me organize the cabinets and pantry. 

When I walked into the hardware, a vaguely familiar woman in the checkout line out waved at me. "I know you!" she said. 

"Yes!" I agreed, as we both searched our memory for the connection. After a few moments, I said, "You were the table leader at some of my Bible studies." 

"Yes, that's right!" she said. "How long has it been since we've seen each other? Maybe 10 years?"

"That's about right," I said. "Man, I miss those Bible study days. We did so many great studies at that church." 

"Yes, the Bible studies were great," she agreed. "But there comes a time when you have to stop just studying the Bible and start doing what it says." 

"Yes!" I agreed, thinking of my discontentment with life as usual over the last several years.

We stood for an obnoxiously long time at the head of the line, catching up. Angie told me she'd recently retired and started a nonprofit organization benefiting Afghan refugees.

"Really??" I asked incredulously. "That's very interesting, because I've been praying about volunteering with refugees." I told her about the coat drive at the apartment complex.

"Oh, I go there all the time," she said. I know lots of families there."

"Wow!" 

We exchanged numbers, and I figured that would be the end of it. But within a few minutes, she had sent me a text:

"So good to see you again! I would love to take you with me to meet some of the families. I'm planning to go on Wednesday from 11-3 if that would possibly work for you."

I shook my head in amazement. Here was a personal invitation to participate in refugee ministry. I'd call that a sign, wouldn't you? 

Over the next few weeks, I visited an Afghan lady with Angie and helped a couple women with online applications. I wanted to do more, but work was very busy, and I couldn't take any time off. 

In frustration, I asked God, "Why would you connect me with a refugee ministry when I don't have any time to volunteer right now?"

The next evening, Angie sent a text asking if I'd like to do a prayer walk at the apartment complex that Thursday... at 6:40 a.m.!

If you know me very well, you know that I utterly despise getting up before dawn. I started to say that it wouldn't work for me, but then I heard a voice in my head asking, Didn't you say you wanted opportunities to participate in refugee ministry? This is outside work hours. What's stopping you from going? 

I confessed to Angie that my flesh didn't want to do it, but I told her I would do my best to be there. 

In the early-morning darkness that Thursday, Angie and walked around the parking lot and prayed with one of her friends from a discipleship class she was taking. His name was Caleb, and I learned that he lived at the complex. He planned to become a missionary in the near future, and he would stay there for nine months to acclimate himself to the culture of his chosen people group. 

"How does the program work?" I asked. "Does the organization have units here?"

"You just rent an apartment," he said. "You can have roommates if you want to." 

As the inky blue sky gradually became suffused with pink, an absolutely crazy desire steadily grew in my heart. After we'd said goodbye to Caleb, I told Angie, "I'd like to live here. I don't have to go overseas to be a missionary. The nations are gathered right here." As I talked, a plan began to take shape. "I could rent out my house. If I lived here, I could get involved with the ministry efforts without having to drive anywhere. I could meet with the women in their homes and invite them into to mine." 

She urged me to pray about it. 

The more I prayed over the next few days, the more excited I felt. As I contemplated the sacrifices I would need to make, though, two things hit me hard: not having a washing machine, and giving up my giant, light-filled kitchen with its wall of windows and many cabinets full of various beloved but seldom-used kitchen gadgets. Could I really be happy cooking in a tiny apartment kitchen? 

On Saturday morning, two days after the prayer walk, I read a passage of scripture for my Bible study homework that cut me to the heart: the familiar story in Matthew 19 about the rich young ruler who most likely decided not to follow Jesus because he was unwilling to part with his wealth. For the first time, I looked beyond what I always thought was the main point: that the man was greedy. No, the most tragic part was that this young man had the opportunity to walk with Jesus in the flesh, and he passed on that! He could have seen Jesus raise Lazarus and open blind eyes and feed the 5,000. Instead, he settled for enjoying his money. 

My eyes filled with tears as I applied the story to my own life. Would I seriously consider missing out on all the amazing plans Jesus had for me just because I wanted to keep my kitchen? My mind went back to a moment in the middle of the night in July, 2019, when I felt the call to evangelism. My response had been to fall to my knees in my prayer closet, saying, "Cualquier lugar, cualquier tiempo, cualquier manera" (any place, any time, any manner). 

Now, as I relaxed in my quiet time chair, I said aloud, "Yes, Lord. Yes, I will do this. If you open the door, I will live in that refugee community." 

TO BE CONTINUED

He's Especially Fond of My Mama

A couple of Sundays ago, I raced to get ready for church in time, as usual, because I had slept in a little longer than I should have. Surveying the dresses in my closet, my eyes fell on a blue one that I hadn't worn in a year or two. I almost passed it over due to the lack of sleeves; I tend to get cold in the air conditioning, and I had no idea where my one pretty sweater might be. I felt almost compelled to wear the dress, though, so I pulled it off its hanger and stooped to retrieve the heeled sandals I usually wear with it.

Wonder of wonders, I was on track for an on-time departure when I remembered the beaded necklace in two shades of blue that goes perfectly with this dress. There was no time to look for it unless I wanted to be late for church. I hesitated at the door to the garage. Although I knew God didn't care one bit about my dress nor my perfectly matched jewelry, I again felt an odd compulsion. I finally sprinted back to the closet to rifle through the battered jewelry box on the shelf. 

The first thing I saw when I flipped open the top was my mother's wedding ring set, which she'd given to me for safekeeping while she was in the hospital with a broken hip many months ago. Oh, Mom's ring! I thought. She's been wanting that. 

I slipped it on my finger and resolved to give it to her that very afternoon. I found the beaded necklace in the third drawer and draped it over my neck triumphantly. There was no time to glance in the mirror, but I smiled at the recollection of how beautiful the beads looked against the blue floral fabric. 

Mom's smile was even broader when I handed over the ring a few hours later. "I'm sorry I kept it so long," I said sheepishly. "I kept forgetting that I had it--even though you asked me for it several times. How long has it been? Nearly a year?"

"Nearly two years," she said. "It was the February before last." 

Guilt pierced my heart. What a terribly long time to go without her ring! 

Later, when I hugged her goodbye, Mom told me again how happy she was to have her ring back. "I told God just a few days ago that I really wanted my ring," she said. "I told Him I didn't want to bother my daughter about it again."

"You were praying about it?" I asked. Before she could answer, I said, "You know you could have asked me. I know that I'm horribly forgetful. I wouldn't have been offended." 

"I wasn't really praying," she said. "I just mentioned it to Him." 

"Wow, Mom! He loves you so much," I said, and then I told her the story of wanting to wear the dress, and then feeling compelled to wear the necklace. 

Her smile was so radiant that she reminded me of a teenager in love for the first time. Yes, God is especially fond of my mother. I love the creative ways that he works... even through my vanity! 

Mom Holding a Treasure Even More Precious than Her Rings
Great-Grandson Beckham

Another Sweet Treasure - Penny Jayne

Good News!

The radiologist called me today and let me know that Monday's biopsy was benign. He said the quality of the samples was excellent, and he is "confident that it is not cancer." 

The site has been marked and will be followed closely on future mammograms.

Thank the Lord! Thank you, everyone, for your love and prayers. 

The Gift of Renewed Appreciation

In a relatively recent entry, I related how God gave me a gift I didn't know I wanted, in the form of a Lab mix named Olive. A few months later, He gave me another gift I hadn't been looking for. 

Long before Olive came along, two cats joined our family. The first was Arwen, a Russian blue that Ethan picked out. She was soon followed by CiCi, a white and gray scamp with an astonishing capacity for dreaming up mischief. 

In truth, I never wanted a cat at all, but my two children wore me down with their relentless pleading. We'd all suffered a staggering blow when Bill and I divorced, and I wanted to give them a little joy as we embarked on our new life in a single-parent household. Arwen and CiCi fulfilled every misgiving that had fueled my arguments against owning a cat, and they had additional vices I'd never even imagined. Even so, Arwen quickly stole my heart, but that is another story. 

CiCi came to us as a baby whom I could hold in one hand. Although she was impossibly cute, she was all claws and teeth, and much of my affection ebbed away each time she drew blood in the fight to keep stolen food, or used her claws to communicate her desire to be left alone. 

Baby CiCi and Allyson

Orphaned as a newborn, CiCi has been a talented scavenger from the start. We soon learned there is virtually nothing she won't eat; for example, she licks out empty cans of tomato paste the moment I set them on the counter. She shares my love of carbohydrates but has an advantage over me in that she can literally sniff out tortillas and loaves of bread within seconds. For that reason, we can never leave grocery bags unguarded, or else we will find holes in the wrapper and hunks of bread missing, or a perfect half moon cut out of a stack of tortillas. But her favorite food is anything she can fish out of the toaster, such as my beloved pancakes. 

A Gift I Didn't Know I Wanted

If you've been reading a long time, you know that I have experienced some frustrations with my pets. I have one sweet cat and one rather mean cat, and both of them are very, very naughty. Their main vice is stealing food--sometimes right off our plates--and they have many other terrible habits, like clawing the furniture and occasionally even peeing on piles of laundry... which may or may have been lying on my bed for days waiting to be folded. 

Sometime last spring, Allyson asked if I might think about getting a dog. My first response was that we already had two pets too many, and my second was that I really am not a dog person. But she said having a dog at my house would really make her happy, so I promised to think about the idea. We prayed about it, and I promptly forgot all about it. 

In April, Allyson's former stepsister Morgan asked if we could keep Olive for a couple of weeks while she looked for another home. I agreed readily, thinking it would be a good chance to try out having a dog with no strings attached, and if it didn't work out, we could put the whole thing behind us.

Olive had been Allyson's dog, too, at her dad's house. They'd decided to get a puppy after Lola passed away, and they chose Olive because she looked a lot like her. (Lola had been my dog, too, until shortly after the divorce.) If you've been reading a very long time, you may remember that my fondness for Lola was tempered with aggravation over her perpetual mischief, such as the time she ate my favorite cloth diaper with the duckies on it right off the clothesline or the time she murdered my tomato plants. So I was surprised at the surge of tenderness I felt when I first met Olive. She resembles Lola so much that I often accidentally call her by that name.

Lola on Left, Olive on Right

A Better Sweater

I started this entry on 9/27/20, and tonight I will finish it at last.

Over the last 15 years or so, my faith has carried me through anxiety, health issues, severe stress, heartbreak, and loneliness. The tougher the battles, the deeper my roots grew, and the more precious my Beloved became to me. I'm not saying I didn't struggle; if you've been reading long, you know that isn't true. But through it all, I always leaned on a deep trust in God's faithfulness, and what a comfort that was.

Last July, a combination of prolonged work stress and a drug interaction triggered a severe flare-up of Hashimoto's thyroiditis, an autoimmune disorder that I've had since my twenties. The flare-up led to chronic pain, inflammation, digestive problems, weight loss, and mania due to prolonged insomnia. I was out of work for five months, and a slew of other problems ensued which I won't burden you with. 

Somewhere along the way, I felt so alone and so broken that my faith suffered a grievous injury. I felt betrayed and abandoned by even my Beloved. Although God continued to take care of me in beautiful ways, and although He restored my physical, mental, and financial health, the nagging fear that He couldn't be trusted drove a wedge between us.

I never turned my back on Him. I continued to pray, read my Bible, and meditate on scripture, yet nothing seemed to penetrate the sadness that overshadowed me. On a walk in the park a couple of weeks ago, I told Jesus, "In the past, I used to feel like there was a veil between me and you. I felt that you were near, but I couldn't get close to you. Back then, you helped me cross that veil. But now, it's worse. I feel..."

I paused on the trail as I searched for an apt comparison. "I feel like I'm in a tomb." Tears slipped down my cheeks, and the darkness was so heavy that I could feel its weight. "Please, Jesus. Please help me," I prayed. 

Sonlight Shining Through the Cracks

Last Friday, a blog reader I didn’t know I had reached out to check on me. I told him I’ve been writing a blog entry in my head for weeks, and I knew it was time to write it down and share it with you.

I wrote most of this entry on my lunch break that day, sitting at my cluttered kitchen table next to the window. The sky was a dull gray, and I felt too chilly to venture out for a much-needed walk in the park. Even so, I didn't feel as down as I might have felt a week or two before.

Over these last weeks of forced isolation, God has been working a transformation in me. Actually, it started before COVID-19 locked us all in our homes.

Ever since I started working again in early January, I’d gradually been feeling better in mind and body. The daily warm greetings from my friend Laura, and the repartee between her, myself, and our colleagues gave me a reason to get out of bed and pack up all my meals, drinks, and snacks each day.

One area of my recovery lagged behind, though. I missed my old closeness with Jesus dreadfully, and I often cried when I prayed about it. Because of all the struggles I’d been through over the preceding six months, I often found myself listening, if only for a moment, to my enemy’s constant refrain: “Maybe He really isn’t good. Maybe He can’t be trusted.” 

Beyond What I Could Ask or Imagine

One of the beads strung on my necklace of answered prayers is a new job that far exceeds anything I’d asked or hoped for. Around Thanksgiving I finally had the courage to take an unflinching look at my finances, and I knew I had to start job hunting immediately. My original plan was to substitute teach through the spring semester and seek a position as an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher for the fall.

I wanted to substitute two or three times a week at the middle school where I taught last year, both to continue exerting an influence on my former students, who are now eighth graders, and to help out my colleagues. Very few substitute teachers will return to that school, and consequently the teachers frequently must cover each other’s classes in the absence of a sub. The job is beyond exhausting under the best of circumstances, and I know from experience how hard it is to lose one of your off periods. Since my weekly volunteer time there was typically the best part of my week, I was actually looking forward to working as a sub there. 

At the same time, I had a nagging sense of unease about returning to the classroom. The stress and hard work of last year was undoubtedly a factor in the recent flare-up of my autoimmune disease, Hashimoto’s thyroiditis. Although my recovery over the last five months has been dramatic, I don’t feel confident that my body could currently weather the stress of a job that demanded virtually all of my waking hours. How could I keep up with my prescribed whole-foods diet and still plan lessons, call parents, and grade papers?

Of course, I prayed continually about this. With my mouth, I repeatedly surrendered my will to God’s, yet my heart didn’t want to let go of my dream of teaching, which I felt certain was my calling. Hot tears rained on the carpet in my prayer closet many nights as I asked God for clear direction. Echoing my sister Amy’s prayers for me, I asked for the right door to open and the rest of the doors to close. 

The door to substitute teaching in my old school closed with a slam that was practically audible. The district declined my application, with a form letter that informed me they’d chosen “other applicants who were more qualified for the position.” More qualified than a certified, experienced teacher? I was flabbergasted because I know how short-handed the district is, but peace pervaded my heart as I recognized this answer to my prayers. At that point, I could have applied at the closer school districts where I’d planned to seek a permanent position next school year, but I hesitated. This felt like a sign. Maybe God had other plans for me.

During  a Thursday prayer meeting at my Spanish speaking church, Palabra Viva, I sobbed as I knelt at the altar. “Lord, please help me let go of everything… my hopes, my dreams, my past. Help me believe that I can serve you anywhere. If you can use me, I am yours. But please heal this hurt in my heart. I trust you. I know your plans for me are perfect. Please open the right door for me. Show me the path you have chosen for me.”

I also requested prayer about my job search. “Necesito un trabajo,” I said simply. “I need a job.”

The next day, a Friday, I updated my resume, moving the instructional design experience to the top of the Work Experience section. I meticulously detailed all of my former instructional design duties and pared down the sections for my teaching jobs.

Around 4:15, I updated the career objective in my online job app, Indeed, and then uploaded the new resume. Around 4:30, I applied for my first job, as an instructional designer of online courses for reading teachers. The job description and bullet points for the ideal candidate could have been culled from my own resume: experience as a classroom teacher (5 years preferred; that is my total number), experience as an instructional designer (I have 10 years), knowledge of second language acquisition preferred (I have recently become almost fluent in Spanish). 

To make the job even more appropriate for me, the subject matter would be the science of reading, with a focus on phonics. My five years’ experience were all in a reading classroom, and I’d tutored my low readers in phonics the previous year. Still, as I clicked the Apply button, I prayed, “Lord, help me not to get my hopes up. This job seems perfect, and the pay range is wonderful, but I know your idea of perfect is not the same as mine. Only you know the job that is best for me.”

At 8:53 on Monday morning, fewer than 72 hours after I’d applied, I received an email inviting me to apply on the internal website. My heart fluttered when I read the closing line: “We would love to review your qualifications further.” 

Like a String of Beautiful Beads

Years ago, when my dear friend Laura passed away, her mother gave me a rosary that she had treasured; it was from Jerusalem from wood harvested in the Garden of Gethsemane, as I recall.

I never knew how to pray the rosary with the beads, nor even what the groups of beads stood for, until my friend Gentle explained it to me. She had grown up Catholic but was attending my Protestant church when I met her.

I loved the idea of a necklace that could aid you in daily prayers and remind you of Jesus's sacrifices for us. Although I couldn't possibly remember all that Gentle showed me, I could relate to the idea. It seemed similar to the way I flip through the business cards where I have recorded the precious memory passages that God has given me over the last 17 years. While I recite the passages, I don't really look at them much, but the feel of the velvety edges from years of handling triggers an explosion of connections--memories of the miraculous and unique ways that God used to confirm each passage, of promises fulfilled, and promises yet to be fulfilled.

Often, I have to stop to praise God or thank Him for the answered prayers that I know are coming. For example, one morning in the park when I quoted, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty" (Philippians 4:12), I set the cards aside and said, "God, thank you for allowing me to experience being in need for the first time in my adult life. Thank you that this passage isn't just words for me. How can I experience the wonder of your provision if I never truly understand what it is to be in need? Thank you for this opportunity to trust you. You have always been faithful, and I know you will continue to be faithful."

If you've been reading long and you have a great memory, you may recall that I hung Laura's rosary, along with some promises from Scripture, on my car's mirror back when I was an Uber driver and aspiring teacher.

I'm sorry to report that after a few months in the Texas sun, the necklace string melted! I had not noticed that it was made of wax. I lost all the beads, but I kept the crucifix... somewhere.

To be honest, if I had a necklace of prayer beads now, I'd have to say that in recent months most of the beads would be devoted to prayer requests rather than praises. I do write a gratitude list every night before bed, and I thank God for things as small as a muffin with almond butter and raspberry jam or as big as a restored relationship.

But I have been praying for lots of things for what feels like a very long time. It has now been six months since I suffered a severe flare-up of Hashimoto's thyroiditis that led to alternating bouts of hyperthyroidism and hypothyroidism and a host of painful symptoms caused by my own immune system, and five months since I have received a paycheck.

Though I have felt better and better with each passing week, I still have joint pain when I lose sleep or eat a food that my immune system reacts to. And my skin has been painfully dry this winter, more than any other year in my life--most likely due to hypothyroidism even though my energy level is good and my body seems to be in better health than I've experienced in years.

Over the last couple of months, I've struggled to keep my focus on the positive rather than focusing on my pain. I've struggled to keep my eyes and my heart fixed on the undeniable fact that God loves me more deeply than I can comprehend, even when I feel lonely and isolated.

Slowly, slowly, the balance has tipped. I now have more happy days than sad days. I smile more. I'm starting to laugh again. For the most part, I've stepped out of my funk, and I dare to believe that I am learning the lesson that God has for me in this trial.

One by one, God has been answering my prayers. Here are just a few of the things God has done for me in just the last couple of weeks.

1. A close friend to pray with and hang out with; God gave me two. For about four years, I have been praying for a special friend whom I could pray with and spend time with on a regular basis. Most of my close friends are teachers with no social life during the school term, and they live far from me. I wanted a friend who could hug me with arms.

Even Before I Call

I wrote this entry this past Sunday (December 8), but couldn't get it to post that day. The Friday that I refer to in the entry was one week ago.

Friday was a stressful day for me, though I felt pretty good physically. I spent the majority of the day working on a cover letter, but I wasn’t satisfied with it. And then I completed all but the last screen of an online job application, only to be kicked back to the home screen without any of my changes being saved. 

“I’ve got to get out of here,” I said aloud. “I can’t do this one more minute.” 

The afternoon was mild, so I mounted my bike and followed my usual route over the park trails. I tried to keep my thoughts in the moment, to focus on the few remaining green leaves and the sound of the water, but my thoughts kept returning to the job applications. 

About halfway through my ride, I had a thought so pathetic that I shocked myself: “In April I’ll be 50. I wonder how much longer I will live.” I thought about the longevity of my parents and grandparents--thank you, Jesus--and figured I could have another 40 years or more left. “I’m so tired,” I thought. “I want to be at the end.”

Immediately I repented. “I’m sorry, God. No, I don’t want to skip past my whole life. I don’t want to skip any of it because I know you work in all things for my good. You promised me abundant life. This isn’t abundant life… being bound by fear and worry. Please help me take hold of the joy that you have for me in this time of trouble.” 

Alight With Joy

I'm sorry for my long silence. In my last post, I described my search for joy. Since then, I've been so occupied with relishing my joy that I haven't had the time to write. You would think that a person on sabbatical would have plenty of time to write, but that has not been the case. Even now,  I couldn't possibly describe all the beautiful things that have come to me each day, so I will tell you just my favorite story. And then I will show you a few pictures of my favorite moments.

Ever since I answered God's call to quit my corporate job about three years ago to return to teaching, I had not devoted the time to memorize any new scripture passages, nor even to study my existing ones very often. I meditated on scriptures daily in my classroom because it was the only way to keep my sanity, let alone my hope. But I missed my scripture memorization terribly.

For the last couple of months, I've wanted to begin a new passage, but I couldn't choose among so many beautiful scriptures that God had given me these last months through sermons, through cards and messages from friends, through songs in English and Spanish, and even through Uber drivers from all over the world.

Because I had felt so utterly alone, I'd thought to find a passage about angels ministering to me, but somehow that didn't feel right. On Thursday, October 3, I was walking and talking with Jesus in the park as I do virtually every morning. As I drank in the sight of the graceful trees arching over my favorite part of the trail, I reminisced over all the times I had walked this path with my Beloved. "You shared my hardest times and my most beautiful joys," I whispered... because it was a beautiful morning and I wasn't the only person enjoying the park trails.

"You know," I went on, "I really want to start memorizing another passage. It would be so helpful for my mental focus, and you know how I delight in your Word, Beloved. What passage should I-"

In that familiar way that He has, Jesus answered my question before the words had left my mouth. A verse flitted through my mind: These light and momentary trials are achieving for us a glory that far outweighs them all.

"Oh, that's perfect!" I exclaimed. "I know that is exactly what's happening to me right now. Thank you for allowing this trial that feels so endless. I know there is no other way you could help me grow so much in my faith."

I glanced up at the tree with two knobby protuberances that always remind me of pendulous breasts and the ghost of a laugh bubbled up inside me. I walked a few paces in silence and then continued my prayer aloud. "You have always confirmed every memory passage for me, for all these years. I feel sure this is the one, but I will wait for you to confirm it before I begin. I can't wait to see what creative way you use this time."

As I turned back for home, I felt God telling me to send two cards--one thank-you and one sympathy card. I obeyed His instructions immediately because I was still pretty forgetful at that point. [Who am I kidding? I've always been forgetful.]

I went straight to the desk where I used to spend so many hours working from home. There in the old-fashioned cubbies were two cards with no envelopes. I rummaged through all the other cubbies and unearthed a couple of mismatched envelopes that would almost fit. As I pulled them out, my eyes fell on a black composition notebook that had been resting on top of my desk for months. I'd been meaning to reread my gratitude journals so I could remember God's faithfulness to me and have faith that He would continue to be faithful; I snatched up the journal and took in the dates: April to December of 2018.

I made myself write out and mail the cards before I cracked open the journal to a random page. Can you imagine my astonishment when I saw, in my own hand, a reference to the verse I'd just quoted in the park? I'd written about a Francis Chan sermon, about fear, that I'd listened to while grading a stack of tests. "If I can remember that all of my trials are so momentary, then I can rest and be at peace knowing that my rejoicing in heaven will last an eternity. Why get worked up over something so temporary?"

On the next page was a story about my dad making dinner for me after a particularly trying day at school. "He told me about his prayers for me, and said he [believed] the enemy [had been] attacking because a breakthrough [was] coming," I wrote.

Tears filled my eyes. A breakthrough really had been around the corner. I'd written those entries on October 8, 2018, in the middle of my deepest struggles last school year. Just two months later, I found the strength and hope to make it through the long spring semester when I spent Christmas break doing a mental detox from negative thinking. At that time, I blogged about a seed of light that God revealed to me in the Spirit. He told me that the seed was sprouting below the surface of my mind, in the darkness of the rich soil, and that one day it would burst through the ground and shine.

I recognized in that moment, as I read my own journal, that the seed of light was even then breaking through the surface after the two darkest months of my entire life. My heart pounded with wonder. "God, you've never confirmed a passage so quickly," I breathed. "Thank you for light in my darkness."

God Moved the Mountain.... en ingles

I am back in Texas after the most incredible month of my life, absolutely full of real-live miracles. The Friday before last, I shared in broken Spanish the story of my experiences during the 6.7 magnitude earthquake that occurred in Panama on Tuesday, June 25, 2019.

God has told me to rest right now, and I am. I slept beautifully last night but still need more rest. However, this morning He told me that it is important to go ahead and translate the story to English because of a woman I met yesterday named Rushanda. She is going to be looking on this blog. Very soon I will post a video of our conversation yesterday. It is a message for all people who struggle with anxiety.... 

Anyway, here is the translation, done mostly by Google translate. It is sloppy, but no importa. I am no longer a perfectionist, and this story needs to be told.


Do you know how people say "literally" when, in truth, they mean figuratively? For example, "I was literally at the end of my rope"? This is not such a time.

On Tuesday, three days ago, God literally moved a mountain for me, to move another mountain out of my life.

For many weeks before my trip to Costa Rica,  my boyfriend Juan had been praying about my fears. He told me, "It is not God's will that you be afraid."

I told him, "My insecurities are a part of my personality, I always struggle with anxiety when stressful things happen, but all is well, God helps me every time, I meditate on the promises in His Word, and God calms me down."

Juan did not agree. Although I was too proud to admit it, I knew Juan was right. Secretly, I asked myself, "How could God free me from my fear?"

One day, this verse touched my heart: "Truly I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, be removed into the sea, and will not doubt in his heart, but believe that what he says will be done, whatever he says. It will be done." (Mark 11:23)

I said, "My mountain is fear, please, Father, move the fear mountain of my life."

Still, I thought, "How is that possible?"

Dios Movió La Montaña

¿Sabe cómo la gente dice "literalmente" cuando, en verdad, dice figuradamente? ¿Por ejemplo, "Yo era literalmente al final de mi cuerda"? Este no es un tiempo así.

El martes, tres días atrás, Dios literalmente movió una montaña para mí, para mover otra montaña fuera de mi vida.

Por muchas semanas antes de mi viaje a Costa Rica, Juan había sido orando sobre mis temores. Él me dijo, "No es la voluntad de Dios que tengas miedo."

Yo le dije, "Mis inseguridades son un parte de mi personalidad. Siempre lucho con ansiedad cuando cosas estresantes ocurren, pero todo está bien. Dios me ayuda cada vez. Yo medito en las promesas en su Palabra, y Dios me calma."

Juan no acordaba. Aunque yo estaba demasiado orgullosa que lo admita, sabía que Juan tenía razón. En secreto, me pregunté, "¿Cómo podría Dios me libere de mi miedo? "

Un día, este versículo tocó mi corazón: "Porque de cierto os digo que cualquier que dijere a este monte: Quítate y échate en el mar, y no dudare en su corazón, sino creyere que será hecho lo que dice, lo que diga le será hecho." (Marcos 11:23)

Yo dije, "Mi montaña es miedo. Por favor, Padre, mueve la montaña de miedo de mi vida."

Aún así, pensé, "¿Cómo es posible?"

Un Lugar de Sanación / A Healing Place

EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO

[Here is another bilingual travelogue entry, chronicling both my travel experiences and my progress with Spanish in a Costa Rican language immersion program. Note that all grammar errors in the dialogue are mine.]

ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOLLOWS.

[Todos errores gramatical en el diágolo son mios.]

Después de una cena deliciosa en la casa de Macha, y una larga ducha caliente en la casa de mis nuevos amigos, me acosté en mi habitación tranquila a las 8:30.

Un poco calor quedó del día, y debí que dormir con las ventanas abiertas. (En la casa de Macha, puedo dormir con las ventanas cerrados porque el aire tiene de menos calor.) Aquí no hay ventanas de tela metálicas para protegerse contra bichos, pájaros, y geckos.

En este cuarto, solo las cortinas me separan de las criaturas afueras.¡Esperé que se queden afuera! Me descansé  en la cama y escuché a los insectos, un concierto familiar y también inusual, porque vivo en la ciudad normalmente.

En mis pensamientos, Dios habló. “¿Nina de mis ojos, do you hear me singing over you (me oyes cantar sobre ti)?”

Contesté en inglés, “¡Sí, Papá! Oigo. ¡O, gracias! Gracias por tu amor. Te amo, Amado.”

Dos Respuestas en Una / Two Answers in One

[EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO]

For the month of June, I’m back in Costa Rica for a Spanish language immersion program.  Once again, I will write my stories in bad Spanish and then translate them to English so that we can see my progress with learning the language.

[ENGLISH TRANSLATION AT BOTTOM]

Durante el mes de junio, estoy en Costa Rica de nuevo para un programa de inmersión en español. Otra vez, va a escribir mis historias en español malo y entonces traducir a inglés para que podemos ver mi progreso con aprendiendo el idioma. Aviso: Todos errores gramaticales en el diálogo son mío.

Tengo muchas historias que compartir sobre mi tiempo aquí en Costa Rica, pero hoy quiero contar una experiencia que arde en mi corazón. Esta no es un típica cuenta de viajar.

En una historia previa, los dije que tengo inseguridades sobre mi primer noviazgo después de mi divorcio casi siete años atrás. Estos miedos no tienen una conexión con Juan específicamente. Temo la idea de confiando en alguien, porque no quiero tener dolor en el futuro… ni ahora.

Voy a quedarme aquí por cuatro semanas en todo. Juan y yo hubimos sido un pareja por solo dos meses antes de mi viaje; por eso, la separación ha causado luchas en mí. Aunque estoy disfrutando mi tiempo mucho, y estoy aprendiendo español rápidamente, he sufrido de mis inseguridades frecuentemente.

Por la noche, Dios me ayuda; habla conmigo en mis pensamientos y en las escrituras. Una noche, oré, “Por favor, ayúdame a calmarme, como un niño destetado de su madre.”

Reconocí que este pensamiento era una versículo de la Biblia, pero no supe de donde.

Entonces, encontré estos versículos en Salmos:

“[Dios] cambia la tempestad en sosiego, y se apaciguan sus ondas. Luego se alegran, porque se apaciguaron; y así los guía al puerto deseaban.” (Salmo 108:29-30)

Entendí que Dios hace el tormento callado, y por eso, nosotros podemos acallarnos. Además, me di cuenta de mi puerto deseado es cualquier lugar donde mi Amado está--en mi propia casa o miles de kilómetros lejo. Mi refugio, mi lugar más seguro, es en mi corazón, donde el espíritu de Jesucristo vive.
 
¡El día siguiente, en la mañana, abrí la Biblia en el libro de Salmos y inmediatamente encontré este versículo!

En verdad que me he comportado y he acallado mi alma como un niño destetado de su madre; como un niño destetado está mi alma. (Salmo 131:2)

¡Era un eco divina! Supe que Dios había hablado a mí.

Sometimes a Week is Just Too Long

Up until my second coffee date with Juan and Darwin, I had only attended Palabra Viva once per week due to my busy teaching schedule. But I couldn't resist going to church that next day; a week was just too long to wait.

You can imagine my disappointment when a quick scan of the parking lot revealed that Hermano Juan and his orange Mitsubishi were missing. Where could he be? He was always at church, and always on time.

Inside, I knelt at the altar and repented for coming to church, in a cute outfit and matching jewelry (on a work day!), for the wrong reason. My Father was here, and so were many of my brothers and sisters. I asked God to help me receive everything that He had planned for me this evening.

After our individual prayers in silence, Hermana Lupita led a corporate prayer. I was happy to see that I could understand her prayer just as I could Juan's. Her prayer, like his, encouraged me greatly.

After service, I enjoyed chatting with a sweet lady over café y pan (coffee and sweet bread). Ulda is learning English, and I'm learning Spanish, so we are a perfect match. 

In the end, I was glad that Juan had been absent, because had he been there, I would have been talking with him and would have missed the opportunity to make a new friend.

But a week was still too long. As soon as I woke up on Friday (at 6!), I typed this Facebook message with trembling fingers:

Hello, My Name Is...

In December, I shared what God was teaching me through a 21-day detox from negative thinking. I completed two cycles to combat these deeply entrenched lies: "I'm not good enough" and "I can't." Throughout my Christmas break, I saturated myself with Scripture, sermons, and positive meditations, and also caught up on sleep and reading for pleasure.

When school resumed in January, I felt much better able to deal with the stresses and to look for the joy in each day. Though I still had mild nerves at times, I felt much more stable in my emotions than ever before.

With each class, I shared the story of how God had given me a new name for 2019. First, I told them how God had given me the name of Beloved when I was going through my divorce, at a time when I felt that my name was Forsaken. After I'd explained what beloved means, I asked whether they thought receiving that name had made all my hurts go away.

"No," they replied.

"You're right," I said. "Even though knowing that I was Beloved helped start my healing, it took a very long time for me to grow into that name. After a few years, though, Beloved became my identity. I hope you have noticed that I am a person who loves very passionately. The reason I can do that is because I know that I myself am richly loved, and I have plenty of love to share. In fact, that's the biggest part of why I wanted to become a teacher again." 

I went on to explain how anxiety over the challenges of teaching had given me another false name: Fearful. "Here at work, what do you think I fear most?" I asked.

The first class I shared this with stared at me mutely, probably because one of our assistant principals was in the room, sitting next to one of my most challenging students. After a few moments of awkward silence, Mr. K spoke up. "You're afraid you will fail your students," he guessed. "You're afraid you won't be able to help them learn." 

"Exactly!" I answered. "It's not the misbehavior or the disrespect that I fear, it's the worry of not being enough, of not meeting my students' needs."

Mr. K and the kids waited expectantly. 

"Over break, I asked God for a new name, just like the time when he called me Beloved. I figured it would be the antonym of Fearful.... What words are the opposite of Fearful?"

This time, they weren't afraid to speak up. 

"Fearless." 

"Brave?"

"Courageous?" 

I smiled. "I thought of all of those and more, but none of them seemed to fit. The name that finally came to me at first didn't seem to be an antonym for Fearful."

I held up a drawing that I'd made of a name badge. 

I then explained, "You can be very brave even though you still feel quite fearful. Real courage is being afraid to do something and doing it anyway. It's different when you feel joyful. That's when the fear fades away even though you're facing all of the same challenges. You see beyond the fear to the joy ahead of you. I'm sure it will take a long time for me to grow into my new name, but I believe 2019 is my year for joy. Through my struggles with teaching, God is teaching me that joy doesn't come from my circumstances. One day, when people look at me, they are going to see a woman who finds joy in everything she does." 

I challenged my students to make their own name badge drawings. "Who do you want to become in the new year?" I asked.

They brainstormed for a few minutes, but they didn't come up with much. Since it had taken a couple of weeks for God to give me the name Joyful, I figured they would need more time, too. I hope that some of them will find a new name.

Since then, several of them have honored my request to remind me of my new name. When they see that frustration is stealing my joy, they ask, "Ms. B, what's your name?" 

I take that opportunity to pause and focus on my reasons for joy. For example, I like to say, "I have joy because God is making me fruitful in the land of my affliction." Sometimes, I elaborate on the fruit of my struggles: love, joy, patience, peace, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self control. 

How about you? What false name have you taken on? What true name do you want to take on this year? 

A Seed of Light

I don't have time to write tonight, but I feel that I must. 

The last three or four weeks have been exceedingly difficult for me. We are implementing a new instructional model that I believe in, but actually putting it into practice has been rough. In theory, most of the class will be reading independently and responding in their journals while I focus on guided reading with a small group.

The reading part is getting better, for the most part. We started several weeks ago with 20 minutes of reading followed by whole-group instruction. That was a battle because over half of my students profess to hate reading. Every day, they'd say, "We're reading again? Why do we have to read every day?"

Each day, I calmly repeated, "This is reading class. That's what we do. You can't get better at reading without reading."

Sometimes You Just Need to Give Up... But Don't Give In

This past Friday, I administered final exams to my last three classes and headed out around 1:30 to pick up Allyson and her friend Kambry for our long awaited annual camping trip. Yes, I realize it's a little crazy to plan a camping trip for June 1 in Texas, but I knew I could enjoy it much better while unencumbered by teaching responsibilities. Besides, we'd gone a week later the previous year, and the temperature was fine.

This time, my niece Hillary was the first to arrive at Lake Ray Roberts, and she'd staked out a site right on the water's edge. For the third year in a row, I'd reserved a primitive campsite with neither water nor electricity, and we had to carry our gear down a dirt and gravel path. As the four of us carried in the first load, Allyson and I reminisced about our first visit to this same state park two years earlier.