Dwell in Hope

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” – Romans 15:13 

“Therefore, my heart rejoiceth . . .  my flesh moreover shall dwell in hope.”

–Psalm 16:9 Darby Translation Bible

Last week in a phone conversation, my dear friend described an experience she had a couple of years ago as “being on the sharp edge of hopelessness.” As she comforted and encouraged me, I told myself I was not in that place. Discouraged. Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Weary. Unfortunately, that sounds dangerously close to hopelessness to me. Perhaps that’s why for months now God has encouraged me to focus on the word hope. It became a theme in my hand-lettering art and one day while looking for inspiration, I stumbled upon Psalm 16:9, which in the Darby translation ends “my flesh moreover shall dwell in hope.”

As the pandemic continues unabated and violent riots have swept the country like a scourge, I have continued to meditate on the verse. Strong’s Concordance says the word for “dwell” in Psalm 16:9 comes from the Hebrew yis-kon which is used to mean “to settle down, abide, to dwell.” It’s a strong word with the connotation not only of really living and being very present within a place, but it also speaks of contentment and peace.

The words “in hope” are lā-ḇe-ṭaḥ which Strong’s defines as “securely.” In the Bible, hope often is connected to faith which stems from our choice to trust God. Therefore, we can have hope and rest secure when we trust in God’s perfect, unchanging character and His eternal, unfailing love. As Savior, Redeemer, and Healer, Jesus is the very embodiment of hope so choosing to “remain, abide, and settle down” in His presence is choosing to dwell in the only secure source of living, lasting hope.

Cinderella's Worth

Cinderella has always been my favorite fairy tale. The glass slippers and glittering ball gown. A fairy godmother to grant all my wishes. A dreamy waltz with a handsome prince. And true love. When I was little, those were the things that drew me to the story. But as I’ve gotten older, I began to wonder why was Cinderella, and not another princess, really my favorite. The topic has resurfaced recently as I’ve been working on a fairy-tale themed display at work. 

So as my thoughts again turned to Cinderella, I began pondering her character rather than her wardrobe. She is a humble, optimistic girl who endures the loss of her father, the alternating abuse and neglect of her stepmother and stepsisters as well as their ridicule as she is made to live like a pauper while they live like royalty. Despite her challenges, Cinderella never lashes out at her tormenters. While her response might suggest she is weak, scripture would say otherwise. “Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. /Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:17-18, 21) 

Even in the midst of heart-breaking mistreatment, Cinderella manages to love her enemies and “do good” to those who hate her (Luke 6:27). When her step-family receives an invitation to the prince’s ball, Cinderella’s positive attitude shines through as she assumes she is invited as well. When her relatives then cruelly destroy the dress she had planned to wear, she still finds hope in her fairy godmother. Throughout all her trials, Cinderella perseveres, while maintaining her joy, hope and optimism. Her grasping, merciless stepmother and vain, spiteful stepsisters could never see her worth. But perhaps it’s Cinderella's strength of character more than her physical beauty which won Prince Charming’s heart. In the end, Cinderella’s goodness triumphs over the evil in her life. Now that’s a fairy tale princess I can believe in.

A Strange Easter

The last few weeks I have heard so many folks, Christian and non-Christian alike, say, “These are strange times.” Indeed, they are and as a result, this Easter was a little strange, too. This morning, my friends and I drove to church where an attendant held out a six-foot length of PVC pipe to help us park a “safe” distance away from other vehicles. We waved at the cute baby beside us then tuned the radio to the proper channel so we could hear the audio for church and turned our gaze to a giant screen, reminiscent of ones for drive-in movies. The only measure of normalcy was that the praise team led worship as usual followed by the pastor’s sermon. 

As I reflect on this morning’s unusual service, though, I think of how odd that first Resurrection day was. There was a violent earthquake. Angels whose “appearance was like lightning.” And an empty tomb. The women who loved Jesus and went to His grave expecting to anoint His broken, dead body must have been bewildered when they arrived and found Him gone. Then they heard the exultant angel’s message that Jesus had risen, “just as He said.” And there was Mary Magdalene who mistook Jesus for a gardener, yet instantly recognized Him when He called her by name. That evening, Jesus walked through a locked door into the room where His disciples were cowering in fear and declared, “Peace be with you!”

That first Easter was incomprehensible. It still is. The perfect Son of God died an agonizing death so we could have eternal life with Him and the Father. As if that gift is not enough, His sacrifice also offers us “abundant life” while we still walk this earth. All we have to do is believe in Him, accept Him as our substitution, and confess our sins. Out of His extravagant love and His overwhelming grace, the God of the universe and all creation, humbled Himself to take our place and endure the punishment we deserve. Strange indeed.

Burn the Ships

"Burn the ships, cut the ties

Send a flare into the night

Say a prayer, turn the tide

Dry your tears and wave goodbye

Step into a new day

We can rise up from the dust and walk away

We can dance upon our heartache, yeah

So, light a match, leave the past, burn the ships

And don't you look back…"

-- For King & Country

At the close of every year, I turn contemplative. I’ve been that way since I was in elementary school when on Christmas night I would crawl into bed, weighted down with a feeling of heaviness and sadness that the old year was passing. Thankfully, I learned to also look forward to the new year, anticipating its joys and its lessons. Still, I find that when a new year dawns, it takes me a few days, sometimes weeks, to work through my adjustment process. I review the previous year, analyzing it and trying to determine how I can grow in the new year. 

And while I don’t establish resolutions, I do set new year’s goals, usually spiritual, relational, and health ones. For the last handful of years, I’ve also tried to choose a Bible verse to set the tone for the year and to provide direction or a vision for me. I ask God to be at the center of the endeavor, hoping He will give me His wisdom and guidance. I haven’t gotten very far in the process yet for 2020, but I have been meditating on the song “Burn the Ships” by For King & Country. 

The song title and chorus are based on the idea that some European explorers and ancient military leaders, once they reached their destinations, would supposedly destroy their ships in an effort to keep their men from deserting when challenges arose. The spiritual metaphor is easy to establish and has been used by numerous pastors and Christian leaders, for Christ calls us to leave behind all we know and hold dear in order to follow Him. If we truly wish to become His disciples, we figuratively have to burn the ships that would take us away from Him, back to our old lives. After all, it is difficult to move forward if you are constantly looking back.

The Grace of Giving Thanks

As far back as I can remember my sister and I said “please” and “thank you” and “yes, ma’am” and “yes, sir.” Good manners were as natural to us as breathing, but astonished strangers in the grocery store used to ask my mom if they could buy me and my sister treats as a reward for our conduct. At the time I was barely out of diapers, and apparently my seemingly atypical actions had a significant impact on those around me. Mom declined their generosity, believing we should learn to “do right” simply because it was the right thing to do. Besides teaching us to use good manners in our speech, she and Daddy insisted we write thank-you notes to friends and relatives for gifts and special deeds of kindness. While my parents also modeled the behaviors they expected from my sister and me, they never explained their reasoning; perhaps the root of it all were the expectations of our ultra-polite Southern heritage. But I think their actions, words, and instruction also stemmed from their deep faith. They often reminded us that whatever we did in life, whether it was obeying them or our teachers or doing homework or chores, we should act as if we were doing those things for God (Colossians 3:17, 23). And by saying grace before meals, they taught us that humility and gratitude should be an integral part of our faith and our relationship with the Lord. 

Jesus Himself sets the example for all of us by offering thanks to God the Father in many circumstances. Matthew 15:36 records Jesus giving thanks to God for the bread and fish He broke before the miracle of feeding the 5,000. The gospel of John records Jesus as thanking God for hearing His prayers just before He calls Lazarus back from the dead. (John 11:41-43). Jesus even showed how we should give thanks in the worst of circumstances when He thanked God for the bread of the Passover and shared it with the disciples, telling them it represented His body that would be broken within hours by a Roman scourging and cross. (Matt. 26:26) With such a selfless example of gratitude, it’s no wonder the United Methodist word of service and communion for “The Great Thanksgiving” includes the exhortation:

“Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.

It is right to give our thanks and praise.

It is right, and a good and joyful thing,

always and everywhere to give thanks to you,

Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.”

Nestor and the Skim-boarders

Tropical Storm Nestor popped up out of nowhere, an aberration for this late in hurricane season, and last weekend his appearance threatened my plans to attend a Christian writer’s workshop I’d eagerly anticipated for two months. So, every day I checked the weather forecast for Orange Beach as Nestor drifted towards the Panhandle. And every night I read emails from the workshop coordinator, eager to see whether the event was going to be canceled. Thankfully, the weather cleared and that Saturday morning I only had to battle a little drizzle during the 64-mile trip to the coast. I even made it to the church with 15 minutes to spare.

When I walked in, I was met with excited voices and friendly faces and as I expected, the all-day workshop was an enormous blessing. One of the main ideas that stuck with me was whether as a writer I am a planner or someone who flies by the seat of her pants. The speaker also reiterated the idea that we need to make a commitment to our writing in order to succeed. Once the conference ended and I exchanged hugs and contact info with some new friends, I drove to my favorite beach. As soon as I cut off the car engine and hopped out, I yanked off my good shoes and threw on my flip-flops. Standing there still wearing my dress clothes, I scanned the horizon where the afternoon sunshine played freeze tag with a sky full of fluffy gray clouds. Inhaling the salty air, I smiled and hustled down the weathered boardwalk that dropped me into soft piles of sugar-white sand. Almost as soon as my toes -which were sporting ocean blue nail polish- hit the sand, I could hear the waves roar. As I trudged further toward the shore, the sound grew and I spied huge rolling waves crashing one on top of another. The unusually high surf was the only evidence that overnight Nestor had brushed past the Alabama coast dropping off rain and stirring up the gulf. 

I stared past the breaking waves to a smattering of surfers who were patiently waiting for the chance to ride into shore. Then another group on the beach caught my attention and I walked over to speak to some board-short-wearing fellas. Each loosely held on to a short board that was propped on the sand in front him like a fiberglass shield. When I asked them about surfing, one guy politely explained they were skim-boarding and then told me the difference. I quickly caught on as I watched him and his friends run pall-mall into the surf, throw down their boards and skim the wave as they drifted back into shore. Amazed, I commented to the first guy that I could never be brave enough to do what they did. Without missing a beat his friend glanced at me and said, “You just need a plan. And then you need to make a commitment to it.” I nodded in agreement. That’s good advice for skim-boarding, for writing, and for life.

11 on the 15th

I think subconsciously I’ve been waiting on the clock to roll over to midnight. Then it won’t be August 15 anymore. But then…it won’t be August15 anymore. Today marked the 11^th anniversary of Mom’s passing and as the clock marks the end of this day, it also reminds me that another entire year full of griefs and challenges, joys and accomplishments has slipped past since I last paused to remember her anniversary. 

I think of Mom every day, many times a day, and she still worms her way into conversations with those in my life who knew her and loved her. But August 15 is separate. A dividing line: life with Mom/ life without Mom. I wouldn’t wish for her to come back. Not now that she is safe and healthy and whole. But there are days I’d love to hear her laugh or sing or to hear her tell one of the stories that could make me laugh until tears rolled down my face. And so many times I would welcome a chance to glean a word of wisdom from her, especially when I have some sort of medical crisis and desperately need her advice. I miss Mom's wit, her charm, and all the love she poured out not just on me, but on so many people in our lives. Despite years of poor health and a life filled with monstrously abusive relatives, Mom was so vibrant, such a bright star and it was devastating to watch that light get snuffed out.

So, no matter how many years pass, August 15 will always be the day Death stole my sweet Mom from us. Until one day, there will be no more August or January or June. And once again, I’ll get to hear her sing the hymns she so loved, this time for all eternity. Until then, I’ll keep trying my best to honor her memory by living out the lessons of love and faith and joy that her life taught me.