tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7323019743966536042024-03-27T16:53:58.077-07:00The Write StuffMiscellaneous musings on life, love, and good booksEileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.comBlogger585125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-35778277627914211422023-10-10T10:18:00.000-07:002023-10-10T10:18:57.945-07:00A Grandchild's Lavish Love <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MA49mj7UWEnvbIsitPPZER29oIdvfWpuqb6bOgoRFzEUiG2Nkaqd69QdL2rzD-oZXEATQpjqyBUxzea0Wy1KxX0U12qJzkJemvNAg-2d4p3dbpqUClVTfPN-xzP0KrELzYV4wqBpmwEIf8TReON4WNdEUqGXLvCevxKKOBSpDX4PpqQUD0q2OiMNoQrr/s1600/heart%20shape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1387" data-original-width="1600" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MA49mj7UWEnvbIsitPPZER29oIdvfWpuqb6bOgoRFzEUiG2Nkaqd69QdL2rzD-oZXEATQpjqyBUxzea0Wy1KxX0U12qJzkJemvNAg-2d4p3dbpqUClVTfPN-xzP0KrELzYV4wqBpmwEIf8TReON4WNdEUqGXLvCevxKKOBSpDX4PpqQUD0q2OiMNoQrr/s320/heart%20shape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I sat in the church pew with a
shredded heart. The week had been tough on multiple fronts, emotion running high, mostly over the injustices of a sick and fallen world. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I,
too, felt broken. In need.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">And
then she took my hand in her small hand, not really knowing, yet . .
. somehow knowing. She cupped my hand between two warm hands,
snuggled into my side.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
tears started to creep down my cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">This
was not off putting to her; she merely ramped up her tender efforts,
kissing me ever so gently on the cheek. She tilted her head, gazed
into my eyes.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">While
most of us shy away from such overt demonstrations of affection,
especially in public, Mary did not. She lavished me with a love I
will cherish in my memory. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">One
of those grandchild moments stored away to pull out when I need an
extra dose of encouragement. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I
wonder if during the dark days ahead Jesus drew on His memory of the
woman, also named Mary, who lavished Him with costly perfume in
preparation for His burial. She loved Him with full abandon, not
caring what others in the room thought (John 12:1-8). </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Pastor
and author, Mike Leake, writes that Mary gave up a lesser love (the
expensive perfume worth a year’s wages) to focus on her chief Love,
the Lord Jesus. According to Leake, abandoning oneself to Jesus will always require
smashing lesser loves. (Read the full article <a href="https://www.biblestudytools.com/bible-study/topical-studies/4-beautiful-reminders-from-the-story-of-mary-anointing-jesus-feet-with-perfume.html">here).</a> </span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Lesser
loves such as people approval, pride, ambition, pleasure, convenience,
comfort . . . </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">You
name it! We all have loves.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
hard place of discipleship always requires a letting go of something or someone in order to move toward Jesus Christ and His purpose for our lives.</span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Thus the haunting question . . . </span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><i>Do I settle
for lesser loves, or do I rally around a greater Love, the Lord
Jesus?</i></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">It
is a question I must ask myself because it’s simply too easy to
settle for less.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Yet
sometimes in His mercy and grace, God sends a compelling wakeup call through the simple, yet lavish love of a grandchild. </span>
</p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-70428582514011360862023-09-20T07:09:00.002-07:002023-09-20T07:09:43.329-07:00When Time Stops<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP3BfM6oB2_mXt7opCbYpspwkX-t8fwBbPwqf7p571VYahEtoEgzV_ETS-FnED-dxCT00NWDg2mlXom9pIhsCvXNuO_-i2C4jTtG5F_n9_E3phs8347wLbyguMToiDrKL9AsQEPCs7Azv9z8s8kifO2nB55helHcmws1gizHh6Zd0ib9gdyNsfKw_KKw5/s960/a%20boy%20and%20his%20bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaP3BfM6oB2_mXt7opCbYpspwkX-t8fwBbPwqf7p571VYahEtoEgzV_ETS-FnED-dxCT00NWDg2mlXom9pIhsCvXNuO_-i2C4jTtG5F_n9_E3phs8347wLbyguMToiDrKL9AsQEPCs7Azv9z8s8kifO2nB55helHcmws1gizHh6Zd0ib9gdyNsfKw_KKw5/w400-h300/a%20boy%20and%20his%20bugs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There's a timelessness about playing with little ones. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They don't treat you like you're old. They expect youth without realizing they do . . . </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Down on the floor.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jumping rope.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Playing ball.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Up, down,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All around. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We say kids have a way of bringing out the child in us, and perhaps, that's true.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But I wonder if it's more that they bring out the eternal in us. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A sense that all time stops for the sheer joy of experiencing the wonder of the world in that moment . . . </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">An ant scurrying to his hole.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A chalk drawing on the sidewalk.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A cloud shape that looks very much like a dinosaur.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A soap bubble bouncing with color. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And just maybe that's why we older folks struggle to let go of those winsome, wonder-filled years when a child or grandchild "stopped time" for us. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Still, we're happy to see them grow and develop, because let's face it--even the best expression of eternity here on earth is tainted by sin.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tempers flare, bones ache, patience wanes, and bodies grow tired, for old and young alike. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Every wonder-filled moment is but an echo of heaven, prayerfully pointing our hearts toward our real Home. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We yearn for the kids to grow into godly adults who carry Jesus into their world, and yet . . .</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We grieve the passing of time. For one brief moment, we lived the illusion that time stopped, that we were ageless. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">An eternal yearning God placed within all of us.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We claim children are the self-seekers--"Look . . . look at me, tend to my needs"--but often we grownups are no different. Even our playtimes with kids address this deep-seated desire to remain young.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Oh, Abba Father, may this eternity You've woven into the very fabric of our souls cause us to think beyond ourselves, to see You high and lifted up, to glory in You, to gaze upon Your beauty, enjoying the forever redemption and eternal life Your Son secured through His death, burial, and resurrection. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">May the desire of leading little ones to a saving knowledge of You be greater than our own longing to remain young on this side of heaven.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For indeed, no one stays young on this earth; would we really want to in this fallen world?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Old" gets us to glory (in the typical scheme of things). Although the young die, too. It is the way of this world.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Praise You, oh Lord, for moving me to take hold of eternal life in You. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Even little ones--often little ones--can know the true need to do this.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Help them, Abba, never forget that LIFE is wrapped up in you. No counterfeit pleasures, temporary fixes can substitute for LIFE in You, a life that grows brighter as the day dawns, if viewed through eyes of faith fixed on the fullness of Joy yet to come.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The full joy of being in the physical presence of Jesus. Forever.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Pure joy in a timeless realm. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">~~</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">If you enjoy the cute and often profound things kids say, check out the following:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnisNPyc5dMNQ92oXbtZ5FjCs5YwNoe7r4iJ_o4VoXOHPl_szIOpMxIb-CGQcDhiajDhQjrYDVBDpT-tcgyQKrjRHuimhNrhEkgwimBH5tI0C6Q59_eRg6mrZy0JRidXg_G2XAfciPWZMtZxyGUDzkuf31wLbpMFq7PS0HUYrUS95g3WGxU7N3y9bcuEqG/s1998/Wit__Wisdom_from_th_Cover_for_Kindle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1998" data-original-width="1249" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnisNPyc5dMNQ92oXbtZ5FjCs5YwNoe7r4iJ_o4VoXOHPl_szIOpMxIb-CGQcDhiajDhQjrYDVBDpT-tcgyQKrjRHuimhNrhEkgwimBH5tI0C6Q59_eRg6mrZy0JRidXg_G2XAfciPWZMtZxyGUDzkuf31wLbpMFq7PS0HUYrUS95g3WGxU7N3y9bcuEqG/s320/Wit__Wisdom_from_th_Cover_for_Kindle.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"Kids can take us right to the heart of God, one way or another. When they provoke frustration, we breathe a silent prayer for grace. When they incite giggles, we hear God’s laughter as well. When they stimulate an endearing moment, we sense God’s touch. When they utter a profound statement, we step back in wonder. What is this phenomenon a little one evokes? Bubbly ripples of laughter that transport us to another realm. Unabashed honesty that cuts to the chase. Joy splashing around our ankles, light spilling into shadow, awakening us to a childlike appreciation for the world around us. If we take the time, if we listen, if we stoop to their level, we can go where kids go—straight to the heart of God. Wit & Wisdom from the Wee Ones is a collection of cute quips and quotes inspired by Eileen’s grandchildren. Along with other contributors, Eileen cracks the door to the whimsical, yet often wise world of the child."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Wit-Wisdom-Wee-Ones-collection/dp/152286010X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3F69GHDT1BHUK&keywords=wit+and+wisdom+from+the+wee+ones&qid=1695218146&sprefix=wit+and+wisdom+from+the+wee+ones%2Caps%2C60&sr=8-1">Available here.</a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ1rde1gFj3LHub-esu9WFy5dgpvRZmymVwaxIH2a_VCWgwEnFDOGG77GXisMBJTPk_JewoghU3RFyGixRiBCsaz6482Lp9d0olCQy1jMmv76-2JG-vQti_kIKulyjPmODLZG7SdireVN9COMWcN3S5YmisJdkYM1nLHV9iQCaxcaJhsgFSeQ3dHFd0pm/s500/FrontcoverOutoftheMouthofGabe2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ1rde1gFj3LHub-esu9WFy5dgpvRZmymVwaxIH2a_VCWgwEnFDOGG77GXisMBJTPk_JewoghU3RFyGixRiBCsaz6482Lp9d0olCQy1jMmv76-2JG-vQti_kIKulyjPmODLZG7SdireVN9COMWcN3S5YmisJdkYM1nLHV9iQCaxcaJhsgFSeQ3dHFd0pm/s320/FrontcoverOutoftheMouthofGabe2015.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">"Out of the Mouth of Gabe is the culmination of almost two years worth of collecting cute kid quips by Grandma Eileen. On scraps of paper. On napkins. In journals. And yes, even on her hand. At all times of the day and night. In the car. At a picnic. In the back yard. No matter where they were or what they were doing, grandson Gabe had much to share. Some of it witty, and some of it downright funny. You know what the Bible says, 'Out of the mouth of babes . . .' Well, in Eileen Rife's case, it's out of the mouth of Gabe. Enjoy this collection of endearing and often thought-provoking kid quips!"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Out-Mouth-Gabe-Eileen-Rife/dp/1511927178/ref=sr_1_1?crid=29W918EPY3VWF&keywords=out+of+the+mouth+of+gabe&qid=1695218501&sprefix=out+of+the+mouth+of+gabe%2Caps%2C70&sr=8-1">Available here. </a><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-42122950072943267012023-05-08T07:21:00.004-07:002023-05-08T07:21:56.441-07:00New Release: My Journey Over the Invisible Mountains!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAqgpRYTFmL8nvwEDLZK6w8Mb7XfnI07EKOypZL1Xxeu25YdTzp6OPa9HanmSDkB_cI39TVaphMxEcEBNfiY7ywTCHCBSf4_7U-d6em9zfAi-aWofyoSL_L6JZm-fJQOwgtjYzARFcv8iCKpjY8xWszcO6E7pAqzOZcJGf3hivU23llQsv9wguI-nBQ/s5203/Journey%20book%20full%20cover%202023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3375" data-original-width="5203" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigAqgpRYTFmL8nvwEDLZK6w8Mb7XfnI07EKOypZL1Xxeu25YdTzp6OPa9HanmSDkB_cI39TVaphMxEcEBNfiY7ywTCHCBSf4_7U-d6em9zfAi-aWofyoSL_L6JZm-fJQOwgtjYzARFcv8iCKpjY8xWszcO6E7pAqzOZcJGf3hivU23llQsv9wguI-nBQ/w400-h260/Journey%20book%20full%20cover%202023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Book 2 in the children's "invisible" series by author Stephanie Kramm</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span style="color: #351c75;">My Journey Over the Invisible Mountains</span>,</i> ages 4+</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;">Did you know that every time you conquer a challenge or learn something new it's like an invisible mountain forms behind you? It's true! And each new hill you climb helps you tackle others in the future too. Come along on a journey over the invisible mountains and watch all the mountains grow as you grow, too!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Journey-Over-Invisible-Mountains-Perseverance/dp/B0C2SM6635/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=my+journey+over+the+invisible+mountains&qid=1683555424&sr=8-1">Check out the new release on Amazon!</a><br /></span></div><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-50657336262079713662022-12-13T06:53:00.000-08:002022-12-13T06:53:23.197-08:00"A Timeless Love Story" from God delivered by a young writer . . . . <p><span style="font-family: arial;">Dear Readers, </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnziT5i5VbB2rp6FPpeVVN1A3DPuVYze4q89_LscKhaFREqGdhLsdONtuFk9Nd031Z3bFFb6_xolJKVkb5ZDD3qUyJrSmDANLuXSoL_VV039LsnArRibOFKf49MspRXIRS4ni31NDd4E_P__rLmer2ZbUwhTR4_ATIKbr0FtJNq7HGbF_Nv17yZcnqXw/s130/words%20of%20scripture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="130" data-original-width="130" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnziT5i5VbB2rp6FPpeVVN1A3DPuVYze4q89_LscKhaFREqGdhLsdONtuFk9Nd031Z3bFFb6_xolJKVkb5ZDD3qUyJrSmDANLuXSoL_VV039LsnArRibOFKf49MspRXIRS4ni31NDd4E_P__rLmer2ZbUwhTR4_ATIKbr0FtJNq7HGbF_Nv17yZcnqXw/w320-h320/words%20of%20scripture.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Once in awhile I stumble upon a young writer who shows great promise in the craft. And when that young writer happens to be dear to my heart and a committed follower of Jesus Christ, the promise holds even more powerful potential for the Kingdom. For God's glory. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Check out Rue Arrow's latest Christmas post at the link provided below. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Perhaps you're weary and weeping this holiday season. I can identify. I suspect we each can identify on some level. "Life <i>is </i>pain, highness," says Wesley to the maiden in the movie, "The Princess Bride." True. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Yet, in the midst of our pain, in His love, God comes down to us in the Person of Jesus Christ, participates in our pain by becoming one of us, and willingly subjects Himself to unthinkable suffering in order to rescue us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">No matter your age or circumstance, I believe Rue's thoughts based on God's Word will encourage your heart this Christmas season and beyond. I know they have mine. </span></p><p><a href="https://messylife.blog/?p=518&fbclid=IwAR34xcSQz-wi6oDOw2QKQxgwmSJEnQZ3mxyFoxp17D_bxRMBXVrExkbyuVo#comment-418">Read "A Timeless Love Story" on "This Messy Thing Called Life" blog</a><br /></p><p><br /></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-78212286816730844902022-10-25T08:27:00.001-07:002022-10-25T08:27:32.732-07:00Good Family Read for Thanksgiving!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdCGVwbRkIanFDKtzUiuognZgiltQIf93j8E2P2__dLl-1TjS7r3GQOsDRO7C2f75VS6z7msMCS26l8l3SLvR4iA7T669xHv81BpiKW9A6fHb58RER4mCglLkGvF68HqqLEDKMBFfD8d6HbW4jfgxuY_5cmGaPz06M7-dM1uiPCZLu-gcIY4uiYyqNQ/s2048/DSC09696.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdCGVwbRkIanFDKtzUiuognZgiltQIf93j8E2P2__dLl-1TjS7r3GQOsDRO7C2f75VS6z7msMCS26l8l3SLvR4iA7T669xHv81BpiKW9A6fHb58RER4mCglLkGvF68HqqLEDKMBFfD8d6HbW4jfgxuY_5cmGaPz06M7-dM1uiPCZLu-gcIY4uiYyqNQ/s320/DSC09696.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">Stephanie Kramm poses at a booksigning for her first children's book in her invisible series, <i>The Branches on My Invisible Tree, a children's story about thankfulness. </i></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Each child received a lollipop from the "lollipop tree" after </span><span style="font-family: arial;">sharing a thankful thought. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">I reread Branches this morning. Even adults need this powerful and </span><span style="font-family: arial;">practical reminder to practice gratitude daily! </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">As Stephanie writes in her author's note at the end of the book, " . . . every time you think a thought, a new neural pathway or <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>'branch' forms in your brain. The more you revisit that thought, the bigger and stronger that branch becomes and the easier it is to think that thought again. Your brain really is like a tree full of branches, and you get to decide where they go and how big they grow!" </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;">An especially timely book as we approach Thanksgiving. Picture a family read around the table or cozied up with the kids on the couch. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-S_np-ckaEm6iuyHS4wHu66rT0d5rGVWf3MjWZDl0UUzC9cqpMN4BbttzGKyCrF1mjPn_DBu10bIEQzj8hj0F02cdpNEvukLcUQWtJ886SzJw6whOe078kuCPbf_Eb96ta-vQmd818zornchOVNoEJgeWTprTS7S2sVBJrY6x0wBmwdJEh04TacZ7BA/s3375/Branches%20cover%20image%20for%20marketing%209.26.22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3375" data-original-width="2588" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-S_np-ckaEm6iuyHS4wHu66rT0d5rGVWf3MjWZDl0UUzC9cqpMN4BbttzGKyCrF1mjPn_DBu10bIEQzj8hj0F02cdpNEvukLcUQWtJ886SzJw6whOe078kuCPbf_Eb96ta-vQmd818zornchOVNoEJgeWTprTS7S2sVBJrY6x0wBmwdJEh04TacZ7BA/s320/Branches%20cover%20image%20for%20marketing%209.26.22.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Branches-Invisible-Tree-childrens-thankfulness/dp/B0BD55T4N8/ref=sr_1_1?crid=17WMO1Y9DO3AD&keywords=the+branches+on+my+invisible+tree&qid=1666710160&qu=eyJxc2MiOiIwLjAwIiwicXNhIjoiMC4wMCIsInFzcCI6IjAuMDAifQ%3D%3D&sprefix=the+branches+on+my+invisible+tree%2Caps%2C89&sr=8-1">The Branches on My Invisible Tree via Amazon</a></div></div></div>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-51550516037337448222022-09-15T10:59:00.000-07:002022-09-15T10:59:22.142-07:00New Release: Mother-Daughter tag team, two firsts<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmedgUW5tZlk5LcKpXcUIzcAjTX9ipeFsiAP0VxXM322P-dsfATly4dnz3u_mF5aa4VlB-CKs1eikt2NU0hXh1jo2omvHP15buoqcHbVfTPYHLxVauz-6gAkDVSGMH8PiJgQjtrztLAZqWSf4V4wmcSoOBEUNoW571Oky4cTb6AdtqMftrGBdrO0s8mA/s2048/BranchesProofcameinthemail2022!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmedgUW5tZlk5LcKpXcUIzcAjTX9ipeFsiAP0VxXM322P-dsfATly4dnz3u_mF5aa4VlB-CKs1eikt2NU0hXh1jo2omvHP15buoqcHbVfTPYHLxVauz-6gAkDVSGMH8PiJgQjtrztLAZqWSf4V4wmcSoOBEUNoW571Oky4cTb6AdtqMftrGBdrO0s8mA/w240-h320/BranchesProofcameinthemail2022!.jpg" title="Daughter Stephanie Kramm holding up the proof of her first children's book, The Branches on My Invisible Tree (Book one in a series)" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: center;">Daughter Stephanie Kramm holds the proof of her first children's book titled, </div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>The Branches on My Invisible Tree </i>(Book one in her series). A picture book for kids ages 4+. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Have you ever imagined what it would be like to explore the branches of the biggest tree in the world? What if you could create your very own tree just by thinking about it? Well, you can! Every time you think a thankful thought -- poof! -- a neural pathway or "branch" forms in your brain! Those branches grow like a tree inside of you, and the incredible part is you get to decide where they go and how big they grow! Come discover the amazing power of gratitude as you climb through the branches of the invisible tree."</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NrZlRuCNoHg2Ma9TkfisTsmqPgW7vfitZw6toxwLo5ZxkO42MqO1hzd0JiOeS8Xv2thI_IDUKmqGvihsfvoffEoBE2EubZlEzK8ph9RKSTBKcvz0nEw-HbP9oKR_N7WP-5cOn2AQnn9nOMHe1LxF6vi69PQYyzfqGSo5HNVOawjwMWpEym0cxaNi6Q/s2048/EileenwithBranchespic%202022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7NrZlRuCNoHg2Ma9TkfisTsmqPgW7vfitZw6toxwLo5ZxkO42MqO1hzd0JiOeS8Xv2thI_IDUKmqGvihsfvoffEoBE2EubZlEzK8ph9RKSTBKcvz0nEw-HbP9oKR_N7WP-5cOn2AQnn9nOMHe1LxF6vi69PQYyzfqGSo5HNVOawjwMWpEym0cxaNi6Q/s320/EileenwithBranchespic%202022.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Steph invited me to try my hand at illustrations. Talk about a fun and challenging learning curve! My first illustration work for a children's book. What seemed impossible, God birthed. In this pic, Steph and I review the final copy one last time before publishing. </span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;">~~</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Parents, if you want to teach your children how to apply Philippians 4:8 ("think on these things") and Romans 12:2 (renew your mind with God's Word) in a way that communicates to a young child (older children will enjoy this whimsical read, too), then check out <i>The Branches on My Invisible Tree. </i></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Take a sneak peek inside the book, now available on Amazon. If you decide to purchase a copy, we'd really appreciate your candid review. Thanks so much! </span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BD55T4N8/ref=cm_sw_r_awdo_VRW6N1EBJ9M69V49MKKF_0?fbclid=IwAR1_I0_jZ7YPpTMfifjd26BxCq4EOJkbtZWIZOhL8lLJzqBvOVZc4QBEYBo">The Branches on My Invisible Tree on Amazon. </a><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-67417317925923071152022-08-23T09:49:00.000-07:002022-08-23T09:49:42.235-07:00The Artist: An Emptied Vessel<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7F5R_oW-nD892KbJ-banaSem75Im2qbeqwtb8arJwxShryteZzxIMWVatd6EVCfTGU2zVvqpfWqK_Ad500Ia00BlDq45oDGd5J8u6FSmZdf-3SE0L2L_DlHr0-Yz7Fay3INsidPhZofQrrss3pHxZ_t4z3t0I7N43GQ0YkgjUXbOuOtls10smBbvniw/s2938/clay%20jug%202022.jpg" imageanchor="1" rel="nofollow" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Erdin Hasdemir, Getty images. Used by permission via Canva license." border="0" data-original-height="2463" data-original-width="2938" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7F5R_oW-nD892KbJ-banaSem75Im2qbeqwtb8arJwxShryteZzxIMWVatd6EVCfTGU2zVvqpfWqK_Ad500Ia00BlDq45oDGd5J8u6FSmZdf-3SE0L2L_DlHr0-Yz7Fay3INsidPhZofQrrss3pHxZ_t4z3t0I7N43GQ0YkgjUXbOuOtls10smBbvniw/w400-h259/clay%20jug%202022.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">To create is to sacrifice. The Christian artist who seeks to glorify the Lord empties himself in order to be filled by Another.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">To get inside the head and heart of a character is to offer one's self for the benefit of the reader (if a book) or the viewer (if a film).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">To dance is to give sway to the story on God's heart.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">To suspend one's own agenda for the sake of the canvas and allow the Holy Spirit full creative run is to sacrifice one's self to the ministry of art. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">While at the same time allowing the Holy Spirit to uniquely use one's God-given interests and talents in that creation.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">This consideration presupposes that the artist has offered himself to God as a willing vessel, as "a channel of blessing" (as the hymn writer notes). </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJiFLSJzMjo" target="_blank">View "Channels Only" piano instrumental with lyrics.</a><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So much cycles back to God's sovereignty and human responsibility. In His creative love, God provides the impetus, and the artist willingly surrenders to it. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For God's glory.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For the recipient's benefit.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For the Kingdom. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It is a losing of one's self in order to find one's self--the full expression of who God fashioned the artist to be for His sovereign purposes.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Artists speak of the "zone" where the creative process takes over as time stops. It is a place of peace. Yet the fruit of the work may not be fully understood or realized this side of heaven. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wonder if this phenomenon was true for Isaiah. Commissioned to go to a people who would not listen, even in the midst of impending judgment, Isaiah under divine inspiration produced one of the most masterful works of writing, rivaling Shakespeare and Milton in literary expression. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">While Isaiah only lived to see a portion of God's prophecies fulfilled, he willingly, sacrificially poured himself out to be filled up and spilled out for God. God's glorious expression through His servant of the birth, life, death, resurrection, and future reign of His Son is magnificently foretold, offering a call to rebellious Israel in particular and the sinner in general who has turned his back on God to come to the Cross for salvation. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Centuries later, Handel uses Isaiah's writing to compose "The Messiah," further impacting generations with the gospel through the art of music. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">While the extra-biblical artist cannot lay claim to divine inspiration as in the case of the biblical writers (2 Peter 1:21), s/he can surrender to the Holy Spirit's filling in order to produce art by His power for His purposes (Ephesians 5:18). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVDdmbeIWWGKm_7VWdQrwLH_xfJqHGCW0rOOXiieEVRYxb8HPcdQnbUo8GYEN0w7JunsBQM0E84ieLDEBYUk2gDt29p1lwkJeEEy5Ls4p_zlgeMSfz0SjjI2VVlnreYrp4BETtbnGGpVFT6_08HbBVovZ7dZHuqDoe3BMc8CUxQGzw3TNtXc7XhdodQ/s2938/clay%20jug%20filled%20up%20and%20poured%20out%20Canva%202022%20from%20Getty%20images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2463" data-original-width="2938" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVDdmbeIWWGKm_7VWdQrwLH_xfJqHGCW0rOOXiieEVRYxb8HPcdQnbUo8GYEN0w7JunsBQM0E84ieLDEBYUk2gDt29p1lwkJeEEy5Ls4p_zlgeMSfz0SjjI2VVlnreYrp4BETtbnGGpVFT6_08HbBVovZ7dZHuqDoe3BMc8CUxQGzw3TNtXc7XhdodQ/w320-h268/clay%20jug%20filled%20up%20and%20poured%20out%20Canva%202022%20from%20Getty%20images.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;">The sacrifice begins with an emptied vessel--emptied of self so that the divine Artist can fill him up and flow through him to others. </span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For it is not only the artist's work that God is shaping for His use but the artist herself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div><span data-canva-clipboard="ewAiAGEAIgA6ADUALAAiAGQAIgA6ACIAQgAiACwAIgBoACIAOgAiAHcAdwB3AC4AYwBhAG4AdgBhAC4AYwBvAG0AIgAsACIAYwAiADoAIgBEAEEARgBLAEoANQBLAHIAQgBuADgAIgAsACIAaQAiADoAIgA4AEsAZgB3AHoAWQBXAGoAYgBuADMATABXAFYAcABBAEYANwBnAFIAbwBnACIALAAiAGIAIgA6ADEANgA2ADEAMgA2ADgANwA0ADYAMwA2ADkALAAiAEEAPwAiADoAIgBCACIALAAiAEEAIgA6AFsAewAiAEEAIgA6ADEAMwA0AC4AMAA5ADYANQAsACIAQgAiADoAMQAwADkALgA0ADYAMQA4ADAANwA4ADAAMwAwADYAMwAxACwAIgBEACIAOgA3ADEAMQAuADgANwA3ADgANAAyADAANQAyADkANQA1ACwAIgBDACIAOgA1ADEAOQAuADgAMAA3ACwAIgBBAD8AIgA6ACIASQAiACwAIgBhACIAOgB7ACIAQgAiADoAewAiAEEAIgA6AHsAIgBBACIAOgAiAE0AQQBDADgAYQA5AHcAOQA5AHIAawAiACwAIgBCACIAOgAxAH0ALAAiAEIAIgA6AHsAIgBCACIAOgAtADMAMAAuADYANgAxADgAMAA3ADgAMAAzADAANgAzADAAOAA0ACwAIgBEACIAOgA3ADgAMgAuADQALAAiAEMAIgA6ADUAMQA5AC4AOAAwADcAfQB9AH0AfQBdACwAIgBCACIAOgA5ADQAMAAsACIAQwAiADoANwA4ADgAfQA="></span></div>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-43113146539586617652022-07-12T12:10:00.001-07:002022-07-12T12:10:13.128-07:00New Release in the Missionary Kid series! Tyler and the Great Escape/Cambodia <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkCS6bbe8Yy1bn3a-v7wZge3knQpAr3c5lc1VL8yUhyjHXKEGYtiZ295NZimIIPpwa2e22GlKABq-AfFdkhxwoJ94K_7b8wY7lvfUm9VNSAEVlY55TpU8adDMLKivXT6KTIVO53nrea8aBvPRQGpNz0Kz_xlaXw-5GgQ4tor36URi0g_gDSzgD11kyw/s4496/TylerandtheGreatEscape2019coverRevised%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4496" data-original-width="2978" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTkCS6bbe8Yy1bn3a-v7wZge3knQpAr3c5lc1VL8yUhyjHXKEGYtiZ295NZimIIPpwa2e22GlKABq-AfFdkhxwoJ94K_7b8wY7lvfUm9VNSAEVlY55TpU8adDMLKivXT6KTIVO53nrea8aBvPRQGpNz0Kz_xlaXw-5GgQ4tor36URi0g_gDSzgD11kyw/s320/TylerandtheGreatEscape2019coverRevised%203.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px;"><p style="font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ages 8+</span></p><p style="font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Good for family reading and discussion, too!</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Tyler longs for adventure in the new and different land of Cambodia, but his silent fear that the murderous Khmer Rouge will resurface haunts his mind and holds him back. To cope, he lapses into daydreams where he dangles on a vine over a lava pit, runs the rapids, and fights off an enemy alien with light saber. But the real enemy lives inside him. When the family visits Kampot to scope out a ministry opportunity, Tyler finds courage to rescue his sister from the river. But his greatest test is yet to come when his family tours Bokor Mountain, a famous historical site where supposed ghosts from the Khmer Rouge haunt unsuspecting visitors. When he gets separated from the family and trapped by two Khmer men, will he find courage to face his fear?"</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Book 3 in the Missionary Kid series. Check it out below. <b>FREE with KindleUnlimited.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://smile.amazon.com/Tyler-Great-Escape-Missionary-Kid-ebook/dp/B0B676L21G/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=tyler%20and%20the%20great%20escape%20by%20eileen%20rife&qid=1657651954&sr=8-1&fbclid=IwAR2LURN5DvC3x_XMBBqOZBM8BlBZPIAMRIQGr8uOC0LVqQv6BXFFvWKi6ro">Tyler and the Great Escape on Amazon</a><br /></span></div></span><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-57815190692085038322022-06-14T12:37:00.000-07:002022-06-14T12:37:26.657-07:00At Daddy's Knees<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAXyrp_eFE3Nqq9bujA1DKLKkYmFRbbU1E36RLp0ZfGXtfoyVg0oOM1oqmVku7cPIbTMBNBiw2qJgIlfchLuvC3fXKEHqgUDSYJhd_qsmsYLpzaahFZbOu52MJDqHcotLKBAW7uuEsahfYeRX_z91KkuVoj4aGFcWgKpKOclCCrwWwvsQStdqUxgVug/s1600/GG%20Bobbi%20in%20Mtn%20City%20house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsAXyrp_eFE3Nqq9bujA1DKLKkYmFRbbU1E36RLp0ZfGXtfoyVg0oOM1oqmVku7cPIbTMBNBiw2qJgIlfchLuvC3fXKEHqgUDSYJhd_qsmsYLpzaahFZbOu52MJDqHcotLKBAW7uuEsahfYeRX_z91KkuVoj4aGFcWgKpKOclCCrwWwvsQStdqUxgVug/s320/GG%20Bobbi%20in%20Mtn%20City%20house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When I
was a little girl, I used to run across the living room and fling myself at
Daddy’s knees in a gesture of playfulness while he sat in his recliner. Perhaps
it was my way of feeling close to a Daddy who was physically present and often
played with us kids, yet was often emotionally distant, especially when this
little frightened, troubled child needed him the most. But having lost a son
whom he’d tended for 18 years and knew was going to die, Daddy dealt with grief
I couldn’t fathom as a child. Still, I also dealt with grief and the symptoms
of grief I couldn’t understand at the time. Years later after I’d married and
birthed children of my own, Daddy confided that he wished he’d known better how
to help me. Knowing he knew didn’t erase the loss of emotional investment
during my formative years, but it did breed more understanding and closeness to
a Daddy who I knew loved me and would lasso the moon for me, if possible. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In
his advanced years, with nerve damage in his legs, Daddy struggled to walk, so
we would take him for a ride outside in his wheelchair. On one occasion as we
neared the house, he reached out his hand for mine. I took hold as I had so
often done as a little girl when he was my robust, larger-than-life Daddy
walking with me down the sidewalk. He didn’t say anything to me—his words left
when Mama died a couple years earlier—yet the twinkle in his blue eyes told me he still knew I was his
little girl whom he loved with all his heart. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On
a visit which turned out to be our last, I knelt at Daddy’s recliner and held
his hand. “Thank you, Daddy, for being the first one to tell me about Jesus.” While
he didn’t verbally respond, I believe he heard words that held rich meaning,
for his life was all about Jesus. With Paul, he often affirmed his favorite truth:
“<span style="background: white; color: black;">I am crucified with Christ:
nevertheless, I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I
now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and
gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20, <i>KJV</i>). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Daddy died two days later. I’m so thankful God
allowed me one more time to slip to my knees, this time verbally thanking my father
for the greatest gift he could’ve ever given me—Jesus. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I often muse on that last encounter. The visual
helps me project to the day I will physically kneel at Jesus’ feet, take His
hand, and thank Him for His love, mercy, and grace toward one so unworthy of
His great sacrifice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And though I do not physically see Him now, I
kneel in His presence, for He is here in the form of His indwelling Holy
Spirit. I take His hand, press it against my cheek, at times soak it with my
tears, and say, “Thank You!”</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-79041958020781316932022-05-04T07:01:00.000-07:002022-05-04T07:01:36.504-07:00Remembering Mama<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It's a week for remembering Moms. So, I'm stepping back in time, smiling at these antique pics of my Mama, born in 1916 in New Jersey, with one older sister (12 years her senior). My grandparents lost four babies, all girls, in-between her sister and her.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3ERWSH4bPooOTmncVW4cUw-26iwggAeweSaiPdMCX8zHYiL_AosbuPJUCUvSFfBAk6Y_85BDw-dSEYwUhUNXCAAeY_U9ni9poMNji380iW35FOw8FJrmeRh0W5ZOCwuK9JR4JEqnDDIgTWQUPOQN6yXdK8Uklop7RDvZT_r7Z3Kl1_IfwY06eHjHBw/s1214/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1214" data-original-width="840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3ERWSH4bPooOTmncVW4cUw-26iwggAeweSaiPdMCX8zHYiL_AosbuPJUCUvSFfBAk6Y_85BDw-dSEYwUhUNXCAAeY_U9ni9poMNji380iW35FOw8FJrmeRh0W5ZOCwuK9JR4JEqnDDIgTWQUPOQN6yXdK8Uklop7RDvZT_r7Z3Kl1_IfwY06eHjHBw/s320/25.jpg" width="221" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />Mama's mother, Grandmother Firth, as the family called her was a jolly person. Though I never got to know her personally (she died on a visit to see me when I was five months old), I heard lots of stories. Mama would often say what a gentle soul she was. You can even see it in her face. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #333333; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOozfMc3vWuvSgzRZLKTiGYqic-1EnZnq-BFCl-fq2ecbqiPv1oqHu5i1adezZoCYWSOCMeStdUEcYxUdUwy7kYm9MXNRrKBQ70CsfHmbDBQhi0Eok2OuXAiaN888wV8FJWYLG45BYGClF7HJYnpfAQNgWmrgRYrqt9vWdlONxQ3eOU9ALz-45BjHA1A/s2735/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2735" data-original-width="2124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOozfMc3vWuvSgzRZLKTiGYqic-1EnZnq-BFCl-fq2ecbqiPv1oqHu5i1adezZoCYWSOCMeStdUEcYxUdUwy7kYm9MXNRrKBQ70CsfHmbDBQhi0Eok2OuXAiaN888wV8FJWYLG45BYGClF7HJYnpfAQNgWmrgRYrqt9vWdlONxQ3eOU9ALz-45BjHA1A/s320/26.jpg" width="249" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Mama lived to age 89, faithfully serving the Lord in full-time Christian camping ministry with Daddy for 50 years. They were married for 65 years before Jesus called Mama Home. Daddy followed her two years later at age 94. They left a strong visual of what love looks like in a marriage. Mama gave this picture to Daddy prior to their wedding. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhen4BN0gSISCMmTmeglOw_-mUAxzqjvWFRyJWtP8Uy2yk0ArgywyLenDaWcyZbn4KkqzGd6DhenEU5PCKrmejJzZqLx3rNnM3BeAI1mB8BDZqjzwzAItpy9AlqYuqicNwm5NmbSxbfRm5eDzdbgmPKfT8sFhDloLGc5LSMH4pSV8c6lo5fuBx8Do7Buw/s2034/36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2034" data-original-width="1444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhen4BN0gSISCMmTmeglOw_-mUAxzqjvWFRyJWtP8Uy2yk0ArgywyLenDaWcyZbn4KkqzGd6DhenEU5PCKrmejJzZqLx3rNnM3BeAI1mB8BDZqjzwzAItpy9AlqYuqicNwm5NmbSxbfRm5eDzdbgmPKfT8sFhDloLGc5LSMH4pSV8c6lo5fuBx8Do7Buw/s320/36.jpg" width="227" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /> </span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Shortly after their wedding, Mama and Daddy honeymooned at the seashore in Atlantic City. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03KsNluJBC3eMm-uQgiPCnXfzI1a9OrWB7EJi5efvHMuOYd8TtoqL9dY-ZYmAQ-2dW1_2HVCFpMWnTSJ8lXmB29L86TLvSPV3eiWq4tQsUM6b7NLdA-S0BK0iFGqd47BOl2e4sq2tCgtjhlAQikpqcfefjEsdMwdM18nfw63f85__wwGi9lk9rjpi8g/s1263/27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1263" data-original-width="849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03KsNluJBC3eMm-uQgiPCnXfzI1a9OrWB7EJi5efvHMuOYd8TtoqL9dY-ZYmAQ-2dW1_2HVCFpMWnTSJ8lXmB29L86TLvSPV3eiWq4tQsUM6b7NLdA-S0BK0iFGqd47BOl2e4sq2tCgtjhlAQikpqcfefjEsdMwdM18nfw63f85__wwGi9lk9rjpi8g/s320/27.jpg" width="215" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">While growing up, I often walked past Mama's bedroom door in the morning before leaving for school. Through the cracked door, I saw her kneeling by the bed in prayer. She and Daddy would also kneel by the bed at night before slipping under the covers. If Daddy were here, he'd probably joke that they were looking for something but figured as long as they were down there, they might as well pray. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At Mama's memorial service in 2005, her only grandson read a prayer she left her family. The words are not original with her; they came from the apostle Paul who wrote and prayed them in his closing remarks to the Ephesian church.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After her service, I jotted in the margin of my Bible beside Ephesians 3:14-21 that Mama prayed this for her family. I decided that I would continue the legacy and pray this "Paul/Mama" prayer for my kids and grandkids, too. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Perhaps you, too, will find the following scripture passage a fitting prayer for your family, whether they are walking with the Lord or far from Him.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name.<span style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 0; outline: none !important; position: relative; top: -0.5em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span>I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.</i></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen </i>(Ephesians 3:14-21, <i>NIV</i>).</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Happy Mother's Day!</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px 0px 1em; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Eileen</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; margin: 0px; outline: none !important; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Psalm 46:10</span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-59921070642892536252022-03-15T12:36:00.000-07:002022-03-15T12:36:05.292-07:00Even to Your Graying Years<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Even to your old age and gray hairs</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white;">I am he, I am he who will sustain you.</span></span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span class="text"><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I have made you and I will carry you;</span></span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span class="indent-1-breaks"><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white;">I will sustain you and I will rescue you.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="text"><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">-Isaiah 46:4 (NIV)</span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="text"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2z6UF_RAGFS3juoIWnaIbwqV2fodwviCL7ENyMGE_KS6IOihGBlqua2byF4MSKIXR7LTvWraxq1N-7YLZu7_rrSlGK9O3SNNHqCfxgjNx2DigQidhQegZQzO5LUZYQwv8ng3SSiAQ2mp7KdmD_HUPlz0NxjZFd1zHZJlz3E0hZhtC8IT9ViVJg77-sw=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2z6UF_RAGFS3juoIWnaIbwqV2fodwviCL7ENyMGE_KS6IOihGBlqua2byF4MSKIXR7LTvWraxq1N-7YLZu7_rrSlGK9O3SNNHqCfxgjNx2DigQidhQegZQzO5LUZYQwv8ng3SSiAQ2mp7KdmD_HUPlz0NxjZFd1zHZJlz3E0hZhtC8IT9ViVJg77-sw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My 85-year-old mother sat
across from me in her rocker. At 45, I felt a tug I couldn’t quite identify,
pulling me faster down some imaginary aisle headed who knew where. Like my
grade school friend pulling me out the school door at recess and onto the
playground. For what? Some bully to tease and torment me? Or for an accident
waiting to happen?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A similar foreboding reached
out with icy fingers and clutched me at the thought of aging. I desperately
longed for my mother, older and wiser, to shine a light on the journey that lay
ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What’s it like, Mama?” I
leaned forward on the sofa, legs casually crossed Indian style. I prided myself
that I could still position myself that way without my hip locking up or pain
shooting down my leg.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Her scalp tightened, ever so
slightly, momentarily reordering her cottony, white hair. A dreamy expression
filled her eyes, and she looked past me. Then her gaze settled on my face. “To
be honest,” she patted her chest, “inside, I still feel like I’m 15. I still
have hopes and dreams.” A smile inflated her wrinkled cheeks. Her eyebrows
knit like mountain peaks. “Some days I’d like to bolt out down the street as
fast as I can, but my body won’t let me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How sad. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Selfishly, I wondered
if I’d experience the same phenomenon. On the one hand, Mama provided a glimpse
into a woman whose spirit hadn’t been squelched by time. On the other, she
provided a reality that comes to each of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Growing older eventually, most
likely, will involve bodies that wear out and eyes that grow dim. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The nugget of hope Mama left
me that day didn’t lie in the tangible, physical realm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">No, it bubbled up from deep
within, from a spirit alive with youth, vigor. The challenge—finding expression
for a young person trapped in an old body. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">While Mama couldn’t zip down
the road in Keds, she could zip through the grocery store. So much so, I had
trouble keeping up with her. One minute she’d be in the freezer section and the
next out of sight. Totally gone. I’d find her perusing the canned goods,
checking labels. Just as I sprinted up to her, she’d whizz away, rounding the
corner to another aisle. Maybe her grocery store marathon was her way of
dealing with her inner teenager who longed to break free and run. I don’t know.
All I know is Mama could move. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">At 4 ft. 8 in. (she claimed
she was shrinking), she put the energizer bunny to shame. A Lilliputian looking
through rheumy eyes, she refused to call it quits on youth. You might say she
was a realistic optimist. She knew her body was old, but she refused to “get
old.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Two things served her well:
Prayer and humor. While Mama could worry with the best of ‘em, she never gave
into the enemy’s hold for long. A trip past her bedroom door revealed a lady on
her knees, taking her concerns to the throne of grace. And yes, still on her
knees at 85.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She’d rise with a twinkle in
her eyes as if she and God shared a secret, then got busy cooking, ironing, or
mending, a hum on her lips. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She knew God was with her and
had a plan for her. With the apostle Paul, she refused to lose heart, for though
her outer body was decaying, her inner self was being renewed day by day (2
Corinthians 4:16).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Now that I’m 66, I lean in
ever more to my Mama’s words and ways she modeled, especially in my graying
years.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In doing so, I can emerge with
a smile on my face and joy in my heart, all the way Home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">~~ </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">(<i>Stay tuned for a future post on how Mama modeled humor)</i>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">In the meantime, check out this book from Karen O'Connor, trusted mentor and author friend who's compiled several humorous books for seniors. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gettin-Old-Aint-Wimps-Inspirations/dp/0736914765/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1VL0QY9MIC1Z1&keywords=karen+o%27connor+inspiring+books&qid=1647372454&sprefix=Karen+o%27connor%2Caps%2C296&sr=8-1">Gettin' Old Ain't for Wimps </a> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgyIcAW_Ph1hmqSTtwF9tYdDGWPZ-oLoVkiYx4jHeYktD2A_EtuQLceZHWEAqHwCdJksORVhpfHIXQ3m5e_zCsfHOkYdi89inTCWwQ9URKrjQoYBBqZzwbYTeCWwdeVt4PA7ByIwE8kFHzqrTMhsVzhTmG1V17QCD2d4JrA9Yv6Ng90pgDg3r7tZ_WzA=s499" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="322" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgyIcAW_Ph1hmqSTtwF9tYdDGWPZ-oLoVkiYx4jHeYktD2A_EtuQLceZHWEAqHwCdJksORVhpfHIXQ3m5e_zCsfHOkYdi89inTCWwQ9URKrjQoYBBqZzwbYTeCWwdeVt4PA7ByIwE8kFHzqrTMhsVzhTmG1V17QCD2d4JrA9Yv6Ng90pgDg3r7tZ_WzA=s320" width="206" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-91812199850961962552022-02-02T10:44:00.000-08:002022-02-02T10:44:30.075-08:00Tender Touch on a Winter Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzz4mCyq-dGGZ6Coz3ZK5wP1um086cn_HeEZuLGiJIT0S2q9n_GwwQl5o1PD4J_RJzGsbDYa593jkycyjaSGySimVB0bFtaNLKAxOGDoKP-1WFq3sNqg5_gD_o_BQCwRsWuSz0WaLz_vlpVq9OTmQ7N4droDVG5uD-mgp3ToIJ6eVjLiO6zn69_KMUsA=s2816" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="2816" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzz4mCyq-dGGZ6Coz3ZK5wP1um086cn_HeEZuLGiJIT0S2q9n_GwwQl5o1PD4J_RJzGsbDYa593jkycyjaSGySimVB0bFtaNLKAxOGDoKP-1WFq3sNqg5_gD_o_BQCwRsWuSz0WaLz_vlpVq9OTmQ7N4droDVG5uD-mgp3ToIJ6eVjLiO6zn69_KMUsA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">I experienced another "stop-in-my-tracks" moment in the kitchen this morning while preparing breakfast and lunch foods.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">More often than not this happens in the early morning, likely as an extension of my quiet time in the Scripture with Jesus before putting hands to daily tasks. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Chopping celery for salad, I sensed that still, small voice utter in my mind, "I'm pleased with you simply because you are My daughter. Not because of what you do or don't do, but because of Who I AM--your Father who loves you. just because you're you."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">My shoulders relaxed. I lingered in God's embrace, reassured of His infinite, incomprehensible, yet unconditional love fulfilled in Christ for a messed up gal whom He's chosen to take by the hand and walk Home, teaching me, growing me, speaking through me all along the way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">With the greatest, most profound delight--His Presence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a quiet reminder from His Word.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In an invisible, yet calming Hand on my shoulder.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In an eastern bluebird fluffing her feathers on my dogwood tree. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a patch of frozen snow, glstening in the sunlight.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a random chorus come to mind and out the lips.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a grandchild's paper snowflake hanging from the ceiling, swirling in the air.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a spouse's eyes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In another believing sister's hug.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">In a voice so tender, speaking love to my heart, affirming a relationship, an eternal bond between Father and daughter. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">A tender unforgettable touch on a winter day. </span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-66587416098862953632021-12-08T12:45:00.000-08:002021-12-08T12:45:58.979-08:00Believe in Christmas<p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxival2q8LqercP6TISIqR7ze6Z3DULYu_0lJkofX0-S8sIfLzvvavW_g0jO3n8JcziKLrPxij75qG9sizNuhd0vMmXKe00TecNFmBy_8vCRSvtcc54p3aNGGqURrlrj-gMDTLusbSncXIMmWJTOvDIlm1ePairyetZn9iIIT58zEdXApu5_SHSzpP0Q=s3508" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3508" data-original-width="2480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxival2q8LqercP6TISIqR7ze6Z3DULYu_0lJkofX0-S8sIfLzvvavW_g0jO3n8JcziKLrPxij75qG9sizNuhd0vMmXKe00TecNFmBy_8vCRSvtcc54p3aNGGqURrlrj-gMDTLusbSncXIMmWJTOvDIlm1ePairyetZn9iIIT58zEdXApu5_SHSzpP0Q=w283-h400" width="283" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two gifts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Two responses.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Zacharias, a priest who entered the presence of the
Lord on behalf of the people, did not believe God’s answer to prayer delivered
through Gabriel. The gift of John—the one who would go before the Lord, a voice
crying out in the wilderness, the one who pointed to the Lamb of God who would
take away the sins of the world. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Zacharias did not trust the very God he served, even
after asking God for a son in his old age. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How can I know for certain?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He was an old man with an immature faith.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">On the other hand, Mary, a lowly maiden, found favor
with God and believed Gabriel’s incredible announcement that she would bear <i>the</i>
Gift--Jesus, the Son of God, the Savior of the world. She trusted God would do
exactly as He said. She simply wondered how since she was a virgin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“How will it happen?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I find it fascinating that Mary didn’t consider the child might possibly come through Joseph at a later time after their marriage.
Even before Gabriel provided conception details, she alludes to the event as
though it will happen to her as a virgin (Luke 1:35). God will implant this holy
Child by and through the power of the Holy Spirit and the Most High (the
Trinity involved in this wondrous conception). In my mind, it took more faith
to believe she, as a virgin, would miraculously conceive and bear the promised
Messiah than for Zacharias to accept the answer to the prayer he’d already
prayed and seen answered in a similar fashion hundreds of years prior for
Abraham and Sarah. The precedent for God’s miracle of aging conceptions had
been set. There was no precedent for what happened to Mary. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet, she believed in the miracle of Christmas with the
ready response: “Behold, I am the bondslave of the Lord; be it done to me according
to Your word” (Luke 1:38). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She was a young girl with a mature faith. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Gabriel added assurance to her already strong faith
with his words, “Nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For Zacharias, disbelief rendered him tongue tied, in
this instance, by God’s sovereign design. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For Mary, belief loosened her tongue in praise. What
results is the beautiful Magnificat that flows through history like a resounding
musical testimony to the wonder and greatness of God her Savior, who exalts the
humble and deflates the pompous. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Indeed, a mind filled with the wonder of Jesus quells
the questions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, I’m challenged, even convicted, by how many times
I’ve lapsed into a Zacharias response, even when God answers the very prayer I’ve
been praying. “But, Lord, how can I know for certain?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I want to be a gal after Mary’s heart with the ready
response: “Behold, I am the bondslave of the Lord; be it done to me according
to Your word.” I want my life to show that I believe in Christmas, that with
God, all things are possible. I want to simply trust Him to do what He knows is
best for me, whatever that might look like. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How about you? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Zacharias or Mary?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One leads to a tongue tied in disbelief, a stunted
testimony.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other leads to a tongue loosed in praise and
testimony for all God has done. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Which do you choose? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br />Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-63291599869261052592021-10-20T13:37:00.000-07:002021-10-20T13:37:07.949-07:00Letters by a Modern Mystic by Frank Laubach<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEmLkqYRtoAIcvuxiFSMJe-wLyeQNjYFtuGnfxQp3nGdGkJ_xQuqFMXjjP59OHmDxZg5LXKF6-PhgburqUdNlkl61I-kO2qcxLc46AtIYz7SsDs8Vn2vnBAU4ym-y12t-XNbw4-IpGUf2/s293/LettersbyaModernMysticbookcover2021.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="200" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmEmLkqYRtoAIcvuxiFSMJe-wLyeQNjYFtuGnfxQp3nGdGkJ_xQuqFMXjjP59OHmDxZg5LXKF6-PhgburqUdNlkl61I-kO2qcxLc46AtIYz7SsDs8Vn2vnBAU4ym-y12t-XNbw4-IpGUf2/s0/LettersbyaModernMysticbookcover2021.webp" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> <i>You and you and you and I do experience fine fresh contact with God sometimes, </i><i>and do carry out His will sometimes. </i><i>One question now to be put to the test is this: </i><i>Can we have that contact with God all the time? </i><i>All the time awake, fall asleep in His arms, and awaken in His presence, can we attain that? </i><i>Can we do His will all the time? Can we think His thoughts all the time?</i> (19)</div><p></p><p>Seems a stretch, doesn't it? </p><p>To many of Laubach's missionary coworkers and fellow believers in Jesus, the notion of intentionally and consistently focusing on God throughout the day also seemed far-fetched, beyond what one can expect while living in this world, in this human body. They insisted that the demands of daily life simply require too much mental energy to maintain such a focus. </p><p>Yet in company with Brother Lawrence, Laubach launched out to conduct his own spiritual experiment.</p><p>What he discovered is that the mind actually can absorb two thoughts at a time, even while engaged in work and human relationships. The mind can think on God while talking to someone, while teaching, while writing, while working machinery, or conducting business. </p><p>But like most worthwhile pursuits, intentional focus on God takes practice. </p><p>Many failures, a few successes.</p><p>In time, ultimately forming a habit, one that ushered Laubach into a vastly new and fresh appreciation of and wonder at the person of God and how He shows up to speak to the listening soul.</p><p>Through creation. Through His Word. Through reflecting on Jesus Christ. </p><p>And yes, through the unexpected faces and gestures of impoverished Moros children in the Philippines where Laubach served as a missionary in the 1930s. </p><p>So enraptured was Laubach by the richness of God's daily presence that he journaled his experiment and shared it in book form. This tiny book is one to ponder over and return to often for encouragement to press into the reality of God moment by moment. Laubach includes practical tips in the appendix on ways to "win the game with minutes" as he phrases it. </p><p>Whether humming a hymn while fixing supper, meditating on a scripture while we drive, praying for those we pass as we take a walk, glimpsing a picture of Jesus on the wall, or whispering to God about every daily detail, we can grow in our awareness and fellowship with the God who created us, redeemed us through His Son, and delights in spending time with us. </p><p style="text-align: center;">Check out <i>Letters by a Modern Mystic</i> on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Letters-Modern-Mystic-Frank-Laubach/dp/1583310916/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=letters+by+a+modern+mystic&qid=1634759547&qsid=143-6520310-3608027&sr=8-1&sres=1583310916%2C1614273553%2C0281085838%2CB00N4EHLK6%2CB085HN8QS7%2C1614273685%2C1614273677%2C161427830X%2C0142196126%2C1939358221%2CB07XPDSCZB%2C0578807270%2C1934730068%2C0557709911%2C0823279472%2C0997484403&srpt=ABIS_BOOK">Amazon. </a></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-48962615099979939912021-09-21T07:13:00.000-07:002021-09-21T07:13:50.648-07:00Peace Be With You<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdsxp5wvKDMZ7SABgGWwrHkK6wawQB-Bz6uRSMQmbb9JlLeN3_VxBkSvEJI48JiRzvmXiWjXBeOqIxoQx9fad5-4LDBa5o8TeVaEUa2TpEAnT8WUhoaD_u8KXYVvybxI_s7ha8uc9-Hx6/s1599/storm-passing-free+images+David+Pyatt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1204" data-original-width="1599" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdsxp5wvKDMZ7SABgGWwrHkK6wawQB-Bz6uRSMQmbb9JlLeN3_VxBkSvEJI48JiRzvmXiWjXBeOqIxoQx9fad5-4LDBa5o8TeVaEUa2TpEAnT8WUhoaD_u8KXYVvybxI_s7ha8uc9-Hx6/w400-h301/storm-passing-free+images+David+Pyatt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">David Pyatt, Free Images<br /><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The mural in the room catches
my eye. Actually, it’s difficult not to see the picture since the image is
splayed across the wall of this first-grade Sunday school room where I happen
to teach creative writing to kids on Mondays. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With arms raised, hair
whipping about His face, Jesus stands in the boat, fearful followers gripping
the ledge, peering over the side at the turbulent waves. Written on the side of
the boat is U.S.S. PEACE. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">If you know the biblical
story, you know what happens—Jesus, the Creator of the wind and waves, says, “Peace,
be still!” Noted years ago by one of my college professors, a more literal
translation from the Greek is, “Shut up!” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And, of course, the
elements obeyed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I wish it were that
simple with my students, especially the young teens, who are testing me on many
levels. Yet when I walk into that classroom and see that mural, I smile, for
the same Creator God who spoke that dreadful day still speaks to calm turbulent
storms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In hearts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In a teacher who needs
courage to face kids.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In kids who need courage
to face their fears.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And there are many due to
broken homes, identity confusion, cultural lies they embrace and act out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Darkness swells and
swirls around them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But as I start the class
with prayer, I point to the mural and remind these troubled teens, many of whom
do not come from Christian homes, that Jesus can provide peace in the chaos.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Whatever the dark storm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With the amen, heads
lift, and eyes glimmer, just a spark . . . of hope. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That’s what Jesus does
when He stands in a boat and commands creation into stunned silence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">He shares a similar
sentiment when entering the room where the disciples huddle in fear after the
resurrection. In his gospel account, within the same chapter, John notes Jesus’
greeting on three separate occasions. “Peace be with you” (John, chapter 20).
How they needed to hear those comforting words in the midst of their fear and
confusion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">How we need to hear those
words in the midst of our fear and confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Jesus, our Creator and
Resurrected Savior, gives peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When He walks into our
heart’s room, He says, “Peace be with you.” Sometimes, when fears are large and
faith is small, He shouts, “Peace, be still!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Calm and courage flood
the heart. Perfect Love has entered the room and where Love is, fear cannot
flourish. Only peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh, my we allow the peace
of Christ to rule in our hearts, no matter the chaotic conditions. How He longs
to settle down within our hearts, settle <i>us</i> down as we invite Him to
make Himself at home.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-54579815242385303492021-09-02T08:38:00.000-07:002021-09-02T08:38:10.907-07:00The Power of Seasonal Stories <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8BohMd7UUDU_cWlJ1WsUjkYdhmzASmu1zFNMXEKKcI4Fb2ZA3FwoAUANEs1p_KWZKVAJoDiE7e-Ouoc9y13jXcvZJ9XBgi07fCtkidXqMoc_Ap7Wmt7PxddWeiCuaPqDBF4RP77CdT-B/s2048/AS6_9405-580AutumnsceneGraphicStockfree2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8BohMd7UUDU_cWlJ1WsUjkYdhmzASmu1zFNMXEKKcI4Fb2ZA3FwoAUANEs1p_KWZKVAJoDiE7e-Ouoc9y13jXcvZJ9XBgi07fCtkidXqMoc_Ap7Wmt7PxddWeiCuaPqDBF4RP77CdT-B/w400-h268/AS6_9405-580AutumnsceneGraphicStockfree2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">September is such a
lovely time of year</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">, I pondered during my morning Abba Walk.
Easy to say on this day of VA sunshine and cooler breeze gently sweeping my
hair from my face.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mama used to say September
was a sad time of year. I suspect that was because the season brought memories
of loved ones who’d died. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Interesting how one
season can generate positive feelings for one person but negative feelings for
another. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I wonder if that’s not
often the case with our seasons of life. Sunshine during childhood days for one
might be rain for another. Or likely for most of us, a combination of weather.
All of us can point to events, whether during childhood, teen years, young
adulthood, or even more recently, where the emotional imprint runs deep in our minds and hearts. If and when we share these memories with someone else, our faces alert
the listener to the imprint. We don’t have to alert our faces. The memory does that
for us. Eyes sparkle, skin glows when we recount happy moments. We may even lean
forward, reinforce excitement with hand gestures. On the other hand, brow
furrows, mouth sags when we recount sad or troubling moments. Our shoulders
droop, body may slump in the chair. The mere mention of the stormy event whips
us into defeat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">This is the power of
story. Our own or others. Life is made up of seasons which in turn produce stories.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It’s not really so much
about the happy, the sad, the tragic, or anything in-between. What’s
fundamental is what we do with those seasonal stories. Therein lies the power of redemption.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzfDH2i3LjErLJk332HbCSOF7gWZgSwpV8RX3ZjzFTBuo38vdmbzZ2hL_Z5YJCh240Imx34dsWc80Q9JPKrgcoj6MhnzY2h7oxvD9HyZYcdIowGxh2q8Ttg8W4_0756E1_Y_f5ItUc-eL/s960/a+boy+and+his+bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzfDH2i3LjErLJk332HbCSOF7gWZgSwpV8RX3ZjzFTBuo38vdmbzZ2hL_Z5YJCh240Imx34dsWc80Q9JPKrgcoj6MhnzY2h7oxvD9HyZYcdIowGxh2q8Ttg8W4_0756E1_Y_f5ItUc-eL/w400-h300/a+boy+and+his+bugs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">If we believe in a
sovereign God, and I do, who according to the psalmist has created us in His
image and has His hand on us from conception (Psalm 139), then events in our
lives take on meaning and purpose. While I didn’t choose to be born in a missionary
family or experience the death of my older brother when I was four years old, I
have learned over the years to lean into both of those dynamics with all the
particular nuances presented in both--the good, the bad, and the ugly, as they
say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Aware that according to
the Bible I live in a fallen world, and I’m one who contributes to that
fallenness by virtue of my inherent sin nature, I find it much easier to accept
the ramifications of a fallen world (Psalm 51:5; Genesis 8:21; Ephesians 2:1-3).
Because God gives sunshine and rain to all His creation, I can live in light of
Job’s words after tragedy struck: “Shall we accept good from God, and not
trouble?” (Job 2:10, NIV). Any outpouring of God’s goodness, on the just and unjust
alike, flows from His mercy and grace (Matthew 5:45). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I don’t know about you,
but that puts seasonal stories into perspective for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFH88hSrHQSx92j8Jw35INyEH89w1oFW9eVm0BMoZhPE-Lc6XqnrkK5O9NsbpgxgUfb7rLN206SLuHHlRKWTDRhezBSp_L8RD08KvArQajG0fZk9Q_arF_XFJooG38tEYJNK6CP5-JXXk7/s960/Two+girls+back+shot+looking+at+mountains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFH88hSrHQSx92j8Jw35INyEH89w1oFW9eVm0BMoZhPE-Lc6XqnrkK5O9NsbpgxgUfb7rLN206SLuHHlRKWTDRhezBSp_L8RD08KvArQajG0fZk9Q_arF_XFJooG38tEYJNK6CP5-JXXk7/w480-h640/Two+girls+back+shot+looking+at+mountains.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Creator God loves me. Loves
you. He created us for relationship with Him and with others.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">However, rebellion
against Him stemming from man’s original choice to sin in the Garden separated
us from Him, broke our relationship with Him and marred all other relationships
(Genesis 3:1-24). Thus, sin, sorrow, sickness, death, all things tragic,
entered the human landscape, with no hope of remedy apart from God’s intervention.
Though, sadly, we prideful humans have tried to restore that relationship
through our own fallen, broken efforts. Thus, the plethora of belief systems
generated by the angel of light, Satan, the great deceiver and latched onto by
our sinful hearts. In essence, all false belief systems boil down to good works,
which according to Scripture is nothing but filthy rags in God’s eyes (Isaiah
64:6; Romans 3:9-20). Only He, the Perfect One, the One who created us in His
image could restore what was lost (Colossians 1:20; 2 Corinthians 5:17).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYbWYEsjupZdFGNRsCmWNxZKZezoRVAoguS20Os5Wc7nwiO-M3rwOFW9vyI4IyTlhkWr8FFT1-9JCgBtXFZfgkMICbqjvVQcCgBmdv2GOoFMRBj1Ud1tRtrv9u18YV6zjltWXsnnx_nDV/s2048/a-man-walking-towards-a-cross-with-sunbeams_HmbcR0Zx0GraphicStockfree2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYbWYEsjupZdFGNRsCmWNxZKZezoRVAoguS20Os5Wc7nwiO-M3rwOFW9vyI4IyTlhkWr8FFT1-9JCgBtXFZfgkMICbqjvVQcCgBmdv2GOoFMRBj1Ud1tRtrv9u18YV6zjltWXsnnx_nDV/w400-h400/a-man-walking-towards-a-cross-with-sunbeams_HmbcR0Zx0GraphicStockfree2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So, in His mercy and
grace and longing to reestablish relationship with us, the ones on whom He set
His love, He devised a plan to restore us to relationship with Him and with
each other. That plan involved the entire Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—each
playing a part to call us back Home to His great heart (2 Corinthians 5:19). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Redemption involved
sacrifice, because agape, God’s love, equals sacrifice (John 3:16). The Father
gave the Son to be the Savior of the world. The Holy Spirit ignites faith in
our hearts to believe and receive His great gift of salvation (1 John 4:14; John
16:8-11; 1 Peter 1:2-9). He then makes us into a new creation in Christ and goes
to work reshaping us into the image of His dear Son (Romans 8:29). This will
take a lifetime and will be fully realized when we finally see Him face to face
(1 John 3:2). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Only in relationship with
God through Christ can we fully appreciate, and yes, redeem our seasonal stories.
Prayerfully, the good stories call us to marvel in God’s gracious gifts and
take note of what He wants to say to us through them. The sad, yes, tragic,
stories call us to remember we live in a fallen world, of which we contribute,
but that in the vast fallenness, God longs to redeem that season’s story for
use in His glorious, larger Kingdom story. Perhaps to comfort others with the comfort
which He has given us (2 Corinthians 1:3-5). Perhaps to bring us running into
His arms, relying on Him again, which is the only, truly safe place to be,
regardless of what season we live through. Perhaps the specific season is for a
reason known only to Him. So, we choose to trust in the foundational, anchor
truth: He loves us and in the mystery of His workings, only takes us through the
weather that is ultimately best for us. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When brought to the Cross
and empowered by the Resurrection (new life in Christ). every story can
ultimately, will ultimately, blossom into spring. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-19693155897875641922021-07-02T13:29:00.000-07:002024-03-27T06:55:21.581-07:00The Other Side of Stillness<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>My Abba Walk took me to the quiet places, where surrounded by an abundance of towering green, all was peace and rest. Nothing, no one, could touch me here, save God alone. No cultural chaos, calamity, short-tempered person, or stressful daily detail could hamper the soothing stillness where the only sounds were birdsong and rustling leaves. </p><p>God speaks in the quiet places, and I longed to hear Him as I meditated on the scripture I'd read that morning. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSNrDaykDf3AWy7MWdkhHpoTMqlKZL-qU9IpIAE1v-IBl04bR91YgkBH1jaIXcwycwppCuwLlr-sit1mEHFAoVCnepXj3Ud32nfdDNHzV2f8soZb6tvK_gpvjmEK3v96xwju8exD8fLdq/s2048/Woman+with+tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1319" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSNrDaykDf3AWy7MWdkhHpoTMqlKZL-qU9IpIAE1v-IBl04bR91YgkBH1jaIXcwycwppCuwLlr-sit1mEHFAoVCnepXj3Ud32nfdDNHzV2f8soZb6tvK_gpvjmEK3v96xwju8exD8fLdq/w412-h640/Woman+with+tree.jpg" width="412" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I sat on a stone ledge to soak up the sun and pour my heart out to Jesus. I paused to listen and in the gap, He broke into my thoughts: "I speak in the suffering places, too, if you have ears to hear."</p><p>Stunned, my heart lurched. Certainly, the thought of suffering was not a new one. I'd experienced Jesus before in noisy, confusing affliction. Well-fought for closer relationship with Jesus with much grappling but always the richer for it. </p><p>But suffering was not what I wanted to be reminded of on this fine day. "No, Lord, I don't want to hear that today," I agonized. "It's too much of an intrusion on this peaceful place. You don't understand. Nothing's supposed to touch me here in the quiet places with You, not even the <i>thought</i> of suffering. How could you wound me so with these words?"</p><p>On the way home, I lingered at my Gethsemane tree to embrace the sacrifice of struggle and ultimately surrender. My peaceful place returned, for it really isn't a geographical location at all but a place deep in the heart. </p><p>Yet the physical trek provides opportunity for a focused heart, a ready heart. Still, the next day I hesitated to take my Abba Walk. I felt offended, shocked even by the Lord's message the day before. Another call to surrender. Once done, I set out, for I cherish the calming influence of creation which frees me from daily distractions that pester like needy children tugging on my pant leg. </p><p>A couple days later, I awoke with a sense of foreboding, which even my walk and talk with Jesus did not alleviate. Returning home, I emailed three women who responded with prayer and encouragement. The nebulous feeling largely lifted. Then turning to Psalms (my go-to book when troubling emotions surface), I came to 3:3: "Oh Lord, You are a shield around me. My glory, and the lifter of my head." Peace replaced panic as God's Word nourished and reassured my soul. </p><p>Another couple days passed. When we Skyped with our missionary granddaughter (Rebekah), we learned she'd experienced a moto accident. Cycle fell over on her. She got back on, caught her foot, and cycle dragged her through the dirt lot before Dad could stop it. Leg abrasion and injured foot. Sore and unsure if broken. </p><p>A few days later, I, too, experienced a motor accident. While driving through a green light, a car ran a red light and slammed into the driver's side back bumper, causing my car to spin. Glasses flew off, I screamed, and then came to a stop in the intersection. Pain ripped through my chest. Dazed, I inched the clinking car across the road and parked in the GettyMart lot. </p><p>I opened the door for air. A couple pumping gas immediately approached me. She on her phone, he asking diagnostic questions. They'd witnessed the whole thing. Thankfully. </p><p>The man went for my husband, Chuck (at home in a teletherapy session which he'd just concluded). They arrived at the scene, along with a neighbor, whom I'd only met days earlier. In kindness, she offered to help. </p><p>The owner of the garden supply store across the street also rushed over. She was a nurse, walked me through deep breathing and assessment of injuries. Chest in great deal of pain. EMT/ambulance arrived and police (gave her report). Jeff (a believer according to Chuck's later report) treated me with such care and compassion as did Marcus, his younger partner on call. Transport to hospital where the PA ordered testing and ultimately diagnosed an upper chest contusion. Rest, ice, compress, elevate on Day one, followed by rest and heat thereafter as needed. At home, we called our herbalist who prescribed additional supplements to support self-healing.</p><p>Now to get strength back and renewed courage to get behind the wheel again (Joshua 1:9) when I'm physically able. </p><p>The foreboding? Perhaps God's way of preparing me with prayer and scripture. Such peace knowing He is my shield. Yes! For the event could've been so much worse, as was true for Rebekah. In her case, a later x-ray showed no broken bones. </p><p>The Lord is indeed a shield around us. How many times He'd spared me, us, from accidents, either at the hands of others or due to our own negligence. On this day, in the mystery of His workings, He chose not to. And in truth, while I still wouldn't choose suffering, neither would I trade the richer experience with Him in the midst of the suffering. Nor the opportunity to witness of His love to others He pulls around in a crisis that I may never have met otherwise. Not to mention the beauty of the Body of Christ at work ministering to one of its own. </p><p>Yes, the Lord does speak in the stillness <i>and</i> on the other side of stillness, for those with ears to hear. </p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-61043967496844722282021-06-19T13:26:00.000-07:002021-06-19T13:26:24.766-07:00The One Great Love<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrisItl82hU6mNpKdnZVke0mSqAScJQXJMPIj_g2nfaOQ8on7ewKaXG1DZ9rasCzphJnqxPnUtnSdQB2jT9jxy6t1JO71JkWP3NXmUXtwyv0qjO5LxJ8cYpRUB6FkycFqHA4A0Cv1DmDT/s2048/WomanrelaxingbySeaGraphicStockfree2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrisItl82hU6mNpKdnZVke0mSqAScJQXJMPIj_g2nfaOQ8on7ewKaXG1DZ9rasCzphJnqxPnUtnSdQB2jT9jxy6t1JO71JkWP3NXmUXtwyv0qjO5LxJ8cYpRUB6FkycFqHA4A0Cv1DmDT/w400-h266/WomanrelaxingbySeaGraphicStockfree2017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Years ago, the Holy
Spirit captivated my heart with the thought that the Lord is my relentless
Lover, intent on a deeply personal and profound relationship with me rather than merely adherence to a set of rules, a message so easily internalized when growing up
in the Christian fundamentalist community (Matt.11:28-30). I knew God had more
for me in relationship with Him than I had experienced up to that point, but I
was still blocked by much from the past. <o:p></o:p><p></p></div></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGronBGm2_JnLcFue905t3MV0nCY1rA-awPYfgH3uqcYLs6jQ3MyzYQM3kNjEOYJnuxDRAc86p-hu52OidYRFK5TlNSS72j5ZUZ79k5z1HhgSP4ZzifpECINsxULB1rGmVcw4av_c4kFfw/s1657/white+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1451" data-original-width="1657" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGronBGm2_JnLcFue905t3MV0nCY1rA-awPYfgH3uqcYLs6jQ3MyzYQM3kNjEOYJnuxDRAc86p-hu52OidYRFK5TlNSS72j5ZUZ79k5z1HhgSP4ZzifpECINsxULB1rGmVcw4av_c4kFfw/w320-h280/white+horse.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The visual of Christ
riding out of heaven on a white horse with me and all saints following Him on
mounts was one I held fast to my heart (Rev.19:11-16). It smacked of fairy
tales come true. My Prince. <i>The</i> Prince, Faithful and True, the Word of
God, King of Kings, and Lord of Lords. Such a majestic, powerful, penetrating,
and yes, sobering scene. Of settling the score for all time. Of love. Of
adventure. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The stuff of stories, all
of which emanate from the One Grand Love Story. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">From God Himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Sometime during that period, I read a novel by
Robin Jones Gunn which profiled a verse her grandfather had shared with her as
a teen—Zephaniah 3:17: “</span><span style="color: #111111;">The LORD your God is
with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in
his love he will no longer rebuke you but will rejoice over you with singing”
(NIV). Certainly, a prophetic glimpse in reference to Israel but also a heart
reality for the believer in Christ who is resting in the arms of Love. A Love
which quiets, comforts, reassures, motivates, exults. A Scripture that placed
me deeper into mutual affection with the living God. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTwGSfGPUkEk0iCqRvzccz76O-qVyO9yqYjQGO7b1rEW_3tFI4lvFTdkVPYIn0OYUjkwpJYYLcO22kJXrBbOy6QfEephOMehz12szIGRJQIcRB-x6TWLKWwWFxN1rMHVg539P2qGcbdII/s130/woman+reading+Bible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="130" data-original-width="130" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTwGSfGPUkEk0iCqRvzccz76O-qVyO9yqYjQGO7b1rEW_3tFI4lvFTdkVPYIn0OYUjkwpJYYLcO22kJXrBbOy6QfEephOMehz12szIGRJQIcRB-x6TWLKWwWFxN1rMHVg539P2qGcbdII/w400-h400/woman+reading+Bible.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Still, that intentional awareness came in spurts. But God in His
faithful wooing continued working to deepen my appreciation for His love. Out of
dark places, the Holy Spirit led me on a scriptural quest to restructure my
concept of the Father’s love. This “seeking His face” (Ps.27:8) resulted in
further healing.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">Yet, I was so busy writing and speaking to other women that God’s
personal message to me got “packaged” for others but lost under layers of
service <i>for</i> Him rather than enjoyed <i>with</i> Him on a regular basis. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">Quiet places of contemplation before Him, yes, but perhaps too quickly
turned into the next devotional, article, speech, or book. For someone else. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">Nevertheless, in all fairness to God’s faithfulness, even the process
of writing laid groundwork for God’s deeper work still to come in my
heart. Praise Him—He uses all things! Even when we’re not looking. In fact, sometimes
it’s only in the looking back that we can see how. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">This grace gift of Love from the Father of lights deepened further
when the Holy Spirit led me to study Song of Solomon with focus not on earthly
marriage but on my marriage to Christ, of all things. This rich poetic
immersion into marital intimacy was not the place (the book) where I expected
to discover so much of Jesus’ profound and intimate love for me as my
Bridegroom. But I did. Since then I have returned to that beautiful book often,
especially when I sense I’m drifting from His arms, at least in my awareness;
for in reality, He is always holding me, even when I am unaware of it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">So, you can imagine my joy when another book came on my radar recently
which reinforces my love journey with Christ. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">FREE: Rescued from Shame-based Religion, Released into the Life-giving
Love of Jesus by J. Kevin Butcher reaffirms so much of what I’ve been thinking
for some time. That the God who is a real Person deeply loves and delights in
me and wants to be with me in a mutually satisfying love relationship, not out
of duty, shame, and fear, but out of freeing love. This “abiding in His love”
(John, chapter 15) forgives, heals, protects, empowers, motivates toward holy
living, and frees us to dwell in His life-giving embrace all the way Home and
invite others to come along with us. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Pa8F1zTF84MWn0d2qKjT7dsBxRWGCMNCeHGcmlXwVvSp0qbUtuHYAEkBRLCiCKQVrBgiLaYArr9OMTp5PrmMw6ejq_w-6XHMCHVXKPPcaioZnIjoOOrWQzdg3vlx6EVbMXIVW7p7cMVY/s499/FREE+by+Butcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Pa8F1zTF84MWn0d2qKjT7dsBxRWGCMNCeHGcmlXwVvSp0qbUtuHYAEkBRLCiCKQVrBgiLaYArr9OMTp5PrmMw6ejq_w-6XHMCHVXKPPcaioZnIjoOOrWQzdg3vlx6EVbMXIVW7p7cMVY/w268-h400/FREE+by+Butcher.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">While Butcher acknowledges that spiritual disciplines such as Bible
reading/study and prayer, to name two, are crucial to Christian growth, he
insists that these are meant to flow out of love for Jesus, not obligation nor mere
formulaic plan. The Scripture is fleshed out in relationship with Jesus and in
the healing community of His Body. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">A Dallas Theological Seminary grad, former pastor, and now founder and
director of Rooted Ministries, Butcher encourages pastors and their families,
having emerged from a past of “just do it” Christianity himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;">While I disagree with a couple minor doctrinal issues in FREE, I don’t
find that these detract from the rich meaty premise of the book. I recommend
FREE to any Christ-follower who longs to live in the freedom God’s love
provides and model that freedom to others. </span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Free-Shame-Based-Religion-Released-Life-Giving/dp/1641582596/ref=sr_1_1?crid=LQCH87BG8PJO&dchild=1&keywords=free+by+j.+kevin+butcher&qid=1624129228&sprefix=FREE+by+J.+kevin+butcher%2Caps%2C230&sr=8-1" rel="nofollow" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">View on Amazon.</a></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #111111;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-90487887906510414162021-03-23T13:44:00.000-07:002021-03-23T13:44:35.869-07:00Stories That Ask for More<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeoreU6kAF-En0tVpRRxHTH9u-4SSTG60a9lJa5dJwoTpd_XEgiJuijMZjLQJHShyphenhyphenMTDgivWWOk75cHzovgQbeLuHM6onhoRIXsrnvNtWjnpiFe1MEP5IH-eb3wfZiE7Ul7E5cAbeGrRP/s1080/StudentwithbookandpupWarandPeaceAnnaleigh2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeoreU6kAF-En0tVpRRxHTH9u-4SSTG60a9lJa5dJwoTpd_XEgiJuijMZjLQJHShyphenhyphenMTDgivWWOk75cHzovgQbeLuHM6onhoRIXsrnvNtWjnpiFe1MEP5IH-eb3wfZiE7Ul7E5cAbeGrRP/s320/StudentwithbookandpupWarandPeaceAnnaleigh2020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Have you ever asked yourself why you
read?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe you love a good mystery simply
for the delicious spine-tingling suspense, or a horror story for the sheer
terror the villain evokes. Perhaps you enjoy a love story that makes you feel
all warm inside. You might be a reader whose strong intellect craves material
that makes you think or reason through a situation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I dare say, most of us read first
and foremost for enjoyment or to glean information. Only students read because
they have to in order to pass the test or write the paper. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, reading is one of the supreme
pleasures of life. You avid readers understand this.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the other side of the coin, as a
writer of both fiction and nonfiction, I often ponder where my responsibility
begins and ends with readers. Yes, I want to produce a story that keeps the
reader turning pages. Yet, as a Christian writer who serves the King of Kings,
is that where my job ends?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t think so. Personally, I feel
compelled through my writings to build awareness and move to action. In the
course of the reading, I want the reader to identify with a scripture, an
insight, a character, or a situation in a way that invites change, either small
or great. I also want to write words that heal hurting hearts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I read. A lot. In order to write
effectively, one must read voraciously.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In my book travels, I’ve read some
works, even Christian books, that amount to little more than entertainment. I’m
left with nothing to grapple with that stimulates personal growth. These are
often books that do well, even hit the bestseller’s list. I wager a guess it’s
because they require so little of the reader.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>May I challenge you—both readers and
writers alike?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Get on your face before God and ask
Him to guide you in your choice of reading material. Refuse to settle for
fluff, for books that merely entertain without moving you toward a decision or
out of your comfort zone and toward action. Two such novels in my recent
reading history are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scared</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Priceless</i> by Tom Davis, founder of
Children’s HopeChest. Not only are these works great fiction, but they detail
the plight of African orphans and trafficked victims. Highly recommended, by
the way!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God loves books. If He didn’t, He
wouldn’t have authored the Bible. Since His desire is to transform us into the
image of Christ, He wants us to choose reading material (and write words) that
requires something of us, that asks for more than a fluttery heart or a good
time or even gained knowledge. He delights in words that bring life and
healing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So should we. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-72542028505435577992021-02-10T13:53:00.000-08:002021-02-10T13:53:25.635-08:00Mary Had a Little Lamb <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kG80cIPhonRJTbX0dTNDGcblPsIVwCY-T3daIa9A42EZujc8-QF20-rNpyw_8dv9fKnhJaFAigROmpHi8aWi3YwxpdaaGnrl9c-suQtnkAaKj_pVyyFp4xNsVeVWre_xtWSwH7Bm9RPN/s1880/Lambpexels-photo-678444.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1255" data-original-width="1880" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kG80cIPhonRJTbX0dTNDGcblPsIVwCY-T3daIa9A42EZujc8-QF20-rNpyw_8dv9fKnhJaFAigROmpHi8aWi3YwxpdaaGnrl9c-suQtnkAaKj_pVyyFp4xNsVeVWre_xtWSwH7Bm9RPN/w480-h312/Lambpexels-photo-678444.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;">Photo by </span><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.pexels.com/@katlovessteve?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;">Kat Jayne</a></span><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"> from </span><span style="background-color: #e8e8e8; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1a; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "segoe ui", roboto, oxygen, cantarell, "helvetica neue", ubuntu, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: start;"><a href="https://www.pexels.com/photo/gray-sheep-678444/?utm_content=attributionCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pexels" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;">Pexels</a></span></p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I remember her in black,
though offhand, this memory may do her an injustice. Though dark her clothing,
her countenance shone kindness, gentleness. Life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">This was Miss Mary. Long time supporter and encourager of
the children’s ministry God led my Daddy into as a young man. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNfEgMH12v2LuW4GTzdErCod6Flk9GUGcxBDZFm9pyK95v_-L3cWu9h4lSoLbnUrLzhDOGFRNN9WZGSTlOWfCuTsAimRDNsMo9PLM_Qmh0Z53FRmkj0-nK1VZC_tTr32CPQzJ7mmCRtTN/s749/PlantsatWindowpexels-photo-3965563.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNfEgMH12v2LuW4GTzdErCod6Flk9GUGcxBDZFm9pyK95v_-L3cWu9h4lSoLbnUrLzhDOGFRNN9WZGSTlOWfCuTsAimRDNsMo9PLM_Qmh0Z53FRmkj0-nK1VZC_tTr32CPQzJ7mmCRtTN/s320/PlantsatWindowpexels-photo-3965563.jpeg" /></a></div>At her call to come in, Daddy and I stepped over the
threshold into her kitchen. Her back turned, Miss Mary bustled about, readying
refreshments. A tea kettle spewed steam. A random assortment of dishes lined
the counter. Over the sink, vines trailed a sunny window. Cats, so many cats,
curled in and out of her stocking clad legs. Somehow, she managed not to step
on them with the thick heels of her black shoes. The laced ones worn by older
women in the 1960s. A bun loosely twisted at the back of her head appeared as a
cotton puff. Wisps of white stuck out here and there. <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When she pivoted with tray in hand, she smiled, and with
a nudge of her head, directed us to follow her into the living room, cats and
kittens on her heels. What a strange mix of scent—the spice of pumpkin pie with
the strong odor of cat. Made me wince. Yet, her storybook house and demeanor
held such fascination, I was caught in their spell.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJXg9kI41kv8rjQoYcDGS_jQ_zmCPZaOR61Ek32Df9cCirJYp7J0wh6FSSn49avj7M0d6RlXXJWzDBHH0E1pfOc0883l9C-AXujv-LcwmiEmlTXAGLa8wFT4HOzBIYranps53CfRwKWvc/s2048/Antiqueclockdresserpexels-photo-285857.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJXg9kI41kv8rjQoYcDGS_jQ_zmCPZaOR61Ek32Df9cCirJYp7J0wh6FSSn49avj7M0d6RlXXJWzDBHH0E1pfOc0883l9C-AXujv-LcwmiEmlTXAGLa8wFT4HOzBIYranps53CfRwKWvc/w320-h249/Antiqueclockdresserpexels-photo-285857.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We moved into the adjacent room, shadowed by drawn blinds
with only a flicker of sunlight creeping through an open slat. She set the
wooden tray on the antique coffee table. Formality otherwise cast aside, for we
were frequent visitors, Daddy and I settled on the sofa, a burgundy velvet with
wooden trim, richly oiled, but whose seat was anything but comfortable. I
inwardly yelped when I shifted, and a spring dug into my bottom. Still, I
reveled in the intrigue of the room as I nibbled on my pie, Daddy and Miss Mary
chatting to the backdrop of a ticking clock. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I loved making ministry calls with
my Daddy, especially when he did all the talking and I could simply enjoy the
ambience each visit presented.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">However, on occasion, Miss Mary would pause, focus on me
with twinkling eyes, and ask a question. Like grownups do who are trying to
draw out a shy child. Which I certainly was around adults. I’d burrow into
Daddy, and he would pat my knee. Words froze on my tongue. Still, Miss Mary,
like most adults, would smile and laugh, and pass off my reticence with some
reassuring excuse.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Yes!
Back to my pie in peace.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Then, as if seeking to win me over, Miss Mary sprang
something on me, something I’m guessing she knew I couldn’t resist.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“I
have a little lamb,” she said, smoothing a hand over her lap, signaling several
cats to hop aboard.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">My
eyebrows shot up, and I scooted to the edge of the sofa.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’s
right.” She glimmered at me with cocked head. “And I sure need help feeding
him. Sadly, his mother died. He’s so little, he still needs to take a bottle.
Would you like to give him his bottle?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Would
I! I’d never fed a lamb before. Would I do it right? Would he eat for me? But
here was Miss Mary inviting me to feed her little lamb, so she must trust me,
at least enough.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
looked up at Daddy. He nodded his head, a signal to go for it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_ClI6cVvzGqeDg-K77WOXlJU1ZmzF7AKYgFtJImiKP3kRElQXGy-nMxS92bxT22XQ8MAEwNWyNTlEOF4vzJoSyIUuTmufRvCoFaD5cafYkLOUZAfT730-9l0wO9iOSW5wSXyKop-10sq/s1300/Lambingrasspexels-photo-891607.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBDz6AhzfyqtT2DN9UXurla5bjbSAcx2r1sjnHja7eMhyphenhyphenLPcidsls38m2gHYiZyVkkHngmWjYbBxqbfA7xfjcchOqA72CchKqx7EkXYj5vooRUEbswbdRNNQlkAjDjkmasUPK8bh_Mnld/s1300/Lambingrasspexels-photo-891607.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="867" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwBDz6AhzfyqtT2DN9UXurla5bjbSAcx2r1sjnHja7eMhyphenhyphenLPcidsls38m2gHYiZyVkkHngmWjYbBxqbfA7xfjcchOqA72CchKqx7EkXYj5vooRUEbswbdRNNQlkAjDjkmasUPK8bh_Mnld/s320/Lambingrasspexels-photo-891607.jpeg" /></a></span></div><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Beaming, I followed Miss Mary out to the barn where she gathered up the
little lamb into her arms. “Sit down on the ground.” She motioned to a soft
grassy spot. I obeyed, and she lowered the lamb into my outstretched arms. A
milk bottle followed. The lamb instinctively lunged for the nibble and started
sucking. The power in that suckling infant overwhelmed me at first, but I held
fast to the tiny creature. I felt at peace. For those few moments, the world
stilled, and the only creatures who existed were that little lamb and me. Years
later, I experienced a similar phenomenon with my own suckling infant girls, so
vulnerable, so dependent on me for nourishment. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I
don’t remember ever feeding Miss Mary’s little lamb after that day, but the
memory remains of a kind lady who loved her animals, my Daddy, me, and a host
of other children in Johnson County. One orphaned child she took in and raised
as her own, though she was a single woman.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Undergirding
her life was her love for Jesus, presented more in action than in words. Her
kindness and gentleness for all creatures showed me the Good Shepherd who also
became the Lamb of God who took away the sin of the world, my sin, and welcomed
this little lamb into His everlasting arms. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p>
</p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span> </p><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-45180094724473620752021-02-03T12:54:00.001-08:002021-02-03T12:54:53.949-08:00Your Favorite Prayer Posture <p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUlMurCfCzCJQ8kh7_fKt7Bd7KvjQlJ5nnoRnSnPiAYZSHh8bRt2EGkXm6YWygY7ljWVtQnz3NFFvjbqXyQphm4HIhRA8lhg5rwBunPZjFfFuDCcIUD1ORGFJ_9mMYbWuQonUBLuklvYq/s1280/Praying+Hands+by+Alan+Eno+Free+images+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKUlMurCfCzCJQ8kh7_fKt7Bd7KvjQlJ5nnoRnSnPiAYZSHh8bRt2EGkXm6YWygY7ljWVtQnz3NFFvjbqXyQphm4HIhRA8lhg5rwBunPZjFfFuDCcIUD1ORGFJ_9mMYbWuQonUBLuklvYq/w394-h321/Praying+Hands+by+Alan+Eno+Free+images+2020.jpg" width="394" /></a></div><p></p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; text-indent: 0.5in;">Prayer postures. Been thinking more about that lately.</span></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><p>
</p><p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">When I reflect on my childhood, I can visualize Mama faithfully
kneeling by her bed after breakfast, door ajar. I now wonder if she left the
door open in hopes that I would see and model her prayer life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Daddy, on the other hand, prayed in solitude, either in his home
office or I suspect on the long morning walks he routinely took around our
mountain. I chuckle now, but I sometimes wonder if he was talking to the Lord in
the bathroom at times. For Daddy, prayer truly was a continual conversation
with Jesus. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Bible characters prayed in a variety of ways, too. I think of Abraham
who enjoyed such a rich friendship with God that he walked and talked with the
pre-incarnate Christ (Genesis, chapter 18). Consider Daniel who in Jewish
fashion, prayed three times a day while kneeling before an open window which
faced his beloved Jerusalem (Daniel 6:10). And David, shepherd boy turned king,
who wrote and gifted us beautiful, meaningful poetic prayers and praises, many
of which I suspect he penned with back braced against an olive tree while gazing
at God’s creation (see the Psalms). Later, Jesus models a lifestyle of prayer
with frequent trips to the mountains for alone time with His Father (i.e. Luke
6:12). At Lazarus’ tomb, He lifts His eyes toward heaven and talks with His
Father in the hearing of the mourners (John 11:41-42). Paul writes that he bows
his knees to the Father of the Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 3:14). To Timothy,
he exhorts all men to pray, lifting holy hands (1 Timothy 2:8). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Prayer posture is not the emphasis of Scripture, however. Heart
posture is. Clean hands and a pure heart are prerequisites to engaging God in
the holy of holies, which was made possible through Christ’s atoning work on
the cross (Psalm 24:3-4; 1 John 2:2). Praise the Lord for that torn veil that
provides 24/7 access into the very throne room of God (Hebrews 10:20). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Prayer posture can vary according to individual preferences. If I come
with respect, awe, and wonder before God, I may do so with any posture.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">At times, I like to kneel and gaze up through the window at the sky.
In my mind’s eye, I’m kneeling at Jesus’ feet, holding His hand as I look into
His gentle, reassuring eyes. At other times, I like to write out my prayers and
praises in my journal. One of my favorite prayer postures is talking to Jesus
while walking or jumping on the rebounder which, yep, faces the window. I
wonder if Enoch who enjoyed such intimate fellowship with God also liked to literally
walk and talk with Him, and one day just kept right on walking into heaven. Sometimes,
I stand in front of the window, raise my arms in prayer and praise to my
Father. On rare occasion, I lie prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched, but
not that often, since I don’t like the way the carpet smells or the kink I get
in my neck. Hey, that’s just me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">😊</span><span style="color: #333333;"> Sometimes, I sit down at the piano and pour my heart out
to Him through music. Still other times I type out email prayers to encourage
others. And I join in corporate prayer with other ladies (that’s you gals!). So
many possibilities! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Perhaps you’ve read this or a version of this: The story is told of a
man who placed a chair by his sick bed. Day after day, he imagined Jesus
sitting in that chair while the two of them talked together. One person who
didn’t know of his practice thought he was talking out of his head (think
Hannah in the O.T. whose mouth moved in prayer but with no sound. Eli thought
she was drunk!). One day, the man’s caregiver approached his bedside. The man’s
body still lay in the bed, but his head rested in the chair. He was dead. But oh,
so very alive in Jesus, as he possibly laid his head in Jesus’ lap, then was safely
ushered to heaven. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Yes, indeed, so many ways to pray.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">What’s one of your favorite prayer postures? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">How does this posture help you sense the reality of God’s presence?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;">Share your thoughts in the comment box below to encourage others. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="background: white; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-69740394828844021872021-01-04T14:13:00.000-08:002021-01-04T14:13:13.086-08:00A New Year. A New View. <p> A new year. A new view. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="Photo by Cottonbro from Pexels" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBX20UTfpxP08d7JJBZUUxwnAI0ho_3YCMVVhmXplerAtIKTnlsRhamKp37y__cuAEUyRqtqGY5FsK1OK7cG6rkPURHaFbHbLQ_9z4BLm7JDL9JRdHa9YgSEdcQfglO9bKLh9yjlrwBCS_/w400-h266/ViewfromWindowpexels2020.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Literally. </p><p>Since I handed over my office to hubby when he came home to work in April, I moved my makeshift office to our living room, then more recently to an upstairs guestroom. On New Year's Eve, I decided to move my portable office to our bedroom. Now my card table with laptop, writing and teaching materials, sits in front of a window facing our back woods. </p><p>Already I've witnessed squirrels at play, a beautiful display of fireworks, a coyote ambling through on his way to who knows where, Woody Woodpecker and his smaller cousins, plus a host of other bird varieties, and a rainbow. I thought I'd feel a bit cloistered in my new location. Not yet, anyway. Not with such an amazing view. </p><p>That simple switch reminds me that my view, my perspective, on life will be what I choose to make it in this new year. </p><p>Many say they are relieved to close the curtain on 2020 with all its trials and chaos, that perhaps things will be different, take a decided turn for the better. </p><p>Maybe. "Hope springs eternal," Alexander Pope once wrote. </p><p>Yet, in reality, I don't anticipate things getting better, not culturally anyway. But that needn't influence my internal view. I like to call it an <i>eternal</i> view. </p><p>It's exciting as a believer in Christ to realize that God's timetable is playing out. That we are closer than ever to Jesus' return. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx84NPdbXnWOO2BM-fhplP2uGrXAVDQdoqAvKIrIL1peRj0JvtbvrdfuAwjuXu_nnB-kAO886j7Il6SNl_lzPDv-MBUPNFhWkccZjTz6mK4Hj-bwQKuRJYydduhEwh1xDwEbHEYtdJTuYb/s667/handtowardrainbow2020pexels.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx84NPdbXnWOO2BM-fhplP2uGrXAVDQdoqAvKIrIL1peRj0JvtbvrdfuAwjuXu_nnB-kAO886j7Il6SNl_lzPDv-MBUPNFhWkccZjTz6mK4Hj-bwQKuRJYydduhEwh1xDwEbHEYtdJTuYb/w300-h400/handtowardrainbow2020pexels.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />"Come, Lord Jesus, come!"<p></p><p>Today would be great.</p><p>Still, I know there are so many yet to enter into God's mercy, grace, and eternal life provided through Jesus Christ.</p><p>So, I pray for God's help as I share Him with those I encounter daily. That He would turn their hearts toward Home. </p><p>As I return to 1 Corinthians for my personal study and time with Jesus, I'm reminded that "'no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him,' but God has revealed it to us by his Spirit" (1 Cor. 2:9-10 NIV).</p><p>Thank You, God, for revealing Your wisdom of the gospel through Your Spirit to hearts who have received You.</p><p>My heart is one of them. And while I don't know every nuance of what You have prepared for Your people, for me, I know what You have revealed through Your Word.</p><p>And it is overwhelmingly good stuff! Even now before heaven.</p><p>According to Ephesians, chapter one, we're already positionally seated in the heavenlies with You, chosen, holy, forgiven, the praise of Your glory, given peace, lavished upon by the riches of Your grace (I love this one), sealed by Your Spirit until we see You face to face and live forever in Your presence. </p><p>Your presence . . . </p><p>It is enough just knowing I will finally be with You in person. Whatever bells and whistles heaven provides otherwise is do-da in light of seeing You at last. </p><p>I love you, Lord, and even now in my imagination, I see myself kneeling at Your feet, Your hand in mine, kissing Your hand, thanking You for saving me, bringing me safely Home. Then you lift my head, cup my face in Your hands, and with the beam of Your smile brighter than anything I've ever experienced, You lift me up, and I stand as a joint-heir with You. Without you saying anything, I know this is true. Your confidence surges through me in that moment . . . </p><p>"You are my glory, and the lifter of my head," David reminds me in Psalm 3:3.</p><p>"I am my Beloved's and he is mine," as Chuck and I have delved deeply into since early September with our methodical, rich and sweet time in the Song of Solomon. How that love letter from God has nourished our couple relationship and our individual relationships with Jesus. What a precious poetic call to slow down, take time and care with these vital relationships. </p><p>So, yes, the view out my window is fun, even spectacular at times, but it can't compare to what God in Christ has accomplished in my heart and the plan He has for my future with Him. </p><p>This God-given view creates hope that does indeed spring eternal! For me, and all who take hold of life in Christ, that eternal view will make 2021 worth living. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-81977524517325836852020-11-10T07:13:00.000-08:002020-11-10T07:13:07.347-08:00Not Locked in Fear, Liberated by His Spirit!
It is good for the heart to be strengthened by grace . . . <div><br /></div><div>Not locked in fear, but liberated by His Spirit!
</div><div><br /></div><div>Lots of thoughts have passed through my noggin lately. I suspect that has been true for you as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I filter those thoughts through God's Word, He reaffirms again the power of prayer in the lives of Old Testament saints, like Daniel, New Testament saints, like Paul, and contemporary saints like us (those who have received Jesus as Savior and Lord)! </div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, He reaffirmed in my heart Paul's charge to young Timothy . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>"First of all, then, I urge that entreaties and prayers, petitions and thanksgivings, be made on behalf of all men, for kings and all who are in authority, in order that we may lead a tranquil and quiet life in all godliness and dignity. This is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all men to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. For there is one God, and one mediator also between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave Himself as a ransom for all, the testimony borne at the proper time" (I Timothy 2:1-6).</div><div><br /></div><div>Notice how many times the word "all" appears in this passage. I'm especially struck with the reminder that God desires ALL men to be saved. I feel the Holy Spirit's gentle rebuke with His recurring question: "Eileen, are you more interested in praying that God would thwart evil or that He would change hearts? After all, the remedy for evil is heart transformation. Pray for those you are concerned about, that they will come to the knowledge of the truth and be saved."
</div><div><br /></div><div>And then the even more pointed reminder . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>"If I can change a rebellious heart like yours, I can change the hearts of leaders and those in your sphere of influence who in your eyes seem so far beyond My reach." </div><div><br /></div><div>Which takes me back to Paul's reminder to pray. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our role is to pray (with thanksgiving, by the way), participating with our Father in gently guiding others to the truth in word and behavior, as did so many others who came before us. </div><div><br /></div><div>Old Testament Daniel modeled prayer and faithful service while living in a pagan culture. His faithful daily prayers paved the way for a pagan King, all wrapped up in his own glory, to come to the knowledge of the truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>If God can reduce wicked Nebuchadnezzar to all fours so that ultimately he lifts his eyes toward heaven, not in pomp and pride but in humility, and declares that the LORD alone is the Most High God who is great and mighty, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom and whose dominion is from generation to generation (Daniel, chapter four), then God can in His sovereignty change the hearts of all for whom we pray. The change may come now, in our lifetimes; the change may not come until we gather around His throne. </div><div><br /></div><div>But rest assured, ALL will fall before Him and declare Him Lord (Philippians 2:9-11).
We pray and we witness so that as many people as possible will declare Him Lord and serve Him as Lord on this side of heaven. </div><div><br /></div><div>May we not be locked in fear that erupts in our minds in multiple forms but liberated by the Holy Spirit who through God's Word grounds us, quiets our hearts, and motivates us to prayer and godly living.</div><div><br /></div><div>May you who know the Lord be strengthened by His grace today. And those of you who need the Lord, surrender to Him in repentance and faith, receiving Him as your personal Savior from sin and self, and then serve Him as Lord. Then He will strengthen you with His grace, deliver you from all fear, and liberate your heart with His Spirit who comes to live inside of you. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eileen
Psalm 46:10</div>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-26028385366782683522020-08-31T14:18:00.000-07:002020-08-31T14:20:21.104-07:00Breakfast for Jesus<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuUFa7du8_YmMnehvAwbOKMc2bdl0KuWNKL9nb2vHkCVA0WfPHoWj8FDXNZNoMZT1D_dOnZ7p8IEKOwX0fBBWqkxMbAwV3yKMCLbJOMMr_uiH-cMh7X_onS8ip70r1ZiAHwrzF7Aq3p01/s2048/BreakfastPexelsValeriaBoltneva2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuUFa7du8_YmMnehvAwbOKMc2bdl0KuWNKL9nb2vHkCVA0WfPHoWj8FDXNZNoMZT1D_dOnZ7p8IEKOwX0fBBWqkxMbAwV3yKMCLbJOMMr_uiH-cMh7X_onS8ip70r1ZiAHwrzF7Aq3p01/s640/BreakfastPexelsValeriaBoltneva2020.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Pexels, Valeria Boltneva <br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My husband’s early
morning prayer meeting at our home brought one young man to our door. Intense
spiritual warfare threatened him and his family. While my husband prayed with
him downstairs, I prayed for them upstairs. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As I interceded, the Holy Spirit
prompted me to fix them breakfast. A sudden awareness flashed across my mind
that the breakfast I would prepare was first and foremost for Jesus, not for
the two men who knelt by our sofa. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Never had I experienced more clarity
concerning the truth of Colossians 3:23: “<span style="background: white; color: #001320;">Whatever you do, do your work heartily, as for the Lord
rather than for men” (NASB). </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="background: white; color: #001320;">So many times I’d served others with abandon, but
when it came to my husband, I grumbled and hesitated. I pushed from the floor
with joy as I prepared and served eggs, sausage, and smoothies to “Jesus” that
quiet Saturday morning. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-732301974396653604.post-38302939359269909812020-08-24T08:26:00.000-07:002020-08-24T08:26:00.426-07:00Home Alone? A Wife Grows Up During COVID<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNqvxWoeBWTrKsPtTCuncYJbjYmMAIZXTtYZCVSezQdUf0jRsTYHQcJhy_a26CZ1o6qs8SMFsyrwibo2Li2gKYPLG3hjxU2Hz0NAD96pqy1Ki_W49cbW_-5lVuKBxQGZ5DehA9UIFYpH_/s400/ID-100374387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUNqvxWoeBWTrKsPtTCuncYJbjYmMAIZXTtYZCVSezQdUf0jRsTYHQcJhy_a26CZ1o6qs8SMFsyrwibo2Li2gKYPLG3hjxU2Hz0NAD96pqy1Ki_W49cbW_-5lVuKBxQGZ5DehA9UIFYpH_/s0/ID-100374387.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I admit it, I was
spoiled. An introvert, I’d grown content after 14 years of working at home alone
as a freelance writer, author, and creative writing tutor. I had my system down.
Carrot juice in hand (yeah, no coffee for this writer gal), I’d shuffle off to
my separate office after I kissed hubby Chuck, sending him off and out of the
house to counsel clients at his group office. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Then COVID-19 hit and
sent the proverbial best-laid plans of mice and men scurrying out the door, too.
Home alone quickly morphed into two at home when Chuck started conducting
teletherapy at home fulltime. Sacrificial wife that I am, I gave up my office
and set up a card table in the living room for the laptop while Chuck used the
desktop for sessions in a quiet, confidential space where the door could be
closed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And thus, it was. A
closed door to <i>my</i> space. The one I had taken for granted yet soon
realized I cherished. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Still, I rallied my spirit
around a new plan with resolve to make the best of things, which meant helping
Chuck set up a new workspace with books and other resources carted from his
group office. It required megadoses of patience as I guided him through the
technological challenges of teletherapy, sometimes at the most inopportune
moments, while I also mastered Zoom for student sessions. A learning curve for
both of us, but since I’d learned a few things from my techy kids over the
years, I was able to assist. Thankfully. Though I didn’t always view it with
gratitude. Never mind that my grown children had patiently tutored me multiple
times as I learned how to use Word processing, navigate the web, and diagnose
computer issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Enter negative and sinful
behavior patterns that I knew existed, but I’d never fully dealt with. Under
the careful tutelage of the Holy Spirit, I detected areas, one by one, that
needed attention. For years, Chuck had insisted that those we discipled needed
some practical way to measure growth. The professional counselor speaking,
after all. Why not try a measurement system myself? So, I asked Chuck to join
me in prayer as I sought the Lord. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Call it readiness,
disgust with myself, desperation, old age (well, older), or all the above, but
I seemed ripe for some solid spiritual formation. What emerged was a journaling
exercise that I’m still doing. I’m now on my third refining area with a prayer,
a serious prayer, to become more like my Jesus, my Savior and Lord, but also my
gentle, humble Teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The specific daily journaling
over a three-week period (I advise at least that amount of time) on one growth
area has helped me see how well I’m doing listening, trusting, and obeying my
Teacher. A brief note for each day indicates the trigger situation and/or
person and my response to the trigger, whether good or bad. The exercise
provides its own form of accountability, but I’ve also alerted my special women
prayer warriors to lift me up to the Throne as I work with the Holy Spirit in
each area. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Psalm 46:10, “Be still
and know that I am God” has powered me through many pivotal choice moments when
the scales could tip either way (obey or disobey). The reminder brings pause, a
spiritual breather, if not a physical and emotional one as well. God assures me
in that moment that I can trust Him even when things seem out of control for
this obsessive-compulsive-prone gal. Rather than react—blurt out whatever’s in
my head—I grow quiet, even if only for a few moments to consider a godly
response. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The happy news—Chuck says
I’m making progress in my journaled areas! Since we are pretty much together
24/7, his is the feedback I desire the most. After all, we are the most real
with the people we live with. My love and respect toward my husband are the
true indicators of how well I really love and respect my Lord. That’s painful
to hear, but so necessary for growth. I’m learning in a deeper way that
submitting to the discipline of the Lord really does produce the peaceful fruit
of right living, especially with the one closest to me, my spouse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Home alone? Yeah, nice,
has its perks. But I think I’m finally growing up, which is the fulfillment of
a lifelong dream. And having extra laundry and yard help isn’t a bad perk,
either. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p></p>Eileen Rifehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12263113178081805930noreply@blogger.com0