FREE First Chapter of Masquerade!

A long-buried secret. An unexpected encounter. A quest for answers. 

Celeste Tatem, a special-education teacher, couldn't be more in love with her husband, Joe. But a haunting memory threatens their relationship. When Joe dies in a factory explosion, she sinks into depression. It will take the arrival of a new student, Lily, and her delightful honesty and joy at life's little things to awaken Celeste to hope. When Don, an old flame from college, reenters Celeste's world, the flickers of love stir once again, and startling questions arise. Questions that threaten to rip the veneer off of her carefully guarded secret. Then the most unexpected thing of all happens . . . . 

A story of love and forgiveness in the most unexpected places.

Schreiber, Indiana

September, 1983

CHAPTER ONE

Regret barged into the bedroom and refused to leave. Like one of the boxes Celeste had carried from their trailer to their new house, a dark secret weighed heavy on her heart, especially in the last year.

She surveyed the pile of cartons beside the bed and located the one marked “Framed Pictures.” Tearing away the tissue paper, she smoothed her hand over the cool glass surface lodged inside the pewter frame, corners adorned with inlaid sapphires. A bride and groom smiled back at her. Mr. and Mrs. Joe Tatem.

In spite of her dismal mood, she was determined to enjoy her anniversary.

The heady aroma of English Leather entered the bedroom as she studied the portrait. She spun around and faced her husband. A silly grin ruffled his lips. She smiled and melted into Joe’s arms. She reached up and pressed her index finger into the dimple in his chin.

“Okay,  you  can  come  out  now.”  His voice teased her. “But first, put this on.” He gently turned her around and tied a bandanna over her eyes.

“What are you up to, you big sneak?”

With one hand around her waist and the other on her arm, Joe carefully guided her. Clutching the frame against her chest, she felt the floor beneath her bare feet change from carpet to hardwood, then back to carpet again.

Joe’s warm breath came near. His lips met hers in a lingering kiss. Then he released the blindfold from her eyes. “Happy Anniversary, Tater Tot!” His nickname for her ever since their dating days at Purdue University.

Her mouth flew open at the display before her. Several pots of burgundy, yellow, and white mums wrapped in shiny gold foil marked off a circle on the shag carpet. The wedding ring quilt gifted by her grandmother on their wedding day rested on the floor inside the circle. The room glowed with candles of varying sizes, too many to count, some atop boxes, others on the floor. “Close to You” played softly on the stereo.

Joe eased the frame out of Celeste’s hands and set it among the flowers, then swept his rough hands over her forehead and cheeks, finally coming to rest on her shoulders. “Surprised?” His arms slipped around her waist, and he pulled her close.

“Uh . . . very. When in the world did you have time to buy all this and set it up?” With working extra hours at Schreiber Metal Works, he’d barely had time to breathe, let alone plan a celebration.

“Ah,  have  you  forgotten?  I’m a  man of many talents.” He waggled his dark eyebrows in a Groucho Marx expression.

She frowned, fighting back tears. 

His hands slid down her arms. “What’s wrong?” Lightly squeezing her palms, he stepped back, head tilted, and studied her.

Heat filled her face. Their fifth year wedding anniversary required something better than pizza, but with the move and the beginning of a new school year, she’d been swamped with work. “I didn’t have much time or energy to come up with something all that special.”

“What? No filet-mignon? How could you?” Mock horror swept over his face.

Determined not to be outdone, she playfully slapped him on the arm and started for the kitchen. “Wait right here”—hands splayed in front of her husband—“I’ll be right back.”

            “No problem. I’ll just slip into something more comfortable.” His eyes sparked, and excitement rippled through her body.

When she returned carrying a heart-shaped pizza, he sat in the circle, one hand anchored on his right knee, the other resting on his left thigh. At the sight of him, she almost dropped the tray. Wearing silky boxer shorts, could he look any yummier?

“Come here, you.” His mouth curled into a playful grin.

Kneeling, she set the silver-plated tray between them. He gripped the back of her head and smothered her lips with a kiss.  A delightful tingle traveled from her head to her toes.

Joe released her and sat back. “What’s this?” He stared at the pizza. “Creative. I Love You spelled out with my favorite topping, black olives.” Using the pizza wheel, he cut two slices, handed one to Celeste, and bit into the other. A cheese string trailed from his lips. When Celeste leaned over and swept the gooey mozzarella from his chin, he caught her hand and kissed it. Lips hungry for more, his mouth traveled down the side of her face. He blew a raspberry into her neck. The stubble tickled her skin. Giggling, she scrunched her head and shoulder.

She pushed on his chest. “Calm down, lover boy. Let’s enjoy dinner first.”

He took another bite, his gaze fastened on her. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Smells like the beach.”

“It’s not perfume; it’s lotion with cocoa butter.”

Reaching for her arm, he gently buried his nose in her skin and breathed deeply. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips. He plowed through another pizza slice, then smeared his hands on his shorts.

The record now over, he rose to reset the needle for a second round of the Carpenters. He retrieved two wine glasses and an ice bucket hidden behind the grouping of mums and lowered to the floor across from Celeste. He spun the goblets and set them between them.

Warmth filled her heart. She brushed the crushed ice away from the bottle. “Ooh, Barbaresco. I’m impressed.” She lifted the bottle from its cradle, gripping the  base  with  one  hand  and  the  neck  with  the  other. Seemingly out of nowhere, a haunting scene flashed before her eyes.

Her mother pulled the covers down, urged her into bed. Here, drink this. Her severe face grew large like a character in a horror movie. It’ll help the pain go away . . . pain go away . . . pain go away . . . away . . . away . . . Her voice echoed in Celeste’s mind.

Joe reached for the bottle, bumping her back to the present. “You’re sweating.” He peered at her face.

Celeste swiped her upper lip.

“Brings back memories, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, don’t you remember? Our honeymoon. The resort staff put a bottle of Barbaresco on our bed along with two chocolate kisses.”

She blinked and ran a hand through her shoulder length hair. “Of course.” She managed a wobbly smile, torment cramping her abdominal muscles. In her mind, she shoved the skeleton in her closet into an empty box and tossed it in the trash. 

After using a corkscrew to open the top, Joe poured a small amount into a glass. Swirling the red liquid under his nose, he inhaled deeply. “Hmm . . . cherries, hickory, slightly hot at first”— he flashed his eyes at her—“then spicy, not so different from you, my love.”

“Let me taste that.” She grabbed at the glass.

He stuck his hand out. “Not so fast. These things take time.”

“What  things?” Her  husband  sure  was dragging this out.

He poured a second glass and handed it to her. Leaning forward, he crossed arms with her and took a sip. “You know, just like at our wedding reception.”

“Yes, yes, I get it.” She conjured up another smile and took a quick sip, then unhooked her arm and set her glass down.

He puckered his brow. “You seem fidgety.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Nothing. Maybe a little anxious to—”

“You sly dog.” He shot her a silly sideways glance.

She reached for her glass. No timid sip this time. A swig filled her mouth and wormed its way down her esophagus, settling into her stomach. Pain go away . . . go away . . . go away. Jumping up, she ran from the room.

“Hey, where ya going?”

“I’ll be right back.” Rounding the corner of the living room into the kitchen, she nearly slipped on the shiny hardwood. Once in the bedroom, she maneuvered around several boxes and yanked open her vanity drawer. She sorted through socks and underwear until she unearthed their wedding album. The black nightie Joe had bought her on their first anniversary lay folded beside a velvet box filled with costume jewelry.

She shrugged out of her baby doll blouse and slacks. Anything to distract her mind. Pushing the pain of past memories aside, she envisioned the look on Joe’s face when she stepped into the living room wearing the lacy lingerie.  The sight of her would certainly make up for any momentary angst he might have detected earlier.

One final glance in the vanity mirror, a quick swipe of soft plum lipstick to accentuate her porcelain skin and jet-black hair, and she was set. Grabbing the album off the bed, she slinked back to the living room.

“Whoa.” Joe’s mouth flew open.

Sidling over to him, she dropped to her knees and placed the album in front of them. He drew her close and kissed her neck.

“Pictures first, remember, like at our wedding.”

“No fair.”

“Look who’s talking. You’ve been dragging out this entire evening way beyond frustration. Well, two can play this game.”

“Okay, okay.” He huffed and sat back, hands limp in his lap.

“Look at this.” Celeste pointed to a photo of the two of them standing under an archway in a late summer garden. Eyes shining, she held a bouquet of white lilies. Pink and white roses snaked around white latticework. “And the powder pink roses accented the hot pink gowns my attendants wore—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He drew his finger down her back as she leaned over the album.

“You’re not even looking,” she huffed.

He snapped to attention. “I’m looking already. I’m looking.”

“That’s more like it.” Smirking, she turned the page. Four faces leapt off the page, her mother’s one of them.  Dread  flooded  her  abdomen,  spiraling  her into a

dark hole.

Closing the album, she laid it aside.

“What?”

“You’re not interested anyway.”

“Those are just pictures, Celeste . . . uh, beautiful pictures, that’s for sure. But hey, I’ve got the real thing right here. Let’s make some new memories, how ‘bout that?” He pulled her into a warm embrace, then released her. Standing, he urged her to her feet, wrapped his arms around her, and began to sway to the music. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

She couldn’t speak through her tears. Wasn’t that the same question he’d asked over and over again that weekend? The weekend that changed her life forever?

###

Her hand on the banister, Sonya Miller paused on the bottom step in the foyer and sucked in a sharp breath. This was one of those days when she wondered if she’d survive to the end of the homeschool year, and it was only September. Six kids, ages ten and under, kept her mopping floors, grading papers, reading stories, and wiping noses.

She lowered to the step and scratched Snarls, the family’s retriever, behind the ears. He panted and pawed at her skirt. His shiny brown eyes tented by raised brows mirrored her worry.

“Are you as weary to the bone as I am?” She offered a weak smile, rubbed his nose. “It’s okay, boy, we’ll manage somehow.”

She gazed out the window. The last golden rays of the sun gracefully bowed to the entrance of the full moon, and still no Sam. How she wished her husband could give up the gas attendant job, so he could spend more time at home. But they needed the extra income to make ends meet. On top of that, the promised payroll increase at Harvester Foods never materialized. Hopes raised, then mashed like a pile of boiled potatoes. 

Snarls nudged her hand, and she smiled into his furry face. “I hate to complain,” she confided to her faithful friend. “It’s uncomely, I know, especially for a woman. Besides, Sam keeps food on the table and a roof over our heads.” She stroked Snarls’ back. “Without his financial support, the family would be sunk. In all fairness, he does pitch in around the house on occasion. A load of laundry here. A math lesson there.”

Feet pounded the floor overhead. Harsh words erupted between her two eldest sons, then a door slammed.

She stood, her ear cocked toward the upstairs racket. “Boys, I want you in bed by the time I get up there,” she yelled, and Snarls barked in response.

“Yeah, you tell’em, boy.” She sighed, pressed the small of her back, and trudged up the steps, Snarls skittering past her. Her foot landed on a ball, and she grabbed the railing for support. A sharp pain shot up her calf. Grimacing, she stooped and rubbed her ankle. How many times had she told those kids not to leave toys on the stairs? Definitely time to incorporate another safety lesson  into  health  class,  since  many household injuries, even deaths, stemmed from falls.

Better yet, apply a penalty for this “ball” infraction. First, she’d have to root out the careless little culprit. But not tonight. In the morning. Things always looked better in daylight.

She lifted her face to the high ceiling of the old farmhouse stairwell. “Lord, bring Sam home . . . please,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Sam was a good husband, so why the growing feelings of resentment? She forced her mind to wrap up in the thought of his strong arms, her head pressed to his chest, ear absorbing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A heartbeat they both shared.

More scuffling overhead, then a loud thump. Another argument to arbitrate without Sam. If bodies didn’t litter the floor by now, they would by the time she reached the boys’ room. She’d make sure of that.

She reeled in her temper and plodded up the remaining steps. Calm down, Sonya. Deep breath. Counting to ten now.    

   

At the top of the stairs, all was quiet except for Tommy’s nasally breathing which sounded from his crib. She frowned. Must be allergies again. She’d set up the vaporizer. Slipping a strand of hair behind her ear, she peeked in the bedroom shared by two children. Lily knelt on a mat and looked for something under her bed. When the floor creaked, she turned her head toward Sonya. Eyes wide, she blinked slowly. “Pooh?” she said in a loud whisper.

Sonya  opened  the  closet  and pulled out a stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh from under a pile of toys. She helped Lily slide under the covers, then sat on the bed and tucked the yellow bear with red shirt under the little girl’s arm. “How ‘bout you keep Pooh on your bed instead of tossing him in the closet?” Sonya pulled the covers up as Lily plunged under holding her favorite toy.

“I not mix him in the closet.” Seven-year-old Lily spoke with the mental acuity of a three-year-old.

“Mix him?”

Lily unplugged her thumb from her mouth. “Like salad.”

Sonya snorted a soft laugh. “Right.” She wove her fingers through the child’s curls. “You go to sleep now.”

Lily smiled around her thumb and clamped her eyes shut. She was a dear little girl, but perhaps they’d jumped too quickly when they signed on to be foster parents to a special needs child. Certainly they had their hands full caring for their biological children. Yet they’d always felt compassion for unwanted kids. Neither she nor Sam could ignore that heart tug.

Lily’s eyelids flew open. “We forgot to pray.”

“Yes, I guess we did.” Sonya had been too tired to follow through with the family’s nightly ritual, which typically took place right after supper.

“Let’s sing our prayer.” Lily maneuvered to her knees, her eyes shining.

Sonya glanced over her shoulder at the crib. Tommy, now awake, fingered his blanket and peered through the slats. “Okay.” She scratched her head, sifting through her memory files for a song.

“’When I am Afraid, I Will Trust in God.’ Let’s sing that.” Still on her knees, Lily bounced up and down on the mattress.

Sonya nodded. She couldn’t count how many times Lily had reminded her to turn to God in the midst of fear. And she was doing it again.

As Lily sang, Tommy clapped his chubby hands. When she finished, she reached under her pillow and drew out a sheet of white paper. Crooked letters formed with various crayon colors spelled Lily. She beamed and handed it to Sonya.

“Good job writing your name. I’ll post this on the refrigerator.”

Lily flew into Sonya’s arms. For a few seconds, the twosome rocked and hugged. Sonya breathed in the shampoo-sweetness of the child’s hair. At last, they released one another, and Lily slithered under the covers. “Night, Sonny.”

“Good night, Lily.” She smoothed the child’s damp ringlets from her forehead. Passing the crib, she touched Tommy’s plump cheek and covered him with his blanket. His chest rose and fell on a sigh.

A scrubbing sound propelled Sonya to the bathroom where six-year-old Mia and four-year-old Hannah stood on stools brushing their teeth. Thankfully, they’d obeyed when she shooed them away from the supper table and told them to get ready for bed. “About done, girls?”

Mouths foaming with toothpaste, the girls nodded, spit into the sink, and stumbled over  each other to  get to the towel. With a tap on their bottoms, Sonya sent them giggling out of the bathroom and into their bedroom.

In the hallway, a light from Matthew’s and Anthony’s room drew her attention. She uttered a silent prayer for grace. Both boys lounged on their twin beds, one reading and the other fiddling with a model airplane. Snarls lay in a ball at Matthew’s feet. Whatever argument had previously taken place was either resolved or kept under tight wraps in mom’s presence. Relieved, she tapped the doorjamb. “Lights out, boys.”

“Ah, can’t we stay up until daddy gets home?” Anthony flung his hands onto the chenille bedspread. Ever the dramatic one, her second son clung to Sam like a koala to a tree.

“Not tonight, honey. We’ve got another school day tomorrow, and I want you rested.” She moved into the bedroom. “Now, get under those covers and get to sleep.” She made a scooting motion with her hands.

The boys groaned, but obeyed. Sure, they scuffled at times, but didn’t all boys? They were good kids, really. Not much to complain about on that score. But sometimes she felt like a single parent, and single moms with six kids to teach and care for were sure to burn out sooner or later. Nerves on edge, tears so close to the surface. She shouldn’t be feeling this way so early in the school season, especially after the summer break. Even though they couldn’t afford to take a vacation, they’d made up for it with trips to the park and the lake, with enough snow cones sloshing around in their bellies to carry them through to next summer.

She backed out of the bedroom, flicking the light off as she exited. After checking to make sure Mia and Hannah were in bed, she started down the stairs. She collapsed into the living room rocker and stared out the window. How long she sat there she didn’t know. At last, the front door pushed open and in walked Sam, apology stamped all over his face.

Something in her bristled, and she fought against a rising tide of anger. Yes, she could fuss at him for not being there to read a Bible story to the children, sing, and pray, but what sense would that make? He couldn’t help it if he had to work late. If only she could contribute somehow to the household income. Maybe that would ease her husband’s workload and give him more time with the family.

But buying Sam more time with the kids might cost Sonya her sanity. And the way she felt lately, it might not take much to push her over the edge.  

~~

Check out Masquerade on Amazon.

 Available in ebook and paperback. 

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HOME

Sitting in the Ubon airport at Gate 4, waiting on a flight to Bangkok, then to Phnom Penh, I will be home in approximately 30 hours.

HOME . . . a term of comfort, stability. Yet "home is where the heart is," so the cliche' goes.

And I've just left a huge piece of my heart in Thailand. And earlier in Cambodia. And back in August, in France.

My heart home is torn apart and scattered for Christ's sake all over the world.

Confirming once again that my real HOME is with Jesus. Through His Spirit, He is my Home and I am His Home. Someday I'll live in His physical presence.

For now, 'til I see Him face-to-face, I invite Him to be thoroughly at home in my heart, wherever my feet may go . . . . near or far.

As I grieve, I breathe a prayer . . .

You, oh Lord, are my forever Home! Thank You for never leaving me nor forsaking me. For us, there are no sad goodbyes. We belong to each other. Forever! May all our family be a part of Your eternal family. Encourage my daughters as they pick up with loving their husbands and children, home schooling, ministering to others, and relating to You. Strengthen my sons-in-law. Infuse them with Your power and wisdom. Guard the hearts and minds of the little ones. 

In my mind's eye, I see one grandson along for the ride to the airport. It is a sober time. Even for a four year old.

What will you do when you get home, Grandma? How will you cry? What does the bunk bed look like in the red room? 

I explain my tears, my journaling, my prep for him to come see us, our service for God on our side of the world.

A lot for a four year old to digest.

My son-in-law pulls up to the airport curb. We pile out with our luggage, say our goodbyes as Grandpa sweeps his little grandson into his arms. Swallowing back tears, we lumber through the terminal doors. It is over.

Just like that. It always seems so abrupt, no matter what hugs, words, prayers have come before.

At some point, and I suspect sooner than what my young grandson expected, it was over.

For now.

I leave him at four and pick up again at age six, most likely. Losing those bulks of time while they are growing is one of the hardest things about this missionary journey.

Do You miss Your children in a similar way, Abba? Until we join You, face-to-face? You who wept so freely while on earth? I suspect You do. You weep for us and with us. My longing for You will likely never quite match Your longing for me. 

We board the plane and before we know it we're piling into an airport tram in Bangkok, surrounded by Asians. An overwhelming thought accompanied by a touching feeling grips me: These are the people my daughter loves, and has loved since she was five. 

The thought, the feeling, brings me full circle in my perspective. I let my kids go so that more can know Jesus as their HOME.

And that, after all, is what truly matters. 

Brought Near

Recently, while watching my youngest grandson (18 mos.) "float" around all the older kids, trying to do what they do but never quite able to, I realized I did the same thing as the youngest in my family.

In my healing journey, it's occurred to me that part of my struggles derive from this feeling of being on the outside looking in, not necessarily a new thought, but one I sense I need to explore further, if in no other way than simply to acknowledge the phenomenon.

I was the youngest of four much older siblings and always felt like I was "looking on." Everyone else was in the know, doing things I could not yet do or understand. Everyone else had passed through the door, so to speak. But that same door was slammed in my face and marked "Private." This internalized message was reinforced by the parental cliche': "I'll explain that when you get older."

After the day of watching my grandson, that night, in good Abba fashion, my heavenly Father brought scripture to my mind which I thought came from Hebrews, but no, it was exactly what I'd been reading in Ephesians, chapter 2, the day before but was barely aware of at the time.

But now in Christ Jesus you who formerly were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ (Eph. 2:13). 

I realize this passage is addressing the Gentile nation being grafted in (included) in the gospel message, but I also believe Abba brought it to my mind to reaffirm that no matter how excluded or "far off" I may feel from Him at times, He has indeed grafted me into His Kingdom by virtue of Christ's blood. 

The door is wide open with a huge welcome sign on the front! All because of the precious blood of Jesus! Brought near by the blood of Christ. It doesn't get any better than that! The more I run into His open arms, the more I will experience freedom to step through other doors, build relationships with others, and serve Him with a full heart. 

Dear Reader, I hope you will experience the same as you come to Him through the blood of Jesus Christ. 

 . . . for through Him (Jesus) we both (Jews and Gentiles) have our access in one Spirit to the Father (Eph. 2:18).

Scripture Pictures

Scripture Pictures during family devotions

Recently our son-in-law taught us how to memorize scripture using a technique his grandfather taught him: Scripture Pictures.

You take a piece of paper or a notebook and a pencil, choose a verse you want to memorize, then draw stick figures and other symbols to illustrate the verse.

Be encouraged, you don't have to be an artist to do this! Although your art skills will likely improve with consistent exercise.

I've been playing around with this technique during my continued study of "the fear of the Lord" in the book of Proverbs. What I'm discovering is that my mind often gravitates to an image I want to portray on paper. For example, for me I visualize God as light, so my symbol for God or LORD is a circle (never-ending light, love, purity, holiness, acceptance, etc.) with rays emanating from the circle. The rays are my reflection of the Holy Spirit drawing me in. One ray is a cross, symbolizing Jesus and His grace.

Another person might portray God as a triangle with each point representing one person of the Trinity. In other words, you seize upon the image that best reflects that concept in your mind, so that you can more easily memorize the verse, in most cases without even trying. There's just something about the brain, eye, hand coordination that helps us process and digest information.

In my experimenting, I'm also discovering that I'm coming up with certain symbols for repetitive words and concepts. Each person can devise his/her own catalog of symbols that best aid memory. For example, I use an equal sign to represent the word "is". The "fear of the Lord" is consistently represented by a stick figure bowing with arms lifted toward the Sunlight.

Below is an example of my effort for Proverbs 1:7: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction.

In some cases (perhaps many), others would not make out my symbols. That's okay. The important thing is that I know what they represent, so that the image sparks the memory of the word(s).

 Here are a few more of my efforts. My goal is to do one verse at least 2 - 3 days a week. I've reserved a special notebook just for my Scripture Pictures.

Not only can this scripture memory tool be used as an individual, but also during family devotional times and in other small group settings, where participants can share illustration ideas with each other to help capture the best reflection of the verse.

Just for fun, I close this post with Proverbs 17:6a: Grandchildren are the crown of old men (and old women, too)!  :)

Happy drawing with eternal impact!

Eileen 

The Papa Prayer by Larry Crabb: A Book Review

But if God is so good as you represent Him, and if he knows all that we need, and better far than we do ourselves, why should it be necessary to ask Him for anything? 

I answer, "What if He knows Prayer to be the thing we need first and most? What if the main object in God's idea of prayer be the supplying of our great, our endless need--the need of Himself? Hunger may drive the runaway child home, and he may or may not be fed at once, but he needs his mother more than his dinner. Communion with God is the one need of the soul beyond all other need: prayer is the beginning of that communion, and some need is the motive of that prayer. So begins a communion, a talking with God, a coming-to-one with Him, which is the sole end of prayer." (George MacDonald)

Thus begins Larry Crabb's book titled, The Papa Prayer. At once intensely personal and richly didactic, Crabb nudges the reader toward a life of purposely relating to God through prayer. While reading, I had the feel that the author presented as a friend who'd invited me to his home for a chat, except this was no exchange of mere cordialties over coffee. This was one friend sharing with another the lifeline he'd discovered and could not hoard. 

Crabb admits that he is a first-grader in the school of relational prayer but seeks continued growth. Through a desire for intimate communion with God that extends beyond mere petition, Crabb uses the PAPA acrostic (named such in honor of his beloved grandfather). 

Below is the PAPA prayer in a nutshell (excerpt from page 10 of The Papa Prayer).  

P: Present yourself to God without pretense. Be a real person in the relationship. Tell Him whatever is going on inside you that you can identify.

A: Attend to how you're thinking of God. Again, no pretending. Ask yourself, "How am I experiencing God right now?" Is He a vending machine, a frowning father, a distant, cold force? Or is He your gloriously strong but intimate Papa?

P: Purge yourself of anything blocking your relationship with God. Put into words whatever makes you uncomfortable or embarrassed when you're real in your relationship with Him. How are you thinking more about yourself and your satisfaction than about anyone else, including God and His pleasure?

A: Approach God as the "first thing" in your life, as your most valuable treasure, the Person you most want to know. Admit that other people and things really do matter more to you right now, but you long to want God so much that every other good thing in your life becomes a "second-thing" desire. 

The Papa Prayer includes a simple four-day plan to develop the habit of presenting, attending, purging, and approaching. Each day unpacks a learning objective, a Bible passage, a reflection question, and an illustration of the prayer focus for that day. 

But please don't settle for the mere "nutshell!" Crabb does so much more in unpacking the four elements. Wordy and repetitive at times, Crabb seems overly careful to deliver a compelling presentation. Still, his authenticity is refreshing. This is a book worth reading thoughtfully and prayerfully. Definitely worth savoring and pondering. In the midst of a slew of endorsements, I found the one below most intriguing.

I'm thankful for this book. I suspect that God is far more thankful--thankful like a tired father is thankful to get his preschoolers past the candy aisle at Walmart. I suspect He's thankful for someone who would help His children speak their deepest desire, forget the candy, and know their Father. Our Papa is sweeter, richer, better than any candy this world has to offer. With practical advice and helpful examples, Larry coaxes us into our Father's lap, where we lose ourselves and find ourselves in Him. -Peter Hiett/Senior Pastor of Lookout Mountain Community Church. 

~~

The Papa Prayer (2006), available used or new in ebook, audio, paperback, or hardcover. 

Check out The Papa Prayer on Amazon.

Angels Unawares?

Joanie Cahill, Free Images 

The other evening, I felt like I was caught up in a "Touched by an Angel" rerun. In my quest to minister to my shut-in neighbor, Cecile, I took her to the hardware store across town late in the afternoon. Afterwards, she guided me along side roads to bypass the heavy after-work traffic.

At the end of one dark road, I stopped, looked to the left, then pulled out, making a right turn. I nearly collided with a car in the wrong lane. Our lane! Nose to nose with us. I quickly swerved to the shoulder and ran over something horrendous. The car suddenly felt heavy with a peculiar groan as I coaxed it down the road. Quite similar to my inner groan. I inched the car to the next open spot only yards away, parking in the small lot of a closed antique shop.

Hands anchored on the steering wheel, I turned to Cecile in the passenger seat. "Well, I think it's the back right tire."

She opened the door and peered outside. "No, it looks fine to me."

I wasn't so sure. "Let me check, just in case. Something doesn't feel right."

Once outside, I examined the back tire. Sure enough, it looked fine. Then I checked the front right tire. Totally flat. Ugh!

I took a deep breath. Okay, regroup . . . and pray. This is an opportunity to show Cecile how the Lord will come through in a difficult situation. Don't miss this!  

Opening the driver's door, I slipped inside. "Lord Jesus, we need Your help," I prayed out loud.

"Yes!" Cecile echoed. "Maybe you can get to Ralph Edward's place a couple streets over," she offered. She knew the man. He used to live in our house, and he worked on cars.

"I don't think so," I countered, sensing the features of my face scrunch. "The tire's totally flat."

"Oh, this is all my fault." She fidgeted in her seat. "If I hadn't asked you to take me to the store, this never would've happened."

"Don't blame yourself, Cecile. We're not going to play the 'if onlys.' The Lord knows all about this." I spoke with growing courage. I wanted her to catch a glimpse of God at work, for I knew she needed to see that. "Let's trust Him."

She pointed straight ahead. "Maybe that market up there."

While she didn't want me walking in the dark alone in a bad part of town, she was still willing to let me venture out. Since our options were limited, I forged ahead. Purse tucked close to my side and ignition key clutched in my right hand, ready to gouge an assailant, I plowed on, feigning a confidence I did not feel, boots scuffing the well-worn dirt path. Two dark figures with lit cigarettes scurried past.

Abba Father, help me. I inwardly breathed and kept on moving.

At the convenience store, a Middle Eastern clerk tended a customer while a tall African American youth wearing a white cap stood behind another counter eyeballing me. He looked available, so I hurried over. I explained what happened and asked if he had a phone I could use to call my husband, because I didn't have a cell phone, nor did Cecile.

"Nope, no phone." He didn't even bat an eyelash, standing there over his hot dogs. Even the smell didn't tantalize me at that moment. I sighed and darted to the other clerk, now fumbling with some receipts. The youth followed, I suppose eager to find out how this would all go down. "Do you have a phone I could use?"

Black eyebrows bobbing, he shook his head.

My heart dropped. "Okay, well, I really need some help. Could either of you change my tire?" All those times my husband tried to show me how to work the jack in our early years of marriage with me huffing and complaining. I should've listened.

"No, sorry, I can't help you," he muttered. 

This was getting nowhere, and Cecile sat in a car growing colder by the minute. I thanked the clerks (for what I don't know--a place of refuge for a few minutes if nothing else), and braced myself to walk the creepy path back to the car. Though only a couple doors down from the store, the car seemed far away. But a lot can happen in a few feet.

And so it did . . .

Right past the store, I turned my head to the left and saw an auto shop tucked back from the road. An OPEN sign flickered on the garage door. My eyes widened, and I leaned in to catch a better view.

Could this be the help You're sending, Abba? 

I maneuvered my way through the shadowy lot, past cars and equipment on either side, eyes fastened on that OPEN sign, and followed the arrow to the left indicating the ENTRANCE. Uncertain what I would find on the other side of the door, I reached for the knob, cold to the touch. Standing tall (all 5 feet, 3 inches of me), I pushed the door open.

In the small shop, one large bell-of-a-man with sock hat covering his head sat in a swivel chair. His baby-like face looked harmless enough. Another smaller man with glasses and a Latino look puttered about. He approached when I entered. I rattled off my story, his face full of curiosity and concern.

"Can you help me?"

"Carefully inch your car down to our lot, and we'll see what we can do."

I felt better already.

The auto shop was only one lot ahead of where my locked car housing Cecile and her goods was parked. I nearly flew out the door, speed walking to the next lot. I unlocked the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine, all the while filling Cecile in.

I crept the car next door and pulled up to the garage. The door slid open, spilling light into the darkness. What a welcome sight!  The mechanics gestured me inside, indicating with their customary hand signals when to move to the left or right and at last come to a stop.

I got out of the car while the large man stooped by the flat tire. Amazing he could do that! I wondered how he would maneuver to his feet once the job was complete. The smaller man uttered orders while stepping around to the trunk to retrieve the spare. I followed, then popped the lid and grimaced.

Piles of stuff--like an old attic. I apologized and started digging through the assortment of boxes, Frisbees, broken rake, and golf balls. We quickly devised a system, he handing me an item, and I placing it on the cement. A random golf ball escaped a grocery bag, clinking its way over the floor. A nervous giggle escaped my throat. Embarrassing, to say the least. At last he unearthed the spare tire.

Minutes later I thanked the men as the smaller one placed the severely damaged tire with large hole in the trunk, followed by all the junk.

"What do I owe you for your trouble?" I wrung my hands in an effort to stay warm.

"Oh, nothing." The small man smiled, his accent definitely Spanish. "Merry Christmas!"

"Thank you so much! You were certainly an answer to prayer tonight!"

In the car, I backed out of the garage, all the while verbally praising the Lord for His provision and His protection.

Only Abba knows the full impact of that evening in Cecile's life and in the men's lives (or were they angels?)--Cecile said she'd driven that route lots of times but never noticed that auto shop.

And while I venture a guess at the impact in my own life--a deeper appreciation for my Father's faithfulness, I still ponder the event and His working in and through it that perhaps only eternity will reveal.

No More Hiding

Earth rumbled. Mountains trembled. Smoke streamed from flaring nostrils. Fire spewed from his mouth, igniting coals. He broke through the darkness with hailstones, fire, and a thunderous voice. Swift arrows flew, along with a multitude of lightning flashes. Water rushed. The world stood bare.

Sounds like a scene from a fantasy novel or movie, doesn't it?

But the image couldn't have been more real for the psalmist David who cried out to the LORD for deliverance from his enemies, and from Saul, in particular. For 20 plus years, Saul hounded the threat to his throne--David, the one God had anointed through Samuel as the future monarch of His people.

Out of the depths of despair, God, David's rock, refuge, shield, horn of his salvation, and stronghold, rushed on "wings of the wind" (Psalm 18:10b) to rescue His beloved from the jaws of the enemy. In His anger at those who would attack His chosen one, the LORD in full fury personally and swiftly arrived to vindicate and deliver David.

David's humble testimony leaps off the pages of Scripture.

He delivered me from my strong enemy,
And from those who hated me, for they were too mighty for me.  
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
But the LORD was my stay.
He brought me forth also into a broad place;
He rescued me, because He delighted in me.
-Psalm 18:17-19

No longer did David need to cloister in caves or hide in the clefts of the rock. THE Rock had crushed his enemy and ushered him into an open place. The Benson Commentary says it well: "Out of my straits and difficulties; out of little caves in which I was shut up and imprisoned; into a large place" (BibleHub.com). Indeed, He brought David into a place of freedom because He crushed the enemy before him!

I believe the LORD wants to do the same for us who battle the enemy of our souls, the evil one who longs to defeat us with his lies and hold us captive to do his bidding. God wants to deliver us from the bondage of sin and bring us to an open place of freedom. No more hiding! Because the enemy is conquered through the power of the LORD. 

In the verses that follow, David acknowledged his righteousness, that he kept himself from his iniquity. How tempting it must've been to retaliate when pressured by Saul's pursuit. Being the mighty warrior David was, he could've easily reached out his hand against the LORD'S anointed. However, for that very reason, in the integrity of his heart, he could not, even though on at least two specific occasions, Saul was within reach and in David's power to kill. David chose not to sin against Saul and departed from those close encounters with clean hands.

We play a part in God's deliverance over sin. As the Holy Spirit sheds light on specific sins to confess and forsake, we participate with the LORD in our growth process. Charles Spurgeon, preacher and author, once wrote, "Be resolved in the power of the Holy Spirit that this particular sin shall be overcome. There is nothing like hanging it up by the neck, that very sin, I mean. Do not fire at sin indiscriminately; but, if thou hast one sin that is more to thee than another, drag it out from the crowd, and say, 'Thou must die if no other does. I will hang thee up in the face of the sun.'" That is ruthless treatment of sin in our lives, and in reality, no less will do. Otherwise, we play games, minimize, rationalize, trivialize, and criticize others for the very sins to which we fall prey. Far worse, we fail to make substantive progress as Christ followers.

With David, let's cry out to the LORD for deliverance from our enemy while working with Him to put to death the sin that so easily besets us, knowing that He wants us to experience that place of freedom. The place where we no longer need to hide because He has delivered us.

Thus, we can celebrate from a place of strength and victory. The enemy had no power over David, nor does he have power over us, as long as we yield ourselves to God who has promised to do His good work within us!