And Then This Happened

On March 17th my hubby, Don called me at work to complain about some mild heartburn and a numb left arm. I told him to dial 911 and raced home, beating the ambulance and advanced life support team.

He looked a bit tired but fine, and we spoke while they hooked him up to all kinds of monitors and gadgets. Arriving at the hospital, his heart rate was 33 and they couldn't establish a blood pressure reading (I assume because his pulse was so slow?)

As the day progressed we were told he had not suffered a heart attack, and then hours later, we were told he had. Let the roller coaster ride begin. More turns and highs and lows would follow. As Don and I sat in the trauma room, he asked me to take a picture of the heart monitor because it was averaging around 40 beats per minute . . . he thought it would make him look like an elite athlete.

Grabbing my cell, I held it up just as his heart rate disappeared. The top right of the screen lit 32 and then went blank; the green line that had been slowly leaving a weaving trail went flat. In shock I just kept taking picture after picture while beeps and alarms sounded. Strangely, Don kept speaking and looked pale but fine.

I dropped my cell onto the bed and began to quote scripture, starting with ,'He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds'. Don - not knowing what I was doing - joined in. Moments later the number reappeared and slowly rose. He was admitted and hooked up to a horrible machine that beeped and alarmed constantly.

The next day, they told me that they were taking my man for a quick, twenty minute angiogram. Two hours later I was still alone outside in the hall waiting. I sat, head hung down and asked the Lord, 'You are El Roi - you do see - right?' Moments later my cell rang. It was a friend telling me that something I had prayed about years ago and had been waiting for resolution was . . . resolved. In that moment. Not last year . . . not last month . . . not yesterday . . . but in that moment.

God sees.

A half hour later, they wheeled him out with a report that showed he needed open-heart surgery. Shock? You bet! Supernatural peace . . . buckets full! I was still in awe of God's intervention minutes before.

The next day I was scheduled to fly to LA to see Mia off before her three month mission trip. We were dumbfounded but the cardiologist assured me that Don was in good hands and that I should go.

So I did.

For forty-eight hours I was in a blissful, beach bubble with my kid, miles away from painful reality. However, come Sunday, having returned the rental car, the truth slammed me and I lost it. Babbling, snotty tears flowed.

Back home, two of the kids were able to fly in just before the surgery, and we captured a selfie. (I was going to post it, but decided to protect the innocent. It wasn't too pretty a shot of Don).

El Roi was holding us. We could feel it. Once in awhile I would crack and have a good cry when nobody was looking, (except for the couple of hundred people at the Burbank airport). But we were good.

His bypass surgery was postponed a few times as he was bumped by others with more urgent needs. I struggled with resentment, but then kept remembering my El Roi moment days before. His timing is always perfect.

The night before his surgery, I lay in bed alone with one of Don's shirts I pulled from the hamper tucked under my chin. I could smell his scent and it brought me comfort. I knew that I had to let go. That I had to open up my hands and release my husband into God's perfect will and purpose. Not for God's sake, but to grow my own faith and to give up my selfish fleshly desires for whatever He had planned. It took me a bit, I prayed a lament using Psalm 41:1-3, replacing Don's name where possible.

I wanted Don to walk with me for many more years to come . . . but I also trusted the very One who had showed up and encouraged me when I was alone outside the angiogram room a few days before.

As I write this, Don is in the cardiac intensive care unit recovering from a quadruple bypass. When he woke this morning and they removed his breathing tube, the nurses told me his first words were, 'Thank you. God bless . . . Jesus loves you!'

Moments later, I sat down next to him and he reached out and - forgetting that he could speak - spelled out 'Jesus loves you' into the palm of my hand with his finger. My man was experiencing the crazy love of His Father and wanted everyone in the room to join in.

There is nothing amazing about us or our journey - we acknowledge that many have walked much more challenging and tragic paths. But we are amazed at God's faithfulness and all that He has taught us these past twelve days. As Don said when the nurses left us alone for a moment, 'This is not about us, Lori . . . we're here for His purpose.'

Yes, my sweet man, Jesus does love me. And He sees. And He is faithful . . . He gave me you . . . and then He gave you back to me.

Popcorn Throwing

As a lily among brambles, so is my love among the young women. (Song of Solomon 2:2 ESV)

Where would the world and movie theaters be without love stories? Chick flicks dominate at our house and my sweet man has learned to embrace a good tear-jerker or two. We like to see the boy find the girl, overcome adversity and conquer whatever stood in their way. Sigh. Everything tied up nice and neat in less than two hours.

This is not a new deal . . . Shakespeare wrote love stories long ago.  One of my favorite scenes is the balcony scene where Romeo and Juliet declare their love for each other. Funny though, one of the most quoted lines I always attributed to Romeo was actually said by Juliet, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

As children from warring families, their surnames were the obstacle they had to overcome in order to be together. I love how it was Juliet who told Romeo that their names were a stupid reason to stay apart!

Ok, so that story didn’t get tied up nicely in two hours . . .

But, the best ever love story is . . . His story. The pursuit of our hearts by the One who created love and desires intimacy with us! What is the obstacle that stands in the way?

Look in the mirror.

We sabotage his love advances. If our love scenes with Him were projected in a movie theater, there would be groans and popcorn hitting the screen by frustrated viewers. We can be so obtuse! He’s waiting for us to come and sit next to Him, to hear his sweet whispers of love and we turn away and flick on the television, completely ignoring Him. On the table, His love letter remains unopened day after day as we stumble through unsatisfying relationships wondering when we’ll find love. The audience screams, ‘Open the letter! Turn off the TV!’ Viewers look around at each other, incredulous at the horrible story unfolding. What is with his heroine?!

Not seeing the Truth, we walk through life seeing ourselves as unlovable – a bramble amongst lilies.

When our Lover says we are lovely, wanted, desired.

Father, oh how we – Your daughters – walk around needlessly in lonely rejection. Forgive us for getting it wrong again and again. Let us see ourselves as You do – as a beautiful lily – and help us to get ourselves engaged in Your Love story. Thank You for Your perfect love! In Jesus’ name, Amen!

Photo George Hodan

Written on Our Hearts . . . and Jeans

So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. 1 John 4:16 (ESV)

We’ve all had days where we feel completely alone and unloved. Even when my mother was alive (and I know she loved me deeply), there would be days when I felt rejected. So many are driven to despair and suicide by accepting a lie that there is no love or hope for them – yet the Word tells us the truth.

God is Love.

In the seventies, hippies would embroider that declaration on their jeans and use it as a mantra. Perhaps that is why we saw such revival back then – at least God was being acknowledged.

Satan hates this truth. And he hates God’s creation. He’s been bent on destroying everything God designed. Enemies do that. They live to find something of value, beauty or purpose and render it useless.

What has happened in your life to rob you of the truth of God’s love? The truth that He created you, designed you, and purposed in you great things to be done for His kingdom? For me, people – both well-meaning and not – have often attempted to blow out my candle in order to make theirs burn brighter. Sometimes with words, other times with actions, their desire was to see my destruction. Thankfully, even when knocked down, the truth of God’s love for me resonated deep within and I would recall all his faithfulness in times past – proof of his love for me.

Don’t let the lies win. Don’t let Satan destroy God’s plans. Jesus loves you, chose to die for you, and desires to have the most amazing love relationship with you. Celebrate this truth – write it upon your heart (your jeans are cool too) and live it out.

Falling In Love

“We love because he first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

I love books. I buy far too many and read far too few. Many lay in stacks next to my bed, full of good intention but with no free time to be opened. Others lay covered in dust having been opened and found lacking. Yet I tend to keep them. It’s a sickness.

When my daughters were young, I taught them upon entering bookstores, they were to pick up a book, crack it open, stick their noses in real close to the freshly inked page and inhale deeply. The amazing smell of paper, ink and glue would enhance their experience. To this day they still do this. No matter who is watching. I love them. My kids I mean. Oh, and the books too.

As much as I love books, my friend, Donna takes bibliophilism to a whole new level, (bibliophilism is a love of books – I didn’t find that in a book . . . I found it on Wikipedia).  She has books in every room of her house and confesses without repentance her addiction to the written word. Smart girl that she is, though, she spends more time devouring the Word than other people’s words. So that’s okay.

I heard of another woman who loved books. She would bring them home in multiples. One day she was very disappointed to realize that one of the volumes she brought home was not at all what she had hoped for. It was dry, lacked relevance and had symbolism that she could not embrace. Very poorly written and a waste of money, she thought. She put it on one of her shelves and forgot about it.

Years later on a rare night away from her stacks, she found herself at a party and engaged in a fascinating discussion with a young man. It was pretty much love at first word. They talked for hours and found they had much in common; he was a writer and she a librarian. A match for sure! It was hard for them to part ways at the end of the night and she floated home, not feeling the pavement beneath her feet.

Too excited to sleep, she decided to peruse her vast personal library to see if she could find any books written by her newfound friend. And indeed she did! It was covered in dust, abandoned. That’s right — it was the poorly written find from years before. She sat down with a cup of tea and began to read. How wrong she had been! It was the most meaningful, insightful and eloquent novel ever written . . .

What happened?  Had the book been magically transformed?  No?

She had fallen in love with the author.

Many of us have a book on our bookcase covered in dust. A love letter, written to us personally and ignorantly ignored. We don’t open it often.
Why?

Because we haven’t fallen in love with the author. And it grieves Him.

It’s a conundrum to be sure. What comes first, a love for the Word or a love for Him? I think the answer is found in 1 Peter 4:19. We need to ‘meet’ the author before we can truly embrace his writing. We need to fall in love with the One who loved us first.

Ask Jesus to be your Savior and Lord of your life. Begin an amazing relationship that will last an eternity . . . live your own love story that includes an everlasting happily ever after. The Book will become completely engaging once you fall in love with the Author.

Tune in online to hear Lori discuss Falling In Love with the Author with radio host Carrie Cooper of U2HaveHope on November 23 at 4PM (CST) at KDKR (also available to listen to after the fact here). 
Receive Lori’s daily devotions coming soon on iDisciple.org! Email Lori at Lori@LovingKindnessMinistries.ca to receive a special sign in code.

Photo thanks to George Hodan

Dear Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Woolsey . . . From One of 'Those Girls'

The last few days have been all abuzz with a post from Mrs. Hall, a concerned mother upset about what her young teen boys were viewing on social media. Her approach is zero tolerance and censorship of any half-dressed girls.

Good for you. Your house, your children, your rules.

Then another mother, Mrs. Woolsey chimes in with a rebuttal, chastising the harsh penalty and making mention of the hypocritical semi-nude pictures of the Hall boys in the same post.

Good for you. You’re standing up for the young girls and encouraging second chances and grace.

I have a slightly different issue, but first let me say this; Mrs. Hall should be applauded for instilling communication and interaction between herself and her kids. Fostering an atmosphere of openness is key in addressing issues and she is clearly determined to do her job as a parent and protect her kids.

As for Mrs. Woolsey, she too loves her children but believes we need to pour grace on the young girls and is ready to offer forgiveness. She doesn’t say whether or not she would encourage or demand her young boys to ‘unfriend’ a young girl who continually posts inappropriate photos, but I do get the impression that common sense would come into play and that she would protect her sons as well.

But, as I read both of these opinions, I started to cry.

Yes, cry.

What about the hearts of these girls? The ones who pose and post sexually provocative photos on social media . . . who will address the big elephant in the room?

The why.

Ten years ago we blamed Britney Spears for leading our young girls down the sleazy fashion path, encouraging tweens to dress way beyond their years. Then it was toddler beauty pageants and Honey Boo-boo who was targeted for encouraging the sexualizing of children. Just last week, Miley Cyrus’s behavior had parents jumping up to cover the eyes of both their sons and their daughters. Yes, Hollywood does impact and influence our kids, but I don’t believe we can just blame T.V. and shut it off. (Although we did years ago and I highly recommend it).

So, what was it then that had me in tears this morning? I cried for the girls who Mrs. Hall accused of lacking modesty. Yes, to be sure, some girls are absolutely modeling pop culture examples, but a lot of these young girls are just acting out what they’ve lived.

Their selfies that are meant to capture attention and get ‘likes’ usually have their eyes looking right into the camera. Their eyes haunt me. I see myself as a teen:

Notice me, like me, use me . . . but ultimately rescue me. I will let you do whatever you want and give you whatever you demand as long as it will result in you ‘loving’ me for even just one more day. I know that you will probably leave—they all do, but for now, come see me. Something inside of me grows with each hungry look. Every rude, vulgar comment that I pretend to be disgusted with actually just validates and feeds the beast within. The lie that was planted in my heart so many years ago . . . the first time he touched me . . .

That I am worthless.

Used.

A throw away.

I want to be different, to stop feeling this way, but I am addicted and harassed to no end by these crazy, inexplicable desires. I crave this attention. I need to somehow heal the hurt that happened to me as a child. But this drug of touch that I hope will result in finding someone to protect me for life, only perpetuates my brokenness. On one hand my sexuality empowers me but at the same time I am a slave to it. It was awakened far too early and I don’t know how to put it to rest.

Birthed with the loss of my innocence, this cycle of dysfunction is spiraling out of control. Now by my own ‘choice’. But did I ever really have a choice?

Don’t judge me because I am a ‘floozy’ or a ‘hooch’ . . .  or the other hurtful names you call me. I don’t show any discretion or dignity because I was robbed of it before I could understand it was mine to defend and to cherish.

Find me. Love me. Help me. Kill this beast within.

Until I find true healing, I will continue on this self-depreciating and destructive path  . . . .

Studies show that somewhere between twenty-five to fifty percent of women have been sexually abused in their childhood. And those numbers reflect only those who report it. Many don’t.[i] My abuse started at such a young age, my first childhood recollection was one of shame. It continued for over a decade. Once the darkness was brought into the light, the abuse stopped but the damage and resulting behaviors and beliefs continued. Such was life in the seventies. Shhhhh. Don’t tell. Move on.

It wasn’t until adulthood that I finally got the proper counseling I needed and the beast of abuse was slayed.

So you see mothers, do stay involved in your children’s lives and shield them while you can, but please, please don’t put up walls of protection so high that you can’t see the hurting young children on the other side. Look beyond the skimpy outfits and behaviors of some of these half-dressed girls and instead of shunning them, love them. Accept them. Pray for them. Give them a chance to know a warm, loving healthy woman who can model the virtues they so lack.

And for those of you who like me were hurt and the beast still lurks within, I encourage you to check out Healing Hearts, an amazing online or small group study that will help you to find truth and healing. For teen girls there is a brand new study as well, First Love.

Check it out and reach out. It’s all well and good to protect our own children, but we can’t forget about the others out there who need us too.

---

[i] http://www.apa.org/pubs/info/brochures/sex-abuse.aspx?item=2#

Recipe for Happiness

Wow. All these years lookin'. Little did I know that I would one day be able to buy happiness. A whole litre worth for a bargain basement price of just $2. Or a toonie as we Canadians say.

Now, before you go emailing me telling what a sucker I am to have purchased this, I must inform you that I sacrificed my hard-earned cash to see if it would work for you.

I twisted open the lid, put on a nostalgic Keith Green playlist and sat on my deck with my Bible and Crazy Love book.

Chapter 6 of the book is looking into love. Okay, the whole book is about love, but we're focusing on really crying out for God. Begging Him for his touch and to confess when we are dry and cracked . . . and during the times when we don't really 'feel' like loving Him.

The more I read, worshiped with Keith, and sipped on my water, the more broken I was. It was like a looking glass was placed before me; one that reflected what was in my heart.

I so want to want more of Him!

Tears flowed faster than the litres of Happy Water into my cup. Soon my cup was running over.

He is so good. He always does meet us, and fill us.

Curiously, I do feel happier. Somehow I don't think it has anything to do with the water.

Hey Lady, Your Dress is on Fire!

On a holiday, not too long ago, as I sat poolside watching the sunset, a beautiful young woman walked by. Her long dress swooshed as she sauntered through the resort like a pink peony swaying in the wind. Suddenly the corner of her scalloped hem came a bit too close to a tea-light candle. Glowing embers flickered from the melting poly-blend . . . soon a little flame, not much bigger than a birthday candle could be seen.

I watched as she continued her walk along the deck. A gorgeous girl, all eyes were glued to her hot pink dress. It was hot alright! Waiting anxiously for someone near to pat out the fire or at least say something, I sat incredulously watching as the flame slowly crept up her skirt. Finally, a kind elderly lady leaning heavily on her cane shuffled over and managed to intercept her.

Cupping her hand as if to whisper, her hard of hearing voice declared loud enough for all to hear, “Darlin’ your dress is on fire!”

Glancing in disdain over her shoulder at the sweet senior, the clueless young girl shook her head in denial, dismissing the advice of the wise woman’s warning.

Continuing on her journey, the flame was now rising up past the back of her knee. Surely she could feel the heat now?

“Maam!” a pool attendant, busily folding towels yelled out from the cabana, “Your dress is on fire!” He waved a towel over his head, animating all the more his warning. Others, now empowered by his brashness, chimed in and all sounded the alarm.

This time, still moving, she took a moment to look behind her to see why everyone was raising such a raucous. For a moment she almost saw the flame, but then, shrugging her shoulders, she continued on her catwalk.

By now she was no more than three feet between me and the pool. With a yell like a linebacker, I rushed her and with one quick shove, pushed her in.

Splash!

Rising out of the water, the look of shock on her face was priceless; mascara trailed down her cheeks, her carefully sculpted hair now hung in a matted mess. 

Leaning over, I came as close to her wet dripping face as I could and whispered, “Sweet thing, your dress was on fire.”

Glaring, she swore and stomping up the pool stairs, (with what was left of her dress barely covering her rear-end) threatened me with all kinds of legal action as she disappeared into the sunset.

Crazy story, huh? Which is why of course, it never actually happened. But I have seen similar scenarios acted out again and again.

Why? Because smart girls have been known to do very stupid things. 

Some of us women like to ‘play with fire’ and while a few ‘friends’ choose to turn a blind eye to our foolish choices, the others who do give warnings all too often are ignored or even chastised for getting involved. Arrogance seems to rule the day as we reject the advice of those who have gone before us. They are old. Or narrow minded. Or just don’t get it. 

Then, there are those of us who see the flames in other people’s lives but are so paranoid of ‘offending’ we allow them to burn rather than call their attention to the obvious! Besides, it’s so much easier to watch them ignite and then talk behind their scarred backs.

How do I know this to be true? Because I have a whole wardrobe full of singed garments! I can be as stubborn as the girl in my story. And, sad to say, there have been times when I have seen my friends catch fire and instead of yelling, tip-toed around them in some kind of un-Godly political correctness.

No more. 

We need to stop playing around with fire. So often we think that what we are dabbling in is harmless. But, like the girl in the story, something that starts out tiny can slowly engulf us.

In the meantime, if I see you’re in danger of burning up in flames, I’m going to go to you quietly . . . then I’ll yell . . . and if push comes to shove, I'll throw you in the pool. 

I pray to God you’ll do the same for me. (Note to self, buy waterproof mascara . . . in bulk!)

Picture by Alejandro  

Joseph of Arimathaea

I'm sitting in semi-darkness weeping over Joseph of Arimathaea and the conviction I am under this morning as I examine my own life.

He took Jesus down.

How many times have I read this passage and just skipped over this man's sacrifice? This man's bravery? His dedication to do a job that nobody would have signed up for. 

To approach Pilate was somewhat crazy enough, but then it says he begged . . . Mark's version said he 'craved' the body of Christ. This morning, in the privacy that can only be found at the crack of dawn, I sit and cry, well aware that I am such a comfort seeker had I been there at the cross I most likely would not have volunteered to take on the dirty task. 

I picture Joseph prying Christ's hands and feet free. The open wound on His side oozing blood mingled with water . . . the stickiness staining Joseph's hands and clothes. The discomfort of exposure. To see His Savior naked. People were with Joseph; he had an audience of mourners during this most intimate exercise.

If you recall, Christ's accusers would not enter the governor's residence because they did not want to be defiled (that would mean they would have to miss the Passover meal). By this same Law, touching a dead body meant Joseph was disqualified for the yearly feast. For us today it would be like missing our Christmas or Thanksgiving meal. I don't think it was even on his mind. At that moment, his actions were being driven by his heart, not his stomach.

Brokenhearted, he took Jesus down. 

He laid him in his own new tomb. Yet another sacrifice, this time one of financial nature.

So here I sit. Walking through my mind again and again the steps of Joseph of Arimathaea; keenly aware of how many times I stumble in my own devotion to the One who loves me most.

God forgive me. Help me to fully live a life of love-driven sacrifice.

Faithful Companion

“I love those who love me, and those who seek me diligently find me.” Proverbs 8:17 (ESV ©2001)

I am not a morning person but do my best to carve out a few moments to spend with the Lord before I start my busy day. Sometimes, however, I wake up before sunrise and sneak down to my chair to spread out my Bible and be still. 

Within minutes, our little terrier—noticing my absence from the bedroom—comes downstairs and begins to search for me. Shocked to find me in my favorite overstuffed chair, (a dog of very little brain) she gallops towards me and sits at my feet . . . where she will continue to sit and stare, anxiously waiting for recognition and affection.

And she won’t leave until she gets it.

As I give in and rub her head with one hand, balancing my Bible in the other, I sigh. It never ceases to amaze me the lessons this little mutt can teach. 

Our Lord loves it when we seek him; when we sit and wait for His touch. And more than just loving our search, He loves us! Some mornings as I look down into her eyes, I wonder if my pathetic needy look makes Him sigh as well.

Barking Like an Idiot

My dog barks. 

While this may appear to be an elementary statement, it is much more than that.  You see, my dog barks like a flipping idiot — all the time.

She yaps at every living creature that dares to pass by.  And some inanimate objects as well. If ever a rogue leaf decides to take over our home, we will be advised well in advance.

Several times a day she will yelp in the kitchen, banging her metal dish as backup accompaniment. 

But, as irritating as these other semi-normal dog responses are, there is something she does that absolutely puts all of us over the edge. A kazillion times a day, she will roll one of her tennis balls under furniture, then yowl incessantly until one of us retrieves it. It’s her own take on fetch. It doesn’t matter that three other balls are scattered less than two feet away, the one she wants is out of reach. Ignore her if you’d like, but she’s not going to stop. Finally, one of us is forced to lift the couch two feet in the air.  Slowly she saunters underneath, sometimes lying down to give it a good chew. All the while the poor sucker who bothered to help her—arms cramping from the weight of the seven foot sofa—is howling for her to get out.

So, why do I put up with her crazy behaviour? How has she (and all of us) survived ten years of this irrational existence? Well, it’s because of the other reason she barks.

Whether away for ten days or ten minutes, her response upon my arrival home is always the same . . . she will yap and yelp in sheer ecstasy for me.

Yeah, I guess I’ll put up with the hairy terror. Who else is going to give me ‘red carpet moments’ several times a day? I only wish I could become the person she thinks I am. Clearly she truly is an idiot to think so highly of me.