Cookbook swap: which one do I donate?

That's a tough one. See, with me, cookbooks tell a little bit of my life story. And it might be the same with everyone.

Take, for example, my Cotton Country Collection. It's from Monroe, Louisiana, where one of my sweet college roommates, Elisa, was from. I believe her mother gave it to me as a wedding gift (that would be about 30 years ago!) and it has some of the best recipes every in it. And then there's The Art of Southern Cooking, another wedding present. That wonderful cookbook has seen better days! But the delectable food contained within its brown and worn pages are to die for! My girls still beg for puffy french toast!

Texas Country Reporter Cookbook is the one that brings a smile to my face every time I look at it, because my sweet husband stood in line for more than an hour, along with my dad, just to buy it and get it signed by Bob Phillips, because Rick knew I loved the TV series Texas Country Reporter. And I found the elusive recipe for posole that I had always looked for within its pages -- which are now labeled with the words, "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!(add green pepper)"

But I don't think any cookbook is as dear to me as my Gingerbread and All the Trimmings, from Waxahachie Junior League. I've found so many winners inside this one, chief among them being the star of the show on Christmas morning: Green Chili Cheese Bake. Makes my mouth water just thinking of it! I always serve it with crispy bacon and strawberry bread. It's one of our Christmas traditions.

So, I definitely know which ones I won't donate to the Amazin' Grazin' cookbook swap. But here are some that have absolutely no heartstrings attached to them:

Hmmmmm. . . I guess I'll know by Sunday!

Ready?

Hair Nails Salon Window, North Capitol Street (Washington, DC), a photo by takomabibelot on Flickr.

I saw Roxanna, my hairdresser, today.  And as often happens, God used us in each other's lives to speak His wisdom and encouragement into the other's life in one of those rare quiet moments of her normally very busy salon.  It was like God brought a calm to the comings and goings and for the first time in months there weren't other women close at hand waiting to be rinsed or cut or processed -- it was just us, trying to figure out how to be godly women in this very ungodly world.

This time it was her turn to do the questioning and my turn to encourage, but it's been the other way around plenty of times.  I'll never forget the afternoon I came to her choking back sobs about a crisis in my life.  As she began to wash my hair, she stopped and said, "I feel like God is telling me to pray for you right now.  May I do that?"  And she did, right there, with my head in the bowl.  And when we walked back to her chair, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I felt like a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

That's what God calls us to do for each other -- to be encouragers, to be ministers of His Word and His grace and love.

We never know when God will call on us to minister to someone.  We try to plan it, in our human-ness -- "I think I'll serve the homeless next Sunday morning" -- and maybe it happens, maybe it doesn't.

But one thing is guaranteed.  The most powerful way God can use us is the way we least expect it.  Like in the chair of a hair salon.

So... will you be ready when He asks?

Shanda's investment

When I found out my co-worker Shanda’s sweet little toddler died so unexpectedly Saturday night, I was dumbfounded.  Then devastated.  How could this happen. . . and why?  It didn’t, and still doesn’t, feel real.

I remembered how much Shanda loved little Bailey, and how much Bailey was like her.  So sweet and gentle. 

Her death is incomprehensible to me.  In my mind, I know God is good, merciful, is wise and compassionate.  I know that He sees globally, not only in the small realms that I live in.  I know He has Bailey in His loving arms, and He weeps with her parents as they grieve her loss.

But it’s so hard not to wonder why little Bailey wouldn’t have been better left with her parents on this earth longer than the couple of years she was here.

I wonder -- how would we react if we were told ahead of time how long we would have our children?

If we had a different name, if Mommy really meant Caretaker, knowing that our role was important but temporary and only for the span of say, two years, or perhaps eighteen years or maybe twenty-six  – would we do things differently?

Would we hold our children more and blow off their annoying questions less?

Would we listen to them with both ears and our minds instead of saying, “Oh, what?”

Would we encourage more than criticize?

Would we get irritated as often? 

Would we want to put that computer game in their hands, or instead, would we invest more of ourselves into their lives?

Would we cuddle them as we read a bedtime story instead of yawning and making excuses?

The truth is, none of us knows our time allotment.  So why are we wasting any time doing anything other than the things we know to be right and good?

That’s one thing that brings me comfort: Shanda can rest in the fact that she was a great mommy to Bailey. 

She invested wisely.

  

Epic...

“Epic fail”

Aren’t you so cool if you use those words in a presentation, or a blog (like I have, shamelessly!), or on a TV show.  That’s the IN phrase right now. 

But it’s not so cool if you are the beneficiary of those words, right?  Then it’s more like Epic despair.

I’m thinking of that movie Elizabethtown, where the main guy has failed miserably -- and publicly --at his life’s goal of creating THE perfect sneaker.  We witness his epic failure and his epic despair.  It plays at our heartstrings -- but still, it’s entertainment.

Strange sort of entertainment . . . but it’s safe.  It’s someone else’s misery.  And after all, it’s just a made up story.

Or is it?

Well . . . yes, that particular story is made up. 

 But what about your own epic fail?  And my epic fail?  We have them, you know.  Those times in our lives that we are oh so willing to put behind us, to remember vaguely as that-hard-time-soooooo-long-ago-but-everything’s-good-now.  So many of us (like me) want to deny that we are anything less than “just fine” and that anything painful or bad has happened .

Yet . . . how silly are we?  Most of the time it’s obvious to everyone but us.  Like the alcoholic who admits his addiction to his best friend who has been praying for him for years, our epic fails and despairs aren’t going to be the secrets we think they are.  They are written all over our lives in one way or another.

But what God wants us to do with them is not hide them, but use them for His good:  “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of Mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” II Corinthians 1:3,4.

 The God of all comfort and mercy will take care of our hurts, no matter how deep they go.  And when the time is right, he wants us to share our cup of comfort with others who need it. 

And that feels so much more right than denying those hurts ever existed.

It feels like epic joy.

I always listen to worship music on the way to work and try to pray for my kids, my husband, the day. . . you know -- life.  I've got my Ipod set to a worship playlist that keeps getting longer and longer every month.  But something weird happened a couple days ago, and it happened again today.

My "shuffled" playlist kept returning to a certain song both days, within five or so minutes of each other.  The song was "God is Able".

The first time I heard it repeated, I thought, Hmmm.  That's weird.  Did I have that set right?

I did.  The song wasn't looped, and the playlist was still on shuffle.  Weird.

Then it replayed as I neared my school.  -- What?  I'm hearing this song for a third time in thirty minutes?  How can that be?

And then I thought about the words:  God is with us, God is on our side, He will make a way... our God is able.

Ohhh.....yeah.  I hear you, Lord.


He knew how tense I was.  He knew how I needed to give everything to Him.

Because I sure can't handle my burdens.

But He is able.

---Teresa

Pure worship

Sometimes my daughter's childlike joy in her Father leaves me speechless.  Like last night.

Kristen, Rick and I went with our youngest daughter, Sarah, to her church in her college town.  The worship was just that -- worshipful.  Kristen was by my side, clinging to my arm, not able to read the words on the screen, but fully a part of the mood of the room, excited by what she was witnessing.  At times I would turn to her, especially on repetitive parts of the songs, and sing so that maybe she would sing along, but she didn't.  She would smile into my eyes with a huge, toothy smile and nod.  Her delight added to my own worship experience.

And then came the song, The Stand.  I love that song.  If done right, it's so moving, so climactic and says exactly what my heart wants to tell the Lord.  That I stand with arms high and heart abandoned, in awe of the one who gave it all.  I shifted Kristen's tight hold of my right arm and I grasped her hand with my left one, because I knew I wanted to raise my arm when I sang those words.

The church sang the song quietly, reverently, the college kids around us raising their hands, nodding, praying, gently rocking to the crescendoing beat of the anthem.  The chorus finally arrived, and I raised my arm as I sang the words, and beside me Kristen joyfully, wordlessly, raised her arm high as well.

I looked at her to see if she did this to mimic me, or what -- and was surprised.  She had so much joy on her face.   She looked at me, her smile so big and her posture uninhibited, as if saying, isn't this great?  Tears sprang to my eyes.  This was pure worship.  She did not sing the words, but she took it all in and the words reverberated in her soul.

I couldn't sing the words, either.  I could only whisper them and be grateful for the gift of this special adult child who allows me to see little glimpses of heaven at times like this.

 I'll stand
With arms high and heart abandoned
In awe of the one who gave it all
I'll stand
My soul Lord to you surrendered
All I am is yours

(Hillsong United)

Reading posts from members of my church who are in Vietnam spreading God's love to those who have never experienced it reminds me of the summer of 2005 when I went to Russia.  I went to a small town outside of Chelny, a town whose name I can't begin to spell but it sounds like Nizh-na-kamps.  It's something I'll never forget, that's for sure, even though I can't master the spelling of the town.  Eleven days of  blow-my-hair-back-God-what-are-you-doing-here-questions, being put in situations I never dreamed of, being stretched spiritually like I was a piece of play-doh being molded almost hourly.

It was awesome.  And not for the faint of heart.

God had to prepare me beforehand, as only He can, so that I could face the demands put upon me.  And there were a lot.  I was the only woman who went to my town on my team of four.  The other women on the mission team were in other towns in Russia.

I was also the only newbie on my team -- the only member who had never been on a mission trip before.  It was even my first trip outside the U.S.!

Once we got to our little town, after almost three days travel on plane, train and van, we slept briefly in our hotel after being greeted by a contingent of the church we were there to serve.  Then that evening we were taken to a market, where we paid for roasted chicken, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese and bread and took it to have picnic-style by the river while we met our translators and the pastors of the church and heard their assignments for us.

Our awesome welcoming committee decked out in traditional fare!

Our first night in Russia, such a simple, delicious meal by the river

The four of us knew we would evangelize, though unfortunately our team leader had not brought our Evangicubes from the U.S.  We would have to rely on the spoken word through our translators.  I was blissfully ignorant about this, but it bothered the others, I could tell.

The pastors informed us that we would be doing street evangelism, and that we would also be holding sessions at night in a restaurant that we would be inviting people to during the day -- sessions where one of the guys would present the gospel and then there would be a question/answer time.   Perhaps all week.  We would see.

The church baptizes believers in the river

Also, we were to go to visit an orphanage, a special needs center, and a cultural center.  And the church itself would gather and have a special baptism in the river and a picnic to follow.

Me with teenage artists at the cultural center

Very poignant, visiting a special needs hospital

And then they looked at me.  You, Teresa, you we want to speak to the women at the laundromat.

Some of the ladies of the laundry -- and what a very nice laundry it was!

Laundromat?

My new friends who heard my testimony over lunch, even when my translator was so moved she had to leave the room  -- so  the ladies and I just looked at each other. I shrugged and gestured to our food.  "I guess we just have to eat! No talking now!"  They laughed kindly and did what I did, which was dig in! 

Well, as it turns out, it's not the Kwik Wash variety that we have here in the states.  And the assistant pastor worked there during the week and had witnessed to the 7 or 8 women on staff there.  To no avail. So it was up to ME to convince them about Jesus.

No pressure there.

The representative of the women of the church, giving me a gift of appreciation for speaking to them.  I guess I didn't turn them off too badly!  

Oh, and the next night I was to address the women of the church.  Tell them how to behave.

Oh my gosh . . . are you kidding me? I thought.

A sweet lady in a nursing home facility.

And during the day, lots of street evangelizing.

After an impromptu speaking opportunity that I just walked into -- ". . . and how is it in YOUR country?  Come stand up here and tell us."
Wow.

My knees, even as I sat on the banks of that river, felt like they were buckling underneath me.

Where there are kids, there are teachers . . . and these kids were so wonderful!  

But still I smiled and nodded.  Sure, I said.

That evening as I prepared for bed I prayed God would help me.  Because I was SOOOO not up for this.  What in the world was I doing here?  God had sent the wrong person.  Beth Moore should have come instead of me. I felt like a weak little kitten when I should have been a roaring lion ready to go out and gather some souls for the Lord. I read and read God's word, took notes long into the night,  trying to come up with what I was going to say to both groups of women and -- oh yeah, all those people along the street!  I woke up extra early, the Russian sun streaming onto my face at four in the morning.  That's when I started sobbing -- I couldn't even get any sleep, much less catch a break around here.  I was at my wit's end.

But that's where God wanted me -- totally dependent upon Him.

I remember kneeling, crying, being so homesick, so regretting that I'd come to this demanding country. "I can't do this, Lord."

I don't know how long it took me to realize that I felt better.  I crawled back into my bed knowing everything was going to be not just fine, but . . . taken care of.

And it was.  God took my burden upon His shoulders, where it should have been all along.  The Holy Spirit is a much better speaker than I am, and He did the speaking for me when I spoke to the ladies at the laundromat, and later in the week, when I spoke to the ladies of the church (that was by far the harder of the two!).  And street evangelizing?  It was easier than I thought, because I just allowed God's love to come through every fiber of my being every time I spoke to someone.  Not that it wasn't challenging.  And there were so many challenges!  But each time someone turned away, it wasn't about me.  It was about their rejection of God, and it made me sad for them.  And when I had to speak impromptu in public on more than one occasion, I could do it, because I was empowered by the Most Powerful One!

How many people were saved?  One.  My translator.

Praise God for Kate's redeemed soul.  God knew.

Me and Kate