hemmed in

About a month ago, when I was visiting my sick friend up in Welches, I felt prompted to read Psalm 139. Ken sleeps most of the time I'm there, so I usually bring my Bible and have a leisurely "quiet time" while he's resting.

I flipped to the middle of my Bible and began to read one of the most beloved and oft-recited portions of scripture. I didn't get very far, because when I reached verse 5, I had an encounter with God.

You hem me in—behind and before;
You have laid your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

What does it mean to be hemmed in? I wondered as I read the verse. The thought hadn't even finished forming when I sensed the Lord's presence, pressing in upon me from all sides. I felt surrounded--or hedged in, as some translations put it--by God's comfort and peace.

The finite hemmed in by infinite Love!

Since that morning, whenever I think about that verse, I experience God's "hemming" all over again. It must be how a newborn feels when it's snugly swaddled: warm, safe, secure, content and unafraid.

I can't make a wrong move when I'm in that place. I can't worry about the future because I'm so peaceful in His presence.

If only I could learn how to stay within His divine hedges . . .

extra msg added

You may or may not be interested, but here are some things I've learned about MSG in my recent research. I've suspected that I'm MSG-sensitive for years, so have been trying to figure out how to avoid the tasty culprit.

1. MSG, monosodium glutamate, is the sodium salt of glutamic acid, a non-essential amino acid. Too much of this substance in our bodies can be toxic and people have differing levels of sensitivity to glutamates.

2. MSG and related glutamates containing substances have a variety of names, such as hydrolyzed vegetable protein, autolyzed yeast, and more . . . gelatin (including the gelatin capsules many supplements come in) contains MSG

3. MSG is not a seasonsing, but a flavor-enhancing neurotransmitter that can actually destroy brain cells.

4. Headaches are the most frequently reported reaction to MSG, but stomach issues, mood disorders, insomnia, irregular heart beat/chest pains, asthma, ADHD, and a host of other symptoms are connected to the substance.

5. The amount of MSG in processed food has doubled over the past 10 years

6. MSG can take up to 24 hours after ingestion to cause a reaction, so most people don't realize their symptoms are MSG-related

7. Some researchers believe there are links between MSG ingestion and ALS, Parkinson's Disease, Autism, sleeping disorders, and many more serious conditions


This is just the tip of the ice berg. If you want to know more, there are some great websites. www.msgmyth.com is good for starters. I just finished reading "Excitotoxins, the taste the kills" by Dr. Blaylock and am now reading "Battling the MSG Myth" by Dabbie Anglesey.

I never could figure out why I still had reactions (my digestive system hates MSG, I have immediate stomach issues after ingestion), but after the research I've done I realize that just the supplements I take add up to a lot of glutamates in my diet via the gel-caps. I am now experimenting with supplements (in vegetarian capsules) that are reported to block MSG reactions.

BTW, this post is dedicated to my good friend Alex who likes to ask for "extra MSG" when we dine at asian restaurants ;)

ode to recycling

recycle: to undergo reuse or renewal; be subject to or suitable for further use (Random House dictionary)

I was into recycling before it was hip--although I didn't realize what I was doing back then!

My initial experience with recycling involved garage-saling with a quirky young man from our first youth ministry. Randy invited me to tag along with him and his grandma one Saturday morning as they followed the intimidating maze of Garage Sale signs around the sleepy burg of Turlock, California.

I'd never heard of such a thing. The very term garage-saling conjured up bizarre images of Randy's grandma's buick, pirate-ship sails unfurled and billowing, driven through town by the central valley wind. Plus, the thought of shopping in other people's garages rather unsettled me--until we made our first stop and I realized this was one of the most brilliant things I could ever do.

I ended up lugging home a crib, matching dresser and bags of baby clothes that day, all for under $50 bucks--sweet finds for a struggling couple fresh from seminary. To say I was hooked is an understatement--I'm still treasure hunting 30 years later!

I didn't apply the term "recycling" to my hobby until we moved to Alaska in 1989. As the new pastor's wife on the block, I got invited to attend the annual spring brunch and fashion show. Several of the church ladies worked at the Nordstrom's in Anchorage, so the spendy store's new spring designs were featured by the models.

Prior to the event, someone at the church discovered that I sported Nordstrom threads from time to time--and that I'd never paid more than $2 for an article of their clothing, no matter how upscale the label. They thought it would be fun for me to model my second-hand finds, contrasting the price I'd paid with the newer versions.

I usually took great delight in boasting about my clothing coups. But I was a little hesitant to admit to this group of well-heeled women that I bought most of my clothing in other people's garages. It was then I hit upon the concept of "recycling".

To break the ice at the fashion show, I had a friend of mine strut down the runway dressed as a bag lady--representing the ultimate second-hand-clothing consumer. Nothing matched or fit my maverick model--and she topped off the outfit with a rainbow-colored beanie (which, I recall, had a propeller attached). Once the ladies stopped laughing, I came out wearing my swankiest outfit and espoused the benefits of buying recycled clothing.

New, my dress sold for $75.00. I'd paid fifty cents for it at a garage sale! I also had my daughters model cute outfits I'd purchased for them at either yard sales or thrift stores.

All the Nordstrom junkies skittered up to me after the show and gushed about my wonderful presentation. I'm glad they liked it, but I never ran into any of them at any garage sales after that. But still, I'd made my point.

Speaking of great deals, I'm still gloating over the suede boots I found at Goodwill last week. I've been wanting nice dress boots--something I could wear with skirts--but was appalled by department store prices. So as I made my regular circuit of Portland thrift stores, looking for books and paper for the recycled journals I make, I kept my eyes open for the perfect boots. And I prayed--fully aware that this was definitely a want and not a need. But I asked anyway :)

And then last week I found them--the sweetest pair of boots with just the right heel, right style, right size, and right color. They didn't appear to have ever been worn, either. When I got them home, I googled the label to see what the boots were worth.

Did I score? Let's just say I could make our next house payment if I could sell those boots for what they were going for online (if they aren't knock-offs, which they probably are).

But I won't, of course. I'm pretty sure those boots were "recycled" just for little old me!

Mother's intuition, part 2

So Candyce drove a van full of DTS students to Estes Park, CO and back to Salem this past week.

And I was really snxious about it!

You'd think after all that girl has been through--the land mines, the LRA gunfire, the refugee camps, the malaria--I wouldn't think twice about a cross-country road trip. But for some reason, I felt compelled to pray--HARD--and it turns out there was good reason!

For starters, the queen mother of October storms hit on Thursday, dumping several feet of snow in Colorado. The highway out of town was closed (thank You, God) so their departure was actually delayed a full day.

Then, operating on very little sleep, Candyce did most of the driving during the two day trip home. I wasn't aware of this, but felt continually prodded to pray for safe travels, as I envisioned angels devotedly surrounding the packed van (kind of like those kitchy pictures of angels watching over semi-trucks barrelling down the highway).

The angels got their workout about half-way through the Gorge. Candyce said she was zooming over the pass, anxious to get home, when a loud BANG rocked the van. The blowout flung the vehicle across several lanes of traffic, stopping just short of the median. Candyce was able to quickly regain control of the van and manuevered back across the road to the shoulder . . .

. . . where the little stud muffin insisted on changing the tire herself!

Strangely, I'd texted her about this time, needing assurance that she was still in one piece. She didn't reply, but called when she got back to Salem, downplaying the whole event with the words, 'I thought we were all going to die, Mom!"

Not as long as moms pray and angels respond and God had big plans for your life, my dear!

say hello to jonah for me . . .

Not long after Jonah died, Greg and I went to say goodbye to a friend who was losing her battle with cancer. Edith had drifted into unconsciousness shortly before we arrived and didn't wake up again.

Not on this planet, anyway.

Her family had all been summoned and now gathered in her room. Some hung back, but others pressed in and patted her sallow skin, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet farewells.

I felt like I was on holy ground as I watched the family's final interactions with Edith. A solid child of God, she'd raised her own children to be followers of Christ. The fragrant aroma of their faith filled the room and the veil between heaven and earth seemed very thin indeed.

Before we left, Greg prayed for God's comfort to blanket Edith and her kin. As we said our final goodbyes, I felt compelled to whisper to my sleeping friend:

"Say hi to Jonah for me!"

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw the faintest smile . . .

**********************************

This week, I had lunch with my friend Terry. Her husband, Ken, is dying (he's the one one the mountain I visit each Monday) and she's taking life one day at a time right now. But she is brave and strong and funny and I am blessed to call her my friend.

And she gave me a precious gift on Tuesday . . .

"I hope this doesn't hurt your heart," Terry said to me, as we finished up our gluten/msg-free meals at our favorite thai place. "But I want to tell you about a conversation I had with Ken this week."

Maybe Ken hates my cooking and I'll be banned from the kitchen!? was the only heart-rending issue that came to my mind. But I braced myself and told Terry to spill the beans.

"Well it dawned on me that Ken will get to see your son before you do--and I realized that I don't even know his name!"

"Ah, his name is Jonah," I replied, startled that she would even remember my loss in the midst of her present pain. But that's Terry.

"Do you think Ken could say hello to Jonah for me?" I asked, already seeing the answer on her face.

There was no imagining the smile this time . . .

some thoughts on healing

I've heard some differing perspectives on divine healing over the years--from "God's will is for all sickness to be healed," to "God doesn't heal people today." Somewhere in-between those extremes, I have developed my own theology of healing.

It's pretty simple: I pray for healing and leave the results to God.

I have witnessed at least two miraculous healings within my immediate family--the kind where the doctors and experts just kind of scratch their heads and go, "Huh, have no idea how this could have happened!"

Danielle is Exhibit A in the Miracle Healing department. When we took her in for her six-month-old baby check (which was not an easy task, since Greg and I were still in wheelchairs and healing from our car accident just a month earlier), the nurse discovered that the circumference of her head had expanded beyond normal bounds. After rechecking the measurements, her pediatrician ordered a CAT scan and told us that the growth could be caused by two conditions: a brain tumor or hydrocephalus (water on the brain).

To parents who had just buried their firstborn, this was not good news. Worse yet, we'd taken Danielle in on a Friday and had to wait until Monday to get the results of the scan. It was the weekend from hell, for sure, and I vaguely recall mentally planning a second funeral as we waited for the doctor to call. The phone finally rang Monday afternoon and we received the news:

Danielle's head had enlarged because of a build-up of fluid around the ventricles in her brain. She suffered from "water on the brain."

We took her to see a neurosurgeon later that week and learned more than we ever wanted to know about hydrocephalus. He wanted us to bring her in for monthly CAT scans, to monitor the levels of fluid build-up. If too much pressure was being put on Danielle's brain, a shunt could be inserted for drainage.

We made the journey to the neurosurgeon for several months, each time being met with the grim news that the fluid continued to collect around the ventricles. The doctor felt that she'd need a shunt put in by the time she turned one--and while that would help relieve the pressure, it also opened her up to infection and other complications.

Can I just confess I was pretty ticked at God by this point? I was still in a wheelchair, struggling to recover physically and emotionally from the car accident that smashed up my body and took the life of my only son . . . only to be broadsided by by Danielle's serious illness. Let's just say I wasn't a shining example of faith in Christ when the elders from our church showed up one night to pray for our sick daughter.

"Do you have any oil?" one of them asked as the six men gathered awkwardly in our family room for prayer. None of us had ever done anything like this before, but our pastor had just read James 5:14 and felt he and the elders were to anoint Danielle with oil and pray for her healing.

I rummaged through my cupboards and found some Wesson oil. It was made from corn, not olives, but we figured it would do. I held Danielle in my arms while the guys gathered around and offered up simple prayers for her healing. Nothing dramatic happened, but I think we all felt more peaceful afer the prayers. It was kind of like we'd done our part, now God could do His.

And He did! On our next visit to the neurosurgeon, he discovered that Danielle's head circumference remained unchanged. That prompted another CAT scan, which revealed a lessening of fluid surrounding her brain. Puzzled, he had us bring her in every two weeks so measurements could be taken and more tests could be run.

When Danielle was just shy of her first birthday, the doctor gave us the best present ever by pronouncing her cured of hydrocephalus! There would be no need for a shunt now--or any more trips to the neurosurgeon's office! He, of course, had no explanation for her restored health, but we did. God had healed our daughter!

(Although if you look closely, her head is still a bit larger than the average woman's . . .)

Danielle's amazing healing definitely fueled my faith to pray for the health of others through the years. And I've witnessed miraculous deliverances from disease--but I've also seen friends and family struggle with infirmities for years . . . or even die from their conditions.

But for christ-followers, isn't death the ultimate healing? And can He not be glorified and served through our sickness as much as through our health? (For all our prayers, God chose not to heal our son Jonah from the condition of autism and let his life be cut short by a terrible car accident. But I cannot begin to count the lives that were touched by Jonah's brief life, through both his disability and his death).

Like I wrote earlier, I am compelled to pray and leave the results to Him . . . He is the One who determined our life span before we ever drew our first breath:

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them. Psalm 139:16

and now a word from my daughter (candyce) . . .

Lately, I am just so tired.

It could be the fact that I am living in a dorm with 27 (count em) 27 other girls (ALL of whom wake up at the butt crack of dawn to take showers, and blow dry their hair, which ends up sounding like a steel train colliding with a van full of howler monkeys, if I'm honest.)

Or, it could be the fact that I am staffing a missions school which requires ALL my time, energy, intellect, emotion, and money (yes money. I am paying to take these people to africa after all.)

OR it could very well be the fact that I am simply not getting enough sleep (27 girls...) Whatever it is, its rough, and I am learning quickly that I need some amount of personal space. I am normally not like this actually, but I am 23 now... days aren't what they used to be, and I am finding my alone time to be a precious thing.

It struck me today that I only have 8 weeks left in this country, and then its off to africa. My team of 7 and I, in the bush of that crazy continent that I can't seem to stay away from. Just that thought alone makes me want to pee my pants. 7 other people in africa with me? thats crazy talk. I can trust God to take care of me, but now I have to take others? 18 year olds even?

But then I realize that this is where it all begins. If I am so crazy passionate about this place, why wouldn't I want to take other people there, to have them experience what I have?

Well, heres why: Africa broke me.

Plain and simple. I often find that people are mistaking my passion for africa, for enjoyment. They actually think I was having a ball over there, enjoying me time there like an extended vacation. Even when words like "malaria" are mentioned, they chuckle, thinking what a good story I have. What an adventure.

And while it was an adventure and a pretty awesome story, it also sucked really bad at times. Actually, most times. Yes, I keep galavanting off to Africa, but usually at some great expense (i.e. money, health, comfortability) and I mostly do it out of sheer obedience to what God is telling me to do! AND just because he told me to do it, and I follow through, does not always guarantee that its going to be pleasant and easy. Hardly ever, actually.

So I go. And I will go every time, because I have waited my whole life to feel this alive, or this close to God (Same thing, really) and I can't stop now. For the first time, God is letting me feel just a little of what he feels for the lost everyday. But it came at a price (see previous paragraph).

And now I am taking 7 beautiful, smart, joyful students along with me, hoping to be some sort of hope in a place I would call desperate. I definitely tried to warn them about what this trip would entail, but its not even close to what its going to be like stepping off that aircraft, onto that red dirt I call home. How can I prepare them for those babies, the ones with HIV bound for an early death, the ones whose tiny fists wrap around your finger with the strength only an african baby could have, and then cause your heart to break into a million pieces. Or for the men all carrying AK-47's in their right hands, and bottles of local brew in their right, stumbling your way and asking for things that can't be mentioned in this blog...

How can I prepare them for the food, that looks, and tastes like (and is) bugs? Or for the sound of land mines exploding in the night, and the knowledge in the back of your brain that is whispering "there goes another one."

How about the 11 hour bus rides, where if you are a woman, you are not allowed to relieve yourself outside, because its indecent... but the men can. Or the fierce 120 degree heat, and lack of clean water, not to mention malaria? Oh God, how can I do this? How can I take them?

But then I remember that God is for me. He is for us. I have been called crazy many a time for what I do, and maybe I am. Maybe we all are. But I am alive. I feel for the first time things I never thought I could! Real, staggering, painful love! For the first real time. I feel compassion, a word that is lost in my generation. I feel pain along with joy, and sorrow along with wonder. I have a desperation to see the world at large, get better. I may only be one, but now soon to be 8! This one, is now turning to a team of 8. 8 people who can change the world. 8.more.than.before.

And that is why I do it. There is hope for change. for love. life. joy. beauty.

And it started with 1.

from her blog: www.candycestrannigan.blogspot.com