To Russia with Love

I had coffee with an amazing young woman yesterday. Jenni was born and raised here in the Portland area, but has spent most of the last two years in a tiny village in a very remote part of Russia. And as much as she loves being back with her family, her heart has found a home in that faraway land.
I wish you all could hear her story. Jenni spent two weeks at an orphanage in this village while on an outreach with a team from her Bible college a few years back. During her stay, the Lord broke her heart for the children and she found herself spending every spare minute with them. The director of the orphanage hadn't been very excited about the team coming, but after watching Jenni in action with the kids, he invited her--and only her--to come back.
About a year later, the Lord opened doors for Jenni to return to the orphanage with her friend Shawna. And they have watched Him move in incredible ways ever since.
For instance, the two girls made arrangements for "Ben," the director of the orphanage, to fly to Oregon to have hip replacement surgery. Just getting Ben out of the country was a miracle in itself, but once he got here, all aspects of the surgery were donated by generous hearts--from the hospital bill to the surgeon's fee to the artificial hip--everything was covered. "Ben" was overwhelmed by the love poured out on him during his stay here. And not only was the hip replacement a total success, his heart has made giant leaps toward God through this experience. According to Jenni, it's only a matter of time before he embraces Christ . . .
Another amazing thing I discovered yesterday was that neither Jenni nor Shawna have ever asked for financial support. They felt like the Lord told them to raise up prayer supporters and He'd take care of everything else. And so far, He's done a spectacular job.
So, if you happen to read this, consider becoming part of their prayer support team. If you would like to be put on their email update list, contact Jenni at: jenni_n_shawna@juno.com. She's back in the area until January, getting her visa renewed so she can go "home" for another year.
And if you ever get the chance to meet Jenni face to face, jump at it! Her stories inspire faith and passion--Jenni lights fires wherever she goes.

family traditions

Since gypsy blood flows through our veins, it has been a challenge to establish family traditions. For many years, however, traveling to the grandparent's house in Quincy, California from wherever we happened to live at the time, seemed to be the perfect holiday ritual. But then they moved! (We are still in mourning). Some of the best Thanksgivings and Christmases I can remember happened at Greg's folk's house in this sleepy mountain town.

Just like the song, we'd literally drive over the river and through the woods (and several states) to get to grandma's house. Upon our arrival, incredible aromas wafted through the open doors as we were warmly greeted. Dinner was usually grandma's lasagna, or sometimes carrot stew, but whatever it was, it tasted like heaven to our hungry crew. Grandpa always had the wood stove blazing.

When the girls were younger, they discovered the joys of camcorders. After the cousins from San Jose arrived, the girls would all disappear for hours, holing up in the loft as they created incredible dramas for the adults to enjoy after the big meal. Lindsay was really too old to be party to such childish events, but the other girls would beg and whine until she reluctantly caved in. The last movie they made was a remake of the Wizard of Oz, with Lindsay starring as the wicked witch of the west. If I remember correctly, Candyce was Dorothy, Danielle was Glynda the good witch (no surpise there), Amy did an amazing portrayal of the cowardly lion and Alisa rocked as the oil-deprived tin man. And Belle the ferret stole the show with her stunning rendition of Toto. (My favorite scene involved Lindsay driving away in our Astro van, cackling "I'll get you my pretty--and your little weasel too!)
Ah yes, those were the days . . .
If we were gathered for Thanksgiving, the day after always involved the intricate ritual of bagging the perfect Christmas tree. Mary (grandma) would make us a thermos of hot chocolate and send us armed with cookies, warm hats, and hack saws to help us accomplish our task. One year, the grandparents asked us to bring them a tree--a challenge, considering they had a 20 foot ceiling. But Lindsay and I managed to find the perfect monster of a tree and felled it ourselves. We even insisted on dragging it back to the car, demolishing anything that stood in our way. I'm not sure how we managed to get it back to the house, but the folks were impressed and we were pretty darn proud of ourselves . . .
If it was Christmas time, some of our more interesting traditions involved Christmas ball hunts and bowling. Christmas balls, if you've never had the chance to meet one, are modern contraptions, composed of clear plastic cups and Christmas tree lights, cleverly formed into a sphere which can be hung from the eaves of your house.
Our Christmas ball expedition, which happened on Christmas eve was eagerly awaited by both child and adult alike. We'd pile into our van and head for East Quincy, which as every knew, was the Christmas ball side of town. We'd cheer the first spotting, and then marvel over the wide variety of Christmas balls there were every year. Orbs of every size and color, some that blinked, some that changed colors. Some that just humbly hung there.
It was awesome.
Bowling was something we did the day after Christmas, after we were tired of eating ourselves sick and the kids were bored with their loot. The first four years this tradition took place, I skipped out, saying that I was athletically challenged (when the truth was I hate bowling shoes and just needed a little "me" time). Our last Christmas in Quincy, however, I relented and joined the fun, expecting to totally humiliate myself in the process. Au contraire--I ended up winning by a long shot, actually scoring 5 strikes in the first game!
I was sad when that tradition ended . . .
As I mentioned earlier, Greg's folks moved a few years back and new traditions have sprung up to replace the old ones. For Thanksgiving, we travel 12 hours to San Jose, eat ourselves sick, eat some more, and we go to San Francisco on Saturday. Not as cool as Quincy, but still filled with family, grace, and God's goodness.
We stay home for Christmas, embracing whatever strays the Lord has brought into our lives, relishing the uniqueness that defines our family.

Holiday traditions may come and go, but I'm thankful that some things never change.
God's goodness and grace . . . and the promise that His love endures forever.

a bit too vulnerable . . .

I blogged at length about our experience with The Fishbowl, a coffee house ministry run by a church we pastored in Northern California.
I read it to my daughter and my husband before I published it and they both had reservations.
Danielle didn't think I went into enough detail, while Greg felt that I shared a tad too much about this very traumatic season in our lives. Neither of them felt very good about me hitting the "Publish" button.
So, out of respect for my family, I will refrain from publishing this post. If, however, you would like to read "Satan in the sanctuary, part 2," leave a comment and your email address and I will send it to you.

satan in the sanctuary

I heard an interesting sermon today.
I was visiting another church in town, to hear the guy who'd spoken at the "recovery" seminar I attended all weekend. His topic was: How can the church become a safe place for broken people?
"The wounds I received at the hands of church people were far more severe than anything the world dished out," he informed us.
Like I needed a reminder.
He then asked, "How many of you have been through a church split--or have seen your ministry come to ruin?"
"Which time?" I thought to myself as I raised my hand. I definitely wasn't the only affirmative response.
"OK, how many of those splits/conflicts arose after you started an outreach into the community--something that put a serious dent in Satan's domain?" he probed
About the same number of hands shot up again.
"And let me guess--was it slander and gossip, almost certainly surrounding the pastor and his wife--that brought about the division and chaos?"
Heads nodded in assent. Wow, this guy just summarized our experience with our past 3 ministries. I was intrigued, to say the least.
"Let's do a little word study," he continued. "The word satan means adversary--one who opposes. And the word devil means slanderer or accuser. If satan can get church people to gossip and slander church leaders--spreading criticism about real or imagined flaws throughout the church--the work of the Holy Spirit will be stopped."
He continued preaching, but my train of thought derailed, and I had a flashback to the Fishbowl days.

To be continued . . .

My inheritance

I got a check in the mail today--a modest amount--for the sale of a piece of farm land that has been in the family since the Great Depression. My grandad Lovell first farmed the plot, and my mom and my aunt grew up on that piece of western Kansas farmland, playing on tractors and columbines as if they were the finest of playground equipment.
When my mom died of lung cancer in 1976, she left her share of the land to her five children. We leased the land to others to farm, and have always reaped a small blessing (in the form of a check) once the crops were sold. The land has mostly produced wheat, although corn, milo, barley, and even sunflowers have been sown and harvested over the years.
When I went back to western Kansas for my grandma's memorial service several years ago, Don Waters, the man who'd been leasing and farming the land for us for several decades, asked me if I wanted to see the old farmstead. The house my mom grew up in wasn't there anymore, he told me, but other than that, the farm hadn't changed much.
I was eager to see this bit of my history, and he was eager to take me on a stroll down his memory's lane.
"Your mom was my first love--my first kiss," he told me as we slowly drove down the dirt roads that divided up the sections of land. It was summer and the wheat had not yet been harvested.
I had not known this amazing fact. He then went on to tell me stories about my mother, beautiful glimpses into the life of a young Kansas farm girl.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if mom had married him?" my brother Dion asked, after Don took us back to the the cemetery for grandma's service.
"Well, for one thing, we wouldn't be here," I answered.
"Right," he said, laughing at the obvious. "I just wonder how her life would have been . . ."

Precisely because she did marry my dad, Mom gave me the precious gift of life--among other things.

From my mother, I inherited:

. . . a sense of humor. She loved to laugh and could even tell a good joke (my family thinks I missed out on that trait)

. . . a compassionate heart. We were always taking in strays, from kittens to foster babies. That gift from my mom would explain the unending procession of people (and critters) through this house

. . . my looks. Anyone who ever met my mom says I'm the spittin' image of her. Although certain parts of her anatomy skipped a generation and have graced my three girls

. . . my love of adventure. Mom had a knack for making everything fun--or at least exciting. Like the time she tried to cook frozen fried shrimp in dish detergent

. . . my passion for Jesus. My mom converted to Catholicism when she married my dad and she embraced the faith with all her heart. I remember when she made a commitment to go to 5 o'clock mass (that's 5 a.m.) every day during the Lenten season. She fulfilled her vow, too, although one morning she stumbled into the church and unbuttoned her coat--only to find that she was only wearing a slip! But she had a reverence for God that impressed my young soul deeply. It is by far the most precious gift my mom gave me.


And thank you, Mom, for the gift of the land. The first thing I will do with the proceeds will be to get my eyes fixed through cataract surgery. The doctor thinks that he may be able to help me achieve 20/20 vision--for the first time in my life!
I thought you might get a kick out of that--since I also inherited my terrible eyesight from you.
I only wish I could hear you laugh . . .

Milk--it does the Body good.

For many years, I've had a disturbing dream. Some of the details might vary, but the underlying theme has remained the same.
The dream always revolves around a baby. It's not my biological child, but one that has been entrusted into my care.
I love the baby and do my best to meet its needs. The child is always quiet and compliant (not like my real children, which is probably why they survived!), and I'm grateful that it doesn't demand my attention. In fact, the baby is so easy-going that I'm able to attend to really important things, like ministry.
Time passes in my dream and I notice that the baby isn't growing. The child is weak and listless and it suddenly dawns on me that it's not eating the food I've provided. Good things, like vegetables and pizza. All organic, I'm sure.
In the dream I had most recently (like just a few days ago), the baby is sucking pitifully on her fist. And the terrible realization comes crashing down on me that I've neglected to bottle-feed the baby, giving her the nourishing milk she so desperately needs.
For some reason, I assumed the infant could feed herself--there was certainly no lack of food in our house! But the poor thing was starving to death, right under my nose.

I always awaken from the dream, grieved in my spirit. I've asked the Lord to help me understand the meaning, but I've not had a clue. Until just recently.
I believe that the babies represent new believers in Christ. Souls that Jesus brought to me for spiritual nurture and guidance. While I truly cared about these little ones and tried to provide a safe place for them to grow up in the Lord, I wrongly assumed their diet was the same as mine, and that they were capable of feeding themselves.
I was so terribly mistaken.

(Interestingly, I think my actions--both in the dream and real life--have mirrored my own spiritual journey. I am the first-born, both literally and spiritually--in my family. In both realms, I'm pretty sure I grew up too fast. I went from being saved my senior year--delivered out of heavy drug use and experimentation in the occult--and headed to Bible college the following September. I don't ever remember being taught about the grace and mercy of Christ. The school was pretty legalistic in nature--it was there I learned that speaking in tongues was of the devil and you were going to hell if you weren't water baptized. Externals were emphasized, while the matters of the heart were ignored.
I do remember being terribly shocked when the college president's wife drove her car off a bridge one winter morning. Her suicide note stated she couldn't take it anymore.
This was the spiritual climate I "grew up" in. My spiritual diet was more gristle than milk).

I did a bit of a word study this week, and found several references to "milk" (as it pertains to the Word) in the Bible.
Peter tells his audience to long for the pure milk of the Word, as spiritual babes.
The writer of Hebrews rebukes his readers for sipping on milk when they should be feasting on solid food.
In his first letter to the church at Corinth, Paul writes about the progression from milk to solid food as believers mature.
Milk is not a bad thing. On the contrary, babies can't survive without it. That was the message of my dream. I offered the babies God sent me good, solid spiritual food. But I didn't discern that they were unable to digest my offerings. I didn't realize that they needed milk--the simple doctrines of the faith, emphasizing the grace and compassion of Christ.
And because of my lack of discernment, these little ones failed to thrive. In fact, I am distressed to say, some may not have survived . . .
So, I am actually pleased that our church serves up warm milk on Sunday mornings, because there are many spiritual infants in the fold. They can drink in the simple truths, digest them and grow up in the unconditional love of Christ. And as they grow, they will develop a hunger for solid food--and that is appetizingly served in small groups and bible studies in our fellowship. The mature in Christ might not find these meals quite so satisfying--but then, we have the ability to feed ourselves.
The babies don't.

Milk and meat are both essential to our development in Christ. . . but timing is everything.

Of Milk and Meat

"We're gagging on the meat!" whimpered the middle-aged woman, complaining that the pastor's sermons were too substantial for her delicate digestion. Too many hard issues to grapple with, too many demands on her life. The statement wouldn't have struck me as odd except for that fact that her husband was an elder at the church and she'd been a believer for over 30 years!

"My soul hungers for deeper truths, the milk doesn't satisfy," complained my young friend the other day. She was disturbed by the new sermon series at our church, which has been based on the book, "No Perfect People Allowed." Her contention is that the sermons have emphasized the compassion and grace of Christ while ignoring His holiness and our responsibility to live righteous, obedient lives.
Weren't we making the Christian life too simple--and too easy--she wondered?

And I've wondered, too, over the years, about this matter of milk and meat.
Maybe it's because I was born and raised in Kansas--steak country--that I've always had a hankering for doctrines I could really chew on. For truths that were down right hard to swallow at times. I've always gravitated toward teachings and books that highlighted the holiness of God, His discipline, His refining fires,the privilege of suffering.
(I actually got down on my knees when I was at Bible college and asked the Lord to allow me to suffer for His sake. I'm not sure what I was thinking at the time, but I think it was a reflection of my desire to be completely abandoned to His will, come what may).

To be honest, grace made me nervous. In hindsight, I think I saw grace as grudging tolerance on God's part and unabashed presumption on ours. "Sloppy agape" I've heard it called. The concept of "underserved favor" didn't mesh with my understanding of Jesus' admonition to "be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect." If you've read my recent blog about the Lord's dealing with my daughter Candyce ("His Kindness leads us to repentance"), it is obvious that I've been pretty much clueless about His grace.

But, praise be to God, my heart is beginning to understand.

I asked the Lord earlier this year to deliver me from the spirit of fear. In His mercy, He answered my prayer and that has altered my perception of almost everything, including His nature and character. Christ's mercy and grace have been "in my face"--I have laughed out loud over the realization of His unconditional love for me. After all these years, I've developed a taste for milk. My spiritual diet is much more balanced now.

C.S. Lewis once wrote: ""What you see and what you hear depends a good deal on where you are standing." I've been standing in a cave, close enough to the Lord to see His glory and greatness, too terrified to come out and "taste and see that the Lord is good." But He has called me out into His glorious light that I might dwell in His Presence, clothed in the righteousness of Jesus alone.

It still boggles my mind . . . but I can receive it. By His grace, my heart can enter where my mind still can't go . . .