What's your religion?

That's what Cherry, my new hair stylist, asked me today as she snipped fresh life into my shaggy, overgrown do.

"Uh, Christian," I said. Although my brain was still floating around on Orcas Island, I realized this conversation could get interesting.

"What religion are you?" I inquired of Cherry, an attractive fifty-something gal with a really cute haircut. That's always a good sign.

"Oh, I'm spiritual," she answered, evening up my bangs. "Buddhism's cool, but I just kind of pick and choose from all the religions. I don't want any one church or person telling me what to believe. Guess I'm a free spirit."

Cherry told me a bit about her religious upbringing. Her mom had been Southern Baptist and her dad Lutheran. They'd given her the freedom to choose her own spiritual path, but Cherry couldn't settle on just one of the gazillions of religions that vied for her attention. So she decided to embrace them all.

But her smorgasborg religion hadn't sustained her through the storms of life. She lived alone, she confided, trying to make ends meet after being abandoned and abused by an endless string of men.

"So, how were you raised?" Cherry asked abruptly.

"Catholic," I mumbled, trying not to move my head while she tidied up my neck hairs with a razor.

Cherry snickered. "Couldn't handle the guilt thing, huh?"

"Yeah, it didn't really work for me," I agreed. Then, in the space of about two minutes while Cherry was making sure both sides were even, I shared my testimony. When I got to the part about my drug use, Cherry gasped.

"My son is a meth addict," she said sadly. "How wonderful that you found the way out."

While she blow-dried my hair, we chatted loudly for a few minutes about God's purposes for our lives. I told her about my church; how it is a place of healing and grace.

"Wow, I think I could go to a church like that!" Cherry said, genuinely interested. I noticed that the young woman at the next stall was listening intently, too.

I paid Cherry, feeling inspired to tip a bit more than usual. Then I handed her my business card with Abundant Life's service times written on it.

"Thanks, honey" Cherry said. "I really enjoyed talking with you today. Maybe I'll see you again."

I left the salon with a great haircut and a grateful heart. When I'd asked the Lord a few months back to give me the courage and opportunities to share my faith, I'd assumed it would be difficult.

I had no idea it would be this much fun!

Take heart, all you weak-kneed witnessers! If I can do this--you can too!

rainy day blessings

We are on the Yakima ferry once again, headed back to Anacortes. We woke up to a strange sight this morning: the sun’s rays peeking through our window. We had to laugh—the sunshine was the perfect grand finale for our stay on Orcas island!

Greg and I actually felt the rainy weather was a blessing in disguise. For one thing, we rested. We normally return from vacations totally exhausted, needing a week or so to recuperate. We play hard, exploring every nook and cranny, trying to experience all our chosen destination has to offer.

We’d talked about renting mopeds or bikes, trying sea kayaking or doing a trail ride around Orcas Island. Because of inclement weather, we did none of the above. Instead, we were content to laze about our room, enjoying the view as we cuddled in front of the gas fireplace. Each night, we got in a good eight hours of sleep--plus at least one nap a day.

If this sounds dull to you, it wasn’t. It was totally and completely luxurious. I can’t remember when I’ve felt more rested, body, soul, and spirit.

Not only was our get-away relaxing, it was productive. After grabbing a latte’ in East Sound, we’d spend the bulk of each morning working on the marriage retreat we are leading in May. We read books on communication, love and respect, commitment , and (of course)sex—and then discussed what topics and principles we wanted to incorporate into the retreat. We reminisced over the wonderful lessons the Lord has taught us throughout our 30 years of marriage. Afternoons, we’d drive to the different coves and other points of interest the island, enjoying the scenery, shops and eateries in our own sweet, laid-back time. The misty terrain, combined with the gentle drizzle, made everything on the island seem a bit ethereal . . . and romantic!

I can’t remember when I’ve felt more connected to my husband in body, soul and spirit.

So, thank You, Lord, for slowing us down . . . You knew just what we needed. Thank You for the sunshine today . . . but I am especially grateful for the blessing of lazy, rainy days!

Moran State park

It has been rainy and cool since we arrived on Orcas Island, but it hasn't slowed us down much. We've explored the island, eaten some of the best food I've ever tasted, and luxuriated in the breath-taking beauty and peace of this place. We'll catch the ferry to Friday Harbor and do some more 'sploring tomorrow.

so long, little scouters

Greg and I left for a get-away in the San Juan islands on Monday. We've never done anything quite like this before: no kids, no speaking/teaching enagements, no obligations . . .
. . .and no Scout!

I begged Greg to let me bring her, but he was adamant.

"We are celebrating our 30th anniversary. I want this to be a romantic, relaxing vacation, not a crazy road trip with our psycho dog!"
He prevailed, so we dropped Scout off at the Nature's Acres kennel before we left town. I'm not sure who was more traumatized--me or my dog.

(If you've been following my blog for any length of time, you've probably picked up on the fact that our 18-month-old Sheltie is "special." She seems almost autistic at times. The older Scout gets, the more life seems to stress her out. Because we love Scout, we've learned to adapt to her neurotic behavior and have tried to make our home a safe place for her.

But how do you explain to a stranger that sneezing, or laughing--or any number of innocuous household noises--can send Scout over the edge? The bouncing of the neighbor boy's basketball instantly transforms Scout from a docile pet into a wild thing. She'll run in frantic cirles, growling and panting, for as long as she can hear the sound. Last week, we actually moved a premarital mentoring appointment from our house to the church because we didn't want our half-crazed dog to terrify the young couple!)

I felt like I was packing for a baby as I got Scout's stuff together. I took her bed, favorite toys, treats—and her doggie drugs. As I signed her in at the front desk, I tried to explain to Heather, the dog-handler, that Scout had a few “quirks.”

“Oh, we’re all dog people here,” she assured me, smugly. “Scout will be fine.”

“Um, she gets stressed easily,” I said. “Noises really bother her . . .”

“Oh, the barking will die down after you leave,” Heather cut in, treating me like an over-protective parent.

“It's not just the barking,” I continued. “All kinds of noises, from sneezing to laughing . . . to cracking hard-boiled eggs will make her crazy, too.”

Heather looked at me like I needed the puppy tranquilizer. She pretended to jot my instructions down on Scout’s chart, but was probably writing "Beware neurotic owner."

Paperwork finished, we followed Heather to the doggie den that would be Scout's home for the next week. The loud chorus of barks, growls and yips that greeted us sent Scout into instant panic mode. Heather watched with dismay as Scout began her wild-eyed trot around my legs.

“Maybe we should give her those drugs you brought now,” muttered Heather after several failed attempts to get Scout to simmer down. She glanced into the prescription bottle I’d handled and looked up at me in alarm:
“Is this all the medication you brought?”

It’s going to be a long week . . . for both Scout and Heather.

(In case you are worried about my pooch, I called the kennel yesterday and was assured that Scout was just fine.
“He calmed down as soon as we let him out for play time with the other dogs,” another employee assured me. “He’s doing just fine today.”
“Glad to hear she’s OK,” I replied, pretty sure I could hear Scout barking in the background. But I took that as a good sign. Maybe she’s stopped circling and joined the pack . . .)

Dream Catcher

I don't have God-dreams very often. And when I do, they aren't the trippy, apocalyptic dreams like Daniel had. Nor are they glimpses into the future (which would come in pretty darn handy at times!).
My God dreams always seem to zero in on the hidden motivations and struggles of the heart. Both mine--and the hearts of those around me.

Last week, I have a very vivid dream about my Native friend, Chief. Chief (you might recall from earlier blogs) once lived on the streets, but has been sober and serving the Lord for the past nine months. He's involved in several recovery ministry groups, plugged into his church, and preparing for a mission trip to Alaska in June. His spiritual growth has been very exciting to witness.

In my dream, however, Chief was drinking and headed back to the streets.

I awoke from the dream, my heart pounding, at 4:30 a.m. Too distraught to fall back asleep, I prayed fervently for Chief until the alarm went off at 6:30. Later that day, I called his house and left a message.

Chief didn't call me back, so I just kept praying.

Several days later, I ran into Chief at our church. He let me hug him, but definitely wasn't his usual cheerful self.

"How's it going, Chief?" I asked, hoping to get a feel for his spiritual pulse.

"I've been feeling like I want to drink again," he said quietly, looking me in the eye.

"So, what's been going on?" I asked, both relieved and startled by his honesty.

"It is very hard where I live right now," Chief explained. "They drink and take drugs and call me 'holier-than-thou' because I don't. I get so angry and so tired of it. Sometimes I just want to be a regular guy."

"But Chief," I countered, "you aren't a 'regular guy.' God has a plan for you--He has amazing purposes for you life!"

"I know that's true," Chief said, looking down at his feet with a sheepish little grin. "But it's still hard . . ."

I told Chief about the dream I'd had.

"You know, that wasn't a prediction of what's going to happen," I explained. "It's a warning. The stronger you grow in the Lord--the more you share your testimony--the more of a threat you are to Satan. He will try to take you out, Chief--by getting you to take that first drink."

Several folks from Chief's small group had gathered around us as we talked. I asked Chief if we could pray for him.

"Sure!" he replied, his countenance brightening.

So we did. And, dear reader, I humbly ask that you will too. Pray for Chief not to have a spirit of fear, but of love, power, and a sound mind. To be sanctified in the truth--the Word of God. Pray that no weapon of the enemy formed against him will prosper and that all the Lord's good plans and purposes for Chief's life will be fulfilled.

And that he makes it to Alaska . . .

Alaska Suicide Statistics

Graves in a village cemetary


A friend of mine from Alaska, who works with Native students, sent me this article from the Anchorage Daily News today:

http://www.adn.com/news/alaska/ap_alaska/story/8781453p-8682948c.html

wild beast feast . . .

. . .that's what we used to call it in Alaska, anyway. In politically correct Oregon, it's known as The Sportman's Banquet.

But it's all the same thing. Eating dead animals, enjoying dead animal decor, bidding on dead animal skins and hearing stories about how the animals ended up dead. Even the hats that are sold at the dinner have Acts 10:13 embroidered on them: "Rise, kill and eat."

The food was especially tasty this year. I donated about 20 lbs. of halibut (gotta make room in the freezer for this year's haul) and someone had given a generous supply of salmon. We also served up moose chili and burgers, caribou steaks, fried pheasan and duck.

And of course, the "mystery meat"--which turned out to be black bear. Kind of tame after the jellied moose nose from last year.

Roger Huntington, an Athabascan Indian from Galena Alaska, was the keynote speaker. He kicked off the evening with bear hunting stories. Apparently, Athabascans hunt bear a bit differently than white folk. They prefer to sneak up on them while they are still hibernating in their dens, wake them up and annoy them, and then shoot the groggy animal as it charges out of the den after its tormenters.

I think I'll stick to fishing . . .

Hunting wasn't the only thing Roger talked about. He shared his powerful testimony--a story of God's grace and mercy. After most of his body was burned in a plane crash in 1988, Roger surrended his proud spirit to the Lord and has poured himself out in ministry ever since. He and his Eskimo wife, Carol, travel around Alaska together in Roger's small plane, sharing God's redemptive purpose for the Alaska Native people. If you'd like to read more about Roger and his ministry, check out his ministry website: www.nativealaskan.org.

This annual event is held not only as an outreach to our community--it's also a fund-raiser for Kokrine Hills Bible Camp (www.kokrinehills.org) which is one of most effective ministries to Native Alaskan children. The camp, which is located on the banks of the Yukon River, serves kids from 12 villages (both Athabascan and Eskimo) in Interior Alaska. This year, the banquet raised about $12,000, which will purchase much-needed equipment for the camp.

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

"Ya know," I told my husband as we were recuperating after the banquet last night (I'd sold raffle tickets and served wild game and Greg pretty much ran the show. He makes a very cute emcee), "I think the Sportsman's Banquet is my favorite event. It's more fun than the Annual Women's Tea."

"Can't say that I'm surprised--but why is that, exactly?" Greg asked, rubbing his aching feet.

"I just love to watch the men," I told him. "All these big, burly guys are tranformed into excited little boys as they walk through the doors. The cares of life are left behind and they become hunter-gatherers, all bonded by some primal urge to kill something."

And, men who would never step foot in a church hear the gospel for perhaps the first time in their lives, while funds are raised to help share the light of Jesus in the dark places of Alaska.

Kind of a win-win situation, if you ask me.

Except, of course, for the animals . . .

(For the whole story on how I caught the big salmon in the picture, check out the May 17, 2006 post . . . "the secret of my fishing success").

How to Not Mess Up the Great Commission too Much.

Loved the graphics on this--and it made me think.

the empty egg

To my great shame, I must admit that I don't share the gospel very often. Hardly ever, in fact. Part of that is due to the fact that I'm married to a pastor and I work for a mission organization. All of my neighbors go to church. I don't rub elbows with pagans very often . . .

And I'm a big, fat coward.

And . . . sometimes I just don't care.

Like I said, I am ashamed of this character flaw of mine. And when I went on my three day beach retreat last month, I talked a lot to the Lord about it. I asked Him to give me His heart for those who don't know Him--and I asked for more opportunities to share His story.

Today, I had a very unexpected opportunity to do just that.

Danielle decided to bring the three Somalian (Muslim) girls she mentors to the house to bake cup cakes and hunt Easter eggs. She'd asked me to fill the plastic eggs with goodies and hide them while she picked the girls up. As I was stuffing chocolate robin's eggs and jelly beans into the pastel eggs, I remembered the "resurrection eggs" I'd made for my first-grade Sunday School class last Easter.

They were still in the carton where I'd packed them away after church last year. Each of the twelve eggs had a number and contained a tiny symbol of the Easter story. (Rather than shell out $15 at the Christian book store, I'd opted to make my own.) I decided to hide the homemade resurrection eggs along with the candy-filled ones and let Danielle tell the girls the Easter story.

Danielle had other ideas.

"Mom, could you do it?" she asked, batting her big blue eyes at me.
"Uh, sure," I said, wishing I'd peeked into the eggs before I hid them. But the story was simple enough. How hard could it be?

The 3 girls found all 30 eggs in about five minutes flat. They were inhaling jelly beans when Danielle rounded them up and had them sit on the floor.

"My mom wants to tell you a story," Yellie said with her cute Somalian accent. "Some eggs have numbers. Who has number one?"

Halima, the oldest, help up a yellow egg with a #1 written on it. Unfortunately she'd already cracked all her eggs and the contents of eggs #1, #7 & #9 were mixed up with her candy.

I pressed on: "Who has egg number 2?"
Habiba, the youngest, proudly handed me the intact egg. Relieved, I opened it, only to realize I had no idea what the dried-up thing inside it was supposed to be.

The children gazed at me expectantly while I looked helplessly at Danielle.
"I'm not sure I know how to tell this story," I said, hoping for some assistance.
"So, what is that thing, Mom?" Danielle asked, peering unhelpfully into the egg.
I vaguely recalled putting a piece of fiddle head fern in an egg last year, to represent the palm fronds waved by Jesus' admirers during the Triumphal Entry. When I picked it up to show the girls, it crumbled to dust . . .
"Well, Isau came to visit the people and they really liked Him and waved leaves at Him," I said lamely.

Before they could question this odd statement, I quickly asked for egg #3. Hdifa gave me her egg which contained a torn piece of fabric. I couldn't remember if this represented Jesus' garments being divided or the veil in the temple being rent in two. And what was it doing in egg #3? Wasn't that further along in the story?

So I just skipped it and went on to egg #4, which contained a strip of leather.
"The leather is for the whip they beat Isau with," I told the girls, relieved that at least I'd gotten that one right.

"Why they beat Isau?" Habiba asked, her little face crinkling with concern.

"Allah is like our father, right?" I asked, not having a clue where I was going with this. The girls nodded.
"People--all people, including us--do bad things," I continued. "Allah gets angry and has to punish the bad things we do--like you are punished when you are naughty at home. Don't you ever get in trouble?" I asked Halima, who is 13.

She looked confused. "What is 'punished'?" she asked.

"Like when your mom yells at you when you are bad," Danielle chimed in. Finally.

Halima grinned. "Oh, yeah," she said.

"Well, because Isau loves us, He let Allah get mad and punish Him so we wouldn't be punished," I told them.

Hdifa examined a nail, that had fallen out of egg #6. "I know what this is!" she exclaimed.
"That is how they punished Jesus--they nailed Him to a cross," I explained, motioning with my arms how the soldiers stretched Him out on the cross-beam. "They hammered these big nails through His hands--His skin and bones--and through His feet, so Isau would hang on the cross and die there."
"But why they kill Isau?" asked Hdifa. "He do bad things too?"
"Isau did only good things," I answered. "He never bad."

About this time, Scout, who scares the girls silly, came trotting into the room. Habiba shrieked and Hdifa grabbed for her candy, ready to bolt. I knew it was time to open the last egg.
"Scout, sit!" I commanded and waited for the girls to simmer down.

"OK, who has the last egg--number 12?"
"I do," said Hdifa, triumphantly waving her prize.
"Open it and tell me what's in it," I instructed. "And look very closely, for this is the most special egg of all."
Hdfia carefully opened her egg, then looked at me with disappointment.
"There nothing in there," she said, double-checking just to make sure.
"Yes, it is empty," I agreed. "That's because when Isau's friends went to visit His grave 3 days after He was dead and buried, they found it empty," I said. "Isau had been made alive and after talking with His friends, went to be with Allah in heaven."

"Isau is alive? He here?" asked Halima, clearly puzzled.
"He is alive and He is in heaven," I answered. "But He is in our hearts, too, if we are His followers."

I felt like the Spirit gave me one last thought to share.

"You know girls, Mohammed was a great teacher--and his bones are still in his grave. And so are the bones of Abraham. But Isau--his grave is empty. They are dead, but Isau is alive!"

The girls grabbed their loot and scampered off, giving me no feedback on my very feeble rendition of the Easter story.

But I just felt like I'd done the most important thing in the world.

"Mom, I'm so proud of you," Danielle told me later as we cleaned up the mess.

I just hope Isau is just a little bit proud of me, too . . .

robin wars, round two

So, the Sponge Bob napkin ploy was a bust. Rather than scaring the deranged robin away, Sponge Bob's goofy face further enraged him. The robin's attacks increased in both number and ferocity. Sponge Bob now hangs in tatters from my windows while bird droppings pile up on my porch rail.
Other tactics I've tried:
--assaulting the bird with Windex (it just flies up into the nearest tree branch and mocks me)
--prompting Scout to bark at the bird (I let Scout out on the porch and sneeze, which sends her into a barking frenzy. The robin just hops back up to its branch and sneers at me)
--stomping around on the porch in my PJ's, yelling unsavory words at the stupid bird. (the bird is amused, I think, and my neighbors are beginning to wonder if I'm losing my mind--which I may be).

But yesterday, I think I hit upon the queen mother of all bird-scaring plans.
It's brilliant in its simplicity.

Krispin (my future son-in-law) proudly purchased a lobster at a thrift store the other day. It's one of those dreadful, motion-activated critters--any movement will send the hideous creature into gyrations and a terrible rendition of "Don't Rock the Boat, Baby."

The day we brought it home, Krispin and I were evidently having too much fun with it, because Greg removed the batteries in mid-song. But by then I'd hatched an incredible plan. After Greg left for work, however, I replaced the batteries and strategically positioned old lobster lips on the porch rail, next to the robin's favorite spot. Not five minutes later, the robin landed and the crustacean began to croon.

I haven't seen my feathered friend since.

Unless Robin suddenly develops a taste for very bad disco music, I think the battle of the bird may be over.

But you never know . . .

Oh the wonderful cross . . .

I experienced two completely different worship services today--and encountered the Lord in both of them. Jesus was there during the high-tech, carefully excuted Palm Sunday celebration at Abundant Life. And He was equally present at the chaotic, unrehearsed yet jubilant service at the church for the homeless.
I'm not sure where I felt more at home . . .


The service at Abudant Life really was powerful today. George spoke on the cross--he emphasized the fact that it was our sins that nailed the sinless Christ to the cross. At one point during the worship service, we were invited to approach one of several wooden crosses stationed about the auditorium. We each had the opportunity to take a nail, and pound it into the cross. I was shocked at how violently my flesh shrank back from this simple action--this admission that I was directly responsible for His death. But I did, kneeling at the foot of the cross, and then returned to my seat and took communion with a new depth of gratitude.

Our portable baptistry was up front, and George invited people to come forward and be united with Christ's death, burial and resurrection in this "watery grave." Even at the 8:30 service, families and individuals came and gave their lives to Jesus.

I couldn't keep the tears from coming--tears of sorrow for the pain I've caused my Lord, tears of joy for the freedom and forgiveness He's so graciously offered me.

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

The other church we attended meets in the Clackamas Service Center (where a group of people from Abundant Life gather and serve meals to the hungry and homeless every Monday night). When Greg and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:55, there was a small crowd milling about outside, taking cigarette breaks and shooting the breeze. A mangy dog was tied up to a rail on the front steps.

"Is that the church dog?" I asked no one in particular.

"No, it's MY dog!" a disheveled man snapped. He and his friends cackled together as Greg and I stepped over the mutt and entered the building.

The odors of stale smoke, sweat and alcohol mingled in an interesting way as we claimed two empty metal folding chairs. There were maybe 20 folks inside the building when the music started at 11, another 15 or so drifted in during the hour-long service. We greeted Chief, who was preaching today, and then joined in the praise service.

It was, without a doubt, a joyful noise unto the Lord!

The worship leader, who is also the pastor of the church, led the singing with admirable volume and gusto. Unfortunately, he started every song in the wrong key, but it all usually came together by the last verse. One older gentleman, who sang lustily from the back of the room, began each song a full two beats before the worship team jumped in, giving an odd echo effect to the worship service. The tempo evidently wasn't upbeat enough for him, and every now and then he'd holler at the worship band to hurry things up.

Chief, our dear little Native friend, sat grinning ear to ear, beating timidly on the electric drums. He and the tambourine player were never quite in sync--but no one seemed to mind a bit.

Greg and I couldn't stop laughing, tickled and touched by the joy of the Lord that was so evident in this place.

Then worship ended, and Chief came forward to speak. He was quite nervous, as this was only his second time to preach before his peers. He spoke softly at first, but then fear lost it's grip on Chief and he share the Word boldly with the small crowd.

"We are some tough Christians here, I tell you," Chief said, grinning at us all.

"Amen!" his homeless friends chorused.

"Where would I be without God in my life?" he asked. "Because He shed His blood on the cross, Jesus saved my soul--and He saved my life. He is there to help you--all you have to do is ask."

After another round of "Amens!" the pastor joined Chief and asked if anyone in his flock needed prayer. A few responded, going forward as tears traced clean paths across their faces. I blinked back a tear of my own as I watched Chief--who'd spend six years on the streets battling his owns demons and addictions--pray for his struggling friends.
I sensed I was witnessing a miracle . . .

Two wildly different expressions of worship today--but we came to the foot of the same cross. Rich or poor, white or Native, college-educated or street-wise, we all helped crucify our Lord. And we all experience the same redemption in Him.


Thank You for the cross, thank You for the cross, thank You for the cross, my Friend!