the harvest will come to an end . . .

One of the highlights of my day is when I saunter out into my backyard and reap from my bountiful tub 'o grub. I usually bring in a colander filled with several varieties of tomatoes, peppers, pears, strawberries, basil, etc. It makes my heart so happy!

A few days ago, when I was plucking some golden-ripe yellow pear tomatoes from the vine, I noticed that there were only a few green fruits left on the plant. I actually felt a fleeting pang of grief as it dawned on my first-time-ever-gardener's brain that the harvest was coming to an end.

One day soon, there would be no more tomatoes to pick.

Before I could distract myself with all the busyness of preserving my produce for the sunless days ahead, I distinctly heard the Lord's still, small voice:

"As it is in the natural, so it is in the spirit. The harvest will come to an end."

My heart was gripped with an urgency I've rarely felt. The Lord didn't specify when the harvest would end or even if would happen in the near future--but I was shaken by the sobering truth that the harvest of souls does come to an end.

So troubling was this thought, that I did a little research on what the Bible says about the harvest. The first verse I looked up said:

The harvest is past, the summer has ended; and we are not saved!" Jeremiah 8:20

Then I read: "Do you not say 'Four months more, and then the harvest!' I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields--they are ripe for harvest!" John 4:35

And: "And He said to them, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Therefore beseech the Lord of the Harvest to send out workers into His harvest." Luke 10:2b

What did I learn from my little study? First of all, that there is an end to the harvest, both physically and spiritually. Secondly, that we aren't to assume there's always time in the future to "harvest souls"--we must open our eyes and see all the ripe and ready hearts that surround us now.

And finally, This is God's harvest, not ours. If we are faithful to pray, He will direct us in His perfect timing to the ripest fields (sometimes in our own backyards) and teach us His best harvesting methods. It is a partnership that can't fail!

Here am I Lord, send me!

twenty five years ago today. . .

we were in a car accident that changed our lives forever. I've already written about the tragedy that took our son, Jonah, and I won't go in to that today. I want to write about the ways God is still using our pain to comfort others.

Twenty five years later

We got up and drove to church in Estacada today as if it were any other Sunday. We walked into the foyer and Greg was greeted by a nice man named Bill who asked him if he'd give the communion meditation. I thought he was joking, but apparently the person scheduled to share his thoughts hadn't made it to church that morning.

And so Greg got conscripted into service.

I love my husband--he said he'd do it and spent a good portion of our worship time flipping through his bible for just the right verses to frame his thoughts. When the time came, he took the mike and shared with a roomful of folks we hardly knew about the worst day of our lives--the car accident that claimed our son.

Greg emphasized that the only things that will last are relationships in Christ. And because of Jesus' sacrifice, we have the wonderful hope of heaven. Greg talked about Jonah's autism and how excited he was to be reunited with his no-longer-handicapped son. I saw the man sitting next to me wipe away tears as Greg offered up a prayer.

During the break (the Estacada Fellowship has a "howdy-do" time right before the sermon), the pastor approached Greg and said, "I feel like you are supposed to preach this morning."

Without missing a beat, my awesome husband replied: "OK."

And he proceeded to preach from the book of Job with no notes, no preparation or powerpoint, straight from his heart. He addressed the issue of suffering and loss, sharing from our own experience, not realizing that there was a precious man in that room who'd recently lost his granddaughter in a terrible accident.

That man "just happened" to be visiting in Estacada that morning--kind of like Greg "just happened" to get asked to preach on the spot. And I "just happened" to be introduced to the man after the service and discovered we had more things in common than we could have known . . .

God just rocks my world! How awesome that He still brings comfort and hope from a tragedy that reshaped our lives so many years ago!

And did I mention that my husband rocks, too?

To Bob and Mary, with love . . .

Kudos to my in-laws! I don't even like to use that term because they've been like parents to me since I married into the Strannigan clan. Not only have Bob and Mary been consistent models of the Christian life; they've also invested a lot of love, time and prayer in me.

And they've gifted me with every cooking-related item you can image!

In my present state of domestic enlightenment, I look back wistfully at the wonderful gizmos and gadgets that have graced my kitchen over the years. I regret to say that some have moved on: the electric meat slicer (Greg loved the thing, but I was afraid I'd lose a finger), the bread machine (I really tried, but the little paddle thingy would always come off and get stuck in the loaf, rendering my bread dense and squatty), the food processor, the electric carving knife, the fondue and s'more-making kits . . . .

Some user-friendly items still remain: the pastry set (purchased for me when I was a dessert chef at a dude ranch in Wyoming. But that's another story), the griddle I got as a wedding present and the nifty vacuum-sealer (dubbed the "food printer" by Krispin) that I now use every day.

And of course, there's the Strannigan family cookbook! The ruined fudge recipe has been life-changing for me--and for all who've sampled it's decadent goo. To quote Allan Godsiff: "It's the beast!"

And though I've been a bit slow to climb aboard the culinary train, I'm hoping the recessive cooking gene lurking in the backwaters of my DNA has finally kicked in!

I actually bought a small food processor and a bread machine at a garage sale today--and I intend to use them! I've started reading food blogs, watching Paula Deen and day-dreaming about savory tomato tarts . . .

So thank you, Bob and Mary, for your patient encouragement in this under-developed area of my life. Maybe I'll actually have a few recipes to contribute to the family cookbook for the next addition!

unchurch

Remember that funky "game" from the '70's--The Ungame? Instead of being your typical competitive game with winners--and losers--the Ungame fostered conversation, listening skills and creative expression.

The Ungame was, for competetive types, an "out-of-the-box" experience. It forced all who played to look at games in a new and different way: instead of competing, players connected. It was more people- than goal-oriented. You couldn't really lose at the Ungame; but you could achieve deeper relationships with your fellow players if you risked honesty and vulnerability as you answered the questions you drew . . .

Some people hated the Ungame, but I loved it. Games, at least the competition part, have never had much appeal for me. I enjoy the camaraderie around the table, but the whole winning thing is highly overrated. I mean, what difference does it really make, in the overall scheme of things, if I win or lose at Bunko?

Sometimes I wish we viewed church in a more out-of-the-box way. Like the commercial I saw on Discovery Channel (thumbs-up to the United Methodists!) last night that asked: "What if the church were more of a verb than a noun? What if it was more than a building, but a journey that could change our world? Would you come?"

"Yes!" I shouted at the T.V.

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

Greg and I gathered together with about 100 other worshipers two weeks ago at a typical church service. We sang worship songs, gave our tithes and offerings, fellowshipped and took communion together, and listened to an inspiring sermon. The meeting lasted about an hour and a half--and then church was over.

Or had the journey had just started . . . ?

Our hike up Mt. St. Helens the following Tuesday felt oddly like "church" to me. I suspect that most of our team experienced many of the aspects of a typical service as we hiked up the mountain: we worshiped the Lord for His amazing creation as we climbed, we prayed for His help in reaching the summit, we praised God that none of us perished on the mountain. We experienced incredible fellowship on the climb--exhorting and encouraging one another (one team member literally carried another's burden--backpack--up the last steep leg to the top). We enjoyed "communion" together at the top--PBJ's and Gatorade. On the way down, we shared our water with the thirsty, bound up the wounds of the blistered and bleeding, helped strangers find their way and had lots of time to talk about what the Lord was doing in our daily lives.

At the end of the day, I felt I'd experienced a much deeper sense of community than I ever have during a Sunday morning meeting. But the journey didn't end on the mountain . . .

Thursday we opened up our home to friends from Central Oregon who had to be in Portland for a few days. Again, we experienced the richness of "doing life together" in the Lord. My friend and I spent many hours discussing the struggles and stress of ministry. But we also laughed and cooked together, picked blackberries in the warm sun and then drank good wine with our feet up on the coffee table. We chatted about the wonderful things the Lord was doing in our lives and families. When they left on Saturday, I felt so edified in the Lord.

After saying goodbye to our friends, Greg and I took a meal to a couple who lives up on Mt. Hood. We no longer attend the same "church" they do, but we still feel very connected. The husband's health is failing rapidly, so we prayed for healing for him and comfort and peace for his family. We spent 3 hours with our friends on the mountain, sharing stories of God's faithfulness and care. Even though we were sobered by the possibility that Ken's time with us here on earth would be cut short, there was a richness of fellowship that occurred.

Heaven seemed more real--more desireable--as Greg and I headed back home that day.

Then Sunday rolled around again. This week, we got up and dressed and drove to a different church across town. We sang worship songs, heard announcements and sharing, listened to a sermon, met a few wonderful followers of Christ and then went home.

"Church" was over, but the journey goes on!

Shawn versus the Volcano

Greg and I summitted Mt. St. Helens yesterday! It was way, way harder than we'd anticipated (thanks to Joel's sketchy memory), but we conquered the volcano!

In retrospect, I wish I'd done a little more research on the logistics of the hike. But then maybe I would have chickened out. And now I can mark one more experience off my bucket list: I climbed a real mountain!

Here's a description of the trail that I found online: "This route gains 4,500 feet in five miles to the crater rim at 8,365 feet elevation. Although strenuous, this non-technical climb is suitable for people in good physical condition who are comfortable scrambling on steep, rugged terrain." (from the us.gov.mt.st.helens webpage)

Here's the description our guide, Joel, gave us: "Uh, it's a short hike, I think about three miles to the summit. It's not too bad until the last mile or so, which gets pretty steep and rocky.

Here's my description of the hike: The first two miles were pleasant, as we sauntered through a beautiful forest, offering stunning views of several peaks as we wound up the mountain. There were even a couple of outhouses located along this shady trail for our convenience.

Once we got above treeline, however, things went downhill fast. Or should I say uphill? First, there was the Field of Demon Boulders. There was no trail to speak of through this 1 1/2 mile-long jumble of jagged rocks, just sporadic poles sticking up from the boulders to help us remember which way was up (as if we needed reminding!) We had amazing views during this part of the trek, but volcanic rock does not make for a comfortable resting place. So we pushed on from Mordor.

Next, we came to the scree slope from hell, comprised entirely of ash, pumice and rock. Our friend Andy took one look at the insanely steep incline--and decided he was done for the day. We had a team meeting, however, and decided we'd tackle the slipperly slope of doom one short stretch at a time. So, one of us would pick a boulder or other landmark, and we'd stagger upward and onward until we reached our goal and could

catch our breath.

It was literally a process of taking two steps forward, one step back. But after 5 1/2 hours of hiking/crawling/scrambling and cheering each other on,we made it to the summit! It was a gorgeous, sunny day and the crater views were worth the tortuous climb. We ate our sandwiches and guzzled the last of our water, thinking we'd make it down in half the time.

It took us six hours to get down the mountain! Stumbling on the slippery scree, trying to scramble down boulders in the hot sun, falling repeatedly, suffering from dehydration . . . I was never so glad to stagger get off a trail as I was last night! But we all recouperated over a meal in Cougar (the closest town to the trailhead), and rejoiced in our accomplishment.

The real miracle is that I could get out of bed today . . .

stop and smell the lavender . . .

Yesterday, while I was getting a lavender massage (a Valentine's gift from my husband), I found myself daydreaming. Not about romantic candle-light dinners or traipsing through lavender fields in the south of France . . .

No, I was actually worrying about the future, my mind totally disengaged from the soothing treatment my body was experiencing.

Until the Lord whacked me up the side of my head . . .

"Child," He gently rebuked me. "You are missing out on this wonderful blessing your husband has provided you by fretting about stuff that's never going to happen. Why can't you stop worrying about tomorrow and experience the grace I give you for each day? When do you think you'll get a lavender massage again? Maybe you should try enjoying it!"

I took a deep breath, letting the lavender-misted air fill my senses, then switched the channel of my thoughts from the future back to the moment. I exhaled and relaxed deeply, determined to soak up the experience with ounce of my being.

My mind finally quieted, I listened to the instrumental worship music playing softly in the background and thanked the Lord for my life. I enjoyed the gentle rhythm of the masseuse's hands and prayed God's blessing on her. I worshiped silently when familiar songs played . . . and even dozed off a few times. At one point, an essay, written by my friend Paul Young, came to mind. (I had to look it up on his blog to get the words right, so here is the copy and pasted version:)

A couple of years ago, I decided to stop ‘future tripping’. ‘Future Tripping’ is ‘taking thought for tomorrow’, it is creating imaginations of what is going to happen and then actually take a mental and emotional trip to live there for a bit. . . .I have experienced many un-realities and their attendant emotions this way.

I have repeatedly suffered huge financial losses, ended up living under one of the city bridges, been abandoned by my family, suffered the loss of each of my children, had my closest friends turn out to be villains, embarrassed myself in public, was put on the spot and said something stupid, been to my own funeral (more than once), unsuccessfully tried to stop something horrible from happening, failed repeatedly to live up to somebody’s expectations, been horribly maimed in every kind of imaginable accident known to man, lost all my teeth, lost every job I ever had, came down with every disease possible, regularly looked like an idiot, got my lights punched out for no reason, explained my driving to a police officer, lost my friends, went to school and found out I wasn’t wearing anything, got mugged, imagined the situation that I currently was in was permanent…that nothing could ever or would ever change…

I have written volumes of imaginations in my own head, things that have no substance, no reality, and are empty, vain imaginations. But I treat them as if they are real. I feel all kinds of terrifying and horrible emotions, and scramble to control my life so that these imaginations won’t actually come to pass. THESE IMAGINATIONS ARE NOT REAL!!!! GOD DOES NOT DWELL IN ANYTHING THAT IS NOT REAL!!!

So in my ‘vain’ empty imaginations, I am the only ‘god’ there is. I have to fix things, make sure things turn out right, try to get a handle on people and events…and frankly, I do a very poor job of it…this playing god thing. So, my life tended to be gripped by fear and I worked hard to get some ‘control’ to prevent these imaginations that I feared. I had a habit of treating something that had no reality or substance as if it were truly real.

Today is where Papa dwells with me; today is where ‘eternity’ intersects my life, and even when I get to tomorrow, it is still ‘today’ when I get there Do I make plans for tomorrow? Sure, but they are held loosely and with an open hand…and I don’t live there. I live in his present(ce), which is TODAY.

Good stuff! I came away from the massage, my skin softened by the lavender oils--and my heart softened by joy. Honestly, yesterday was the first day in ages where depression didn't rear it's nasty head. And I'm entering today, not knowing what it holds, but knowing that He is with me in my present reality. And His grace is enough for each day . . .

a tale of three kings . . .

I love it when Greg reads to me before we go to sleep. We started the tradition during our first year of marriage--we get all tucked into bed, turn out all the lights except for the bedside lamp, and Greg reads until one of us can't keep our eyelids open anymore. A great way to end the day!

Lately we've been reading from an old favorite: A Tale of Three Kings by Gene Edwards. It's the captivating study of the lives of three Old Testament kings--Saul, David and Absalom (David's son). The book focuses on how David responds to Saul's attempted murder (he threw a lot of spears at David) and Absalom's treachery (he tried to take over his dad's kingdom).

Right now, we're reading about how David reacted to the mad king's spear-chucking. David ducked every time! He never threw spears back at Saul--or took revenge even when it seemed the Lord had delivered the king into his hands. David honored the jealous, insecure leader as the Lord's anointed, entrusting his own life to God.

The concept that's really impacted me this time around, however, is this: "King Saul sought to destroy David, but his only success was that he became the handmaiden of God to put to death the Saul that roamed in the caverns of David's soul."

(Saul and David were both the Lord's anointed ones. The main difference between the two kings was this: Saul forgot that he was just a steward of the kingdom of God and began to build his own kingdom. He went mad in an attempt to preserve what was never truly his. David, on the other hand, held the keys to the kingdom lightly, knowing that authority was God's to give and take at any time . . .)

So it isn't just about ducking and not retaliating when mad kings throw spears you--it's also realizing that the Lord uses those attacks to refine the order of King Saul from our own hearts.

From my own heart.

This truth has moved me from the grim obedience of forgiveness to an attitude of gratitude. I can honestly say I'm thankful for the "spears" that have been hurled our way throughout our 30+ years of ministry. I'm grateful for the opportunities we've had to humble ourselves, examine our own hearts, repent and follow Christ more closely.

But even as I type this, I know that "king Saul" has arisen in my own heart to protect and control what I thought was mine. I've hurled more than a few spears in my time. And if I've aimed one at you, I am so sorry! I hope that you ducked, or at least found healing for any wounds you received from my hand.

My prayer is that the Lord used the Saul in me to remove any hint of that mad king in your own heart. And that by His grace, you can forgive me . . .

food for thought . . .

I'm having such a blast harvesting from my gardens these days! I still can't believe I didn't discover gardening sooner.

But it dawned on me recently that my lack of interest in growing my own edibles probably stems from my ambivalence about food in general.

I've had a love/hate relationship with food since childhood. Early on, I equated being fed well with being well-loved. I remember spending summers with my great-grandma Thurow in western Kansas. She'd greet me at the door with her big, bosomy hugs and then lead me to the magical drawer where homemade cookies, candy and other treats were amply supplied just for me! There'd be hand-rolled egg noodles drying on a table in the sun, German kolaches baking in the oven and Grandma's fried chicken sizzling in the skillet.

And did I mention the cherry tree in the front yard? I knew that if I climbed those branches and picked long enough, grandma Thurow would make me my very own cherry pie, that I could eat for breakfast if I wanted!

But eating for love backfired on me when I entered my teens as an awkward, chubby, bespectacled basket-case. Food went from being my best friend to my worst enemy. Eating disorders soon developed and plagued me into the early years of marriage. I was able to break free from the death grip of bulimia when I found I was pregnant with our first child, but an unhealthy attitude toward food persisted.

Food was my obsession--I clipped recipes and stashed them all over the house like a squirrel hording nuts. I went on eating binges and then atoned with exercise and diet. I was always thinking about the next meal--and then the next diet. And I felt terrible about myself if I didn't get my hour-long workout in each day.

I lived to eat . . . but it wasn't much of a life.

But all that changed the summer of 1991, when we lived in Anchorage, AK. I wish I could tell you what book I read or program I tried that changed me--but that's not how it happened. All I know is that I got so hungry for God that summer that I lost interest in filling my stomach. My appetite for the things of the Spirit replaced my unhealthy craving for food.

I began to eat to live . . . and what an amazing difference that made!

That's not to say that I don't get hungry or enjoy eating, because I do. Put a piece of carrot cake in front of me and I melt. But now I'll only eat it if I'm hungry--and will stop when I'm full. Well, most the time, anyway :)

Food just doesn't interest me much these days--and as a result, neither does cooking. Not even the most delectable concoctions whipped up on the Food Channel can coax me into the kitchen. In my opinion, cooking is time-consuming, messy, and offers a very fleeting pay-off. I'd much rather be hiking or blogging or puttering in my garden . . .

Which brings me to the dilemma of what to do with the bountiful harvest my garden is producing? I'm not sure if gardening will restore my interest in cooking, but I am enjoying the process of preserving what I've grown and gathered in:

I've made two batches of raspberry and blackberry freezer jam, blanched, vacuum-packed and frozen green beans, frozen blueberries for smoothies and muffins and put most everything else into salads, soups or stir-frys. I'm excited to try a recipe I just found for making herbed sun-dried tomatoes. And one of these days I'll get brave enough to can salsa with my bumper crop of tomatoes and ring-of-fire peppers. Ole'! And when Danielle loans me her food processor (I have a pathetically stocked kitchen, except for the expresso machine), I will make a most excellent pesto which will be frozen in ice cube trays until I figure out what to do with the stuff.

Baby steps, I know, but a good start for an anti-foodie like me. Right now, I'm enjoying the way food looks as much as it tastes. Beets are beautiful, beans elegant and slender, tomatoes have an amazing array of shape, size and color. Peppers are mysterious, slyly changing colors to reveal what hotties they are--or not! Strawberries seem to blush a deeper ripe before my eyes . . .

But maybe with the help of my friends, family and Rachel Ray I can expand my culinary horizons. Or at least I can grow the yummy ingredients they need for their recipes . . .