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Sunday grace

There is always grace.

When the message on the phone is not good news.

When the day turns drastically in the wrong direction.

When the diagnosis is not what we’d hoped for.

There is always grace.

When the sun shines or the rain pours down.

When the pantry is full or when we wonder how to pay the bills.

When there is birth and when there is death.

There is always grace.

Grace sufficient.

Grace for every need.

Grace giving strength.

Grace to save, to forgive, to heal, to provide peace and rest.

There is always grace. Because there is always Jesus.

Sunday grace.

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It was a holy night

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The small fiber optic tree on the corner table, a loan because I could not make the effort this year, twinkles its changing colors.  All is calm, all is bright.

Friends have graced table, us sharing joys and sorrows, memories and hopes mingled.  Learning to be content with less takes time. Learning that Jesus is enough is my calling.

In the season of giving gifts, I receive what God gives for it is alway perfectly suited, though sometimes it melts me. The molding and pressing and changing of a life into something more akin to the Son, it can be a painful process.  Yet there is no other way to reflect His light, His love.

Jesus is Lord.  Lord over all.  Lord of my days and my years.  Lord when I laugh and when I cry.  Lord and King, benevolent and gracious, always bestowing the gift of Himself.  The greatest present.  His presence.

He is the with us God, Immanuel.

The mystery was revealed and angels gazed in wonder.

The prophecy foretold was fulfilled.

 The Promise became living, breathing Infant.  Child.  Savior.

The Creator surrendered to the constraints of creation.

The Lawgiver fulfilled His own law.

The breath of God, His very Word was formed into flesh and tabernacled among us.

The unutterable name of YHVH was wrapped in a blanket and called Yeshua.  Jesus.

The 400 years of silence was broken by a newborn baby’s cry.

And thus . . .

The lost is found.

 The prodigal gets to go home.

The impure is cleansed.

 The sinner is called righteous.

The ugly is redeemed, clothed in beauty.

The war-torn is offered peace and a place of rest.

The needy receives grace.

The orphan is welcomed into the Father’s house and invited to call Him Abba.

It was a holy night.

This moment, it is holy still.

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2013 Christmas (9)

2013 Christmas (7)

Sunday grace

With just a few days until Thanksgiving day, my mind turns to the tasks at hand.

I wrote my list of food to prepare, grocery items needed, and made a plan. Wednesday is marked “Cooking Day” in my bullet journal.

Sweet William and I visited Wal-Mart yesterday, filling our baskart with staples for the pantry, while maneuvering around other shoppers with the same agenda.  The perishables are on the list for next week so they will be fresh, meaning another day in the food isles.

I anticipate the short trip to my cousin’s house on Thursday where tables will be beautifully set and aromas will greet us at the door. I can’t help but think of those who will not be at the table this year, and my heart longs for them as always.

In the pre-dawn, I sit in my rocker and read the Psalms and other verses, struck anew at the generosity of God through Jesus Christ. Such lavish love poured into my heart. Such amazing grace reconciling me to become a member of God’s family. Such hope that does not disappoint because the Holy Spirit within me is a deposit and a guarantee of more to come.

How can I not give thanks?

For God has done great things for me, from the small to the gigantic, from the simple cup of strong coffee in the morning to the very breath I take without thought; for shelter, food, and clothing to precious relationships of friends and family that  enrich my life; from eyes to see and ears to hear to the beauty of a world created for my enjoyment and comfort; from the privilege of making requests in the very presence of the Holy to miraculous answers to my prayers.

From being an outcast with no hope to being adopted and accepted, blessed and delivered, the promise of a future with Christ forever.

So I will praise my Lord with all that I have. I will sing and make melody. I will write my thanksgiving list, making it thoughtful and lenghty. I will rejoice in answered prayers with my prayer partner on an early morning phone call. I will remember the goodness of God.

And astonishingly, my thanksgiving will please the Father’s heart.

I will praise God’s name in song and glorify him with thanksgiving. This will please the Lord . . . “

Sunday grace.

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Sunday grace

The cold crispy morning compels Maisie and me to dress in our warmest. The sun is barely rising, and frost covers the ground. Fallen lives crunch louder under Maisie’s feet and blades of grass look sugar-coated.

Taking our normal route on the lane, I spy the flag. How can I miss its enormity? My neighbor, a veteran, hung it from an upper deck of his house, it all unfurled in the glory of a freedom it represents.

How can I know the cost of what is free?

I recall the stories my dad told of his time in Europe for 25 months. He knew exactly how long he was gone from home and loved ones. He told the funny tales and the times when God intervened for him. I don’t remember so much him telling the dark side of war.

War has a dark side, and every veteran in combat experiences it to some degree. I sit in my warm house and walk freely on my lane because some put on the uniform and gave their best.

I want to thank them all, thank them for their service and their sacrifice. I want them to know that I value the price paid when giving themselves costs more that I’ll ever understand. I want them to feel my appreciation for every effort they made to secure the life I have.

Is saying, “Thank you for your service,” when I see a soldier even enough? Does that convey my gratitude sufficiently? I doubt it does. But at least it’s something I can do.

And so I say it with a heart of thanksgiving. Thank you for your service. May God shed His grace on thee.

Sunday grace.

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Monday grace

This week I’ve been practicing some remembering.

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The Bible study I’m doing with sweet sisters has led me to a point of recall. Events from my childhood and young adulthood have surfaced. Like every human on the planet, some of my memories were painful. But so many were amazing.

We’ve been looking for the hand of God in the places of our lives, sensing Him in the darkness, witnessing Him in the light, recognizing that He was there each and every time.

It’s a healthy exercise for my brain to remember 60 plus years past. What I perceive in the remembering is a loving, dependable Father who was redeeming the events of my life, conforming me ever so slightly into the image of His Son, causing all things to work together for my good and for His glory.

On Sunday morning, sitting next to Sweet William at church, it was not surprising that a song about the faithfulness of God resonated with the things I’d been studying, the events I’ve been summoning to the forefront of my mind.

And then, a few pews away from us, I saw an elderly woman lift her small wrinkled hand in praise, acknowledging the same faithful God. My eyes unexpectedly teared up thinking of the years she has lived. Perhaps a decade or more my senior, her experience with God exceeds mine. I wondered what she might tell me, how she saw Him active in her years, what hard places she walked with His hand leading hers, the victories they won together, how beauty arose from the ashes of her grief and tribulation.

We are different but we are the same. Both children of the living God who loves us and cares individually for us, always at work on our behalf, ever watchful of the journey we take, never leaving, never forsaking.

Later that evening, Sweet William and I accompanied a roomful of people singing hymns from days gone by. He and I had practiced the songs for weeks, their melodies etched in our minds. The words were old, familiar and true.

Voices echoed ‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus and testified of its certainty. Our God is strong. Our God is good. And our God is trustworthy.

It is well worth remembering that.

Monday grace.

 

 

Sunday grace

We drove far, well over an hour to get there. It was a labor, and a drive, of love. But it was worth the effort.

My friend’s son was getting married, the friend who has been my prayer partner for 13 years. She and I didn’t know each other before that evening years ago at a Bible study when we were “randomly” paired. We were asked to call each other sometime during the week and share our prayer concerns.

God only knew what He was about to do with us, between us, how He would grow us in the area of prayer.  He would show Himself faithful again and again. He would teach us that He hears our prayers and He answers.

As I watched the young groom stand at the front of the church, I remembered the many times we had called his name in prayer. I recall how his senior high school picture was placed on my refrigerator along with the photos of my grandchildren. It reminded me to pray for him at a critical time in his life.

It was sweet victory to see him, watching intently as his bride walked the aisle with eyes for him only. I know my friend and I will continue to pray for this young couple who begin their lives as husband and wife.

At the reception, my friend introduced me to people whose names I knew well, having prayed for them over the  years. I saw their faces for the first time. It was a tender and beautiful occasion for remembering the goodness of God.

I remarked to someone that this ongoing prayer relationship is a God thing, because we, my friend and I, are not that good. We are the recipients of a grace given. We take no credit for it. The glory belongs to our Heavenly Father.

The trip home from the wedding festivities was arduous, rain pouring down on us, traffic slowing on the interstate because of visibility. I didn’t realize until I was almost home how tightly I had been gripping the stirring wheel.

It was a hard, long drive, miles there and back. But the reward was great. I’m so glad we made the effort. I saw God’s hand. He calls us to be part of what He is doing, inviting us to go with Him, to seek Him, to ask Him. And then we find Him and we see His glory.

Sunday grace.

 

 

 

Sunday grace

The melody hovers over me this morning, a song of remembrance, of days gone by, a different time and place, when Sweet William and I offered our worship on instruments of strings and keys.

Jehovah Jireh, My provider, His grace is sufficient for me, for me, for me

Jehovah Jireh, My provider, His grace is sufficient for me

My God shall supply all my needs according to His riches in glory
He will give His angels charge over me

Jehovah Jireh cares for me, for me, for me
Jehovah Jireh cares for me

 — lyrics by Don Moen

We played with exuberance, our hearts becoming entwined with the truth that our God is a Provider. Our Provider.

Looking back over years of need, I see His provision time and again. It came in the form of gifts or a job opportunity. Sometimes it was a bag of groceries or my gas tank filled unexpectedly.

It appeared as intercessory prayer on our behalf and through the encouragement of  family and friends.

God provided strength to work and knowledge to think and manage daily tasks. He who is Wisdom gave generously when situations were tangled and we didn’t know what to do.

He supplied comfort when grief overwhelmed and I thought I would die. He met needs we didn’t even know how to express in ways we could not have imagined.

I didn’t always get what I asked, but I always got what I needed and more than enough.  He has taught me to depend on Him, the Giver of every good and perfect gift, the One who satisfies the hungry heart.

Jehovah Jireh, my Provider. His grace is sufficient for me.

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