COLLISION!

"Faith isn't the ability to believe long and far into the misty future. It's simply taking God at His Word and taking the next step."

Joni Eareckson Tada

Just ten days ago, my husband and I returned from Springfield, Missouri, where we spent several days with our younger son, Chris, who was hospitalized. A late afternoon phone call had turned a typical Wednesday into flurry. The following morning, we rushed to Missouri, not knowing what illness had gripped Chris's life. His symptoms were intense and confusing to us and the doctors. And for some time, the culprit remained a mystery. Accordingly, the enemy worked his work of fear, speaking untruths to our minds.

Many stormed heaven on Chris's behalf! The prayers of saints poured into the throne room! God's people prayed! And Chris improved. Glory to God!!! (The doctors told Chris just two days ago he tested positive for salmonella. More tests are pending, and we believe, know, Chris will be 100% healthy!)

We left Springfield once Chris was home and stabilized. As we travelled back to Alabama, we were met by a car that swerved into our lane. Jeff and I gasped, inhaled, spoke the name of Jesus. My husband had just enough room and time to move to the right, avoiding a tragedy for our family.

Arriving home about 10:00 Monday evening, I unpacked our suitcases, while Jeff went to Ruby Tuesday's to get us a salad. We ate, watched a little television, and got ready for bed. Our phone rang early Tuesday morning. You've had those phone calls. The ones that feel important when you hear the first ring. I had just awakened, but was still in bed. Jeff was in the kitchen making coffee, and he answered the phone. Five minutes later he came into the bedroom and announced that a dear friend had, in the night, left his mortal body to join the Lord. It was sudden death. Unexpected. A shock.
Danny's death was a blow to his family and all who knew him. He was a vibrant, fifty-seven year old man, who made everyone who knew him feel a little more special after leaving his presence. My husband and I stood in line at the funeral home two hours before we were able to greet the family. Danny was much loved.
Ten minutes after arriving home from the visitation, my phone rang. Seeing it was my sister, and knowing a late evening phone call from her was rare, I answered with concern and immediately heard the stress in her voice. "I hit a deer on my way home from work tonight. I think my car is totaled."
My sister, Nancy, was OK, but the pressing thought of a near-missed tragedy bore its truth through my heart like a laser. Later, we learned Nancy's life was spared because the deer did not go through her windshield. Our family praises God, and deems my sister's survival a miracle. Angels were near, and saved us from overwhelming grief. My dear friends, I am not sharing these incidents out of fear. I am not sharing out of depression or anxiety about the future. I am certainly not sharing to gain pity or to manipulate emotions. I am sharing because of reality. The reality of our faith! The reality of our lives! That our fleshly tabernacles are simply housing our souls, which can depart this world in a matter of seconds. With no warning. With no control of ours or others. With no choice of life or death.

And such stark reality brings home a collision of faith and flesh. Recent circumstances have brought me face to face with self. I have looked. Searched. Questioned. Pondered and wondered my faith, its strength and its weakness. Looked in the eyes of uncertainty and realized the shaky state it can bring. Realized the only certain situation in this mortal life is uncertainty itself.

Collision of faith and flesh is stunning. It is gritty reality right in your face. It can be quite rude and ugly. Its abruptness raises personal inspection, a microscopic look of survival faith, that part of your life in God that is left when living gives you less than best, or worse that worst.

A simple knowledge of God, dear friends, is not breath enough for survival faith. No, survival faith, the shattered remains from collision of faith and flesh, must have something more. Deep roots, fertile soil, good water, tender care. A divine taproot that glues faith fibers together, so that no tugging, pulling, or digging can transplant or destroy our life in God.

Greater than physical life and greater than human emotions, survival faith is staying strength. Our lives are fragile. Tender. Always changing. In a moment's notice or less, our world can turn upside down. Stability turn to chaos. Joy become sorrow. Love lead to loss.
But for the taproot of Jesus Christ, our faith would be vague in those moments. Without Him, we would stumble in our darkened rooms for faith's failing glow.
Yet, there is no stumbling, when our taproot is strong. Jesus is divine light and strength. He is our intercessor. He is our peace. Our comforter. Deliverer. Friend. The I Am Who is more sure, more certain, than every uncertainty. The Faithful, Changeless One Who remains in our faithless, vague moments.

I desire divine light and life. I am praying God will purify my faith. To be honest, it's an intimidating prayer. I fear what testing it may bring, but the silent alternative will only give stagnation: a state of inactivity; still waters, without current or circulation. What an unbearable thought of compromised Christianity! No, I must choose to venture into deep waters with God.

I don't want to be stale, my dear friends. I want, need, must have living water that mightily flows through my spirit. I crave a river of God that sanctifies and changes who I am. Not only for myself, but for my husband, my children, grandchildren, family, church, and friends. And most of all, for the glory of God! That God would be glorified in my life in all things! That in everything I do others would see less of me and more of Jesus!
Many have chosen deep waters. So many saints have had devastating, life-changing collisions, not just potential traumas, with faith and flesh. So many servants of God have given all they have for the kingdom. Their stamina of faith puts me to shame! Their lives of victory challenge my life of less! Their belief in God for great things proves my life simple. Their joy in trials gives me hope, however, for pure faith!

May the Lord give us grace to allow Him to take survival faith and multiply its seed. With joy, let's pray to grasp Christ's hand and trust Him as He leads to deep waters, though their isolation and profoundness overwhelm us. May every challenge in life send us to the mirror; to see reality of flesh; to face the truth of human inability; to turn to a limitless God; to hope in the Hope of our salvation; to trust in His name, El Roi, the Responder to needs; to take Christ's hand and believe His leadership as best, even if He guides to deep waters. Even if faith and flesh collide!

Heavenly Father, please help me to learn complete trust in you. It is a process, dear Lord, and I must yield to its work in my life. May I, in faith, take your hand, in all situations, and walk with you to deep waters. In Jesus' name, Amen.

*When thinking of those whose faith has survived truly amazing challenges, I am reminded of Paul, Abraham, Joseph, Daniel, and so many others in the Bible. I also think of Elisabeth Elliot, Corrie Ten Boom, and Catherine Marshal, and Amy Carmichael. And then there are those so closely connected, whose everyday personal lives are overwhelmed with the need for survival faith. I have seen many here on blogger, whose lives are beautiful testimonies of God's amazing grace and His ability to carry us when faith and flesh collide.

When you think of survival faith, whose life most influences you? Perhaps it is one from God's word, or another saint from history, a contemporary individual, even someone you personally know.


*Research and scripture are from www.thefreedictionary.com and www.biblegateway.com

Crossing the Line

The beautiful thing about this adventure called faith is that we can count on Him never to lead us astray.

Chuck Swindoll

Swimming. It is an expression of capability in the water. A word I write with regard and ambition.

I have never learned. I do not have the positive pleasure of using the word for personal description. I only can say, "I do not go swimming." and "I am not swimming."

When my doctor sent me to pool therapy, I knew a challenge lay before me. I nevertheless obliged, for I needed the prescribed care. Put wellness ahead of my fear. Pushed my comfort zone behind me while I waited weeks for an appointment. Dreaded the future proclamation I must make to anyone concerned.

When "the day" finally arrived, all my mentally rehearsed "can't swim" explanations were in vain. I did not have to wait for a proper moment to tell Andie, the physical therapist, about my shameful inability. She asked. I told. She replied that many who came to her did not either.

I felt better. But still looked at the vast body of water before me with a bit of angst and awe.

Andie calmed my fear. Reassured my safety. I accepted her words and felt relieved.

I entered the waters, at once filled with timidity and bliss. The pool was warm, waters a pale, greenish blue. The quiet surroundings, the soft background music, and jacuzzi bubbles gave me pause to wonder at anxiety I now thought silly. I felt embarrassed at my fear and lack of trust.

With floaters around my head and under my knees and legs, Andie guided me to water's surface. I was shy, but knew I was safe. "I won't let you sink," she said. I believed her, and so complied and focused on relaxation.

And therein found a historical precedent for myself at fifty years old, as I rested upon the top of water for the first time in my life. I was floating. Swirling about and hearing soft splashes surrounding.

What followed were days of therapy that challenged my fear, gave healing to my muscles, alleviated pain, and brought peace upon the water.

A door had opened. I knew a new world. Looked forward to each opportunity to face my opponent, the aqua, foamy sea.

But one day I did not remember a warning. Just simply forgot Andie's words, spoken on the first day of therapy. "Don't go past the blue line."

My fifth session had ended, and with time to spare, I decided to sit near the jacuzzi and enjoy its powerful warmth on my back. I walked across the pool, my eyes fixed on the prized place.

And then, it happened. I crossed the line. And dropped.

The drop was small. But I quickly found myself in water that almost covered my head.

I realized the power of tip toes, and used them to keep my nose and mouth above while I made my way back to my newly found comfort zone.

Resting at the jacuzzi, I heard inquiring voices. "Are you OK?" "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, I'm OK. I just forgot. I forgot about the line."

Enough said. I sat a few moments, regained composure, and soaked in the swirling waters.

And thought about the line. Wondered how I could forget such significant symbolism. In disbelief, I pondered my inability to see its bright blueness until it was too late.

The nearness of the safe mark made it invisible to me. Distraction drew my eyes away from danger. A present goal hid the purpose of a planned point.

And so it can be with lines. Even spiritual lines. Those lines put in our lives by God for our own good that for one reason or another are forgotten, ignored, or momentarily unseen.

God's lines are for our good. They are laid with purpose. They are points of demarcation. Progresses of movement. Courses determined for a specific reason. Sequences of related events that lead to a certain ending. *

God limits. Marks. Makes boundaries.

God draws our lines. They are very personal. Divinely His, and distinctively ours. Always thinking of our best, our heavenly Father carefully binds our borders and sets them in order.

Yet, when we fail to see them, deny them honor, desire greater distance, we challenge the Father's love that so carefully made these perimeters. Lines set to keep us safe, sound, unmoved from His will. Lines deliberately designed to dissuade fears, give liberty for worship, for service, for living the life of Christ, for walking His way, for sacrificing our hearts, for giving pure offerings. Holy, acceptable, works of love that are acceptable in His sight.

Offerings that overcome the ease of wood, hay, and stubble. Offerings that prove our testimony. Sweet sacrifices that speak a pure heart and fervent love for Jesus.

We are all guilty of crossing lines. From drawing too close to them to clearly see truth. From careless self-pursuits, from blind ignorance, from weak faith, from failed vision, from confusion, from fear, from egocentricity.

I have crossed the line many times in my life. I cannot return. Recross. Go back. Undo. See the uncrossed back then life.

BUT, I can see Jesus now. Listen closely for His voice. Wait for His ways. Worship Whom I have believed. Honor His wise words. Look for His lines today.

Lines of His Holy word. Lines of His lovely still, small voice. Lines of providence. Lines that close doors I must not open. Lines that open doors I must not close. Lines that lead me in the paths of righteousness. Lines that lead on lonely roads. Lines that bring me to high places. Lines that give me light in darkness. Lines of hope. Lines of peace. Lines of love. Lines that let me see Jesus. Keep my sight on His face. Keep my toes on the ground.

And, dear friends, please hear me now. We clearly know those lines that separate us from God. Lines that if crossed lead to sin. God has made brilliantly clear boundaries between good and evil.

How those must always in all situations be honored. But today I write of tailored lines. Those lines given us in our individual lives. Drawn just for us. Personally. Intimately. Lovingly. Written by God's finger in the sand of our own soul.

Several years ago, God warned me about an upcoming ear surgery. (It was not a life or death issue; the doctor suggested it to improve my quality of life.) I did not feel peace. Yet, I allowed my intellect, my own reason, to cry out and drown the voice of the Holy Spirit.

What followed was two months of misery and a reversed surgery. But God, in His sovereign teaching, in His mercy, through His lovingkindness, has used that situation many times to whisper the importance of hearing Him.

Oh, to always hear my God! To "Hear Him!" In Greek, "hear" means Akouo, to understand, to attend to, to consider what is said. And it appears 402 times in the New Testament! Allow that emphatic retelling echo through your soul!

To consider Christ's voice! To understand His will! To attend to His words! To see His lines!

To see Christ's lines that we may ever obey Jesus, knowing that the desire of our Shepherd is for our good and will always lead us to a certain end. His perfect goal. His best place. Made just for me. For you. Because Jesus cares. And loves us so.

Follow His line today, friend. It is a straight path to peace. It is a clear way of life that gives fullness of joy (Psalm 16:11). Now. Today. Forever.

*Taken from definition of "line," found in The American Heritage College Dictionary

Greek terminology is from e-sword

Thank you, dear friends, for your thoughts and prayers for my mother. The surgery was a great success! Glory to God! I thank Him for His close presence and healing touch. She continues to do well. I also thank Him for safe traveling to Georgia and back again and for allowing my dear aunt to return with me for a visit. The Lord is good!

My Own Dense Wood

"The Lord GOD is my strength, and He has made my feet like hinds' feet, and makes me walk on my high places."

Habakuk 3:19

I have been reading the Christian classic, Hinds Feet On High Places. If you're not familiar with the story, it is an allegory. It tells a triumphal tale of little Much-Afraid, who must choose to follow her Shepherd to the beautiful High Places or stay among her vile relatives and continue in her cozy little white cottage in the village of Much-Trembling.

Choosing to follow the gentle, loving Shepherd, Much-Afraid agrees to leave the Valley of Humiliation and begin her journey, one which will cause her to develop hinds' feet. Her new feet will cause her to soar in love above voices of fear and dread.

She endures along her way. She even makes it through many treacherous crags with faith and grace given her by the Shepherd. After making it through jagged cliffs, Much-afraid is led by Him to the dark, dense forest of the unknown. She immediately hears icy voices that challenge her faith. One voice, Craven Fear, who wants to be her first love, taunts and teases her, seeks to sow seeds of doubt in her heart. Begs her return to what she knows.

I had just sat down at the computer Sunday evening, having recovered from achy fatigue and a migraine headache that kept me from church that night. His voice summoned me to our den. "My heart is beating so fast." Jeff's voice sounded alarmed, and complaints from him are rare.

"What's going on?" I asked, alarmed at his words. "I don't know," he replied. "My heart just feels like it's beating really fast. I suggested a visit to the ER; my gracious husband stubbornly declined. After a while, Jeff said he felt better, and we ate BLT''s and potato salad.

I am a slow eater. Jeff eats quickly. He seemed relaxed as he watched television while I finished my meal. Suddenly, with distress of spirit, Jeff held his chest and voiced pain. "It feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest."

I was jolted. I wanted to call 911. He said, "No. no." I told him most firmly that he had to go to the emergency room. He finally obliged. Insisted we drive. So, I dressed. Hurriedly. Grabbed purse. We made haste to the car. Drove as safely as we could to the hospital, thanking God it was only three minutes away.

Post-haste was the nurses response. An EKG was done. From the corner of my right eye, I saw a nurse leave the triage quietly, and perceived her then running response down the hallway as a sure sign something was so wrong.

Dear husband was rolled into a room where an assembly of medical staff awaited to quickly wire him up. They began probing, sticking, and arranging him on a bed.

I sat in a chair beside. Felt my own heart pound. Sensed that tight knot that grips your throat and belly with chill. Watched. Waited. Wondered. Prayed. And prayed. Prayed that inside prayer one and God alone hears, understands. Desperation had made its way to me. Fear took his icy fingers and wrapped them around my knowing soul.

The doctor asked, "Where's the crash cart?" Nurses assured it was near.

Another jolt. This one went deeper. Jabbed. Stuck. Hurt. Felt like a threatened abyss.

"Be strong. Trust. Pray. Believe. Know. Rest. Find your hinds' feet. They are there. Don't cry. Jeff needs you steady." Such words I said to self. Over and over they whirled in my spirit along with fear, pain, hollow, and hope.

I watched those in green and white work their work on he who was to them any unknown afflicted but to me was my one and only. Who takes care of me. Comforts. Cares. Always. Keeps. Prays. Seeks my best. Lends me strength. Causes me courage. Hears my heart. Holds my hand.

I thought about the mutability of life. The abruptness of change. The inability to control. How pain comes out of nowhere and smacks you right in the face and determines to take your life and knock you out.

With placid trust, yet nagging fear I sat, and at once, felt relief when his heart rate slowly drifted down. With its slow ebb, I, too, wafted into guarded peace.

I listened to the doctor's words. Heard his summation. Savored each word to be sure to absorb their meaning and succeed in their recitation to my sons, whom I knew would be soon shaken.

Knowing Jeff was better, now OK, I left to call Steven and Chris, dreading to speak, yet anxious to bear my soul and share my fear.

"We don't know." I tried to sound calm. Did not want my voice to crack. Did not want my heart to wince. "It could be a heart attack. He may have a blockage. They know he has some problems with the electrical circuits of his heart. We'll know more after more tests. I'll call back in a few hours."

You who have experienced that waiting time know its agony. I prayed. Sat. Stirred. Regarded Jeff's stillness. Prayed. Sought. Stirred. Wondered. Watched nurses faces as they moved in and out the room.

Four hours passed. Good news. It was not a heart attack. Yet, it still could be a blockage. Jeff will have further tests next week.

With thankfulness, with comfort, with post-knowledge I rest today. Still concerned, but encouraged as my dear husband now seems himself. He reassures me all will be OK. We will soon find out more about the ventricular tachycardia, the likely culprit of this shivery experience that has left us stunned from its suddenness.

I covet your prayers during this time. I so need hinds' feet that I may skip and soar and be what I most need to be for my precious husband. I so desire, more than life itself, more than any language could express, more than any material blessing I could ever receive, Jeff's health and complete healing.

I appreciate my blogging friends and the strength I know to receive from your prayers. God is faithful. We are in His hands. He will not fail us and cannot forget us. Please remember Jeff. I love you all so very much and know your faith and, even more, know the power of praying women changes lives. Thank you in the dear name of Jesus Christ.

Milestones

"That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet."

Emily Dickinson

The sweet milestone. It is a special place of marking. A metaphorical insignia of identity. A guide set on the road as we travel to define distance from one point to another. An event to be remembered in one's biographical journey or a strategic time in the history of a nation. A juncture. A turning point. A place of change. A place of pause for looking, for revealing, for reflection, for remembering.

History tells us that in ancient Rome there was, in the very center of that city, a Golden Milestone. It was a gilded monument established by Augustus Caesar. The precious pillar marked distance in the Empire, for everything was measured to and from the gilded bronze object. "All roads lead to Rome" is a proverb that speaks of the amazing design of Roman roads and their great, winding, distant paths that all led to the Golden Milestone.

As Christians, our "Golden Milestone" is Christ our Savior. Yet, only one road takes us to Him. The way established by our Father in heaven. The confession that we are sinners and helpless to find our way without the forgiveness of Jesus and belief in Him as the Lord of all and of our lives. He is our turning point. A priceless treasure, who changes our way forever. We are never the same after meeting Jesus on our journey. Through Him, our ways are measured and dreamed and planned and found.

And the Lord gives us special marks along our way with Him to signify His loving kindness and mercy. He carves milestones in our lives, special moments that chart our course, turning points that take us to new places unseen by us before. Yes, our gentle Shepherd is always leading, and we are wise to follow, to take the turn with Him, to embrace the fresh, ride the current, skim the heights, accept the novel land. And to not look back. To proceed, dear one, in faith.

Yet, not to proceed is our choice. To look back with regret, to turn back in fear, to run away is always an option. The Holy Spirit will not force God's way upon us. One of the most precious gifts God gives to every one born is free will. Even as followers of Christ we may select. If we do defer our milestones, however, or merely endure the bitter herbs and rocky roads they entail, our destination will be met with relief but without sweet peace and unspeakable joy. And we may just find ourselves on another road where we recognize those same weeds and rocks. I have been there. Yes, I have done that. My own stubborn heart has sent me in circles on more than one occasion.

Today is one more occasion of choice for me. By God's grace, I have set to take this milestone and go with Him without turning my neck to see what has been. God forbid I get a painful crick and mar the opportunity to walk into a sweet phase of life. I hope, with God's grace, to take this bend in the road and follow Jesus fully, continuing toward those places of which Habakkuk spoke. Yes, "the sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to go on the heights" (3:19, NIV).

My brother, who is forty-six, called me this morning. "How do you feel?" he asked. "I really feel great. It's a new beginning. It feels peaceful," I replied with earnest.

David added, "I bet you feel just a day older than forty-nine." I had to laugh, as I thought, "That really is about it. I'm just a day older than I was yesterday. And I saw an open door this morning that I could not resist walking through."

On God's Menu? . . . All The Truth. . . .Yes, Lord. Please.

"The Word of God well understood and religiously obeyed is the shortest route to spiritual perfection. And we must not select a few favorite passages to the exclusion of others. Nothing less than a whole Bible can make a whole Christian."

A.W. Tozer

My son, Steven, brought his little girls to Mimi's for a brief visit last Thursday. While they were here, my husband brought in his and my lunch, two Mandarin Chicken Salads from Wendy's. Steven, Olivia, and Ella had earlier had their meal, but of course, as I found a comfy spot on my sofa, where I could sit and eat my dressed greens, both babies quickly made their way to me. Seeing them lick their lips, jump up and down, and open their mouths like little birds told me the obvious, so I searched through my salad to find something to suit their sweet little taste buds.

Olivia, who is two, tasted the chicken, spit it out in a napkin, and before I could stop her, swiftly grabbed some crunchy noodles and sliced almonds from my plate and smacked away. Her two year old finicky behavior has of late affected her eating habits. Isabella Grace, whom we call Ella, will have her first birthday soon, and such being the case, she is still discovering her own little palate, which makes each eating opportunity a festive occasion.

Taking a small, soft piece of mandarin orange, I placed it in her tiny little mouth and she received it, heart, soul, and all plunging into the process. Eyes began to wrinkle. Lips pursed. Jaws puckered. Eyes glared at me. Still, she kept chewing. She then swallowed. Stood. Thought. Then, danced for more, and of course, I obliged. Shortly thereafter, "Daddy" said it was time to go. Olivia took a few more bites of almonds and noodles, and Ella, when placed in her car seat, screamed and kicked and cried in dismay of having to leave the oranges she at first found bitter and considered refusing.

My nagging tendency to see analogies in all later caught up with me, and the necessary spiritual truth in those few simple moments with Olivia and Ella I could not escape. So, I pondered my life as a Christian woman and considered my own frail tendencies to be particular with my spiritual taste buds. I thought about the need for pure doctrine, the need for hungering and thirsting for God's word, how our Master Designer gave us each our own genetic code with particular habits and tastes, and I thanked God for my four grandchildren, Olivia, Caleb, Anna, and Ella, and the precious, joyful, God-given happiness they bring me.

But nestled in that wee bit I spent with my little granddaughters was another lesson just as urgent for me. I found beneath those few beloved moments a plain look at my own nature. I thought of my weakness to shrink from any part of God's word that may not taste as sweet as I like or have the texture I desire. I regarded my own penchant to spit out what I find unpalatable. To only pick up what suits my fancy of the moment. To avoid that meat that can be tough to chew and sticky to handle. To savor those things most that give me delight, yet, pass over passages that seem presently insipid. To ignore unwittingly my need for a spiritually balanced diet.

To be a balanced Christian, I must be willing to taste, to chew what may at first seem a bit bitter, a little sour for my senses. To swallow all of God's word and consider it good and crave more for what I at first lacked desire. As a Christian woman, I must eat what manna He gives me, His daily bread, dine with joy, make each occasion to take in His word a time of festivity. I must hunger for more, cry with thirst, and search, appeal, for further time to hear afresh His voice.

Several years ago, I went through a very bleak time. During that darkness, I lived in the Psalms. They were my meat and drink. The prolific words of those holy scriptures were God's manna for my weary soul; they were health and healing, hope and peace. The words of David and other Psalmists held me up, kept my feet from moving, stayed my heart from fainting. When finally I saw light again, I so craved the Gospels and the Epistles, Isaiah, and other scriptures. And from that experience, I realized my deep, ever present need of all of God's infallible word. While the Psalms were God's answer for a very present need, and sustained me with spiritual breath, He did not want me to lose taste for other areas of the Bible that He also gave for my good. To be whole, mature, complete, lacking nothing, I must be willing to receive both the positive, uplifting voice and comfort of God's promises, and hear, with joy, the solemn, sacred words that convict me of little foxes that can spoil my vine.

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He shall give you the desires of your heart" (Psalm 37:4) is a sure promise that encourages my spirit, but I also must be willing to hear that "godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out, and having food and clothing, with these we shall be content" (I Timothy 6:6-8).

The words of David, which tell me God "leads me beside still waters" and "restores my soul" (Psalm 23:2-3) provide such comfort and peace, but I must not lay aside Jesus' faithful words that warn me "if you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses" (Matthew 6:14-15).

And the Apostle John's words that rejoice my spirit, as they speak so passionately that "God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him" (I John 4:16) bring healing to my weary soul; yet, Peter's words remind me not to think "it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ's sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy" (I Peter 4:12-13). Such truth causes me to look in Jesus' face and accept the cross He has prepared for my life.

I am challenged to open my heart, to search daily for His words for my life, and accept each one. I am praying to resist the temptation to keep handy a metaphorical sifter that will filter out unwanted pieces of God's precious, holy, infallible truths. To accept a hearty slice of sourdough bread and chewy sirloin, rather than only craving a slice of luscious chocolate creme pie covered with sweet whipped cream and shards of bliss. I am looking with hope to grasp the full reality of Jesus Christ and God's will for my life, leaving behind me preconceived notions of what I should be served.

Jesus said "My sheep hear My voice," (John 10:27), and with my whole heart, without reservation, I believe, to hear His voice, I must know, must savor, must cling to His word. All of His word. Which is all truth. With all my heart. With all my strength. With all my mind. Savoring each precious piece given me by Christ's own scarred hands. And thus when He calls me, I will hear, and, can answer, "Yes, Lord, speak, for your handmaiden is listening."