Clay Jars and Torn Gift-Wrap

One of the things I loved to do when my children were all at home with me was to purposely make memories. So you can imagine how excited I was when my oldest daughter, Faith, was getting ready to leave home and told me that she wanted to make a special memory with her siblings.

Faith had invited her brother and sisters to join her in what she had learned when she had gone with her dad to a folk art school. She took them to the lake on the farm and there they dug up good old Georgia red clay. Next, she showed them how to make jars from the clay. Then she built a wood fire kiln like she had done at a folk art school. All night they kept vigil watching the clay be fired.To be honest, I don't know what happened to the the red Georgia clay jars, but I'm quite sure the memories they made that night with dirt under their fingernails watching the fire blaze are in a very safe place.

I've been thinking a lot lately about clay jars. Last week so many special people died. I was so very frustrated! I wanted to go to the funerals, but my own clay jar wouldn't let me. I wanted to put my arms around the brother who lost his sister. I wanted to weep with the brothers as they grieved the loss of their younger brother. But again the treasure I desperately wanted to share with them was in a broken clay jar. So I cried at home for them and prayed that the God of all comfort would wrap them in His loving arms.

We are told in 2 Corinthians that we have the light of the glory of Jesus Christ in a clay jar. Why? So that the extraordinary power of God's glory would be seen not coming from us but from Him. And what happens down here to my clay pot? It is under severe pressure every day, but it's not crushed. Sometimes I just get so confused, and yet I am not in despair. Sometimes I feel mistreated, but I know that I am never abandoned. Recovering from brain surgery has made me at times feel like I've been struck down, but I am not destroyed! My deepest prayer is that Christ would be seen through the cracks of this somewhat broken clay jar.

Today I was visited by three adorable children. They walked into my home and brought with them sunshine. They had been prepared for how I would look. But children have no guile; they are simply honest. So it was with these precious little ones. So I decided to make a memory with them. I showed them the ninety-two year old Wanda B. Goins saying the poem she wrote, The Gift-Wrap & The Jewel. I used this opportunity to share with them that the treasure in clay jars is just like a jewel wrapped in gift wrap.

The Gift-Wrap & The Jewel. By Wanda B. Goines

Lord, I am willing.

I woke up a second time in the recovery room. Once more I felt like I was observing a passage in the book of John chapter five. There were crowds of sick people. Some were blind, some were lame and paralyzed. There was the smell of sickness in the air; there was the noise of moaning. Then I saw Him. It was Jesus.

Although there was a multitude of sick people, Jesus was walking towards one particular man laying on his bedroll. This man appeared to have staked a claim on his spot and it was obvious he had been there a long time. Jesus asked him, "Do you want to get well?" It was a question the man didn't answer. Everyone faded, and it was just me and Jesus. This time I was the one He was asking; this time I was the one who didn't answer.

It was three years ago that I found out I had a brain tumor. I am embarrassed to say that my first reaction was that this would make me special. You see, the lie that was planted when I was just a little child was always looking for the chance to ensnare me. That old familiar voice whispered the same old lie but in a different way. "If you have a brain tumor that will make you special. That will make you somebody."

I struggled against the lie. I knew that my identity wasn't in having a brain tumor but in belonging to Jesus. When people prayed for me they would ask if I believed that Jesus could heal me. "Yes," I would always say, "Yes." Yet, always, deep inside me, there was a struggle. And a question I wrestled with. "Did I really want to be well?" Was I willing to let go of being special, of being somebody?

I was in Neuro ICU for two days. I seemed to be in and out of consciousness. During that time I entered into another chapter of John. This time it was the ninth chapter. It seemed I was there as the disciples were walking past the man born blind. I heard them ask Jesus, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" I felt embarrassed for the man, but then I realized he'd lived with that question all his life. Jesus told them it was neither his parents' sin nor was it his sin that had caused his blindness. He said that this blindness was so that God's glory could be seen in his life.

Suddenly, the scene faded. Once again it was only me and Jesus. I heard Him say, "If you are willing, Sarah, I can make you well. If you let me, I will pull that weed, roots and all, out of your heart. If you let me, I will take your hurts and sorrows and they will become instead a place where the  glory of God can be seen." I only had enough strength to whisper, "Lord, I am willing." But a whisper was all that was needed.

I AM Somebody's Girl!

By the time I was four years old my family had settled into our new house at 610 Georgia Avenue. My first memory of being at my new home was that of sweeping the sidewalk. Nanny had taught me to sweep when I lived at her house. Sweeping made me feel like a big girl even though I was only moving the dust from one side of the sidewalk to another. Still, I was showing that dust who was boss.

I was lost in my four-year-old thoughts when suddenly I stopped sweeping. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and let the gentle wind embrace me. I breathed in the sweet odors of nature, the earth warmed by the Sun, the grass with the wildflowers scattered in it. I felt a stirring of an awakening in my spirit. I became aware of something I could neither see nor touch nor taste nor hear.

It was then I said my first prayer. I spoke to the One who I believed was speaking to me. "God, I forgot about you for a while, but I don't ever want to not think about you again." Even though I was only a child I knew that I had been heard. Now, so many decades past, I know that I was heard because He granted my request.

It seemed as if the enemy had come into the garden of my heart when I was very young and planted a weed--the weed of doubt; the weed of lies. The doubt that anyone cared about me; the lie that I was nobody's girl. But now there was another seed that had been planted. This seed was to grow into a beautiful flower, the flower of truth, in time filling my garden with the fragrance of the love of God.

The weed and the flower grew together in the soil of my heart. Sometime the weed seemed to choke out the flower, filling my mind with ideas of how I could make myself known. My desperation to find my own significance overwhelmed at times the gentle fragrance of God's love. Then once again the gentle breeze would stir in me the memory that I was loved--not because of what I could do or because of what I didn't do; no, I was loved because the Creator who took the primeval dust of the world and formed it into a man had chosen to love me.

Still, the weed and the flower grew together in the garden of my heart. They grew together until I woke the second time in the Recovery Room after my brain surgery. That was when I saw the second vision in the Recovery Room. I saw Jesus and He was asking me, "Sarah, do you want to be well?"

I'll tell you more tomorrow,,,

Jason Gray - Remind Me Who I Am

Nobody's Girl

When someone is deceived they do not know that they are deceived because they are deceived. This is a story about how I was deceived and how the truth set me free.

When I made my grand entrance onto planet earth my family already seemed kind of crowded. My twenty-eight-year-old mother and thirty-year-old father already had two sons, Nicky and Freddy. Freddy came on the scene when Nicky was only eleven months old. At least I had waited till Freddy was fourteen months old before I showed up. But no one seemed to appreciated it. In fact, all that any one did in the house after I went to all the trouble of getting there was to cough and cough and cough. I think I heard that everyone in the family, including my mother, had something called bronchitis.

The first lie that was whispered into my freshly opened ears was, "Nobody cares about you," Mother  took me to the doctor for a check up. While we were there she told the doctor that she was worried that something was wrong with me because I didn't cry. The doctor simply told her that I was too good for my own good. I didn't cry because I already had begun to believe the lie, "Don't bother to cry because nobody cares."

We lived with Aunt Sit and Uncle George in the Colonel Cooke family home. Since mother was so busy with the boys I spent most of my time with Aunt Sit and Uncle George. Uncle George lived in his bed and sometimes I'd cuddle with him. He was sad and I wanted to try to make him smile. Aunt Sit made wonderful brown bread.When she was baking her bread the whole house smelled like happiness. Even though I spend most of my time with Aunt Sit and Uncle George, I slept in a crib near my mother and my father. At least I did until one day when every thing changed.

On that day I got tired. I was only fifteen months, and I wanted to lie down in my crib. I went into my room and then I went to my crib. That was when my mother said, "Sarah, don't wake the baby!"
I remember thinking, "I thought I was the baby!" That same year my Aunt Sit's only son gave his mother a granddaughter. Aunt Sit was elated! I, however, was no longer her special little girl. I had been replaced. The liar spoke to me again, "You are NOBODY's girl"

A couple of months later my mother and father found out they were expecting another baby. They decided to move up to Signal Mountain and stay with my grandparents until they could find a house of their own. I still remember all the commotion and getting ready to go. I was excited, but I didn't understand why. The next thing I remember was watching my family drive away. Mom and Dad, Nicky, Freddy, and Racie--the new baby who had replaced me. They all left without me. I don't know if I cried or not, I just remember hearing the liar whisper to my heart, "Nobody cares about you. You are nobody's girl. Nobody wants you." And so the seeds of deception were planted deeply into this little girl's heart. I was deceived; but I didn't know I was deceived because I was deceived.

This is how my story began. This was when I first began to try to understand how I could make someone care about me. I began to try to figure out how to become somebody's girl. I deeply wanted someone to want me. This is how the story began, but the story ended in the recovery room. I saw a vision that night that exposed the lie I had lived with all my life. When I saw Jesus that night, He told me who I really am. He told me the truth and it set me free.

I share more with you tomorrow.

Jason Gray - Remind Me Who I Am

When Tears are Transformed

Did you know that the Bible tells us that God has put all of our tears in a bottle? Have you ever wondered why? Not only does Psalm 56 say that He's storing our tears, it also says that He's keeping a record of all our sleepless nights. He pays attention to the nights His children toss and turn. Like any good parent He is aware of His children's grief. He keeps accurate records of His children's pain; none of it has ever gone unnoticed.

I have always thought that some things are best not remembered. I have often told myself to smile and say, "I'm okay." In fact, I first learned to do that when I was an inmate at the state mental hospital. I was eighteen and someone asked me how I was doing, so I proceeded to tell her. After I finished she walked away shaking her head. A fellow inmate pulled me aside and said, "Just because they ask doesn't mean they want to know." That was totally new information for me, and after that I tried to adjust my response to what the one asking really wanted to hear.

But not where my Heavenly Father was concerned. Sometimes my response to Him is simply to weep long with bitter tears. Some grief cannot be spoken in any language except that of weeping and wailing. And how does my Heavenly Father respond? He bottles up my tears because they are precious to Him. He keeps a record of my sorrow because He not only notices my pain, He keeps track of it.

But why? Why doesn't He just fix everything now! Surely the Sovereign God of the Universe could just make things right! Can't He? And if He can, why won't He, if He cares so much! Why must there be graves and weeping mothers and fathers? Why must children know the taste of tears when a parent dies? Why must brothers and sisters be parted so soon? There was so much left unsaid; there was still so much left to say.

And why didn't Jesus come sooner to Lazarus' grave? And why did He stand outside the grave weeping with Lazarus' sister when He could have healed him, if He had only come when they asked Him to? Lazarus would have never died and there would be no need for the taste of tears.

We cannot always understand why, even if we are told. We are children of the Eternal One, yet we live confined by time. My own dear children often didn't understand the limitations I had put on them. Often my heart was grieved when I needed to allow them to experience pain even though I knew their pain would one day be redeemed. I knew that one day they they would be adults and understand what they could not understand as children. Still, I was always grieved when they were grieved.

I think this is one of the reasons I like Carrie Newcomer's song Geodes. In her song she says, "Some say geodes are made from the pocket of tears, trapped away in small places for year upon years. Pressed down and transformed, 'till the true self was born, and the old world moved on like the notes of a song."

I can't tell you exactly why God is saving our tears in a bottle or keeping a record of our sleepless nights because I'm still on this side of eternity. However, I'm positive it has something to do with redemption. I believe that when He Himself wipes the last tears from our eyes that it will be then that He shows transformed tears and sleepless night. At that moment weeping and sorrow will flee away.

Nothing is Wasted if You Have a Redeemer (Part 1)

Link to: Jason Gray - "Nothing is Wasted"

In my spirit I saw Him, the Creator, coming in the cool of the day. Coming to enjoy the closing of the day with those in whom He delighted. Those of whom He said, "This is not only good, this is very good." And so, in the cool of the evening just as the Sabbath day was beginning, He went to invite the crown of His creation to enter into His rest.

I do not for a moment believe that the Sovereign God of the Universe was surprised by what He found. In fact, I believe what the Almighty's enemy did to mar the eternal plans of the Great Eternal One only established them. All things are servants to the King of Kings whether they know it or not. I believe that God was seeking fellowship not only with the crown of His creation, but I also believe that He was seeking to transform His creation into His children.

How did He choose to do this? He chose for His creation to experience not one but two births. The first one was a physical birth. The second was to be a spiritual birth.

I believe that this spiritual birth took place on the cross when the Son of Man took the curse of our sins upon Himself, just as God the Father prophesied in Genesis chapter three when He cursed the serpent. He said, "He (the offspring of the woman) would bruise you head, and you will bruise his heel."*

On the cross Jesus wore a crown of thrones. I believe He did this because of the curse that was given to Adam. The man's curse dealt with his assigned labor. From now on the ground would never produce crops without thorns. Pain and frustration had been introduced into the perfect garden. Adam and Eve had now received the curse that came with their rebellion. So they had to be sent away from Paradise lest they eat from the Tree of Life and remain forever cursed.Now, in their new home, the only way that Adam could accomplish the purpose for which he had been created was to struggle against the thorns.

Jesus too had to labor to accomplish the work His Father had assigned for Him to do. The labor of love His father sent Him to accomplish was to break the curse and the power of death. It also evolved thorns. The thorns took shape in the form of a crown. The crown our Redeemer wore on the cross.

And so you see nothing is wasted if you have a Redeemer, not even thorns.

*Death on the cross involves the bruising of the heel. The only way the condemned man could get a breath was to push up with his heels, lifting the weight of is body on his heels and thus bruising them.

Failure is NOT an Option

On the Sunday before my surgery God gave me a song. It was a song that put into words the deepest yearning of my heart. When I heard it being sung by a woman’s voice I began to sing along using her voice to sing my song of surrender. I felt that this was so very dear of my Savior since following my surgery half my face became paralyzed and for a while I lost my ability to communicate. When I sang Oceans (where feet may fail) I was no longer alone. I was part of a chorus, part of the body of Christ whom the Lord had called out to go on a journey. A journey into the wildness to learn the lesson of trust, the lesson of compete surrender. The song Oceans (where feet my fail) became my song of surrender.

I felt that the Lord had not only given me a song of surrender but also the understanding that He was going to take me on a journey through difficult times. I understood that I was going on a journey to a place in my life where I would have no control. He showed me that it would be similar to when He called the Children of Israel out of Egypt. Out of bondage and into a wilderness. 

My instructions were very clear: “Do not murmur or complain!” To murmur or complain would be to rebel against the journey He had chosen to take me on. My response was to say, “My Lord, it is the deepest desire of my heart to walk with You in humble obedience. I want Your will more than I want my will. I know my flesh is weak and that I have a tendency, if not to complain out loud, still to murmur under my breath. I also know that in my own strength it would be impossible for me to do as You ask. But I know You, and I know that You are not asking me to do this in my strength but Yours. May it be done unto me according to Your will.”

And, after all, isn’t that what God was doing in the wilderness? Stripping Egypt from out of His children’s hearts by taking them to a place where they were utterly helpless; inviting His children to stop trying to be in control and to instead rest in the reality that only He is really in control. So why rebel like tiny children against a loving Father? Why not just surrender our will and let Him teach us to trust Him? Yes, I said teach. Because trust can only be taught in the wilderness. And we can never trust Him unless He teaches us how, because we lost that ability in the garden when man decided that they didn’t want to trust God, but instead they wanted to be God. And since they would not learn the lesson of trust in the garden, our longsuffering God took His children to the wilderness to teach them the lesson of trust.

And so with a song of surrender in my heart I followed where my Shepherd was leading. Along with so many others who have gone before I went into the wilderness where I may fail, but He will never fail. I know that in the end I will learn to trust. And by His grace I will receive this discipline with humble gratitude, neither grumbling nor complaining.

Link to the YouTube video for “Oceans (where feet may fail)”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dy9nwe9_xzw

  

Evidence of Humility

One of my favorite things to do as a mother is to share the stories that Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote. In her books she told about her families' adventures as pioneers journeying westward. I can't remember exactly how many books were in the "Little House" series, but I loved every one of them and so did my children. However, one of the books was difficult to read. That was The Long Winter. It was difficult because by the time we got to that book Laura and her family had become dear friends. The book paints a grim picture. It shows a desperate struggle for survival. The Long Winter spoke of the sickness that nearly took their lives and the winter they almost starved to death. Laura's family were pioneers. They were on a journey that held many adventures both good and bad.

In sharing Laura's stories I wanted to help my children begin to understand that their life in many ways was a journey, one on which they would encounter many adventures. I also wanted them to understand that some of these adventures would be difficult; very difficult. Because of the difficulty of the journey l wanted my children to understand and embrace two of the companions and gifts that God gives us to help us along the way, laughter and weeping.

Although laughter and weeping are gifts, not everybody wants them. These gifts are often misunderstood. Let me start with the gift of a laughter. At first glance you might say to me, "But, Sarah, everyone wants the gift of laughter!" Are you sure? Think about it for a minute. Some people have gone through such horrific things that the light has been extinguished from their eyes.

They are afraid that laughter would take away the dignity of the pain that they feel; that somehow it would cheapen the grief that they carry. They are afraid to laugh; they are afraid to experience joy.

In order to walk with laughter in the dark night of the soul, you must humble yourself; you must let go of believing that you are responsible to show to the world how great your pain is. Proverbs tells us that laughter is like a medicine.

Weeping, on the other hand, seems far more acceptable than laughter during times of great stress. Weeping seems to be the appropriate response to pain. Some become addicted to the taste of their own tears. They become prisoners in a seemingly never-ending cycle of crying in the night. Perhaps that is why some refuse to take the extended hand of weeping. They do not want to be one who is imprisoned by their tears. They want to be strong. And although their heart is broken, they will themselves to pull their shoulders back, walk with chest forward and head up. Oftentimes they use a little trick in hopes of keeping the flow from coming down their cheeks--they tilt their head up with their eyes open in an attempt to check the tears.

Weeping, like laughter, must be accessed through humility. Humility means to cast all your cares upon God, knowing that God cares about everything concerning you. God invites us to lay down our false strength. He invites us to give to Him what we were never meant to carry on our own. He invites us to find healing from the world that we encounter in this pilgrimage. He invites us to wash the wounds with the healing properties of salt water.

I call these travel companions--who God has given to walk along side of us during the most treacherous part of our journey--the twin sisters. One is to walk on each side of us, each holding one of our hands. Our Father tenderly watches over His children during this part of the journey.

One of the dangers that might be encountered is a loss of balance, and so He gave to walk on either side of us laughter and  weeping . Some opt for laughter and others are more comfortable with weeping. But it is very important, in order to remain balanced, that we humbly embrace both laughter and weeping.

How is your cat?

When I was coming out of the haze in neuro ICU I heard a nurse say, "Honey, you won't be able to go see your mother until you can stop crying." I though they were talking to my daughter Elisabeth. Suddenly, nothing was more important to me than comforting my child.

Concern for my precious daughter Elisabeth filled my heart and mind with an overwhelming passion to bring her comfort. I was desperate to ease the pain in my little girl's heart. My world became completely focused on finding a way to comfort her and so I waited for her to come to me.

The rest of the family came in first. I felt that Elisabeth was in the hallway tying to compose herself. I wanted to share with my family the visions I had seen in recovery. I was stunned at the effort it took to simply find the words and the energy to express myself. I had seen a mystery and did my best to share to share it.

I had a different message for my weeping child. I didn't want to tell her something I wanted to give her something. Comfort. When she was finally able to come to me I drew on my the last ounce of my strength and but could only whisper before drifting into unconsciousness, "How is you heart?" I have no memory of her response because every thing went blank.

First consciousness after brain surgery is an interesting time. Since your brain has been traumatize and is also swollen things are not always what they seem, which I found out when I got home and the family told me what was really happening in the hallway. The voice I heard in the hallway wasn't that of a nurse it was Elisabeth's voice. She was talking to her big sister Faith and I'm sure didn't call her honey. My girls don't talk to each other like that. She was. however, trying to comfort Faith so that she could stop crying and come see me. The reason Elisabeth waited to come in last was because she felt Faith needed to see me first. No one had a clue about what the vision and profound mystery was that I had tried so desperately to share with them. And as for Elisabeth, she was the only one who was pondering the profound question I had asked her. For on that night when I was desperately seeking to give her comfort what she heard was, "How is your cat?" and she couldn't figure out why she had been singled out for such a weird question. But then the Bible says, "Laughter does good like a medicine."

Bald and Unmasked We Come to Worship

It's been two weeks from today since I had my brain surgery. For the last two weeks I have enjoyed a time of sweet worship between myself and my Lord. I have felt his tender presence with me always assuring me of his steadfast, unfailing love. I have experienced his tender mercies every morning and have rested in his faithfulness at the close of every day. I have sung to him my love songs but I want more. I want to join my church family in corporate worship. The multiplied joy of multiplied voices coming together as one before the throne of God. Yes, I want to go to church but I am a woman and I feel insecure about how I look.

It is also time for me to look in the mirror. I have been avoiding this. I have glanced but I have not had the courage to take the time to examine my altered expression. This might be due to the fact that the night I first saw a stranger staring back at me from my face I was horrified. Possibly due to all the pain medicine I've been given I actually thought momentarily that I'd been transformed into a monster. But two weeks is long enough to avoid facts. It was time to look.

I decided I would not only look but also examine the face in the mirror, after all it did belong to me. I started with my forehead. It really was kind of interesting how I could almost see where the paralyses began. The left half of my face had all the familiar wrinkles. The wrinkles seemed to me like friends who shared a memory. The left side of my forehead was smooth and I wondered if it would have looked like this if I'd had a Botox shot. Next the eye. I think this might be one of the more interesting changes. It was the eye that scared me that first night. I was curious about the eyebrow. It looked different on the paralyzed side and that didn't make since to me. I decided that perhaps the change in the eyebrow was a result of residue left behind by the tape I've been using to keep it closed. As I stared at the reflection of the unblinking eye I thought how much it looked like it should belong to someone else. I could see nothing about it that was familiar. Perhaps it was because both the lid and lash of that eye were not visible and the lower lid looked as if it had just given up trying to hold on and hung loosely beneath the eyeball exposing a whitish valley below. When I smiled it pulled my nose slightly to the left and I realized that I no longer had the straight nose I was familiar with. Now to the cheek or the lack there of. There is an expression called the apple of your cheek it could easily been seen on the left side of my face and I have to admit I found it pretty. On the right side it appeared that the apple must have been slightly rotten because it wasn't round but somewhat indented. Finally, I come to my mouth. Only the right lips could smile the left lips drooped in a perpetual frown. For the first week I had been unable to make my jaws fit together which caused me agony when trying to chew. When they finally began to meet together I was so excited that I didn't use caution while chewing and discover at the end of the day that, no, the food had not been more salty I had simply been biting my own lips, tongue and cheek. OUCH! My examination was complete. I felt vulnerable joining my church family with a face that didn't really feel like it belong to me anymore.

I thought about the mask Eric wore in the Phantom of the Opera. I wondered if he'd let me borrow it to go to church. I only wanted to hide half my face surly there was nothing wrong with that was there? That's when the Lord brought to my mind Rachael Kulick. Rachael has Alopecia. Alopecia is a type of hair loss that occurs when you immune systems mistakenly attacks your hair follicles. I didn't know Rachael was bald when I first met her but I didn't know it because she never left her home without a wig, That is until one hot Summer day when she found that she just couldn't stand the sensation of wearing a fur hat on her head any longer. So she took off her wig and flung it into the seat beside her. She then proceeded to open her car door and go into the bank. This caused her little girl to panic because Chrissy believed that if her mommy went into the bank without her wig on the people would not love her and Chrissy's tender little heart could not bear the thought that anyone might not love her mommy. That was the last time Rachael ever wore a wig. She realized that she had a job to do as a mother to teach her daughter what real beauty looks like.

My heavenly Father knew that I like Rachael's daughter Chrissy desperately needed the example of her strength and courage to help me walk into the church for the first time with my altered face. But this is what takes place it corporate worship we join someone in their struggles so that together we might enter into His gates with thanksgiving and into his courts with praise. So with a crocked smile I turn to Rachael and say, "Come on. Let's go the house of the Lord together!" This Sunday Rachael and I will be worshiping together. She's the one without a wig and I'm the one without a mask.

Here's Rachael's blog where she writes about her experience:

https://mylifewrittenhysterically.wordpress.com/2015/01/30/in-regards-to-being-a-bald-white-woman/

The Offering

In the year 1986 I was thirty three years old and in the prime of my life. I lived on a family farm in Chickamauga, Georgia. Grandma Belle and Papa lived up on the hill. And my husband Steve, seven year old Faith and two year old Andrew occupied the double wide trailer at the front of the property. We had a rather long drive way that was lined on either side with fruit trees. We had a variety of apple trees, several peach, pear and plum trees and way at the very end there was an absolutely lovely apricot tree. As you can imagine, during autumn I was crazy busy preparing homemade jelly, jam, and preserves. And you know if your going to be making all that sweet goodness it would be a sin to put it on old store brought bread! But remember now, I told you that it was a family farm. Papa was a master gardener and he liked to show off his skills a little and make our garden the size of a football field. Guess who was in charge of picking and canning and freezing? You're right, Grandma Belle and yours truly. As if that list weren't long enough add to it the fact that my husband was the interim preacher for the church he grew up in.

The church had hired a young woman named Karen Shrock as the church organist. Her husband Randy would sit on the back pew with little three month old Rachel on his lap. Karen's responsibility was to play the organ for our church service and then to return in the evening for choir practice. It bothered my kindhearted husband that they would have to make the trip back and forth from Chattanooga to Chickamauga twice a day and particularity with a three month old strapped into the
car-seat. He came up with what he thought was the perfect solution.

"Sarah, I think we should have the Shrock's spend their Sunday afternoons with us on the farm so they don't have to keep going back to Chattanooga." I think I screamed at the man. No wait a minute I'm very sure I screamed at the man. You see, I believed in keeping the Sabbath and what that looked like to me was that after I had worshiped the Lord and fed everybody I wanted my husband to leave me alone and I wanted my children to leave me alone. I believed that Sunday was a holy day of rest and I warned my children that once I went into my bedroom and closed that door they were to leave me alone or there would be consequences to pay because Mama needed her holy rest! So, as you can see the thought of entertaining company on my Sabbath rest was not a welcome one.

"Sarah, would you at least pray about it?" There are some things in this life that I just do not want to pray about and this was one of them. But I did pray and it sounded a little like this, "Dear God I don't want to do this! You know everything I'm doing. Can't I just get a break every now and then? All I really want to do on Sunday is just to be left alone. Oh, wait a minute, that didn't sound too right did it? But I guess to be honest it's true, you're not really part of my Sundays at all are you? I'm sorry, I'll make it right. I guess this was what you really had in mind all along wasn't it? You want me to live a sacrificial life and I've become self-focused and very selfish. Well, I guess I can use the words Jesus taught me and say,"Not my will, but thine be done." Please forgive me. Starting right now I am making the choice to surrender my Sunday afternoons to you. They are my offering."

I made that great sacrifice twenty nine years ago, let me bring you up to date. Karen and Randy now live in Indianan their three children have now grown up and have left home. In May when I told Karen that I was going to have brain surgery she immediately contacted the counseling service she works for and told them that she would need time off from work. Karen arranged to be at Vanderbilt by 5:15 am. That would be the only time I would see her till I got home. Her mission at Vanderbilt was to comfort my family during the twelve hour surgery where each harbored their own private fear that they might never see their mother or wife again. Karen has the spiritual gift of mercy as well as being a trained counselor she gave of herself freely. She had worked it out with another friend in Nashville to provide a wonderful comforting meal that nourished not only body but soul. I saw her hand Steve an envelop with money so at some point they could all go out to eat when the ordeal was over. Karen ministered to them tirelessly until at last they received word I was in recovery. She left then for the farm. It wasn't long after she arrived that the truth became evident my house had a flea infestation! She got right to action and arranged for an exterminator to come to the house with the added burden that while taking intense care of me she also was vacuuming the whole house every day. She organized all my medicine. She was  my gentle companion day and night. Only her gentle touch could coax my eye to relax enough to close. Having written all this I know without a doubt that I have left something out.

Had I not been willing to be self sacrificing giving God "the offering" of my Sunday afternoon I would have missed so much. I would have missed one of the most genuine spiritual transformation in the person of Karen's husband Randy. I would have missed watching Rachel crawl and then take her first steps in my living room and then finally becoming a kind and gracious woman like her mother. Rachel is nine month pregnant, moving from Knoxville to Nashville and gave her blessing for Karen to spend this time taking care of me not her. Only months before Jonathan's birth my own baby had died how comforting it was for my empty arms to be filled again. Sarah Schrock is named after me. It is an honor that humbles me to the core. I stand in amazement of this woman.

But perhaps, the greatest thing I have received is a deeper understanding of the heart of God. I had brought my offering to Him because I believed that He wanted me to be self sacrificing but I think I had it wrong. Now, I believe He wanted me to bring Him my offering so that He could place me in just the right place so that when He opened up the flood gates of blessing I'd be hit with them full force!

The Humility of Grief

Two doe-eyed darlings came to visit me yesterday, two little sisters I have delighted in since their birth. I search for their pictures on Facebook, entertain myself with their art work, and smile as they interpret the world around them through the lens of a most delightful and vivid imagination. But sometimes a child's imagination can trouble them, and that's what happened yesterday.



I looked up from my walker when they came in and smiled with delight at the sight of them; well, at least the half of my face that isn't sliding off my skull smiled. Unfortunately, my renegade eye had refused to close yesterday without being taped, and that was not a welcoming sight to these little ones. I tried to speak softly to them, to reassure them, but then there's this other problem, a paralyzed face makes one sound slightly like a witch. I could only imagine; they probably felt they had encountered the hag from Snow White, and at any moment I'd offer them an apple. These precious little girls are so kind and well behaved.  They just stood there enduring this fright and trying desperately to understand how they were to respond.



By eight o'clock I was exhausted and in pain, so I took a whole pain pill and crawled into bed. Two hours later I was jolted awake by an ache in my heart. But there are some hurts that are not cured by pills, and this was one of those. Sometimes the correct response to a situation is to simply grieve. To grieve is to be humble, to be real, to accept both the gifts of joy and sorrow.



Part of the humility of grief is to admit that you need help. I didn't cry alone. I asked my husband to sit with me. My friend, Karen, who took two weeks off to come from Indiana to take care of me, gently wept beside me. I am also very blessed to have four brothers and four sisters, so I sent them a group text and asked if they would walk with me through this valley of tears.



There are things in life that can only be understood through the lens of eternity. And there is a special blessing that God gives to those whose heart is set on pilgrimage, the understanding that we are not home yet. We live in a broken and hurting world. But because of God's great love He sent His very own Son in the person of Jesus to be the Savior and Redeemer to this broken world. Jesus came with an invitation to His Kingdom where sorrow and weeping will be no more.



My prayer, as I sojourn through the valley of weeping, is that God would transform this place of tears into a place of refreshment for those who are following behind me on this journey home. I am so looking forward to the promise my Heavenly Father gave me, "He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."(Revelation 21:4) But until that day I'll journey on, pausing every now and then along the way to shed a tear.

The Vision

I had arrived at the hospital at 5:30 that morning; all the preliminaries had been accomplished, they handed me a pen and showed me where to sign my name, stating I understood that the final result of what was being done could cause my death. With the pen I signed my name; with my spirit I relinquished control and silently sang, "Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders!" I was then placed on a gurney and taken to the operating room.

The room was full of lights and people, and when I was transferred onto the operating table I felt so small and vulnerable. The anesthesiologist, speaking with the voice of authority, had those assisting him hold my head and shoulders firmly in place while a mask was pressed down, covering my nose and mouth. I felt sheer terror welling up within me, and the fear of being suffocated began to overwhelm me as my head was twisted downward, and I was instructed to inhale deeply.  I cried out in silent prayer, "Sweet Jesus, I surrender! Let Your Spirit lead me to a place where trust has no boundaries!" Then consciousness slipped away.

Suddenly, I saw a piercing light and felt excruciating, exquisite pain as if my skull had been crushed!  I was in recovery; the brain surgery was over. But this is where my story really begins, because this is when I had the vision.

The vision I saw was familiar to me, since I had read the story in the seventh chapter of John many times.  What made it different was that I was not reading it; I was experiencing it.  I was there in person, saw Jesus stand up, heard Him cry out, "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scriptures have said, 'Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.'" He was looking at me! Suddenly, I felt bursting from within me the Spirit of God bringing with Him comfort, a deep sense of being loved, and peace I have never before known.

Since that night in recovery, it is as if I have been on a raft of light, being both filled and at the same time bathed in the river of living water. I think it might take a lifetime to share the blessings that I have received, but I want to start by sharing this one small insight about being led by the Spirit to a place where trust has no boundaries. Trusting Jesus, believing in Him, means to be set free from the bondage of fear. Truly, it is an invitation to come to Jesus and find rest for your soul.  I'm so glad I accepted His invitation!