Keeping My Promise

Posted on September 8, 2016 by rstaples2013

Last night a friend asked me why I don’t write anymore.

I didn’t have an answer, at least one that I wanted to confess.

She said she missed reading my posts.

I promised her I would write today.

I asked her what she wanted me to write about. She said to write whatever was on my heart.

This is a tough assignment because I was processing a phone call I had received a few minutes before this one where I heard these crushing words, “I just want you to know that you have broken my heart. If I die, it will be from a broken heart”.

The story behind these words is not one that I can share in a post.

There is no one but Jesus Who can fully grasp the weight these words carry. He is the only One that I can talk to without trying to explain that which cannot be explained. He is the only One Who knows that my compassion for this hurting friend only grows as her suffering deepens. He is the only One Who knows the agony of my helplessness in failing to be a balm.

This morning I woke to a feeling of sadness.

I decided to attend to the ding of my I phone and found this message:

“The Lord brought you to mind this morning, and I have been praying for you. Remember; don’t look at your feet when you’re dancing with the King. I pray you were carried along in His strong Presence and leading in your life”.

These words are from a friend with whom I do not have regular contact. He would only have known my need for encouragement from listening to the Holy Spirit.

I am reminded of a song God gave me a few weeks ago:

“Open the window that I may see you                                                                                                   Open the door that I may walk through                                                                                              Into Your arms as you lead me along                                                                                                          To the beat of Your heart and the dance of Your Song”.

I’m glad I kept my promise to write today.

May anyone who reads this today join me in dancing with the King.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Black, White and Red

Posted on August 14, 2016 by rstaples2013

I woke up this morning to news of the racial unrest in Milwaukee being expressed during the night by protesters burning buildings.

My mind took me back to the race riots of 1967. How long ago was that? Is it possible that it was 50 years ago? Yes, nearly.

I remember the phone call I got from a black co-worker at 3 AM as though it happened yesterday, When I answered, she repeated my name several times and then frantically told me there was a “riot” in her house. A combination of her accent and my sleepiness caused me to hear the word “rat” instead of “riot”.

Trying to wake up, I told this friend we would have to get a trap.

No, No she again tried to explain. There was a race riot on her street. An armed policeman entered her house and her husband shot him. Their house was on fire, her husband was in custody and her grand babies were breathing smoke.

I don’t remember how the next steps were taken, but somehow I got the babies. I do remember carrying them in a laundry basket covered with a sheet because we lived next door to a white policeman.

And at some point in this crazy series of episodes, this friend was in my home, kneeling by my bed and sobbing as she poured out her heart to “my” Jesus.

The impact of this image was intense, magnified by my background of no relationship with anyone who looked different than me.

I grew up in a European immigrant farming community. The only people I ever saw that were not “like” us were American Indians. This contact was not personal but rather observing the reservations and tribal events from time to time.

It was not until I was studying to be a nurse in Milwaukee that I worked with African Americans and cared for them as patients in the hospital.

I remember one patient asking me to put Vaseline in her hair. I told her I didn’t think that was a good idea. She assured me that it was.

I quickly became friends with my coworkers. We enjoyed each other’s company, ate in each other’s homes and shared our stories.

Yet, they were black and I was white.

Until, the friend who I introduced at the beginning of this post was kneeling by my bed, sobbing and pouring out her heart to “my” Jesus.

As I saw her there, my heart leapt with the recognition that we were more same than different. She was not praying to “my” Jesus, she was praying to “our” Jesus.

Yes, the red of His blood has washed away the black and white of our skin. She was weeping for what breaks “our” God’s heart.

Today, now 50 years later, the blood has not lost its power!

Lord, may I not have lost my passion!

Red first, then black and white!

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Only With My Dad

Posted on June 24, 2016 by rstaples2013

These words captured my attention today as I have been reading through the gospel of John with the specific purpose of watching Jesus do only what the Father directed Him to do and  say only what the Father said to say.

The context for this metaphor is a Father/Son team cleaning up my yard. The Father is a gifted landscaper. His work is stunning. He brought his son to work alongside him today.

I was interested in catching up with this son, as I had known him as a small boy. Now he is twenty-five years old, married, working and attending a Bible Institute.

I watched him cleaning up an overgrown area with a weed whip. I asked him if he did this type of work, too.

His answer was immediate and definitive, “Only with my Dad”.

I smiled and then asked him if a bush that was growing over our steps was a weed. Again, there was no hesitancy as he said, “I don’t know, we’ll have to ask my Dad”.

As I watched these men work, I saw them having fun. The Father had the plan and made the decisions. The Son followed instructions, asked for advice and was quick to say thank you  to his Father.

They were fun to watch because they were having fun together. There was mutual respect and each spoke well of each other.Next week they are going to Great America to risk the rides. The son was proud that his father would actually do this. I imagine sixty seems old to him. I know it did to when I was twenty-five.

It was good to have a picture of a son watching His Father carefully and only do what His Father said to do.

I’m glad that n this metaphor that they were having fun. I think our heavenly Father and Jesus have fun too.

During their “break” I asked this Father/Son team their opinion on hanging some pictures in my great room. Before I knew it, they were on a mission to get it done.

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When the son needed to leave early, before the work was done, I asked if they wanted to be paid separately. “Oh, no, said the son, “I owe Him. He fixed my car yesterday.”

I appreciate God giving me a picture today of that which my heart longs for.

I want to do what my Father tells me to do. I want to say what He tells me to do. I want to have fun as we do it together.

I’m hoping he doesn’t want to strap into the rides of Great America but if Papa God wants to go, I’ll be there with Him

Only with my Dad.

 

 

 

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Both Old and Homesick

Posted on June 15, 2016 by rstaples2013

I never knew old people would feel waves of homesickness. I thought that was an experience of children.

But today I passionately miss both my Mom and my Dad. Maybe it is because today is their wedding anniversary.

I nurtured my sadness by pulling out an old cassette tape. As I listened to Mom playing the organ accompanied by Dad on his drums, there was a comfort to knowing what song would come next and allowing memories to randomly invade.

When Mom and Dad were dating, a common meeting place was Pete’s Ballroom. As the band played the established couples in the neighborhood would dance alongside those who were exploring a relationship. The story my parents love to tell is how when they had hit a rough place, Dad would request the song, “My Isle of Golden Dreams.” He would then ask my Mom to dance and, every time, she would melt into his arms, all offense forgotten.

For their honeymoon they drove ninety miles to the home of Mom’s college roommate.

One day, when I was about four, Mom took me up to their bedroom and showed me a little bottle of pills. She tenderly explained to me that she and Daddy had so wanted a baby. They prayed and the doctor gave her these pills. Then as an answer to the prayers, I was born. (Later in life, when I was an adult, she showed me the pine tree back in our woods under which I was conceived). I wonder today if it was the pills or the whispering pines.

Dad and I always had the ability to look into each other’s eyes and know what the other was thinking. (My husband tells us this has ruined our marriage). Because Dad and I could read each other in this way, we could make up a story that a room full of people would follow. No one but us would know that we were just having fun.

I remember seeing Dad standing on the back porch of our farmhouse during a strong windstorm. He was watching as the oats, which were ready to be harvested, were beaten into the ground. I grabbed my jacket and stood and watched with him. We didn’t need to talk. What we needed was to stand together as the resource for feeding our family was lost for this season.

I remember the day our High School Band was marching in a parade. I knew Mom couldn’t be there because she was having her teeth pulled. But as we rounded the corner, there was Mom waving one hand high in the air as the other hand covered her mouth.

I am both old and homesick today.

 

 

 

 

 

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From King Size Bed to Twin

Posted on June 10, 2016 by rstaples2013

It was with intrigue that I first heard the phrase: “Aging is a diminishing experience”. I remember the time and place as a medical/ethical conference at Trinity Seminary in 2001. The guest speaker. who introduced this thought. was Vernon Grounds. He had earned the right to speak about aging, as the day of this lecture was his eighty seventh birthday.

I followed him closely as he described moving from a big house to a smaller house, from the smaller house to the apartment, and then from the apartment to the one room assisted living. As he taught I remembered that our farmyard lawn was filled with people for my grandmothers seventy-fifth birthday, but for her ninety-fifth, four people sat around the kitchen table.

This has all come back to my memory as I watch my husband, who is eighty-nine, cut our grass on a riding lawn mower. It is one of the few “in control” activities he enjoys as he has given up driving.

Yes, I watch, but I watch critically. He is not taking the tractor to the outer edges of the lawn. The lawn is diminishing in size because the borders are not displaying their full potential.

Everything in me wants to get on the tractor and fix it.

Yet, I know, this is not the loving thing to do.

So, I call my friend, who is ninety-three. (By now some of you are wondering about my age. It is seventy-three). My friend says what I knew she would say. “Roselyn, absolutely not.” I know she was saying I cannot trade the size of our lawn for my husband’s dignity.

This friend has earned the right to counsel me. She has processed the loss of moving from a private home to an apartment and now to a one room assisted setting. She is the one from whom I first heard the term “the grace to be diminished”.

I told her that I was experiencing a restless spirit. I wondered if I needed to give my external circumstances the opportunity of reconciling with my heart.

Oh, Yes, She agreed.

“When you move from a king size bed to a twin, you need to make sure the sheets fit”

 

 

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The Fragrance of Thank You!

Posted on June 10, 2016 by rstaples2013

My friend called me this morning from her vacation spot one state away.We started out talking fervently about nothing, as friends do.

But then she told me about her flight. This friend was seated next to a woman who was obviously tired, dozing off even while the passengers were boarding.

Settling into her middle seat, my friend sat quietly for the hour-long flight. She used this time to say, “Thank You” to God for His goodness to her.

As the plane landed, her tired seatmate turned and told my friend how good it had been to be seated next to her.

This comment came as a surprise. How can it have been a good experience when I have said nothing?

Extending her silence my friend listened as this tired seatmate told of her exhaustion from traveling extensively, juggling four children with a demanding career. “My friends tell me I work too much”

Sensing an opportunity, my friend gently suggested taking 15 minutes out of every day to quietly read the bible.

This prompted the question, “Do you meditate?”

“Only on the word of God”.

Welcoming this advice, the tired seatmate again surprised my friend by saying, “You smell so good”.

As I listened, I recognized that the fragrance of Thank You had permeated the environment around my friend. Without uttering a word, the atmosphere had invited this tired seatmate to share her life and become open to a road toward peace.

I wonder how often I am aware that what is going on inside of me has a direct impact and what is going on around me.

Today I want to posture my heart toward gratitude and joy.

May we learn to “smell so good” that those around us ask for the reason for the hope that is in us.

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You are Thankful for What?

Posted on April 1, 2016 by rstaples2013

I listened carefully as my friend described to me the findings of her recent medical workup.

The past couple of years have been a battle with cancer. The cancer is gone but side effects from chemo and an unexplained anemia ravage her life.

Before she gave me the latest report this friend told me how grateful she was for the Presence of the Holy Spirit and His amazing kindness to her.

She then reported that the doctors have now found a chronic disease that is both painful and difficult to manage.

Yet, she was more interested in telling me how thankful she was for God’s timing then in acknowledging the burden of the new illness.

She said, “Isn’t God good that he waited until I was old to get this disease. If I had gotten it as a young mother I would not have been able to work and raise my son. Now I don’t have anyone to take care of but myself”.

As I listened, I quietly wondered why she wasn’t upset that she had this illness even now. How does she see battling a chronic illness in old age as mercy?

In my memory, I replayed a conversation with this friend from maybe 40 years ago.

I was leading a Bible Study in a hospital where we both worked as nurses. One day, after faithfully attending the study group, she told me she was resigning to take a different job.

Knowing she had not yet surrendered her life to Jesus, I told her I was sorry I had told her about Jesus as our Lord and Savior.

She asked, “Why?”

I said, “Because you know everything you need to know to be a believer but you have not responded to God?” “You would be better off if you had never heard”.

She said, “Oh, I will give my heart to Jesus. I’m just waiting to be good enough”.

I then said, “No, I haven’t been clear in my teaching. You don’t wait to be good enough. You come as you are and He then makes you good enough through the finished work on the cross”.

Well, then, she said. “Let’s pray now”.

That was then and this is now. This friend, who is nearing 80 years old, is a testimony of faith through aging eyes. I am humbled by how gratitude shapes her perspective.

I am so glad that back then I introduced her to Jesus.

 

 

 

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I’m Home

Posted on March 15, 2016 by rstaples2013

After driving for 30 hours over a span of 7 days my critically ill friend visually soaked in the desert of southern Nevada and simply said, “I’m home.”

This friend, who I genuinely embrace as my BFF, has suffered unrelentingly and now increasingly over the past several years. This winter she recognized that she could no longer tolerate cold weather.

As I listened to her and observed the agony of her body and mind I recognized that even though she was too worn down to make a major move it was our only chance to infuse some hope.

So we loaded the van and drove each day as far as she could tolerate.

Motel stops were complicated by the need to register her two little pets and the big bags of supplies they needed.

Now we had arrived to the environment this friend had known as a child. As I visually soaked in this desert I was surprised to learn that it was stunningly beautiful to me as well. Though, I must confess, it is a different kind of beauty than I have appreciated. I will typically look for tall pines, water and wheat fields.

I asked my friend to tell me what she saw that prompted her to say she was home. She answered, “The rocks, look at those amazing rocks. The foothills of the mountains, the palm trees, the cactus, the tiled roofs, the stucco houses, the warm air the bright sun”.

She again announced resolutely “I’m home”.

This will be a literal as well as figurative statement as she is too weak to make the trip back.

I will settle her here and fly back. I trust it will be a place of healing.

As I reflect on this journey, I know that someday each of us that know Jesus will say, “I’m home”. And as we gaze into His eyes we will say to each other, “Look at Him, Our Amazing Rock”.

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Is Job an Exceptional Story?

Posted on February 19, 2016 by rstaples2013

This is not meant to be a teaching but rather an acknowledgement of honest questions.

The book of Job, in the Bible, invites us to imagine other conversations between God and Satan. We can draw lessons for how to do more harm than good in comforting the suffering. We can rest in the story of how an encounter with God diffuses our questions and leaves us on our knees. We can nurture our trust in God as omnipotent, just and good.

But, is this an old biblical story or is this a glimpse into how God works in the lives of us with whom He is in relationship.

Let me be clear that any affiliation with Job as blameless would be because of our embracing the complete and total exoneration of our sin on Calvary. I am not setting myself, or anyone else, up as a person without character flaws.

My question is does Satan ask God if He has considered me and then, is a test set up to see if I would stand firm in my faith if my worst nightmare became a reality.

Maybe, to be more concise, “Is my love for and trust in God conditional”?

In my limited exposure, I have seen this to be a bigger struggle for the church in the USA than in other places of the world. And, as a product of this church, I have internalized this dilemma.

I remember a Chinese house church believer asking me why I thought it would be a problem if they suffered in their pursuit of learning more about Jesus. We both knew that imprisonment might be the cost of attending the seminar I referenced.

I remember an esteemed African professor of theology leaving his post and living an impoverished life as he followed God’s leading for rebuilding the broken nation of Congo. I remember passing this spiritual giant on the steps of our church and giving him lunch money.

I remember a distinguished doctor in India who travels by train, tired and cold, suffering personal pain to set up palliative care for others who are suffering.

Is it possible that Satan has approached God, pointed out this Chinese believer and asked if he would stay steadfast if prison became a reality? Would the African professor praise Jesus if his dreams died? Would the Indian doctor pour out her life for the care of others if her own life became racked with pain?

Closer to home, will I engage in prayer and worship if that which I have trusted God to do does not follow the design that I have developed?

Does my response to my heartbreak give God the opportunity to say to Satan, “I told you her faith would not fail.”

I don’t know if Job’s story is an exception or not, but I want my story to be one that other’s can read and discover that Jesus has already won!

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I Thought She was Wrong

Posted on February 16, 2016 by rstaples2013

The memories that stick with me from childhood are interesting.

As a child, I noticed that when my mother read a book she always read the last few pages before she started the book. I somehow took it upon myself to explain to her that she shouldn’t read the end of the story before she read the beginning. I didn’t stop with just the explanation. I remember getting mad at her for starting at the end of the book. “Mom, you are ruining the story by reading the end. It’s supposed to be something you discover”.

With the advantage of living several more decades, my childhood opinion is open for review.

In fact, there are many days when knowing the end of the story gives me the strength to walk on.

I don’t know how many chapters there are in the story of my life.

If I were to work at it, I could divide my life into segments, like chapters, and choose a title for each one based on my experiences during that period.

What I don’t know today is how far along I am in my story here on earth. How many more chapters are there and what title will they earn?

But, what I do know now is how my story will end.

When Jesus rose from the dead He won the last battle. Because I am in Him and He is in me, I have already won the last battle.

Now when I find myself in a place that feels dark and hopeless, I turn to the end of the book. There I am reminded that Jesus wins.

It helps to live life with the relaxation of watching the replay of a game where you already know the final score.

I think my Mom was right!

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