Posted in Christian, Minsitry, Writing

If the Chestnut Tree Could Talk Week 4:

 

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Over the last three weeks, we have been letting the Chestnut Tree speak to us. If you have missed any of the valuable lessons in my previous posts, you can scroll down to the older posts and find them there. Today, the Chestnut Tree wants us to understand how fruit is prepared.

 

  1. Chestnuts grow within a spiny green burr, which protects the nut while it grows. Once ready the burr pops open and the nut falls to the ground.

 

The Chestnut Tree wants us to know that sometimes God places us in a shell as well. This is where God prepares us for the work He’s already planned. When we are tucked in the shell of preparation, we are usually unaware of what is happening. We may even look at the tasks as beneath our capabilities, but it is in these humbling, menial tasks, God is laying out the groundwork for our futures. When we are ready God opens up the opportunity and we are released to follow His plan.

Motherhood took some surrendering on my behalf. The two things I missed the most were business conversations with colleagues and the creative fulfillment my career afforded me. Looking back, I’m so thankful I surrendered to the call of being a stay-at-home Momma, for God presented volunteer opportunities which helped me discover what He poured inside me when He made the me I truly was.  I’ve discovered my passions.  If I’d continued working, I wouldn’t have discovered my love for Bible study, art, interior design, history, or writing.

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Last weekend at the farm, my sister- in- law Prem and I were washing the dishes.

“If I had a business today,” I said. “I’d hire a mother of multiple children before anyone else to be my assistant.”

She nodded. “Multitasking skills.”

“Exactly. Did you know how many things you could get done in a day before you had your second child?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said.

“And with four, the list grows.”

After experiencing one year with my three boys in school, I felt God telling me to bring them home and homeschool. I admit, I fought the idea at first. I didn’t want to homeschool! I’d just pointed my wings to Starbucks for girlfriend coffees, but one night, I invited two sisters over for dinner (Lisa Mann and Liz Hammond). We sat around my dining room table and Lisa told me she homeschooled her children.

“Why would you do that?” I said. Lisa explained all the benefits and suggested I read, So You’re Thinking About Homeschooling? by Lisa Whelchel.

The next day, I purchased the book and read it in two days. After that, I read another and another. I researched it online and searched homeschooling organizations in Orlando. Soon, I could barely contain my excitement. I was going to be a homeschooling Momma! Somebody give me a lab coat. In my imagination, we’d be in the forest collecting bird eggs and plants. We were going to experience some real- life learning. It was going to be an adventure.

The reality was long days in my upstairs classroom feeling suffocated, but within those walls God was preparing me to write, bringing us closer together, and sparking my curiosity in everything.  As I taught my children, I was being prepared for the freelance writing assignments I have today. I look back fondly on those two years now. My boys and I grew so close and that closeness has survived time.

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Today, I see positions God is putting me in, which I know are shells of preparation, and I’m a more willing participant because I know I’m going to fall into some fertile land when my shell pops open.

What about you? What in your life do you feel is menial or beneath your station? Could it be God preparing you for something bigger? Can you look back and recognize where your preparation occurred, for the work you do today?

We have one more week with our Chestnut Tree… See you there.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Christian, family matters, Farm life, Minsitry, Motherhood, Parenting, Writing

If Chestnut Trees Could Talk Week 3

 

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Many times when you plant a young tree you stake and tie it, so it has a support system for growth, but a Chestnut Tree shouldn’t be staked and tied when it’s newly planted unless it has an immature root ball.  A Chestnut Tree needs the movement to grow. When a Chestnut Tree sways in the wind, it stimulates its roots to grow, and also allows the trunk to become thicker at the base. This movement creates a healthy tree.

This brings us to the third thing the Chestnut Tree wants to tell us:

 

III.  When planted if a Chestnut tree is tied and staked tight, it will never grow roots and a trunk that can weather the storm.

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My son Nick came home from FSU for Christmas break, not looking healthy. He’d lost weight, and his eyes sunk deep into his pale face. Each morning, he headed out the door and didn’t return until late. Everything in my Momma body screamed something was not right. One afternoon, I received a text from his roommate’s mother, who was hosting a brunch for all his high school friends.

“Nick brought me flowers but didn’t stay for the brunch. He didn’t look good. I hope everything is alright.”

That night, I texted him demanding he come home immediately. I met him outside and he followed me in.

“Sit” I pointed to a dining chair across from me. I leaned over. “What’s your GPA?” I said.

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His eyes teared up. “I don’t have a GPA, Momma. I received a call on the way to the brunch. I’m on academic suspension for a semester.” He spilled the whole story. He couldn’t handle the 16 hours I made him sign up for in his freshman year. He found himself buried after the hurricane when a week of makeup work was piled on top of his regular week, which started a cherry-picking of which class he’s doing well enough to skip, in order to catch up in another. He’d always been good at school, and now he sat across from me with his tail tucked between his legs. He was having an identity crisis.

“I stayed up all night studying and vomited on test days. I panicked and then I made stupid mistakes, like forgetting to email my speech to my professor, which earned me a 0 on the whole project.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I recalled a conversation with my husband Jay, during Nick’s senior year.

“I’m concerned life’s been too easy for Nick,” I said. “He’s never failed at anything. He’s always been a good student, good at computers and editing, he’s talented in art, he picked up a guitar and learned how to play. Everything he touches turns to gold. I’m scared when he does fail, he’s not going to know how to recover.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jay said.

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I’ve gone over and over in my mind the picture of my boy. I think of mothers who have heard worse news from their boys, like the parents who showed up for parent’s weekend only to find their son died the night before from alcohol poisoning. This could be so much worse.

He hung his head and promised to pay us back. “Maybe I’ll just quit college and work for Dad, I can learn the business.”

“No, you’re not. You’ll untuck your tail and try again. Look, I can handle bad grades. I’m not happy about it, and we did lose money, and I’ll admit I’m a bit embarrassed to tell family and friends, but that’s just my pride and money can be replaced.” I reached for his hand. “To be honest, I’m relieved it’s not something worse.”

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Life is messy. Sometimes, we have to flap in the wind to learn how to weather the storms.

My son is flapping in the wind like those Chestnut trees on the farm. He’s learning how to weather the storms of failure, criticisms, and a confidence beating, but the roots of humility, perseverance, and faith will spread. His trunk will strengthen. Too often as parents, we tether our children too tight to our aprons strings, and they never learn coping skills. The best lessons we can teach is how to turn to God when they’re in trouble, and how to learn from failure.

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Nick is reading Discerning God’s Will, by Richard Case and journaling. It is a crash course on hearing God’s voice. He is on academic suspension until summer, when he will start again with a clean slate.

“I’ve been praying about my degree. I pray a lot in the car. God will show me what to do, for now, I volunteered to work for a guy starting an oyster business,” he said.

He also has an interview with the city of Tallahassee to volunteer for several organizations this Friday and is re-thinking a business degree.

“Would you guys be okay, if I just pursued my passion in Marine Biology?” Something, Jay and I talked him out of. (Momma has had to take some responsibility. No judging. I’m a work in progress.)

Nick is spending a semester spreading roots and growing a thick trunk so he can bear fruit no matter what storms come along.

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What about you? Do you see failure as hopeless? Or do you see it as an opportunity for growth and change?  Next week the Chestnut tree wants to tell us what protects them until they are ready to nourish others. Have a great week!

 

A Memoir from India

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I’m never one to read romance. There’s nothing wrong with romance, but if I’m going to take the time to read, it’s going to be something that will stay with me. I love the movie “You’ve Got Mail.” When Meg Ryan said, “You are what you read.” It was an aha moment for me, for I believe there’s some truth to that. So, if you get a book recommendation from me, it will be something I couldn’t put down, but will most likely fall into historical fiction, non-fiction, and memoir. They are my go to’s. This is a memoir.

I think too often we grow complacent here in the United States with our faith. I love to read soul stirring missionary stories, that remind us we serve a living God who performs miracles. This book is one of those stories. It is a book you will find hard to put down and reveals how God used this young woman’s childhood to prepare her to serve in the darkest places of India, and the miracles she witnessed by being obedient to the call. Check it out!

Posted in Christian, Christmas, Farm life, Minsitry, Women

The Two G’s: Grief and Gratefulness

Dear Sisters,
My sister Tricia Baines passed December 19, and the cows on the farm began dying by New Years. When the Baines family heard, they packed up and headed south to the farm to help out. By the time we arrived, over 100 cows were put down, and Thomas ( my brother-in-law), Caleb, and Peyton (their children) had been vaccinating, tagging, and hand-feeding the calves left without a mother. How ironic!
Peyton was feeding the last sick Momma cow by hand. When I heard the news, I prayed all the way to the farm God would heal that cow for Peyton’s sake. Although, one morning Peyton stated matter of fact, the cow was suffering and needed to be put out of her misery. The men grabbed their rifles, and I watched Peyton and Colin jump in the gator to see it done. The answer to my prayer was “no.” Needless to say, it was a sad Christmas season.
By the third month anniversary of my Tricia’s passing, I thought I was surviving without her just fine, for my day was consumed with the unending demands of an infant again, and searching for my missing feline Finley. My husband was out of town for a few days, when the dam broke. The tears sprang up, and I couldn’t stop them any longer. I was dealing with three events back to back that left me broken-hearted and bleeding internally.
While living with me in Orlando, Tricia shared my pain over loosing two cats, and loosing Finley brought those loses to the forefront of my thoughts. She went with me to Tipsey’s (my three- legged Maine Coon) appointment. She sat in the waiting area, while I consulted with the vet over his swollen jaw.
“I’m sorry to report it’s cancer,” he said. The sharp irony of his words pierced through me, and my eyes widened before swelling with tears. He snatched the box of Kleenex and handed it to me.
“I hate cancer!” I said, flailing my arms towards the waiting room. “My sister whose sitting out there, she has cancer. She just received chemo yesterday! What is this the cancer…cancer… apocalypse?”
He looked a little stunned, and unprepared to deal with an emotional wrecking ball who felt her universe was caving in. “I’m so sorry.” He patted my back. “We can put him on chemotherapy, but I believe it will only prolong his suffering. My best advice is to take him home, love him, and spoil him, and when it’s time, you will know.”
When it’s time…I will know…I didn’t want to know.
Tricia’s eyes met mine as I carried Tipsey out. She nodded and put her arm around me. Without words, she knew the diagnoses.
The time came a few months later.
“Make the appointment Tammy,” she said. “He’s suffering.” I knew it was hard for her to watch a cat suffer with the same disease that invaded her.
Once again, she waited while I went in. I knelt beside Tipsey, and told him I loved him. I thanked him for being such a great companion to us. He was the best cat we’ve ever had special needs and all.
The nurse wiped her eyes.
The day I adopted him I intended to adopt a kitten, when this huge Maine Coon chirped at me from the cage. He wrapped that one paw around my neck and held tight and I knew he was mine. He was a lap cat, loved his Daddy’s lap best. At the sound of a can popping open, he hopped down the hall like a bunny and slid into the kitchen doorway. He was a love ball wrapped up in fur.
I looked into his eyes, and nodded at the vet. “I’m ready.”
He injected him with the potion that would close his eyes forever.
“Look at me Tipsey. I love you! You go to sleep now.” His eyes focused on me, and with one last chirp, they went blank.
Tricia came in after, and said her goodbyes.
“I prayed so hard for his healing.” I said on the way home.
She stared out the window. “Tammy sometimes the answer is no. We just have to accept it, even if we can’t understand, no matter how hard we try.”
I knew she was not merely talking about the cat.

Now it seemed once again the answer was no, and I didn’t understand why I was to undergo something painful on the back of the enormity of loosing my sister.
I wept for three days. Exhausted from keeping up the pretenses that I’m okay with it all. I threw on a sundress to attend a baby shower for my cousin, but when I saw my belly pooch, I wailed all over again, so I stayed home. I didn’t want to see anyone, for I felt my God didn’t hear me. I questioned if my pleas fell on deaf ears. I placed all my faith in Finley’s return.
The storm of grief can swallow you just when you’ve safely reached the shore. My missing cat made me miss my sister more. I wanted to cry out to her, for she had been there for two of my cats deaths, but now she was gone.
In Ecclesiastes 3, Solomon wrote “There is a time for everything a time to weep and a time to laugh…a time to mourn and a time to dance… .” There is a time to grieve. If you are in a grieving season as I, there is a coping skill to bring you out of the swells of sorrow It is another “G” word…Gratitude.
Being thankful for my blessings in spite of my sadness keeps me afloat. I have many more things to be thankful for, than to be sorrowful for. My daughter’s giggle, my husband’s love, my boys obedience…(except when it comes to cleaning their room), the ability to pay the bills, the daffodils on my table. I have to accept the no’s just as I accept the showers of “yeses”. I don’t have to understand I just have to trust He knows what He is doing.
Last week, I wrote one last message on our community website regarding Finley’s disappearance. I knew it was a shot in the dark, but I had to try once more. I received a message back from a woman who lives across the highway in another neighborhood. She saw a tailless-orange cat walking into her neighborhood. The boys and I covered that community in posters with the promise of a reward if found.
Yesterday, a compassionate neighbor called.
“He shows up here every 3 to 4 days begging for food. He’s very vocal and seems friendly. I’ve never tried to catch him. I just set the food out, but we’ll try to catch him next time he shows up.”
I am praying it is Finley, and we will be able to get him back, but if it’s not I need to accept the fact that the answer is “no”, and move on. I will grieve the fact I may never see Finley again, but I can be grateful I will see my sister some day.
When my sister passed my former roommate’s mother hugged me and said. “I know right now you are sad, but think about how excited you will be when your time comes, for someone you love has gone before you, and she’ll be waiting for you there.” Now, that’s something to be grateful for. My sister will be looking for me.

Posted in Art, Christian, History, Minsitry, Parenting, Women

Feeding the Artist

Sometimes inspiration hits me in the shower. I will see a face on the glass door as the water droplets fall. I draw the face in with my finger. I’ll be “painting” as the water turns cold, and my hair unwashed. Here, I thought of an idea for a painting. I titled it “Hope in Christ”. It was one of my sister’s favorites. Today, I look back at it and think I’ve improved so much since then. When I told Jay where I got my inspiration, he replied, “I wouldn’t go around telling anyone that honey.” Oops… the cat’s out of the bag!
When you switch from writing to painting to interior design, your brain gets pretty fried. Throw in a baby, two teenagers, a 10 year old, and a husband who travels, and you’ve got yourself one big mess…me.
Last week, I exclaimed to my hubby, “I must feed the artist! I need a big feed soon…a feeding frenzy!” Jay promised a trip to The Art Institute of Chicago soon, and I am salivating.
There is a daily process beyond the shower for me. Since my creative juices have been low, I thought I would list what works for me, in the hopes of hearing what works for any of you creative types out there.
1. Spend Time with Your Creator.
If I don’t work on this relationship and spend time with God I get dry in spirit. Dry in spirit makes grumpy girl. I get short with the boys, frustrated with baby, and ugly with husband. Then, guilt rolls in, and there is nothing worse for the creative mind. My quiet time breaks down the walls of self-doubt and insecurities, because I know God is backing me. I feel empowered. He gives me the nudges to write that scene I was struggling with, or later as I’m painting He helps me with the stroke of the brush. He is the Supreme Artist. Why not spend time with him?

2. Dump the Bad Stuff.
We all carry around negative or distracting thoughts in our brains. My brain doesn’t work creatively when I carry this stuff around. In the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, she points out a practice of writing three pages before you begin any creative project. Three pages of sheer dumping. For example, “Why must I pick up the dirty socks and underwear of four men in this house!” or “Bella’s out of diapers.” That’s dumping. You never have to look at it again. To be honest, I don’t have time to write three pages, or do this all the time, but there are days I try.
3. Feed the Artist Through Sensory Stimulation.
Once a week, I feed the artist. Feeding the artist can be as simple as taking a walk, visiting a museum, catching a show, noticing the architecture downtown, or trying a new restaurant. It involves using the senses, seeing colors, shapes, hearing new music, listening to people speak, smelling good food, coffee, or candles. You absorb like a sponge. If I want to remember something I see, I take a picture of it, and post it on my bulletin board.
4. Alone Time
My family knows Momma needs alone time. I’m blessed to have a studio in my home. I have two desks. One an antique, accounting desk I found on Craig’s List for $25 (what a steal!), and another a trestle table from my days managing Pier-One. My studio is the only white-walled room in my house. One wall is a huge chalkboard, where a historical timeline is scribbled on. Above my desk is my inspiration boards, one for my writing and one for the farmhouse we are building. My easels and paints are here as well. This is a television-free zone, for t.v. is a time sucker and kills creativity. Even if you haven’t the space for a studio, a spare closet, corner in your kitchen, or even a comfy reading nook would do. Make it yours.
When that door is closed the boys know there better be a fire before they knock, for Momma’s having her alone time in her thinking factory.
I take myself out to lunch on occasion. Some are uncomfortable eating alone, but I enjoy it. I people watch, stare out the window, and just be. Today, I am at our local Barnes and Nobles with a coffee, and have to say lunch items are slim pickings for gluten-free people.
Another alone time is bike riding. Jay bought me a cellphone taser, for my alone rides to Disney, so I can shock that abductor, he knows will steal me away. I have imagined how this will play out…. “Wait Mr. Kidnapper Goofy, I need to make a quick call before you take me!” ZAP!
5. Work on Core Relationships
This means I regularly date my husband and children. Tonight, Jay and I are going out, albeit he doesn’t know this yet. Some Fridays I call him up and say “Hey baby, I had a minute to wash my hair… let’s go out and celebrate!”
We have family night every weekend. We go out as a family, or we rent a movie and get take-out.
Working on your core relationships is important. It keeps tabs on your children and your husband, if you worry about them, you will be unable to ponder much else.
6. Change of Environment.
There are times I have to get out of Orlando. It is a great place to live, but I have my days. When Orlando gets old, we head to the farm. In the summer, when most are heading to the beach, I long for the mountains. When I can, I try to tag along with Jay to the cities and absorb all it has to offer. Haven’t done this yet since Bella, but the promise of Chicago is looming in the near future.
7. Classical Music or Jazz Music
I can credit my Momma for this one, if it wasn’t 70’s playing through the stereo growing up, it was Classical. I can’t paint or write listening to music with words, and since I’m writing about the American Revolutionary War, classical music does well to get me there in my mind.
This has been a source of amusement for my siblings, each Christmas we have a sibling dinner, and exchange prank gifts. Due to Tricia’s passing, we didn’t exchange gifts last Christmas. The previous year, Tracey and Brandon gave me incense, and an Indian music CD to inspire me as I write about my Cherokee. You may wonder what my sister gave me? Those who watched the memorial service will get this…she gave me sticks…again!
8. Visit another era.
This one works for me because I’m writing historical fiction, but whatever you are creating, you can find inspiration by reading. Reading opens the imagination.
You can also visit another era by touring a historical city. This is easy for me because my family lives near Colonial Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Yorktown.
“I think I was born in the wrong era.” One day, I told my husband. “I honestly see myself in the colonial period living in the big house on a plantation. My ancestors were plantation owners in Virginia, so it must be in my blood.”
He gave me the look, and said, “Where do you see me as your house boy making sure your fire is hot?”(We are a bi-racial couple, and he’s a naughty…naughty boy.)
Let’s be clear, slaves were not on my plantation.
So often I hear, I haven’t a creative bone in my body, but I argue everyone is creative. You are made by the Master Artist and in His image, so by default you are creative. I would love to hear anyone else’s process. If you’re brave enough to share, post in the comments.

Posted in Christian, family matters, Minsitry, Motherhood, Parenting, Women

The Man in the Stilettos

“We’ll call ourselves ‘Starfish Sisters’.” My friend Heather said over lunch. “You know after the Starfish story.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uytlJ8urv4I (Click the link for the starfish story.)
That was how it began, about thirty Momma’s and Grandmomma’s coming together to make a difference in the world, or at least, at a charity in Orlando, Florida. Heather sent us an assignment, we hired a babysitter, and went to work.
One of our first assignments was for a charity called Mending Hearts, owned by a powerhouse named Stephanie Richards. I was pumped and ready to go. The assignment? Clean a house and get it ready for a family. I could do that! I had three boys, I was over-qualified for this assignment.
When we arrived, sinister-looking men lurked in the shadows, one ducked behind a tree. I wanted to yell, “I see you!,” as if it were a game of hide and seek, instead my eyes darted warily at our spectators.
An older “sister” grabbed my arm, “Tammy, don’t be afraid of them. We have God with us.” I raised my chin a notch. I wanted to yell it. “Yo Yo You wantta mess with me. I got God with me! Come try and see what happens!”
Inside, we found Stephanie on her knees scrubbing the floor. She was dirty, her blonde hair hung down into her eyes, but she smiled, for the calvary arrived.
Let’s just say here, crack houses are disgusting. There was feces among other unmentionables on the floor, windows, and walls.
By that afternoon, the walls had a fresh coat of paint, and the house was almost ready for a single mother and her children, once the fumes from the bleach cleared out. We were packing up to leave when Stephanie received word another house of hers, was set on fire by it’s former occupants. She laughed and said, “This is what I deal with all the time.”
“Why would you chose to do this?” I asked. It seemed not only exhausting but deflating as well. She explained, lower-income families slipped through the cracks of our society. They feel defeated even though they work just as hard. By providing a fixed rent, furnishings, utilities, and childcare, Mending Hearts sealed those fissures and provided a solid foundation where children grew up with stability. Stephanie required her renters to work, which helped parents maintain their self-worth, and their children grew up understanding a work ethic.
I admired Stephanie. She was the old man throwing the starfish back into the sea, while I was the boy asking what’s the point?
Another assignment for the Starfish Sisters was to collect personal products, organize them in bins, and hand them out at the homeless shelter downtown. The big day came, and I was manning the toothpaste distribution, when a man with green eyes and eyeliner, stumbled in his stilettos past my table, for a fourth trip. I was indignant. He was breaking the rules!
“Excuse me sir! Excuse me! You have gone through my line three times already, and the rule is you are only allowed once.” I motioned to an employee, “He keeps coming through the line. This is his fourth time!” I was the toothpaste police, and would not allow anyone to have more than their share.
He didn’t deny it, and nodded as the employee took him aside as I felt good about the job I was doing.
When we were cleaning up a deaf couple ran up with their two children, one in a stroller and the other around four years old. They signed frantically that they were there to get personal products, and I grabbed a bag and ran through each station dumping all that was left in their bag. My heart went out to these people and their situation.
Later, I had lunch with them, and in my best sign language asked them if their son could hear. They nodded ‘yes’ he could. I looked across the table at this little boy who grunted and pounded the table for more cake, but his parents couldn’t hear him. I slid a piece towards him, and his smile stretched from ear to ear.
That night, as I lay in bed the little boy’s grunt still rang in my ears. What kind of future would that child have if he never heard language?
The next month, I couldn’t work with the Starfish Sisters, for Momma was coming to visit. Daddy was flying to Orlando while Mom was taking the train. (She’s petrified of flying.)
I arrived at the train station early to pick her up. I double checked to ensure my SUV was locked before walking into the open air station. Sitting on a bench, I took in my surroundings. Piles of trash and leaves were on the floor. The dank odors of trash hung in the air.
Alone, I was in a vulnerable position. The train station was not located in a nice part of town, anyone could walk up behind me and put a gun to my skull. I clutched my designer purse tight against my chest and kept an eye on both doors.
It was then, someone started snoring. I jumped off the bench, ready to run for it, but stopped…
I recognized those shoes.
His stilettos were cast aside on the floor beside him. It wasn’t just Louis and I in the train station that day.
I sat and studied him.
His mascara was smeared under his eyes. He was lanky and long, with fingernails painted bright red. His lips were still stained from the lipstick he wore the night before.
I listened to the rhythm of his breathing. A maternal love filled me for this bi-racial man, for I was raising bi-racial men of my own. I wondered what his mother was like, or if he even had one. I longed to wake him and ask “What happened to you? Tell me your story!” But I lacked the courage. I hadn’t the courage to tell this beautiful twenty-something boy ‘Somebody loves you’.
For thirty minutes, I watched him sleep. He was peculiar, and although I knew he was far from innocent, he appeared to be curled up on a bench too small for his frame. He tugged his filthy blanket up around him, and switched sides.
Ashamed,I glanced away. Was toothpaste really all that important? I questioned why was I willing to dump tons of supplies in a deaf couple’s bag, yet I embarrassed this boy for going through the line as many times as he could.
I repented and prayed God would intervene in his life, and someone with more courage than I would come along and tell him Jesus loved him.
The train rolled in interrupting my reverie, and I stood to greet my mother. Once we collected her baggage, and re-entered the waiting area, I looked around for him, but he and his stilettos were gone. My chance to help save a starfish disappeared.
Later, I realized if he awakened he would have seen the toothpaste police clutching her purse to her chest. Who am I to think he’s peculiar? I am just as peculiar as he for what I held tight…what I valued enough to protect.
Before my sister Tricia died she said, “We worry about so many things that don’t really matter in the end.” Wisdom comes to those who taste death. Name brands, getting into that smaller size (loosing those baby pounds ugh!), our titles at work, impressing others with our cars, houses, bodies, and selfies, take our focus away from God and others, and places it on ourselves. People are mourning, feeling inadequate, rejected, scared, unattractive,and unloved.
Life is too short. Those things we hold so tight don’t really matter, so let them go, for how else will you be able to get your hands dirty picking up something (or someone) that does?

Please note: Mending Hearts needs your help. Stephanie Richards has been fighting Orange County for her tax exempt status. If you can give anything at all please click the link below to read about her situation further. Thank you.
http://www.gofundme.com/n4s2kk

Posted in Christian, Minsitry, Writing

Three Passovers as told by David B. Carter Sr.

Corcovado jesus
Corcovado jesus (Photo credit: @Doug88888)
Antonio Ciseri's depiction of Pontius Pilate p...
Antonio Ciseri’s depiction of Pontius Pilate presenting a scourged Christ to the people Ecce homo! (Behold the man!). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Christ before Pontius Pilate, Mihály Munkácsy,...
Christ before Pontius Pilate, Mihály Munkácsy, 1881 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My father teaches a weekly Bible study in his furniture store. He opens the store at 9am for any who want to study God’s word. He also teaches a Sunday School class at Southside Baptist in Suffolk Virginia.  I wanted to share his lesson this morning. This was his lesson as quoted to me this afternoon…

Three Passovers

The story of the first passover is found in the book of Exodus. It occurred during a time in history when the Israelites were held as slaves in bondage to the Egyptians. The Israelites cried out to God for deliverance from Pharaohs cruelty. God sent Moses and 10 plagues to change the heart of Pharaoh who resisted releasing his slaves, until the last plague.

This was the first passover. God told the Israelites to pick out the very best lamb, inspect it to insure it was without spot or blemish, and devoid of defects. They were to kill the lamb, collect the blood and paint it around the door of their home. That night, the angel of death would pass through, if there was blood on the door, all occupants would be saved. Behind the doors without blood the first born child in each family would die.

500 Years Later:

The passover was celebrated every year after and at this time the passover was taking place at Solomon’s temple. Four days before passover the high priest would come down from the temple, and leave the city. He would enter the town of Bethlehem where the sheep fold was and he and his entourage of priests would pick out the most perfect lamb. He would put a rope about it’s neck and lead it into the city.

At this time the crowds would gather on both sides of the lane, as well as the hundreds of priests. As he entered the gates of the city with his lamb, the priests would yell with a loud voice,

“Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” This was chanted by the priests and the crowd of thousands joined in. The crowd laid out the palm branches before the High priest and the lamb being led into the city gates.

The lamb was tied up, and inspected by all (including Pharisees, Saducees and the priests) for four days. After the four days the High Priest would stand upon the temple mount and yell down upon the crowds, “I find no fault with him at all!” This meant the lamb was worthy of the sacrifice, for any flaw would disqualify this lamb.

The day of passover, many lambs were sacrificed, as individuals brought their  lambs to the temple, and the meat was handed out and eaten. The perfect lamb was the last to be sacrificed. The High Priest collected the blood of this lamb and entered the Holy of Holies. He sprinkled it’s blood on the ark of the covenant called the Mercy Seat. This would be the atonement or payment for the sins of the nation of Israel for one year.  The High Priest would emerge from the temple and yell out, “It is finished!”

1,000 years later,

One thousand years after the Israelites are freed from Egypt, they are once again four days before passover, but this time it is different because Jesus is in town. He told his disciples, “Enter the village and find the donkey and her colt, untie them and bring them to me, and have my followers meet me at the gates of the city.”

They did as Jesus instructed, and the prophesy written by the priest Zechariah around 520 BC was fulfilled. In Zechariah 9:9 it states, “Behold your king is coming to you; righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” Jesus rode the colt up the dirt lane.

The disciples and all the followers of Jesus began shouting, “Hosanna!  Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord!”

As you can imagine the people were already lined up on the streets to welcome the perfect sheep, for by this time, the High Priest, had roped it’s neck and was leading it into the city, only this year Jesus beat him to the gates. The crowd began shouting along with the disciples and thousands shouted out “Hosanna! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord!” Palm branches and cloaks were laid out for Jesus  than for the lamb.

One of the priest bent over and looked down the lane, expecting to see the High Priest leading a lamb said, “That’s Jesus and he’s riding a donkey!”

The Pharisees are angered by this outcry of affection for Jesus, and told Jesus to silence his followers.

“Jesus answered. “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” (Luke 19:40) (I love that part! For I would have loved to see the rocks break open in song, and the Pharisees piddling on their robes.)

The multitude closed in around Jesus, and the High Priest lagging behind with the sheep, finds the mass dispersing.

For four days Jesus is questioned by the Pharisees, Saducees, Herodians, and eventually after his arrest, Pontius Pilate. After Pilate questioned him he yelled down to the crowd awaiting the verdict, “I find no fault in Him at all!”

The High Priest about this time is rendering his verdict of the sheep from Herod’s temple mount, “I find no fault with him at all.”

I can assure you the lamb’s sacrifice was much more humane. Jesus was beaten, spit upon, rejected, and humiliated. He carried his cross, until He could carry it no more. He gave His life willingly, and said nothing in His defense. He went as a lamb to the slaughter.

There He hung between heaven and earth, where His life blood flowed out for the sins of mankind. At the same time, the High Priest emerged from the Holy of Holies after completing the sacrifice and yelled, “It is finished!”

I imagine at the same moment, Jesus cried out “It is finished!”  before releasing His spirit.

He was taken down from the cross and buried in a borrowed tomb, but thankfully, this is not where the story ends. Three days later, through the power of God, Jesus arose from the dead, showing us there is life beyond this one, for those who believe. Just as there was life for those obeying in faith, who sacrificed their perfect lamb and spread the blood around the door many years ago.

There is life for any who accepts Jesus as Lord.

He is risen…He is risen indeed.

Note: If you are interested in attending my father’s Bible study. It is at Brandon House Furniture Company on West Washington Street in Suffolk Va. on Wednesday mornings from 9am to 10am. Anyone is welcome.