He says to us in Psalm 46:10
..."Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among nations, I will be exalted in the earth"
(NIV)
..."Stop your striving and recognize that I am God! I will be exalted over the nations, I will be exalted over the earth!" (NET)
..."Cease striving and know that I am God. I will be exalted in the earth." (NASB)
..."Be silent and know that I am God. I will be honored by every nation, I will be honored throughout the world." (NLT)
..."Be at peace in the knowledge that I am God. I will be lifted up among nations, I am exalted in the earth" (NRSV)
..."Step out of the traffic! Take a long, loving look at Me, your High God. Above politics, above everything" (MSG)
This has been one of my favorite verses for many years. I guess as long as I've been old enough to recognize my limited ability to control the days of my life. Of course I grew up on the words from the NIV, but as I have been looking at, and drawing strength from this verse , especially this past year, the Message says it in a way that addresses what we, you and I, understand and need.
It seems to say, "duh, slow down, get out of the way of what's running over you and focus on Me. Just let your eyes rest long and lovingly on Me. Soak in Me as you might in a pool of water.
(My mental picture) Don't focus you eyes only on your problems. I am your High God, not the things that distress you everyday, no matter how important they seem to be. It tells me...you don't have to worry, I can not only manage it all, I will be honored and held up before all these things you fret over and let consume you, Trust Me.
Tonight we were coming home from the Y, after swimming with the boys for an hour or so. Everyone had fun. As we were leaving, Toni signed Zack and Hunter up for swimming lessons in August. Zack cried and begged to not have to be taught by someone he did not trust. He worried about lots of things and wondered why we would trust someone else to teach him to swim, he trusted us. I asked him several questions and then thought, as adults, we worry about just the opposite. We choose people we don't know, instead of trusting the One who knows all.
How many times, even in one day, do we say "I'm at my wit's end, there is just too much, I can't seem to make the right decision, and all the time we are looking everywhere but at our Father God. The Creator of all the earth. If you haven't spent much time with the above verse, and reading it in different ways, I urge you to do so. It gives me peace and even courage that the things I stress and strife to solve are not too big for the God of all the earth.
Nothing profound tonight, just sharing my favorite verse with you and telling you a little of what it means to me.
Love you all...
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
THE FEAR OF BELIEVING
WILL WE BE DISAPPOINTED IF WE DO
I read a blog today written by someone I don't personally know. We know some of the same people, but I had never heard of the author. There has been something nagging in the back of my mind lately, just beyond recognition. It is becoming more clear the more times I read his posts. It did not originate with his writing, but became clearer to me with the reading of it.
He was actually writing in this particular blog about the "Irksomeness of Prayer". It took me awhile to come to the conclusion that he really just felt let down and at a loss because God obviously COULD have stopped the Tsunami in Japan, but didn't. He referred to another writer's statement that, though that we pray the same prayers over and over, there is no real resolution. Or, is it just no real resolution in the way we would have chosen? To believe there is no resolution would seem to indicate God is either deaf and can't hear our prayers of repetition, or has a memory retention problem.
Neither is the case. He knows full well what is happening on His earth, and yes He could make it turn out differently. I ask, whose outcome should He choose? Would it be mine, or yours, our neighbors, or our enemy's? I say that because none of these people would have a problem with control, right? It has to be one of those categories though because God's resolution is not good enough for those He created.
That's why our country is in turmoil, as is most of the world. Some do assume they have more knowledge than other people, but trust me, it's only an assumption.
The question still remains, what do we do with a God who allows things to happen? Things that are truly bad, or wrong, or just out of character for our loving God. Here is a concept. I admit I sometimes struggle with this and in fact am struggling with it right now.
What if we try "Trust" or maybe "Faith" (could be the same thing). I realize I, myself, cannot accomplish what I'm asking of Him in our present situation, but I believe "He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world".
Is it possible we pray to the Father with a ready made wish list and only notice the biggies we don't receive? We aren't aware of the answer if it doesn't come packaged with brand name recognition.
Can I wrap my mind around why tens of thousands of people die in one disaster? NO... or why a young family aches and hurts and misses the daddy who was doing his very best to lead and take care of his wife and children, but died anyway? NO...Do I have an answer for destruction of nations by other nations? NO...Do I think God needs me to tell Him what He should do about it? NO...
What I do believe is that He wants us to talk to Him. He wants to hear something other than "gimme" or "I want" or "ARE YOU LISTENING" "HEY, DID YOU SEE THAT WALL OF WATER"? (shouting here)
It isn't for Him though that we talk , it is for us so that we might come to a trust that comes only with knowing and being familiar with someone. A best friend or brother or sister who knows us better than we know ourselves and vice versa.
Is it possible we transfer our disappointment and lack of control onto God? Sure it is. I do pray each of us will learn to trust that He knows the number of hairs on our head and also choose to believe that His ways are greater than our ways and His love is bigger than our love. That He loves the people of Japan, Chili, Iraq, Iran, even the whole of this earth with a knowledge and love we cannot even imagine.
We don't believe He hears or is big enough because we are afraid we might be disappointed. Fear is at the core of our not believing but "Perfect love casts out all fear".
There is one who would love nothing more than to convince each of us that God doesn't have a grip on what He is doing and what His plan is for His people, that one can only approach you and share his lies with you if you invite him in.
It it is my hope and yes, my prayer, that each of us invite our Friend to go for a walk, boat ride, to sit in the sunny cool breeze of spring and learn to talk and trust the one who holds you in His hands. Don't be afraid of the really big jobs because His hands are big enough to hold the jobs and to hold you too.
Love to each who reads my thoughts.
Your friend, Alma
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Love of My Life
"For Some There Is Forever Only One"
I'm not sure how many of you who read my feeble attempts at putting my thoughts, memories and blessings in print even know The Love of My Life. If you have had the good fortune to have met him, then you know what I say is true. If you haven't, my hope is that one day you will have that opportunity.
Those who know us know I have a personality that, at times is at the least, aggressive. The man I'm married to however, is a peacemaker. He tries to live his life for the purpose of being a reflection of The Father, bringing a peacefulness to those around him.
That's not to say he hasn't failed at times, but he has never put himself before me. He has been open and available to serve all whom he meets. Through out his life and especially for the past twenty-five years, he has been an example to the wisest of men and the meekest of children, church elders, pastors, employers and employees. He has served husbands and wives while sweeping the hallways in a daycare, and he has served our children and grandchildren. Many times making the hard choices and showing a tuff love, eventhough his own heart was breaking.
I've seen him cry grown man tears because of disappointments inflicted by those he loved and trusted, somehow "wept" is a more discriptive term, but I've not seen him allow his heart to harden. I do not intend to portray him as "rightous, or pious", those who know him understand what I mean. He is just a man who places value on relationships rather than judgements.
This man, Les Fenter, did not become who he is on his own. He has a very rich heratige passed down to him from his mother and father and I thank them for dedicating their lives to loving and preparing him for a life of service. During times of struggle and pain they loved him and thus taught him to love in the same way.
I'm sure, by now you get my message, and hopefully you understand why...
Those who know us know I have a personality that, at times is at the least, aggressive. The man I'm married to however, is a peacemaker. He tries to live his life for the purpose of being a reflection of The Father, bringing a peacefulness to those around him.
That's not to say he hasn't failed at times, but he has never put himself before me. He has been open and available to serve all whom he meets. Through out his life and especially for the past twenty-five years, he has been an example to the wisest of men and the meekest of children, church elders, pastors, employers and employees. He has served husbands and wives while sweeping the hallways in a daycare, and he has served our children and grandchildren. Many times making the hard choices and showing a tuff love, eventhough his own heart was breaking.
I've seen him cry grown man tears because of disappointments inflicted by those he loved and trusted, somehow "wept" is a more discriptive term, but I've not seen him allow his heart to harden. I do not intend to portray him as "rightous, or pious", those who know him understand what I mean. He is just a man who places value on relationships rather than judgements.
This man, Les Fenter, did not become who he is on his own. He has a very rich heratige passed down to him from his mother and father and I thank them for dedicating their lives to loving and preparing him for a life of service. During times of struggle and pain they loved him and thus taught him to love in the same way.
I'm sure, by now you get my message, and hopefully you understand why...
"For Some There Is Forever Only One" and why he's The Love if My Life.
I Love You, Les
Sunday, January 23, 2011
City Girl
As a little girl I remember going to visit my grandma and papaw, who lived in the country about thirty miles from the city where I lived. There were lots of reasons to go to the country and most of them revolved around playing and pretending -- and no chores.
I got to help (and pretend) in the huge yard grandma called her "flower garden." The garden was so big it took us about three hours to water all the plants. While we watered, we pulled the "heads" off the drooping ones. I was never sure if those flowers were already dead, or they died because we pulled their heads off and left them lying in the sun with no water to drink. After we finished "pruning" the flowers -- oh how I hated prunes -- I could get the basket and pick up all the flower heads and play with them. Some were still pretty, but by morning they really were dead. Oh well, nothing much bothered me for long in those long lazy days of childhood.
Beyond the flower garden gate was the pasture. It had all the normal things a pasture has: weeds and dandelions, cows (and cow patties), a barn -- and George. George was big and ugly, dingy white, with sharp pointed horns and two humps. George might have been ugly, but he ruled the pasture. When he was anywhere to be seen, for whatever reason bulls demand attention, the cows followed him around the pasture. I, however, would not open the flower garden gate. There were too many other things to see and do and George did not impress me.
Did I mention that the pasture also had an artesian well that flowed constantly and never ran out of water. I remember it being the sweetest, coldest water to drink. No faucets or knobs to turn, no glasses to wash. You just knelt down in the mud (yuck), cupped your hands and drank, ummmm. There was also a smoke house in the pasture. Even though it made a good place to hide from my brother, it had a really odd smell, sorta like the bacon and ham we ate for breakfast. Since my mom and I shopped in the big grocery store in the city, I never thought about why it smelled that way. There were too many other things to see and explore on the country farm, to keep me from pondering about it too long.
Vines to climb and swing on and the barn to play in. The barn had a loft where hay was stacked high to the roof. We climbed up the ladder and slid down a rope swing all the way to the barn floor. I quickly found out the barn was not built simply for me to play in. Sometimes fantasy and reality meet at the end of a rope swing and you soon realize where the cows go when it rains. Boy did my feet stink. That lazy day in the summer turned into a rare scolding from my papaw and I was banished from the barn. For awhile.
The Mimosa tree beside the cattle guard, next to the road, was a lookout where my friend and I could climb up and watch for the fruit truck to come around the curve. When he, (Mr. Poche or Fontenot or Sanchez or Langois, I'm fuzzy on names) pulled across the cattle guard, we got to help pick out apples, grapes, bananas and juicy peaches. Funny, I never saw a cattle guard on a city driveway.
There wasn't a large grocery store for food, like in the city. There were only two small stores, one on each end of "town," with maybe five miles separating them. The smaller store on the south end of town, where the road forked, was owned by my uncle. His store had lots of stuff people needed, things the farm couldn't provide. Things like candles, sugar and a few loaves of bread, batteries and small cans of shrimp lined the shelves. I remember those because grandma would sometimes put them in her okra and tomato gumbo. There was parafin wax and jars for canning, although grandma would "go into town" to buy most of her canning supplies. The most important things he sold though were gas and penny candy. I remember wondering why you filled up your car, your tractor or even a boat motor in the same place you bought penny candy. We couldn't just go in and help ourselves to the candy, even though my uncle owned it, which I didn't understand either. We had to earn it, and that meant we carried empty boxes and other trash a store produces out to the trash pile to burn.
The other store, on the north end of town was Savic's grocery. I remember his name, though I'm not sure why. Papaw and I could walk to Savics together, passing the Poche's, our closest neighbors. Papaw (Henry was his name) talked and visited with the other farmers while I shopped. I knew where the store was because I could see the two story schoolhouse from the Mimosa tree. Mr. Savic sold larger items like big sacks of flour, papaw's blue shirts and other larger items. He had a fresh meat counter and even knobs and tools for household repair jobs.
Across the highway from Savic's grocery store was the school. Imagine that -- a school in the country. I didn't understand why the kids there went to school while the kids in the city were out. Grandma tried to explain that a long time ago, when my daddy was a boy in school, they had to work on the farm and went to school when there were no crops to harvest. Sometimes I went to school with my aunt who taught there. It felt strange going to the school because a lot of the teachers would tell me things like, "do you know I taught your daddy when he was in school." My dad went to school? He must have been very important because I got special advantages the other kids didn't. They let me out of class anytime I wanted to explore the big two story schoolhouse. I noticed some strange things to me, like kids from first grade playing on the playground with kids from the twelfth grade. And everyone seemed to bring their lunch.
Most summers I would visit in the country two or three times and, yes, I did sometimes get bored. There was a telephone but I couldn't just call my friend in the city and talk anytime I wanted. Grandma would have to dial the number and she said we could talk for three minutes. THREE minutes? Really, three minutes? No way! So I would invite her to go with me at least once each summer. Actually her grandparents lived in a small town too, but it wasn't really country. More like a town pictured in some of the family TV shows back then. We sometimes went there too, so summers weren't so long.
Something that confused me about people who lived in the country, like my grandma and grandpa, was they didn't get milk and eggs from the National Food Store like we did in the city. Grandma tried to convince me that the milk we bought in bottles and eggs that were in the refrigerated section, actually came from country cows. The cows that followed George around, and those scrawny chickens I unwillingly fed in the yard? They laid the eggs. Gross, no wonder I didn't like milk and only ate eggs if I saw mom buy them from the store.
I don't know how many of you can identify with me when I say I was a city girl growing up, and I am still a city girl today, some 46 years later. Someone could have said, "how much of a city girl were you," and my answer would have been, "you get your milk from WHERE, oh no you've got it all wrong. You see we bring our milk home every day from National Food Stores in a waxed paper carton". Eggs come from the cooler section in cardboard cartons shaped for each individual egg.
I know this is rather long, but the memories a city girl has of the country takes a long time to think through. I wonder, did a country girl who visited grandparents in the city enjoy the long lazy days of childhood as much? Surely not, the city didn't have George or a Mimosa tree, or the man with the fruit truck. And that is sad to this city girl. Hope you all enjoy a summer spent in the country.
I got to help (and pretend) in the huge yard grandma called her "flower garden." The garden was so big it took us about three hours to water all the plants. While we watered, we pulled the "heads" off the drooping ones. I was never sure if those flowers were already dead, or they died because we pulled their heads off and left them lying in the sun with no water to drink. After we finished "pruning" the flowers -- oh how I hated prunes -- I could get the basket and pick up all the flower heads and play with them. Some were still pretty, but by morning they really were dead. Oh well, nothing much bothered me for long in those long lazy days of childhood.
Beyond the flower garden gate was the pasture. It had all the normal things a pasture has: weeds and dandelions, cows (and cow patties), a barn -- and George. George was big and ugly, dingy white, with sharp pointed horns and two humps. George might have been ugly, but he ruled the pasture. When he was anywhere to be seen, for whatever reason bulls demand attention, the cows followed him around the pasture. I, however, would not open the flower garden gate. There were too many other things to see and do and George did not impress me.
Did I mention that the pasture also had an artesian well that flowed constantly and never ran out of water. I remember it being the sweetest, coldest water to drink. No faucets or knobs to turn, no glasses to wash. You just knelt down in the mud (yuck), cupped your hands and drank, ummmm. There was also a smoke house in the pasture. Even though it made a good place to hide from my brother, it had a really odd smell, sorta like the bacon and ham we ate for breakfast. Since my mom and I shopped in the big grocery store in the city, I never thought about why it smelled that way. There were too many other things to see and explore on the country farm, to keep me from pondering about it too long.
Vines to climb and swing on and the barn to play in. The barn had a loft where hay was stacked high to the roof. We climbed up the ladder and slid down a rope swing all the way to the barn floor. I quickly found out the barn was not built simply for me to play in. Sometimes fantasy and reality meet at the end of a rope swing and you soon realize where the cows go when it rains. Boy did my feet stink. That lazy day in the summer turned into a rare scolding from my papaw and I was banished from the barn. For awhile.
The Mimosa tree beside the cattle guard, next to the road, was a lookout where my friend and I could climb up and watch for the fruit truck to come around the curve. When he, (Mr. Poche or Fontenot or Sanchez or Langois, I'm fuzzy on names) pulled across the cattle guard, we got to help pick out apples, grapes, bananas and juicy peaches. Funny, I never saw a cattle guard on a city driveway.
There wasn't a large grocery store for food, like in the city. There were only two small stores, one on each end of "town," with maybe five miles separating them. The smaller store on the south end of town, where the road forked, was owned by my uncle. His store had lots of stuff people needed, things the farm couldn't provide. Things like candles, sugar and a few loaves of bread, batteries and small cans of shrimp lined the shelves. I remember those because grandma would sometimes put them in her okra and tomato gumbo. There was parafin wax and jars for canning, although grandma would "go into town" to buy most of her canning supplies. The most important things he sold though were gas and penny candy. I remember wondering why you filled up your car, your tractor or even a boat motor in the same place you bought penny candy. We couldn't just go in and help ourselves to the candy, even though my uncle owned it, which I didn't understand either. We had to earn it, and that meant we carried empty boxes and other trash a store produces out to the trash pile to burn.
The other store, on the north end of town was Savic's grocery. I remember his name, though I'm not sure why. Papaw and I could walk to Savics together, passing the Poche's, our closest neighbors. Papaw (Henry was his name) talked and visited with the other farmers while I shopped. I knew where the store was because I could see the two story schoolhouse from the Mimosa tree. Mr. Savic sold larger items like big sacks of flour, papaw's blue shirts and other larger items. He had a fresh meat counter and even knobs and tools for household repair jobs.
Across the highway from Savic's grocery store was the school. Imagine that -- a school in the country. I didn't understand why the kids there went to school while the kids in the city were out. Grandma tried to explain that a long time ago, when my daddy was a boy in school, they had to work on the farm and went to school when there were no crops to harvest. Sometimes I went to school with my aunt who taught there. It felt strange going to the school because a lot of the teachers would tell me things like, "do you know I taught your daddy when he was in school." My dad went to school? He must have been very important because I got special advantages the other kids didn't. They let me out of class anytime I wanted to explore the big two story schoolhouse. I noticed some strange things to me, like kids from first grade playing on the playground with kids from the twelfth grade. And everyone seemed to bring their lunch.
Most summers I would visit in the country two or three times and, yes, I did sometimes get bored. There was a telephone but I couldn't just call my friend in the city and talk anytime I wanted. Grandma would have to dial the number and she said we could talk for three minutes. THREE minutes? Really, three minutes? No way! So I would invite her to go with me at least once each summer. Actually her grandparents lived in a small town too, but it wasn't really country. More like a town pictured in some of the family TV shows back then. We sometimes went there too, so summers weren't so long.
Something that confused me about people who lived in the country, like my grandma and grandpa, was they didn't get milk and eggs from the National Food Store like we did in the city. Grandma tried to convince me that the milk we bought in bottles and eggs that were in the refrigerated section, actually came from country cows. The cows that followed George around, and those scrawny chickens I unwillingly fed in the yard? They laid the eggs. Gross, no wonder I didn't like milk and only ate eggs if I saw mom buy them from the store.
I don't know how many of you can identify with me when I say I was a city girl growing up, and I am still a city girl today, some 46 years later. Someone could have said, "how much of a city girl were you," and my answer would have been, "you get your milk from WHERE, oh no you've got it all wrong. You see we bring our milk home every day from National Food Stores in a waxed paper carton". Eggs come from the cooler section in cardboard cartons shaped for each individual egg.
I know this is rather long, but the memories a city girl has of the country takes a long time to think through. I wonder, did a country girl who visited grandparents in the city enjoy the long lazy days of childhood as much? Surely not, the city didn't have George or a Mimosa tree, or the man with the fruit truck. And that is sad to this city girl. Hope you all enjoy a summer spent in the country.
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