You Are More Than Just a Number

When I was in college, I had a student ID number I would use to buy my lunch and check out books at the library. Later, I had a job and was assigned a clock number that became my identity to my employer.

Today, if I call about our car insurance, they can’t divulge any information until I give them our policy number to prove who I am. And when I write a check to pay a doctor bill, I have to put our account number on the check to make sure we’re credited the amount.

So many numbers.

Do you ever feel like you’re just a number?

It’s pretty easy to feel that way, to wonder in this great big world if you’re just a blemish, a spot; unnoticeable or easily forgotten. It’s easy to get discouraged and wonder if anyone sees you for who you really are or if your life has become nothing more than a series of numbers.

But you are MUCH more than just a number to God.

In my teeny tiny mind I see it like this: God is so mighty and BIG, encompassing all of the space in space. Then He moves in REALLY close, traveling quickly through space and time at speeds unknown to the human mind. (Imagine racing to the earth from space at breakneck speeds, seeing panoramic views of the land as greens and browns and the massive bodies of water on planet earth as your focus becomes narrower. You see less and less until you close in on one single, tiny object.)

God’s sight is fixed. He’s closing in and focusing on the sliver of an object. From His viewpoint He could have stopped midair and taken in the entire planet, but He kept going. He kept moving in. He kept coming closer and closer.

What was this object He was focused on? What tiny detail captured His attention?

A single hair. And it’s on your head.

God knows every single thing about you. Not a moment of your life goes unnoticed by Him. He’s counted every hair on your head, and He’s seen every tear you’ve cried.

That means He’s been there even when you thought you were all alone. He’s been there when you fell apart, trying to keep it all together; in the shower, while driving, folding the laundry, before you left your car to walk through those doors at work.

God was even there when you forced that smile, making everyone believe you were okay.

With God, you can relax. He already knows. He already sees you. You can let Him in closer.

He’s already there anyway.

“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten by God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows.” (Luke 12:6-7 ESV.)

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” (Psalm 56:8 NLT.)

“You know me inside and out, you know every bone in my body; You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit, how I was sculpted from nothing into something. Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before you, The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day.” (Psalm139:15-16 MSG.)

 

 

Waiting

Just a little Spark.

“Wait for the Lord;

be strong and take heart

and wait for the Lord.”

-Psalm 27:14 NIV.

Eating Pizza with a Thankful Heart

I remember eating strawberries with our daughter while she was in her highchair, and by the time I got to work, my eyelids were swelling and itching like crazy.

That was about twelve years ago.

What followed was a skin test that revealed I shouldn’t eat strawberries, shellfish, or legumes and that my throat would close if I ate peanuts. (Thankfully I was given an epinephrine shot after that test!)

A few years later, I started getting sick all the time. I dealt with severe stomach pains, fatigue, bloating that was so bad I’d start the day in jeans but by the end of the day had to switch over to sweatpants, hives that once grew to the size of silver dollars and sent me to the doctor for a shot, and some other unpleasant symptoms.

I was given a blood test for food allergies. I tested positive to over fifty foods. Fifty.

I cried a lot that day.

I tried not to talk about it too much, but I was deeply discouraged and depressed. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. I was simply told to avoid those foods. Of course I didn’t mind staying away from radishes and Brussel sprouts, but I hated giving up wheat, milk, and tomatoes which translated in my brain to one word: pizza. (Sure, I cheated sometimes. But I paid for it for days.)

But the worst part wasn’t saying goodbye to my friend, Mr. Pepperoni and Cheese Pizza, it was the social aspect, the feeling of not be able to join in when there were meals at church or going out with friends to dinner. Oh sure, I could go, but it was downright painful to look at all the food I couldn’t eat (the wonderful, rich, and delicious varieties of food) knowing I should stick with a salad (no cheese, tomatoes, or croutons, please!) and the dressing I made at home. I was asked if I was on a diet, why I didn’t eat more, and sometimes caught glances that said something like, “Wow. You sure are a picky eater.”

What did I do about it? Well after I cried a lot (I already mentioned that, didn’t I?), I went to God. More than I cried. I begged and pleaded. I prayed and prayed. I read Scripture about His healing. I read verses about hardship and perseverance. I read about Paul’s thorn and God’s grace.

And I went to the altar. I went forward during church services at our home church (then and now), when we were visiting other churches, during revivals. I was seeking God’s healing touch while I was in the store looking for xanthan gum and quinoa flour, while I was mixing my salad dressing and packing lunches at home, when I was making the trip to buy bulk rice and tapioca flours.

God knew what I was going through. Of course He did. But He didn’t heal me.

Not until October 28, 2018.

It was a Sunday, and our Pastor asked if anyone wanted to come forward. I can’t remember everything he said, but I know I heard, “If you want more of God…”

I was on my feet. I wasn’t thinking about food. Not one bit. I just wanted to be immersed in God’s presence.

And I was. God wrapped me up in His glorious presence and brought me to the floor and knocked those food allergies right out of my body. (Praise God!!)

I can’t even explain how my heart swells, how thankful I am when I stare at a plate of food (like pizza!) I can actually eat and enjoy; one that no longer sends me to bed for hours in my sweatpants or makes my face break out in hives. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve giggled over the taste of something I haven’t eaten in years or the kid-in-a-candy-store face I’m sure I make when I get to visit the buffet at a restaurant with friends.

There is so much more to write, dozens of things I’m learning from all of this; obeying God by using wisdom and moderation is a biggie. (An example of wisdom: the pizza I found in our freezer and used in the above photograph expired in 2017! So even though it smelled great when I heated it in the microwave for its little photo shoot, I’m throwing it out! 🙂 )

But today, my friend, I need to leave you with a few things I learned that I hope will help you if you’re struggling:

Don’t give up. Never. Ever. No matter what lie the enemy is whispering. No matter what’s going on with someone else. You. Keep. Going.

Keep seeking God. Always. In all things.

Trust God’s timing. Seriously.

Don’t be discouraged in your waiting. Take a deep breath. I know it’s hard. But you’re going to make it. Hang in there.

And always remember: God’s got you, my friend. He sees you. He knows you. And He cares.

Always.

“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” (Deuteronomy 31:8 NIV.)

“Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8 NLT.)

“Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up.” (Luke 18:1 NIV. This is the parable of the persistent widow.)

 

A Gingerbread House: Under Renovation

If you’d like to read more on the story behind my Christmas stories, please click here.  Merry Christmas and God bless!

The last thing I wanted to do after work was stand in a long line at the store to buy a gingerbread-house kit hours before the contest, but Tommy was worth it.  I shifted the box in my arm, tugged at my scarf, and tried to hold my breath when I neared the case of cinnamon-scented pine cones.

“Rebecca?  Rebecca Trenton is that you?”

I hadn’t heard anyone call me that name in years.  I thought about ignoring it but decided eventually my home town would know I’d come back to live in my deceased parents’ house, so I gave in and turned to face my past.

“I thought that was you!” she squealed.  “It’s me, Mallory Westfield.  Spryer now.”  She held up her ring.  “We went to school together.  Remember?”

I remembered.  I remembered how she ruthlessly picked on me all through high school.

“You look so…different,” she said eyeing me up and down.

Of course I didn’t have a bit of makeup on and was wearing one of Greg’s old ball caps.  Wonderful.  I should have just written “total wreck” on my forehead to clear things up.  Mallory, on the other hand, hadn’t changed a bit: tan in the middle of winter, dark red lips, and enough flashy jewelry to blind you when she stood in the sun.

“I heard you got a…”she leaned in to whisper, “divorce.  Is that true?”

“Next, please,” the cashier said.

I shrugged at Mallory and placed my box on the conveyor belt.  I quickly paid, smiled when Mallory mentioned getting together, and bolted to my car feeling both exhaustion and relief.

Tommy was waiting at the door when I got home.  “Did you get it?”

I handed him the bag and smiled.  He was such a good kid, always positive.  No easy task considering the divorce and how he had to leave all of his friends behind.

I paid the sitter, took off my coat, and stuck a frozen pizza in the oven.  Guilt washed over me.  Tommy deserved better than eating cheap pizza with his mom, sticking candy to gingerbread, and hurrying off to some small-town contest.  I knew Greg would have planned more.  He would have taken his son sled riding or to see some extravagant Christmas lights.  Something grand.  Something more memorable.

“Can I start now?” he asked, his hazel eyes pleading.  The freckles on his cheeks made him look younger than his ten years while the braces on his teeth made him look like a teen.

“You better,” I said, noticing the time. “But you’ll need to eat dinner when it’s ready.”

He tore open the box and dug out the bags of assorted candies and gumdrops.  And when I returned from tossing a load of laundry in the washer, kicking it and begging it to run just one more time, he’d already covered a cookie sheet with tinfoil and was reading the directions.

I opened a bag of chips and cut the pizza when it was ready.  We ate off of paper plates and drank warm root beer from the cans.

“Did you read all of the directions?” I asked in between bites.

He shrugged and swallowed.  “Did you ever enter the contest when you were little?”

“Once,” I said, stopping there.  My pitiful gingerbread house with the tiny candy cane fence must have looked like a run-down garden shed next to the mansions some of the other kids built.  One girl even had a gingerbread town and airport using her brother’s toy plane.  Of course she won.  After that, I never wanted to do it again.  But I couldn’t tell Tommy that.  He’d been so excited to build one, especially when he realized the grand prize was three-hundred dollars.  I shook my head.  I should have bought another kit and made one myself.

The washer was off balance and rumbled.  I hurried to the basement, lifted the washer lid, and repositioned the load.  “Okay,” I said.  “Now one more time.”

Tommy had already wolfed down his dinner and was kneading the bag of frosting when I returned.

“Do you want some help?”

“No. You told me I could do this by myself.”

I held up my hands. “Sorry.  I was just checking.”

I finished my slice of pizza, stuck the rest in the refrigerator, and went upstairs to take a hot shower to wash off the grease from working as a fry cook all day.

Tommy was shouting for me to hurry when I finished blow drying my hair.  I spritzed a little perfume on, hoping I wouldn’t have another Mallory episode, and rushed downstairs and into the kitchen.

My heart sank and I tried to hide the look of horror on my face.  His gingerbread house was anything but a house.  It was a total wreck.  The walls were leaning inward, one caved in all the way as if hit by an earthquake.  The frosting looked as if it had exploded on the tilted roof and gumdrops were stuck together in a pile as if he didn’t have time to use them.  The colored candies were scattered like confetti in the wind all over the structure. More guilt came as I realized the ridicule that was to come.  I should have skipped showering and helped him build the thing.

“Come on, Mom.  I don’t want to be late,” he said zipping up his coat.

“Do you…”  I cleared my throat.  “Do you have a name for it?” The rule had always been that you had to name your gingerbread creation.  Some fancy lodge or ski resort name usually ended up winning.  Winter Crystal Chalet or something like that.

“I got it, Mom.  Can we please just go?”

I took a deep breath and silently prayed that the contest would be cancelled.

The community hall was packed and I felt the stares, heard the whispers, and even caught a few laughing as we walked by.  My face burned.  Not out of embarrassment but out of something else entirely.  I wanted to protect Tommy.  But once he registered his gingerbread house, it was too late.

He settled his dilapidated house beside a three story gingerbread restaurant, complete with sugar-glass windows.  And to make matters worse, the owner of the restaurant was Mallory’s daughter.

“My, is that…unusual,” Mallory said, holding her hand over her mouth as she stared at Tommy’s creation.  Her daughter stood quietly at her side, not cracking a smile but looking to the floor.

I ignored Mallory and sat on a plastic chair beside other parents as we watched the judging begin.  We were informed that each contestant needed to state his name, age, title of creation, and inspiration.  I wondered if Tommy were regretting his decision to be a part of this.

Mallory’s daughter began.  “I’m Sylvia Spryer.  I’m nine and my title is, ‘The Shimmering Chalet.’”

“And your inspiration?” the judge asked.

Sylvia shrugged.  “My mom.”

The judges took their time inspecting it and then moved on to Tommy.  I held my breath as he took the microphone from the judge.  A few parents around me snickered.

“My name is Tommy Sullivan.  I’m ten years old.  My title is, ‘The Master Carpenter’s Project” and my inspiration is Jesus.”

The judge asked, “Can you elaborate on that?”

“Sure.”  Tommy held the microphone boldly, like this was second nature to him.  His voice didn’t quiver but held solid as he said, “Our lives are like projects or houses in Jesus’ hands.  He is the Master Carpenter and He fixes what is broken and rebuilds us.  No matter what damage has been done and how bad things look,” he said looking at me, “Jesus can fix us.”

The whispering and the giggling stopped.  No one said a word. The microphone squealed when Tommy handed it back to the judge.  I did my best to stifle my tears but obviously failed when another mom seated beside me handed me a tissue, keeping one to dab her own tears.

As we walked to the car after the contest, Tommy said, “I’m sorry I didn’t win the money.  I really wanted to buy you a new washing machine.”

“Oh, Tommy,” I said, the snow falling gently around us.  “You gave me so much more than a washing machine.”

“What? A free large pizza for coming in second?” he said grinning.

I smiled back.  “You made me realize everything is going to be okay.  We’re just under renovation.  And we’ve got the Master Carpenter on the job.”

Don’t Forget the Forgotten

I once had a writing teacher who taught to look for the unnoticed, the dismissed things in life and write about them. He explained writers are to use peripheral vision.

I thought about that for a long time. How do we use peripheral vision?

In writing, it means to catch those hidden gems, those tiny details in a scene: the smell of fried potatoes as they hiss from a cast-iron skillet, the man wearing a suit and tie who digs into his pocket, pulling out a fifty-cent comb to smooth his already sleek hair, or the sparrow hopping in the slushy parking lot who stops to peck at a piece of plastic.

But what if God wants us to use our peripheral vision for His purpose?

Maybe He wants you to notice the elderly man who can’t reach a bag of potato chips and not only help him with it but talk to him; you may be the only person he’s talked to in days. Or maybe the teen across from you at the gas station just learned his parents are getting a divorce and he could really use some kindness.  Perhaps there is a woman you see every day who is hiding behind her smile, loneliness slowly breaking her apart.

They are out there. And it’s no accident that you are out there with them.  Let God use you to reach them.

But the forgotten are not always those we’ve never met or those we believe society has dismissed. Sometimes they are those in our lives we simply get too busy to remember.

I know, it’s the Christmas season and you’ve got a million things to do.

But what if instead of worrying about all of those things, you honor Jesus’ birthday by remembering those He came to save, those the world seems to have forgotten.

“And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.” (Hebrews 13:16 NIV.)

Lose the Earbuds and Hear the Music

Do you have a constant swarm of negative thoughts hitting you? Are you “hearing” over and over again what a failure you are?  Maybe the thoughts are more like:

You’re totally lost.

You’ve really blown it this time.

You can’t do anything right.

Do you really think you can do this?

Just who do you think you are?

You’re not good enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You are a failure and nothing is going to change that.

No one really cares about you.

You’re alone. Get used to it.

That ugly list could go on and on but I’m stopping there because I don’t want those lies to repeat any longer. That’s all they are.  Lies.

Satan is trying to poison your thoughts by lying to you. It’s as if while you weren’t looking he slipped a pair of earbuds into your ears so you can hear nothing BUT lies.

Why?

He wants to render you useless. He wants to hit you in such a sneaky way that you’ll feel deeply discouraged but not understand why.  You’ll lose your joy.  You’ll want to give up.  You’ll want to quit what God has called you to do.  That’s right.  The enemy of your soul is trying to lead you away from the path you’re on with God, so you’ll wander off thinking awful things about yourself and that God is far away and isn’t coming to look for you.

Again, more lies.

The truth is God cares for you more than you know. He is the only One who has been with you since day one and will be there when you take your final breath.  He loves you unconditionally.  You don’t have to be perfect or do or say all the right things all the time.  He knows you better than you know you.  He knows your heart.  He loves you inside and out.

God loves how you look in the morning when you crawl out of bed with a sleepy smile and hair all messy. He loves you before you put on your brave face, before you brush your teeth, and yes, even before your first cup of coffee.  (And for me that’s saying a lot!)

So lose the earbuds, my friends. How else will you hear your Heavenly Father singing over you?  That’s the music you don’t want to miss.

“The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.”  (Zephaniah 3:17 NIV.)

Choices

My Grandma used to say, “Life is about choices.”  I smile when I remember her wisdom, the tone of her voice, and the smell of good, strong coffee on her breath.

But how are we supposed to make good choices?  I mean, it’s not THAT big of a deal if we have to decide between the burger or fish sandwich for lunch today.  But what if you and I are facing a serious decision, one that looks awfully close to an answer to the heartfelt prayer for direction in our lives?

How do you choose?  How do you know if you’re to go or stay away?  How do you know if you’re to say “yes” or “no?”  How do you know if this is IT and you should start doing your happy dance to that song in your heart or that the sound is more of a ticking, a warning to run before the whole thing backfires and blows up in your face?

Pray.

Maybe you think you don’t have time to pray.  My friend, you don’t have the time NOT to pray.

God can answer a prayer while you’re in the middle of a conversation with someone.  He can whisper to your heart what you need to hear.  Don’t let your idea of time hold you back from God.

God sees those choices you’re flipping through in your mind, like those index cards for the old card catalog system at the library.  He knows what “book” he has for you.  He knows what’s best for you, and He also knows what will keep you spinning, lost in the library.

You may grow impatient and pull open a drawer, grab the first card you see, and go where it leads you.  Don’t be tempted to hurry up God’s plan.  You may be so close to something He’s been planning for you, some wonderful surprise and an answer to that desire in your heart.  But if you leave God behind and rush after it because you think you’ve figured it all out, it may lead you in the wrong direction.  Perhaps it may take you outside the library altogether, leaving you frustrated, lost, and discouraged.

Wait for God.  Wait with God.  Talk to Him.  Tell Him your frustrations and your eagerness.  He will give you peace while you’re waiting for His answer.

Of course, you don’t have to do that.  You can always flip a coin, ask everyone you know, or make a list of pros and cons to make the decision, to make the choice.

Or you can simply choose God.

“Who are those who fear the Lord? He will show them the path they should choose.”  (Psalm 25:12 NLT.)

Upstream

Going through a hard time is like walking upstream in water that is chest level. Sometimes I lose my footing and I slip and go all the way under, the cold water a slap to my face.  It would be so much easier to turn around and walk downstream, where the water will carry me along and I won’t have to work so hard.  I can see from here that it widens downstream and there are many there.

But this is where God called me. Upstream.

I’m learning it’s not always going to be easy going this way. It would be much easier to go with the crowd, to follow everyone else.  It would be so much easier to splash around in the shallow water, to stretch out in all that space and do whatever I wanted, to get out when I’m tired or uncomfortable.  But again, God didn’t call me to a life of ease or downstream where it’s wide open.  And He didn’t call me to follow people.  He called me to follow His Son.  And I know Jesus suffered.

So why am I surprised when life hurts? Why do I get discouraged when I know I’m going in the right direction?

Because there is a thief in the water. Satan is trying so hard to trip me right now and steal my progress.  And when I stubbornly refuse to turn and go back, he whispers all sorts of lies to slow my trek.  He tries to tell me going upstream is a waste of time, that I’ll never make it.  He even tries to tell me the water is way too deep up ahead and I’m not strong enough to handle it.

But I know he’s a liar.  So I plant my foot in the gravel and sand underneath and I press on. I press on because I know at just the right moment, just when I feel I can’t go on and that discouragement is about to swallow me and pull me under, that the God who made a way through the Red Sea will surely make a way for me here in this stream.

As I look around in this stream I realize I’m not alone. Press on, my friend!  Blessings are up ahead, purpose, and glory to God! Let our sorrows and cries merge and burst forth as a battle cry, echoing across the land as we push through the water together.  We will not be moved!  I will hold your hand if you slip, and please, oh please hold mine when I do.  We have much ground to cover and the only waste of time is listening to the enemy’s lies.  His words are slippery; let them slide off and into the water.  Then stomp him into the muck and leave him behind.

As we push forward together, let us watch as the mighty hand that comes to part the stream also gently reaches out to wipe the tears from our eyes and the sweat from our brows as He welcomes us home; a home away from all the struggles, away from physical pain and emotional agony. A home for those who follow Christ on this narrow road, this journey upstream.

“You can enter God’s Kingdom only through the narrow gate. The highway to hell is broad, and its gate is wide for the many who choose that way.  But the gateway to life is very narrow and the road is difficult, and only a few ever find it.”  (Matthew 7:13-14 NLT.)