Twas the night before the fast...

As the hour of my fasting time draws near, I am at peace. The fact that I am, as I type, stuffing my face with a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup might have something to do with that. But, in all seriousness, I know the Source of my strength. He will not fail me, even if I falter. He promises that though I may stumble, He will not let me fall.

I go into this fast boldy, trusting my Sovereign. I know I am not alone. Word has come my way that many have been called to fast in one way or another. There is a sense of urgency sweeping the land, as slumbering Christians are finally waking up to the fact that America is in grave trouble. And, the fact of the matter is, only Christians are going to be able to turn the tide. Second Chronicles says, "If MY people humble themselves, and pray, and turn from their wicked ways then I will hear them from heaven and heal their land." It's all on us. We must be the ones to pray, the ones to put away our pride, and yes...to stop our wickedness (women who refuse to accept their God-given roles at mothers and keepers of the home, pornography, willfull ignorance, materialism, sports-worship, imodesty, compromise, innnapropriate television shows and movies, and the list goes on). Then and only then, will He answer our cries for help. We must do this as united members of the Body of Christ, if we want our broken and beloved country to be healed. There is no other way.

Thank you for keeping me accountable. I hope to post everyday until the election. To God be the glory, great things He has done and will do.

Fast and Pray with me...

I was much more inspired this afternnoon, but I couldn't seem to get anywhere near my computer today. Such is the life of a homeshool mom.

But, I didn't want to go to bed without encouraging those who read this blog (all five of you) to join me in a time of fasting and praying during the three days leading up to this year's election. I've only been around for a little over three decades, but I have never felt this kind of apprehension about the future of our country before.

The poles seem to indicate it's a done deal and that not only is the country about to elect the most radically liberal president in history, we may also be looking at a fillabuster-proof Democratic-controlled House and Senate. Now, I'm no political scientist, but I believe that means that they're basically going to have it their way all day long.

No matter where you lean politically, this imbalance of power is a fearful thing. It is in desperate times, that God calls His children to not only pray, but also to fast. Again, I am no expert on fasting, but past experience tells me that when I fast I am driven to my knees, compelled to pray, not in abreviated bursts of frustration or convenience, but in groanings often too deep for words. Hunger reminds us of what could be and what is a reality to so many who spend their lives suffering. It removes distraction. It clarifies. And it cleanses.

The first day is always the worst, as you fight off the temptation to just give in. Usually about this time visions of fried chicken legs begin to dance about in your head and inevitablly, someone will stop by with something homemade and nearly irrestiable. By the second day, the pounding headache begins, begging you to restore your sugar levels by busting into that plate of brownies that just happened to appear yesterday. All along, you are faced with the choice: give up or cry out to Him. In this way, we grow closer to the Father. We are hunrgy and He has spiritual food that will satisfy if we trust Him to bring us through.

By the third day, your stomach feels as though a very agressive washer-woman has wrung it from the inside out. It grumbles angrily, demanding sustenance. But, now you have two days behind you. Already you can look back and see the hand of the Lord working actively in your life, something you may not have seen for a very long time. And suddenly, you have a testimony. A foundation so solid that not even a seven-course dinner prepared by Emeril himself could tempt you on this, your third day.

I wrote of three days, because that is how many days I plan to fast. I will begin the fast November 1st, Saturday morning. I will break it after I vote on Tuesday, November 4th. During the fast, I will specifically focus on repenting personally from my many and sorted idols, and then I will begin to repent on behalf of this nation, whose sins are many. I will beg our Father for forgiveness and mercy, for it is mercy that we need above all else. And, I will ask Him to change the hearts and minds of the many Christians who plan to vote for Obama, and I will be so bold as to pray that God would turn the tide, confound the poles and bring McCain victory.

I do not know what God will do. I am simply trying to be obedient to his Word. If Obama is elected, this too will be God's will. And I fast with this in mind. I want to be prepared for the trials that will undoubtedly accompany this wicked man's presidency. I want to be found faithful in a faithless generation.

Please pray for me....I do like food, you know.

Another Sunday Night in the City

For those of you who don't know, I teach a Bible study in one of the low-income housing neighborhoods here in Huntsville. I don't quite know why I started. I suspect, looking back at that self-centered time of my life, that I did it so I could add another bullet to my good-girl resume'.

How noble, I thought it would be to be able to say, "I teach inner-city kids. You know, the ones nobody wants?" Then I would piously add, "Where else are they going to hear the truth?" As if I held the only banner in town.

The first four years were tough, especially since I was relying on myself most of the time. Actually, it's still really tough. Constantly-ringing cell phones, smart mouths, wiggly bottoms, snide comments, angry outburst, threats--they are a normal part of our Bible study. They are broken girls, born of broken women. Not to mention the fact that there lies between my students and I, this devlish barrier called race, which in Biological truth doesn't even exist. As Christians we believe we come from the first parents, Adam and Eve. Melatonin is all that seperates us, but yet this wall; you would not believe how impenitratable it is.

Sometimes, I chip away at it. I know I do, when they share something private, personal. Like the day, one of my girls told me how she had been raped on the way home from school. I'm one of the only white women they know and believe you me, I've had to earn their trust a thousand times over. What they know of "my kind" is dirtied by words like slavery, segregation, opression, discrimination. They are not wary without cause. They have a history I cannot even begin to understand. I make concessions to it. I don't mind, if it means that one day they'll trust me.

I can't explain why I love them so. Even now, I can feel the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. Perhaps they remind me of what I once was--fatherless, poor, often rediculed for my hand-me-downs and my mother's odd assortment of boyfriends. I did not know hope until I met Jesus when I was 19. And I am convinced, beyond any doubt, that He is their only hope. Anything else is a band-aid on a gaping wound.

I suppose it is this God-given love that draws me back every week. It's certainly not a big, fat list of souls saved. I haven't seen one girl genuinely surrender her life to Christ. Not one in five years. Now, that's failure with a capital F. But, then I think my friend Elizabeth who works with a people group in one of the most hostile parts of the world. This group of 3 million, claims only three Christian converts, all of whom are now in glory. I consider her a hero not a failure. Sometimes, it is not for us to know or to see, but for us to trust. And so, I will go back next week, and the week after, and the week after that....trusting that one day us seed-sowers will catch a glimpse of the harvest.

Bringing in the sheets?

Joe, Eric (number 2), and I attended Deeper a Bible conference that actually teaches the Bible this past weekend. It was in a word...deep. No fluffy marshmallows here. Instead of having baby formula poured down our throats as the trendy worship team sang the same sappy lyrics over and over, we actually got to knaw on a big side of meat while listening to some meaty hyms. It was refreshing and convicting all at once and I hope to post some of the awesome truths I gleaned from the conference in the future. But for now I want to talk about sheets.

What I loved about this conference is that they didn't just talk about evangelism and how great and neccessary it is, they actually provided a way for us attendees to go out and evangelize. Gasp! Actually do what we were taught? But, but, but....I'm scared. I don't want to talk to complete strangers about Jesus. They might look at me funny or ignore me or make fun of me. Me. Me. Me. That is what it comes down to, isn't it? I'm a selfish-prideful thing who doesn't want to inconvenience the great and powerful ME.

But, alas, somehow I managed to shut the ME up for a while and headed for the streets of Atlanta with an army of other tract-toting evangelist. Now, here's where the sheets come in. Before we jumped on the Marta (Atlanta's spotless subway system) one of the team leaders exhorted us by quoting Psalm 126:6. It goes like this, "He who goes to and fro weeping, carrying his bag of seeds, Shall indeed come again with a shout of joy, bringing his sheaves with him."

This propelled me back to the early days of my Christianity when Joe and I were newlyweds living in a tiny condominium on the southside of Chicago. The washer and dryer were located in the basement, so I would have to trudge up and down three flights of stairs to do our laundry. It was during this time of house-wifery that I would sing that famous hymn of old, Bringing in the Sheets, until one day Joe overheard me. "Did you just say sheets?," he inquired with a laugh. Proudly, I told him I was singing a hymn I had heard on the Christian radio station. "I think it's about missionaries," I replied. Images of dedicated missionary wives, pulling billowing sheets off the clothes-line strung across the barren backyard of her African hut filled my mind. She like most missionaries, I reasoned had to hang and then subsequently, "bring in the sheets" because they didn't have access to modern conveniences such as a clothes dryer. Of course, my husband burst into racious laughter. "Sheaves!" he managed to say through bouts of laughter. "It's sheaves, honey, not sheets!"

I am ashamed to admitt I did not know what a sheave was at that point in my life or why on earth you would want to bring one in. After a few hours of sharing Jesus and His gift of salvation with the wayward folks outside of the B.E.T. hip-hop awards, I was reminded that the sheaves are the harvest we are promised when we spread the seeds of God's truth--sometimes weeping, sometimes in fear, but never for naught.

Pray for Leon who wreeked of alcohol, but yet carried a worn Gideon's New Testament around in his pocket. He wept as he heard the gospel, a message that the enemy has snatched away many times. Pray that this time he would hear and obey the Saviors words. Pray for Ronda, who seemed to be milling outside the award ceremony in the hopes of "being discovered." She knew the gospel well, even when tested, but her behavior was not in keeping with the Bible. Pray the two men Joe witnessed to outside of the B.E.T. awards. One, again, knew much about Jesus, but was not living the life of a converted man. As soon as we started talking with him, you could see conviction setting in. Pray that he would be convicted all the way to the cross. And finally, pray for Marcel (I think that was his name), who couldn't get past his feelings on the subject. Pray that the Lord would use our 45-minute conversation that we had with him, to drive him to stop relying on his heart and seek the truth in God's word.

Change for the sake of change....

I've been reading Chesteron again, and what's worse I've been doing it late at night. Fuzzy brain and one of the great thinkers of the 20th century don't mix. But, when else is a busy mom of four going to get alone with a guy like him? As I muddle through the first few pages of Orthodoxy I can actually hear the synapses in my brain coming to life as light floods the dark, unused corners of my mind. No one talks like this guy anymore, except maybe Ravi Zacherias, whom I happen to adore. Ravi, if you ever read this, please adopt me!

As I read Orthodoxy, I feel as though I'm privy to the theologically-robust, culturally-aware conversations that Chesterton once shared with his colleaugues in a smoke-filled, leather-chaired study. Great tomes line the walls, as the men banter over the foolishness of Neitzsche or some other bombastic philosopher bent on killing God. And there in the corner I sit, silently hanging on every word, waiting for something great and profound to steal away back to the 21st century.

As it happens, I found such a morsel last night on page 28. I had just finished watching the latest presidential debate, where change seemed to be one candidate's mantra. And it got me thinking. Change isn't always necessarily good. Change a diaper, yes. Change the air pressure in the International Space Station, not so good. Change your underwear daily, absolutely. Change one amino acid on a chain of DNA, and look out. We ought not embrace change until we have all the facts. What exactly are we going to change and how are we going to go about it?

Chesterton, of course, says it far better than I ever could.

He writes, "It is true that a man (a silly man) might make change itself his object or ideal. Sound familiar? If the change-worshipper wished to estimate his own progress, he must be sternly loyal to the idea of change; he must not begin to flirt gaily with the ideal of monotony. Progress itself cannot progress. It is worth remark, in passing, that when Tennyson, in a wild and rather weak manner, welcomed the idea of infinite alteration in society, he instinctively took a metaphor which suggests an imprisoned tedium. He wrote------

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

"He thought of change itself as an unchangeable groove, and it is. Change is about the narrowest and hardest groove that a man can get into."

It seems, it times of trouble, that change is the only solution. And it may very well be. No sense in putting on the same pair of jeans if time and time again they make you look fat. But, we must not be swept off our feet, by charming change, if he has nothing more to offer than change itself. Nor should we be swift to change the foundational things which have made and contine to make America great. Capitalism, for all of its worts, still work a whole lot better than socialism, or her evil step-sister communism. Life is, the last time I checked, still preferable to death. Taxes, to folks like us who although we make a modest living probably won't be part of the blessed 95 %, should only be changed if the change involves a reduction.

See, I'm all for change as long as were talking about things like underwear, bloated beauracracy, out-of-cntrol pharmacutical companies, over-priced health insurance, government over-spending, protecting life from the uterus to the grave, putting an end to genetically-modified food, ending rediculous farm subsidies to monster companies like ConAgra, and so on and so forth.

You're not going to throw that away are you?

I used to puzzle at my grandmother's inability to throw anything away. It was a quality, I assumed, that was unique to all old people. She saved everything and I do mean EVERYTHING. Row after row of cottage cheese containers lined the walls in her storage room from the floor to the ceiling. Milk cartons were sawed in half with an ancient knife she also used as a back scratcher and converted into compost pails. She promptly turned my uncles' whitey tighties into dish rags once they got a hole or two. Aside from her unreasonable fear of throwing things away, she was equally mortified by the thought of some unsuspecting paramedic or emergency room nurse encountering a pair of dirty, holey underwear should any of her sons ever get into an accident. She had a reputation to protect. Pantyhose, after undergoing several repairs with clear nail polish, eventually went from hugging my grandmother's spindly legs to hugging bulbous onions and garlic. Newspaper were saved and used as landscaping fabric. Cold cream bottles became jewelry boxes. Slacks were patched and the patched again. She wore shoes that were older than me. And she could get more life out of a platic babushka then most would get out of ten. Disposable was a dirty word to my Grandma. I won't print this particular feminine item, but she reused them too. Before you get too grossed out, they were cloth. Which brings me to diapers. She, of course, never got near a Pamper. Oh...and she refused to use the dishwasher one of my uncle's gave her for Christmas. It was new-fangled, a water-waster, and she was sure, that it couldn't possibly get the dishes as clean as she could. Instead she stored winter clothes in it. The dog never ate dog food, but instead feasted on leftovers from her eldest son's restaraunt. That too was stored in a sawed-off milk jug. And maybe the strangest of all--when they needed a TV-stand for their new TV, they hollowed out the old console and shoved the new one inside. It was the talk of the neighborhood.

I was a teenager by the time I figured out her pack-rat-i-ness was born out of a childhood lived under the opressive shadow of the Great Depression. She never spoke of those lean days. Maybe it was too painful. What I do know is that her caretakers, a kindly aunt and uncle who had no children of their own, lost their farm in the Depression. They were forced to leave home and land behind and move to the city to find work. Her good uncle took odd jobs which provided a pittance compared to the bounty their thriving farm once provided. I have to think that they looked back on better days and regreted the half can of potted meat they once threw away, or those socks that really could have beenn darned one more time. How good that meat would taste now, how cozy those socks would feel on work-worn feet. If only we hadn't thrown them away.

In a year, I may, like my Depression-era ancestors, regret the wastefulness that has ruled my life. Leftovers so easily disdained today, could fill a stomach tomorrow.

Obviously, I'm getting lazy. Here I am posting other people's stuff for the second post in a row. Unthinkable! But this one is such a magnificent answer to the rediculous, clumsy lyrics that make up the featured song in my last post. What have they--NOW and ERA--built? Angry, cursing women bent on destroying the tenderest and most helpless of their kind. They claw away at the very foundation that this country is built on--children. They tell us go...work, make something useful of yourself. We'll take care of your children during their most impressionable years. We'll line them up high chair to high chair and spoon feed em' the party line. Never mind their tears, or yours. This is what they fought for and now you better fall in line.

Not this mama. I will be content to be invisible. To build my four cathedrals in obscurity. For some day, my Father promises, that my reward will be great.

Read, sister mamas, and be blessed....




> Invisible Mother......> > It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of> response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room> while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.> > Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on> the phone?'> > Obviously, not.> > No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or> sweeping the floor, or> even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can> see me at all.> > I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a> pair of hands,> nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you> open this?> > Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a> human being. I'm a clock> to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite> guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney> Channel?' I'm a car to order, 'Right around> 5:30, please.'> > I was certain that these were the hands that once held> books and the eyes> that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum> laude - but now> they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be> seen again. She's> going; she's going; she is gone!> > One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating> the return of a> friend from England . Janice had just gotten back from a> fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel> she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the> others all put together so well.> > It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I> was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a> beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you> this.'> > It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I> wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I> read her inscription:> > 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of> what you are building> when no one sees.'> > In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And> I would discover what would become for me, four> life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:> > No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no> record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives> for a work they would never see finished..> > They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The> passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the> eyes of God saw everything.> > A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came> to visit the> cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman> carving a tiny> bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the> man, 'Why are> you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam> that will be> covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the> workman replied,> 'Because God sees.'> > I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into> place.> It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I> see you, Charlotte. I> see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one> around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no> sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is> too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building> a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it> will become.'> > At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it> is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for> the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote> to my strong, stubborn pride.> > I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great> builder. As one> of the people who show up at a job that they will never see> finished, to> work on something that their name will never be on. The> writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals> could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few> people willing to sacrifice to that degree.> > When I really think about it, I don't want my son to> tell the friend he's> bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom> gets up at 4 in the> morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a> turkey for> three hours and presses all the linens for the table.'> That would mean I'd> built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to> want to come> home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his> friend, to add,> 'you're gonna love it there.'> > As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be> seen if we're> doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the> world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at> the beauty that has been added to the world by the> sacrifices of invisible women.> > We never know what our finished products will turn out to> be because of> our perseverance.

Not this mama. I will be content to be invisible. To build my four cathedrals in obscurity. For some day, my Father promises, that my reward will be great.

Songs NOT to live by

Is there anything you can't find on the Internet? I couldn't help myself. I had to publish this little ditty from my childhood. Take amoment now to imagine, me--ten years old and piggy-tailed sitting Indian style in my tiny bedroom clutching my record player and singing along with all my might....

I pulled into the loading zoneFeeling nervous, I was all aloneUnloading my equipment before the showI started wheeling it down the hallTill I turned, hearing a young man call"Can I help? That must be heavy I know..I've been looking forward to your show.""Cause my mom's a feministSo I understand. That's why I'm here todayI've come to lend a hand. I was raised on equal rights. And furthermoreShe helped me seeThat equalityis a goal worth fighting for."

CHORUS

She decided she could do some goodRinging doorbells in the neighborhoodNot for the Girl Scouts, but for ERASometimes she takes her friends aloneShe's only 10, but she's already strongShe's a move and a shaker well on her way. When they ask what she's doing, this is what she'll say.
CHORUS

Different questions in the classroom nowYoung seekers asking howThings came to be, and how they can changeBecoming women and becoming menMay not ever be the same againBut the new ways won't be quite as strangeWhen the people they trust help them get it arranged.

CHORUS

Because we're feminists, so we understandThat's why we're here today, we've come to lend a hand. We raise them on equal rights, and furthermoreWe help them see that equalityIs a goal worth fighting for. It's worth all the time you take. What a difference your time can make For the new generation still coming along. If our movement is to lastWe must see that the torch is passed. And today's young people will grow up strongAnd thousands more will sing this song