The Scent

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The door creaked slightly and the scent greeted him. He called it the Holy Spirit scent. Many churches had it. Others didn’t. Tonight he was glad for it. Ever since the troubles, churches had found themselves in a different place, a place requiring a larger faith than they had ever experienced. It was good, but it was hard, too. The sifting had left them smaller than ever. It was clear that depth of faith mattered more than numbers through the door, but you’d have to be crazy to not miss the large fellowship. He prayed again one request: just an extra soul at the manger tonight. One single soul won out of the many lost. The longing ended in a sigh, then a tired smile. At least the Holy Spirit scent had stayed. If only he could witness it’s miraculous work!

It was Christmas Eve. The worship team had arrived early and someone had put on the coffee. He placed the plate of cookies his wife had sent ahead with him next to the disposable coffee cups, unlocked his office door, shrugged out of his coat, and picked up tonight’s message. It would be short. To the point. A timeless story of the event that changed the world and the world’s chances of heaven. It was what was needed now. No jokes, though they could all use some laughter; no cultural tripe, though some might love to hear it; but hope. And truth.

Someone walked past his door. He recognized the black jacket, a four inch tear on the left seam. The man had stood outside the church off and on for a month. One time the minister had called out the door for the stranger to come in from the cold for a hot cup of coffee, but the man had pulled up his collar and quickly walked away. He shot up a quick prayer for him, but he had a nagging feeling. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

Cold air rushed in as the entrance door opened and attendees filtered in. Families, friends, and singles dotted the sanctuary as Christmas music softly echoed over the pews.

As he walked to the pulpit, the man in the black jacket shrugged uncomfortably as though he meant to take it off, then thought better of it. And again. The minister began his short homily, attendees’ eyes shone with anticipation, and the stranger fidgeted. And the scent – the Holy Spirit scent – grew stronger. Strange. That hadn’t happened before.

“. . . The event we celebrate so gloriously this time of year was as expansive as the cosmos and as intentional as a train whistle. It started in simple surroundings so that each of us could approach it in a way we could understand. Some come to the manger with the eyes of a child. Some, with jaded sight, like perhaps, some of the shepherds or the innkeeper, himself. And some with humble beauty, like the wise men did later on. So you see, at this very moment in history – what scripture calls ‘in the fullness of time’ . . .”

The man in the black coat stood and, as though driven by an unknown force, the minister stepped into the aisle, away from his notes, and continued, “It’s hard for us to grasp, isn’t it? The fullness of time. Because we are used to not having to wait. We grow impatient.” What was he saying? Nothing he’d planned.

“Our questions remain unanswered. We become angry. Maybe even defiant. It doesn’t occur to us that it could be because we’re not yet ready to hear the answer. But God, Who is patient with us beyond reason . . .”

The man stepped into the aisle. The minister continued walking slowly toward him. The Holy Spirit scent increased.

“He watches us. And waits so very patiently. We might even sense it, but choose to ignore it. Even run from it. And if we run, He waits at the place where we run to.”

The minister stopped in front of the stranger. “He’s waiting for you, you know.”

The man fled, and it was only then that the minister saw the butt of a gun peeking out of his coat pocket. The minister wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. What had just happened?

He led the congregation in a prayer for wandering souls on dark streets. They finished with Silent Night sung in quavering voices and left without eating his wife’s cookies.

One more night his prayer was unanswered, thought the minister as he pulled out of the parking lot. What had he been thinking? He had chased the stranger away!

 

And beyond the candlelight of the darkened church, the Holy Spirit scent reached a lost soul just outside the door, obscured by the night.

 

Images: pexels-nikolett-emmert-10385833.jpg; pexels-rahul-695644.jpg; Love Came Down at Christmastime and Come, Messiah! by Connie Miller Pease @ http://bit.ly/2y1z08E

Clompy And Perfect

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She blew on her chai, causing a pause in the wafting steam. It had snowed last night, and she missed again the steady scrape scrape of her husband’s early morning shoveling. The coat closet door stood ajar, beckoning her to the outdoor task, and her eyes darted to the place where his boots had always stood. Always. Rain or shine, heat or cold. She shook her head, but not with disgust like she had done in the past.

In the past the boots had displeased her. Their appearance and the sound they made matched: clomp, clomp, clompy, clomp. She had bought brand new beautiful boots for him that eventually were given to charity. She had bought a different brand. And another. They both rested in a dark corner of the closet until she finally gave up and gave them away as well.

But now? Now she would have given anything to hear clomp clomp clomp and see snow puddles in a line to the closet. She’d asked the dear Lord in heaven to heal him. Asked and asked. But he was gone now and with him so much of what made her treasure her life. And the boots? She’d kept them. It didn’t make sense to her, but grief and love are seldom logical.

She brought her empty chai cup to the kitchen, slightly comforted by the greenery atop the cupboards and the poinsettia by the window. Next year she might have more desire to decorate.

Maybe, maybe after she shoveled, she’d hike out to that place they’d loved. The fresh air would do her good, and she could carry the goodness to the family Christmas gatherings where love and sympathy would bring her to tears in an awkward sort of way.

As she drove to the starting point of her hike, her mind wandered to grief in general. How many people were having their first Christmas without someone this year? How were they handling it? For that matter, what did the baby in the manger, grown to a boy, do when Joseph died? And later – did Jesus’ friends feel that lump in the throat, eyes-burning burden in the days after the cross? Did they wish, hope, pray for a sign? The Christmas story held plenty: a star, a battalion of angels, shepherds . . .

But for her, well, there were no signs. Eternal life seemed far away and seeing him again did, too.

The newly fallen snow had left everything pure and sparkling. The long hike was absolutely what she needed. Slightly out of breath, she squinted at the sundogs and prayed again, though she couldn’t quite find the words to ask for who knew what. A word of thanks for a life, too short, well-lived. Yes. That would do. And she felt better. She really did, even without the reassurances she wished for.

She started back to her car, then stopped. She gazed down intently, squatted and brushed her hand over what she saw. There it was in the untrodden snow. A bootprint. Larger than her own. Clompy and perfect.

"Bootprint" by AmericaninCanada is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

 

Images: pexels-ryutaro-tsukata-6249388-scaled.jpg; Ron St. Amant.  “Bootprint” by AmericaninCanada is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 

Thanks In All Times

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Dear Heavenly Father,

In a time when we anticipate want in our futures and feel concern in our present, we look to You, because we remember how good You are in both good and hard times: How it was Your hand that parted the Red Sea when the enemy was bearing down on Your people; How it was Your presence that calmed the lions while Daniel was in their den; and how it was Your voice that cast out demons at Gadarenes.

We reflect on our lives – how You have been with us from the very beginning, from Day one. You’ve healed us when we were sick and some of us when we would have died but for You. You’ve rescued us from danger, both known and unawares. You’ve given us work to do and homes to delight in. Your creation calls to us to marvel and calms us when we need it.

When we are alone, You sit with us. We keep company together. And when crowds surround us, You are with us still. You call us by name. You teach us in all the kinds of places and people and times we encounter. Wisdom, understanding, discernment – bit by bit, slowly, but surely we learn.

You are so very, very good, Father. And we come just now to thank You. Thank You for history. Thank You for our past. Thank You for the present times when our faith can grow and we can see how bright the light of Your presence shines in the darkness. And thank You for an unknown future. All we need to know is that You’ll be there.

We lift Your Name above every Name. You are great and loving and merciful and good. Your judgements are righteous. And You, oh our Dear Lord and Father, You are our very breath.

In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

 

Image: pexels-ekaterina-bolovtsova-5702778.jpg

 

Look for a Book for Your Christmas Nook

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Homemade Granola

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When the leaves change and the temperature dips, we’re ready for kitchen comforts. As November arrives, we’re on the threshold of Christmas sweets and treats, but here’s an idea from my kids’ preschool. I bought their little recipe book way back when I was still stepping on Legos and Barbie shoes in the middle of the night. It is a small collection of healthy snacks they served there – twenty sheets of paper unglamorously stapled together at the upper left corner. The recipe I share today is a riff off of one of those well-loved snacks. I often add my own twist to recipes I love. It seemed to me the extras only serve to make it more fun. We eat it as cereal, mostly, but it can be sprinkled on ice cream or yogurt or even made into bars.

                    Homemade Granola

3 cups rolled oats                      1/2 – 1 cup sesame seeds

3 cups rolled wheat                   1/2 – 1 cup sunflower seeds

1/2 cup wheat germ                   1/2 – 1 cup unsweetened coconut

1/2 teaspoon salt                       1/4 – 1 cup bran

1/2 – 1 cup walnuts, pecans, or your choice

 

Mix well and add: 3/4 cup vegetable oil

1/2 cup honey

2 teaspoons vanilla

 

Bake at 350 degrees for 30 – 40 minutes, stirring once.

After baking, add dried cranberries or raisins.

Store in refrigerator.

For Bars: 3 c. granola, 2/3 c. peanut butter, 1/3 c. honey. Press into pan and store in refrigerator.

Enjoy!      Enjoy!      Enjoy!      Enjoy!      Enjoy!      Enjoy!      Enjoy!

Keeping the Sabbath

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It was as I was in the midst of looking up whether putting up a Christmas tree in some way broke the Sabbath that I realized it was, yes, quite possible learning to celebrate the Sabbath would actually be a process; and amusement would be part of it, at least for me.

If you grew up in the church and you and your family members were actively involved, you might admit that though we regarded Sundays as our Sabbath, they were not a day of rest. This bothered me for a very long time until I finally decided to not fight the busyness of being an active church member on Sundays and to honor the Sabbath Day as it had been in the Old Testament: on Saturday. So began a lovely discovery.

You see, if I was to actually rest on Saturday, that meant I would need to get all of my work done before then, and that meant that procrastination was not the happy-go-lucky, jokey, old friend it normally was. At first, I piled most things onto Friday. By the time sundown rolled around I was exhausted. So then I began to parcel the work out so that poor Friday wouldn’t end up looking like a frothing horse galloping the last mile of the pony express. It worked! And do you know what? I actually got more done than I usually did. I found extra little things to do that I might’ve otherwise left alone. I cleaned closets – that sort of thing. And then the Sabbath! Ahhh!

But there are times when doing something which disrupts the Sabbath rest seems very important. It is those times I’ve learned to lean on several marker stones given in the Bible. First, my memory is drawn to the women after the crucifixion of Jesus. And though preparing His body must’ve seemed paramount, what did they do? They waited that extra day because it was the Sabbath. What honorable examples to us they are! A second reference I lean on is when Jesus says, “Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.” What a helpful thing to say! And when I must do work to help someone, I also remember what Jesus said as recorded in Luke: “And He said to them, “Which one of you will have a son or an ox fall into a well, and will not immediately pull him out on a Sabbath day?” His comment is so helpful.

Another perspective I remember is one of working out our own salvation with fear and trembling. That is to say, that shadow of things to come is given to us with a caution to not concern ourselves with someone else’s judgement of our efforts. And as one who is still (and let’s be honest – always will be) learning, I appreciate the permission given in that scripture.

I look forward to the Sabbath every single week. It’s like a mini vacation! And if something is amiss – too bad. It’s the Sabbath. I’m resting. Zero guilt.

When God instituted the Sabbath (Genesis 2:2, Exodus 20:8-11, Leviticus 23:3, Deuteronomy 5:14), He was showing us the loveliness of balance and enjoyment. But He also holds out a promise for the future when we read “There remains, then, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God.” It seems to me it will be a beautiful time of relishing the gloriousness of our Creator in His perfect creation. I, myself, picture myself surrounded by nature without a storm in sight. My little holiday every week is a sweet little taste of the delight to come. Join me!

Images: alittleperspective.com; Photo-by-Amber-Waterman.jpg; Sources: Genesis 2:2 – By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work.; Exodus 20:8-11 – “Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the Lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.; Exodus 31:14 – Observe the Sabbath, because it is holy to you. Anyone who desecrates it is to be put to death; those who do any work on that day must be cut off from their people.; Leviticus 23:3 – There are six days when you may work, but the seventh day is a day of sabbath rest, a day of sacred assembly. You are not to do any work; wherever you live, it is a sabbath to the Lord.;
Deuteronomy 5:14 –  but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your ox, your donkey or any of your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns, so that your male and female servants may rest, as you do.; Hebrews 10: 25 – Do not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.; Mark 2:27 – Then He said to them, “Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”; Luke 14:5 – And He said to them, “Which one of you will have a son or an ox fall into a well, and will not immediately pull him out on a Sabbath day?”; Colossians 2:16-17 – Therefore do not let anyone judge you by what you eat or drink, or with regard to a religious festival, a New Moon celebration or a Sabbath day. These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ.; Hebrews 4:9 – There remains then a Sabbath-rest for the people of God.

Just Around The Corner

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The hair-raising creep of a scary story, the unexpected jolt, the chill that follows you around afterward: I used to like writing such stories. Reading, not so much. I am, at heart, a cowardly lion. But writing them? Great fun, because I controlled what was said and where the story landed. I think I still would enjoy writing them if I allowed myself. Maybe some day.

Check back in my archives in October (and July of 2014 and again in 2016 I wrote some fun ones), and you will find the type of story I mean. I don’t care for bloodcurdling scenarios, but more of a teaser. Some things are best left to imagination, and I trust readers to fill gaps better than I would. I think the last one I wrote on this blog was a few years ago.  https://www.myfiresidechat.com/2017/10/30/who-was-counting/ But I must confess it doesn’t hold the same appeal when you’re actually living in the most dystopian times you’d never imagined.

When you learn that most of every company and industry of every type in every part of the world is owned by a select few, and those select few relish the trillions of dollars made by those companies and industries – money made by people aware and others unaware; and they plan a future of not simply regulating financial institutions but companies and individuals – including salaries, 401ks, and access; and your knowledge of trafficking drugs, children, women, and young men increases to understanding that it isn’t just drugs and sex but hearts, lungs, and livers; and expands even more to the torture endured by countless unfortunates for the pleasure and power of satanic sacrifice; and you see through recent experience how subtle and not so subtle changes can lead trusting people to cover their face like they used to do to slaves and in ritualistic practices, likewise stand six feet apart, and lead some to be injected with chemicals poorly understood and obsessively supported by the aforementioned select few; and you unwillingly acknowledge that genocide isn’t relegated to the past; well then you finally see that scary stories are not limited to words on paper accompanied by hot cocoa and a cozy blanket.

No, this October I’ll leave scary stories to those who are still blind to the horror around them or who partake in it, themselves. Instead, I’ll break the darkness with light. Because, you see, no matter the times or situation, God is stronger. And He really loves us. And when we encounter the blackest night, He hands us a flashlight. Or a new idea to bring healing. Or He sends rescuers. Or, sometimes, He reaches down and does it, Himself. The letter writer of Colossians 1 put it this way:

. . . giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son He loves. . .

One more thing: All Saints Day is just around the corner.

https://lpeproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/01/Peoples.Ledger.DRAFT_.pdf; https://rumble.com/vo6n5f-monopoly-who-owns-the-world-must-see.html; https://theminnesotasun.com/2021/10/08/world-renowned-psychiatrist-global-predators-fauci-gates-schwab-behind-the-covid-reign-of-terror/; Revelation 22:2; Images: httppixabay.comenanimal-autumn-background-bird-89182-public-domain.jpg; Nina-Hale-Flickr-C.-CC-by-2.0.png; 281-Bokeh-Free-Images-on-Pixabay.jpg

Warm With A Whisper Of Cool (continued)

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How far had she driven that morning? She wished she had paid closer attention to that little detail; but then she remembered the gloriousness of Fall that she had paid attention to and promptly forgave herself. Except. She gazed ahead at the road in front of her, briefly glanced back at the turnoff which had led to the hiking trails, and sighed. It was going to be a long hike home.

A car slowed behind her and stopped. She looked over her shoulder and saw a black Maserati.

“Do you need a lift?”

Should she answer or quicken her pace? The fleeting thought of racing a Maserati both amused and alarmed her.

“I,” she turned and found herself staring at a man near her age but clearly not her league.

She cleared her throat. “I was hiking and my car wouldn’t start.”

Great. Lovely explanation.

“I could try to start it.”

As she wondered how safe it would be to backtrack to a hiking trail with a stranger, he added, “Or I could give you a lift home.”

It is an inexorable fact of life that one choice always leads to another. She wished that just now her choice wasn’t between a proverbial rock and hard place. The sun was setting, and hiking along a deserted highway wasn’t remotely appealing even on this warm fall evening. Boring had its own appeal just now.

“I won’t hurt you and,” he squinted at the setting sun, “I hate the thought of you out here by yourself.”

She nodded, slid into the passenger seat, and directed him to the turnoff she’d taken earlier.

“It’s a beautiful evening – warm,” he remarked.

“With a whisper of cool.” She couldn’t seem to help herself.

He smiled. “I like that. Yes. A whisper of cool. Complementary features of Fall.”

He pulled up next to her car, jumped out, and looked under the Pontiac’s hood. Pulling a gadget from his pocket, he hooked it up to her car battery, waited a few minutes, and motioned for her to try the ignition. Her jaw dropped as her car roared to life. He smiled, waved, and pulled out ahead of her.

There really were angels who walked the earth, she thought as she neared her cozy, boring, beautiful duplex. She would make it home before night’s dark made fitting her key in the lock more a matter of touch than sight.

What?! Lights filled the other side of the duplex that had stood vacant for so long. Of all the days for her to have been gone. Someone must have moved into the attached unit. She grabbed her things and pulled a note from her screen as she unlocked her door. The note explained her landlord would be staying for an unspecified amount of time.

Landlord? Well at least she might put a face to the heretofore featureless recipient of her rent.

Apologies for missing my new neighbor, the note continued. Arrived later than anticipated. She studied the handwriting. The block letters suggested it wasn’t a little old lady who received her rent. Other than that, she couldn’t tell.

After making the first cocoa of the fall season and changing from hiking boots to fuzzy slippers, she peeked out her back window to the duplex garage. She used it only during winter months to save on rent. But she concluded with no car in the driveway, the landlord must’ve parked in the garage.

It was probably too late to go next door and introduce herself, but her curiosity got the better of her. What did he – or she – drive? A truck – maybe Chevy? Ford – probably. She opened the door a crack, then swung it wide. There it stood. A Maserati – black as the oncoming night and anything but boring.

Image: pexels-mike-977003-scaled.jpg

Warm With A Whisper of Cool

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She kicked through the orange leaves, their crunchy response somehow reassuring. How far was it? Five miles? Yes, she thought, five or nearly that from her deserted car to who knew where. A balmy fall evening had wandered seamlessly into the dawn of what promised to be a replica of the day just past – warm with a whisper of cool undertones. How could she sit at home on such a day? So before the sun had barely announced it’s presence, she’d hopped in her old Pontiac. She’d tossed her favorite merino wool blanket into the back seat along with a turkey sandwich, an apple, and large bottle of water in an insulated lunch bag.

Just that week she’d been accused of being (gasp) boring. She knew she shouldn’t pay attention to an accusation coming from someone she barely knew. Who knew where that co-worker’s opinions came from? The worker’s own insecurities, no doubt. Still, it had bothered her enough to lead to the day’s impromptu outing. And, really, her usually preferred choice of sitting at home on her reclining lawn chair reading a book could stand a little shaking up. The little duplex she called home was a sanctuary to her, though. The other side of it hadn’t been rented for years which was just fine with her. In fact, she’d never laid eyes on her landlord. A rental company had shown her the place, and she simply mailed her rent each month to the address provided. The peace and quiet suited her.

The trees seemed almost luminescent as the sun’s rays nipped their red and yellow leaves. The miles had flown by on the untraveled country road, and she didn’t care. Why should she on such a day? She turned last minute toward what appeared to be some decent hiking trails. And they were. Decent. But a few miles’ hike was suddenly enough. She was ready for a quick picnic and drive back to the little duplex she called home. After all, anyone who thought she was boring didn’t know squat about her cozy sanctum.

She made quick work of her lunch, and turned her key in the ignition. Her car’s whine grew louder with each effort and then stopped altogether. She rubbed the tender spot where she’d bumped her head when she’d lifted the hood of the car and peered at the engine. Who was she kidding? She had no idea what to look for. Everything always looked the same when it came to cars. She squinted at the sun and guessed the time that was left before dusk.

to be continued . . .

Image: wikimediacommons.jpg; blanket: Pendleton-usa.com

HOPE

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There are people in nearly every circumstance who are the servants. They might not immediately stand out, but eventually we notice who they are by their dependable help. Are they born that way or do they cultivate that character? Or, perhaps, a little of both and more. In times of trial and trouble, they are the ones who keep going. They don’t throw up their hands in futility, rather they put one foot in front of the other every minute of every hour of every day.

What makes a person like that? Besides sterling character, one of my favorite authors would say it is hope. Victor Frankl said, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” Being a Holocaust survivor he should know. He also cautioned:

“Those who know how close the connection is between the state of mind of a man, his courage and hope, or lack of them and the state of immunity of his body will understand that sudden loss of hope and courage can have a deadly effect.“

We, none of us, can know the future. When things are bright and pleasant, we imagine the same is ahead. Likewise, when we are in the middle of tough times, it can be easy to imagine only darkness in the coming days and years. And that’s where the importance of hope arises. It gives us just enough glimmer of light ahead to keep going; to keep putting one foot in front of the other. That glimmer can even help us recall better past days so that we can imagine brighter future ones.

Some people scoff at optimists. I’ve always wondered why someone would do that. But hope isn’t optimism. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that none of us knows the future, and that knowledge removes the certainty of dark days as surely as it nudges us to understand the road is never always straight, but, rather, turns here and there and even loops around. We keep on because one of those bends in the road might erupt into light and beauty. It didn’t happen at this turn? Maybe it will at the next.

There are a lot of choices in life. Among your selections, might I offer one? Choose hope.

Man’s Search for Meaning, 1946, by Viktor Frankl; Romans 5:1-5 (Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.); Image: pexels-gift-habeshaw-3415211