Let my words be used to glorify, and not malign. (image from osage.k12.ia.us)
I’m not one to seek conflict, but I often find that when confronted with an accusation through written word, my response is less than Christlike. This is my prayer, that I might use my gifts to build Him up, and not tear others down.
Lord, you have blessed me with the gift of language. The ability to put fingers to keys and translate raw human experiences into strings of words, sentences, paragraphs, stories. How often I long to use this gift to glorify you. To tell of your love, to demonstrate your tangibility. But sometimes, shamefully, I use this gift, this toolbox of letters and language, to injure. I pull out barbs, masterfully twisted to inflict the most damage. I catch grenades in bare …
Down one dirt road to another. Our house moved 11 miles before coming to its final resting place.
Reaching deep into the pocket of my dark red Carhartt, I pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that was shoved deep into the seams. 140th, S. on Milan, W. on 13th, S. on Bluff…This simple list of directions, scrawled in my chicken scratch handwriting made me both smile, and experience a bit of relapse panic attack. Nearly four years ago to the day, these were the directions we were given by the company that was moving…our house. No, not packing up our contents and moving them from one place to another. No, our actual house. That’s right, we’re those crazy people you hear about who buy a house and have it moved from one place …
Snapping the handmade afghan, a gift from our wedding, up in the air, bits of stale popcorn flew up like confetti. There were eight blankets spread on the living room floor, their smell a combination of dribbled milk, kettle corn, cracker crumbs, Labrador, house cat and…my family. Here is where we made our bed two nights ago. Here is where we hunkered down during a blizzard, the second in five days, only this time, the power didn’t stay on. The lights flickered, and then, just didn’t come back on. We’d all just settled down in the living room for a “popcorn picnic” and a movie. The four of us, ready to weather this storm together, but not before we enjoyed the luxuries of outlets that were alive. We were only several minutes into Chicken Little, when …
They say this year was one for the record books. Our neck of the woods got 12+ inches of snow in two days, the second highest amount in recent record keeping. I can remember one other time, from deep in my childhood, when we got a comparable amount.
Now that I have my own children, my own home, I finally understand how it is that adults used to rattle off the years that certain weather events happened. Like the old men sitting around at the gas station, talking about the frog choker back in ought-six, or something like that. I will always remember 2013 as the year of the blizzard. The real deal. But the snow isn’t the only thing that left an impression. It was the food, glorious food! Thanks …
I gave love away, and got more love than I deserved in return.
Two years ago, in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I failed God. I passed by a dejected man, standing in the sweltering middle-of-July Kansas heat. I only looked at him long enough to see his sign reading “Will Work For Food.” In my passenger seat were 20 or so ice-cold Powerades, just purchased inside, condensation beading up on chilled bottles to match the beads of sweat pouring down this man’s face. I couldn’t give him money, or food, but I could give him refreshment. And I did nothing. I ignored that small voice. I just drove on by.
All the way home, my heart ached. I knew I’d done wrong. But I didn’t turn around. Later, I begged God for forgiveness, and a second …
Sprigs of green wheat push up through dry Kansas soil.
Puffs of fine dust swirl where our feet meet with dry Kansas farm ground. “Mom, it’s like we’re living in the desert.” She’s right. This drought has left our land crackly, where it was once lush. I shake my head in amazement, that such a young child would make such an observation. Then again, the land is really all there is to observe out here. No mature trees, just a house, a red metal shop, and an old, rusty round grain bin turned chicken coop affectionately called “The Tin Man.”
Our homestead juts out of the corner of the field, an odd mixture of old and new. Old house, new foundation, old walls, new siding, old land, new family. On a bright, unseasonably warm February afternoon, the …