How to Walk on Water

“So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came toward Jesus” 

Many from my generation, born in the middle of the previous century, grew up attending Sunday School and church. Bible stories, gleaned from both the Old and New Testaments were part of the curricula taught during our childhood. Those stories include one about a pittance of food feeding a horde of people. Another tells of Peter, a disciple of Jesus, and his encounter with waters deep.

John the Baptist had been beheaded by King Herod, the result of his calling out Herod for having a relationship with his sister-in-law. John and Jesus were cousins. John was also the one who publicly acknowledged Christ as the Lamb of God, baptizing Him as He began His ministry.

The news of John’s death was sobering. Jesus headed for the boat to find refuge on the water. He needed some time alone.

When He came back ashore, He was met by masses of people. They had followed him on foot and were waiting. Filled with compassion, He pushed his personal grief aside and did not send the people away. Instead, He healed them and ministered to their needs.

The long day was coming to an end. It became apparent the crowd had not brought anything to eat with them. They were hungry. The area was deserted, and there weren’t any villages nearby to supply food for the five thousand men (plus women and children) who were present. The only food available was a boy’s offering of five small loaves of bread and two fish. Jesus accepted the gift, gave His blessing, and it multiplied beyond anyone’s imagination. The twelve baskets of leftovers provided evidence of a miracle. The throng ate and was filled, satisfied both spiritually and physically as they went back to their homes.

Night fell, and Christ instructed His disciples to board the boat and head for the opposite shore. He was going to climb the mountain by himself.  Without a doubt, His heart was broken over the report of John’s death. He needed to spend time with His Father.

A storm came up during the night when the disciples were far from land. They feared for their lives as fierce winds and waves battered the boat.

Early in the morning, Jesus walked on the sea toward them. They thought they saw a ghost and trembled with terror. “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid,” He reassured them.

Peter asked for a sign to prove it was Jesus. The disciple asked that He beckon him to join Him on the waves. 

And He did: “Come.”

Clambering over the side, Peter began walking on the water toward Jesus. The raging winds caused the water around him to roil. A powerful gust struck with such intensity that Peter turned to look. When he did, he took his eyes off Christ and promptly went under.

Christ reached out His hand to lift Peter up and said, perhaps with a bit of humor in His voice and a smile on His face, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”

Many feel Bible stories are fabricated tales of glory and intrigue that have duped the gullible and less educated. Those of faith take an opposing stand, believing in the stories’ validity, reinforced by personal experience with a living God. The message is clear: If I look at the storms surrounding me, I am going to sink every time. Every. Single. Time. And I do. However, knowing the truth and living it are two different stories.

I have a lifelong friend who knows how to walk on water. The year 2019 brought her severe physical problems. She was overcome with excruciating joint pain throughout her body, the kind that has no future other than leading to life in a wheelchair. The suffering remained relentless. As 2020 approached, the pain abated but was replaced by blindness. It happened gradually, darkness taking over first one eye, then the other.

I phone her periodically. “How are you?” I ask.

Without fail, her response is, “Good.” And she is.

If I am asked the same question, I usually answer, “Okay.”  There are times when I am “good” but not with the same consistency as she. 

“You’re looking at the outer and not the inner,” my friend said. She also acknowledged it is easier said than done. It takes time and practice to stay focused on the inner—on God.

The world has experienced an upheaval, a literal turning upside-down of all that was once “normal.” COVID-19, the 2020 pandemic, is like a giant sinkhole that keeps growing, its center a vortex that sucks a person down if allowed. The political landscape portends fulfillment of biblical prophecies. What does it all mean?

Lying in bed one restless night, I was contemplating the long-term effects of the pandemic lockdown on my grandgirls, the push of government toward a one-world system (called the New World Order), and every other detail that entered my mind. That is looking at the outer, the storm with the wind and the waves—the opposite of faith and trust. You would think I would know better. I do. Old habits die hard.

I cried out to my heavenly Father, a familiar plea when I am mentally spinning off into oblivion. I don’t know how He does it, when it happens, or even why, but He always takes me to a better place.

How do you walk on water? Our walks with God are individual and personal. I am unable to refer you to a how-to manual. I am Peter in the raw. I doubt. God responds. I look around at the storms and flail about, sinking. Ever faithful, He reaches out and lifts me up.

This much I know: I revel in the times of inner peace and calm, as I fully realize they are because I am looking to Him not at the storms and garbage whirling around me. That is how and what it means to walk on water.

            

 Matthew 14:29 NRSV—opening scripture reference

On a Majority of One

majority: More than half (50%) of some group. The difference between the winning vote and the rest of the votes.

minority: Any subgroup that does not form a numerical majority

The little ragamuffin--all of eight or nine years old--stood alone facing the opposition of the world…at least the world as she knew it. She and a classmate were involved in a disagreement during recess on the playground of the tiny country grade school she attended. An invisible line was drawn and sides formed as fellow students joined in and stood in support of the one they felt was in the right. While it wasn’t a David and Goliath moment, there was no one on her side as hostility spewed from the mouths of those who became judge and jury. In frustration, she picked up a fir cone from the ground and threw it at her adversary. Widely missing its mark, the action prompted ridicule and even more heated comments. Mercy intervened when the bell rang, signaling the end of recess and time to return to the classroom.

Even the most casual of observers would have noted I was in the minority, not the majority.

A client and I had a conversation recently about those in our country who are part of a racial minority, particularly African-Americans. She expressed some of the inequities faced, the injustices meted out based solely on skin color. We agreed that neither of us have had similar experiences.   

“I am part of a minority,” I stated. It wasn’t something I intended to say. I have made it a policy not to discuss politics or religion with my clients in the eighteen years I’ve had my gardening business, but there it was. The incredulous expression on her face was one of speechlessness as she tried to comprehend the comment.

I weighed my words carefully, wanting to make certain she understood me. “I am a person of faith. We are a minority in this country.” I went on to explain I wasn’t talking about being religious or attending church. Being a person of faith means having a relationship with God, our creator. One need only look at the policies of our country where the effort has been made to remove God or any mention of Him from our culture. She was unable to deny it and didn’t try.

Majorities and minorities are a numbers thing. And they translate into power. The more numbers you have, the more power. It is that simple.

The little ragamuffin girl is still a part of who I am. I have always been one who wants to be on the winning side. I suspect I’m not unique. No one wants to be a loser. Recent events would suggest, however, that I am on the losing side. My principles and beliefs as a person of faith will likely be challenged as a result of the recent 2020 Presidential election. There are two ways to live; there are two paths. My way of life and the narrow path I am on is not the popular one.

All things are spiritual. Spiritual warfare began eons ago when Satan challenged God and His sovereignty. Michael and his angels fought him and his followers; Satan came up the loser. There was no place left for him and his angels in heaven as they were cast down to the earth.

Even though victory has already been declared, the battle continues as Satan fights for the hearts and souls of humankind. All things are spiritual. Pride does come before a fall.

If I look at the numbers it would appear I am in the minority in these times. But I’m not. I stand with God; He stands with me. He is a majority of one.

 

“What then shall we say to these things?

If God is for us, who can be against us?”

Romans 8:31

 

 

 

 

 

On Finding Solace at My Piano

solace: n. Comfort or consolation in a time of loneliness or distress. A source of comfort or 

consolation.

There is no “cush” left in the cushion. The upholstery fabric used to cover the bench is threadbare; the edges and corners reveal the batting which was meant to serve as padding. It is obvious that the covering served out its purpose years ago. Yet, even though it is undeniably outdated and scruffy, reupholstering my piano bench is out of the question. Whenever I sit down to play, the worn material reminds me of the countless hours my “tush” has been planted there. It is a part of my life's history. 

The piano, a small upright spinet—and the bench which came with it—is over seventy years old. As a little girl of five, I repeatedly begged my parents to let me take piano lessons. We didn't have a piano and, though I suspect there was one at church services, I don’t remember hearing or seeing one played. And yet the desire within me was strong. My parents were not wealthy people, and I’m quite sure they knew the whims of a small child shift and change with the wind. Investing in a piano and paying for lessons was a big deal for them and wasn’t a casual decision. “You’ll have to practice,“ I was told. “Every day.” Yes. I understood that--at the ripe old age of five, I understood commitment. The unspoken fact was that I could not begin and change my mind when I decided it wasn’t all that much fun.

Mrs. Jacobs, my piano teacher, was a perfectionist. She was also skilled and knowledgeable in her profession. A classic lady, she sat erect in her chair at the end of the piano bench with pencil in hand. The pencil was used  to make notations on the music or on the steno pad where she wrote my practice assignments for the following week. That same pencil was used more than once to tap a high wrist or fingers that splayed instead of curved. My music—Bach, Chopin, Mozart—still bears her mark, and as I play I am conscious of the role she played in my life.

I took piano lessons for over ten years, sometimes practicing three hours a day when preparing for a competition. My mother, who was usually in the kitchen or at her sewing machine when I practiced, said she could always tell what kind of a mood I was in by how I played. I was a kid and didn't notice, but now I realize that, even then, the piano was a means of expression. Dad's assessment was that I played “with feeling.” 

I walked away from the piano when I was in my thirties. Life was just too hard. I was unable to play with the skill, precision, and technique I had in my youth--the fingers simply didn't work. I was weary of people telling me, “I love hearing you play” when it brought me no joy. For over thirty years my piano was another piece of furniture in the living room, dusted but never used. 

Then, out of nowhere, my son asked me to play three songs he had chosen as a present for his 50^th birthday. The music for all three was difficult. It had been decades since I spent any time at the piano, and I knew there was every possibility I would not be able to master them even in the most elementary manner. I did a great deal of soul-searching, however, and made the decision to go back to my piano and its bench. My niece, a pianist as well, gave me the profound, sage advice to "Just show up." And that I did. After nine months of intense, grueling work, I presented him and the rest of my family with a personal concert. What I did not anticipate was the reality that the gift I gave was given back to me--my piano was once again a part of my life.

Today was one of “those” days, the kind I haven’t had in years. I am typically a morning person, up at the crack of dawn and raring to go. Not today. Today I wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there.

The atmosphere in my country is heavy. The nation is divided with a hatred towards the sitting president that is palpable and toxic. There is no regard for law as destruction runs unbridled. Right has become wrong; truth has become lie. And with a presidential election a month away, the future is unknown and uncertain.  

My piano beckoned me. And so I sat down on my timeworn bench and began to play. How do I express what it is like to pour out what you are feeling through your fingers? There are no words to describe the two-fold experience--where the performer is also the audience.  

As I played, something happened--I had a visitor, an audience of one, as my Heavenly Father sat, listening. The music flowed from my fingertips then came back to my ears and entered my being.  My eyes filled with tears, the sanctity of the moment touching me.

God never spoke. When I finished, I stood up and pushed the relic of a bench back in its place under the piano. I was at peace.

The need to be comforted and the means of finding comfort or solace is individual and personal. For some, it may be found in a long walk; others may find comfort curling up in a blanket in front of a fireplace with a book and a cup of tea. Another person might find solace watching a thunder and lightning storm from inside the safety of their home. The list is endless. On a personal level, today I found solace at my piano.

Wherever you are, whatever is going on in your life, may you find solace as well.

 

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

 

 

 

He Doesn't Need My Help

engage: v. To interact antagonistically; to enter into conflict with (an enemy); to enter into battle.

I have been censored. “How can that be?” you may ask. “Freedom of speech is a guaranteed right in our country, the United States of America.” Yes, it is, but I have been—censored, that is.

COVID-19, the recent pandemic has brought with it a new set of rules and regulations for interaction described by new terminology. “Stay safe. Wear your mask. Practice social distancing.” Within a short period of time the citizenry of this nation has complete understanding of what those terms mean. There are, however, very personal and diverse responses and reactions to these mandates. Many readily obey, but there are also many who refuse to quietly comply. 

At the same time, the politics in this country has become a cauldron of colliding ideologies and emotions. Have you ever put soda and vinegar together? The combination of those two is a roiling boil which cannot be contained. Thus is the environment in the nation as two very extreme opposites bounce off one another like bumper cars. It would appear there is no middle ground as chaos rules.

Life as we knew it is no more, with the possibility of it becoming even more altered in the future.

Facebook, a social networking site, makes it possible to connect with people all over the world. My list of “friends” is quite long; many of them I do not personally know and would not recognize them if I passed them on the street. But that is how it is in this community (a wide stretch of that word) called Facebook.

“What’s on your mind?”, the question posed to all who participate, has opened a floodgate of opinions, thoughts, and ideas—about the pandemic, politics, religion, and everything else under the sun--often fueled by heady emotions. I have been as guilty as the rest with the need to make myself known to those who are obviously on the road to hell—or at the very least, headed in the opposite direction I am going.  It is important, after all, isn't it, that I set people straight, that I point out where they are wrong and offer another option? 

Oh, how silly you are, Ladonna...

One of the doctrines of traditional, conservative, evangelical Christianity is that we are to spread the Gospel throughout the world. “Tell ‘em like it is!” What has got lost along the way is the truth that words are, indeed, cheap, and that we have also been told we are to be as a light set upon a hill--to be seen by those searching for and seeking God. A candle has no voice; it simply is.

In my experience the mind is an open vessel, absorbing and taking in whatever it is fed. My time spent reading vitriolic comments regarding things I value had begun to take over my thoughts and my life.

What should I do, God? Please help me. I have not yet reached the place of completely removing myself from the Facebook medium. I have connected with family members in the South and Midwest that I would otherwise have no contact with.

“Don’t engage,” He said—His form of censoring. He has repeated that over and over as I have walked away from arguments—then gone back to put my two cents’ worth in. I have always felt I needed to have the last word, but I am learning.

I have been called to walk with my Heavenly Father in the here and now. I was not called to try to fight His battles for Him. And that is where I find peace.

By the way, "Not my problem," is my new mantra. He doesn’t need my help.

"On Happiness vs. Joy"

 

happiness: n. The emotion of being happy; joy.

joy: n. A feeling of extreme happiness or cheerfulness, especially related to the acquisition or expectation of something good.

I want to tell you a sweet story. 

Washing my truck is a rare thing. I wholeheartedly avoid some tasks in life. Washing a vehicle is one of them. Road dirt is just so dirty...and gritty and grimy.

The recent fires in my home state of Oregon left a residue of smoke and ash remains on everything, including my pickup. My son-in-law told me the paint job could be ruined if it wasn't washed off. God forbid that should happen. The sparkly blue finish was the main reason I bought it two years ago. I knew I needed to address the issue.

Arriving home from work, I parked in the driveway instead of entering the garage, an incentive to follow through on the project. Grabbing an old rag, I began the process by filling a bucket with hot water and some Dawn detergent, the recommended cleaner for dealing with ash on vehicles. I had disposable gloves on, but I could feel the warmth of the hot water as I began washing the surface.

It was a good day. A week ago, the area I live in was covered with oppressive smoke from the forest fires with air quality the worst of any place on the face of the planet. Going outside was unthinkable. Then the rains came. They dumped water on our dry, thirsty soil, flushing ash-covered surfaces clean. 

The truck still needed a good, old-fashioned scrub though, and I was up for the task.

It was the first day of fall. The changing of seasons was in the air, freshened by the gift of rain. 

While digging through my utility room cupboard in late Spring, I discovered a package of seeds. The label said it was a Hummingbird and Butterfly Garden Mixture, a combination of reseeding annuals and perennials. It was dated for use in 2016, so I was aware the four-year-old seeds might not be viable. Having a wildflower garden has been on my wish list for quite some time, though, so I decided to give it a try. The soil in the area I chose to plant was rock-hard and the opposite of fertile, but reason had no voice. I dug up a space bordering the sidewalk that was approximately 4' x 12', added compost from my compost bin and several bags of potting soil. My attitude was I had nothing to lose.

I sprinkled the seed mix on the area and watered it. And watered and watered some more. They were planted late in the growing season, so I had zero expectations. I checked the area often, sometimes several times a day. A magnifying glass would have been helpful in my search for any signs of life. I was ecstatic when, bit by bit, tiny green leaves peeked up through the surface. Granted, some of them were a nasty, invasive grass weed and volunteer vegetable starts from my compost that I had to pull out, but other plants were sprouting as well.

I continued to water them faithfully, ensuring their roots never dried out. They rewarded me with growth and blossoms. I recognized some of the plants--orange California Poppies; pink, blue, and purple Bachelor Buttons; Dill, Coreopsis, and Blanket Flower; Black Eyed Susan; bright pink Godetia and red Larkspur--and others unidentified. The colors resembled a crazy quilt, a mishmash of blooms and textures. I delighted in their survival and beauty along with the prospect of a perennial garden that will attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.

I was focused on washing the passenger side of the truck, making certain all the smoke residue was removed when I happened to glance up. A young woman was walking along the sidewalk, pushing a baby stroller and chatting with her little girl, the big sister. They stopped by the bed of flowers, the tiny sprite of a girl squatting down to get a closer look. The washing project came to a halt as I became the proverbial "fly on the wall," observing from a distance. It was as though I could hear their conversation: "Look, mama--isn't that pink one pretty? Oh, I love the orange one! Will you take a picture of it for me?" Leaning down by her young daughter, the mother pulled out her phone to take pictures. After several minutes they were on their way.

My being was filled with pure joy as I watched the young mother and her child admiring God's handiwork. My first instinct was to run to social media and "share" it. No. This was given to me to revel in and appreciate. I have done that, thanking God for the original idea, the follow through, and for the beauty of living, growing things.  

What, exactly, is joy? What is the difference between joy and happiness? Is there any? 

I am going to state that happiness takes place in the physical and joy is spiritual. From experience, I agree with the dictionary definition: happiness is emotion, joy is a feeling. 

My best description is that happiness takes place in the chest, up to and including the head. It tends to be transitory and short-lived. A happy mood can easily be shattered by a comment, look, or blip that results in a change of circumstances. 

Joy goes the opposite direction, sinking and settling deep within a person. Each "joy" experience is a gift and blessing from God. Joy cannot be fabricated or faked. Counterfeit efforts will not, cannot endure.

My wildflower garden has brought me great joy. It has also given joy to others. 

And this: If I had been washing the driver's side of the truck instead of the passenger's, my back would have been turned on the entire scene, and I would have missed out.

 

                     "  ...the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness,

                              generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control." 

                                                           Galatians 5: 22, 23

                                 Happy comes and happy goes, but joy...

                      joy plants itself within and reminds us of how good God is.

                                            Just me. Just sayin'.

  

   

"Coming from a Place of Thanksgiving"

In everything give thanks.

I'm up early. The house doesn't have a heavy underlying stench of smoke this morning. I am able to see the lights of houses several blocks down the street. It's all a welcome change from the falling ashes and smoke-filled skies of the past few days. I am thankful.

Coming from a place of thanksgiving is often a comparison thing--I'm thankful I'm not like THEM; or Thank God I don't have THEIR life; I'm so glad THAT didn't happen to me! May I view my life from a very personal place and not one of comparison.

I have much to be thankful for. The list is lengthy.

I have been part of a physical fire storm here in my home state for the past week...a very long week. The foundation of my thankfulness, however, is that I have a spiritual life. I continue giving thanks for it. Nothing can touch it nor take it from me.

There have been ups and downs this past week as fire came roaring down the mountains, heading for the valley floor where I live. With heavy winds at its back, the fire had a life of its own. In my mind I was thinking that I lived on the "other" side of Springfield and Eugene, and there was a buffer between it and me. Then...I heard of Medford in the southern part of the state, with its population of over 80,000 people, being forced to evacuate. Reality is a heady trip.

The winds died, and the fire lost its savage nature. How? Why? I know the how--even the winds obey their Creator. Why? All things are at the hand of God, touching and affecting humankind in personal ways.

I am a person of faith. Faith, however, only has as much value as who or what I entrust with that faith. Ideologies come and go. God doesn't.

We are living in hard times. There is only One who can see any of us through them. I am thankful.

"On My and Mine"

my: determiner. Belonging to me. Associated with me. In the possession of me.

mine: pronoun.  My; belonging to me; that which belongs to me.

"It just happened," she said. "You got here at the perfect time."

'She' is a 93-year-old gardening client who has the spirit and spunk of a 13-year-old. For the past nine years you can usually find me on Mondays mowing Lucille's lawn or working in her garden--at least during the gardening season. Several years ago she informed me, "You can't quit until I no longer need you." Apparently (with tongue in cheek), the decision as to when I retire rests in her hands. 

'It' was the cord of her telephone charger, tightly wrapped around the beater bar of her vacuum cleaner. Unable to pull it out, she had resorted to the informational booklet which came with it and had come to the conclusion the only way to retrieve it was to cut it.

The weather forecasters had predicted a hot one today--in the upper 90's. It was my intention to get out to work early in order to beat the heat, but that hadn't happened. It was already almost noon by the time I made it to Lucille's.

This sparkler of a human always opens the door to chat when she realizes I have arrived with my mower. This morning was no different. After telling me of her dilemma, I asked "Would you like me to come in and see what I can do?" 

She'd succeeded in wrapping the entire length of the cord, and it took me a while to get it started, but once I did, it began unreeling off the bar. 

I was her knight in shining armor. As I headed off to mow her lawn, leaving her to finish her vacuuming, I thought of her comment about arriving at the perfect time. 

My life is not my own.

A pervasive fallacy of possession and ownership has spread throughout humankind. Property (known as private) is bought and sold, and the transaction is recorded at a local courthouse.  Automobiles are purchased or exchanged, and a title verifies the deal. Selling either is impossible without a piece of paper indicating the right to possession--mine.

Native Americans had a different view from the Europeans and Americans of today. They believed no one owned the land and that the land belonged to everyone in the tribe. They could not conceive land ownership was respectable. The land itself was for the use of everyone in the village, and a person's right to use it was temporary. "My" and "mine" did not exist. 

The idea of ownership carries with it the concept of control and authority. "That house, property, or car is mine, and no one can tell me what I can or cannot do with it." Children are often viewed in that same light as well. On a more personal level--"It's my body, and I have the right to do whatever I choose." Does that sound familiar? "If I want to color my hair purple, I will. If I want to be tatted, I can." On and on and on...and the laws of the land have reinforced that attitude, labeling them "rights."

In truth, I own nothing. I entered this world with nothing, and I will leave it with nothing--at least nothing that is physical or tangible. The title to my vehicle, the deed to my property, and any and all of my other possessions will be left behind. "My" isn't worth much, is it?  

Not a one of us possesses the ability to control the beat of our hearts or the capability of our lungs to take in air and process it, allowing our bodies to function. We do not own a single thing that we apply the word "my" or "mine" to. Our homes can be burned or flooded, businesses shut down due to a downturn in the economy. Our lives and those of our family members can be altered and changed forever because of health issues. We control nothing.

I live with the knowledge that my life is not my own. I breathe and function at the hand of my creator. I may plan out my days, but He is the one who actually brings them about. 

The earth and everything in it is not in possession of us earthlings. It belongs to God, and His will will be done. 

My challenge to you is this: The next time you hear yourself think or say "my" or "mine," consider the truth. Consider it in the spiritual context. The sacrifice of Christ on the cross and His resurrection resulted in redemption--for humanity--for you and for me. The price was paid. Your life is not your own.

I was at Lucille's at "just the right time"--not because I planned it that way, but because I have a daily planner who coordinates my schedule and my life. My life is not my own. I wouldn't have it any other way.

...do you not know that your body is a temple 

of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God,

and that you are not your own?

For you were bought with a price...

I Cor. 6:19, 20