Since establishing that Tuesday of each week would become my assigned day to write a new blog, I have hoped up to this point to be able to write  from the gifts of humor, goodness, and deep abiding faith that are part of who I am as an individual. Due to the events in the City of Boston on Monday, April 15 this will not be the underlying outline for the aches and pangs of my heart. Although those three ingredients are still very much a part of me this morning, the deeper part of me which digs into the core of my belief system is rising to surface of my soul much like cream that floats to the top of a fresh can of raw milk.

Like you, my emotions are running rampant across the stability and reasoning of this roller coaster we call life. Since seeing and hearing the various news reports coming out of Boston I admit to anger, outrage, grief, and thoughts of revenge even though no one has been arrested in connection with the two bombings. The reports we are hearing are taking us back to Sept. 11 and most recently Newtown. Comparisons are being made and I’m certain old wounds have been reopened in the lives of those affected from those two attacks with the reality of this new development. The level of fear, anger, outrage, and disbelief are present in all of these attacks and unfortunately are not new to us as a nation or as part of a global society. I am intrigued by those who ponder ‘how can this happen on American soil’ when in reality, why do we think we are immune to acts of evil? We have brothers and sisters around the world living under levels of fear that far outweigh this attack, with the exception of Sept. 11. which I believe is the “Pearl Harbor” for our current generation. I wasn’t born yet when the attack on Pearl Harbor took place, but I do remember my father telling me about that fateful day and how he believed that America never fully healed from that horrible moment in our history.

So, in the aftermath of Boston where do we go from here? I know where I’m going and that’s on my knees with more fervency asking God to root out evil and change the hearts and minds of men and women. I will not blame Him and I won’t ask “where were you God?” I already know the answer to the latter question and from that I will draw comfort as I always do in the midst of darkness. I believe He is still on the throne, He is still sovereign, He is in control, and I believe He is grieving more than you and I can comprehend. I will remember that He is the author and finisher of life and that He does not make puppets out of the very people that He created–He is allowing us to exercise free will. Anytime freedom is present, there is also the opposing force of evil.

So, in response to this horrific day, you will find me putting on my ‘knee pads’ and interceding for my community, my state, my nation, and my world. In reality I know that my prayers may not win the war, but I take great joy in winning numerous battles and taking back territory previously claimed by evil. I will also take inventory of my own life and determine where I need a larger portion of God’s wisdom, compassion, mercy, and love in order to be a life changer and not an impotent member of society. Life is precious and priceless. Knee pads, on the contrary, are inexpensive; will you join me?

I have what we jokingly refer to in my household as “label issues”. At least once a month I am guilty of not properly reading the label on a grocery item or two and I bring home an incorrect product.Yet, we are always able to use my oops purchases  in spite of my misguided intentions. I try to be careful, I really do! It’s just that when I’m shopping I don’t like the hassle of putting my reading glasses on and off as I cruise the aisles while I checkoff items on my list.

Recently a current “project” has been the painting of several rooms, all being accomplished by my husband. The living room is the last of his intended ‘putting on a fresh coat of paint or two’ which has left me the task of cleaning the drapery that adorns our window in that room. Now mind you, I paid a hefty price for those draperies and the complimentary sash that makes our window look very classy so you can bet I made sure to read the labels that are sewn into the crevices of their beauty. I didn’t want the nightmare of wrinkles, shrinkage, you-name-your-own terrible outcome! No sir, I got out my reading glasses for that chore of laundering and proper drying.  So, after exercising that bit of wisdom on my part our beautiful set of drapes are now line drying, patiently waiting for paint to dry and be rehung. i

Have you noticed that everything we purchase comes with a label? Labels are important. They give instructions. They tell us the content of a garment or the ingredients in a can of food or a  household cleaner. There’s only one thing that I can think of that doesn’t come with a label and that’s a newborn baby. We welcome our newborn into the world and it’s up to as parents to “name” the child. Greater than choosing a name for our precious gift is the responsibility to train this innocent, unbiased, unconditional lover into a person that the world will receive with respect, love, acceptance…well the list goes on doesn’t it?

But how often in the midst of our well intentions do we as mere human beings get off track and begin to react to the behavior and antics of our child and begin to ‘label’? You know what I mean. We begin using descriptive words such as “you’re lazy”, “you’re so slow”, “if only you could be like (fill in the blank)”, “you’ll never amount to much”. Unfortunately this is an exhaustive list.

This past week someone I respect very much coined this phrase: “Refuse to be defined by others”. I have made serious note of those six words. Those few words brought back a flood of memories growing up, raising my own two children, and now my daily choice of words  in every relationship that is dear to me. I want my words to encourage, not tear down. I want my words to build up, not destroy. I want my words to express love, not judgement. I want my words to convey truth, not a crafty lie to smooth over delicate circumstances.

While I joke and struggle with minor label issues, I grieve deeply when I hear some of the labels coming from the lips of those in media, national leadership, education, business, the family–just a few major categories where words are vital to the health of a person and a society. Why, I wonder, have we evolved to the level of name calling, blame shifting, speaking filth or spew insults with as much ease as it takes to spit out a watermelon seed? Furthermore, as hurtful are the ones speaking with such disdain, is the pain of many individuals allowing it to proliferate.

On Monday evening I heard a very profound statement: “I am a black man, I am not an African American. Call me an American”. I also heard: “I am a man, call me that”. Why have we labeled people on the color of their skin or their country of origin? Is it really necessary? When I tell my friends about another friend, am I required to include color of skin, hair, eyes, or how tall they are? No!

One of my favorite verses in the Bible tells me that my tongue “holds blessings and curses” which interprets that if not careful I may ‘label’ someone that doesn’t deserve the stupidity of my thought processes. Oh that everyone who truly wants our world to be a kinder and more gentle dwelling place would heed this command. Think how that could bring about good change!

Unfortunately, I cannot give ample space to express the deepest thoughts I have on this subject. Perhaps that’s a series of writings for another day. And, it isn’t my intention to get so serious that I can’t find humor in this struggle of mine. Let me leave you with a couple of labels that our children wore for awhile and how they were innocent words from childhood that followed them as they grew into their teens and beyond.

When Sarah was about 8 she began giving stuff away to friends when they came to our home. Very soon one of the little boys from our church who had been a recipient of her generousity started calling her “Sarah the Giver”. Indeed, as years passed she often exhibited a ‘giving’ spirit and remains true to that description today.

When Dan was a toddler his babysitter gave him the nickname “Mr. Fingers” because he was curious, often  stretching to grab something out of his reach. In high school he played football, was a wide receiver who needed to “grab” hold of the football when it passed to him during a key play. Today he is a successful college student, grasping the knowledge from textbooks and the structure of a work day.

Lest I end on a negative not I must state that not all labels are bad. Remember, warning labels do serve a vital purpose. But, also remember, our precious babies don’t come with a label. If they did here’s what I’d like to imagine the description to read.  “Warning: One Size Does Not Fit All. Precious gift from God. Do not Drop. Do not Speak Harshly.  Love,  Feed, Water, Clothe, Nurture, Encourage,  Train According to Bible. Allow to Explore. Allow to Fail. Celebrate Success. IMPORTANT: Unreturnable. 

Today (April 2) should be a most enjoyable day. Already the sun is shining through the window as I sit and write. Birds are helping to announce the birth of a new day. The promise of another spring season is upon us.
I am enjoying fresh brewed coffee and making plans for this glorious day.

A lunch date with a dear friend is one of my highlights of the day. Our girls are now young women, one with two children of her own now. It seems so trite to say ‘where does the time go?’ but I cannot coin a phrase of my own to describe the passing of the years. I can reach back into the caverns of memories and recall when these two little girls were happy playing with Barbies, making plans for overnight stays, walking to the party store for candy, discussing who likes who….those childhood and adolescent days are now in the rear view mirror of life.

Graduations from high school and university have been achieved, weddings planned and now the life of marriage is the current theme for these women. Hurts and disappointments entered that mix, yet healing has come and the promise of new love has settled on the horizon of being cherished. The deep bond found in a good friendship sustained the pain and celebrated the long awaited joy that comes in the morning, those times in life when ‘beauty comes from ashes’.

Having and cherishing a best friend is a gift. Sometimes one may have more than one ‘bestie’ (today’s new term) but I believe we all need at least one best friend, the kind of friend that accepts you with all of your quirks and flaws, a friend who will get in the pit of despair with you, roll around in the dirt and hurt of life and not complain the entire time–the kind of friend who will laugh with you over absolute nonsense until tears roll down cheeks, or during life’s most serious moments, offers a hug and a simple, warm profound ‘I love you’.

Yes, today, I will spend time with a bestie along with her daughter, her two grandchildren, and my daughter. We will talk about the years that have gone by, we will laugh in the moment and we will share our dreams and thoughts for the future. We won’t attempt to solve the problems in the world because we know that isn’t the definition and purpose for our grand friendships. However, if conversation does turn to current events and what lies ahead we will encourage one another with the truth and true basis of our close knit connection, that God is in control and that we give Him thanks and praise for being our Heavenly Father, for His care, protection, provision, guidance, and love. After that we will return to the simplicity and silliness of being each other’s bestie and enjoying the short time we have together today, knowing that we will soon part for the day with the hope and promise of enjoying another girls only lunch date.

As I read all of the various comments and woes on Facebook regarding the lack of spring weather in place of the current continuous cold snaps we are experiencing, I find myself not getting caught up in the anguish. It’s not that I too wouldn’t mind some warmer weather, deep inside I know that talking about the weather or even complaining about the conditions will do no good for I’m not in control of the elements. And, furthermore, a greater hope and expectation awaits me.

Depending on the calendar Easter is celebrated either in March or April. This year’s festivities will balance on the fence between the two months for on March 31st those of us who celebrate the victory of Christ’s empty tomb will gather in our respective churches and give praises to our victorious King and rejoice in the gift of salvation.

One cannot celebrate each Easter without some recollection of past Easter Sundays with family and friends. I have a photo somewhere in the pile of stuff that belonged to my parents of my brother Mark and me. We were dressed in our Easter finery, it was a beautiful sunny morning so dad took our picture outside in front of the house.

I also have fond memories of coloring eggs with my mother and enjoying the candy that she purchased for my basket. Mom took great joy in hiding our baskets even though there weren’t many secret places in our home. Nonetheless, finding the candy was a delight.

As my youngster years gave way to becoming a young adult I found myself expanding my Easter celebration with the added gift of music. By the time I was in high school and even emerging into young adulthood I was able to join the choir at our church and begin learning to sing the various Cantatas that we performed each Holy Week. The music was sometimes difficult and not always to my liking, yet each selection offered a melodic description of the passion story. Each composer we used had a unique way of setting the story to music, combining vocals and accompaniment that depicted what Christ went through on our behalf.

My Holy Week observance began on Thursday as we gathered for Maundy Thursday, remembering how Christ met with his disciples for a Passover meal and the introduction of a new covenant, the breaking of bread and the drinking of wine, to remember His blood and body. Good Friday was a more somber gathering as we reflected on the sufferings of the cross, now draped in black. But Sunday’s coming!….

It’s six am and those of us who remember sunrise services know all too well the images of the Easter cross. The black drape has given way to pure white, lilies adorn the altar and chancel, their fragrance filling the sanctuary. As worshippers rise to sing one of the many appropriate victory hymns our united voices in triumphant song push aside the earlier more contemplative thoughts of the week and death’s darkness is overcome!

I never tire of Easter. How could I? Each time I hear the scriptures of that week’s events or sit and read through the Gospel accounts as written by Matthew, Mark, Luke and John I still marvel at God’s plan to redeem mankind, to buy me back from sin, the obedience of Christ to surrender to His Father’s plan, and the course of the early church put into motion by His empty tomb and risen body.

Yes, admittedly, I desire warmer weather that the promise of spring brings. As I wait, I will set my thoughts on greater things of importance that fill my heart–the promise of the empty tomb that could not contain my precious Saviour. I will cherish hearing my dad’s voice in my mind–again–as he once told me: “Susan, Christmas is nice, celebrating the birth of Jesus. It’s like having cake. Cake is good. But, Susan, when we get to Easter, the icing is added to the cake because Easter is the true celebration.”

As we celebrate another Easter this year, I hope that beyond hunting for hidden eggs and candy, that we ponder the sufferings of the cross, the awe of the empty tomb and the victorious power of the Risen Jesus. Additionally for me I am adding in another promise yet to arrive–the return of Christ for His Bride.
Now, that’s something of great value waiting for and talking about.

Happy Easter–He is Risen, Risen Indeed!!

As Monday evenings draw to a close each week, I am aware that Tuesday morning is around the corner and that I have made a personal commitment to write on that day. I’m finding that during the last hours I am awake on Mondays my thoughts are turning to the question “what shall I write about in the morning?” So, last evening and now this morning are no different as I attempt to answer that question. I admit that I have several areas that I could share with you dear reader, but I believe that the calendar dates of this new week are dictating the topic.

As you read  this you may wonder is she going to write about the 21st marking the official beginning of spring? Or, more significantly, will she focus on the 24th which is Palm Sunday? While those are two good topics to discuss, I am choosing the 21st and 24th for different reasons today. It was on March 21, 1999  that my dear  mother entered Heaven and on March 24 2012 my father joined her for all of eternity. And if that isn’t enough to begin weaving a short writing with, my parents were married on March 24, 1945. Mom’s funeral took place on March 24, 1999.

For many years I thought of my parents as “perfection”. In my eyes they could do no wrong and I also believed that they would live forever. My head knowledge told me that this was foolishness, but my heart made me somehow believe that I’d have them with me forever. Those days of dreaming that to be true gave way to their aging, slowing down, and respective illnesses. Mom’s was cancer. I found myself in the role of caregiver the weekend she checked out of the hospital and into Hospice care in her home. She wanted to be home in order to go Home. When the imminent signs of death were upon her it was 4 am Sunday morning when dad and I were drawn to her bedside and God gave me a gift I will never forget. My loving father scooped his beloved to himself and offered this prayer: “Heavenly Father, we commit Ida’s spirit back to You…..” the prayer contained other words and phrases but this is the sentence that is etched on my heart.  Mom lived long enough for my brothers, my own family and mom’s sister to arrive in order that at 9:15 am on Sunday, March 21 we said our final goodbyes and Heaven gained a saint whose name had been recorded in the Book of Life since her commitment to Christ as a very little girl.

Dad’s end of life experience was alzheimer’s disease. He lived 3 years with this dibilitating sickness and  in early March of 2012 he too was placed in the care of Hospice in his residence care home. Selfishly I admit that I had asked God to be at his bedside when he passed but that was not to be so. On the Saturday that dad would be called Home it was my brother and his wife who had been with dad. Accompanying them was my niece and her daughter. About 8:30 pm they decided dad was comfortable and said their goodbyes for the drive back home. Jessica leaned Ainsley down to kiss Papa Jack goodnight which startled dad and as his eyes opened Ainsley put her finger to her nose and said “shhhh, night night” and they left for home. Twenty minutes after his good night kisses dad was in the presence of Heaven. That was March 24, his 67th wedding anniversary.

Proverbs 16:9 states “In his heart a man plans his course but the Lord determines his steps”. It would consume several pages to deliver the back story of how my parents met, dated and eventually married. Those are all good topics for future writing and I just may do that in the coming weeks and months. But for now I am focusing on the significance of their respective dates for being reunited in Heaven. I don’t believe in coincidence; I believe in God-incidence. I believe in the truth that my Heavenly Father knows the number of days for each life created  by Him and I believe that God has left me with a gift of sweet memories as March 21 and March 24 appear on the calendar of my heart. I also know that the little girl who wanted her parents to be with her forever is actually another truth. Their love for each other and their children is written on my heart and with greater importance they ARE living forever. The only difference is their address has changed. Each left their last home and now live forever in their permanent Home. I’m hoping mom’s has a beautiful kitchen for creating those wonderful meals we  always enjoyed and dad’s has a complete workshop to create sawdust. Oh, so that mom can sweep the sawdust into neat little piles!

Happy anniversary mom and dad. Happy Homecoming! See you soon. I love you both!

My husband and I are the proud and very pleased parents of two wonderful children. We were expectant parents living in the medical technology of seeing our babies in the womb through the lens of ultra sound, however, unlike current advances in that field, we did not know the gender of our children until they made their grand entrance into the world. Thus, our process of choosing a name for our child meant selecting a suitable one for each gender. During those early years of marriage we also had friends giving birth to their own families and found ourselves in numerous conversations that always started this way: “So, have you chosen names for your baby yet?”

The responsibility and process of choosing a child’s name can be overwhelming. After all, a name is something that stays with a person their entire life, gives shape to their character, their identify, and reputation–good or bad. How often have we shared a conversation with someone who absolutely does not like their given name?

One of my favorite stories regarding ‘names’ is  about my dad and the background of his name. Dad’s given name is Ira Wilbur Jewell. However, the only time he was ever addressed as Ira was in a medical setting. At all other times he was called “Jack”. He was given that nickname based on school records that indicated he was “John Jewell” from his early years concluding with graduation from high school. Verbal family history states that when he was born their was a strong disagreement over what he would be named. Grandma Morris wanted another “John” in the family, dad’s own mother wanted him named “Ira” in honor of a favorite school teacher. Both won in a sense I guess. But back to “Jack”. In the short few years after high school graduation dad found himself in need of his birth certificate so he made the trip to Reed City to obtain just that. There was a slight glitch in the process when the clerk looked up his information. It seems that no male child by the name of Ira was recorded for Oct. 15, 1921. There was, however, a female child recorded. Her name was “Irene”. The anguished clerk (as I was told by dad) looked at him, chuckled, and said, ‘Well, you really don’t exist. You can choose whatever name you want. What is your name?” Dad’s response was most likely laced with his own humor when he would have told the clerk “I graduated high school as John, I’m always called John, Johnny, or Jack, but I know my mother named me after a favorite schoolteacher, so out of respect for my mother, my name is Ira Wilbur.” He and the clerk were able to conclude that the country doctor responsible for providing birth information to the county clerk simply could not remember the gender of the baby that Clarence and Sadie birthed that fall day, let alone the correct name.

As a little girl I always heard my dad called Jack, regardless if we were at home, out in the neighborhood and nearby businesses that he dealt with on a regular basis, church, family gatherings, or his workplace. As time passed, giving way to growing older and dad becoming a great grandpa he received a new name by my great nephew–“Papa Jack”. He loved this new name and took every opportunity to grow into it and fully embrace the tenderness in which it was given.

Dad is gone now but his legacy of names lives on in our hearts, especially mine. In the process of cleaning out his home and bringing home a lot of paperwork I have been enjoyed seeing documentation for Ira, Jack, and John. There is one item that I found that always brings a smile and tears every time I pick it up and read. It’s a letter from my mother to dad written on Aug. 14, 1945. It starts out “Dearest Jack”….the war that separated them for too long had ended.

Names indeed are important and certainly do make for interesting conversations in the course of our lives. This man whom I loved beyond description was Ira, John, Johnny, Jack, and Papa Jack. But to me he was  simply “dad” and sometimes “daddy” when my tender heart needed reassurance that he could correct the hurtfulness of the world around me, to show up in the midst of whatever mess I found myself in and be my knight, rescue me, offering hope and encouragement.

So, as I share this bit of family history with you today, I sit here doing so with a smile on my lips and a bounce in my spirit. In view of the fact that dad had put his trust and hope in Jesus Christ there is another name by which he is called. On the day dad accepted Christ he received a new name, one that is recorded in the Book of Life, written by God Himself and the great joy and mystery of that promise is that no one this side of Heaven knows what that name is or how it sounds. No matter–the mere essence and assurance of knowing this truth is good enough for me.  I have a new name waiting for me as well. I know my name is further down the page from dad’s, but for sure–it’s there, recorded for all of eternity. I’d like to think that God smiled the day He wrote “Jack, you’ve had several names but from this day forward you shall now be known as _______.”

A PJ Kinda of Day

by susantrinitysite
Well, I have quckly determined that today will be a PJ kind of day. When I went to bed last night that was not my intention for this Tuesday. I had a totally different day mapped out. After my ususal cup of coffee and time reading, it was my intention to put together a short grocery list in order to prepare supper this evening for a dear friend along with two of our kids. However, upon waking this morning my body is sending very clear signals that my day has been altered.

I’m still attempting to enjoy a cup of coffee, all the while nursing a sore back with an ice pack, coughing and wondering why I have a headache? I can trace the sore back to Monday’s workout. My trainer put me through an “elevator” routine. I have no idea what that means other than I think my muscles were going the opposite direction of the equipment? I’ve been strength training for almost two years now and today I feel like it was my first introduction to the leg press and chin bar!

I’m thankful that I can cozy up on the couch waiting for my body to heal. The sun is shining on this beautiful sunny morning. I can hear birds talking to each other despite their cold surroundings. The neighborhood kids have boarded their busses for another day of school. Along with my coffee and books I have my cell phone and my iPad which allows me to stay connected with my “world”.

My family would tell you that I’m not a good patient. I don’t deal well with discomfort and interrupted plans. I enjoy being ‘on the go’ as much as I enjoy spending time alone or with my family. Today’s original plans would have satisfed all of those desires. Alas–another plan has been set in motion and I will make the best of these circumstances. I know that the soreness will pass, the headache will cease, and the cough can be nurtured with hot tea throughout the day.

No, a PJ kind of day is not what I wanted at all but I will embrace today in spite of these minor setbacks. I am thankful that a classmate posted on Facebook his early morning greeting to all us, delcaring from scripture ‘that this is the day that The Lord has made…I will rejoice and be glad in it’. Hearing that declaration put me in another mindset that my discomfort today pales in comparison to what others are facing today in their lives. Intense heartache is only a neighbor or community away and while I don’t want to venture outside today I will spend today taking care of myself and asking God to take care of the heartaches outside of my reach.

Oops–in the attempt to become better acquainted with my blog site I believe that I deleted today’s post “A PJ Kind of Day”. Argh. Sorry about that to those of you following my blog.

The neighborhood I grew up in was a mixture of ‘salt of the earth’ people. Most of the breadwinners (in our case back in the 50’s and 60’s–the dads) were tradesmen, worked in one of several General Motors plants, or owned their own business. As my memory can recollect there had to be approximately 70 kids in the radius of the city block that was ‘my world’ for a long time. Along with the differences in jobs were the various churches that each family chose to attend on Sunday, or in the case of our Catholic families, Saturday.

Our little neighborhood had a representation of Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, and Methodist believers. Additionally, we had families that chose not to attend church at all. I remember attending a Sunday evening church service with my Baptist playmate and wondering why someone attended church twice on a Sunday. In the case of my Catholic playmates I was curious about their Saturday evening mass schedule and I found myself being jealous of their seemingly extra days off private school in honor of a saint. They also wore school uniforms while I had the luxury of wearing a variety of outfits during my entire public school education years. (Now, I honestly wonder who had the easier option?)

In the summer months I attended several Vacation Bible School programs, all at churches that were not my own. On family vacations with my Uncle Dave we attended the Free Methodist church wherever he was currently serving as the pastor. Once, during my young elementary school age years, we attended church with dad’s parents; that little church was of the Nazarene denomination. It was a big deal that we were in their midst–they truly made certain that the congregation knew that Brother Clarence and Sister Sadie had family with them that long ago Sunday morning. (I was horrified that we had to stand as our family was introduced)

In the last 10 years plus, I’ve had occasion to worship with a dear friend who lives in San Jose. Closer to home I’ve worshiped with the family of my oldest brother over the last three years in their Lutheran church homes as well as with  the Presbyterian church family of another brother. 

Why is this a subject matter on my mind today? It’s significant to me today for deep, sentimental feelings. This past weekend I attended church with a dear best friend, a friend that has been part of my life since our junior high years. Our families attended the same church when we were children. We were members of the same confirmation class, sang in church choirs together, and were part of the high school youth group. 

Last summer we were guests at this particular friend’s Lake Huron cottage which included Sunday morning, so we naturally chose to worship at a Lutheran church attended by the uncle and aunt to my friend. (I’m quite certain that our presence boosted the attendance that sunny morning) The worship was sweet and the message was powerful as we heard a report from a wonderful missionary.

But, back to this past weekend. As I sat in the sanctuary in my friend’s church, or as I was on my feet during the singing, it occured to me that in my 50+ years I  indeed have been in many churches and the primary principle that rings through the differences in doctrine and traditions is that God has been in those various Houses of worship. His spirit was welcomed, His name was lifted high, and  His people responded to the Word presented in each setting. I have come to realize that no ‘style’, ‘method’, or ‘program’ can limit the ability of God to show up, to usher in His presence and for that I am truly grateful, for I know that the mature believer does not limit God’s power and desire to fill our hearts as we worship Him regardless of the name on the front of the building.

Seeing these images in my mind and sensing it in my spirit is the picture I have of Heaven. There will be no denominations, no styles, no programs, no doctrinal issues that divide us in the ‘flesh’ at times. Yes, that truth of revelation to me in recent years was confirmed again this weekend. In Heaven God Is In the House……and how glorious it will be to be among all the different tribes, nations, and tongues of His people. I will enter Heaven one great day and as my eyes scan the masses looking for family members who have gone ahead of me I will also be peering to find those childhood friends, not seen in many years but remembered all the same. And in another part of the crowd will be ALL of my best friends, my ‘real friends’. Together, with the masses already enjoying their rewards of Heaven,  we will proclaim that “God is in the house!” and mysteriously forget which name was on the church building that we faithfully attended pursuing the One Who makes all things possible by ‘new life in Him’.

“Real”: True and actual, not imaginary, alleged or ideal.

I have to look back to that time in life where I have discovered that I do not like “fake”. Whether it is in something tangible like my food or more importantly my friendships, I plain do not like fake. As an example, once I tasted pure vanilla extract versus the imitation product I had to ask myself “why would anyone want the fake stuff when the ‘real’ deal is a taste this side of Heaven?” To top it off, a dear friend of mine shared with me her version for creating pure vanilla extract and since making a batch or two I would never return to using anything but the ‘real deal’. This same concept has been pouring into other areas of my life as well and that would have to do with my friendships.

Just as I desire and actually crave ‘real’ food, I have hungered for ‘real’ friendships, especially in the last 10 to 15 years. When I look back over that time period, I can see that these years held some very significant events in my life. We lost both mothers, said goodbye to some cherished uncles, and endured the joys and pains of children navigating through their teenage years on into their own young adulthood, which have included its own share of great joy and hurt. Most recently, in 2012 we said goodbye to my beloved father.

During all of these various events I needed and found ‘real’ friends, those who didn’t give trite counsel or held a judgement in their hearts when our kids floundered with life decisions. No, instead, what we most often received was genuine concern, a word of encouragement, a hug or the gift of silence, the kind of silence that let us know we were loved and furthermore, understood. We received a good ‘real’.

I also am aware that I need to be a ‘real’ friend to those who have allowed me into their lives as well. A self confession is the inability to be this kind of friend 100% of the time but not always achieving perfection does not deter me from my goal. Quite the contrary. When I realize I have failed, I encourage myself to take a step back, self evaluate and refocus on the importance of being sincere, genuine, honest, and reliable without compromising my values or character.

So, do I have this huge circle of friends? Actually, the answer to that question is ‘no’. But, oh, do I have a TIGHT circle of friends who have emerged from the pages of my life. I have the kind of friends that physical distance holds no power and close-by friends who bring joy, laughter, and a sense of completeness. Even the kind of friends who don’t find it awkward when an amount of time elapses between conversations and pick right up where we left off over the LAST cup of coffee.

In this brief attempt to share from this aspect of who I am, I would be remiss not to mention my ‘real’ true friend. His name is Jesus and He is real. He is the Alpha and Omega of the created and of my life. It is He Who has taught me what “real’ is and how ‘real’ should look in my character. When I do things correctly He cheers and spurs me onto greater and better
achievements. When I falter and even fail, He is gentle yet truthful bringing me necessary conviction and correction. How does He do this? Through the written Word and most importantly, through my ‘real’ friends.

Do you desire more ‘real’? I hope so. When you discover the benefits of ‘real’ you will, hopefully, never settle for less. And if you want to know how to create pure vanilla it’s this simple: Purchase a pint of vodka, add 3 to 4 vanilla beans that have been slightly opened with a paring knife. Store the bottle in a cool, dark place and let ‘ferment’ for three months. Get out your recipes and enjoy!