PeriZahnd.com

I must have messed up my knee Tuesday night. Ashlie, my darling daughter-in-law, and I were out walking and having a grand old time–two other neighbors had joined us, it had gotten dark, we were doing our fifth mile, and I still had plenty of energy. Ashlie and I were running up a hill–I had my throttle wide open, going as fast as I could, and I looked over at her running next to me and said, "I feel like beating you this time." She looked at me and took off like the Roadrunner, leaving me in her dust. God knows I need humbling on a regular basis.

I felt great when I went to bed a little later, but when I first stepped out of bed the next morning, something had gone very wrong with my left knee. It was all wobbly, felt like it wouldn’t support me. I was mystified, and limped around all day. It hurt a little, but not too bad, it just felt like I was going to fall on the ground with every step I took.

This bummed me out. No exercise today. And our annual summer vacation mountain climbing trip was just a few weeks away. I know too many people with bad knees that never get better. I asked my Father to heal it, and continued to baby it. I woke up this morning, and even before I got out of bed, I knew I was once again 100 percent well. WOO–HOO! I’M HEALED!!! THANK YOU JESUS!!!!

OK, OK, I can see you rolling your eyes, thinking "religious fanatic" and that it probably just healed up of its own accord, after a day of rest. "It’s not a miracle at all, just the restorative power of the human body."

Excuse me??? The restorative power of the human body??? WHO gave it that restorative power? Show me another machine that can spontaneously "heal" itself! Your car? I don’t think so! This computer? hahahahaha… Only LIVING things have that power–and where does that life come from?

George MacDonald said, "The miracles of Jesus are the works of His Father wrought small and swift that we might take them in." His protege, C.S. Lewis, said, "Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see."

Jesus turned water to wine at a wedding, and all marveled. But His Father turns water to wine everyday, on a far grander scale, albeit much slower. He causes WATER to fall from the sky onto vineyards, for that water to soak the ground below and to be absorbed into the roots of those vines. He causes the sun to shine, and uses the energy from the sun to cause grapes to grow, which are then harvested and pressed. The juice from those grapes is put into barrels or bottles, and voila! WINE results! Who else can do such a thing? No one, it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

Jesus brought Lazarus, a man dead four days, back to life. But the Father continues His project of bringing millions from death to life, from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of light. It’s on a much bigger scale, but shrouded in mystery and promise, a regeneration that is very slowly worked out, seen and understood only by those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.

Who healed my knee? God healed my knee! Was it "supernatural"? I don’t know, and I really don’t care. It doesn’t matter. God is the source of everything that’s good in my life. I’m rejoicing that my knee is back to normal, and walked two miles this morning just to make sure. I’m trying hard to take good care of the body God gave me, since it’s the only one I have. I know it’s not going to last forever, and someday will let me down. I want to have the grace and maturity to praise Him no matter what. He is my All in All.

A semi-amazing thing has happened, a further unfolding of the prodigal cat saga. In case you missed the story which I posted in March, we adopted two 5 month old kittens from the pound in January. It turned out to be a very frustrating experience, and in the end I cast them both into the outer darkness (the great outdoors in this case). I finally had my fill of taking care of cats who hated me and refused to interact in anyway. (there’s a spiritual lesson here.) After a few days, Buechner (named after one of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner) humbled herself and came home. It was a while before she was fully domesticated, but we now have a cordial, and occasionally very loving, relationship.

Her sister, however, Yancey (after Philip Yancey, another favorite author) hardened her heart, hissed out her hatred, and set off to see what the wide world had to offer her. We caught a glimpse of her in the bushes late one night about two weeks later, but finally realized she was gone for good. Or so we thought.

Last night I took a walk, and ended up in my neighbor’s yard visiting. Ironically, Gary was telling the story of how he once shot a cat who was stinking up his yard with a 22 automatic handgun. He was telling how he fired five shots— bam! bam! bam! bam! bam!—and the cat just stood there. He was shocked, wondered how he could have missed, and fired again. Bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! The cat looked at him, and then fell over on his side. Dead. With ten bullet holes. Gary said he felt like a real gangster, went to the garage, wiped his gun off, and then got a brown paper bag, put the cat inside, and walked down the road. When no one was looking, he tossed the bag in the ditch.

I said, "Ok, neighbor—I want you to know I have a CAT. And I don’t want her shot full of holes. In fact, I used to have TWO cats, I just haven’t seen one of them in a few months." We then began to discuss what these two cats looked like, and Gary assured me the other thing had happened a long time ago, and he had no intention of repeating his crime.

It had gotten dark while we were talking, and I was going to head home when suddenly a cat appeared at the edge of the yard. I couldn’t see it very clearly, thought it might be Buechner, but realized there was too much white fur—they are both long haired, but Buechner is a chocolate and caramel calico, while Yancey is a grey and white tabby.

I wondered if perhaps, ironically, my prodigal had returned.

The cat darted about the yard in the dark, meowing plaintively. And so I began to also dart about the yard, creeping as I got closer. She ran across the street into a construction site, and hid in some weeds. The only way I could locate her was the continued meow, an invitation to come closer, to not give up the search. Everytime I would draw near, she would run a few yards further away. She led me on a chase, and then began to throw herself on her back and squirm as if she wanted to be picked up. This was one confused cat, but five minutes into the pursuit, I knew it was Yancey. Amazing.

I spent about fifteen minutes in the dark playing this game with her. She would draw close to my outstretched fingers, but when I tried to touch her, she would run.

It was frustrating, but this was my cat, and I was surprised at the affection I felt for her, despite my exasperation. And then I did touch her, and she wilted. She came willingly into my arms, and I carried her home, stroking her all the way.

She was a mess. She was covered with cockleburs and matted hair, and there wasn’t much meat on her bones. Living away from the master’s house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I took her inside, into the laundry room, and got some cat food for her, and she began to inhale it. I spent forty five minutes trying to clean her up, and she ate most of that time like a starved wolf. It was pathetic.

I was trying to be gentle, but occasionally she would hiss at me when I pulled a little too hard on her hair. She was starved for food, but she was also starved for affection, and she wanted to be loved. She frantically stuck her nose under my hand again and again, wanting to be petted.

Yancey spent the night in the laundry room, and was docile and calm when I got up this morning. I hadn’t completely got the mats and burrs out, but she was decidedly improved. I decided to take her outside.

Buechner was asleep under the grill, and got up when I opened the door. I sat Yancey down, she saw Buechner, arched her back and hissed. "Good grief, it’s your sister," I said. Buechner was indifferent.

I saw Yancey a little later, running around the side of the house. I hope she’s around tonight. I can only do what I can do. The rest is up to Yancey.

Paris Hilton and St. Francis of Assisi–a study in contrasts….

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Paris Hilton went back to jail yesterday. She went crying and screaming, "It’s not fair!" And then, "Mom!" And if Mom could have prevented it, she would have. She’s always been able to before, but not now.

I’m happy for her, and more hopeful than ever! That’s not sarcasm, and it’s not malice, not a matter of wanting to see her suffer. But this is the first time Paris Hilton has had to face a higher authority, when her money and social status has not been able to buy her out of a jam.

I’ve been thinking about what I would say to Paris Hilton if somehow we were alone in a room for an hour—what I might say to try to convince her that the Christian life is real and authentic and that Jesus is the answer—HER answer. How I would try to make her see that she is living a life heading for disaster—a life of death heading for more death. I wasn’t feeling real hopeful at the prospect of convincing her to rethink her life.

Luke’s account of the Sermon on the Mount lists some "woes"—"Woe to you who are rich, for you are receiving your comfort in full. Woe to you who are well-fed now, for your shall be hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep." Jesus is remarking that those who have no needs, or who sense no needs, are in danger of missing out on the Kingdom of God. They are happy with the way things are, and therefore don’t desire change, don’t hungry and thirst after something different.

Even the secular media is decrying the shameless narcissism and me-attitudes of the twenty-something Hollywood crowd. They seem to live for nothing but pleasure, for one party after another. They have no sense of social obligation—in actuality, no obligations whatsoever. But now Paris, the poor little rich girl, has an opportunity she’s never had before. She has an opportunity to do nothing at all for forty-five days–no parties, no shopping, no friends, just time to think. And that opportunity comes right upon the heels of learning that she really is not the master of her fate, the captain of her ship, the one who calls all the shots. There is a higher authority she has to answer to.

So I said a prayer for Paris, that she might at last, like the prodigal son of the Gospels, "come to herself." That she would suddenly realize that there is more to life, an obligation, that she would become aware of the reality of God. Paris has had what some would consider a privileged life—and this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

I went with my parents today to decorate the graves of their parents. I lost my first grandparent, my dad’s dad, in 1973. Grammy was widowed for 31 years, after having been married for 47–lots of years, but not so surprising when you know she lived to be 100. My mom’s mom died at age 82 in 1989, and her husband lived seven years after her. Their graves are all right here in town.

We had to drive out to the country to see the great grandparents graves, and assorted other special aunts and uncles and other relatives. I got to hear a lot of stories. Tombstones also tell a lot of stories, mostly sad ones.

This is the grave marker of my great grandparents, my mother’s mother’s mother Nellie and her husband Rufus Shepherd. She was born in 1870, and he was born in 1873. They married and had a baby boy, who they had to bury–a blond haired, blue eyed boy named Dale.

VELMA F.
Dau of
J.R. & N.A. SHEPHERD
Died Feb. 16, 1904
Aged 11 m. 6 d.

Rest sister rest in quiet sleep
While friends in sorrow over thee weep

My mom knew that Dale had died of spinal meningitis, while the baby Velma died of pneumonia. We would say that it was more sorrow than any couple could bear. But many did bear it. Infant mortality was high. It didn’t make it any easier.

Another girl would come three years later. Crystal Naomi. Rufus and Nellie had endured seven years of mourning and waiting and hoping, but Crystal would live, have six children of her own, and one day become my grandma.

And then came the boy, Vern. How Nellie loved her boy! He would stay right there in King City all his life, and work at the train depot. He walked home every day for lunch, and one day at lunchtime, at age 47, he opened his front door and fell inside dead of a heart attack

My mom remembers Vern–she loved him too. She remembers seeing her Grandma Nellie at the funeral, inconsolable, wailing, "My boy, my boy!" and kissing his cold face repeatedly. What pain she must have suffered when the two little ones died. She was widowed early, at age 53 in 1923, and stayed a widow for many years. As an old woman in her eighties, she married Mr. Blessing. And that’s what she called him too! No one seems to remember if he had a first name. But he turned out to be a blessing to Grandma Shepherd, if only for a few years.

There was another daughter, eight years younger than Crystal–her name was Alma. My own mother’s children came just like Grandma Nellie’s did, the girl–me, a boy two years later, and then six years later, another girl. Aunt Alma was married but remained childless all her life–she was like a second mother to Crystal’s brood of six.

I saw more sad stories in tombstones today–

Maryann and Ruth Ann, who left D. Spainhower widowed twice. Maryann died in 1848, 32 years old. Ruth Ann, his second wife, died in 1854 at age 33. The markers are nearly identical, except that the second one is taller. Perhaps D. has become a little more prosperous? Again, death was a frequent early visitor at this time in history, but no more welcome then than now.

This is Nellie’s mother and father, my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother and father. Their tombstone is in surprisingly good shape–either someone replaced it along the way, or I need to find out what type it is and make sure I buy the same thing. Stephen and Elizabeth lived in Maysville, Missouri, and my Aunt Alma informed me when she gave me their portrait that Stephen had the first brick house in Maysville and the first store-bought suit. Everybody’s got to have their claim to fame! I have that portrait hanging in our family room next to the woodburning stove.

I hate death. Death is the last enemy. Someday death will be swallowed up in victory. Nellie and Rufus will be reunited with all five of their children, and their parents Stephen and Elizabeth. And won’t they be excited when they get to meet me!

I taught a class tonight on Old Testament History and had a lot of fun. I stayed after for almost another hour discussing the history of Israel after Christ and visiting. As I drove home, I realized I was a little hungry and decided to run through a drive-up window. I hadn’t had time for a real supper before class, and I wanted a taco!

Taco Bell is the only fast food restaurant we frequent on a regular basis—it’s a weakness. Brian religiously drives through every Friday night late on his way home from church, and religiously orders three tacos without exception. I need a little more frivolity in my life. I like to mix it up. He never knows what I’ll order, and I also usually manage to sneak in another visit sometime during the week.

It was 9:30 and there were three cars ahead of me in line. I pulled into position and reached for my purse. Hmm. It wasn’t where I usually toss it. I squirmed around and searched the back seat and the floor of the back seat. Oh no, no purse. I am such a scatterbrain. I’ve left it back at the church.

I quickly looked to see if I could back out of line. Oh no, there are already two cars pulled in behind me, and no way out. For a brief second I considered jumping out of the car and running back and asking them to back up, and realized how ridiculous that would look. So I frantically began to search the car for errant quarters or other loose change. No luck.

Oh no, I’m next in line to order. I pull up to the little box, and rolled my window down. I guess I thought I owed somebody an explanation. A voice said, "Welcome to Taco Bell, please order whenever you’re ready." I opened my mouth to start to say I don’t know what. Nothing came out. I hit the accelerator and rolled my window back up.

I pulled up behind the two cars waiting at the window, and sat there. When the one in front of me had got their order, I again accelerated, driving right past the window, looking straight ahead. I felt stupid. I could have stopped and explained, but I thought I would feel stupider.

I drove back to the church and got my purse, and went on home. I really didn’t need a taco tonight.

Is God real? If He is, then all this talk that "He is whoever He is to YOU" is nonsense. He is who He IS. In fact, He said something startlingly similar once, talking to a guy named Moses at a place where a shrub was on fire. Then He told the guy to take his shoes off. In many cultures, probably that one too, slaves are the barefoot ones. I think God was letting Moses know in no uncertain terms that He was the boss man, He was in charge here–what He said was the way it was.

This is part of the very foundation of the Bible narrative. God establishes his supremacy very early in the story. God is God, and you are not. You are a puny little human, a strange hybrid of animal and angel. You have been given a sacred and unique opportunity that no animal enjoys, the ability to know God. And you better watch out. Yes, you can become the friend of God–stop and think about that–but He can also crush and destroy you if you don’t relate rightly to Him. You’d better get your act together. Oh, worship the Lord and tremble before Him!

I see way too many "Christian" people who have a funny idea about who God is. Bob Dylan says they think He’s just an errand boy to satisfy their wandering desires. And when He doesn’t, when they face disappointment, sometimes in big things, but sometimes in surprisingly small things, they say they’re "mad at God." Whenever people tell me that, which happens fairly often, I cringe. I think they’re treading on dangerous ground. Proverbs says repeatedly, "The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, the beginning of knowledge."

I claim to "know" God. There is an absurdity, though, in that statement, a preposterousness. How can anyone "know" God? We can know God only because He wants to be known. And one of our main jobs here on earth is, with every ounce of being we possess, to press in and to struggle to know Him better, to explore and ponder and examine and wrestle and come to a deeper knowledge of Who He is. It the glory of God to conceal a matter, and the glory of kings to seek out a matter.

We do that by reading and studying diligently the Bible, a book divinely given to us that we might know Him, but not reading and studying apart from experiencing life. We must do these things and live this life with an attitude of humility, knowing we are flawed, knowing we must change, receiving from one another and from the gifts God gave the church, which includes pastors and teachers. We learn when we combine what we are taught from the Bible with those experiences we all encounter going through life—heartaches, disappointments, disagreements, and yes, some joyful milestones, too. We come to know God when we interact with and come to know others, when we are children, parents, spouses, neighbors, co-workers, and every other kind of relationship there is.

We think we know God, and then we are brought up short when something unexpected happens. What must be foundational in our understanding is that when there is a conflict, the problem is OURS, not His. We must change. He is God, He does not change.

There are disappointments so deep that the word does not do them justice–the betrayal of a friend, the betrayal of a spouse, the breaking of covenant. The death of a loved one whose healing we had prayed for and been convinced would happen. These things shake our faith, steal our joy. They can be for us the "dark night of the soul," the times we feel comfortless, bereft, empty and confused. They are the times when we sense an evil presence stalking us and looking for an opportunity to consume and destroy us. We must fight through that darkness, resist that enemy–believe that God is creating something glorious in us, and will, after we have suffered for a little while, perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle us. We will go through that dark night and come out into the sunshine of His grace changed, transformed, and enriched. That is the essence of true faith, the hope of glory.

To be angry at our Creator God is a form of insanity. To turn our backs on the only One who can help us, the Answer, is surely the epitome of foolishness. I know people who have essentially said, "I’m mad at you, God, so I won’t go to your house anymore. I’m mad, and I’m going to do the things I gave up when I decided to follow you. I’ll be like a dog returning to his own vomit. God, you didn’t do what I asked. I’ll show you!" Little man, little man, your arms are far too short to box with God.

Job’s attitude was, "Though He slay me, I will trust Him." God wasn’t trying to kill Job, but from Job’s perspective, it felt like it. Yet He knew God was His only hope. We need to fall in His arms of mercy and grace, and trust Him when we don’t understand. I know and am convinced that God is good, but even if He weren’t, God would still be God.

Exodus 3
Psalm 96:9
Proverbs 1:7, 29-31
Proverbs 25:2
Ephesians 4:11, 12
Malachi 3:6
I Peter 5:8-10
Proverbs 4:18
Psalm 32:3,4
Psalm 35:15
Psalm 41:9
2 Peter 2:22
Job 13:15

We travelers, walking to the sun, can’t see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

VI, Sabbaths 1999
Wendell Berry

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It was when I was happiest that I longed most…
The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing…
to find the place where all the beauty came from"

C.S. Lewis

You’ve heard the saying, "A book can take you places you’ve never been." Think of a memory of a place you visited as a child, and then the memory of a place you visited in a vivid, well-written book, especially a book you read as a child. There’s not much difference, is there? Those "places" are preserved in roughly the same way in your mind, like a dream. Think of a dream that was so real you have difficulty knowing whether it really happened.

I loved my grandmother’s house, the house of my childhood, the house she moved from when I was fourteen. A couple of years ago I drew the entire floor plan from memory, as a way to savor and remember things that happened there—the hall closet, the clothes chute, the basement with the fruit cellar, the wonderful attic. I also loved the house I visited in the Narnia books, the professor’s rambling old country house. I was at my grandmother’s house hundreds of times, but I’ve also visited the professor’s house time and again, and I know it too, and consider it a very special place I love to revisit in my mind and in my reading.

One of the most memorable books I ever read was Lilith, by George McDonald. George McDonald lived in the nineteenth century in England, and was a mentor and great inspiration to C.S. Lewis and other great writers of the twentieth century. No, they never met, but Lewis treasured his books, acknowledges his inspiration, and even put together an anthology of his writings. (A great example of knowing something or someone you’ve never met, except in books.) George McDonald also appears by name in the Lewis masterpiece, The Great Divorce, as the guide who explains much of what heaven is about.

The book Lilith is a Christian allegory, and starts out in a wonderful rambling old English house. Much of the main floor is a library, and rooms have been added on somewhat haphazardly as the library has grown. It is an impressive house, nonetheless, and described in vivid detail. As I read, I began to love that house, as well.

Some unusual people live in that house, including an old librarian, who doubles as a butler, wears an old black suit with tails, and one day becomes a bird, a black raven, whose tail looks a little like that of the old black suit. Things are not always as they seem! He lures and beckons the owner of that house to venture places he’s not been before…..and the man, Mr. Vane, finds himself entering another world through a portal he finds in the house….

WAIT A MINUTE!!!! I’m suddenly gasping for air! I’ve read this before! This is Narnia! This is where C.S. Lewis found Narnia!!!!

I was indignant for a moment, even perhaps a little angry. But then I realized everyone is inspired by something, very little in this world is truly original, and C.S. Lewis took a great idea, and created something very unique and truly awesome, and never hid the fact that this man was a huge inspiration to him. I read on.

The first few chapters of this book were brilliant. There are few books that have made such a dramatic impact on me. I could visualize everything that happened so graphically. Once the talking raven had hopped outside in the rain, and tried to entice Mr. Vane to leave the safety of the house and follow him. A few days later, I was driving in the rain, and passed a house where a large black bird was sitting in the yard. I nearly slammed on my brakes, thinking for just a second it was surely Mr. Raven, that mysterious bird librarian.

One of the most memorable quotes from the book is this small conversation that Brian often quotes: (he wrote about McDonald here )

Mr. Raven: This is the way.

Mr. Vane: I am quite content where I am.

Mr. Raven: You think so, but you are not. Come along.

This book is a Christian allegory, a journey, a pilgrim’s progress. I loved the first few chapters, couldn’t put it down in fact, and was so excited about finishing it, so surprised that it wasn’t a well known classic. I thought I’d found true hidden treasure. And then disappointment set in. Things began to be very, very strange.

The whole book took a strange turn. Not just a strange chapter, or section. I mean things got so weird I had a hard time finishing the book. Mr. Vane was traveling, traveling, and things weren’t going at all like I expected. It was just very, very strange, confusing.

Of course, you could say that sometimes it seems that’s the way the Christian life is! Strange and confusing! I persevered through the book, but it was tough. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that the beginning had been so wonderful, that surely it would get back on track.

I finally managed to make it to the end, and it did resolve—Mr. Vane did "make it" to his destination, but I was incredibly disappointed—the end was anticlimactic for sure.

But the images of those first few chapters were indelibly imprinted upon my mind. I found myself revisiting that place again and again in my thoughts. And so a year later, I tried the book again. With much the same results. The beginning was thrilling, and then turned to confusion. I didn’t finish the second time through. I found myself happy that Lewis had taken up where McDonald left off and created something that millions of people have thrilled to. But I’m sure I’ll try again….I just can’t get that book out of my mind.

EDIT–18 hours later: This blog was written late at night–upon re-reading I wish I hadn’t said "incredibly disappointed"….I still think about the book all the time. I think the problem was not the book, but me. I will definitely be giving it another shot….

On a personal note: I still have a cat. Sort of. I hadn’t seen her since LAST Sunday, a week ago, but she showed up tonight on the deck after a day of monsoon rain and came inside. She couldn’t get enough loving, crawled all over me, loving me and purring somewhat hoarsely, she must have caught cold! And then the silly thing wanted back out, and it started to rain again, she was huddled up against the house on the deck, but wouldn’t come in, and ran when I tried to pick her up. (still a little addle-brained) So I left the door open for a while, and went to get some clothes out of the dryer. A few minutes later, my son was shooing something off the deck—it was a POSSUM! And there the door was standing wide open! I would have freaked for sure if that critter had come in….thank God he didn’t.

It’s just that the waves have knocked me flat over.
I must have lost my four leaf clover.
I reach for the slippery rock,clinging tothe shore just so,
My other half being dragged to the depths by the dark undertow.
I can hardly breath, the air is so heavy in my lungs.
My thoughts rush to scenes of the freedom I had so sung.
WhenI ran, never to be outrun
Endless energy
Brilliance
Oh!

I laughed then but now I make no sound
And all around me the darkness pounds
But I still try until my power has run dry
I find myselfon all fours, shaking,and I wondered why
I don’t feel a hand to pull me up
From the cold, I feel so old, no longer bold…Wassup?
A hand, it’s mine,in the humid air, waving, wondering
Who’s there?

Wondering again who will reach for me…
A true friend or another?
The one kind who willmake me smother
Or the other of an angel of light who will make everything alright…
And I will again shine so bright.

—Peter in Thailand

I read this on a xanga today. I liked it, like a modern day psalm. It made me remember one of the most powerful and memorable dreams I’ve ever had….

I was staying in a hotel all by myself, an unusual thing. I went to bed feeling melancholy and troubled about some things.

I dreamed I was on the beach, playing in the surf, and got caught by a huge wave. It pulled me under, tumbled me around, roughed me up, and really scared me but I finally came to the surface, gasping for breath.

Then suddenly, another wave took me under. This one was rougher yet, and it seemed like I tumbled and was drug for a long time. Again, when I came up, I was unhurt, but devastated when I saw how far I was from the shore. I knew there was no way I could swim that far. I was overwhelmed by fear and h opelessness, and then–things got worse. I glanced the other direction, and saw a shark right beside me in the water. Panic seized me, and I raised my arms to strike him, the only thing I could do, at the same time realizing how futile it was to fight a shark by hitting him.

As I stared at the shark, so sure I was about to die, I suddenly realized to my great relief that it was no shark, but a dolphin! I put my outstretched arms around him, and he begin to swim toward the shore. I was confident he was going to take me all the way in. The ride was exhilarating, like nothing I had ever experienced. I knew I would remember this ride all my life, and couldn’t believe how blessed I was! I knew I would treasure this memory and be able to tell everyone how God had sent help in a miraculous way—the thrill and goodness of the ride far overshadowed the fear I had had just a few minutes before.

Then I awoke. I laid there for a few minutes, just basking in the pleasure of the dream. Then I realized that God HAD sent me help! His Spirit in me would make up for every inadequacy I had. He can do great and exceedingly abundantly beyond all we can ask or think!

I still remember that dream vividly, and treasure it.

I love THIS from my very favorite blogger.

Psalm 19 is a favorite, and I copied it down into my journal just a month ago….I’ve been meditating on it and working on memorizing it.

How anyone can deny that God lives and is actively and constantly at work is a puzzlement–they have made a choice not to believe. They are "suppressing the truth in unrighteousness, because that which is known about God is evident within them; for God made it evident to them. For since the creation of the world his invisible attributes, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made. so that they are without excuse." Paul says it so much better than I could.

What insanity it is to do anything but to throw ourselves at his feet and beg for mercy! What wonder to realize that he loves us and is not only willing to forgive but is passionately desiring a deep abiding friendship with us!