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Dear Lindsey,
While pregnant with my third child, I had “Barbie doll leg syndrome” – the term I used to describe the feeling that my leg had disengaged from my body and was only being held together by a rubber band stretched Continue reading
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Pregnancy, although an answer to years of prayer for me, was not always the joy I thought it would be. For one of my four pregnancies, every morning began with morning sickness, which never seemed to understand when noon had come and gone. Continue reading
Dear Lindsey,
The kids were rewarded for delivering drugs! That’s all I remember from my college spring break trip to Washington D.C. We handed out food in a soup kitchen, took children from the inner city to an outer park to show them what green grass looked like (called the “Fresh Air Program”) and visited a “safe house” in the middle of a block; this particular block of tall apartment buildings was where children were taught to deliver the illegal drugs, to keep their parents out of jail.
The baby never left the papoose on the Navajo Indian reservation where I stayed one summer. Children were everywhere, but they all lived with their parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents in a two-room house with a hole in the roof (used as a chimney). The accommodations seemed impossible; I actually wished they would all go inside for a minute so I could see how they fit. While a team of us were replacing their roofs in 110 degree weather, the entire family of 16 stood around outside and marveled. Women and children came and went with buckets of water, carrying them from a nearby well. There was no running water or electricity, and barely a roof. This seemed like a third-world within our own US boundaries: outside of Newcomb, NM.
Last year, I had the opportunity to go to Brazil to visit the MORE Project. The charity has a center in the heart of the Brazilian favelas. As we walked through the “town”, only in daylight for safety, gang members seemed to be watching on every corner. We walked on slatted boards, under which the sewage ran and the smell wafted upward. We came to a home where several of the “More Project kids” lived. A 15-yr-old was in charge, holding the baby in her arms as the multiple others sat still to stare at us strangers. Later, we determined the baby belonged to the 15-yr-old. On the next block, two 13-yr-old girls approached, dressed as if they were 20. We were told the sad story of their choice to leave the MORE Project and go into prostitution for $1 a night. “They know no different,” Sergio said. “It is what is done here, until someone steps in and teaches otherwise.”
As I returned from each of the above trips, it was so hard to acclimate (even though they were less than one week each!). How do I spend $75 to put gas into my sport utility when there is such need? How do I take a hot shower every day and think, “There is no food in this house,” with a full pantry. Did I really think “I have nothing to wear” to that wedding? Ugh. Perspective. I wish I would never lose it.
As we remember the Holy Week this week – the anniversary marking the last days of Jesus’s life on earth, I am thankfully given perspective. As He was beaten, mocked, and deserted, Jesus didn’t retaliate, nor even speak in defense, but played the part that God had designed. He “drank the cup” and died the death, so that I may live eternally. As we remember Him, may we keep the eternal perspective that He intended. He cares about the children in DC, the Navajo Indians, the Brazilian favelas, and even me. We are blessed indeed. Life: May we keep it in perspective.
Love ya,
Terri
John 17:23 “ I in them, and You in Me; that they may be made perfect in one, and that the world may know that You have sent Me, and have loved them as You have loved Me.”
Dear Lindsey,
I got one of those emails today that made me stop and think. A soldier was asking it to be passed on, so I thought I would forward it to you. Please continue to keep soldiers in prayer, as they are paying a great price. I saw in the news today how one heroically laid down his life for a young girl. Many will not make the news story, but they and their families are so valued in my eyes, as is anyone who serves others above him/herself. I am so grateful for not only the soldiers, but their wives/husbands/families who sacrifice the “average life” to obtain more for us all.
Thank you!
And when you read to the end, you can probably add, “A soldier finds it hard to listen to someone be exasperated over her dog’s behavior.” I love how the Lord gently gives us perspective.
WHEN A SOLDIER COMES HOME
This email is being circulated around the world – please keep it going
When a soldier comes home, he finds it hard…
…to listen to his son whine about being bored.
…to keep a straight face when people complain about potholes.
…to be tolerant of people who complain about the hassle of getting ready for work.
…to be understanding when a co-worker complains about a bad night’s sleep.
…to be silent when people pray to God for a new car.
…to control his panic when his wife tells him he needs to drive slower.
…to be compassionate when a businessman expresses a fear of flying.
…to keep from laughing when anxious parents say they’re afraid to send their kids off to summer camp.
…to keep from ridiculing someone who complains about hot weather.
…to control his frustration when a colleague gripes about his coffee being cold.
…to remain calm when his daughter complains about having to walk the dog.
…to be civil to people who complain about their jobs.
…to just walk away when someone says they only get two weeks of vacation a year.
…to be forgiving when someone says how hard it is to have a new baby in the house.
The only thing harder than being a Soldier…
Is loving one.
I was asked to pass this on, so I did.
God bless,
Terri
When my oldest was two, I played the saxophone in a praise band for an evening church service of singing. We didn’t practice during the week, which meant we arrived an hour early and worked to be ready. I always Continue reading
Dear Lindsey,
At church, the pastor was praying. I guess it was a little longer than my 2-year-old’s attention span, because in the middle of the prayer, Casey began saying, “Amen!” louder and louder, trying to get the pastor to hear it and “obey.” I guess patience was not his innate virtue. 🙂
-Terri
Dear Lindsey,
I just thought I would update you, because you have asked how Nate is doing since his skiing injury 2/24- which was reinjured when he tried to Continue reading
Dear Lindsey,
You are familiar with the success principle:
1. Define (what you want to accomplish, Lord willing)
Dear Lindsey,
I am just arriving home from Rome, Italy! Ah, the beautiful country and Continue reading
A few months before I was born, my dad met a stranger who was new to our small Tennessee town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer, and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around to welcome me into the world a few months later.
As I grew up I never questioned his place in our family. In my young mind, each member had a special niche. My brother, Bill, five years my senior, was my example. Fran, my younger sister, gave me an opportunity to play “big brother” and develop the art of teasing. My parents were complementary instructors– Mom taught me to love the word of God, and Dad taught me to obey it.
But the stranger was our storyteller. He could weave the most fascinating tales. Adventures, mysteries and comedies were daily conversations. He could hold our whole family spell-bound for hours each evening.
If I wanted to know about politics, history, or science, he knew it all. He knew about the past, understood the present, and seemingly could predict the future. The pictures he could draw were so life like that I: would often laugh or cry as I watched.
He was Iike a friend to the whole family. He took Dad, Bill and me to our first major league baseball game. He was always encouraging us to see the movies and he even made arrangements to introduce us to several movie stars. My brother and I were deeply impressed by John Wayne in particular.
The stranger was an incessant talker. Dad didn’ t seem to mind-but sometimes Mom would quietly get up– while the rest of us were enthralled with one of his stories of faraway places– go to her room, read her Bible and pray. I wonder now if she ever prayed that the stranger would leave.
You see, my dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions. But this stranger never felt obligation to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our house– not from us, from our friends, or adults. Our longtime visitor, however, used occasional four letter words that burned my ears and made Dad squirm. To my knowledge the stranger was never confronted. My dad was a teetotaler who didn’t permit alcohol in his home – not even for cooking. But the stranger felt like we needed exposure and enlightened us to other ways of life. He offered us beer and other alcoholic beverages often.
He made cigarettes look tasty, cigars manly, and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (probably too much too freely) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I know now that my early concepts of the man-woman relationship were influenced by the stranger,
As I look back, I believe it was by the grace of God that the stranger did not influence us more. Time after time he opposed the values of my parents. Yet he was seldom rebuked and never asked to leave.
More than thirty years have passed since the stranger moved in with the young family on Morningside Drive. He is not nearly so intriguing to my Dad as he was in those early years. But if I were to walk into my parents’ den today, you would still see him sitting over in a corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.
His name? We always just called him TV.
– Anonymous
Dear Lindsey,
My Bible Study Fellowship leader, Carolyn Simpson, shared that Stranger story with me in Flint, MI, over a decade ago. It certainly has made me think twice when allowing our own “stranger” to talk to my children.
If I fill a ketchup bottle with mustard, it becomes a mustard bottle, right? Mustard is what would come out of it if the bottle got squeezed. Similarly, whatever is inside of me is what will come out whenever I get squeezed. Any time I am allowing influence into my life or the lives of my children, I am responsible to make sure it is something worthy of coming out when I get squeezed. The Bible says that out of the mouth, the heart overflows. Our hearts are influenced by the inputs into our lives: the people with whom we associate, the books we read, the media we watch. Somehow, the Stranger doesn’t often meet the qualification of that with which I want to be filled. I am so thankful the above author helped me reframe my former thinking about the Stranger who was always talking in the corner of our house. Without the TV, we have more time and room to be filled with the Good stuff.
God bless,
Terri
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