Texas Preacher Woman

Snatchin' and Grabbin': Sometimes It's a Good Thing

2012-02-02T16:24:00.000-08:00

"For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh (for the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh, but mighty before God to the casting down of strongholds), casting down imaginations, and every high thing that is exalted against the knowledge of God, and bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ . . . "

2 CORINTHIANS 10:3-5

Paul writes, “ . . . we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. . . “ Good preachin’ and hard livin’ . . . and lately, harder on most mornings than usual.

One morning last week the entire thought actually slipped out before I could grab it: I do not want to go to work. I do not want to do this.

The scary thing was that I meant it. At least at that moment. Yep, at that moment, I meant it with all my heart. I wanted to wave a magic wand and magically poof myself into Cinderella. (That particular morning I might have even enjoyed cleaning the fireplace.)

No, that’s not right—the Cinderella part, I mean—I think what I really wanted was to maybe be the ~~fluffy~~ voluptuous fairy godmother who gets to tap others with the magic wand while she’s flitting and floating around to wherever she sees something or someone needing her own special touch. (Stopping ever so often, of course, not only to enchantingly transform the lives of the downtrodden, but to decorate their homes, as well.)

But, the cool thing about being a 50-Plus Woman is that I’ve lived long enough to get what Paul means in verse 5: “casting down imaginations, and every high thing that is exalted against the knowledge of God and bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ . . . “

You see, I know that Papa has called me to this place that I sometimes call work and on other days the School House. I know that this is my Macedonia (at least for now). And, oh, brothers and sistas, how dangerous it would be for me to let my imaginations run wild until they become strongholds on those mornings when it is hard to leave the Casita and my projects and my journaling and my computer screen and my . . . well, you get the idea.

It is in those moments that my flesh-wants could so easily become the high things that I could then so naturally shift to exalting against the knowledge of God.

Thank God—literally!—that the Spirit within me rebels against that and refuses to collaborate with my flesh, instead, choosing to snatch up that thought, take it back into custody, and place it under the lordship of Jesus that the rest of me might follow in obedience. (I’m tellin’ you, Dog the Bounty Hunter ain’t got nothin’ on the Holy Spirit when it comes to snatchin’ up!)

I was called to Africa a couple of times. And for a while to the exotic streets of Pasadena. But these days, Papa has called me mostly to Seabrook. And, so help me God, I will be obedient.

Even on mornings when my imagination longs to take me elsewhere.

What about you? Do you ever struggle with where Papa has placed you? With the ministry He’s given you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Meanwhile,

Still grinning, still snatchin’,

Pamm

Sweat Equity

2012-01-26T10:37:00.000-08:00

St. Michael says I have absolutely no concept of time. (And, in turn, I have been known to refer to him as the Human Alarm Clock.) I started a project in our tiny little kitchen Saturday morning that I was positive I could finish by late afternoon or early evening. And I did finish . . . about one-third of it.

The thing is, what I thought of as a little change (with big results) took a lot longer than I thought it would. (I think I hear St. Michael guffawing in the background.) And it was a little bit harder. In fact, it's a good thing that the completed one-third looks soooooo yummy 'cause, otherwise, I'd be seriously tempted to leave everything else just like it is.

But when I look at the results of all that work -- even though it was nastier, harder, and more time-consuming than I had imagined it would be -- I can't help but admit that it was worth it. And after a short break (if that's what you can call spending the week teaching my sixth- and seventh-grade babies), I'll ready to put on my sandin', paintin', stainin' clothes and go at it again.

Spiritual change has been like that for me, too, sometimes.

There are times when I've been tempted to say, Papa, let's just stop right here. I'm too tired and too hurt, and this is all just to plain messy to go on any further. Please, PLEASE, can't You just leave me here?

Those are the moments that He's stopped me, taken me by the shoulders, and refocused me long enough for me to look back with Him at the work we've already done together and remember His pronouncement that it is good. And I do have to admit that our finished product--no matter how small a part of the whole--is good.

After a few more deep breaths, I feel the want-to return, and I know that I will expend myself, I will invest my resources, I will allow myself to experience pain--all for that reason, that just as His creative work was in the beginning, it is now: It is good.

And thus it is worth whatever the cost.

Excuse me while I change into my keep-on-keepin'-on clothes . . .

Grins and a little sweat,

Pamm

The Pink Candle

2011-12-13T07:37:00.000-08:00

Photo from featurepics.com

NOTE: I have no idea why the type on the first part of this post is pink AND in all caps . . . and I can't figure out how to fix it! Sorry!

Yes, I know this is not the continuation of the Being Thankful When You're a Basket Case! I don't know why I haven't been able to finish that series here in Blog Land, but I just haven't. I mean, I have the material and everything -- in fact, I shared that series at a women's retreat in Centerville, Texas in early October (at the FABULOUS Cowboy Church there and with some of the most incredible women ever!). But for some reason, I just haven't been able to sit down and put it on the computer . . . so instead of avoiding the keyboard, I'm just gonna skip it for now and go on with other stuff. (If any of you are hanging by a thread or waiting with bated breath for the rest of that series, E-mail me, and we'll "talk.")

So, with Christmas right here upon us (how did it get here so fast!), I'm forging on with some Christmas thoughts this morning . . .

After hearing a great message on joy last Sunday, I couldn't help but think of where I was a few years back when it came time to light that pink candle of joy in the Advent wreath. The truth about joy is as relevant today as it was then.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

My newspaper reading habits probably say as much about me as anything else. (I'm afraid to guess at exactly what, but I'm sure someone like Patrick Jane of The Mentalist or the Criminal Minds profiling team could tell you.) I never start with the front page -- in fact, I rarely ever get to the front page at all -- but instead, mumble each a.m. to St. Michael in my grumpy morning voice, "Gimme my section of the paper," which he knows refers to the Houston Chronicle's "Star" section (it has a big yellow Texas star top-center, duh!). This is where one finds the comics, Dear Abby (or is it Ann Landers?), and the daily crossword. (Obviously, I'm a lot shallower than I like to think.) I only venture from this routine on Saturdays, when "my section" includes the "Religion" insert, as well.

On the Saturday before Christmas, "A Blue Christmas" caught my attention in the "Upcoming Events" listings of the "Religion" section. A Houston church was advertising a special Monday evening service for those who were experiencing loss of, or separation from, loved ones or just the plain ol' holiday blues during the Christmas season. I seriously contemplated going. I could only remember one other Christmas when I'd felt as un-Christmasy as I was feeling now, and that was over thirty years ago when my parents were in Iran and I was a twenty-year-old, home by myself, state-side. Despite a last-minute flight to Atlanta to spend the holiday with a favorite aunt, I don't know that I've ever felt as alone and utterly forlorn as I did that Christmas. Ironically, the differences between my life in 1977 and my life now are too numerous to list, and yet the overwhelming sadness that wrapped itself around me by mid-December 2008 felt remarkably the same. Different time. Different circumstances. Same darkness.

The first two Sundays of Advent found me lighting the fat purple candles of hope and expectancy that sat on our family room coffee table. I was right on schedule, echoing the lightings taking place at our local church. As the third Sunday approached, however, with its pink candle of joy -- usually my favorite one to light -- I wondered how I'd manage to flic my bic when the time came. You see, I'm not one of those people who likes ritual for the sake of ritual. (In fact, that's one of the reasons I flinch when I hear someone describe me as religious. I don't see myself as religious at all in the sense that so much of religion for so many is wrapped up in meaningless rote and ritual that has very little, if anything, to do with a growing, dynamic relationship with Jesus Christ.) I tend to shy away from doing the usual if it has no meaning, even the "usual" that would normally be meaningful. Anything that's supposed to be worshipful has to be real for me; I don't want to get in the habit of faking it -- it's too hard a habit to break. Thus my dilemma: How to light the joy candle when Casey has struck out. When there is no joy in Mudville.

I began to talk about this with Papa-God. I began to review what joy was supposed to mean in the context of the believer's life, in this believer's life. Round and round we went. Sunday Number 3 came, and I did not light the pink candle.

Monday. I surrendered. I chose to practice what I preach. I chose joy. And I lit the pink candle.

In the days prior to and in the days since lighting the joy candle, more than ever before I've been reminded that joy is not happiness. Joy is not related to my circumstances, to my relationships, to what's going on or not going on in what I call my outer life. (My outer life being those things, people, and circumstances over which I have no control but which impact me because they venture into my space.) Instead, it's about my inner life and what's going on or not going on there. And that's where choice comes in. I may not have many choices when it comes to my outer life -- very seldom can I control what others think, say, or do. (Instead, their thoughts, words, and actions stem from the choices they make in their inner lives and how those choices work themselves out and then spill over onto me). I do control, though, my inner life. There is where my choices come into play. I can choose to allow Holy Spirit to take control of my thoughts, words, and actions or I can let my flesh take over (foolishly thinking that's the real me when it's really not since I'm a "new creature in Christ.")

Holy Spirit will always walk me in paths of righteousness with a deep, not-depending-on-the-outer-life, abiding joy, while Flesh Woman will consistently look for paths of least resistance leading to momentary, fleeting, flash-in-the-pan happiness, at best.

Hmmm, tough choice? Not really. No, YES, really! I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that for whatever reason, on some days the choice is tough. On some days, I shallowly want only the Star section of life; I don't want to see the front page or the business section or even the "Outlook" section of life. On some days, like a two-year-old, I just want what I want, how I want it, when I want it, and at that moment, to heck with the cost.

But for Christmas 2008 and, I pray, for the entirety of 2009, I choose to count the cost, and I choose joy.

I choose to remember that the foundation for my joy is Jesus Christ. Therefore, I will choose to stay connected to Him, doing whatever it takes to grow deeper in our relationship.

I choose to allow Papa-God to use difficult times to strengthen my joy, remembering that regardless of the circumstances of my outer life, there is always room for joy in my inner life. (And I'm a firm believer, if you haven't already guessed, that whatever's going on in my inner life will bubble up and spill over into and out onto the outer life.)

I will also choose to serve others, knowing that few things bring greater joy than doing something that brings joy into someone else's life. (Ah, that spilling out thing.) When we serve others in the name of Jesus, we honor Him and we experience joy.

And speaking of choices, I will remember that Papa-God chooses ordinary people with ordinary talents and equips them to do extraordinary things and to experience extraordinary joy . . . for this is the life He has designed for us.

[A special thanks to the preaching staff of Church of the Woodlands for the principles shared in those last few paragraphs.]

Here's to lighting the pink candle. Each of us. Every day.

Grins and joy!

Pamm

When It's Raining, When It's Pouring

2011-07-20T02:49:00.000-07:00

Source: BelovedandFree.blogspot.com

Thanking God When You're a Basket Case

*Part 2 CONT'D

Thanking God In

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

*Maybe instead of writing "Part 2 CONT'D" for the next several posts, I should start labeling the posts

"Part 2b" and "Part 2c" . . .

What do you think? 2b or not 2b?

(Sorry, couldn't help myself.)

When there's not a dark cloud in the sky, we don't normally spend too much time under an umbrella -- we're too busy just grinnin' and enjoyin' the sunshine. (Maybe we even work on our tans so that everyone around us can admire our "healthy glow.")

But at any given moment, often with little warning,the weather can change. And before we know it, the skies have opened up and our baskets are being rained down upon by the bad and the ugly:

Something is said, and we find our "ME" soaked to the skin.

Perhaps a relationship is rocked, and we're soaked beyond the skin -- we're soaked right down to the bone.

Or circumstances veer out of control, and we're not just soaked, we're downright going under -- we're drowning.

And very often in the midst of a storm, it can feel like the only thing our umbrella is sheltering us from is the good. But the bad and the ugly? Well, that's drenching us.

And how on this earth do we "give thanks in all circumstances" (1 Thessalonians 5:18a) when we're standing chest-deep in the flood waters of the bad and the ugly?

First, understand this truth:

Perspective is not the

view from where your

circumstances have put you,

but, rather, it is the view from

where you choose to stand in the

midst of your circumstances.

[NOTE: That's HUGE. Read it again!]

In other words, we have choice in our perspective, and we must choose wisely. Beth Moore puts it like this: "Our questions and confusion must motivate us to seek God" (A Heart Like His).

But, again, how, exactly, do we manage to choose to stand in the midst of circumstances -- or even woalk into God's presence -- when we feel as if we've been cut off at the knees? When we're bloodied and bruised? Crippled by the weight of what we're feeling?

And the, how do we even begin to give thanks?

Right after acknowledging that we do have some choices and options, the next thing we need to realize is that magic pills, words, or rituals are not among those choices and options. That's because there are none.

There is no fast-and-easy, works-every-time formula or one-size-fits-all, guaranteed-or-your-money-back product that automatically takes you to the place where you can "give thanks in all circumstances." If there were, trust me, I would've discovered it by now. (And I promise, I'd share it with you.)

There are, however, some practical time-tested suggestions I can offer.

1. Acknowledge your circumstances.

In other words, "Get real."

I'm amazed at how many people never look at the

real problem they're dealing with. They focus,

instead, on symptoms that are stemming from the

problem, and then they try to deal with those

symptoms, all the while never looking at the

source of the symptoms.

They waste precious time and resources on band-

aids in an effort to not drip blood onto the carpet,

when what they need to do is acknowledge a

gaping wound that requires a trip to the ER for

stitches to staunch serious bloodloss.

It's not until I'm honest with myself about a

problem that I can truly recognize the seriousness

of a situation or, sometimes, if truth be told, how

small in the grand scheme of things, a problem

might actually be.

Either way, I need to know. I mean, if something

is truly life-threatening or life (at least as-I-know-

it) changing, then I need to know that in order to

make the best decisions possible. (If it's

determined that something is serious, then

knowing how serious is also essential.)

On the other hand, if I'm blowing something out of

proportion and driving myself crazy because I've

gone all drama-queen on myself, then I definitely

need to know that, too, don't ya think?

Bottom line: Figure out the truth of your situation,

and then choose to walk in that truth.

Whew! That's a whole lot to take in at one sitting, so I'm stopping there for today. But tomorrow I'll share a few more pearls, so go grab some string and meet me back here.

Walking . . . in all kinds of weather,

Pamm

Speaking of Our HOT selves . . . NOT!

2011-07-17T16:11:00.000-07:00

I'll post the next "Thanking God in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" thoughts tomorrow, but suffice it to say that today's entry is proof that I'm stepping more and more out of my comfort zone as the years go by!

Callie in the ~~bosom of her Jaja~~ in the pool with Jaja.

After returning home from a sister-friend's house, where we celebrated the Fourth of July, I told St. Michael, "I took two really big steps out of my comfort zone today!"

"I know the first one was going to the city celebration and having lunch there with everybody. [Most people who don't know me well don't believe it, but I really am an introvert. Given the choice, I will always stay home and read a book or piddle around by myself rather than venturing out and socializing where there are lots of people.] What's the second?"

"Well, then I went swimming at Bev's . . . in front of people!" (Swimming's not the big deal -- it's walking out in a bathing suit that's HUGE -- absolutely no pun intended. Well, maybe kinda.)

Woo-hoo! Now ya'll know I've done gone plumb hawg-wild, sistas!

But Middle Daughter said something so true the next day. "Mom, the kids had so much fun, and what they will remember is that you got in the pool and played and swam with them -- not what you looked like in your bathing suit with no makeup."

LOL! Well, let's hope!

These days I'm trying to live by that saying, "Those who matter don't care, and those who care don't matter." It sure is freeing. I encourage you to try it.

(And, yes, I need to update my profile picture. I've let my natural hair -- silver highlights and all -- grow out, and I'm loving it!)

Grins and blessings,

Pamm

Gettin' on with Our HOT Selves!

2011-07-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Source: Green Lotus for Hubpages.com

If you're one of those precious-women-I-love-so-much (and thank Papa-God for!) who's been reading this blog for a while (when there was something to read), then you remember that somewhere in A-Long-Time-Ago-Land, I decided to "go green" and share some "oldie but goodie" studies with you, starting with Thanking God When You're a Basket Case.

NOTE: If you missed those first few posts or just want a more in-depth review than the quick catch-up I'm going to give you here, you can find them here, here, and here. (If we're "here" now, should that be there, there, and there?) Otherwise, we're just going to jump in where we left off back in February . . .

The quick catch-up:

Back when we first thought about being basket cases (and sister, we've all been there), we learned that we can always trace being a basket case back to what's in our baskets.

And each of us has three "basics" in our baskets:

Our "ME"

Who we are as individuals -- spiritually,

physically, mentally, emotionally.

Our relationships

The people with whom we share our lives -- our

family, our friends, our co-workers

Our circumstances

What's going on in our lives -- short-term day-to-

day happenings and long-term events that will

shape our lives for years to come.

It's our "ME" -- the innermost part of our being -- that's our HOT selves. If we're spiritually healthy, we understand and embrace that we are women who are

Holy,

Owned and operated by God, and

Tailor-made and designed with a purpose.

Now, we're ready to get on with our HOT selves!

Thanking God When You're a Basket Case

Part 2

Thanking God In

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

More than anything else, knowing and embracing your identity as a HOT woman affects how you respond to the other two items in your basket -- your relationships and you circumstances -- because a HOT woman develops a God-perspective on how she views the people in her life, as well as what's happening in her life.

And it is, therefore, the HOT "ME" who is able to thank God in all things: The good, the bad, and even the downright ugly. (And, girlfriend, if you haven't had ugly in your basket yet, live long enougn, and you will.)

Our brother, Paul, writes, "Be joyful alway; pray continually; give thanks in *all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).

*NOTE: In Greek, "all" is the word pas. When used collectively, it means "some of all types" (Thayer's and Smiths Bible Dictionary). I'd venture to say that "some of all types" definitely covers the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I can tell you from personal experience, sisters, that only a HOT woman can "give thanks in all circumstances."

Good preachin' and hard livin'? You bet.

It's at this point that you may be thinking, Pamm, you don't know my husband, or you don't know what my kids are into right now, or you don't know what's going on with my job right now . . . and you're right, I don't.

But I've walked through enough ugliness to know that while the "livin'" part is indeed hard -- often excrutiatingly so -- it's also choice livin', as in the best kind of living. The other options are unthinkable. This I know. Intimately.

So stay with me, and next post we'll talk about exactly what it's like when our baskets are rained down upon by the good, the bad, or the ugly and how, on earth, we can manage to thank God in the midst of those moments (that often seem like eternities).

Love you much, truly,

Pamm

The Sun Is Not a Baptist

2011-07-14T07:34:00.000-07:00

I did something this morning that I haven't done in a long time.

I got up early enough to sit on my den couch and watch--and feel-- the sun slowly, gently and unhurriedly, bathe the room in its light.

I plumped, pushed, and poofed the sofa pillows at the end of the couch by the big ol' skirted-to-the-floor oak dining room table that I use for an end table (always wanted to do that), grabbed one of the fuzzy red throws for my legs, and then nestled into the couch to sip hot set-up-by-St. Michael-the-night-before coffee, and watch the slow, lazy baptism of the room around me.

I don't think the sun is a Baptist. This ordinance was more of a steady sprinking, maybe gentle pouring, continuing until everything was drenched in its light. No sudden emersion or bold flash flood.

And I think to myself that, more often than not, that is how coming out of the darkness is.

Grins,

Pamm

Untitled

2011-07-13T07:41:00.000-07:00

Honestly, there were times when I wondered if I would ever write again.

The after-February-10-2011 hiccup started out normally enough. If you were around then, you remember that I was "going green" and revamping and blogging Thanking God When You're a Basket Case, and it was going great. But sometime right after posting "One Hot Mama," St. Michael moved my notes while I was hard at work at the School House (must've been one of those mornings he was in cleaning-mode; see why I like to keep him on the golf course as much as possible?).

No problem, I thought; I'd continue as soon as I recovered them. Well, in the real world of blogging while also working full time to shape the hearts and minds of adolescents, one day turned into another, and before I knew it a week had gone by, and then another. (And those notes still have yet to be found, sisters, and meanwhile . . . well, on to that in a minute.)

Then St. Michael announces one fine Sunday afternoon on the way home from the Church House that he thinks we should downsize (from the two-story Casa to a one-story) -- and says it just like it's his very own idea.

NOTE: The last time I'd mentioned down-sizing, he'd said I could down-size with my next husband but that he was living in the Casa until he died. I told him that if he didn't change his attitude that could be sooner than he thought, but, truth be told, I loved the Casa (with the exception of the stairs that I tend to fall down), so I let that dog lie and just prayed about it. God is good.

Reader's Digest Version: Six weeks later, we moved into our one-story Casita, on the next corner, across the street from the Casa. (We love our neighborhood, and so it was a matter of location, location, location. From the Casita's driveway, we can still see Debbie and Terry's house, next door to the Casa, and we share our back fence with Mary and Carroll.)

Packing up, stripping wallpaper, sewing curtains, painting, moving -- all in the midst of the aforementioned Monday-through-Friday adolescent-heart-and-mind-shaping -- those things account for busyness. Not really for not writing.

I wondered if I would ever write again not because I lacked hours but because I lacked words. A rarity for me. But I lost my words on March 3. And it had nothing to do with working or playing or moving.

I sat at my kitchen table that night checking E-mail as I had done a zillion other evenings, nothing out of the ordinary.

Until I opened an E-mail from a friend and staff member at the Big Church.

I read the E-mail and my brain totally garbled the words. I'm usually only dyslexic with numbers, but that evening it was the letters that danced around the screen, refusing to make sense. I got up from my computer, went and stood at the kitchen sink for a minute, and then returned to the table to try again.

. . . called distraught this pm to say that someone went into the church in Arlington and beat up the secretary and killed her son Clint . . .

Clint Dobson. He called me "Mamalicious," and I adored him.

Clint was the most incredible young man I'd ever known. I'd known him as a teenager, but came to love him during the two summers he'd chosen to love on "my people" as he interned in the tiny congregation I pastored.

We'd talked theology. We'd talked people. We'd talked about what it was like to love Jesus, the great love of our both lives, and what that looked like in our every day walking and talking.

And, of course, we'd spent hours -- often over Tookie burgers and onion rings -- talking about the next greatest love of his life, Laura, and the life he hoped to have with her. (I once joked that I'd been a size 8 before Clint came to intern.)

I sang at their wedding.

When Clint got his first church position as an interim pastor at a tiny country church while he was still in seminary, we texted each other over-the-top words of encouragement on Sunday mornings just before we were each to preach. (This was our main duty in what Clint dubbed our mutual admiration society.)

I lost my words when Clint was taken. As days went by and bits and pieces of hideous details of Clint's last afternoon emerged, my words seemed to do what I wanted to do. They bolted. They hid. They crawled under some kind of deep, dark cover, refusing to be called back out. Totally out of my grasp.

Truth be told, I had no energy to reach for them had they been right out in plain sight, right there in front of my face. And more truth be told, I didn't know if I even wanted them.

For a long time, silence in the dark seemed easier.

But I'm a writer. I am words. And though Clint is not here, I am. Thus, so are my words. I am re-learning to embrace them, struggling not to continue to hold them at arms' length. At the moment, it is an awkward slow dance between former lovers desiring to reconcile but not quite sure of the former pattern, the old fit.

There's lots more I need to say about these past months. But these are enough words for today.

Back,
Pamm

PS Thank you to Brenda at Cozy Little House for encouraging me (and others) to keep it real.

One Hot Mama!

2011-02-10T16:02:00.000-08:00

Thanking God When You're a Basket Case

PART 1 CONT'D:

A Tisket, a Tasket, What's in Your Basket?

Being a HOT Woman (or Man!)

Yes, this is really is me and a close friend. (I'm in the yellow.) Why do you ask?

Several years ago, a young friend who worked with a Christian student group at the University of Houston called to ask if I would come and speak to their group. He said their program committee had come up with several topics to be parceled out among several speakers over the coming months but that he had saved one in particular that he thought would be especially perfect for me to take on: Body image.

Say wha'? (Yeah, that's what I thought, too!)

I grinned later, though, and told the group I ended up speaking to that my sweet friend, Matt's, reasoning must've been that anyone as old as I am and as . . . umm, fluffy . . . but who still thinks she's so F-I-I-I-I-I-I-NE must certainly have something to say on the subject!

We all had a good laugh, but it did get me thinking about what it might really mean to be a HOT woman (or man) who follows Jesus. Here are some conclusions I came to. To be HOT means that I am

Holy
Owned and operated by God

Tailor-made and designed with a purpose

And just what exactly does that mean and why is it important? (And, trust me, it IS!)

Your first thought might be, "Me? Holy?" Well, yeah; that is, after all, exactly what God has called us to. And when we recognize that God has called us, through Christ, to holiness – to be set apart for Himself – then we understand that we are going to think differently than the world around us thinks. In fact, that’s the way it’s supposed to be! (After all, Jesus called us to go into the world but not to be part of it.) God’s ways are not like man’s ways, so the closer we get to being like our Father, the more our ways are not going to be like the world’s ways, and we have to expect that that’s going to feel a little uncomfortable sometimes. (Knowing that ahead of time helps.)

There’s a song I love that says, “In his hands, there’s only safety . . . nothing there can touch me except Him.” When we understand that, as His, we have chosen to be owned and operated by God, we can rest in the absolute assurance that we are held securely by the Lord of the Universe Who loves us so much that He gave sent His Son to come to earth to live as one of us so that He might then die for us to pay the penalty of sin. He then raised that Son from the grave so that we, too, might have life in Him! (And life to the very fullest -- I love that part!) As His children, when we then choose to allow Him to work through us -- to fill us with His Spirit so that He can operate through us, just as a hand fills an empty glove and operates inside of it and through it, we are set free from the fears that might otherwise keep us from being the believers we’ve been called to be. We know that it is He Who is at work in us and not our own selves. Now, THAT is freeing!

Learning to embrace the man or woman God designed us to be – flaws and all – is one of the hardest things for us to do, but that's exactly what it means to know that we have been tailor-made and designed for a purpose. Unless we choose to walk in that truth, our human nature will always want to be more attractive, more successful, more
talented . . . the list could go on and on. But the bottom line is that we will never run our own race as long as we allow our pace to be slowed by focusing on the other runners around us. Hebrews 12:1 says, “. . . let us throw off everything that hinders . . . and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us [italics mine].” (Note: We are not called to run someone else’s race!)

Paul also writes, “I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me” (Phil. 3:12b) and, “For we are
God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10). See! Each of us was created for a purpose! But we will never fulfill that purpose until we embrace the manner in which we were individually, uniquely designed to fulfill that purpose, nor will we fulfill that purpose as long as our plans are more important than God’s plans. (OUCH! That hurts me, and I wrote it!)

Whew! That's a lot of stuff I've just thrown at you, so stop, take a breath, and take time to reread and digest all of that food for thought. And while you're chewing on some of that, I'm going to shut this down for now and head home to Casa St. Michael. (I'm finishing this up at my School House computer.)

I'll add some more on to this in a couple of days . . . meanwhile, don't hesitate to let me know if I'm giving you too much at one time. (I am at your service!) And, remember, if all else fails, know that you are one HOT mama! (Or Daddy!)

Grins and blessings,
Pamm

The "ME" in Our Baskets

2011-02-06T21:20:00.000-08:00

Thanking God When You're a Basket Case

PART 1 CONT'D:

A Tisket, a Tasket, What's in Your Basket?

The "ME" in Our Baskets

Years ago, one evening in the middle of a Bible study I was teaching on Psalm 31 (do not stick your finger down your throat -- I promise, it had a different slant that what you're probably thinking right now), I was introducing the concept that some psychologists refer to as "the four basic temperaments" -- the choleric, the sanguine, the melancholy, and the phlegmatic temperaments -- and discussing the part our individual temperaments play in shaping who we are. With no warning other than her previously pursed lips and a few almost imperceptible head shakes, one young woman who had so far remained silent, could suddenly hold back no longer:

"This is all wrong! This is all wrong!" she erupted, eyes flashing passionately and cheeks flushing. "This is all just too focused on our selves . . . we need to look at Jesus -- we should only be looking at Jesus -- He should be our only focus!"

And with that, she sprang from her chair and bolted out the door, never to return.

I have no idea what else might have been going on with that young woman, but I so wished she had stayed long enough to let me explain my reasoning for taking time to look at ourselves and to examine how God designed each of us, individually.

When Jesus was asked the question, "Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" (Matthew 22:36), He responded by quoting Deuteronomy 6:5:

"Love the Lord your God

with all your heart,

with all your soul, (emphasis, mine)

with all your strength,

and with all your mind."

Most of us understand loving God with our emotional being, our physical body, and with our thought life (our heart, strength, and mind, respectively), but that soul part is sometimes a little blurry. (We often confuse it with our spirit.) What part of us, exactly, is the soul?

An unknown writer once described the soul as "what one is to oneself, [as opposed to] what one appears to be to one's observers."

The soul, as derived from the Hebrew word, nephesh, or the Greek, psuche, is essentially the essence of who we are as created beings -- our innermost self -- that basic "ME," for the purpose of this study, that's in each of our baskets. If we are to truly love God with all of our soul -- with every fiber of our being -- then we need to know who we are, don't you think? Not who the world says we are, but who we truly are.

Knowing who we are is not as easy as it sounds. We live in a society that is continually trying to convince us that we are defined based on any number of superficial values: Our appearance, our income, our age, etc. (Heck, I once figured that seeing as I am overweight, over fifty, overworked and underpaid, in our culture, I'm pretty near worthless!)

Some of the Things Notched Into

The Measuring Stick

How we look
How we dress
Our age
Where we live
Where we go to church
Where we work
If we work
Our education level
Our marital status
Our children
Our lack of children
Our titles
Who we know
How busy we are (this is a biggie in some churches)

And the list could go on and on, but you get the idea, I'm sure.

Sometimes the voices of our culture -- the ones with the measuring tapes -- are so loud that we can hardly hear ourselves think -- even, sadly, sometimes within the church. And if we're not careful, we buy into the standards of the world's system of assessment. We begin to look at ourselves in ways that God never intended -- we begin to measure our inner selves -- who we are -- based on outer criteria. (Something our Father, Who is crazy about us, never intended us to do!)

If we fall into the trap of thinking we are what we look like, what we have, or what we don't have, etc., then our view of ourselves becomes skewed. And here's the danger, sistas, when our view of who we are -- our "ME" -- becomes skewed, everything else becomes out of balance, as well. (Been there, got the T-shirt.)

Thankfully, as believing women, we do not have to stay trapped in that kind of thinking. In fact, our brother, Paul, in his letter to the Romans (12:2) tells us outright that we are not to buy into the world's pattern of thinking. As followers of Christ, we have access to truth that sets us free from that kind of thinking if we choose to walk in that truth.

And how do we do that? How do we walk in God's truth?

First, we have to find out what God's truth is!

Paul tells us that we are transformed by the "renewing of our mind[s]," and one of the steps we can take to renew our minds is to focus on the truth of God, as found in His Word. Just look at some of the truths we can find in God's Word regarding how we should view ourselves (and others):

"The Lord does not look at the things man looks at.

Man looks at the outward appearance,

but the Lord looks at the heart."

1 SAMUEL 16:7b

"So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view [not even ourselves, sistas!] . . . if anyone is in Christ, [she] is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!

2 CORINTHIANS 5:16a, 17

"For we are God's workmanship . . . "

EPHESIANS 2:10

And that's just a start!

For now, think about those things you've let define who you are. If they're on any other list but God's, then you've got some mind-transforming to let the Spirit do. Next post, we'll talk more about how to do that, but here's a hint: It all has to do with realizing that we are . . . are you ready? HOT women. Yup, you heard me: HOT women. (But, like my Proverbs 31 study, it's not what you think, so stay tuned!)

Okay, it's late, and this fine, HOT woman is off to bed . . .

Until next post,

Grins and clutches to my (spiritual) bosom,

Pamm

Bible Study Gone Green

2011-02-05T14:46:00.000-08:00

Texas Preacher Woman, circa 2005

I miss preaching.

I even miss pastoring. (Which is really kind of a miraculous statement, considering that I once told God I'd preach for Him all He wanted but that I nevah wanted to be a pastor. Didn't feel it was my calling. Too messy. He laughed. And then went on to call me to plant a church. And pastor it. )

Our tiny congregation of Jesus seekers and Jesus followers met smack-dab in the middle of the low-income housing complex where most of our folks lived. When the complex went into bankruptcy, the California-based bank that took over the property wanted no part of a church's being on the premises and gave us roughly a month to pack up, move out, and close the doors. Though we banged on the portals of a number of other area venues, not even a window opened, and God wrapped His arms around us as we mourned the end of that ministry as we had known it. Most of us stay in touch through phone calls, the Internet, occasional get-togethers, and some of us still see one another at the Big Church (our church plant's sponsor), and, for the most part, God has given each of us new work to do in other areas. Still, I miss it at times. Very much so.

Anyways, I say all that just for background's sake so you'll understand why I say that I miss preaching. It's one of my gifts. I am blessed to be called to lead women's retreats from time-to-time (something I LOVE to do) or to teach a Bible study once in a while, but, for the most part, I know that, at least for now, I am called to other things in my current day-to-day life. Still, I often miss the challenge and excitement of researching and digging into Scripture that go with preparing a weekly message. I miss the feedback one gets when sharing insights from God's Word. (Ours was a very, shall we say interactive service -- feedback was usually immediate, and it made for a lively time of worship!)

I love rambling on this blog for all of those reasons above, but, obviously, from the infrequency of posts since the school year started, time remains an issue for me. (I'm a slooooow writer; thus one of the many reasons I did not go into print journalism.) This afternoon, though, while researching some ideas for an upcoming Bible study lesson, I ran across some things I wrote a few years back and thought, why not share these? (Hey, aren't we all being encouraged to recycle these days? We can think of this as Bible Study Gone Green and all feel kinda hip about it.)

For some reason I just felt drawn to start with Thanking God When You're a Basket Case. Here are a few thoughts from the series to get us started:

Thanking God When You're a Basket Case

Part 1: A Tisket, A Tasket,

What's in Your Basket?

A basket case? Who, me?

Well, maybe not at this moment, but, c'mon, we've all been there at one time or another. (Either that or, like Miriam's baby brother, our basket is simply floating down a river called DeNial . . . sorry, couldn't resist. I am, after all, the woman who entitled Part 1, "A Tisket, A Tasket . . . " although in my defense, the folks over sixty-five loved that subtitle, and it did fit with a particular theme at the time . . . ahh, I digress.)

Life is full of baskets, waiting to hold "cases." That's just the way it is. (I once said to a sister-friend of mine during a particularly hectic time, "When life gets back to normal, I'm going to . . . ", to which she replied, "Pamm, in a fallen world, this is normal; smooth waters in a fallen world are not the norm." And she was right.)

So, if we're all destined to be basket cases, at least once in a while, how do we handle being a basket case when the waters get rough? Obviously, in the interest of self-preservation, we grab at the nearest life jacket, pull the lid down over our heads in our baskets, and pray that the raft hurtling us toward the white waters will carry us safely through them. But, practically speaking, what does that mean? What does that look like?

Several years ago, St. Michael and I had a chance to raft a short distance down Alaska's Mendenhall Glacier. Before our guide allowed us to step even one little toe into our raft, though, we were given some basic information designed to help up best navigate the waters ahead. (We also had to put on special waterproof jumpsuits and life jackets. St. Michael look like quite the adventurer; I looked like a giant, orange, stuffed sausage. If I went overboard, there were absolutely no worries about my not being spotted in the water. I don't know that anyone could've gotten me back up into the raft, but I'm confident they could've tied me to the back of the raft and drug me to shore.)

Here are some basic premises for navigating this study:

We can always trace being a basket case back to what's in our basket. Each of us has three "basics" in our basket:

Our "ME" Who we are as individuals -- spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally

Our relationships The people with whom we share our lives -- our family, our friends, our co-workers

Our circustances What's going on in our lives -- day-to-day happenings and long-term events that will shape our lives for years to come

NOTE: The wise woman (and man) knows not only what's in her basket but Who holds her basket.

Regardless of what's in our baskets,

we can trust in the following:

" . . . by Him all things were created; visible and invisible,

whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities;

all things were created by Him and for Him.

He is before all things,

and in Him all things hold together."

1 COLOSSIANS 1:16-17

. . . even when we're a basket case.

In the next several posts, we'll examine the "ME" in our baskets and what our "ME" has to do with thanking God when when we're a basket case.

Grins and blessings!

Pamm

This is mine. Where is yours?

2011-01-26T05:25:00.000-08:00

Babies at work in the Land of Muz!

Last week I promised the mom of a deeply depressed, precious eleven-year-old boy in my class that I would be Jesus in skin for him.

Later I thought, isn't that who I'm supposed to be for all of my kids?

Yup. This is my Macedonia. My Calcutta.

Papa-God, fill me to overflowing with Your Spirit so that You can then spill out of every part of my body onto these You've entrusted to me.

Where is your Macedonia? Your Calcutta? May you be richly, extravagantly filled for and overflow in yours, as well.

Grins and blessings,

Pamm

"transformation" . . . did I spell that right?

2011-01-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

My precious blog sister, Christine (whom I call "Sweet Christine") from over at Vista Woman, sent me warm fuzzy words the other day, letting me know that I was missed in the world of blogging. (And I know that "warm fuzzy" is a cliche, but I don't know any other way to describe something that makes me feel warm and fuzzy . . . if any of you out there coins a new term, send it this direction and I'll try it out. Contest on.) Christine wanted to make sure I was okay and just busy with the hoopla of the holidays and the coming of a new year. (Or semester, since she's also in the education business.)

Answering her, I found myself splashing words onto my Mac screen that I had thus far only waded through in my head (and just barely even there). When I had finished, I wrote, "I did not plan to tell you all of this, but it just came out! Maybe that is a sign that it's time to write about this and let my blogging buddies walk the journey with me. (That would definitely be setting myself up to be accountable big time!)"

Whether I'm ready or not (but I think I am), here is the non-abridged-and-then-some version of what I shared with Christine. And not because I think anyone else is so enthralled with or interested in what's happening with one ol' Texas Preacher Woman way out here in the Lone Star State, but because, as much as I like to think I'm so dadgum special and one-of-a-kind (actually, that might still hold true in some areas -- usually areas nobody else wants to be noted for), I have a feeling that some of you might also be trying to wiggle your way out of the same chains I am . . . so join me, and we'll twist and squirm and flex our muscles together.

I have been out of the blog loop for sooooo long (gosh, almost a month and a half now), and it is partially due to work (and I now have another class added to my schedule for this semester at the School House), holidays (still a few boxes to be taken upstairs to the, uh, holding cell), being sick (ear infections gone, still battling a touch of pleurisy) . . . but truth be told, I think another part is that I've been wrestling with Papa about some things, and I guess I felt like I didn't have much to say during the process. Or maybe not much to say that I was ready to share with anyone else, lest I be less than honest or just plain ol' fake. (Both of which I hate; I promise never-ever to write unless I can do so from a place of transparency. There's already enough muddy water out there.)

To start with, the closer I got to ripping the giant December 2010 calendar page off the front of the fridge, the surer I was that Papa-God was choosing "transformation" as our theme for 2011. Ugh. Huge. Need all the Help I can get with that one. So, heck, I even chose that for my new password at work 'cause I thought a zillion-times-a day-reminder of what was supposed to be my focus might help. (And just like the real thing, do you know how hard it is to key-in the word "t-r-a-n-s-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n" for those zillion times a day? It takes c-o-n-c-e-n-t-r-a-t-i-o-n, trust me. And in case you're worried about my work password now floating around all of Cyberspace, I really don't think that many peeps read this little blog -- only the most discerning, of course, like you, but not a great deal others -- and I say if anyone wants to get into my account and help me enter grades this weekend, bring it on, baby! Alas, PTA moms only volunteer to make copies for us, not do our grades. [Insert sad face here.])

Transformation covers lots of areas, I know that. The flesh I'm stuck in can be selfish, self-centered, greedy, materialistic, downright mean, lazy, prideful, deceitful, hateful . . . you name it, I know it's there. I know painfully and intimately that it's all there. One of the biggies, though, that I've been struggling mightily with is food issues/addiction. (It's the bane of my existence and only sounds silly and shallow if you aren't the one dealing with it.)

I know that for my own good Papa wants me to come to terms with that because I've let it become such an issue of obedience between Him and me. Will I or won't I hear and then obey? Up until now, like any other addict, I've refused. (To hear and then obey, that is.) I've pretended the addiction -- or to use that ugly biblical word, gluttony (ugh, that even sounds ugly) -- doesn't exist or that I'd deal with it "later" ("Tomorrow, we'll look at it, I promise."), and, thus, it's been the Big White Elephant in the Room in every conversation I've had with Papa over the past few months.

I considered writing about this months ago, but I guess it's a pride thing that keeps me fighting transparency in this area. In our society, I sometimes think it would be so much easier to admit that I'm an alcoholic or a drug addict than a food addict. It's not that people don't know that I must have some kind of problem with food -- duh! it's a hugely visible addiction -- I think it's that once I admit out loud to others that I know I have this problem and that I'm trying to deal with it, if then I stumble -- heck, if I downright fall flat on my face -- it will be so much more evident to everyone around me than if I were an alcoholic and slipped and had a drink or even a drug addict who's snorted a line of coke. After all, I just might be able to hide that kind of addiction if I crash and burn in the privacy of my own home. But eat three boxes of Thin Mints? An entire pizza? Three bowls of Cocoa Crispies (large bowls -- large, really, really deep bowls)? Trust me, the wreckage of that crash-and-burn is going to be strewn all over my backside for miles. (The first time I mentioned John Meyer's "Your Body is a Wonderland" to St. Michael, he grinned, winked at me, and replied, "Acres and acres!" Large or small, I am a blessed woman.)

Yep, it definitely could be a pride thing, but y'know, it could very well also be that I just don't want to be accountable to anyone. (Did I mention that the flesh is also rebellious?) Maybe I think that as long as I just try to handle this on my own, "in secret," if you will, that if I choose to blow up the plane at any time (I've been known to carry my own matches to light the fuse), no one will say anything, no one will notice, and I can get away with it (despite the smoking wreckage showing up on numerous mega-sized radar screens). Y'see, I think -- okay, I know -- that addicts (of all kinds) leave themselves opportunities to take their additions out and play with them just in case it gets too tough. (Why else do yo think television and movies show alcoholics pulling out half-filled bottles from all sorts of nooks and crannies? We all keep a hidden stash somewhere or, at the least, a secret tunnel open for a quick escape.) Yeah, the more I think about it, it could just be that accountability thing. Ugh again. (It's hard for someone who's always thinks the rules are for someone else to even type out the word "accountability.")

But here I am, standing like a naked, fat woman at a Weight Watchers meeting.   (Okay, now you owe me a nightmare.) It's all out there. No hiding it. Choosing to be accountable. Feel free to check up on me. Oh, but just know: It's not about getting thin (that'll never happen), being beautiful and glamorous (so close to being there already), or fitting into a certain size. It's about being obedient. Obedient to the call of having a healthy temple, fit for the true "act of spiritual worship":

"Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God -- this is your spiritual act of worship" (Romans 12:1, Emphasis mine).

Healthy heart and lungs. Healthy mind. Healthy arms and legs. All connected to a living sacrifice who chooses no longer to crawl off the alter. A body, a temple, a living sacrifice, where He has chosen to dwell, reign, and rule.

May this new year be a time of transformation for you, as well. I'd love to hear about your process.

Grins and blessings,

Pamm

Enough!

2010-12-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

Morning musings with Papa and praying Isaiah 61:1 . . .

"You are enough. In all things. You are enough.

"More than enough.

"Abundantly, filled-to-overflowing enough. Beyond measure enough. More-than-I-can-begin-to-imagine enough.

"Lord, Father-God . . . rest Your Spirit on me; let it pour over me as anointing oil over my head. Bring good news to the poor in spirit -- Good News! Glad-tidings-of-joy, Joy-to-the-world News! -- through me. Bind up the brokenhearted through me. Bring light into darkened eyes, break chains, unlock prison doors through me . . . set the captives free . . . through me."

If I'm honest, introvert that I am (or just lazy?), on many days (if not most days), I want to remain in my leopard print pajamas (yes, Beverly, I do own pajamas; I wear them to coffee dates with Papa), wrapped up in my fleecy red blanket (snuggled up in His arms) on my couch, safe from schedules, looming deadlines (grades due at 4PM; ugh), poor choices -- mine and others' -- and, oh yeah, their consequences (weenie that I am), AND people. Safe from people, with their wants, their hurts, their messiness, their grasping and clinging and their rejecting and pushing away . . . safe from my own words and theirs . . .

But, alas, He has not called me to dwell on a mountaintop or in a cave . . . I'm neither Heidi nor the Fat Broad. I'm Saint Pamela, sometimes called to Africa, but mostly called to Seabrook.

"So empower me to serve from a place of abundance in You. Fill me, overflow from me, surround me, go ahead of me, hem me in from above and behind, and don't leave my side.

"Use me up, Papa . . . pour me out into the world You love so much because every drop of me is Yours to spill.

"And don't stop reminding me that because You are enough, through your extravagant grace and mercy, You make me enough."

Amen.

A Cup of Love

2010-12-06T04:36:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's good to add some previously written words to my morning coffee . . .

12 November 2010

Good Morning, Papa!

Thank You for Your rich, abundant love for me . . . because of Who You are, You never give up on me . . . You are 1 Corinthians 13. It's hard to wrap my head around how crazy You are about me . . . especially when I sit in the midst of so much "undone-ness."

If something's undone, is it not done? Like unfinished? Raw? Naked? Broken apart? Yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. All of the the above. And more. (Or less, depending on one's perspective.)

But You love me now, not when . . . And you love me just as I am at this moment, not how I will be in some distant future.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I pray you are having some big 'ol love with your coffee right now. Because our Papa is crazy about us, y'know. Yeah, really. True story! It's what this whole season is about.

Kicking up our heels!

2010-11-10T04:35:00.000-08:00

Here are some pics from the Tapestry Dinner

I mentioned in my last post . . .

Before we took our seats . . . (table toppers from Baby Daughter's wedding reception; they were made the week after Hurricane Ike stormed in through Houston's Bay Area -- no electricity, but a friend hooked my sewing machine up to a generator for me! Unfortunately, the table toppers lasted longer than the marriage, but . . . well, that's another story. We keep the good stuff, using what we can, and move forward, right?)

The boots were graciously loaned to me by my sweet friend, Dawn, who couldn't make the dinner but who knew -- just knew! -- that her boots should attend! (Those are mermaids painted on them thar boots!)

The "Princess" magnets -- purchased for forty cents each at a Goodwill store in Medina, OH, this summer -- were originally pink, but I painted over them with some craft paint and a metallic Sharpie.)

Clockwise from the upper right of the boots:

Texas Preacher Woman, Debbie, Chris, Bonnie, Maureen,

Jannie, Sonya (holding Baby Emery who, in honor of the occasion, was wearing the most FAH-BU-LOUS booties), and Jessica.

And a FUN time was had by all!

Burdened by Glitter!

2010-11-06T08:59:00.000-07:00

Arghhhh! My Sweet Blog Family! I can't believe how long it's been since I've posted! Too much going on, and -- GASP! -- The Holidays are right here upon us, too! I promise, though, that I HAVE been blogging in my head . . . just have trouble getting it from there to my computer screen . . . this journal entry from last Thursday a.m. might give you an idea why (and if I know ya'll, it might sound like your life, too):

Nov 04, 200 -- whoops! -- 2010 [See, friends, I couldn't even remember what year it was, much less what all I was supposed to do that particular day!]

Oh, Papa! I am so frustrated with me! I'm sitting here surrounded by gold-glittered and sequined miniature high heels and shiny black "Princess" magnets . . . sheer skinny black ribbon with white polka dots -- laced through the loop on the back of the heels ornaments -- waits to tie it all together . . . ugh! These are NOT the weights I choose to be encumbered with, and yet, I AM. Weighed down, that is. Burdened. With glitter. How utterly silly is this? Yes, utterly!

I must make better, wiser choices.

Okay, here's what was goin' on. Every First-Thursday-of-November, our women's ministry at church hosts something wonderful that we call The Tapestry Dinner. There are oodles of big round tables for eight set up throughout the fellowship hall and the emptied-out chapel, and each one is hosted and DECORATED by a different woman, and it is a feast for the eyes! Each table has a unique personality (directly related to its hostess, of course) and theme, and, "Oh, my!" (as my little friend from Tennessee would say), the creativity! (Women begin pouring in way before the appointed dinner hour just so they have time to take in all of the table schemes -- I'm telling you, IT IS FABULOUS!) And, just in case you're wondering, yes, every woman brings her own dishes, flatware, glassware, etc., but the meal -- everything from the salad to the dessert -- is served up on clear plastic-ware that's then placed on the hostesses own tableware so that the diner gets the effect of the beautiful plates but the hostess doesn't end up dragging home a bunch of dirty dishes. (Just our flatware and glasses, but that's no biggie.)

Sistas, I do looooove to decorate! But ya'll also know that my main work is over at the School House. (Usually until 5:30 or 6:00 each evening.) So for the past couple of years that I've hosted a table, I've packed up my stuff into plastic bins, my sweet St. Michael has hauled them up to the Church House, and then my fellow sista-hostesses have set up my table for me, leaving only the fun, final decorating tweaks for me to do. (Ya'll also know that I'm not much on work -- I just like the fun stuff -- so, of course, this has worked out perfectly for me.)

Well, I digress, but I just tell ya'll that, so's you'll understand where I was the other morning as I wrote those "I'm so frustrated with me" words. I hadn't really planned to do a table, but my friend, the director of women's ministries, said she really needed me to (and you know that people in ministry never exaggerate or lie), and well, I'm a sucker for a pretty face (Lora is a doll), so, of course, I said I would . . . with not one idea or thought in the world as to what I would do for my particular table this year . . . and did I mention that I went out of town (to Canton's First Monday!) the weekend before the dinner? (My sista, Beverly, and I kept telling each other that it was research for our tables.)

So Wednesday night I'm finally putting together my plan (yeah, and the dinner is Thursday, you did read that correctly), trying to find all my stuff, and runnin' off to Dollar Tree to find glittery high heel Christmas ornaments and then painting "Princess" magnets and then remembering, too, that -- CRAP! (Hey, I'm just being honest here) -- grades are due at the School House this coming Monday . . . and all the while wondering if this dinner table thing was even something I was supposed to be doing. (Please read those last few words in a verrrrrrrry spiritual tone of voice.) ARGHHHH!

[Okay, I feel better now. Let's go on . . . ]

It all sounds funny now, but, trust me, when I was trying to get up on Thursday morning and running back and forth between the School House and Casa St. Michael during my off period and lunch break and then loading up my stuff and hauling it up to the church house and sweatin' like a hog in my cute long-sleeved (what was I thinkin?) funky top while throwing plates and glasses and shoes (I'll explain in a minute) on my table, I was NOT laughing!

For the record, my table was freaking adorable! I found and printed out a verse in Song of Solomon that says, "How beautiful are your feet in their shoes, O king's daughter! The curves of your legs are like jewels, the work of the hand of a good workman" (7:1, Bible in Basic English), and I used all kinds of fabulous, funky stiletto heels (that belong to Baby Daughter) as the centerpiece. (I know it sounds weird, but, trust me, it was C - U - T - E - N- E - S - S to the max! Maybe I can post a picture later.) But, y'see, that's part of the problem. It all turned out okay, so I'm tempted to do this craziness again next year!

That's why it's sooooo hard to determine when to say "yes" and when to say "no" to things. I'm old enough to have learned that sometimes we need to say "no" to even good things because that's just not where our focus needs to be at a particular time. Or should I -- knowing that a good thing is coming up -- and that I'll probably want to do that good thing -- plan ahead and thus plan better? (And, therefore, not let the glitter get so under my skin, so to speak, 'cause it feels so last minute?)

Heck, I don't know! THIS is why it's so hard being a woman. A woman who loves glitter and cuteness but loves the Lord more and just wants to shine where He wants me to shine but who, alas, sometimes lets herself get too busy to hear where, exactly, that is.

Girlfriends, I know you've been there too. Maybe are there right now. Well, sistas, I, for one, am determining to listen better. After all -- GASP! -- did I mention that The Holidays are coming? (And we don't wanna miss 'em 'cause we're so crazy-busy thinking that WE are the reason for the season, that WE have to make 'em happen!)

Listen. Listen up.

I think I might hear a few dozen eleven-, twelve-, and thirteen-year olds who need me . . .

Be still for a minute. Listen. What are you hearing, my sweet sistas?

Trying to shine in all the right places,
Pamm

Early Morning Thoughts

2010-10-12T04:10:00.000-07:00

There are mornings I need Jesus more than I need sleep.

Sabbath . . . maybe not

2010-10-09T10:49:00.000-07:00

(And yes, this is me. Why do you ask?)

This may be too long and serious for many of you to read, but after reading Shaun Groves' post this morning on being discerning, I decided that I had to write this. Yep. I had to. (And by the way, if you read Shaun's post, the comments are as interesting as the post . . . love this man!)

I don't remember how I found it, but I recently connected to another blog, The Bloom Book Club whose creators are two absolutely adorable young women, Jessica Turner (whose husband, Matthew, has his own thought-provoking blog, Jesus Needs New PR, that I find myself roaming around in from time to time) and Angie Smith (whose husband, Todd, makes gorgeous music with the group Selah. Yeah, that group!). The Bloom Club's beautiful, softly-soothing-girly-pink opening page greets readers with words I like to think I live by: "Bloom . . . read. discuss. grow."

In fact, I could've sworn that it was Jessica and Angie who encouraged me to buy David Platt's Radical, a book I not only loved (though it stomped all over my heart) but immediately began buying copies of to give to others who, I hoped, would also devour it (and allow it to stomp around on their hearts!). But now I don't see it listed among their recommended books list, so maybe it was another on-line book club, I don't know. (Arghhhh, the joys of being at the tropical time of one's life . . . can't remember anything.) At any rate, thinking it WAS they who had recommended the latest book-of-my-heart, when they recommended Wayne Muller's Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in our Busy Lives, it was a no-brainer that I immediately clicked onto the Amazon link and ordered a copy. (I mean, who of us couldn't use more rest, renewal, and delight in our often crazily busy lives?)

After one of my own insanely hectic days earlier this week, I finally grabbed Sabbath, fresh from its wrapping, spine-as-yet-uncreased, and headed to the bedroom. After shutting the door to the baseball playoffs being beamed into the den, sandblasting off that morning's makeup and replacing it with something that promised to overnight renew my aging epidermis, I fluffed my pillows just so, and finally climbed into bed with the book that promised me some insight on renewing everything else.

From the first few lines, something about the writing style demanded more concentration that I had hoped to have to put forth at the end of the day, but it got easier as I pushed on through the paragraphs. Page 1 . . . yes . . . page 2 . . . I so agreed . . . page 3 . . . yup . . . page 6 . . . really liked . . . And, in fact, I was really getting into a good flow with Muller until I hit a small bump at page 7. In the second full paragraph there, Muller writes, "When we act from a place of deep rest, we are more capable of cultivating what the Buddhists would call right understanding, right action, and right effort."

Interesting reference, I thought, but not totally unheard of for a scholarly writer and ordained minister to use another faith's tenets to make a point. I continued.

"In a complex world and unstable world, if we do not rest, if we do not surrender into some kind of Sabbath, how can we find our way, how can we hear the voices that tell us the right thing to do?"

Whoa. Hold the horses. Voices? As in plural? Aren't there medications for that?

I slowed my roll and began stepping a little more cautiously through the following paragraphs.

Must've been just a bump in the road. After all, page 8 was fine . . . But then I skidded again on page 9:

"When Muslims are called to prayer five time each day, all work ceases, and all the ancient words, spoken aloud for centuries rise like fragrance to the skies."

Okay. I'm not the most educated or the best self-taught or even the smartest or most discerning reader, but I couldn't help but wonder if Muller's "like fragrance to the skies" description of Muslim prayers was meant as an allusion to much of what is said in the Old Testament about the "sweet fragrance" of offerings sacrificed before God. Ezekiel even writes of God's referring to His people as "fragrant incense" (20:41). Paul refers to Christ, Himself, as a "fragrant offering and sacrifice" made on our behalf (Ephesians 5:2). He also refers to the gifts from the Philippians as a "fragrant offering and sacrifice pleasing to God" (Philippians 4:18). In the Revelation, John writes of incense rising up with the "prayers of the saints" (5:8, 8:3).

I could go on and on, and I'm sure there are those who would say that I'm reading too much into the phrase and that maybe Muller's "to the skies" doesn't even mean anything close to "God." But I don't think so. What else could "to the skies" mean when it's used with "prayers"? And if that is the case, that Muller is inferring that connection, then Muller is essentially describing the ritualistic prayers of Muslims as something pleasing to God when scripture tells us something quite the opposite. Repeatedly, thoughout the Old Testament, scripture says that the sacrifices and offerings of those who worship anyone or anything other than God, Himself, are not acceptable to Him. He wants our hearts. And since the Messiah came, we are told that there is but one way into relationship with the Father -- through Messiah, His Son, Jesus. That is no where to be found in the religion of Islam.

A couple of paragraphs further, Muller writes

"In Buddhism, one takes refuge in the Buddha nature, and in the wisdom of the Buddha and in the family of the Buddha. And so doing, we join the company of all those who have sought healing and liberation, we surrender into that place where Buddha-nature already lives within us, and we align our intention with our innate, natural perfection. Thus when we sit in meditation, all the saints and ancestors send us loving-kindness, as they accompany our each and every breath" (italicized emphasis mine).

In the very next paragraph, he writes, "Jesus offered this same beautiful practice to his disciples."

Okay, that's it. I'm off the horse. Down from the wagon. Out of the car.

I go back to the Jessica and Angie's website. I see that concerns similar to mine have been registered at the The Bloom Club's website, and Jessica and Angie have acknowledged those concerns and addressed them. They stand by their choice, explaining that there is so much "amazing" stuff to learn from the book and that, besides, Muller is simply quoting (their italics) these other religions.

If that were the case, I wouldn't have a problem with the book. But I think you can see from even the few parts I've quoted directly from his book that Muller does not appear to be simply quoting other religions. Rather, as one who writes, "In the evening, turn it over to the care of God, the angels, and all the Buddhas, all the spirits of the earth and sky" (170), Muller appears to indeed be accepting and embracing all of those other beliefs as peers and equals to belief in Christ. All of that is well and good if you are a Unitarian Universalist. I am not.

While I've already acknowledged that there are some paragraphs and full pages that I can appreciate, and possibly, who knows, perhaps even a few nuggets of gold in the remaining chapters, my time is just too limited to have to dig and sift through so much for so little. (Ironically, Muller's Sabbath would cut into my Sabbath.)

Grinning and trying to be discerning,

Pamm

Prayer at 4:30

2010-09-18T19:02:00.000-07:00

In my hurry for holiness, don't let me mistake feeling for filling . . .

Slow me down that I may not miss one drop of You. Open every crevice and the secret dark places that I may truly be filled to overflowing with Your Spirit. Pour Yourself into me, and may I pour myself right back into You . . .

Cup my face in Your hands and kiss good-morning life onto and into my sleepy features.

The gecko's back!

2010-09-01T03:17:00.000-07:00

(This is my desk some time during last semester . . . Thank goodness for NEW school years! Even with the challenges they bring! And don't worry, my desk looks very different this semester. Well, kinda.)

"Set your minds, then, on endorsing by your conduct the fact that God has called and chosen you"
(1 Peter 1:10a, Phillips).

Some mornings when I curl up on the couch to jot down a few thoughts in my prayer journal, I end up reading older entries instead. This was one of those mornings, and I couldn’t help but grin at how appropriate the words from seven years ago are for my here and now. I thought some of you might relate to them, too.

October 4, 2003

This is the kind of day that threatens to make me crazy -- from the moment my feet hit the floor, I’ve felt like there would not be enough hours between this brush fire and that one . . . so much to do today, and I feel I’m starting out behind! It’s the kind of day with a schedule that wants to yank at the leash -- straining to run beyond my control -- to bust lose and run wild. So what’s a girl to do?

Well, this ol’ gal is going to remember that she is a woman of abundance, and I’m going to stop grasping at the reins and turn them over to You [Sweet Papa-God]! I am going to forget about what I maybe shoulda, coulda, woulda done earlier this week, and realize that this is where I am right now, and it’s okay -- it’s A-okay and You and I will walk this day together, and we will get done what You deem needs to be done and not go crazy! I will sit here for a moment and listen to the swish and hummm of my Kenmore tell me that, today, Life is good! Oh, Papa! Thank You that Life is good! You are the most awesome Papa!

Yesterday morning, my immediate supervisor, one of our assistant principals, asked to see me, and, of course, being the Pamm that I am, I always think I'm in trouble . . . but when I got to her office, she said, "Nah, you're not in trouble, but you're not going to be happy . . . " and she proceeded to tell me that she needed to switch me over to seventh grade.

I said, "When?"

"Now." (Well, actually, at that time, "tomorrow.")

A full week and a half already into the school year!

It seems that some of the seventh grade classes are just too full, so they divided my itty bitty sixth-grade 6/7 period among the other sixth grade teachers (only one little boy left for the day in tears) and pulled some of the seventh graders from the fuller classes and moved them over to me to teach during 6/7 period.

I assured her that it was really okay but added that I needed to go scrounge up some seventh-grade materials from the book room, like immediately! She gave me her keys, and off I headed for the book room (since I had already given away all of my own seventh grade stuff when I got my teaching schedule for this year).

And what do you think I saw when I unlocked the book room door? A tiny gecko skittered across the book room floor right in front of me . . . and I think I heard his little voice say, "Hang on!" Lol!

How absolutely cool is that!

So instead of freaking out, I'm excited and positive that God is going to do something wonderful with my now seventh-grade 6/7 period! Because it is a fact that God has called and chosen me. And if I endorse and embrace that in my spirit, then my conduct will follow!

Where are you called? (Because you ARE chosen, y’know, and that means you are called.) I’d love to hear . . .

"Set your minds, then, on endorsing by your conduct the fact that God has called and chosen you"
(1 Peter 1:10a, Phillips).

Grins,
Pamm
PS Did you know that James Avery makes the cutest little gecko charm? I know because my sweet Oldest Daughter, after reading the "Being Green" post, sent me this one with the attached note: "Hang on!"

Speaking of school starting . . .

2010-08-15T09:12:00.000-07:00

[Sorry for the blurry pic -- again, it's one taken with my cell phone. I'll try to get a better one later, but trust me -- it's adorable! Meanwhile, this is the "new" chandy hanging in my classroom. And you can't see it in this pic, but, yes, of course, I covered the chain with fabric to match the bulletin board you see in the background! Absolute cuteness!]

I'm playing hooky this morning . . . from regular church, that is.

But not to worry, I am having church here at Casa St. Michael. Just me and Papa. Coffee. Oatmeal with French vanilla creme. My laptop. A Phillip's translation of the New Testament. (I've been marinating in Titus. It's about to kill me. More on that another time.) And we are celebrating Sabbath. A day of rest.

I don't know when my body has ached like this. (My misspent youth is catching up with me, and my bones are feeling VERY old this morning!) Orientation for my masters program (yeah, I'm starting that next week, and, yes, I have probably lost my mind) and a two-day seminar on Multisensory Reading and Spelling in the early part of last week just about fried my brain, and then working in my classroom at school for the past three days has just about finished off the rest of me. That's 'cause I don't work in my classroom like a normal person might.

First of all, I've got too much stuff. (I AM working on getting rid of some of it. Those of you that know me, stop laughing.) But that's not the main problem. The main problem is that I like to make everything look cute (the fun stuff) before I tackle the yucky jobs like actually putting books and papers and files where they belong. (Not to mention all of those storage boxes where I shoved no-telling-what at the end of last year.) Backwards from most folks, I know. But, alas, that's the price of being ~~a weirdo~~ a creative spirit. (Once everything’s cute, then I can start working on the rest of it because anyone who’s raised three girls knows that “Cuteness is everything!” The theory is that being surround by said cuteness will inspire, energize, and enable me to then wade through everything else. Okay, I said it was a THEORY.)

Plus, I’m creating new cuteness this year. After six years of a Texas theme, I decided it was time to redecorate. So, I’ve recovered bulletin boards, file cabinets (yep, they get recovered, too), shelves (yup), painted huge classroom storage cabinets, hung a chandelier (the kids are going to LOVE it – It’s the tackiest but CUTEST thing you’ve ever seen!), made a tablecloth to match one of the bulletin boards, rearranged furniture, and hung up lots of Qs (for “Queen”) . . . You name it – in the spirit of cuteness, it’s been done. (Of course, the room still looks like a bomb went off ‘cause I have to now go through all of those aforementioned books, loose papers, and folders, and assorted storage boxes, but that’s this week’s project.)

Sounds like a lot, huh. And it is. But, I do have a reputation to uphold. You see, I am the Queen. The Queen of the Land of Muz (the shortened form of my last name). And my children will come into Room 105 with certain expectations, and by God –literally – I plan to not to disappoint them. I want their experience in my classroom to be a wondrous thing. I want them to discover that even language arts (you’d be amazed at how many kids think they hate language arts!) can be a fabulously interesting subject. But most of all, I want them to feel special.

I want them to know that I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make the Land of Muz what it is – beautiful (okay, in a royally tacky kind of way), fun, safe (emotionally and physically)– because they are worth it. I tell them every year that, yes, I am their Queen, but they are my royal subjects, and as such, their well-being is my number one priority. And then I ask Papa-God to make it so. Because I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t do it on my own.

Oh, I can do cuteness all day long on my own, but loving my kids, truly loving them the way Jesus has called me to is way beyond my pay grade. He’s called me to step beyond the warm and fuzzies – most sanguines (of which I am; are you shocked?) can do the ooey-gooey, smiley, huggy stuff in our sleep – and to actually love them through the way that I teach the skills they will need to succeed academically. He’s called me to love them enough to teach them what it means to be responsible, respectful, compassionate students. He’s called me to love their parents and guardians (even the ones who question every lesson I teach or grade I record.)

And that I can only do as I empty myself of me and allow Him to fill with His Spirit the empty spaces left. I have to let go of my thoughts, words, and actions, and embrace and live out His in their place.

Good preachin’ and hard livin’.

And I fall so short on so many days.

Yet, I know that’s the ministry I’m called to these days. Being Him in skin in the public classroom. So I pray. A lot. And trust Him “to keep that which I’ve committed.”

Where has He called you to do the same? I’d love to hear how and where you are living out your calling these days.

Grins (with naproxen),

Pamm

Muddying the Waters . . . It's not always a bad thing!

2010-08-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

Because the phrase "muddying the waters" means to cloud an issue or to make something more difficult to understand or more complicated than necessary, it almost always carries a negative connotation. (Well, duh! Like any of us needs extra confusion in our lives.)

But not yesterday.

Yesterday, Bella and Boogie came over for some "Camp Pa-Ja" before Jaja heads back to the school house (and their mother, Middle Daughter, loses her mind . . . come on, moms of little ones -- you've been there. And then, of course, their mama will then pick them up just before Jaja loses hers! Lol!). And guess what . . . I let them muddy the waters. And they had a blast!

Last week, knowing Camp Pa-Ja was coming up, I scored a plastic kiddie pool off Freecycle, and I looked forward to filling it up and letting the grandbabies splash in it to their hearts' content. The only constriction was that Papa (the beloved co-director here at Camp Pa-Ja) said we couldn't put the pool on the grass. No problem. We have lots of dirt patches in the backyard here at Camp Pa-Ja.

Well, Boogie's no dummy. He saw that pool sitting in that big patch of for-the-moment dirt and knew it was the perfect place to park his big ol' dump truck. And did I mention he had a big ol' yellow plastic shovel? Dirt + shovel + pool + water + BOY . . . okay, you do the math. (Or would that mixing of the elements fall under chemistry?) Yup, before I knew it, we had just the right conditions for some genuine M-U-D .

No problem. As long as the mud stayed in the back of the dump truck. But just like his Jaja, Boogie is not one who embraces the "less is more" philosophy of life. I mean, if mud pie mix (" . . . for your birthday, JaJa!") looks delicious in the back of a little big ol' dump truck, imagine how much more deliciousness a big ol' blue plastic kiddie pool might hold!

Now, I can't usually even spell math (remember, I teach language arts), but this equation appeared right before my eyes (think Nebuchadnezzar and the writing on the wall): Globs of dirt in the business end of a yellow plastic shovel + nice clear water minding its own business in blue plastic kiddie pool = ARGHHHHHHHHH!

Just as my mouth opened to verbalize the end product of the aforementioned equation -- along with an added "STOP!" -- I thought Y, I mean Why? (Sorry, I had a flashback from college algebra there for a moment, but I think I'm okay now.) I mean, most of the time we steer kids away from mud puddles, dirt piles, and other assorted messes we might have to clean up after, and that usually makes sense seeing as how most of the time we'd be the ones doing the clean-up-after thing. But, it suddenly came to me that this wasn't one of those times. Heck, we were out in the backyard for Pete's sake -- I could just line those little mud-bugs up and hose them off before wrapping them up in their Lightening McQueen and Cinderella towels and hauling them back into the casa. No harm; no foul. There really wasn't any reason to screech NO! (yes, sorry to say, but I would've screeched) other than it's what most of us would've thought we were supposed to do in that kind of situation. No thought, just an automatic response.

So what's a Jaja to do? Well, I turned off the auto-Jaja-pilot switch, removed myself from the pool (despite what I hear the beautification benefits of mud at the local spa are), and let Boogie and Bella have at it! And they had a ball! And none of us were a bit worse for wear. In fact, I think all of those laughing-released endorphins had us all feeling pretty darn good. (Even Papa, who arrived home from his golf game right in the midst of all this fun.)

I couldn't help but wonder what we miss out on in life -- little things and big things -- when we react to so much around us from that automatic-pilot mode. How often do we say no without even thinking about what we're responding to? (Or yes for that matter.) And just because we've always done it this way or because that's the way Sista Susie does it or because we're more concerned about what others will say or think of us than we are about whether something is really right or wrong or if it is a choice that even matters one way or the other.

How often have you felt like raising your hands in a praise service but didn't because you worried what those around you would think? (Or raised your hands because everyone else was even though you didn't feel like it?)

Ever stifled the urge to clap or laugh or sing or jump up and down for joy or pick chocolate instead of vanilla or paint red instead of off-white or wear denim instead of khaki or cotton instead of silk?

I'd be the first to tell you that, no, it's not always appropriate to make mud pies (I promise that if you're ever invited over for dinner at Casa St. Michael, I'll have Baby Daughter fix lasagna or spinich and mushroom-stuffed manicotti) but sometimes, just sometimes, there's nothing tastier, nothing that hits the spot any better, than good ol' mud pie. Yummmmm!

Tasting freedom . . . and grinnin'!
Pamm

PS Sorry for the picture quality -- pics were taken with my cell phone!

Being Green

2010-08-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

This little guy rode to church with me Sunday morning! (Okay, well, not exactly THIS specific little guy from the commercials, but one that was just as cute, to be sure.)

Okay, more like THIS little guy! (You have to look reeeeeeeally closely.)

For real!

In fact, he preached a whole sermon to me before I ever got into the building! Yup. For real. (And never once tried to sell me an insurance policy, though I'm pretty sure I'd a'bought one from him.)

Truth is I've had a hard time making it to the church house lately -- what with my having the D-word and all -- but I'd decided Saturday night that I really needed to make it there yesterday if I could at all manage it. (I'm a BIG woman, and I sit on the second pew from the front, so for that reason alone -- okay, and I'm kinda loud -- people notice when I'm not there for more than a couple of weekends.)

St. Michael had already left so that he could get to the church house early enough to get his ushering duties on, so imagine my surprise when I discovered on my way out of the neighborhood in the Queen Machine that I wasn't making the drive alone. No! The tiniest, cutest little Gecko Guy was riding on the hood of the Queen Machine with me! Not out in the front, like one of those bare-breasted wooden ladies would be on an old ship, but further back, closer to the windshield, and somewhat more centered on the hood, kinda like a . . . well, a surfer, I guess.

To be honest I felt kinda bad for him 'cause I kept thinking that any minute he'd . . . well, wipe out like a surfer, but there really wasn't any appropriate place for me to pull over, pluck him off the hood, and then set him free (at least not without one of us running the risk of getting squished by the other non-surfing-gecko vehicles breezing by us).

Good luck, and hang ten, little buddy!

Thirty miles an hour. Forty miles an hour. Then fifty on Space Center Boulevard. And still, this little guy hung on like a champ. Now, granted, he did start out a bright, dazzling chartreuse gecko-green, and by the aforementioned fifty-mile-an-hour mark, he was turning a sort of strange sickly brown color, but, still, despite appearances, he was there, holding on for all he was worth! (Fortunately, by the time I turned off Space Center onto Middlebrook Drive, traffic was lighter because by now I couldn't take my eyes off this little dude -- I was cheering him on, and the road markings were strictly peripheral.)

As I slowed and turned into the church parking lot, he actually appeared to breathe a sigh of relief, and for the first time since I'd noticed him, his head actually dropped down onto his little front hand-thingies (heck, I don't know what they're called, but you know what I mean). He seemed to have finally collapsed in exhaustion from the effort to get where we were. (And I know we both breathed a huge sigh of relief.) And yet, despite the odds, he was still there. Yes, a little worse for wear, but there, nonetheless.

Through no reason that he really understood, my little gecko guy's world had suddenly taken off and seemingly (to him, anyway) sped out of control -- certainly out of his control at least. And he had done the only thing he knew to do: He had held on. Held on until it all slowed back down.

He didn't try to stop the car. (Totally beyond his paygrade.)

He didn't try to jump off. (Not an option when jumping off meant unceremoniously going splat.)

He didn't even try to run and hide. (The space where the wiper blades rest was nearby, but the wrong move would've surely jeopardized his balance and sent him flying.)

Nope. He just planted himself right where he was and clung to the one thing he knew to be solid. Yup. He simply did the only thing he could: He hung on. And waited for the craziness to stop.

Love it.

He was gone when I came out of church. I kinda missed him, but I was sure he'd made his way through the rows of parked cars to the more gecko-friendly grassy areas of the surrounding neighborhood. And I bet he's looking like his old self again. A bright, dazzling chartreuse gecko-green.

I think I'm finally 'bout there myself.

Love it.

Grins,
Pamm

2010-07-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

Esther Williams ain't got nothin' on this baby!

[Which reminds me . . . I would've joined my sister at the beach this week, but, alas, the cleaners lost my bikini. Can you believe it? Yup. Just my luck.]

Okay, now I'm off to rearrange all the pillows on the couch so I can sit and have coffee with Papa-God.

Grins and blessings!
Pamm

The D-word

2010-07-19T07:51:00.000-07:00

[And to those of you wondering, yes,
this is EXACTLY what I look like
when I'm taking care of myself.
Okay, well, maybe I'm a little blonder.]

"Use your words . . . " I've heard Middle Daughter say this to Bella or Boogie, particularly when they were frustrated or excited and having trouble focusing in on how to best express themselves.

"Use your words . . . "

Okay: I'm struggling. I'm not well.

There. I've used my words. Put it out there in black and white. For all of Blog Land to see. (Or, really, probably more just for me.) Words forcing me to be honest. Real. Transparent. Vulnerable. (Not sure which is scarier -- being understood or being misunderstood. Most times I suppose I don't really like either option . . . I'd rather just retreat into my own little world without giving any other live human beings the chance to do either -- know or just think they know but really don't.)

It's the D-word.

No, not D-I-V-O-R-C-E. (Tell me I'm not the only one who can still hear poor Tammy's voice pitifully spelling out that word over the radio waves.)

Not even damn or dammit.

Depression. (Okay, sometimes, "Depression, dammit!")

Ugh. (Now, I'm really using my words.)

D-E-P-R-E-S-S-I-O-N. Or to be more specific, chronic clinical depression.

Yup. I got it.

Now, before anyone in traveling distance of this blog origin jumps in the car to come check on me or "hold my hand" or -- and I really hate this one -- ask what's wrong?, let me explain.

Nothing's wrong. In fact, that's one of the most misunderstood aspects of this illness. My life is incredible. Truly. I am married to one of the cutest bald-headed, goatee-d men to ever walk the planet, and he is crazy about me and spoils me rotten. I have brilliant, beautiful healthy children who are not perfect but who, I trust Papa-God, will eventually get there, and adorable grandchildren who ARE perfect. (Okay, you know what I mean, given the right time of day and all.) I have a vocation I love that is also a ministry for which I am annointed and gifted to do. I have incredible brotha- and sista-friends who are truly among the finest people on earth. I have a cute, cute little cottage close enough to the bay to enjoy seeing the water when I head out to run errands and yet not close enough to have flooded during the last hurricane. I'm telling you, life is good!

So what's the problem? Some folks experience what I call situational depression when they experience a legitimate stresser in their lives -- the loss of a job, relationship difficulties, death of a loved one -- and that's a normal reaction to some of life's inevitable struggles. Most people understand that kind of depression and make "allowances" for that in the lives of those who are in the midst of trying circumstances.

Then there are the rest of us D-people.

For those of us who deal with clinical depression, there are no obvious stressers to point to, no convenient hooks to hang reasons for our behavior on. In fact, our day-to-day, looking-through-the-window lives may be wonderful (like mine is). And that's because our depression is not situational, it is physical. We suffer from a physical illness that manifests its symptoms in our mental and emotional well-being (or, more accurately, lack of). Our physical chemistry is askew, and it's not because we decided we would let it run amok, any more than a diabetic decides to have his pancreas malfunction.

For most of us living with chronic clinical depression, drug therapy (and often counseling) is a part of our everyday lives and will be as long as we are this side of Glory. (And you've heard me say it before folks, when I get my new body, I'm expecting it in a size 8 to carry around my new perfect mind.) It doesn't mean we are any less spiritual than the diabetic who needs insulin to regulate his/her blood sugar. We both have a physical illness that requires a physical treatment, and if we are wise, we are grateful for the medical intervention, and we allow this "weakness" to move us that much closer to our Father's strength. (Which is pretty much how He intended for all of us to live, wouldn't you agree.)

Having said that, yes, there are things we as D-people can do to "help" ourselves. Often a lack of physical care can aggravate our condition, just as it would a diabetic's. We need to be diligent in getting adequate rest, taking our medications, eating well and working physical activity into our lives. (I'm sorry, I couldn't bring myself to type in exercise . . . ) More often than not, when we neglect these things, we pay the price, much more so than the average bear. Our illness is more likely to show itself.

Unfortunately, there are also times when we can be doing all the "right stuff," only to have our illness decide to show up, much like the uninvited guest at a special event.

If an uninvited guest shows up to a large party, usually we can make adjustments without too much difficulty. We're aware he's there, but we can shrug and smile, knowing there's probably enough extra food and drink to "cover" the uninvited guest with a minimum of fuss or inconvenience.

And then sometimes the uninvited guest shows up to a small, intimate dinner party. We anticipated the arrival of the perfect mix of people, prepared a menu of everyone's favorite dishes, set out just the right amount of place settings and chairs at the table, so the presence of the uninvited guest is much more painfully obvious to all. All plans as we knew them, go out the window -- everything is thrown off kilter -- and all through no fault of our own. Hey, life happens like that sometimes. It's not comfortable, it's awkward at best, but still, we get through it.

Right now, I'm in interrupted-dinner-party mode. Though, okay, truth be known (and I do seem to be letting it all hang out here, so -- what the heck -- let's go for broke), it's a dinner party I didn't plan well for (so I'm aggravated at myself). I've been out of my routine -- school's out, I've been on vacation, and I'm home now, but St. Michael's gone this week, all of which can lead to not eating right, not keeping regular sleeping hours, forgetting to take meds or taking them at "off times," not pacing myself on projects . . . oh, shoot! Who am I kidding! It's ALL led to ALL of the above!

Now, again, to those of you who are in reach-out-and-touch distance of Casa St. Michael, there's no need to rush all the way over to downtown El Lago to check on me. (Generally, we D-people hate that. We feel awkward and self-conscious already, and, well, it just takes entirely too much energy to talk about ourselves -- or sometimes to talk at all. We need our energy just to be "normal" acting -- okay, kind of normal-acting -- and "gracious" in the midst of our interrupted dinner party.) Just cut me some slack if I need to hibernate for a little bit. I guess, now that I think about it, you can treat me kind of like I have a summer cold -- understand that I'm a little under-the-weather, and so I'm not really good company right now; I'll have an energy burst one minute and be out-and-about for a couple of hours and then feel like crashing -- desperately needing to take a good, long nap.

When the server of a good meal out asks, "Is there anything else you need?", St. Michael often says, "Just a little time and understanding . . . "

Makes me smile 'cause that's a pretty good thing for whatever ails most of us, don'cha think?

Drinking lots of fluids, getting plenty of rest, and planning future parties,
Pamm

"Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up . . . "

2010-07-14T09:30:00.000-07:00

Well, since anybody left out there who's checkin' on this pitiful (as of late) blog has been seeing Boogie's picture for the past more-than-a-month, I figured I needed to give Bella equal time . . . here she is at the peditrician's office for her 2-year check-up. She's grown three and a half inches since January! Just think, sistas, if we could all do that, I, for one, would have less weight to lose!

(And remember how I said that if I was as cute as Boogie with his "mohawk," I'd get my hair done the same way? Well, I guess logic follows that if I looked this good topless, I'd be sittin' around half-naked, eatin' Fruit Loops all day, too . . . I can't believe I just said that. Oh, heck, yeah, I can.)

Lots happening since school's been out, but either I haven't had the time to write about it, or I haven't had the oomph to do so . . . I guess June just plumb wore me out, and now that we're into July, I just can't seem to get goin' again. However, since my theme for this year is "Grow Up!", I figure I'd better get a grip and commence to doin' somethin'!

Maybe I will accomplish somethin' today, even, and then write some meaningful words tomorrow . . . or maybe just some words . . . (at this point, ANY kind of words would be progress, huh!)

Until tomorrow . . .

Grinnin' and thinkin' about doin' somethin',
Pamm

Must be summer!

2010-06-03T12:16:00.001-07:00

. . . and Boogie Bear's ready!

(If I were this cute, I'd wear my hair like this, too!)

Gimme a break!

2010-05-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

St. Bill and Middle Daughter

Bella

Boogie Bear

I took some days off from the school house earlier this week to stay with my grandbabies while Middle Daughter and St. Bill went to Las Vegas. (St. Bill had work there. Middle Daughter had fun there.) I had to come back to work to recover. Don't get me wrong, my grandbabies are ADORABLE (I mean, just look at those little faces!), and I'm crazy about them, but cliche or not, I totally get why YOUNG people have babies! I am whooped! And I'm even more impressed with the kind of mama Middle Daughter is -- she does an awesome job with her babies. (I have to say, though, that, tired or not, spending that time with Boogie and Bella was exactly what I dreamed being "Jaja" would be like. They grinned and giggled and I melted. And I never got tired of hearing, "I love you, Jaja!")

Still, I'm glad to be back at Casa St. Michael with the saint, and I've even been glad to be back at work with my big "babies" for a couple of days before the holiday weekend starts. Nonetheless, as much as I love those "babies," too, if I can get everything done that's calling out for my attention, I'll be excited for the start of the summer break at the end of next week! (Lots of miles to travel, people to see, and projects to complete during my "vacation" months.) Thinking about the break in our schedules that we as teachers are so blessed to get reminded me of something I wrote a few years ago after an exchange on the subject with a student . . .

[NOTE: Name has been changed to protect the clueless.]

My first thought was, “I can’t believe he’s saying that! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”

My second thought was, “Well, duh, it’s Austin talking – why am I surprised?”

My third thought? “I was wrong. It’s not exactly the dumbest thing I've ever heard – I’m sure Austin’s said things just as dumb before (in fact, I know he has). I just didn’t expect him to get back in the groove so fast.”

And what did this little cherub say? you ask. Well, this little angel had the nerve to say, in front of God and everybody, that teachers do not deserve vacations. Can you believe it? Well, if it were anyone but Austin, I would have to say, no, I can’t believe anyone would say such a thing. I guess I have to chalk it up to ignorance, and since it is my job to educate, perhaps I should explain to him – and to any other morons out there harboring such thoughts – exactly why we need our Summer Break (and any other breaks we might get).

Middle school teachers get paid to be on campus from 8:15 AM to 4:15 PM. The last few weeks before the summer hiatus, I am usually on campus on most days from 7:30 to 5:30. (I was up here for eleven hours over last weekend.) There have been many other days when I stayed until six or seven or eight, and many teachers here at school put in much longer hours than I do. (And, of course, this doesn’t include the time we all spend working on school projects at home.)

Actually, the more I think about it, there are probably no words to explain the toll good teaching takes on those who do it. How do you explain to someone who doesn’t want to understand what trying to do our jobs costs us personally – what it’s like to care intensely about kids you know are struggling through tough times at home; kids who have difficulty learning in a regular classroom setting but have no other alternatives; kids who suffer from hyperactivity and yet are not on adequate meds and who, therefore, disrupt everyone else’s learning and threaten your own sanity; kids who, for whatever reason just plain don’t care enough about themselves to care about anything else, least of all learning. And last, but definitely not least, what it takes out of a teacher to deal daily with one like Austin.

“No, that’s not a verb, Austin.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it doesn’t show action or state of being.”

“Why not? I don’t get it! This is stupid.”

Then there are the adults we deal with. Parents, administrators, sometimes even other teachers (all of which I definitely don’t have time to discuss here). And the paperwork? Lord help me – let’s not even go there.

If for no other reason, though, we need a break so that we can come back to school and realize that regardless of the lack of respect we get, regardless of the long hours we work, regardless of the general crap we deal with, we really do love our kids. (We even miss them when we’re away from them, though we might not realize it until we see them again in the hallway.)

Yep, we DO love our kids – even the clueless ones like Austin – and we want to be the very best for them, and that’s precisely why we need a break. (Just like parents of small children who need a getaway every once in a while!)

Grinnin' . . . and packin' up for the break!

Pamm

Start here . . .

2010-05-07T09:26:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of Bill Odle,

one of my favorite dads of all time.)

lll

May. Mother’s Day. It’ll be here before we know it, and then Father’s Day will follow closely behind. Kids will buy cards, maybe some flowers for mom and then, in June . . . well, something manly for Dad. (Does anybody really buy their dad a tie anymore?) And we parents will eat up the extra attention we get – even if it’s just for that one day.

As a kid, I never had trouble picking out a card for my mom, but my father was a different story. The ones that exclaiming, “Happy Birthday to a GREAT Dad!” or “Dad, You’re the Best!” just didn’t work. By the time I was in kindergarten, I knew my father wasn’t a great dad, and even though I loved him fiercely, I knew he wasn’t anywhere near the best. I knew that good dads might not live with their kids, but surely they at least called them or wrote to them, didn’t they? My dad popped in and out of my life just often enough to keep me off-balance but not so often that I expected anything from him. I’m reminded of him every time I hear the lyrics from John Mayer’s song, “Daughters.”

mmm“Oh, you see that skin?

mmmIt's the same she's been standing in

mmmSince the day she saw him walking away.

mmmShe's left cleaning up the mess he made.”

My father’s nickname for me was, in fact, “Daddy’s mess,” a reflection on his self-awareness, not on me. At least he never kidded himself about being more than he really was. I see too many mothers and fathers who do, though. Ask any of them what kind of parent they are, and they’ll tell you that they’re not perfect but that they’re pretty darn good. Unfortunately, as a teacher, I see kids that tell me otherwise. Kids who never have their homework done. Kids who come and go as they please because nobody cares where they are as long as they’re out of the way. Kids who use language that would make most grownups blush. (Trust me, there are still some people who blush.) Kids who live off junk food. Kids who take whatever’s not nailed down. Kids who are so hungry for love and affection that they’ll do just about anything to get it, regardless of the consequences.

It breaks my heart. Especially that last part because I know that kids who are that desperate for love rarely learn to love others in healthy ways, themselves. And I am reminded of the refrain in Mayer's “Daughters”:

mmm“Fathers, be good to your daughters;

mmmDaughters will love like you do, yeah.

mmmGirls become lovers who turn into mothers,

mmmSo, mothers, be good to your daughters, too.”

Jesus said he was giving His followers a new commandment, that we love each other as He loves us. Wouldn’t it be great if we started with our children? Or perhaps even with someone else’s child?

Amen. “Let it be so.”

Soft smiles and hope,

Pamm

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall . . .

2010-05-06T09:04:00.000-07:00

For better or worse, ever notice how your makeup never looks quite the same in your car's visor mirror as it does in your bathroom?

I, myself, have had many disappointing and sometimes downright frightening up-close-and-personal run-ins with a variety of mirrors. Many, many years ago my parents lived in Orange, Texas, for a brief period of time, in a house with awful bathroom lighting. I had a speaking engagement come up in Orange, so, of course, I stayed with my folks. And guess where I got primped up and ready for my Orange, Texas, speaking debut? Yup, in the bathroom with the worst lighting.

lll

Still, I was careful in my preparation, and I thought I was looking pretty fine by the time I left the house. I had blow-dried and curled and sprayed everything that needed that kind of attention, and covered, shaded, painted and highlighted everything else. As I greeted those precious women who had come to hear me speak, several commented excitedly, "Oh, we just can hardly wait to hear you speak!" I thought that was so sweet of them . . . until I took a quick bathroom break. In the clear light of the Ramada Inn Ladies' Room, just off the banquet hall, I got a totally different perspective on how I looked. No wonder those gals were waiting with bated breath to hear my stories -- they probably thought I was a hooker giving her "From Pimps to Prophesy" testimony! What had appeared perfectly normal and natural to me at mom's bathroom sink looked anything but that when examined under a different light.

Our lives are like that, aren't they? As long as we don't look too closely at some things, they can seem to be okay, even pretty doggone good at times. But when those things are brought out into the light, very often we find they are not what we thought they were. Sometimes, they look a little shabbier; sometimes they're not even recognizable. And, thankfully, once in a while, we even discover treasures that we couldn't begin to appreciate when they were hidden from the light.

Regardless of the results, we shouldn't be afraid to examine things in the light. Things we're attached to, committed to. Relationships. Ideas. Ourselves. Sure, we may find that not all is as it appears to be. But isn't that the point? I don't know about you, but I want to be brave enough to opt for what's real -- not that which only gives the appearance of being real. (Think diamonds, not cubic zirconia!) And besides, bringing areas of my life into the light allows me to work on those things that need sprucing up a bit. To let go of that which doesn't need to be part of my life. To maybe even embrace some treasures I was neglecting.

Jesus said, "I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness" (John 12:46).

Examining and making choices,

Pamm

HOT WOMEN!

2010-04-29T18:28:00.000-07:00

Don't laugh -- it's true!

We are called to be HOT woman!

Holy

Owned and operated by God

Tailor-made and designed with a purpose

Being holy: When we recognize that God has called us, through Christ, to holiness – to be set apart for Himself – then we understand that we are going to think differently than the world around us thinks. In fact, that’s the way it’s supposed to be! (After all, Jesus called us to go into the world but not to be part of it.) God’s ways are not like man’s ways, so the closer we get to being like our Father, the more our ways are not going to be like the world’s ways, and we have to expect that that’s going to feel a little uncomfortable sometimes. (Duh! But somehow, knowing that ahead of time helps.)

Being owned and operated by God: There’s a song I love that says, “In his hands, there’s only safety . . . nothing there can touch me except Him.” When we recognize that we are held securely by the Lord of the Universe and that we operate under His leadership and protection, we are freed from the fears that might otherwise keep us from being the women we’ve been designed to be.

Being tailor-made and designed with a purpose: Learning to embrace the woman God designed us to be – flaws and all – is one of the hardest things for us to do. Our human nature wants to be thinner or shapelier, taller or shorter, blonder (or at least less gray), younger, more talented, more gifted . . . the list could go on and on. The bottom line is that we will never run our own race as long as we allow our pace to be slowed by focusing on the other runners. Hebrews 12:1 says, “. . . let us throw off everything that hinders . . . and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us [italics mine].” (Note: We are not called to run someone else’s race!) Paul also writes, “I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me” (Phil. 3:12b) and, “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10) Each of us was created for a purpose, but we will never fulfill that purpose until we embrace the manner in which we were individually, uniquely designed to fulfill that purpose.

Knowing we are a HOT players – HOT women –affects how we respond to the cards in our hand – our relationships, our circumstances, and our dark places – because a HOT woman develops a God-perspective on how she views the people in her life, as well as what’s happening in her life. And it is, therefore, the HOT “ME” who is able to play her hand out through the rest of the game: The good, the bad, and even the downright ugly. (And girlfriend, I know we’ve all lived long enough to have had some ugly in our hands!)  

Here's to HOT women!

Grinning in the heat!

Pamm

PS To you fine women who've left comments on my last couple of posts: For some reason my blog is acting really weird, and I can't get to your comments to comment on your comments! (Did anybody get that?) But thanks so much for dropping in and leaving me some words! (Love me some words!) Thanks especially, Nola and Leslie! Lets hope THIS post acts right!

Laying Our Cards on the Table

2010-04-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

I know! I know! I've been a really baaaaaaad blogger! It's been almost three weeks since my last post, and all I can say is that . . . well, I've been swamped over here in the Great Lone Star State. And I can't even really say with what -- all I know is I've been running from mornin' 'til night time it seems, and I feel like I'm in the same place! (Might as well slow up, and see if the scenery changes, huh!) Okay, here's the post I promised three weeks ago . . .

So far, in our other two “sessions,” we’ve learned to about “anteing up” – giving our all in commitment to the mission (Matthew 28:19-20a, Acts 1:8, 2 Corinthians 5:20) – and we’ve learned how and when to “hold’em” and “fold’em” – whether we partner up with Papa God in a way that requires us to take an obviously, intentionally pro-active) approach to dealing with a situation, season, or relationship OR whether He calls us to take an intentionally quiet, discreet approach that most often will involve the act of prayer alone.

This post we’re going to “lay our cards on the table,” a really important aspect of our game because it’s where we take time to examine what we actually have in our “hand.”

A deck of cards is made up of four suits. For our purposes, we’re going to look at them this way:

· Diamonds – Our “ME” suit (And, Sistas, we are all diamonds!)

Who we are as individuals – spiritually,

physically, mentally, emotionally

· Hearts – Our relationships

The people with whom we share our lives – our family, our friends, our co-workers

· Clubs – Our circumstances

What’s going on in our lives – short-term day-to-day happenings and long-term events that will shape our lives for years to come

· Spades – Our dark places

Those areas where we struggle; our weaknesses, our strongholds

NOTE: And the wise woman knows not only what’s in her hand but Who holds her while she plays out her hand. (See Colossians 1:16-17.)

We’re going to focus primarily the “ME” suit in this post because 1) I told you I’d finish up this series of posts last week, and I’m obviously WAAAAY behind already; and because 2) the “ME” suit so dramatically impacts all of the other suits. (In a very real sense, the “ME” suit trumps all others.)

Let’s begin with scripture:

When Jesus was asked the question, “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?” (Matthew 22:36), he responded by quoting Deuteronomy 6:5:

“Love the Lord your God

With all your heart,

With all your soul,

With all your strength,

And with all your mind.”

The soul, as derived from the Hebrew word, nephesh, or the Greek, psuche, is essentially the essence of who we are as created beings – our innermost self – that basic “ME” that’s in each of our hands. (On unknown writer said that the soul is “what one is to oneself, as opposed to what one appears to be to one’s observers.”) If we are to truly love God with all of our soul – with every fiber of our being – then we need to know who we are, don’t you think? Not who the world says we are, but who we truly are.

Knowing who we are is not always as easy as it sounds. As we discussed yesterday, we live in a society that is continually trying to convince us that we are defined based on any number of superficial values: our appearance, our income, our age, etc.

Some of the other things we’re judged by:

· How we dress

· Where we live

· Where we go to church

· Our education level

· Where we work

· If we work

· Our marital status

· Our children

· Our lack of children

· Our titles

· Who we know

Sometimes the voices of our culture are so loud we can hardly hear ourselves think – even within the church. If we’re not careful, we buy into the standards of the world’s system. We begin to look at ourselves in ways that God never intended – we begin to measure our inner selves – who we are – based on outer criteria. (And if that’s the case, heck, I’m overweight, over fifty, overworked, and underpaid. In our culture, that makes me pretty near worthless!)

If we fall into the trap of thinking we are what we look like, what we have, or don’t have, etc., then our view of ourselves becomes skewed. And when our view of who we are – our “ME” – becomes skewed, everything else is off-balance, as well.

Thankfully, as believing women, we do not have to stay trapped in that kind of thinking. In fact, our brother, Paul, in his letter to the Romans (12:2) tells us outright that we are not to buy into the world’s pattern of thinking. As followers of Christ, we have access to a truth that sets us free from that kind of thinking if we choose to walk in that truth.

And how do we do that? How do we walk in God’s truth? First, find out what God’s truth is! Paul tells us that we are transformed by the “renewing of our mind[s],” and one of the steps we can take to renew our minds is to focus on the truth of God, as found in his Word. Just look at some of the truths we can find in God’s Word regarding how we should view ourselves (and others):

“The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance,

but the Lord looks at the heart.”

1 SAMUEL 16:7b

“So from now on we regard no one from a worldly point of view [not even ourselves, ladies!] . . . if anyone is in Christ, [she] is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!

2 CORINTHIANS 5:16a, 17

“For we are God’s workmanship . . . “

EPESIANS 2:10

When all else fails, rest in this: As a believing, truth-walking woman, you are one HOT player!

And what is a HOT player, exactly? Check the next post for what it really means to be a HOT woman . . . (And I'll try not to let it be THREE weeks from now!)

Until then,
Grins and blessings!

Pamm

Holdin' and Foldin'

2010-04-06T13:26:00.000-07:00

Some of you asked me about the rest of the "Texas Hold'em" 'Treat, so I thought I'd take a couple more posts to give you the Reader's Digest version . . . Here are some highlights from the "Knowing When to Hold'em and Fold'em" session (and my apologies up front for the fonts and spacing being all goofy!):

Remember how I told you that in my misspent youth with the Fighting Blue Hens, playing poker, for me, had nothing to do with winning? Obviously, I never really did catch on to the whole knowing when to “hold’em” aand “fold’em” thing back then.

Let’s look for a minute at the traditional poker player's definition of holdin' and foldin':

holdin’ ‘em v. what you do with your cards when you have a winning hand -- or when you think you can convince the other players you have a winning hand -- while you continue to invest into the pot in order to see the game through to the end and to claim your winnings.

foldin’ ‘em v. what you do with your cards when you’re holding a hand with which you believe you cannot win; when you fold, you stop investing in the pot, and you “walk away” – you quit playing in order to limit your losses.

Before we redefine what it means to "hold" or "fold" our cards, let's agree on what our cards are, exactly.

Our "cards" are actually a variety of things, some of which are not things at all. Our cards represent those situations and circumstances that Papa brings into our lives (or sometimes allows into our lives). They represent our gifts and talents, our faults and foibles, our strengths, our weaknesses, the seasons of our lives, the relationships we’ve inherited or sought out and cultivated with family and friends (as well as the other relationships that we seem to fall into or “get stuck with”).

Now before you start your list of what you want to "hold" and what you're eager to "fold," let's look at what those terms mean to us in this humble little study:

to hold’em v. to partner up with Papa God in a way that requires us to take an obviously, intentionally pro-active (hands-on, no pun intended) approach to dealing with (again, no pun intended) a situation, season, or relationship. This can be an exhilarating experience . . . or it can be exhausting or terrifying or joyful or heartbreaking or even a combination of all of those things. But the bottom line is that no hand we’re dealt is a surprise to Papa, and there is no hand that He cannot or will not use for His honor and glory – and our good – when we play out the hand as His Spirit leads. (Our problem is that we don’t always define “good” or see “good” the way Papa does.)

I can hear some of us groaning right now: Gosh, I guess that means I'll never get to fold! Even when I’m holding the losing-est hand anyone could possibly have!

Not necessarily! Read on:

to fold’em v. to partner up with Papa God in a way that requires us to take an intentionally quiet, discreet approach that most often will involve the act of prayer alone. To every other action on your part, God will say, No. Sometimes, Not now. But usually, No. This is rarely an exhilarating experience or a joyful one. It is most often a combination of the other adjectives – exhausting, terrifying, heartbreaking, and all combinations thereof. (Oh, and let’s not forget, at best, frustrating.) Still, the bottom line is that no hand we’re dealt is a surprise to Papa, and there is no hand that He cannot or will not use for His honor and glory – and our good – when we play out the hand as His Spirit leads. (Our problem is that we don’t always define "good” or see “good” the way Papa does.)

How in the world do we know

when to hold’em and when to fold’em?

If I had the perfect answer for that question, then I'd be preaching at First Baptist Houston on Tuesday evenings instead of Beth Moore.

The truth is that sometimes we don’t know. And other times, we are so sure that not even a 9.5 earthquake could shake us from what we’re positive is the right move.

As I’ve heard Beth Moore, herself, say about such matters (and as I’m sure you can attest from your own personal experiences) it takes practice. Practice at listening to the Spirit, at virtually resonating with the Spirit. And even then, there are times when you won’t know for sure how to play your hand until you take a step, in faith, toward holdin’ or, perhaps foldin’, and you then sense the Spirit’s undeniable approval or a nudging in a different direction. And sometimes it’s not even having a “peace” about your choice as much as it is about feeling a distinct “unrest” about the opposite choice.

Oddly enough, this is often when you can rely on the some of same strategy that you chose when you didn’t want to even ante up in the first place:

1. Read and Pray – Choose to communicate with Papa by reading His words and by pouring out your heart to Him and listening for His response.

2. Obey and Play – Choose to stay invested in the mission, playing out your hand as Papa leads, even when you’re tempted to “hold” because you want to “DO SOMETHIN’ EVEN IF IT’S WRONG!” or when you’re tempted to “fold” just because it feels “safer” and easier.

3. Let Papa Purvey – And then, again, rely on Papa to provide what you need to finish the game, whether it’s emotional resources, spiritual or physical resources. (And NOTE: Sometimes Papa’s resources are those godly brothas and sistas with whom you already rub hearts. Ask my brothas and sistas, and they'll tell you that my own motto is “What good is your family if ya can’t use ‘em!”)

Closing Thoughts

On Holdin’ and Foldin’

1. Neither holdin’ nor foldin’ is a “better” option. I’ve learned the hard way that holdin’ when you should fold is just as disastrous as the reverse. After all, praying is NOT “sittin’ back and doin’ nothin’.” It’s hard work. (And I’ve learned up-close and personal that when all you can do is pray, that’s enough!)

2. Be ready to “shift” your game plan, if the Holy Spirit leads you to. Just because Papa starts you off in “fold” mode doesn’t mean He will keep you there. Prayer may change things to the point where you are later called into action. And the opposite is true, as well. You may be going gang-busters, and suddenly hear Papa say, That’s enough for now. Step back. Fold. Pray.

3. And don’t let the fear of making a mistake or “losing” keep you from getting in the game. In the words of Sandi Patty,

In heaven’s eyes, there are no losers.

In Heaven’s eyes, no hopeless cause.

Only people like you, with feelings like me,

Amazed by the grace we can find in Heaven’s eyes.”

Grinnin' and playing,

Pamm

PS Tomorrow I'll finish this up and then get back to my "usual" ~~preachin’~~ bloggin’ . . .

"Ante Up"

2010-03-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

[to] ante up v. 1. to put forward betting takes before cards are dealt. 2. to give something of value in order to be included or participate in a venture. 3. [for our purposes here] to give something of value in order to be included or participate in the mission.

Seems to me that not getting into the game isn't an option if I'm to be the woman Papa has created me to be. So what do I do on "those days" when I don't feel like taking my place at the table?

First of all, I acknowledge that a godly woman doesn't live by her feelings, she walks out her life in the Spirit, by faith (Galatians 5:25). [Yeah, I know, that's good preachin' and hard livin'.]

Secondly (and I know this may sound cheesy, but I need "jingly thingies" to help me remember my own strategies sometimes, so just bear with me) I can choose to follow this pattern:

Read and Pray

Ante Up and Play

Let Papa Purvey

[Oh, stop groaning -- I warned you it might sound cheesy, but at this stage of my life, I need all the memories joggers I can get!]

Here's what I mean by that:

1. Read and Pray -- Choose to communicate with Papa by reading His words and by pouring out your heart to Him and listening for His response. [It's the listening part that I, personally, have the most trouble with.] (See Job 4:4; Psalm 18:30; 51:12; 119:160; 139:23-24; 2 Timothy 3:16-17.)

[I don't know about you, but I've caught myself trying to "pretty up" something before I tell it to Papa, and then, of course, I have to laugh at myself because He already knows what I'm thinking and wanting to say. So, I've learned to just SAY IT! We can tell Him honestly that we don't feel like getting in the game, that we're tired, that we're feeling rebellious, that we're depressed . . . whatever! Of course, telling Him doesn't mean He lets us bow out of the game, but sharing our raw, naked hearts somehow enables us to then receive the encouragement from Him that we need in order to walk in the Spirit, right on past those feelings that would otherwise sideline us.]

2. Ante Up and Play -- Choose, as an act of obedience -- regardless of how you feel -- to then invest in the mission, playing out your hand as Papa leads. (See Romans 8:5, 8-9a, 14, 26; 15:13; 1 John 4:13; Galatians 5:25.)

[Note that the key to playing out our hands successfully means letting Papa lead. Guide. And Direct. Of course, it would be scary if we had to play on our own, but the point is that we don't. One of the Delaware Divas shared that one of the scariest things for her is not knowing, when we ante up, what cards we'll be dealt or what cards someone else at the table may have. None of that matters, though, if our focus is on how Papa is leading us to play our hand. "Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith . . . so that you will not grow weary and lose heart" (Hebrews 12:2,3).]

3. Let Papa Purvey -- And then rely on Papa to provide what you need to finish the game, whether it's emotional resources, spiritual or physical resources. (See 1 Corinthians 2:4; 2 Corinthians 9:9-11; Ephesians 2:10; Philippians 4:19.)

[To be honest, I didn't even know what purvey meant until I needed this little saying, but it means "to supply with provisions." Cool, huh! So even when I come to the table and ante up, strictly out of obedience, and my emotions still don't seem to come along, and I'm tired, frustrated, insecure --whatever -- I can depend on Papa to provide out of HIS bounty, not mine! Whew! What a relief that is to know that whatever I need in the midst of the game, He will provide! ]

Sure, some days it's easier to ante up than on other days, there's no denyin' that. But still, if I'm going to answer the call to invest in the mission (and, Sistah, that's a call we all get), then there's no other option.

Deal me in!

Grinnin' and playin',

Pamm

PS I'll try to be funnier next post!

Texas 'treat!

2010-03-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

I told ya'll a few posts ago that I had a fabulous time "retreating" with some Divine Delaware Divas over spring break and that I'd write more about it later . . . Well, it's later!

When my sistah-friend, Beverly, and her husband, The Colonel, were transferred to Delaware a few years ago, she connected with the most fabulous group of women in a Bible study at the church she joined there. "These women were so real," she explained. "They 'd had it with playing church; what they wanted was Jesus, Himself. And y'know, once you get the Real Thing, you can't ever go back to the other!"

The whole time Bev was in Delaware, she talked about how fun it would be to plan a mini-retreat -- a kind of weekend-long slumber party -- with these women, but before she could make it happen, Bev and the Colonel suddenly found themselves heading back to Houston's Bay Area.

So what do you think Bev did? Why, she just invited them all to her house here for a "Texas 'Treat!" And they accepted! Yup! EI8HT of them jumped on a plane and headed here to the Lone Star State for four days and three nights of everything from Beth Moore (LIVE at First Baptist Houston!) to Texas Preacher Woman to Houston Livestock and Rodeo to shopping on Harwin (it's a Houston girl thing) to Cajun Cookin' at Cheri Cheryl's and then more Texas Preacher Woman. (And they even stopped at Hobby Lobby before going to the airport on the way home! I'm tellin' ya, these were seriously my kind of women!)

We knew from the start that this would be a different kind of retreat 'cause first of all, obviously, we were NOT secluded from the rest of the world by any stretch of the imagination with all of that comin' and goin'. Our theme for the retreat was a little different, too . . . Texas Hold'em: Learning to Play the Cards You're Dealt. (Well, c'mon, you knew we had to come up with somethin' Texas-y!)

Now you might be wonderin' how in the world we came up with a Bible study based on poker, but we did, and it was wonderful! And I'm gonna spend the next few posts letting ya'll in on some of it.

The first thing we learned was that ya gotta "Ante Up" . . .

My first year of college (right out of high school) I loved playing poker on Friday nights with the guys in my dorm. We'd play all night and then hit the dining hall for breakfast just as the sun was coming up Saturday morning. I was the only girl they let join in, probably, as much as for any other reason, because I was absolutely no threat to their winnings. In fact, i don't know that I ever had a night where I broke eve, but it was okay because I was right where I wanted to be -- smack dab in the middle of the action. And for that reason, it never occurred to me to not ante up just because I might lose. That idea never even crossed my mind. I knew from the get-go that being dealt-in to the game required a certain investment, and, to me, being one of the players, regardless of the outcome, was worth that cost.

I still feel that way. I want to be smack dab in the middle of what Papa God is doing -- so much so that I'm willing to ante up in order to be dealt-in on every hand. I want to play hard, taking risks, meeting the challenge when the ante's upped, taking the cards I'm dealt as far in the game as I can, following Papa's lead, and then leaving the final outcome to Him. If I play with that kind of abandon, then every hand becomes a winning hand, whether I'm holding aces over kings or a simple pair of deuces.

Okay, that's just a little bit of an intro for now . . . tomorrow, I'll talk about what to do when we don't feel quite as "spiritual" as that last paragraph because . . .

IN THE INTEREST OF HONESTY . . . I confess that I don’t always want to be smack dab in the middle of what Papa God’s doing – instead, I find myself leaning toward what I want to be doing without consulting Papa at all. (Or I want Papa’s outcome, but I want to accomplish it on my own, in my own way, and in my own sweet time, to boot -- no pun intended.)

And of course, I’m sure this has never happened to you, but there are days when I just don’t want to ante up – I want to be a no-show!

What about those days?

Tomorrow we'll talk about that.

Meanwhile, deal me IN!

Pamm

". . . so I can dance!"

2010-03-24T15:20:00.001-07:00

llllll

"Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance!" (Mary Mary).

I am a big woman. Not big-boned, just big. And while I’ve grown used to being a big woman, I’ve never gotten happy about it. I try to buy clothes that are flattering with an emphasis on colors that are good for me, I take the necessary medication to keep my blood pressure in check, and I’ve learned to laugh at myself. Still, I’ve known for a long time that I really need to lose some of this weight (like enough to make a whole other person).

The problem is that I really like food. In fact, I love food. And that really is the problem. I’ve loved food to the point where I’ve been willing, at times, to do just about anything to get it; I’ve spent more time with it than I should have; it’s been more important to me at times than it should have been; and I’ve allowed the pleasure it gives me to outweigh (no pun intended) the harm it does to my body.

I finally decided that it was time to seriously deal with the problem. I say “seriously” because for a long time I’ve “played” with the idea of dealing with the problem, but, take it from me, playing with problems doesn’t get you anywhere. You just end up sitting right it the middle of them. Soaking in them. Marinating in them.

So I recently started eating healthier. (I refuse to say I’m on a diet because, from past experience, I know my mind always sees a diet as a short-term fix. Learning to live out healthier habits means making a lifestyle change. I don’t need a short-term solution, I need a permanent one.) I’m doing some things that are working for me, and I’ve lost about ten pounds so far, but that’s about the size of a newborn (granted, a large newborn, but an infant, nonetheless), and as I mentioned earlier, I need to “deliver” a full-grown human (a chubby human, even). Obviously, I’m looking at long-term commitment here, and that’s hard on some days. In fact, I’ve already had a couple of days where I experienced what can only be described as a mild case of depression.

Depression? Why in the world, when I’m obviously having some success at something I need to do, would I develop a case of the blues? Because in order to succeed, I’ve had to say goodbye, at least for a while, to some of my best friends: Domino’s; McDonald’s, Blue Bell . . . Tough stuff for sure.

Change is never easy for any of us, is it? Even when the change is for the better – heck, for the best, even – it’s still hard. But being willing to give up the things that are dragging us down, that are hurting us, that are sometimes downright killing us (morbidly obese is, after all, the medical term for "you so fat, girl, you gonna die.") – even when they are things that we’ve loved – is the only way we’re ever going to have the life that our souls long for, the life we know God designed for us and wants us to have.

Yeah, it’s tough stuff for sure. But it’s life-giving stuff. And we are not alone. Our brother Paul writes, "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us" (Hebrews 12:1).

Jesus said that He came that we might have life and that we might have it to the fullest (John 10:10). And I desperately want that kind of life.

"Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance!" (Mary Mary).

Grinnin' and dancin'

Pamm

Fellowshipping and Feasting!

2010-03-18T08:48:00.000-07:00

I am have a fabulous Spring Break "retreating" with some Delaware Divas who've flown in from the second smallest state to fellowship and feast on Papa God's word with some of us women from the second LARGEST state . . . and we are having a blast! (Tonight we're even throwing in a little Louisiana with a Cajun style dinner over at Chez Cheri Cheryl's, another Houston-based sista -- Yummmmmm!)

I'll write more later, but here's a little peak at some of us . . .

Grins!

Pamm

Hot Water, Anyone?

2010-03-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

Next time you find yourself in hot water, you might ask, “God, is this my time to be a tea bag?”

© Marek Uliasz 2006

Okay, I know this has probably never happened to any of you (well, of course not), but let me ask, anyway: Have you ever forgotten to pay a bill? I mean, like really forgotten? Like big time forgotten? Like “they” turned off one of your utilities because you forgot to pay the bill? (And, yes, I know it takes real effort because of the many notices that come in the mail -- and now E-mail, even -- but, trust me, it can be done!)

I once accidentally allowed the gas at Casa St. Michael to be shut off. (Note the word accidentally – no one actually plans to do such a thing.) As I explained to the good folks at Entex, “I was the only person in hot water at my house last night!”

To make a long story short, at that time an Entex office was located in La Porte (where I was teaching at the high school), so that fact, combined with the wonderful concept of “teacher conference periods,” enabled me to get the gas turned back on before the day was out. (I love small towns!) However, let me also say that the “situation” did cause me to take a long hard look at my bill-paying system, or rather, my need for one. I am also proud to say that I have not had a utility disconnected since. (Okay, so I’m not counting the telephone, but that’s another story.)

Even if you are not as disorganized and absent-minded as I am, chances are you, too, find yourself in hot water, so to speak, every once in a while. How do you react when that happens? Do you boil over or steep? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I’ve done both. I also have to say that boiling over creates one big mess while steeping creates refreshment. (Comfort in a cup!)

When we read through the Old Testament (what some readers call The Old Covenant), we see that from time to time, God allowed His people, the Israelites, to get themselves into hot water. Often times, Israel chose to boil over, leaving itself scorched and barren. I hope we can look at Israel ‘s example and learn from their poor choices. God doesn’t want our mistakes to leave us permanently parched or dried out. God ’s desire for us always is to allow our hot-water-situations to bring about change in our lives: Repentance, renewal, and refreshment. A powerful brew, don’t you agree?

The next time you find yourself in hot water, ask yourself what you want to come out of that situation. As for me, I’m choose to “pay up” and then “keep the change.” Repentance. Renewal. Refreshment. Yup, it’s a powerful brew – life giving, in fact, if we choose to drink up.

Letters and Words

2010-03-05T11:26:00.000-08:00

Whew! It's been one of those runnin' crazy kind of weeks, and my writing has consisted primarily of making comments on student papers . . . time to get grades entered, uploaded, and exported for progress reports . . . and then on to district benchmark testing . . . Yippee!

Not having time to really write only reminds me of how much I love words and miss them when I don't have time to play with them. (Oldest Daughter shares this love of letters with with me and gave me one of those adorable antique typewriter key bracelets you can find on Etsy.) I say, play, but as any speaking, reading, or hearing person can attest, words are powerful things. And once they're out there . . . well, they're out there. One can forgive the occasional careless word and even -- with Supernatural help -- those thought-out, loaded-weapon words hurled with skillful aim, but it's the forgetting that's hard, if not outright impossible. Words, regardless of how or why they were spoken, linger long after arriving at their intended destination.

It was thinking about words that caused me to pull up this post from last year . . .

Mama Bug. Mama Bear. Mama Muz. Muz. Rev. Queen. Queenie. Pam'la. Pammy.

Just a few of the names I readily answer to, along with Jaja ("Grandmother" in Runyankore, a southwestern Ugandan dialect), Senga ("Auntie" in the previously mentioned language), Preacher Woman, Booger. (Don't ask.)

When I worked construction, the field engineers dubbed me Space Bandit. (Those guys knew I was blonde before I was.) My youngest daughter sometimes calls me Pammster Hamster, and my father used to refer to me as Daddy's Mess (which he acknowledged as a reflection on his parenting skills rather than on me).

Still, I don't suffer from multi-personality disorder. Maybe because I once read an Indian proverb that said, "The child with many names is much loved," and I guess I believed it. Probably, too, because my own "many names" have always made me feel loved. Even Daddy's Mess and Booger. (I told you not to ask.)

In my head, each name brings with it a certain inflection, a tone -- a memory chip, if you will -- that evokes the faces and voices of people who've made me laugh, cry, giggle, sometimes raise my own voice, or sometimes just grin a little.

I don't know if no one ever really called me anything bad or if my sanguine brain just refuses to remember. I mean, I do recall the night a man jumped out of his little red sports car at a stoplight and raged, "Bitch!" directly at me because he'd finally passed and pulled in front of the truck he thought I was driving too slow. And I know "the girl with the big boobs" was an all-to0-common description of me in high school by the guys who couldn't remember the new girl's name. Still, all in all, I've never been verbally tattooed with something ugly enough, often enough, to have needed emotional laser treatment to have it removed.

Never been repeatedly called Bitch, as if it were my name.

Or Stupid.

Or Nigger.

Nigger Lover.

Cow.

Wetback.

Slut

Raghead.

Worthless Pig.

Hurts to even write those words, but I know that there are those who live with those names daily -- or have lived with them so long that they still hear them everyday, even when there's no one around any longer to spew them. They are the walking wounded among us. Some are still oozing from open sores, some hemorrhaging from gaping holes. For others, the tourniquet is temporarily tightened while awaiting surgery yet to be scheduled.

Those of us who bear smooth skin, those who are unmarked those kinds of scars, or who perhaps do bear the marks and memories of past battles but now walk the road of healing and recovery, must choose to to look to our left and to our right for those who are not yet with us. We must train our eyes to see those who stand, dazed, just off the path, those who are waiting for someone to stop and pour the oil and wine over their wounds, bind them up, and then gently lead and guide them to a place of sanctuary. A place where old names are replaced with new ones. Beloved. Precious. Mine.

And we must choose also to stop the hurling of hatred where we are able. We must not look the other way when weapons of words are used against those who are vulnerable to such attacks.

Sound lofty and noble?

Good for a "devotional" thought but hard to put into practical practice?

Not at all. How about we start by stopping the forwarding of E-mails that flail against the short-comings -- real or imagined -- of one group or another? That pit one group against another?

How about refusing to listen to jokes that depend on the humiliation or stereo-typing of one ethnic group or another for their "punch"?

How about correcting the kid in the grocery store who slurs another kid or group of people, even when we're not that kid's parent and not a certified teacher? (We teachers already take license to correct kids everywhere, in and out of the classroom. You should try it; it's actually quite fun.)

How about being sensitive to the inferences we make in front of our children (and grandchildren) about those who differ from us.

How about refusing to publicly choose a political party for Jesus? (Believe it or not, I happen to know some fine folks in each party.)

Little things, people. Little things. But we can all start somewhere. One word at a time.

Remember: Beloved. Precious. Mine.

Loving you for who you are,

Pamm

PS I love that the bracelet from Oldest Daughter has the "SHIFT" key as its centerpiece. It's a visible reminder that I often need to "shift" my thoughts before I open my mouth.