Belle and the Scooter Queen . . .

LORD, You have assigned me my portion and my cup; 

You have made my lot secure. 

The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; 

surely I have a delightful inheritance. 

I have set the LORD always before me. 

Because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.  

You have made known to me the path of life; 

You will fill me with joy in Your presence, 

with eternal pleasures at Your right hand.

  

PSALM 16:5-6, 8, 11 

I love this photo!  You know why?  Because it was taken in the church parking lot one Sunday morning by someone I admire who thinks I am cool!  LOL!  (How's that for being perfectly honest!) 
 
The picture was snapped earlier this year—probably January or so (I can tell because I'm wearing the Big Wooley, my $7 Value Village score)—at a time when I loved riding Belle anywhere that didn't require me to go faster than 48-50 mph ('cause that's about all she'd

do with a motorcycle mama of my magnitude sitting pretty on her). Church and the School House qualified.

I had acquired Belle precisely one weekend after the Big Thanksgiving Crash of 2012 (another post for another time, but I still have the scars from that one), and I was so attuned to her that it never occurred to me to be unhappy or uncomfortable with the fact that she was a Vitaro and not a Harley—she fit me perfectly.

She fit me perfectly. At the time. Obviously, I outgrew her, and now I'm in love with a Suzuki named Sam. (I can also envision a time when I'll love a bigger Suzuki or a Kawasaki, even, but that's for another time . . . ) The point is, when she was my ride, she was my ride, and I reveled in  every minute with her. She was my delightful inheritance and the boundary lines were in pleasant places as we explored them together.

My prayer for you is that you are embracing your journey of this moment—with its boundary lines—because you know that your lot is secure because it is He—not your circumstances—Who has prepared the path before you. For His purposes. His plans. And His glory.

Still in the wind,

Pamm

"Happy at Home"

 

 From Robin at Happy at Home

Omygosh!  Does this picture just make you melt or what!  Robin over at Happy at Home has one of those homes that makes me think I might could do a predominantly white home with just a few pops of color for interest.  (Casita 422, where the Saint and I reside, leans more toward an explosion of color.)

Robin's home is gorgeous--warm, cozy, and comfortable-looking.  Just the kind of place you'd like to drop into for a cup of hot chocolate this time of year. (And I'll bet Robin wouldn't think twice about letting you kick off your shoes and tuck your stockinged feet up underneath you on her comfy slip-covered sofa while you visit.)

You really should click on over there and enjoy the serenity of her home. 

I'm seeing tons of cozy homes out there in Blogland, all trimmed up magnificently for the holidays, and I'm learning to feast on the unique creativity and beauty of each one without feeling like I need to run home and rethink or redo everything I've already done at the Casita. 

And that, my sisters (and brothers) is a gift that I wish for all of us--that we might soak up, relish, and receive the beauty and bounty on the pages of those who share their homes and lives with us while still joyfully embracing and experiencing contentment in what we, ourselves, are blessed with. 

Clutching you to my bosom across the pages,

Pamm

Wise Women Don't End Up With Broken Wisemen

Wisemen, a shepherd, and Mary, oh my!

I hate having to learn lessons the hard way. So why do I keep doing it that way? I guess just 'cause I'm human, dang it.

I'd love to say it all started with a wet washcloth, but that would be shifting the blame. Still, it kinda did.  My mom left a wet washcloth hanging on a hook on my bathroom wall. I mean, isn't that why there would be hooks on one's bathroom wall?  So, no biggie . . . except my bathroom walls are covered in fabric, and that wet washcloth left a big ol' water stain right in the middle of the wall. Recovering the wall is not an option (I swore I'd never do that job again), so if you know anything about my decorating style, you know I am going to “fix it” by simply hanging something “new” over the spot—a little task I decided to take care of early Sunday morning right after St. Michael whisked the parentals off to Hobby Airport to catch their crack-of-dawn flight back to North Carolina.  

Yeah, despite the fact that my coffee was freshly poured, and the casita was dark and quiet—the perfect time to plump the pillows and cozy into the couch and share my morning coffee with Papa—I found saying not, "Good morning, Sweet, Precious Papa-God," but "First, let me straighten up the Texas room [what we call our guest room] . . . oh, and let's hang something over this water spot . . . “ 

(Of course, Papa was saying What's this “let's,” little girl?  I'd rather you just sit and enjoy some time with me, soaking up my presence . . .  But, no, I was bound and determined to do “just one more quick thing.”) 

Having no hammer in sight has never for one moment stopped one of my DIY projects—I simply began pounding a nail into the bathroom wall, just above the offending water spot, with the butt-end of a screw driver. (Yes, sisters, this is how I roll.) After approximately seventeen quick, stabbing jabs into the nail head, C R A S H !

Why, oh, why, did it not occur to me that my pounding on the wall might set anything resting on the above wall shelf sailing off said shelf like Thelma and Louise went flying off that cliff? (And, sadly, with the same results.)

There on the floor lay two wisemen  parts of two wisemen, a shepherd, and, alas, Mary, too (not to mention a Fiesta plate that had rested on the shelf as well.  Another hint to my decorating style: more is always more).   

Needless to say, I was heartsick.  Though Baby Jesus had landed safely in a basket directly below the shelf, a major portion of one of my favorite nativity scenes lay in shards, slivers, and various chunky pieces across the bathroom floor. Ugh! 

I picked up the majority of the pieces and then allowed myself to admit that had I been listening and snuggling with Papa on the couch instead of scurrying around playing Martha-on-crack, everything would still be intact—wisemen, shepherd, Mary, Fiestaware plate. And my heart wouldn't be thumping to the beat of woulda, coulda, and shoulda.

After gingerly picking up and depositing the broken pieces of my mishap on top of one of the what-can-I-cover-that-spot-with candidates, I humbly retrieved my coffee cup from the bathroom counter and made my way to the couch for some peace and solitude, and—dare I say—repentance.

Too late.

Just as eyes closed for retreat into prayer, 

the back door flew open, and St. Michael was there. 

He went straight to the kitchen and started puttering around, 

snatching what little peace there was to be found.

As humans, sometimes we just plain ol' miss the moment. 

During the upcoming busy-ness of this Christmas season, here's hoping you don't miss yours. I'm hoping to do better next time, myself.

Still learning,

Pamm

Africa, Harleys, and Rock and Roll

Enoch Kategaya, pastor, University Baptist Church, Mbarara, Uganda.

2013:  The year of Africa, Harleys, and Rock and Roll.  

I want to return to my brothers and sisters in Mbarara, Uganda, in November; be riding a Harley Davidson Softtail Deluxe of my very own by December; and somewhere between now and then on the calendar, do house church with a bunch of musicians (all young enough to be my children).

That's not asking too much, is it?  

I don't know.  

I don't know for sure if these are the things Papa has penned-in on my calendar, but I think so.  I'm hoping.  And praying.  

Africa.  

I've wanted to return to Mbarara, Uganda, like since forever.  (Yes, I do spend my days with tweenagers.) But from almost the moment the plane touched down in Houston following my second trip in '06, Papa has repeatedly whispered no.  Sometimes I thought I heard a not now following the no, but other times, just a soft, gentle no.  

Until mid-March.

The Tuesday afternoon of my spring break from the School House, Enoch, my dear African brother who pastors University Baptist Church, Mbarara, messaged me:  " . . . am looking for a team to come help me lead a regional women's conference this year.  What are your first thoughts?"

First thoughts?  I don't hear a no.  I don't hear a not now.  I'm listening, Papa.  Aren't You going to say something?  

Second thoughts:  BACKFLIPS . . . CARTWHEELS . . . HAPPY DANCE!  HAPPY!  HAPPY!  HAPPY! 

I really sensed green lights on this one that afternoon.  

Then reality hit.

Someone else planned those other trips.  Actually, several someones planned those trips--planning from both this side of the Big Water and the other side of the Big Water. And none of those someones are in either place anymore.  My own gifts of organization are limited to writing Bible studies and retreat materials.  Absolutely no practical, logistical organizational skills, talents, or gifts present in this ol' gal.  NONE.  N - O - N - E.  

So, fear creeps in. Ummm, did I just say creeps in?  Strike that.  I'd say it feels more like fear's trying to do rip-open-the-door, gun-in-my-face car-jacking that leaves my body sprawled in the middle of an intersection waiting to be run over by a Mack truck.  
                                                                                           
After all, who do I think I am to try to put together a trip like this?  

What if I misheard my spiritual GPS that afternoon in March?  What if the green lights were a product of my own I-soooooo-want-to-do-this! imagination instead of Papa's saying,  "Yes, now you may 'Pass Go,' my child." 

I start imagining amber caution lights flashing from all sides--you know, amber, the color that appears right before the light ahead turns red.  Still, I don't see the red light, and I'm reminded that amber lights don't tell us to stop.  They remind us to slow down, to assess the situation before us, and to proceed with caution. (Plus, I know that the Spirit is not the author of fear.)

So for now, I am proceeding with caution (not a natural thing at all for a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of gal).  I'm checking on flights with the travel agent, I'm talking Africa to anyone with listening ears, I'm seeking insight and advice from those who've made the trip more recently.  And I'm reminding myself that Papa doesn't call the equipped, He equips the called.  (So if the lights are truly green, I'm praying for Him to equip me with a Logistics Coordinator!)

What's Papa seem to have penned into your calendar this year?  And how are you preparing for that?  I'd love to hear!

Next post . . . Harleys!  

As always, grins and blessings,

Pamm