Musings

Paint a picture with your words. Make it lovely, make it true, make it show the world what's inside of you. A heart that's big with messy love, a learning mind that seeks to grow.
Spill from the deep parts that are not quite right, the imperfect places that won't stay straight. The world doesn't need perfection, it needs willingness, willingness to love it through the ugly and undesirable. When another seeks it's death, to coax it to flourish in life.

Playing With Words

Sails of Slumber

I set my sails of silent slumber toward a sleeping land

In hopes I arrive at morning's shore fully rested on the sand

Fitful rest too full of dreams don't lay down by my side

Too many bedfellows in my space shall cause my peace to hide

Let sleep not leave 'til morning creeps across the early sky

With golden toes that splash in rose and leave a trail on high

Wedding Wishes 

May your lives be filled with wedded bliss 

That is renewed each time you kiss

May happiness linger in each smile 

And joy walk beside you for a long long while

Troubling times, they will come

But those are the things that make you one

Forever and always are more than a phrase 

A lasting promise for all your days

Then heaven will open over your home

With God's goodness and love as a protective dome 

Just For Giggles

Giggles are good for you. They just might be even better for you than laughter because they're that small step towards laughing that begins the process of giving in to joy. They're the build up to deep belly laughs that shed tears because of an inability to contain the happiness within.

Giggles are a sign that everything's ok again. Ever try to coax a child to stop crying after he gets hurt? That little moment of hesitancy, between tears shed for sympathetic attention and recognizing the humor of your antics in an attempt to repair happiness, creates room for a giggle. Quite often, a giggle is the sound that will escape when a laugh is suppressed. Giggles are harder to contain, they wriggle out and air themselves much too late to be snatched back and kept in check.

Don't be fooled, guys do it to, but generally under the more manly sounding moniker of a chuckle. Regardless of what you call it, don't suppress it. Give into joy!

1 Thess 5:16 Rejoice always!

Psalm 100:1 Make a joyful shout to the Lord, all you lands!

Grace, Relationship, and Religion

I've been trying to write this post for a long time. I keep digging into the topic in an attempt to understand, becoming baffled, and wandering away, only to be brought right back. This post isn't organized well. My head keeps getting muddled and I haven't come to a concise conclusion. But I'm curious to see what others' thoughts on the topic are, so I'm posting this anyway. 

There seems to be two kinds of grace. One group of people preach strongly the grace that brings freedom, so afraid of legalism that they swing to the far side of “Let me do as I will!” Then also there are others just as strongly afraid of darkness and the impurity it puddles about its victims that they too swing, but to the opposite side of strived after perfection. Both stand on the Word of God and shout grace—grace to do and grace to be. The pendulum keeps swinging and the church continues to shun unity for longing to agree. Back and forth, back and forth, the question longs to be answered, which one is correct?

Wherein lies the truth? Perhaps with peace. And peace waits right where most pendulums rest—smack dab in the center of both arguments.

Grace is a sticky notion. It allows freedom where none is deserved and yet calls to reformation the slightest of wandering errors. It is only because of the grace brought through the cross that Jesus could call people to “Be perfect, just as my Father in heaven is perfect.” But if you go back a couple of verses, you’ll find a description of perfection rather different than the spotless reputation of goodness that long standing church members are often determined to maintain. “But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you…and if you greet your brethren only, what do you do more than others?” (Matt. 5:44, 47-48) This verse speaks a lot louder about the treatment of others than personal actions. But both are important. 

Most Christians have heard a sermon or two on not using God's grace as a license to do whatever they want. But see, it's deeper than that. When you accept Christ into your life you step into a covenant with Him that is made possible by the blood He spilled at the cross. Hebrews 10:29 says that continuing to sin after receiving the truth is like one "who has trampled under foot the Son of God, and has regarded as unclean the blood of the covenant by which he was sanctified, and has insulted the Spirit of grace." The popular slogan, "It's a relationship, not a religion" comes to mind, but suddenly the phrase gains a much deeper meaning after reading that verse.   

Grace is like as a vast, flat expanse before Jesus. It’s so large, there’s more than enough room for all the messes you ever have or will make in life. But it’s also so open, that there’s no place to hide those messes. You can’t jump behind a bush and say, “Don’t look, Lord! I’ve realized I’m naked!” Adam tried that one, forgetting that God had made him that way in the first place. It’s that place where the woman was left with Jesus after her accusers scattered, realizing they couldn’t throw the first stone. Sinless, Jesus declined throwing a stone as well, but still told her to “go and sin no more.” (John 8:11) 

Without grace there wouldn't be a key to open the door to a relationship with Jesus. That same grace though, calls us to a responsibility of action that others may see and label as religious. Luckily, there's grace for that too. 

Twinkle Of The Father's Gaze

I'm finding everyone has a story of some kind that leaves them carrying "broken pieces" of themselves. Everyone has lost a loved one, been abandoned, been abused physically or verbally, been let down, or in some way found out just how fragile human emotions are when faced with the friction of other humans. Filling up the earth from top to bottom, imperfect beings try to carve out a track to happiness, inevitably bumping into each other and leaving often ugly bruises. But there is a healer, and a guide ready and waiting. This is something that has been on my heart and is written to all those who've carried "broken pieces."    

             Look! It springs up even now. Life is being birthed from the promise and nurtured by hope’s gentle kisses. How sweet is the laughter of new life. How precious is the sound to your Father dear. Sweet child, grow up sweetly. Brush away those lies that like to fall on tender ears. O innocence, keep close to your Father’s side and someday He will present you as the spotless bride.

            I did not stray, but another did. Why did he want my life when he had his own? He took from me what I did not know I had to give. He was careless. He dropped that stolen part of me, and it shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. But I picked them up.
           

            One by one by one.

            They were broken, but they were me. It hurt to hold them, their edges sharp in my clutching hands, but I did not let go. I knew the Healer could help me. I brought Him those pieces, those broken shards of me.
            “Twirl,” He told me. Twirl for the world to see.”

            “But Papa, first you have to fix me! They won’t like what they see.” And I held out my hands to show Him the damage done to His handiwork. As I reached out though, the broken pieces I had carried so carefully disappeared. Instead, I saw only the scars on my hands where I had gripped too tightly.

            He took my hands in His own, and I saw He had scars too. He kissed those places where the blood had streamed through, and simply said, “My daughter, I love you.”

            In His eyes I saw myself as I had never seen before. The girl in the reflection was a little girl, but she was grown too. Her eyes laughed at me, as if to say, “Don’t you see who you are?” For it was me in the mirror of the King’s eyes, me who fit perfectly in the twinkle of His gaze.

A Wooden Roller Coaster And A Missed Ride

Do you ever have moments in life where the world suddenly slows down and you catch a glimpse, however small, of something that makes you pause to wonder? It’s like that moment when you’re about to get on a big roller coaster, when you suddenly see the rust on the poles holding the structure up, and the clack! clack! clack! becomes a louder sound in your head as you consider anew the stability of the machine you’re about to entrust your safety to.

I went to the fair last summer and enjoyed a day keeping up with friends amidst the pungent smells of deep fried foods, sugary sweet refreshments, bumping pushing crowds, and colorful blinking lights that accompany it. After eating more greasy food than we should have, as that’s just what you do at a fair, we wandered through the booths looking at what people had to sell. As we were purchasing something from one particular lady, she happened to mention as she was running our card that a previous customer had tried to put a hex on her.

That was my moment, my pause that made me stop and wonder. What if I stepped out and told her what I knew of the One who could protect her from those attacks? What if I told her about the blood that was shed to keep any thing of that nature at bay? The incident obviously bothered her, because she called a friend who was supposed to be able to recognize the presence of those things, the friend had confirmed it and gave her advice that I wouldn't recommend to get rid of it.

She had a steady stream of customers to help and the friends my husband and I had come with had already wandered away to wait for us, so we walked on to join them. But something inside my spirit was stirred and disappointed that I didn’t go back to talk to her. People so desperately need Jesus, they need the truth to set them free in their lives. Not just the Jesus that the people outside the fair held signs about and handed out tracts disguised like million dollar bills to explain. They need the Jesus who breaks the chains of the captives and meets them in the often-overwhelming realities of their lives. I am not at all meaning to speak negatively about the people handing out tracts; I hope others were blessed by it. But unless the tract has a way of letting them see a glimpse of the tangible closeness of the King and His ability to breath new life into their circumstances, it’s just going to be another nice story.

I got on the wooden rollercoaster despite my head’s reprimanding warnings. I jumped aboard the ride and had a blast as it swerved around the rickety track. But I missed the all aboard call to the ride that could have ended in a saved life. Assessing the risks, I stepped back. I told myself I was inadequate, but forgot that it wasn’t my competency that mattered. Somehow I could put my trust in a ride enough to raise my arms in the air, letting go because I believed that the safety bar would keep me in place, but not that the God who gave everything for me would give me the words to speak.

Sharing the love and power of Jesus Christ with people like the lady at the fair? That’s where the core of evangelism should be. The gospel is so much more than just a good story. It’s an encounter where desperation meets divinity and God’s radical love begins the process of changing individuals from glory to glory.

I pray that the lady we saw will soon have an encounter in the Father’s embrace, and I thank God for the continuance of His grace. 

What Does Hope Look Like?

I wonder if the wise men that came to see Jesus were slightly disappointed that the hope of the world looked so small, so very much like the baby that Jesus was?

Looking through stories in the bible, hope often takes a strangely unhopeful appearance. For the Israelites fleeing Egypt if looked like a nervous man with a big stick. For Noah and his family it was a boat in the middle of a desert that had never known rain. For Daniel it was kneeling in prayer as hungry lions threatened to lung. For David it was five rocks and a sling against a man an entire army cowered from.

Hope is God meeting people in the midst of impossible situations and partnering with them right where they are. It doesn't matter what one has or doesn't have, God is without limits. He would have helped David defeat Goliath with a pocket knife if that were the weapon on hand. It is very easy for me to look around and realize how ill equipped I am for the challenges that come in life. But all too often, I forget to also take into account the fact that the storehouses of heaven are open and available through Christ. I've been pondering this verse lately: "The kingdom of heaven is at hand." (Matt 10:7) Hold up your hand and look at it. That's how close heaven is! Not at the stars, or even at the tops of the trees, it's "at hand," ready and waiting to be accessed by those that God has commissioned to establish His kingdom on earth. In case you're wondering, that includes any one who has accepted Christ, not just the pastors or famous evangelists.

God doesn't need the help of people to save the world and accomplish His will. He chooses to partner with His kids in a such a way that they become not only the avenue He works through, but also a vital part in bringing God's glory and hope to earth.

Colossians 1:27 says, "Christ in you, the hope of glory."I've often read that verse and cynically thought, "Well there's not much hope in that!" But that mindset only looks at one half of the equation. Through my acceptance of Christ, I have been infused with the same power that conquered the grave and shattered the plans of the enemy. Slowly, I am learning to change my perspective from telling God what I have, to asking Him what He has. I want people to see His glory in me, that hope might rise up in them, even if it looks like all I'm equipped with is a stick, boat, or sling.

God's Newest Wonder

I don't pretend to understand the pain felt by parents who have experienced a miscarriage, but my heart aches for my husband's brother and his wife whose baby is being held by Jesus right now. The poem is written from the parents' perspective. Looking forward to meeting you in heaven little one. 

God's Newest Wonder

Hey there baby, I never knew a heartbeat

Could bring such joy.

Hey there baby, I even began to wonder

Would you be a little girl or boy?

But pink and blue turned to black and grey

 In the sudden wake of a single day.

So hear my lullaby

Sweet baby who’ll never cry.

I know heaven’s watching over you,

And that to this world God’s still faithful and true,

Though how I wish I could have first held you.

Here’s my love God, won’t you wrap my baby in it?

And thank you for the joy brought in fleeting minutes.

Right now the angels are in awe of God’s newest wonder

And I’m trying to remember we’re not forever torn asunder.

Even though my arms are empty, I still hold you in thought and prayer,

Waiting for the day I’ll touch your tiny fingers, toes, and hair.

Goodbye baby, forever I’ll remember.

Goodbye baby, that was due in September.

She I Was Called To Be

This is my woman's heart, how You made it from the start: delicate and vulnerable. My walls I've broken down, and even though I'm scared, I'm not going to bring them back around, because in this place I've begun to blossom into she I was called to be.
This is my cry to all the girls who've lost their way or been pushed astray: "Follow me! I've found a way to the Father's heart; His love will bind the brokenness and fit the fallen pieces of your heart. Follow me to the Bridegroom's house! His touch restores purity and provides true safety. Stop looking in the world's mirror, fellow daughters, and see instead your reflection in the eyes of the one who counts each heartbeat as more precious than emeralds and sapphires.
A soft but unbreakable strength is worn by the woman who knows undoubtedly that she is loved. A loved woman will remain firm when the rest of the earth trembles, for she knows what she is standing on and is anchored securely in that love. Love not as man sees it, and perhaps thinks he knows it, but love that surpasses all height or depth of knowledge and is the very nature of God.

Vintage Bride

Vintage. Shabby chic. Refurbished antiques. It's a trend that's caught on like wild fire and doesn't appear to be going out any time soon. I noticed it a lot more this last year as I planned my wedding. You see it here and there in the every day world, but in the, as I've come to call it, wedding world, it's glaringly everywhere. It's so wide spread, anyone not following the trend feels outdated about not using outdated things.
It didn't really find it's way into my wedding because I felt seriously inadequate to do justice to the theme. Not everyone can decorate with things gathered from a garage sale and end up making it look like a magazine shoot. I had a feeling if I attempted the feat it would look more like, well, a garage sale. I like the look though. It adds a warm homemade feeling, something akin to that sensation you get when you hug your grandma after she's been baking and smells like cinnamon and snickerdoodles. It reflects a heritage while leaving room to add touches of "you." Connecting generations, if you will.
That being said, I find it a rather ironic trend, in the wedding world especially. Why? Because the supposed antiquated ideals have been peeled away from the vintage replications. To put it simply, marriage is being celebrated in a way that appears similar to how it might have fifty years ago, but lived without those fundamental values that make it last that long.
Vintage is popular until it comes to morals.
People have a tendency to express surprise when they find out the deeper details of the beginning of my marriage: You didn't live together or sleep together before you were married? No. He asked your dad if he could date you? Yes, the word court might have even been mentioned. You changed your last name to his and didn't even hyphenate? Yes. You didn't put a note somewhere acknowledging the injustice of gays not being able to marry? No. Your dad gave you away at the wedding, not just his blessing? Yes. Yes, we did, along with many other traditions that are suddenly non traditional.
Personally, I really like some of the ways weddings have changed over the years. We had a photobooth at our wedding and danced back down the aisle to a song from Grease. The bridesmaids' dresses were all different styles and we served our guests ice cream cupcakes. I love seeing how each couple makes their wedding unique to them and had fun doing so with ours. But there are some traditions that I refuse to let go of no matter how outdated they may seem. "Til death do us part," is one of those. Not the death of feelings or emotions, but a commitment to the unification of our lives until our bodies no longer house our spirits.
I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on marriage after two whole months of wedded bliss. I'll be the first to admit that I have a lot to learn; I might as well be on my honeymoon! (Which I don't intend to end, by the way.) Regardless though, I plan to build my marriage on values that many have declared outdated. Even though it didn't show in the decor, apparently I am a vintage bride.

Purple Skies And Blue Grass

Have you ever tried to color a picture with a four year old? Their little hands grip the crayons and they often want to work on the same section as you. Crayons end up clashing until you give up and move on to another part. Some of them try to stay inside the lines and end up spilling over less. Others don't seem to recognize that there are lines at all. The color choices are generally creative too; they'll make the skies purple and the grass blue. Matching isn't a concern, and realistic portrayals aren't something they're generally aware of. If you were attempting to color something meant for display or masterpiece quality, you have chosen the wrong partner. They just drag their crayons around the paper, scribbling blissfully and helping you fill the page with haphazard blotches of color.

Sometimes I feel like that's what life with God is like, only I'm the four year old. He puts us in this world and says, "Be creative! Color it in with Me." And we end up scribbling every where and going hopelessly out of the lines. But He doesn't mind. He smiles with real joy at the work we've done and says, "Good job! It's looking beautiful. What should we do over here?" He looks with the tender eyes of a Father that delights to create with us. He's not deterred by the mistakes we've made and even works them to fit in with the rest of the picture in the end. They don't throw Him off course.

As we continue to create with Him, we learn to follow His lead and remain inside the lines to produce a more detailed picture. I am amazed though, that regardless of how much I learn or don't learn, God still displays my life like a father putting his child's picture on the refrigerator, as if to say, "Look at what my daughter has done!" He doesn't see scribbles, He sees a heart desiring to make something with Him, partnering with Him despite shortcomings and willing to let Him make up the difference where lacking. He works everything together for our good. Those purple skies and blue grass? He'll even turn them into a sunset over the water, as if that's how the image was originally meant to appear.

The Question

Today, I would like to take a moment and recognize all of those people in the world like myself who struggled with, and strongly disliked, a certain simple question.

I could usually see it coming. Well-meaning strangers, who had already covered the weather and other current unimportant categories of small talk, would generally follow with the question. They didn’t mean to be rude. They were simply trying to avoid one of those awkward silences, but little did they know they were about to create one. There would be a short pause and perhaps a quick glance at their feet as they shifted weight and searched for something else to say. I would try, I really would, to insert a question of my own into the conversation at this point. I was usually too late. Their faces would light up as they found inspiration down near their shoes and they’d look up to ask, “So, where do you go to school?” Perhaps it wasn’t the question so much as the reaction to the answer I wanted to avoid. You see, I was one of those kids. Yes, I was homeschooled.

After I informed them of my location of education would come the look. Uncertainty mixed with confusion as their feet suddenly became interesting once again. Common responses to my apparently abnormal answer included but weren’t limited too:

“Well that’s…nice."

“Oh." 

“Do you do school in your pajamas?”

“Do you like it?”

“I knew somebody who was homeschooled once.”

I always wanted to reply to that last one with “Small world.” It’s really not that rare of a phenomenon. It’s not even a phenomenon. (I apologize if you weren’t homeschooled and that last word had too many syllables.)

Homeschooling isn’t that rare, so why did people react like I’d just informed them that I was involved in a weird, secret club? (Granted, unless you were homeschooled you probably don’t understand that Saxon is equivalent to cruel and unusual mathematical torture, but that’s beside the point.) According to current research, homeschooling has grown to about 2 million students in the U.S. Count the zeros folks: 2,000,000. So why do people still look confused when they meet people like me? The simple answer? We blend in. Like secret agents. (Well, not exactly like them.)

Sure, the shy homeschoolers in matching and slightly (or more than slightly) outdated outfits are easy to spot, but people sporting an excess of tattoos and purple hair and are unable to identify the U.S. on a map, are generally easily recognized as a product of public schools as well. (Why are we balking at the former and accepting the latter as normal anyway?) Neither stereotype fits well for the majority.

           

I was never sure if it was a compliment or not that people told me I didn't seem like a homeschooler. (I’ve successfully acquired social skills, yay me!) The reality is, most homeschoolers look and act pretty much like everyone else. We don’t all have super long hair, like to match our siblings, and spend every waking minute studying for the National Spelling Bee. Before you go rolling your eyes at those that do, take a moment to glance around your own local school at the wide range of individuals attending. People come in all varieties.

Before you are tempted to ask about socialization, just don't. If he or she is talking to you in a public place, let's save everyone trouble and recognize that they're being socialized as you speak. You can even pat yourself on the back as you realize that you have contributed to the very important process of an introduction to mainstream society. Way to help the world out, one homeschooler at a time. 

If you do happen to ask a homeschooler about where they attend school, keep smiling after they tell you and ask what their favorite subject is, or something similar, just like you would anyone else. It’s that easy. Personally, I no longer mind being "one of those kids" and will probably make my future children face the same question. Perhaps by then though the general population will realize how widespread homeschooling is. At the very least, they hopefully won't be asked as I once was, "Is that actually legal?" As legal as ignorance and cheaper too. 

Knocking

I can feel the knocking, pounding away and echoing throughout my entire body, echoing throughout my brain. But I can't seem to find the door. I want to open, I want to let it in and make the banging cease, but when I'm surrounded by walls that have no openings, how can I succeed?
What is truth? Tell me that I might inscribe it all around me—big letters, bold colors, words that I can hang onto. Find a crack, mind the gaps, make a way to enter. Or is it exit? Do I need to let something in or just get out to whatever's waiting on the other side?

Knocking, knocking, knocking...but then suddenly I see I'm the one who's knocking. I'm the one awaiting admittance. Admittance from a world I created too securely, a world that hides me from the world. What am I afraid they will see? What am I afraid they won't see? I am me. They are not even them. They are him and her, he and she, tall and short, blue and brown, green and hazel, dark and light—they are not them. The mass thins, individuals appear, all knocking, knocking, knocking...wanting to be free. I have found my door, I will help set them free.

Blinded By Brokenness

(John 20:11-20)

Can you imagine the confusion in the angels' faces as they asked Mary Magdalene, "Woman, why are you weeping?" They had just witnessed the pinnacle of supernatural battles between the kingdoms of darkness and light, and watched as Jesus emerged as the triumphant victor. I don't pretend to be an expert on the emotional levels of angels, but I would imagine they were incredibly excited about the recent events! Commissioned with the privilege to announce to all who came to the tomb that Jesus had arisen and won the battle over not only His own life, but also that of all of mankind as well, they had to have been confused to find this woman sobbing. 

"They have taken away my Lord," she explained as the reason for her tears. Didn't she hear anything Jesus had been preaching these last couple of years? Weeks even? Did she want Him to stay dead? Of course He's not going to lie in a stone box! He's just won the most epic battle of all time! People in love say the craziest things, for truly, she must love Him deeply to weep that way. 

And then Mary turned around, and looked right at Jesus. What mirth He must have had in His eyes as He waited excitedly for her to recognize Him. He gently asked the same question the angels did, "Woman, why are you weeping?" But still, she did not know Him. She looked right at Him, heard His voice, and still assumed Him to be someone else because the brokenness of her heart and the pain she felt blinded her from seeing the very one she was looking for. I can't help realizing I've done the same thing. 

How many times have I sat so consumed by my frustration, pain, and confusion, that I don't even recognize Jesus when He's right in front of me saying, "I'm right here, waiting for you to come to Me so I can comfort you." The truth is, He's never far away and always ready to take me into His arms and show me more of His overwhelming goodness. I just get so caught up in my own world and emotions that I forget sometimes and begin crying out, "Where are you?! I can't find you Abba!" And then, when I'm still enough to listen, the best part comes. Just like He did with Mary, He calls my name. Suddenly I'm reminded that He's right there, that He's never left and never will, and that all those things I was worried about don't matter, because He's in control. 

No one calls my name quite like he does either. He doesn't just speak a title that I've come to recognize as referring to me. His call speaks to the deepest places of my spirit and stirs up a royal identity that He put in me. It is an intimate and gentle touch on the most vulnerable and raw places of my being that says, "I know you, I've seen all of you and I delight in you." 

His goodness continues to amaze and overwhelm me. 

Yet Another Blogger

I've decided to join the blogging world. I know, I know—just about everyone and her sister is joining as well! It's almost like the new substitution for tupperware and jewelry parties (and chocolate, and candles, and makeup, etc). No offense whatsoever to people who host those parties, I just never quite understood them; although, I didn't mind the excuse to talk with girlfriends and eat chocolate. Actually, any reason to eat chocolate is good with me! (Excuse me while I grab some from my bowl of happiness. Yes, I have one, don't judge.)
Ahem, I digress.
I can't help feeling silly about creating a blog because I don't really have a common theme to write about. I don't have a new adorable mini me  to share pictures and cute anecdotes about. Cooking I do, but pictures of food creations probably won't make it here. I'm not promoting a home business. I like traveling, but don't do enough of it to write about. What do I plan to share then?
I like words. Scratch that, I love words. I love creating with them. Mulling them about, pushing and pulling on them until they reflect the picture I desire. They are my art medium, the blank page an exciting canvas. If you haven't started to think I'm crazy I commend and thank you. If you have, I understand and hope you'll hang around long enough to be thoroughly convinced, and perhaps join me. Life's just a lot more fun this way. I'm half joking. Maybe less than half.
If you follow my blog you'll find questions and musings on answers. You'll find random thoughts about all categories of subjects. You'll hear laughter, find mistakes, and question conclusions.
You can tell me if you like them, you can tell me if you dislike them, but just remember they're me. Or at least a part of me, and I realize I'm still growing. I've got a long ways to go, but this is my way of starting.
It is a beginning of learning to share words that I feel a need to say. So I'm saying them here. To whomever might want to listen and marvel at life along with me.

But He'll Stink!

I've read the story of Lazarus many times, but this section stayed with me today. John 11:39-40 "Jesus said, 'Remove the stone.' Martha, the sister of the deceased, said to Him, 'Lord, by this time there will be a stench, for he has been dead four days.' Jesus said to her, 'Did I not say to you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?'"
Poor Martha, it is easy to remember her as the doubting sister, the one who had her priorities wrong. Unfortunately, I find myself relating to her all too often. Jesus was about to do an incredible miracle of raising a man from the dead. Not dead for a couple of minutes or hours either, but dead for four days, plenty of time for his body to begin rotting and decomposing. The build up in heaven was probably full of excitement as the angels watched Lazarus' spirit prepare to return to his body at the call of the King. I imagine them nudging each other saying, "Watch this! Jesus is going to amaze everybody with another miracle!"
But Martha was worried about the smell. Jesus told them to roll back the stone so that He could restore life to her brother, but Martha was concerned about the stink it might make. It struck me when I read the passage how often I have had a similar response. How many opportunities have I passed up for fear of looking funny, sounding weird, making a scene, or in some way making people uncomfortable with the possible "smell" that might result? Can you imagine if Jesus had responded with something along the lines of, 'You're right, Martha. He probably does smell horribly. Never mind with the stone guys! Leave it there. We'll just go grieve back at the house, it's better than enduring that smell."
It sounds absurd, but if I realized what I've passed up, wouldn't my excuses suddenly sound the same?
Reading on in the story, Lazarus comes forward despite his sister's misgivings; and no where was a smell mentioned. I don't know if Jesus' miracle included supernaturally removing inhaling any lingering effects of death, or if they were simply so shocked and over joyed to have Lazarus back that it suddenly became a minor concern and they forgot to mention it. Either way, it wasn't an issue. If God calls you to something, He'll be faithful to cover the details.
God help me to not let the fear of a "stench" hold me back from what you want to do in me and through me.

Laughter

Bubbling, skipping sounds that pile up one on top of the other until they fall and scatter in a hundred directions. Sounds that make the whole body shake with uncontrolled mirth. It fills the face with happy wrinkles and seeps from the eyes in tears of unrestrained joy. What a funny thing is this laughter. It throws off restraints of composure and turns the head red, contorts the body in odd shapes and twists the face until its expression is unreadable. Yet we call it beauty! Unrefined by learned attempts at perfection, it is cast in spontaneous bursts of joy.