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						book review: the same kind of different as me
						
                            August 16th, 2010 
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Courtesy of Google Images

In light of my last post, I know some of you have been waiting for this review. I apologize for the delay (I was on vacation). But without further ado, here is my official impression of the book:
The Same Kind of Different As Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore is a true story (told in two voices) of friendship, loyalty, and heartbreak. Denver grew up as a sharecropper, but eventually turned away from it and landed on the streets of Fort Worth. By the time he meets Ron and his wife, Debbie, he’s an angry, unapproachable bear. But Ron (a wealthy art dealer), and his wife, Miss Debbie, are determined to love Denver through the ministry at the homeless shelter. And with time, Denver’s walls of defense come down, and he opens his heart to Mr. Ron and Miss Debbie.
The friendship aspect of this book is quite touching, and for that reason I’m glad I read the book. But approximately two thirds of the way into the book, when Miss Debbie passes away, the author’s took a side street, making the book as a whole seem like one big epic fail.
The manner in which Miss Debbie dies is really quite horrifying. Although her physical pain was very disturbing, the family’s lack of peace through her death was even more disturbing. Miss Debbie fought for life like nobody I had ever read about. In addition, her family couldn’t seem to “let go” in spite of the agony she was enduring. And so she hung on.
And hung on…
And hung on…
It left this reader wondering where the peace of God was in the midst of it all. Why was Miss Debbie hanging on so deseperately for this life, when a much more glorious, peaceful, pain free life awaited her? Why couldn’t her family bear to let her go?
Perhaps that seems really insensitive on my part. Please don’t accuse me of never having lost anyone close to me. It’s not about that. It’s about not understanding why one would keep a desperate grip on this world when it is clear that nothing else can be done. That mindset is not typical of the Christian life, and it left me wondering why Miss Debbie and her family grasped at every straw there was, including extremely painful, expensive, experimental chemo treatments for Debbie that led to nowhere.
I do understand the mentality to fight for life, and I agree that we should – up to a point. But even after it was clear that Miss Debbie was not going to make it much longer … the fight wore on and on. Perhaps she had peace, and the author simply didn’t convey it properly. But as the reader, I am left to only hope that she did. Because it certainly didn’t come through in the words her husband wrote. 
Not long after Debbie is gone, Ron invites Denver to stay permanently at their residence. Denver agrees, reluctantly, because now that Miss Debbie is gone, he’s not feeling as welcome as he once did. So during his first night of permanent residence, Miss Debbie appears to Denver in the night. He claims he never went to sleep (and therefore the ”visitation” is real and not a dream). Miss Debbie trip traps in his bedroom, making lots of footstep noises, and appears to Denver in her beautiful ”heavenly body”. The mission of her “visit” is to assure Denver that he is always welcome in their home.
I agree that the encounter was real. But I don’t agree that is was Miss Debbie. By this point in the book, I was moved to check on the back cover to make sure I read correctly that it was non-fiction.
Later in the book, when Ron and Denver are touring one of Denver’s relative’s house, another ghost appears. They didn’t see it, but the loud footsteps told them it was there. It ultimately chased them out of the house and into their vehicle. Just like a good horror movie, the brand new car wouldn’t start. After much cajoling, sweating, and fear … it finally starts, and they are able to sputter down the street, as though it were an old junk yard truck.
As if that wasn’t enough ghost stories, Denver also tells of seeing a ghost while keeping watch over Miss Debbie’s grave one night.
I was deeply touched by Ron and Denver’s friendship in the first portion of the book. But veering off into the telling of the spirit world and thereby leading others astray theologically was disappointing. Not only was I disappointed in the authors, but in Thomas Nelson. God is not the author of fear. Fear in death and fear of ghosts are not from the Lord, and yet they were both widely accepted throughout the last third of the book as part of the Chirstian life.
Unfortunately, for me, the lack of theological correctness coupled with the absence of Christian peace overrode the joy of Ron and Denver’s friendship and was fatal to the book.
It burst my bubble, if you will.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. ~2Tim 1:7

                            
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						pleasantly disturbed. freaky thursday.
						
                            August 5th, 2010 
                            14 Comments                         
		
						
                            							


Blog Carnival

The book I’m reading completely freaks me out. I honestly don’t know what to think of it. I’m not finished reading it, but I’m a little more than 3/4 of the way through. The first part of the book is simply a relationship developing between an ex-slave/homeless man and a rich art dealer. The book goes on to tell the story of the art dealer’s wife (Miss Debbie). Miss Debbie instigated the relationship between her husband and the homeless man through volunteering in a homeless shelter. In fact, the homeless shelter became her life’s ministry.
And now Miss Debbie is dying.
I sometimes cry when I watch movies. I think it’s the music along with the story that gets me. But I do not cry when I read. Last night, however, I sobbed. The struggle that Miss Debbie is going through with her digestive cancer is what I thought I was in for years ago when I fell ill. And it brought back fears and memories that I prefer to keep at bay.
So there I was at 11:00 at night, desperately needing to go to sleep, but my thumbs kept turning pages. By 11:14 last night, I turned the page that revealed Miss Debbie was finally gone. And I do mean finally. If she really did die like her husband (the art dealer) claims, I was glad to see her go. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person, but I suspect it doesn’t, given that her family prayed for her death (after more than a year of clinging to the hope that she would live).
I felt my emotions calm a bit, now that Miss Debbie was at peace, and I thought I would read until the end of the chapter to get settled down completely.
That was a huge mistake.
Because at the end of the chapter, Miss Debbie came back.
You heard me. She came back.
She visited said ex-slave/homeless man in the night, to let him know he was welcome in their home (he was having doubts now that Miss Debbie was gone).
And then I was completely freaked out, and I still am.
Why?
Because this is a non-fiction book!
Only problem is … I don’t believe that dead people roam the earth. So now I’m stuck. Do I believe the writer, who with all of his heart believes that Miss Debbie came back to reassure him he was welcome in her home? Or do I stick with my belief that the dead do not walk and talk with those of us still trapped in time?
I do not appreciate theological ping pong so close to midnight. Nor do I appreciate someone telling me that the dead visted them as I lie in a dark bedroom, with my four dollar night light, unable to see anything in the dark around me.
It’s freaky.
At 11:40, I closed the book and put it on the dresser by my bed. I got up and used the restroom – more to calm my thoughts than anything else. I climbed back in bed, turned out said night light, and closed my eyes.
Sleep would not come quickly. So I prayed.
I prayed that the dead would stay dead and not come visit me. Because I don’t care how beautiful Miss Debbie was after she was dead and gone.
I don’t want her vistin’ me in the middle of the night.
—————————————————–
This post has been part of Duane Scott’s blog carnival, Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays. Click here to link up, or read more posts!

                            
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						believe it or not
						
                            August 4th, 2010 
                            4 Comments                         
		
						
                            							


Courtesy of Photobucket

Do you ever feel like Christianity isn’t working for you? Do others seem to flourish spiritually, while you sit idly by, struggling and not feeling the love and security they are obviously in tune to?
I’ve been there for long periods of time in my life. It’s like seeing people sing … without the ability to hear the joyous melody or the soul quenching lyrics. Like watching people eat, while sitting by and only dreaming of how a warm brownie and ice cold vanilla ice cream melt in their mouths. Or being on a ride at the fair. The ride tech does everything in his power to make the little spinny teacup ride as enjoyable as possible, but as I spin around and around, the laughter never spills over. Because I’m so void of joy that the simple pleasures of life are no longer pleasures. They’re annoyances. And it seems as though spiritual life becomes a joy and satisfaction meant for others only.
That’s not how God wants it, of course. He wants us to “taste and see that the Lord is good.” Has he not given us all things richly to enjoy?
In my soul searching, and studying, I’ve come to realize that the missing ingredient to joy is usually belief. Or you might say faith. It’s one thing to read God’ Word and agree with it. It’s another to believe the promises that are clearly laid out.
Does having a double dose of faith mean that all of my life’s circumstances will turn out for the better? Does it mean I’ll never lose a child? Never get sick? That my kids will always make good decisions?
Of course not. But expecting those things (wittingly or unwittingly) will wreak some serious spiritual havoc.
I’m not going to claim that I understand why one person has trials and not another. Or why the jerks of this world seem to get much further than the godly. It truly does not make any sense to me, and it seems as though the evil flourish while the righteous perish at times. But am I going to believe that God is in control, and that all things work together to those that love Him? Will I choose to believe Psalm 1 when it says, “For the LORD knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish”?
It’s evident to me that true joy and happiness are determined in which belief I choose.  
I can believe all things work together for my good. Or not.
I can believe He loves me with an everlasting love. Or not. 
I can believe  He loves my children more than I do. Or not.
I can believe every hardship placed in my life has a purpose, and He is working. And pruning. And refining my heart. Or not. 
I can either be tossed to and fro, like a ship on a stormy sea. Or I can be rooted, grounded, and peaceful …
         like a tree
         Planted by the rivers of water,
         That brings forth its fruit in its season,
         Whose leaf also shall not wither;
         And whatever he does shall prosper. (Ps. 1:3)
It all depends on what I believe.
Or not.
“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” Mark 9:24

                            
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						the king’s heart
						
                            July 31st, 2010 
                            4 Comments                         
		
						
                            							


Courtesy of Photobucket

I opened an email from a friend today with a picture of Obama enclosed. In it, he was walking onto an airplane with a book in his hand. The book was entitled, The Post American World. I went to Amazon and checked it out, because the title freaked me out (the intended goal of the email). It seems to be a book about how countries around us are rising, and America is taking a back seat. What creeped me out further is that the author seems to think this is a grand thing. (Notice I keep saying “seems” – because I have not read the book).
I have heard the author is Muslim. I don’t know if that’s true. The conclusion that folks are drawing is that Obama is Muslim, because he reads a book by a Muslim author.
I also hear that Obama is not an American born citizen, his hero is Hitler, he smokes six packs of cigarettes a day ….
If you’re like me, by this point, you’re inwardly screaming, “Stop the madness!”
So many rumors, so much horror and fear.
You know what? I agree with a lot of the assessments of our President. I’ll refrain from saying exactly what I think out of respect for his position. But here’s the thing I would like to say to American Christians who are opposed to our leader: Get a grip. And focus.
I sympathize with your fear that our country is being taken over by a Muslim leader who is an American hater at heart. But at some point, we all need to put our heads between our knees and take a deep breath …. and remember Who is in control.
Psalm 21:1 says this:
“The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord,
Like the rivers of water;
He turns it wherever He wishes.”
Each time I read that verse, I start to breathe again. It tells me that the king isn’t in as much control as he may believe. And it tells me that God is in control. So it boils down to trust. Do I trust the Lord to guide the king’s heart, like the rivers of water, turning it wherever He wishes?
Yes. Yes I do.
And I hope you do too. Because I know this is causing a lot of anxiety in a lot of Christians hearts. So please … if you’re falling prey to the fear, rest easy, and trust that Lord will turn our President’s heart wherever He wishes.
This is by no means a license to sit idly by and whistle while you whittle.
Get out there and do everything you can to speak out against injustice against the unborn
Go vote.
Take part in the tea parties or anything else that the Lord would lead you to politically
Write letters to the editor
But for the sake of sanity, let’s trust the Lord while we work. Perhaps the number of ulcers will be reduced, which will in turn reduce our need for more healthcare.
Because we all know that that’s coming to a screeching hault …
Oh wait … there I go again.
Say it with me. “The king’s heart ….”

                            
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						pleasantly disturbed. pooh bear and the apostle paul.
						
                            July 29th, 2010 
                            4 Comments                         
		
						
                            							

 

 
My week has been rather unpleasant. I’m calling it Sanctification Week - Boot Camp For Christians. 
Not really. I am nowhere near what the Apostle Paul went through. I have not been flogged, persecuted, or shipwrecked.
However … the thorn in the flesh? I think maybe I can identify. Hard to tell, since Paul was kind of tight lipped about what his thorn exactly was. But I certainly have a thorn, and sometimes I feel like if someone doesn’t remove it, I’m going to scream bloody murder.
Except, I don’t scream. It’s very unlady like. Whining, while nibbling on some cheese is much more attractive and socially acceptable.
So I whine. And I do nibble, because cheese is one out of four things I can nibble on. The other three things? Meat, homemade yogurt, and honey to sweeten the yogurt. That’s it … my diet in a nutshell. Only not, because I can’t have nuts.
After years of eating those four items, I can honestly say it’s getting old. I’m hungry and have no desire to eat the only foods my stomach will accept. I’m getting seriously concerned that if I eat one more drop of honey, I’ll turn into my childhood nickname, and transform into Pooh Bear overnight. With all that honey consumption, is it any wonder that I keep getting massive cavities? I seem to have inhereted Pooh’s name, and dental problems, but I think he is more huggable than I am with that big rumbly tumbly of his. Whatever. I have bigger eyes, and longer eyelashes. So take that, ya’ big fat honey hog. I mean seriously … save some for the skinny folk.
I wonder if the my honey consumption has anything to do with the fact that bumble bees seem to hover around my head like flies on poop. I think they may suspect thievery on my part.
Speaking of Pooh Bear … did you know that my daughter is moving to Florida? While searching for a new place to live, her and her hubby ran across one in their price range … located on 100 Acre Wood Rd. A bit ironic for the daughter of Pooh Bear, wouldn’t you say?
Back to Paul’s experience of being shipwrecked. Do you think maybe he was ever lost? No, no. Not spiritually lost. We all know he was spiritually lost. I mean lost, like … powerful confused as to your geographical whereabouts. If so, then we have yet another thing in common. Because wandering around and around three consecutive neighborhood’s for an hour straight trying to find the family in our church with a new baby definitely qualifies as being lost. I’m going to pretend they didn’t mind that their taco casserole was ice cold, or that their lemon pie was warm. I’m also going to pretend that nursing mothers who just went through an unusually rough delivery do not get hungry just because it’s an hour past dinner time.
I could go into other sanctifying events of the past week, but I’ll save you from it. Suffice it to say that God is really quite interested in refining me. Getting lost, and other quirky trials definitely have their place in this process. But cooking/baking and never being able to partake is particularly sanctifying. And while I don’t let myself get caught up in the pity of all of it very often, working all day on a delighfully smelling meal can be especially trying, whether that meal is for my family or a different family.
 The sanctifying part of it comes when, in spite of all my afflictions, I remain pleasant. Remaining pleasant in all of the circumstances that disturb me (insert picture of Brenda saying, “I”m not a awitch, I’m your wife!”) is the goal. A goal that will only be reached with the help of a Savior.
I’m not tooting my own horn here. I’m simply relaying a very large part of what my life is like. Depending on your reaction, I either need to say “You’re welcome,” or “I’m sorry.”
So … you’re welcome. And I’m sorry.
———————
*Read more delightfully random, pleasantly disturbed posts here …. if you dare. 

                            
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						pleasantly disturbed. exposing the lies.
						
                            July 22nd, 2010 
                            7 Comments                         
		
						
                            							


 
Ding! Ding! Time for Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays, so get your silly hat on and hop on over to Duane Scott’s site for more!
But wait! Read this post first!
———————————
Today on PDT, we’re discussing the lies we hear every day. Well …. I’m discussing the lies I hear every day. Feel free to join in at the comment section at the end of this post.
Lie #1: Have it your way.
McDonald’s proudly proclaims that I can have it my way. Sounds good, doesn’t it?
Like a lot of pickles on your “hamburger?” Have as many as you want! Want ice water, as opposed to bottled? No problemo! Onions make you gag? We’ll leave them off!
Uh huh. Sure you will. McDonald’s takes credit cards, right? Wrong. At my McD’s, it’s cash or checks. Okay, so I was impressed with the way they scribbled the word “Sorry” at the bottom of this announcement. Nonetheless, I didn’t have any cash, and who is talented enough to drive thru and write a check at the same time? Not me.
So I have my daughter write the check, and I hurriedly jot my John Hancock as I stop at the window. I hand it to the scowling employee behind the window. She looks at it. Looks at me. Looks back at the check. 
“Uhmm, the total was $12.1o.”
I smile, and think, Really? Wow, it would have been really nice to know that your monitor is totally bogus. Please excuse me while I dig for 20 minutes through my purse to find an extra thirty cents. Oh, and while I’m doing that … could you please dig through your purse to find any sense at all!? Because this Mickey D’s experience is goin’ down in a blog post, bucko. And if you don’t want any bad advertising, you had better shape up.
I hand her the $.30, smile, and drive to the next window, where I see a bag of food with a hand attached sticking out of the window, silently advising me to get a move on. I take the bag from the other scowling employee, she throws a bottled water at me, and we’re on our way. Not that I ordered a bottled water, but it certainly explained the extra two bucks I wasn’t expecting to pay.  
Wait a minute. Something’s wrong.
“Didn’t you get a drink with your meal?” I ask my son, as I drove away.
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to go back in and get it.”
He groans.
“Sorry. Just show them your receipt,” I say, as I whip into what I assume to be a parking spot. Hard to tell since the lines haven’t been painted since 1978.
He tries the main door, which is locked. Makes perfect sense, being that it’s noon and all. He tries the other door. It’s open. He lets said scowling employee know of her mishap. Well, one of her mishaps. She gladly hands him a coke.
A very, very small coke.
He says, “I think I may have ordered a larger coke than that.”
“You got your receipt?” she scowls (shocking, I know).
“Yes. It’s right here.”
She studies it. For five freaking minutes.
“Yep. You get a medium.”
We’re back on the road. I merge onto the highway at the sound of paper crinkling and coke sipping.
My daughter announces, “They didn’t give us any ranch.”
We ordered two packages of the stuff. And the thing you have to realize about my son and ranch is that it’s everything to him. When it comes to eating, ranch dressing is more important than the stuff he’s dipping in it. No ranch is equivalent to no strawberries on a strawberry shortcake.
And that’s just wrong. Dead wrong.
So Mickey D’s … don’t tell me we can have it our way and then slop it up like we’re on some kind of hog farm. And please stop adding insult to injury by making me pay outrageous prices for this stuff you call food.
Oh look! Is that an Arby’s across the street? I hear their meat is actually meat.
Yeah. I’ll do it, Ronald McDonald. You always creeped me out anyway.
Lie #2: One size fits all. 
What they mean is …. one size fits all fat people with big hands, big heads, happy beer guts, hippo hips, and thunder thighs.  
Lie #3: It’ll make you poop every day. 
Come on, Activia. Am I really supposed to believe Jamie Lee Curtis when she proudly proclaims that eating one of your little yogurts a day will ensure that I have nice, firm (but not too firm!) poops every. single. day of my life? 
Hmmm … come to think of it …. she does look kind of relaxed in those commercials.
Okay, okay. I admit it. I don’t know by experience if this is a lie or not. I am lactose intolerant, so I have to take their word for it. I’m just saying that I’m strongly suspicious. Besides, if it were true, wouldn’t plugged up Americans be flocking to the store, only to find empty shelves? I don’t know about your store, but my store is always well stocked.
To Activia’s credit, they do offer a full money back guarantee … and they’re still in business.
So it either makes perfect poops …
Or it tastes better than Yoplait. 

                            
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						blest be the tie
						
                            July 19th, 2010 
                            1 Comment                         
		
						
                            							


Courtesy of Photobucket

Today I connected with my cousin, Gary, on Facebook. I lurked around on his “wall” a little bit, reading past statuses, and getting a general recap of what it’s like to talk to Gary.
Gary and I were raised in totally different circumstances. We lived in the same town, but had vastly different parents, schools, home life, etc. In fact, polar opposite would be a good way to describe the differences.
When I found him on Facebook, memories of our childhood came flooding back. Granted, we didn’t spend a whole lot of time together. But the time we did spend together, I remember vividly. 
I’ll be honest. I had a crush on him (well!! he was awful cute!), and I was completely freaked out all at the same time.  I was sweet and innocent (really … I was!), and attended a strict fundamental Baptist school. Gary was wild and into things I had only heard about in the form of a “good” hell fire and brimstone preaching fit.   
Maybe I didn’t know Gary that well growing up, but that didn’t lessen the sincere burden I felt for his spiritual condition. I remember praying quite often, that God would save Gary. I often felt it was hopeless … perhaps because I had never witnessed a dramatic conversion … and if Gary was ever converted, it was sure to be dramatic. Because I am confident that true salvation results in true change … and there would be a heap big amount of change that would take place in Gary’s life if he accepted Jesus.  
We each grew up (and I use that term loosely), moved away, got married, did all the things a body does in this lifetime. Just a few years back, he moved close to our hometown, where I visit two or three times per year. During thoses visits, he often comes to a family gathering, and brings his lovely wife and two children.
At the first gathering, I didn’t really know what to expect. Would he have long hair? A mohawk? Colored? Would he even have hair? Does this wife love him, unlike the previous two? Does he love his kids? Is he still wrapped up in the destructive lifestyle that burdened my heart for him years ago?
So many questions, all making me apprehensive.
But my apprehension was put to rest.
Oh, not at first site. Because Gary didn’t have any hair, was dressed in all black (albeit stylishly), and appeared the same ol’ eccentric, reserved, serious, and most peculiar, Gary. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to come to the conclusion that I was looking at a changed man.
Confusion, unease, and the sense of floundering no longer plagued his facial expressions. They were replaced with understanding, with thankfulness, and yes, with regret. But most of all, peace.
Don’t get me wrong. The path to spiritual healing for Gary hasn’t been an easy one, and it’s a path that he is still on. But that’s ok, because all of us are. The important part is that he’s on the path – the path that I long ago pleaded with Jesus to put him on.
I can’t say that Gary and I will ever like the same music, books, style of clothing, or even church denomination. But the important part is that Jesus saved me, and Jesus saved Gary. It’s not only written on his face, but on the face of his wife, and his two unspeakably precious children.
There are points of Christianity that are undebatable. They’re off limits, because they’re truth, and you can’t mess with the truth. But hairstyles and music preferences appropriately fall dimly into the background when Gary and I visit. Because the main thing … Jesus …  bonds us. Jesus … the missing link that allows two very different people from very different backgrounds to find common ground, a common goal in life, and the shared, precious knowing of what it is to be forgiven.
Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above. ~John Fawcett
I’m thankful for the tie that binds us by way of physical blood, but even moreso for the tie that binds us by way of Christ’s blood.
 

                            
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						hope
						
                            July 17th, 2010 
                            3 Comments                         
		
						
                            							


Courtesy of Photobucket

“God uses chronic pain and weakness, along with other afflictions, as his chisel for sculpting our lives. Felt weakness deepens the dependence on Christ for strength each day. The weaker we feel, the harder we lean. And the harder we lean, the stronger we grow spiritually, even while our bodies waste away. To live with your “thorn” uncomplainingly — that is, sweet, patient, and free in heart to love and help others, even though every day you feel weak — is true sactification. It is true healing for the spirit. It is a supreme victory of grace.”  ~J.I. Packer
In an attempt to get a grip and come to terms with the reality that I will likely never be healed of my physical afflictions this side of Heaven, I am reading A Lifetime of Wisdom, Embracing the Way God Heals You, by Joni Eareckson Tada. In it, she quotes J. I. Packer in the above saying.
The more I read this book, the more impacted I have become. Packer has summarized a reason for hope in a mere 95 words. Joni has pinpointed and addressed inner struggles that I’ve been largely unsuccessful at articulating to others. Frankly, I was under the impression there wasn’t a soul on earth who understood my particular struggles (I know better, but my emotions often tell me otherwise).
I don’t mean to say that I follow Packer’s definition of sanctification by always responding sweetly, paitiently, or free in heart to help others amidst my sickness. Quite the contrary. In fact, lately, I’ve been so beaten down by my infirmity that I’ve been quite the opposite of these godly traits.
Since the onset of my disease, my days have been saturated with fatigue, aches and pains, very little brain power, and digestive disturbances, including the inability to eat a well rounded meal, or adequate portions of food. This inevitably results in the inability to nourish my body properly.
A domino effect takes place, and a spiritual state of extreme lethargy, indifference, and frustration constantly ride my tail, stalking me early in the morning, noon, and night. Sanctification has merely felt like a spiritual term – a far cry from Packer’s claim of victory. 
But reading this book has somehow given me new hope, new focus … a deep breath for a drowning soul. I’m being driven back to the Bible. Back to my One true hope (isn’t that a beautiful word?). Because somebody out there that actually ”gets it.”
I don’t fully comprehend why the element of understanding has been such a longing for me. But it doesn’t matter. Fact is, I’ve been longing for someone who really knows what it’s like to suffer day in and day out to talk to me. Assure me God was working and remind me of how He works in these types of circumstances. I didn’t want to hear it from anyone else. Couldn’t hear it from anyone else.
Granted, neither Joni or J.I. Packer have any idea what it is like to live with my infirmities. Nor do I know what it is like to be a quadrapalegic. In fact, my infirmity is much more “silent” than Joni’s, and that brings many challenges in and of itself. Likewise, she has infirmities that I will never identify with. But we all three serve the same God. And our God promises healing.
Until my physical healing comes on the other side of Heaven, by His grace, I’ll continue to flourish and grow spiritually – even during the times that I strongly suspect sanctification has undoubtedly been put on hold, that God is not working, and that He has abandoned me and my miseries. 
Because as Packer said … we grow stronger spiritually, even while our bodies waste away.
Indeed, a Supreme Victory of Grace. 
Blessed are you who hunger now, 
for you shall be satisfied.
Blessed are you who weep now,
for you shall laugh. 
Luke 6:21 NASB
——————–
You can read a little more about my physical battle here. This post is simply my first, jumbled mess of an attempt to start obeying a nudge from the Holy Spirit to write about my daily battle. So these types of posts will begin to make their way into the headlines … at least on The Broken Quill.    It’s not something I enjoy talking or writing about (yet!), but as long as He gives me the grace to live and grow in Him, I’ll share it with others.
The only thing I ask of you, my readers, is patience. The last goal I’ll ever have on The Broken Quill (or elsewhere) is to be whiny, ungrateful, or angry.
But this is a struggle.
A daily grind.
A thorn.
A monkey on my back.
And sometimes I expel all of the above flawed character traits.
In other words, it’s a topic I’m struggling with. Not a topic I’m an expert at. And this is a warning that it may show up in my writing!
I am also not accustomed to sharing any of my feelings or thoughts about it, because I am naturally a little clam that sees no reason to. But that’s what I want to change. I want God to take my pain and strengthen and uplift you through it.
So, if you’re brave enough, stop back in from time to time. I’ll not write about it every day. I’ll continue to post Pleasantly Disturbed once a week, among other quirky, writing related, inspirational, and whatever-God-lays-on-my-heart posts.
Regardless of what I write, I hope you’ll join me in the journey.

                            
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						pleasantly disturbed. my dog says I might have cancer.
						
                            July 14th, 2010 
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I feel funny.
Not like right before you puke funny. I feel funny like ha ha funny.
Ha!
I get that way after a party. And no, I didn’t have any booze. If I did, I’d be sleeping. Not laughing.
And I just want to say that I’m sick to death of BINGO. No, no. Not the dog, BINGO. Not the BINGO where you place little cardboard circles on numbers that have been called out. The kind of BINGO where you hunt yellow vehicles down like a hungry wolf hunts a bleeding bunny, and yell “BINGO!”
And slug bug, too. I used to like slug bugs. I hate them with a passion now. Especially the yellow ones, because it’s really hard for my mind to remember how to say, “Slug bug, yellow! BINGO!” I just get too excited and caught up in the moment and then someone ends up finishing the phrase before I do.
And that just stinks.
And did you notice I like to start my paragraphs with the word and?
And what is with those tv “specials”  where poor souls with cancer are telling about their dogs, and how the cold nosed beast saved their lives because it sniffed them all weird-like, and this gave them their first clue that – oh my gosh! – something horrible was wrong with them!! So they go to the doctor and find out that they have cancer, and the boob-sniffing dog was their first clue. Said dog then becomes hero, and that’s the end of the story.
Is that not weird?
Please tell me that’s weird, so that I don’t have to call and make an appointment. Cuz my dog totally sniffed me weird yesterday.
Speaking of mice …
Wait … what?
Well, speaking of mice … I heard that Minnie Mouse was not the sweet little innocent thing she says she is. Oh, I know she puts on a good show with that sweet little voice, and long eyelashes. But trust me, she’s mean and wicked.
And dangerous.
Ok, maybe you’re right. That is a little harsh.
Would you go for Pleasantly Disturbed?

Minnie Mouse. Seriously. It is. 


                            
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						memories of summer
						
                            July 12th, 2010 
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Courtesy of Photobucket

I was raised on a small, two acre farm, in a little pink house. We raised goats, a horse, chickens galore (or so it seemed), sheep, and even some bunnies. But no cows. Remember that cow  my daughter strongly suspects she was named after? Yeah, it never resided with us. She was strictly a butcher cow that resided at a friends house, until the day of doom. But she was awful cute, and so my brother ignored the wise advice of not naming animals you can’t keep and pegged her as ”Jessica.” We know now that that wise piece of advice includes those you are planning to eat.
Live and learn, right?
Taking care of the animals was of course a daily routine, whether it was summer or winter. But there were a few things on the farm that only took place in the summer. They were sacred summer activities that I’ll never forget. It wasn’t so much the activities themselves, but the fact that they were done with close family that made them so special. Many of the activities were hard work, but when you have a mom and Grandmother who know how to make work seem like a party, it no longer feels like work.
Like the time we butchered the chickens. I know, I know. You’re thinking I’m nuts. Who includes butchering chickens as an enjoyable summer activity? But trust me. Watching your Grandmother ring a chicken’s neck until it snaps off, followed by the poor thing ”running like a chicken with it’s head cut off” … well … to a kid, that’s pretty humorous. That, and Grandma’s psychotic look of satisfaction at each wringing was enough to bring this squeamish little girl out of the house and out to the chicken coop.  Besides –  it’s a pretty impressive thing to tell your friends about on the first day of school – as long as you leave out the part about hour after hour of plucking their feathers out.
Not all was work on the farm of course. There was also fishing, gardening, canning, and riding our bikes to the convenient store about a mile away to buy some Laughy Taffy, Big League chewin’ gum, candy cigarettes, or Lickemaid.
I figured I was approaching near adulthood when I was allowed to ride along with my older brothers to the convenient store. One time, I was allowed to make the long trek into downtown with them. Everything was going great. I was riding in back of my oldest brother, feeling the breeze on my forehead, trying my best to not run into window shoppers. I thought I had heard something behind me, so I cranked my head backwards while I continued to ride forward. And SMACK! my face landed firmly planted in the side of a wood pole. I don’t know how I managed to miss the pole with the front of my bike, but I guess that’s why my oldest brother referred to me as ExLax from then on.
I gathered my wits about me just in time for some old geezer to approach me with a toothless smile and raspy voice that could be heard for miles away. He was nice and just wanted to make sure I was alright, but my brothers were already a half a block ahead of me, laughing at my pain, and I needed to catch up. So I quickly assured him I was fine, and rode off into the sunset with a hurt jaw. And pride.  
Summer also meant a bit of a break from the church/school I was raised in. When you go to school, have sports practice after school, and go to church Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night all in one place, you get the feeling that you’re in boarding school instead of a private school. But I loved being home, canning pumpkin and making pumpkin bread with my mom, playing basketball in the small court in our driveway with my oldest brother, and watching my second oldest brother take pride in his horse, Little Roan. Home was where I belonged.
Today, I don’t have much opportunity for farm life. So I tuck these memories in my heart, and every so often, I dig them out and admire them. Sometimes I get so homesick for Grandma and the way things used to be that I get discontent with my current circumstances. But God always reminds me that the life He has given me now is equally as precious as those summers of old, just in a different way.
The earth’s season’s change, and so do the season’s of life. All are equally good and needful.
And all of them are an orchestrated gift from God.
Especially summer.
Nevertheless He did not leave Himself without witness, in that He did good, gave us rain from heaven and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness. ~Acts 14:17
*This blog post is part of the blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. For more posts on Summer, please visit her site. 

                            
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Welcome to The Broken Quill, the place I share little quips I've written, others have written, and anything that strikes me as profound. 
Feel free to browse around the "About The Broken Quill" tab, and the "About Brenda" tab (that's me).
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