At some point in His ministry, Jesus sent out the twelve disciples and gave them power
to drive out demons
to cure diseases
to heal the sick, and
to preach the kingdom of God. (Luke 9:1; Mark 6:7)
The twelve? That means that He gave those powers and gifts to Judas as well—the one He chose by the will of the Father, knowing he would betray Him. The one whose love of money was never cured though he spent three years at the Master’s feet.
Jesus sent them out two by two. Who got stuck with Judas? Was he so wicked at this time? Perhaps not. Perhaps he only had a “little sin” in his heart. But all the disciples struggled with unbelief and fear and pride. What was so different about Judas?
They were to take no food (what if they had a blood sugar problem?), no money (or credit cards for that matter), no change of clothes (ewww … would you want two sweaty, smelly men in your home?), and they were to preach repentance. Apparently Judas failed to heed his own warning.
Judas never asked Jesus to drive out his own demons. He never got to see the fruits of his labor. He missed the blessings and didn’t endure to the end of God’s plan, to the resurrection. He tried to avoid the pain in his heart and took his own life.
And yet … God’s plan could not be thwarted. His plan triumphed in the end. He used Judas’ poor choice to bring salvation to the whole world.
A 2024 Update. A couple students in our community took their own lives last month. I understand that when pain is overwhelming, a person can believe there is no alternative, but the premature end of a life feels like such a waste, a missed opportunity to bless others. I wonder how God will redeem these events in the lives of those who are left behind to pick up the pieces.
I was self-assured in my childhood about my clothing choices until someone remarked negatively about an outfit. Then self-consciousness set in, not unlike Adam and Eve who were content until the serpent catapulted them into self-awareness—and then they felt shame.
I was coerced recently into watching an Oprah show where interviewers accosted ladies on the street and told them how awful their bras were and how terrible their clothing styles were. Made-for-TV drama. I could have socked the accosters who freely handled and lifted the strangers’ bosoms. Why would anyone get a thrill out of changing a person’s bra size?
Now, I’m not against looking nice, but the danger was that I suddenly became self-aware and others-aware. I sat in our ladies’ small-group Bible study last night and found myself looking around the room at cup sizes and positions and bra fits. And value and judgment suddenly rested on who did it “right.”
I also noticed a friend’s clothes yesterday. The style went against everything Oprah said she should wear, and I considered saying something to her. Really?! Where does Oprah get her clout? Why do the people on her show get to establish the standard for my friend?
What we wear often reflects what those in our circle are wearing. When tapered jeans were “in,” my daughters pled with me to get rid of my straight-legged ones. How uncouth, gauche, and unsightly! Well, guess what? Now I’m not only fashionable in my wide jeans, but we’re told they are better for the figure because they make the hips look smaller! So tapered jeans are now definitely “out.”
Years ago “over-sized” was in. Today, it’s the tighter the better. (Personally, I prefer the big—it hides a multitude of bulges!)
Another skewed value in America is the drive to look younger and thinner. In some other cultures, value is assigned by age or wisdom, and wealth is determined by plumpness—meaning you have enough food to eat. Maybe I’m living in the wrong culture.
All this attention to outward appearances makes me tired. The focus is all wrong. What I wear and how I wear it begins to determine my value in my circle—be it home or church or at the grocery store. How do I return to unselfconscious and dress according to my personal preferences? How do I quit judging, sizing up, assigning value to someone based on their outward appearance? I want to be confident enough in myself to dress in a way that self disappears. Self-conscious means I think more about I instead of you. And I instead of God.
The missing ingredient here is relationship. I think the reason we ladies were aghast at the behavior of the accosters on the show was because they violated strangers’ personal space. If a friend had spinach in her teeth, I would tell her. I would want her to do the same for me. And if a trusted friend kindly pointed out that my dress was frumpy, I’d take it to heart. But if I’m criticized for my shoes, and my choice is based on comfort for arthritic feet, no matter what your opinion is, the ability to walk supersedes style for me. But it still makes me sad that I’m being judged for not keeping up with fashion.
I suspect when someone cares how I look, it’s more a reflection on how it makes THEM feel. Maybe I should feel sad for the critiquer because she is driven by something unfulfilled in her own soul.
2024 Update. It’s interesting to look back at my younger self and see what triggers made me obsess. I may still notice today what other ladies are wearing, but I can do so without judgment. I’m comfortable with my choices now. As my sister says, “I’m too old to worry about that anymore.”
My sweet parents and Grandpa Peterson My early fashion role models!
If I were to choose a recurring theme for my greatest struggle in life, it would be over the subject of money. I have been imbalanced for so long that it’s hard for me to get to the center. It’s like being on a wobbly merry-go-round with one side higher than the other, and all I can do is tightly grip the edges.
When I was single and my decisions only affected myself, I felt at peace. I could be as imbalanced as I chose, and it only affected me. But when you add a spouse and children to the mix, it becomes complicated—especially if there’s a difference in philosophy, upbringing, goals, and values. Trust is at the core of the relationship. Will I ever come to grips with this topic?
The bottom line for me, I guess, is learning to trust the God of the universe that He will take care of me and supply all my needs. The wise financial planner saves for the future; the foolish spends it all on pleasure now. The miser hoards it all and has no pleasure. Somewhere there’s a balance, and I want to be at peace no matter what circumstance I find myself in. I can’t hold onto my false security handles anymore. I have to leap into the loving arms of Jesus and trust Him to sustain me and not let me fall. He owns the cattle on a thousand hills, and I know that He will care for me. But the perspective has to change. Not only does He own them, but I do too. I’m heir to the kingdom.
Later. I fretted and fretted over missing the deadline for our daughter to apply for the Presidential Scholarship at Berry College. But we got an invitation in the mail for the scholarship weekend anyway. My faith factor just bumped up a notch, and I let go of my tight grip when she won the contest.
A 2024 Update. My heart finally began to relax at last when, a few years ago, I found myself worrying about how I’d manage financially if I became a widow. God’s gentle voice whispered in my ear, “I will be a husband to you. I will care for your needs.”
. . . His Spirit in your inner self [indwelling your innermost being and personality] (Ephesians 3:16 Amplified)
Since my innermost being is home to the Holy Spirit, I want to make Him feel as at home and comfortable as I possibly can. I know how icky it feels in my earthly home when there’s tension and discord and fighting and self-centeredness. How at home does the Holy Spirit feel when I’m angry, peevish, sulky, self-centered, lonely* or at worst—when I sin, leaving dirty smudges on the windows of His house, keeping others from seeing His light shine through?
[*“Why are you lonely? Aren’t I here?” says the Holy Spirit]
Guilt is like walking on a sandy beach, leaving footprints for all to see. And when shame tries to smooth over the prints, I create more footprints in my retreat.
Forgiveness is God sending His wind (the Holy Spirit) to blow across the sand, erasing all the prints. And even if I fail again, the wind continues to blow.
How much better to scramble onto a rock, where no footprints can be made, and no guilt and shame exist.
With a satisfying morning behind me, as I entered the room with a smile on my face, I immediately sensed a shift in the atmosphere. This person’s bad mood challenged my response.
I see a dark cloud swirling above her head. Since she’s cold and damp and miserable, no wonder she grumbles and complains. (Or does she relish the attention she gets from her drama?) Anyway—what is that to me? The problem is, I can’t get near her, or I’ll get drenched too—or worse, get zapped by the lightning coming out of her cloud. I confess I prefer to avoid prickly people, but if I do, I forfeit relationship and I can’t help them.
As I pray about my dilemma, the Lord says, “Wherever you are, rest in the eye of the storm, and the swirling wind about you will push her rain away so that you can draw near. You don’t have to be affected by her weather patterns.”
The tug of my human heart says I have the same temptation toward pride, the same bent, as Satan himself. I want to be like God. I want the universe to revolve around me. I want glory. Like the Apostle Paul, I want to shout, “O wretched man that I am; who shall deliver me from the body of this death [idolatrous desire]?” (Romans 7:24).
My visual is that I’m at the center of a circle, craving the world’s honor and praise. Though I want to experience significance, I don’t want this idolatry of self. I want to echo John the Baptist’s words: “He must increase; I must decrease.”
Paul viewed himself as a slave of God (the Master of the Mansion, a perfect gentleman who looks after and cares for His servants and who gives good gifts according to their service for Him.) Kitchen maid or head chef, butler or chimney sweep—we all have our jobs to do. If we do it with a complaining spirit, we shift the focus to the idolatry of self. If we serve with gratitude and love, our load feels lighter. We’re driven to excellence. We want the Master of the Mansion to look good. Shining the gold on the newel of the banister becomes an act of worship. Fetching His slippers is a privilege. We adore Him. Why? Because He makes each one of His servants feel significant. He catches our eye. He notices. “Nice job on the newel, Charlie. Thank you for remembering to feed my dogs, Susan. I love you, Karen.”
But there are other metaphors: “No longer do I call you My servants, but My friends (John 15:15). You are My bride (Isaiah 54:10). I bought you with a price (I Corinthians 7:23). You were sold for nothing, and you shall be redeemed without money” (Isaiah 52:3).
And we remember who we were and from whence we came. And we gladly, gratefully, joyfully enter into a love relationship with our Rescuer.
But then that niggling question comes—how did we get into the slave marketplace? How did we end up in the prostitute’s parlor? And we blame God. He created us, didn’t He? It’s His fault for bringing us into existence in the first place. And we face that universal question, “Why was I born?” Just so He could have more slaves? How bitter is that?
But no. He wants relationship. “He satisfies the longing soul and fills the hungry soul with goodness” (Psalm 107:9).
“Will you be My bride?” asks Jesus. I have searched for you, I have found you, I have courted you. Will you say yes? I will exchange your dirty garments for clean, bright white ones. I will give you a crown worthy of a queen.”
And in humility, all pride gone, I bow prostrate at His feet. I am unworthy. He deserves all the glory, the honor, the praise.
Coronation Day is coming. Preparations are in the works. I want my heart to be ready. I want to complete the tasks He’s given me to do in preparation of the wedding day and His coronation ceremony.
This was not my favorite day! I had my goals, expectations, and vision of an uninterrupted day to catch up on my work. It started at 4:30 a.m. with the cat waking me up, and it went downhill from there. I spent very little time at my desk, ran errands instead, met others’ needs, and ended the day an emotional wreck. No alone time and thwarted at every turn, I felt off balance, out of kilter.
How do I balance plans with interruptions? Why does it upset my equilibrium when I don’t get my way? I should have known . . . I should have anticipated . . .I should have been others-centered instead of self-centered, runs through my brain.
I used to have a tight control over my schedule. I was on the dance floor without a partner. I could sit on the side and play solitaire, get up and get a snack at my leisure, or sway to the music if I wanted to. I affected very few people with my decisions.
And then I got married. Having a dance partner meant I couldn’t sit down as often. Sometimes he served me drinks; sometimes I served him, and at all times we were aware of each other’s presence and needs. If we both were in the mood to dance, we did. If we both wanted to rest, we did. If one did and the other did not, we had to compromise or sacrifice. It was easier sometimes to give in than to fight over it; other times easier to think only about my own needs.
And just as I began to learn that dance, we had children. We adjusted to their varying heights and were less free to move around. I spent far more time fetching drinks for everyone and making trips to the bathroom than keeping time to the music. There was no standing still.
Next, a lot of messy people joined the dance floor asking for help. Some were unseemly characters. Others dressed nicely, but they didn’t know how to dance. Others were too weak and sick to dance. And the world of the dance floor suddenly became more complicated. While I was responding to the needs of the lonely ones on the bench or the thirsty ones in wheelchairs, my husband may have been in the mood to dance. And out of the corner of my eye, I watched one of our girls dancing her own dance with a guy. And my eyes and my heart were torn or divided or distracted or overwhelmed.
Add to that the God-element. In a fifth dimension, unseen to the human eye, the Holy Spirit and the evil one mingled among and through us, stirring us up, catching us when we stumbled, whispering lies or truth in each of our ears as we danced and sat and ate and drank.
I have a restlessness inside. Some days I just wish life would return to the days when I was a solo dancer, in control of my own decisions.
I know I must get away, and so I slip away from my dance partner, away from the tug of the needy ones, away from the vigilance on my children, and head to the balcony to drink in the night air and enjoy the stars. But just as I reach the top step, a noisy group comes spilling out of the room to join me, and the magic of the night is lost.
Instead, I find a quiet bench in the garden. I can still hear the music, and I know I can be interrupted at any time. I just want to go Home (with a capital “H”) where it’s safe, soft, peaceful, quiet. But it’s not time yet.
And so, for now, I slip further into the gardens, hiding behind a tree, hoping not to be found. But my dance partner is lonely and comes seeking me. And I set aside my own needs and return once more to the dance hall.
And the restlessness continues. It has nothing, really, to do with what’s going on around me. It’s not the people, the noise, or the distractions. It’s what’s going on inside my heart–an open door, a furnace burning inside my chest, stoked by anger. And even when I go home (lowercase “h”) the fire remains. Hot. There’s no escaping it.
In the middle of the dance floor, with my permission Jesus reaches out His hand, extinguishes the fire, and says, “Give Me the treasure of your heart.”
I’m willing, but I don’t understand—I don’t know what’s in it. Again, with my permission, He reaches into the door of my heart and retrieves a box. “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,” He explains. And I expect Him to take it up to heaven and deposit it under the throne. (Isn’t that what Matthew 6:20-21 teaches? “Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven . . .”) But, instead, He places my box inside His own heart. “For safe keeping,” He says.
And now it doesn’t matter what goes on around me because I’m following my Treasure. When He says, “Dance,” I dance. When He says, “Rest,” I rest. When He says, “Serve,” I do that.
It’s not about controlling my world but about controlling my mind.
Some days when you play a game, the cards fall in your favor. Other times, no matter what you do, the cards go against you. Is that random chance or does God control the cards? But there’s a certain amount of man’s choice, too, such as how many times you shuffle the cards.
Take the following example. In the last month or two, the dollars began flying out the window—most of it not by choice, but by circumstances beyond our control.
Our air conditioner compressor goes out.
Our washing machine dies.
My Cutlas Ciera needs two new tires.
My CD burner dies.
I need a root canal.
Our youngest daughter needs some expensive health tests on her thyroid.
She falls at Fall Creek Falls and messes up her body.
She bumps her head, hard, on the car and begins to experience headaches.
She accidentally catches a strap on my rearview mirror and the mirror comes off the windshield, taking some of the glass with it.
She experiences her first flat tire.
And her first college school bill is due.
More cards to shuffle:
On Sunday evening, just as our five-day-Intensive client left, our middle daughter walked in the door after being gone for a week.
On Monday I started a new job.
On Tuesday I need to do the following:
Clean house, do laundry, shop for groceries.
Get new tires.
Be home for computer repairman and windshield repairman.
On Wednesday, I will need to get up very early to take my husband to the airport, meet with a client all day, and host a pool party for my ladies’ Bible study group in the evening.
But circumstances started changing, like cards falling right. Both the computer guy and the windshield repairman postponed, my middle daughter was here to clean for me, and she also offered to drive her dad to the airport. My youngest daughter’s thyroid test came back negative, and God miraculously healed her. A young man drove up and offered to change her tire.
Good-bad-good-bad. Each bad can actually be good—it all depends on your perspective. If a tire was going to blow, better on a back road in Murfreesboro than on the freeway. It might be the catalyst for preventing an accident later on.
But think of this: clearing Tuesday’s schedule for these two repairmen puts them coming on Thursday afternoon instead. That’s okay IF our client is finished by that time. Otherwise, it could be a double interruption. Is it God’s plan to destress my Tuesday, or Satan’s plan to interrupt Thursday? Not to worry. God has all things under control.
Rick Warren, author of The Purpose Driven Life, says he sees life as two parallel tracks—good and bad running side by side. There’s always good happening, and there’s always bad. Even in the worst-case scenario, there’s something to be thankful for.
“Sometimes you aren’t listening to your body because you’re listening to everybody else’s expectations.” AnnVoskamp.com
I’m reading a book entitled Plant Paradox that challenges much of what I’ve been taught. Who can I believe? Who has the answers? Opinions and research shift from one decade to the next. Eat potato skins, they say—that’s where the nutrients live; don’t eat the skins, others say, because that’s where the toxins stay. Egg yolks are bad for cholesterol; yolks and whites are best if eaten together. Don’t eat real butter—it has bad fat; don’t eat fake butter—it has too many chemicals. Aaackkk!
I just know that something has to give. I feel more tired and achy as the summer wears on—usually my most healthy season. Where is this inflammation coming from? How do I know what’s good for me and what’s not? Everyone has his or her pet opinion. And how do I balance buying organic vs. watching my budget? Or market-fresh vs. grocery stores vs. my shopping time? What’s most important to me? To God?
I eat pizza and pancakes every Saturday. And for company tonight I’m fixing a high-sugar dessert. How can I say no to that! My naturopath says to stay away from wheat and corn. The rheumatologist suggests avoiding nightshade veggies (tomatoes, peppers, eggplant)—all of which I just bought. Sigh.
I feel old when I’m tired and hurting and compare myself to an elderly couple at my church doing at their age what I don’t have the energy to do now at mine.
VISUAL: From the sidelines, I watch see this couple busily digging a ditch, while Jesus stands to one side observing us both. He hasn’t asked me to dig with these spry octogenarians, but somehow, I feel guilty.
“Look down at your feet,” He says.
I see water.
I don’t understand the significance. At first, I think, I need to bail this liquid out of my ditch. But then I realize the couple is digging for water, and I’ve already found mine. This is no reflection on them, no judgment—just an observation in the visual.
So, what’s next? I’m standing ankle-deep in clear, running water. It feels good on my sore feet. I’m allowed to stay here if I like . . . though I think, maybe I should help the couple dig for their water. Why should I stay here when others need me? So, I offer my services, but they wave me off.
“We love what we do!” they say. “If you like digging, you’re welcome to join us, but we don’t need your help. We’ve found our joy.”
Okay, I can live with that.
So, I stay here in the cool, refreshing water till something flows down my gully that requires attention. I’m grateful for those who answer the call to do. Today I am content to just be, a soft breeze caressing my cheek as I sit here on the patio of Starbucks, watching the cars go by, smelling coffee and perfume and fried food. It’s been a glorious day.
A 2024 Update. My inflammation is under control now and, fortunately, I don’t battle any allergies, or I might have a different opinion. I’ve settled on my mother’s philosophy and wisdom: eat what you want but in moderation. And eat lots of veggies.
In the Pursuit of Peace 