So it happened again. Four people today leaned on me for help and support. I love ministering to hurting people, but this was overload with no breaks in between. The hike I took helped—except for the chigger bites which are driving me crazy. I put repellent on my ankles, but I never thought to put it on my waist and elbows. Sigh.
Lord, how did you recover when the crowds became too much? I suspect you were a perfect blend of introvert and extrovert, yet You withdrew alone at night. But how did you function the next day? I need You close today, Lord. I can’t do this on my own.
VISUAL: I am a Kool-Aid container at camp, and the sweaty campers keep lining up to drain me dry. I’m a vessel, created to hold refreshment for others, but I can’t do my job if the container is empty. I know there is an endless supply of Kool-Aid, but I cannot do anything to refill myself. I wish the Kool-Aid filler would hurry up! I can’t control how much He pours in and how much the campers deplete me.
The Lord comes and lifts the container (me) and takes me to the kitchen where I get a good cleaning, inside and out. I’ve been sitting in the sun too long, the sludge starting to accumulate, and I wasn’t providing a safe and cool drink anymore.
I am now resting and drying on the counter, while I recover. I’m not ready to return to work, but I can trust the Father to keep me here till it’s time to return. Meanwhile, He sets a different jug down in my spot. Now the kids won’t get thirsty.
For months my brain has been trapped in a hyperdrive carousel, spinning round and round, up and down, speeding then slowing. It’s been fun, but I’m ready to get off. I’m weary and sad and long to return to a place of peace. I need stillness, a sanctuary. If I move to a park bench, I’m afraid someone is going to approach me to engage in conversation or ask me to play frisbee with them.
Lord, I invite You into this picture.
Jesus hits the off switch, and everything stops. Dizzy and disoriented, I collapse, unable to move. When I finally recover, I toss onto that spinning mass my schedule, my to-do list, my shoulds and ought-tos, my needs and commitments. Like little kids, if they don’t hang on, they’ll fly off and get hurt. Not my fault, but while they want me to kiss their boo boos and fetch their band aids, all I want to do is be by myself, not entertaining a passel of kids. I want to be alone with Jesus, away from this noise, clutter, and movement, but there’s nowhere to go in this park.
Jesus says, “I’ll give you a cone of silence.” (Remember the show Get Smart?) I step inside of Jesus (see Acts 17:28), and He closes the door. Suddenly everything is still and quiet. I can still hear muffled sounds, but there’s plenty of room to stretch out. There are even books on a shelf within reach. When He moves, I move, but it’s fluid, not jerky. I don’t have to make decisions.
I hum Chris Tomlin’s song “Where you stay, I’ll stay. When you move, I’ll move.” Only I’m not following Him. I’m in Him. I don’t choose where we go. It just is. I can feel my whole body relaxing. I didn’t realize my protective guardian had been so in charge. In fact, now I see that guardian had been wearing all of his armor. Before I could step into Jesus’ heart room, he had to check everything at the door, clad in just a tunic. There’s no space for all that clunky metal here where it’s soft, pillowy, and safe.
Breathe. Just breathe. Relax. Curl up in a feather bed. Sleep.
I’m in a weird place right now, caught between worlds, not sure where I am, and if I’m coming or going. I’m neither compelled to be with people nor to get tasks done. I’m not in a routine, but I still need to function. “Overwhelmed” keeps coming to mind. I won’t analyze it, but here’s what I see.
Four trips in four months (to sightsee in Israel, to visit relatives in Vancouver, BC, to attend a boarding school reunion in Dallas, TX, and to attend a 100th birthday party in Sebring, FL). The trips look like four steppingstones in a riverbank. I’ve stepped from one to the next till I’m standing on a fifth. I can’t go back in time except in my memory. I can only face forward, but the rushing water feels overwhelming, daunting. I’m frozen here. I don’t know what to do next.
I look up to see Jesus beckoning me to walk toward him. I hesitate. Will this be a step of faith like Indiana Jones, or like Peter stepping out of the boat to walk on water? The water is neither deep nor swift, so I’m not frightened. I’m just hesitant to get my clothes wet should I misstep.
And so I take off my shoes and socks and roll up my pantlegs. I want to look at my steppingstones one last time. I experienced them in haste, without slowing down to savor the scenery, and I missed something in my hurry to get to the last stone. I can’t release this jumble of images yet until I spend time with each one. Is it too late to do that or am I just supposed to move on and let it all go?
I can’t begin to list all the old and new friends I encountered on airplane rides and at each stop. I see strings attached to each person connected to my heart, and I’m overwhelmed with the memories. But I don’t have to hold them all, for I see that Jesus grasps each string. He can hand them back to me one at a time as needed to connect or reconnect. I also have photo albums and journals to contain the memories, but I need to record events as I remember them to offload them from my memory bank before they are lost. That will help.
As I continue to relive the precious memories, the stones begin to sink, including the one I’m standing on. When the water reaches ankle-height, I see a walkway to Jesus just below the surface. I run to Him, and He laughs and shouts, “Let’s dive in!” There’s no stopping now. I plunge into the water after Him. It’s peaceful in this pool, no longer a river. Or maybe it’s a pool between river points. I don’t know. I just know I want to stay here and not move on.
I glance at Jesus and see a look. Surely not worry, just more concern.
“What?” I query. ” What is it?”
“You know there’s more work to do, don’t you? There’s more river of life to go down. You can’t stay here forever.”
“I know,” I sigh. “I know.”
“Do you trust me?” He asks.
“Of course.”
“Will you follow me when it’s time to move on?”
“Of course,” I respond.
“Good. Now let’s enjoy this rest just a little bit longer. And when it’s time, I promise to equip you for the next part of the journey.”
My schedule today is full, and I can feel the familiar and uncomfortable pressure in my stomach and tight shoulders. My head knows I have the exact number of minutes in a day required to accomplish God’s work, but part of me goes into panic, rushing, planning mode in order to keep on top of things—which, in the end, is quite counterproductive!
VISUAL: I have a Panic Guardian who’s sitting on the apex of my heart cathedral roof. “I have to stay on top of things!” he says.
How comical! No matter what logic I try to reason with him, he’s not budging. There’s a party going on below, inside where it’s cozy and warm, but no, he wants to stay up here where he can stay vigilant and survey the lay of the land. He doesn’t want to miss anything.
“Can you trust Me to watch out for you?” says Jesus. “What if I set an angel up here to keep guard?”
The Guardian ponders a moment. After all, angels have superpowers and can see farther and deeper than I can and know better the dangers out there. That thought seems to relax him a bit. “But be sure to come and get me, the moment you sense trouble!” he admonishes the guardian angel.
Angel just smiles. “That’s my job,” he replies, “and I don’t get as tired as you trying to balance on the narrow edge of a rooftop!”
My Panic Guardian goes inside the castle and surveys the feast and festivities, but he’s still on alert for any sign of trouble overhead. He can’t fully relax and participate. That’s his job, after all. I need an internal signal, he thinks. Something to alert me—like an alarm bell that will get my attention over the noise of the revelry.
And so Jesus hands him a special alarm—one that vibrates, noiseless, in his chest. How clever!
“Let’s test it!” he says to Jesus, who agrees and gives a signal to the angel to set off the alarm. Guardian flies up to the roof. “Where’s the danger?” he asks.
“There is none,” the angel replies. “You just asked to test it.”
“Oh, right.” With a quick glance around him, Guardian returns to the party, confident that he’ll be alerted when it’s time, but resting when all is calm.
The pressure dissipates, my shoulders relax, and I go on with my day in peace.
Today I begin with a 2025 Update. As we joyfully gather around the feast table with all our family this year, I pause to remember the angst of the pandemic. We survived it, and life went on, some of us changed forever due to circumstances beyond our control. For me, personally, I learned to embrace the change. As retirees, my husband and I had plenty to eat, a shelter over our heads, and no children underfoot to juggle school and job security. I had more time to read, do jigsaw puzzles, and hike solo on the Greenway. What’s not to like for an introvert!
Journal 2020
With the country on lockdown from COVID-19, I find I have a more open schedule, unsure how to plan my day. As a task-oriented person, I don’t know what I’m feeling . . .
Visual: I’m walking through a misty cloud, uncertain which path I’m supposed to take. I can hear the crunch of gravel under my feet, affirming I’m heading in the right direction, and in the small circle of light, I can see Jesus’ feet directly in front of me. Just keep following and trusting my senses, I tell myself.
Suddenly I find I’m blindfolded. Oh no! Now I’m dependent on following His footsteps, but they’re hard to hear over the crunching of my feet. Pause. Listen. Step toward the sound. What if He gets too far ahead of me? That’s silly, I think. He won’t leave me behind. Just listen . . .
I hear some sticks breaking off to the right. Is that Him? Is He leading me into the forest? Is it a distraction? An animal? All is still and quiet. I don’t dare move.
And then I hear a soft “mooo.” Whew! But it’s taken my focus off the footsteps in front of me.
“I’m here,” says Jesus quietly.
Relief. Ready for the next step, I feel His hand reaching back to take mine. “We’re about to cross a stream,” He says. “I need you to hold onto Me so I can guide you across.”
“Blindfolded still?” I ask.
“You may take it off,” He replies. “But it won’t help much. The fog is too thick, and you’ll try to rely on your eyes instead of the pressure of My hand guiding you.”
I trust Him. I leave the bandana on and begin my forward movement into the icy cold water. In my mind’s eye I can see the rocks as my feet try to get a grip on their slippery surface.
“I’ve got you,” Jesus reassures me. “Right foot next.” And so we continue across. My feet are cold, but the water is shallow. We are in no danger.
Jesus removes my blindfold, and I see a little spark and then a bonfire ahead of us. He wraps a blanket around my shivering shoulders, my feet toward the fire, and soon I feel drowsy. “Rest, Little One,” He says. “Rest, for the journey is long, and you’ll need your strength for the mountain up ahead. But don’t worry. The sun is rising, the mist will dry up, and soon you’ll be wishing for the cool water. We’ll fill our containers before we leave here to remember the days when you walked by faith and not by sight. For now, just rest and enjoy the quiet.”
And now I know what I was feeling—like I had to keep to a schedule, accomplish a to-do list, keep on track, use my time wisely. What if I allow myself to be lazy today and just do what I feel like doing in the moment, without an agenda. No “have-tos” just “get-tos.” What if today is a vacation day?
Today I feel like I’m juggling too many Ping-Pong balls. As they fly helter-skelter out of my hands, I stop, herd them into a four-sided tray, and hand them to Jesus. When I ask Him which ball He wants me to pick first, He hands me a different one—large, crystal-clear and sparkling like a diamond. Though scared to touch it, I reach out and find it is weightless, made of pure light. And He? He places it deep into my heart so that my hands are free. I carry it safely tucked inside my body, but its light spills from my pores for all to see—His light.
“But what about all those Ping-Pong balls I gave You?” I ask.
“No problem,” He says. “I’m a Master Juggler.” And He begins to toss the stars and the planets in a spectacular, brilliant light show.
“How does He keep from dropping all of them?” I wonder. And then I see the strings attached. He’s bonded to each one—each star, each orb—and, yes, to each Ping-Pong ball. Chords of love and ownership and responsibility.
“Just carry the heart ball today,” He says, “and I’ll help you juggle the rest.”
In the beginning stages of a human love relationship, there’s an emotional high, an excitement, a drive to spend as much time together as possible. Then life happens, and you struggle to work through disappointments that the fairytale doesn’t exist. The same can happen when you begin a love relationship with God. The initial joy of finding a perfect partner in life gets buried under disillusionment and painful circumstances. You find He’s not what you first expected.
Yes, I know Jesus loved me enough to die for me, and that knowledge is all good, but it doesn’t impact me emotionally. I’ve heard it for 65 years in thousands of sermons, and somehow now I’m obligated to serve Him whether I like it or not. I’m in this marriage now because I said “I do” when I was five years old, but it’s not an equal partnership. He is everything, and I am nothing. And maybe I hold back or cringe if I sense Him coming on too strong—like He wants something from me, and I may as well give in, whether I like it or not because He’s going to get His own way in the end anyway. “Thy will be done” might mean there’s suffering to follow, and what if I prefer to stay in my comfort zone, guarding my heart and trying to shield myself from pain?
And somewhere, somehow, a part of my heart holds out, self-sufficient, anticipating harsh judgment from the God of the Old Testament, surprised at His betrayal, and believing He expects absolute perfection, surrender, and obedience to His will.
Through time, as I work through my painful childhood memories, my relationship with my husband begins to heal and grow and deepen, and I find my intimacy with my creator begins to change as well. I learn more of His compassionate heart, never condemning me or forcing my will. He is the embodiment of I Corinthians 13 love. In the end, when I allow my guard to stand down, and I embrace what is to follow, there’s sweet fellowship and excitement at renewed intimacy and a deepening passion that feels safe. I’m returning to my first love.
Why is it okay for me to feel something negative while I judge you for losing it? What about my own ungodly reactions? How hypocritical can I be? You have to endure me, too, when I get angry and say things I shouldn’t. Don’t I want you to love me anyway and give me grace? Of course! But I get weary of your ungodly choices. I expect you to be farther along in your healing, so why don’t I expect the same of me? Why do I hold you to a different standard? It’s such a battle for the mind.
So why does your trigger affect me? Maybe it has to do with expectations. I expect to live in a perfect world. I expect to have a perfect day. I expect a birthday to be all about me. I expect Christmas to be full of joy and peace. I expect to not have my boundaries trampled. I expect you to have the emotional maturity of your physical age. I expect to have good health till the day I die, and my clothes to always fit, and the roof to never leak. I expect my mango to be sweet and my new car to never get dented. I want to live in a state of perfect harmony and peace, and your reactions allow a foul wind to blow. And when my expectations aren’t met, I’m sad, angry, and disappointed.
When that happens, do I pout? Clam up? Put on a happy face? Steel myself mentally or physically for your responses and reactions? Give up all expectations or just expect the worst?
When I erect a steel-plate armor to protect myself, I’m encased in a jail cell. My heart grows cold, and I distance myself from my Heavenly Father (the source of love) and from a compassionate heart.
I repent of my self-protection and preservation. I give permission to Jesus to drill and unscrew and remove my steel plate so I can step out, free of bondage. Without my armor, however, I am weak, pale, starved, and thirsty for connection. Jesus gently ministers to my shrunken frame, murmuring, “I’ll be your protection. I love you. I will never leave you or forsake you. You are Mine.”
In my visual, Jesus leads me up to the roof of the Castle of My Heart, where we sit in rocking chairs, enjoying the sunshine together. He doesn’t say much, but I’m suddenly aware that even this perfect state could be disrupted at any time. Off to our left, a messenger arrives bearing a white envelope on a silver platter. A letter for me? It’s so pretty and pure. A love letter, I hope. But I’m expecting the worst. I’m reluctant to open it. Will I find gray ashes inside?
Now I can see the metaphor clearly. I want the missive to be a love letter, a perfect day, my desired Christmas gift, a friend who never criticizes my choices, a carefree marriage, and always-obedient children. My expectations are founded on gray ashes.
“Open it,” Jesus commands, and when I do, I’m startled when a pure white dove flutters out and flies away. I peek inside to find a ruby red heart. I’m puzzled.
“Your heart is what determines your destiny,” He says. “Your perfect day cannot be spoiled by someone else’s choices if your heart is pure.” And with that, He places the heart inside my chest. “Your heart is protected and surrounded by my love and care, and nothing can touch it there except your own willful choices to use your own self-protection or to refuse to release your pain.”
Father, I invite you and implore You to protect my heart where I’m vulnerable and weak, so that I don’t fall prey to the enemy’s lies and deception.
I was having a glorious time—perfect spring day with everything in blossom, enjoying a walk, sitting on the deck, delighting in sunshine and a soft breeze on my skin. Feeling genuine joy, contentment, and happiness . . . when spoken words, negative in content and tinged with anger, dashed my sunshine with cold water. I lost my joy, and my inner anger flared.
Why do some people carry around buckets of cold water, ready to douse the first bit of joy they sense in others? I know it’s their protection to cover their pain, but please pour the water over your own head and cool yourself off before you enter my space!
I use my own anger to try to bring some warmth back to my cold body, but it’s a warmth that is self-induced and unproductive. I willingly hand my anger to Jesus, and in my visual I step into a warm shower. Now I feel the sadness and disappointment of a ruined moment, a stolen joy.
“I am your source of joy,” Jesus says. “My presence is what brings you pleasure, and nothing can separate us . . . not man, not beast, not any evil spirit or Satan himself. I am the Light, your warmth, your provider, shield, and protector.”
I feel panic rising this morning as my mind spins out of control with a long to-do list.
I see a large panel of spinning cogwheels. Little intruding gremlins toss sand and pebbles into the mix, and the whole mechanism grinds to a halt. What a greasy mess! When I invite Jesus into this space, we sit in front of the panel and stare. I know He could just power wash it with some sort of solution and get this thing up and running again quickly, but He just leans back, contemplating.
Not much I can do to make Him hurry, so I wait. He hands me a miniature cogwheel set to fiddle with while He observes the mess in front of us.
“You know,” He observes, “some of those wheels aren’t in a very efficient place, and others aren’t touching at all. May I help you fix it?”
“Of course!” I reply. He’s in charge, apparently, of the big panel in front of us. I’m just in charge of playing with the toy model. I give Him permission to disassemble whatever He needs, clean the cogwheels, and let Him put things back together however He wants. He’s a master at this.
Then I thank Him for allowing the sand and pebbles to interfere. Otherwise, I would have continued to inefficiently spin my wheels. Besides, my mind needed a rest, and this pause gives me an opportunity to sit still for a while. And I’m okay with that.
The Lesson
God is in charge of the big stuff—like my life and circumstances and people that enter and exit my calendar. I’m in charge of the small stuff—like dusting and answering emails and cooking for my family. If I get interrupted doing the small stuff, it’s because He has a job for me to do—something that impacts eternity. It’s not that cooking is unnecessary or unimportant (my attitude can turn it into a holy activity), but it doesn’t have eternal consequences if I choose to make a three-course meal vs. a simple crockpot dish.
The panic subsides, and I tick off the first item on my list.
In the Pursuit of Peace 