Journal 2005Visual: We all have a lot of stinky stuff inside our hearts. And we walk about with clothespins on our noses so that we won’t (or can’t) smell ourselves. But others smell us, and they’re repelled. Eventually, the clothespin pinches hard enough that we remove it, or we start to sweat and it slips off, and when we smell ourselves, we don’t like it. I think God sometimes removes the clothespin, and we blame Him or others for the stench, never realizing it comes from or own b.o.! So, we have a choice—keep the clothespin on our nose or allow ourselves to smell and get motivated to clean up with God’s help. Freedom is not having to wear a clothespin on one’s nose because the inner aroma is now sweet.
Lord, in Your sovereign timing, would You remove the clothespins I’ve been keeping on my nose? And once removed, will You help me get rid of the stench and fill me with Your fresh air instead? Lilacs and cinnamon and peppermint and guava nectar and mangos and freshly baked bread, and sweet air after a rain and roast beef and rose petals—but mostly lilacs.Amen.
2022 Update. I’ve changed my mind about the statement “I think God sometimes removes the clothespin.” He never violates our will. It is our choice to leave the clothespin on, and He waits patiently for us to remove it before He can clean up what’s inside.
Journal 2005. I remember my very first box of 64 crayons with a pencil sharpener on the side—a special gift from my beloved Grandpa Peterson, sent all the way across the ocean into the hands of a little girl whose mother taught the Africans by writing with her finger in the silky soft dirt. I guarded this treasure, arranging the colors by hue, gently returning each one to its proper slot, chagrined when I realized I had to peel back part of the paper in order to sharpen a crayon, and disappointed when it didn’t duplicate the original point.
When I pulled out my box of crayons at boarding school, someone borrowed them, leaving some crayons broken or misplaced. First, I got angry. They had no right to do that—even if done by accident. I felt disappointment, sadness, and Loss.
Possessions provide joy or creature comforts and can be great tools for accomplishing things for the kingdom. But holding onto them too tightly reveals what’s in my heart. Why do I feel so violated when someone touches my things? Am I too attached to them? Should I take care of my possessions? Of course. But I should not be in bondage to them. Eventually, I realized possessions are worthless in eternity. They are gifts from God for use here on earth, and if I recognize their source, I can hand ownership back to Him. I’m simply a steward of God’s possessions.
And so, Lord, I release that pristine box of crayons into Your hands. Break the bonds that hold me to it and color me a beautiful sunset instead.
Journal 2011. People talk about compartmentalizing their thought lives, and I’ve never fully grasped how they can do that. But one day when my to-do list was longer than my available hours, and my mind was too absorbed on one task to complete any others, I asked the Lord for a metaphor.
I mentally placed each of my tasks into a different room. One room is not more important than another, but I can’t be in two rooms at the same time. My brain is not wired to multi-task, so when I’m in one room, that’s all I focus on. People/relationships can walk in and out of each room I’m in, and I can stop and interact with them.
The first challenge for me right now is being in one room physically while I’m in another room mentally. I find I want to hurry up with the tasks in this room so I can get back to the Study or the Library or the Rec Room. The other challenge is deciding which room I need or want to be in and when. (Sadly, I tend to avoid going into the exercise room.)
And God? Thankfully He’s in every room of course. However, I desperately need concentrated, uninterrupted time in the Prayer Room.
Lord, help me to be mentally present with each person who enters my heart-house today. And will You be my Guide for what room(s) to work in and when?
January 2022 Update. This year started out with a large number of compounding stressors, and the jumbled stacks of papers in my office reflected the disorganization in my brain. Though disorienting, I didn’t cave or panic. I kept breathing and focusing on the next trouble-shooting task at hand until I could come to my scheduled Karen Day and hit the reset button.
The more we process our past, the healthier we get emotionally, and the more we can handle in the future.
Today is boxed One rectangle of time Empty, unplanned. Oh, there are plans— But I don’t control how events play themselves out. People, doorbell, phone, emails, events, needs— They all factor in to how this day gets written. Don’t take it for granted. Stop time, look, notice, feel and embrace the universe. Cloak myself in His Spirit. At the end of this day, God will write in His journal: I did good today. Did I cooperate with His plan? Did I write outside the lines?
I confess I have an abysmal sense of direction, and it’s getting worse with age. I Googled “bad sense of direction” to get some tips for improving my odds and collected maps for cities I frequent. Every day for the first month, I studied our local map, trying to memorize street names and cement a visual mind map to guide me. What a useless endeavor! Apparently, I am incapable of thinking and driving at the same time.
When I read a blog by someone who unashamedly labeled his poor sense of direction a HANDICAP (and many people resonated with his plight), I concluded I cannot change my brain enough to warrant shedding my trusty GPS. So, there you have it—one Word for the Year tossed in the trash, and I needed a replacement.
Following my recovery from Covid in November 2020, I decided to chronicle my journey with another hidden HANDICAP—loss of taste and smell. First, I tried the famous burnt-orange trick that went viral (useless) and sniffed three different essential oils three times daily for the suggested smell training ritual. For two weeks I quadrupled my intake of zinc. Nothing.
I spit out my first cup of coffee, tasteless as water. When I tried sniffing freshly ground coffee beans, a disgusting malodor greeted my nose. At least I’m smelling something, I reasoned, but this annoying odor lingered nonstop for months. Everything smelled the same: smoke, pizza, cat litter. I became the designated dirty-diaper queen for my youngest grandchild.
In the first three months, I burned up three frying pans because I couldn’t rely on smell to alert me. I no longer dared leave the kitchen during the simmering process. I lost what little interest I had in cooking or making menu decisions. For the first time in our 46 years of marriage, I didn’t care if I ate my husband’s bland-diet preference over my spicy palate. It all tasted the same, so what was the point?! I now had to rely on him to inform me if meat had spoiled or the seasoning wasn’t right in a casserole.
One day we decided to treat our grandsons to ice cream. As we approached the drive-through, I asked the 10-year-old what he thought I should order since I wouldn’t be able to taste it. “Cheapest thing on the menu, Grandma!” he said. Smart kid! And later, his 7-year-old brother asked, “Why eat anything at all?” I explained that food fuels the body, but regrettably, I had begun to choose peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches over healthy salads. Growing our Tower Garden felt pointless.
With the loss of eating pleasure, I learned to tune more into how hunger felt instead of eating what I craved but, disappointingly, I lost no weight. Eventually I began to differentiate between salty, sweet, bitter, and sour, but could taste no nuances of flavor. I put hot sauce on everything, trying to elicit a little zing for the tongue.
I tried hard not to complain but failed miserably and so began a regimen of gratitude for my other four senses. When I finally got tired of hearing myself complain, I asked God for a better solution and stumbled on Isaiah 65:5b: These people are a stench in my nostrils, an acrid smell that never goes away. (NLT)
And that’s when He gave me this idea: every time I smelled that repulsive odor, I would think about the stench in God’s nostrils and pray for someone. It helped refocus my attitude.
By August I noticed a subtle shift in relinquishing the malodor and enjoyed a hot curry Indian dish. Coffee became my gauge for progress. I went from gagging to tolerating a quarter cup, to drinking half a cup if I held my nose during the brewing process. I jumped in glee when I got a whiff of burnt toast. Someone claimed if you didn’t get your smell and taste back after nine months, it would be permanent. Oh, Lord, I hope not! I was into my ninth month and counting . . .
In September, someone suggested I try fascial counterpressure (whatever that was!). I found a practitioner 30 minutes away and promptly made an appointment but returned home with no noticeable results and fewer dollars in my wallet.
In October, I read Numbers 11:1-9 where the Israelites complained about eating manna every day. They missed their pungent fish, along with the flavorful cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions, and garlic. I could relate! I used to fault these people for their ingratitude, but now I felt convicted over my similar lament. I so missed the diversity of flavors. I wanted to discover the sweetness of holy manna and be thankful for what I had instead of grief over what I’d lost. How could I learn to leave Egypt behind and embrace the promise of a new land?
I continued to struggle with my attitude, complaining about my loss. I had an appointment with food three times a day, and three times a day I had to face the keen disappointment of loss of pleasure. Five times in Numbers 15 the phrase “an odor pleasing to the Lord” caught my attention. I couldn’t smell, but God could; and I wanted my attitude, thoughts, and deeds to be a pleasing odor in His nostrils.
It was like I was holding onto the end of a rope connected to taste and smell. Letting go of the rope didn’t mean I wouldn’t eat; it meant letting go the pleasure, the drug. When I dropped the rope, I watched in astonishment as it retracted like a tape measure into the food. The flavors were still there, but they were no longer tied to me. They don’t belong to me and therefore have no power over me. Now I can pick up food, examine it, see it, feel its texture, and experience it. It is what it is.
Over a year later now, I have adjusted (mostly) to my hidden handicap, and I rejoice in every whiff of smoke or incremental change in flavor. It’s okay that I can’t smell dirty diapers, but I sure do miss my coffee!
Oh taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him. (PS 34:8 KJV)
My biggest disappointment is not being able to taste injera ba wat (Ethiopian food)
Journal 2005. Until we entered junior high, our boarding school devotions were conducted nightly in a group setting, led by one of the aunties. But there came a time when they wanted to instill in us the discipline of meeting with the Lord on our own, and they woke us half an hour early with the instructions to read our Bible and pray. I loved this quiet time of reflection that set the tone for my day, and I continued this daily habit long after it was a requirement. Many days, however, it was sheer discipline and will power and perhaps a little self-righteousness that kept me from quitting. Eventually that changed. Duty became delight. When you love someone, it’s not a chore to be in their presence. When I wake, the first thought on my mind is I get to spend some alone time with my Lord.
I’m starting a new journal today that has a prescribed format for a Quiet Time, but I never was one to follow the rules and outlines of a devotional. Some days I only read; other times I only pray; still others I take time to process emotions and memories to renew my mind.
Not everyone has the same upbringing, training, drive, or temperament as I, and I hear many friends lament that they can’t seem to be consistent in their Bible reading and prayer time, even if they desire it. Young mothers in survival mode, especially, struggle with carving time out of a busy, sleep-deprived day to spend extensive time with the Lord. Unlike some teaching from the pulpit, I know God doesn’t punish or berate me if I skip a day. Let’s lay aside once and for all the guilt and shame of not meeting someone else’s standards or spiritual disciplines. Having a daily QT doesn’t make a person holier or more righteous, but it does help to create space for God to speak, and I think that’s a good thing.
I’ve heard numerous sermons, sat through many classes, and read several books on how to study the Bible, and I’ve tried various techniques. I’m currently reading through a famous preacher’s study Bible, and I’m in awe of the massive amount of work and time he put into it. I’m grateful for those who have the gift of teaching, including a passion for research.
One pastor suggested we might want to diagram the sentences in the epistle we were studying. The exercise appealed to me as an English teacher, but I gave up in frustration. Sentence diagrams work well for the English language, but Hebrew and Greek don’t follow English rules of grammar. It’s like a two-dimensional object when you try to make sense of syllables and letters strung together. We would have to immerse ourselves in the original languages in order to truly understand the depth of the teaching.
The Western mind loves books like Romans and Hebrews because they fit neatly into an outline, but most Scripture does not. The African or Eastern reader would never think to box in a story using an outline. He would see it in three dimensions or four. The Bible has depth, layer on layer of meaning. Paul’s letters are not meant to be categorized and outlined, but to be read as emotional thoughts that randomly entered his head.
Obviously, there’s a need for scholarly textual analysis, but all the study in the world won’t replace the need for devotional reading. What good does it do to dissect a book into outlines, verb usage, sentence structure—if you don’t apply the words? Maybe our goal, instead, should be “how to live the Bible.” Now there’s a novel thought.
A 2021 Update. I’m in the middle of listening to a 204-episode podcast called Bema Discipleship by Marty Solomon, who teaches Scripture through the lens of a historical, Jewish perspective; and I’m slogging my way through the notes in the Jewish Study Bible. I’m excitedly learning a ton of new information, but in the end, the only benefit to me is when I live out the text.
God gifts and equips us to serve others, and ideally, this would be in a church setting. But a church we once attended erected a large roadblock in the path of our prayer ministry. Though they wouldn’t support us because of their fears, triggers, and misunderstanding of inner healing prayer, we continued to show up week after week. We loved the church and prayed for the leadership, but they forbade us to use our gifts in their building.
But I ask myself: What’s the point of going to church if I cannot minister to others? To be fed from the pulpit? Internet resources are boundless, and besides, I’m mature enough to feed myself.
To hear a little music performed? There are CDs for that [or live streaming today].
To worship God in a building? Nature would serve me better.
My felt need is fellowship. That, really, is the essence of why I attend church—to be with like-minded people, to worship together in harmony, to minister to others, to love them, encourage and support them. It’s not enough to warm a pew Sunday after Sunday without interacting with people.
Meanwhile, God led us to others outside the church who were hurting. One call even came from someone in Arkansas, who wanted to connect us to a friend in Germany. God’s work would not stop.
A 2021 Update: Two things. We eventually moved to a church where the leadership supports our ministry and encourages us to use our gifts with the body. Refreshing! We have a spiritual covering at last. But second—Covid. I watched in dismay as churches divided themselves along emotional lines of masking/not masking, closing/staying open during the pandemic. The results included people changing churches, people leaving church permanently, and others becoming more tight-knit as they bonded together in unity to minister to each other. I think this year has helped us reexamine why we go to church.
Journal 2005. I can’t remember the source or author, but I found this in my files. I’d be happy to attribute it correctly if anyone knows who wrote it.
The author listed five types of theology and stated a local church must have at least three of these to be balanced and effective.
The mystical (emphasis on inner healing, Holy Spirit)
Suffering (third-world countries often live here)
Sin-Salvation (fundamentals of the faith)
Social injustice warriors (feed the hungry, heal the sick, anti-abortion)
Self-fulfillment (typical American, those who live in peace and prosperity)
To make it personal, I wonder how these apply in my own life. I’m moving toward the first one. I’m acquainted with suffering vicariously through my clients and African roots. I’m intimately familiar with #3 because of my MK upbringing. I agree with the need to address social injustice but don’t do much about it. And I have the luxury of living in peace and prosperity. Does this mean I’m balanced and effective? I’m not sure.
Where does your local church fit in this list? Where do you?Do you agree withthe author?
A 2021 update. I have become more laser-beamed toward #1 because of my ministry and #5 because of my current culture. Perhaps I’m a little imbalanced, according to this author, but I think I am more effective because I understand my gifting and calling. But when the church body works together, we can partner with others who live out a different theology.
Journal 2005. This week my computer crashed, and I lost all my emails, contacts, and reminders. I was doing ok with this fiasco till I had to redo the last three months of our family finances because I’d not backed up my info. Grrr! Last night, I dreamt I had to carry two bags of stinky garbage across town and even had to pay for some transportation along the way. How’s that for a visual! A grumbly attitude stinks like garbage.
I remember chafing years ago when Scott suggested we use a computer program to keep track of the bills. Data input seemed like such a waste of time, useless busy work, but I soon discovered balancing the checkbook was a breeze, resulting in time saved. Wasting time feels like jumping onto a speeding bullet train.
Now the train has slowed enough for me to hop on, but I feel resentment for having to get on that train in the first place. I’d rather stay on the platform and let someone else take the trip! I feel like a maid. I don’t want to leave the platform because after the train ride, I know I have to return to maid duty, and no will have picked up the slack in my absence. And to add insult to injury, I have to do maid service while I’m on the train! Feels like double duty with no overtime pay.
And so I confess my attitude in all its rottenness. I lug two bags of garbage to the dump at one of the stops. But when I unsuccessfully strain to heave a third, I peek inside and discover large, bright ingots of gold! The Master Garbage Keeper asks why I want to throw my gold away? I watch as He stacks it on a shelf with my name on it.
All the time I thought I was doing maid service, I was stacking up treasure in heaven. Wow! So my attitude suddenly changes. I now have a secret, a goal, a treasure to work for. I’ll finish that data input with gratitude.
A 2021 Update. Computers have come a long way in the past 16 years and, thankfully, we have more options for backup. But other technology malfunctions can still try my patience.
In the Pursuit of Peace 