Most mornings of my childhood, I woke to the sounds of my daddy loudly singing “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory!”
His joyful (somewhat off-key) wake-up call came early, long before the sun was up. We had a small flock of 4-H sheep to feed and water every morning. My Dad was going to see to it that his children did that chore properly before he left for work at 6 am.
So every morning before sun made its morning appearance, my siblings and I got up to tend to those sheep. And every morning … cold, hot, rainy or not … out the door we walked to the sheep pen to dole out food and fresh water to a bleating bunch of wooly lambs.
I am sad to say that, despite my father’s cheerful encouragement, I did not rise or shine very well. My attitude was if the sun wasn’t out there shining yet, then there was no point for me to be up trying to shine either.
For most of my life, I thought my dad’s ability to rise and shine was just because he was a morning person. I am not a morning person.
My mother has often described me as a “bear” in the mornings. She is not wrong. I am not a happy morning person. Instead, I am grumpy, grouchy, and slow to wake up. Getting myself moving in a positive direction first thing in the morning has never been a personal strength.
My dad, however, was a morning kind of guy. His natural alarm clock went off sometime around 4:30 am. He got out of bed, made coffee, and spent some time reading the Bible and talking to Jesus. By the time he walked down the hallway to wake up his sleeping children, my dad was a walking sunbeam.
Arise, shine … the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.”
Isaiah 60:1
It’s somewhat ironic that I equate my dad’s morning attitude to that of a sunbeam.
According to my grandmother, once upon a time my four-year-old father loved a little song all about sunbeams. He learned it in church, and it went like this:
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam
To shine for Him each day.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.
A sunbeam, a sunbeam
I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.
One of my favorite pictures of my dad as a child is of him all dressed up for church. In the photo you can practically feel his happiness. His bright eyes are full of joy. He could certainly be described as a sunbeam sort of child.
Throughout his life, my dad kept that sunbeam personality. As an adult, my dad exuded that same sort of joy. He had a quick smile, an easy laugh, and a positive outlook on life. People naturally gravitated to him, and I believe it was due to his naturally happy attitude.
Sometimes, I wish I got more of my daddy’s sunbeam kind of personality. As it turns out, I got my dad’s nose and incredibly long toes instead.
Recently, the thought occurred to me that even though I may not have gotten my dad’s sunbeam personality, I can still rise and shine for Jesus. You see, rising and shining isn’t so much about my natural morning tendencies or any sort of hereditary trait. This is because rising and shining are both action words. And actions are as simple as making a decision to do something.
That’s why I can decide that I’m going to be a person who:
rises every morning, choosing to spend time with Jesus before I start my day.
shines with love for others, even those who are not so easy to love.
rises up to face difficult situations and circumstances in a way that honors Jesus
shines with encouragement for others, even when my own life is not going so great.
rises up as I learn to trust God in all areas of my life.
shines by making decisions based on what Jesus would want me to do instead of using my feelings as a guide.
Let your light shine.
Matthew 5:16
Chances are pretty good, “Sunbeam” will never be my nickname. I’m just not a ray of sunshine kind of girl.
Even so, I can still choose to “rise and shine and give God the glory, glory.”
And who knows, maybe someday a smidge of that hereditary sunbeam DNA I am carrying around my body will decide come out and I’ll wake up with a natural smile on my face.
A girl can always hope.
Until then, I’m going to heed the words found in the Gospel of Matthew and let my light shine for Jesus.
You know the Judas I am talking about. Judas Iscariot. The disciple who betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver.
The Bible tells us he killed himself. Every time I read through the accounts of Jesus’ betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection, I always find myself wishing that Judas hadn’t made the choice to end his own life.
Recently I read through Matthew 26 during my morning devotional. This portion of Scripture gives quite a bit of insight into Judas.
For many years, I thought of Judas as some bumbling sort of soul, the kind of person who could easily be duped. In regards to his betrayal of Jesus, I assumed perhaps he was manipulated by the Jewish leaders for purposes much greater than anything he could aspire to do on his own.
Maybe he was a loser looking for friends in high places.
Perhaps he was a people-pleaser who couldn’t figure out a way to say no.
I wondered if he might be a young guy just looking for validation.
Whatever his personality type, I always figured Judas sort of just “fell” into an unintended role as part of the Pharisee’s plan to get rid of Jesus.
According to Matthew 26, nothing could be further from the truth.
Image found at Image Gallery: Miercoles Santo
Turns out, it was Judas who went to the chief priests.
Then one of the Twelve – the one called Judas Iscariot – went to the chief priests and asked, “What are you willing to give me if I deliver him over to you.” ~Matthew 26:14-15
It wasn’t the priests who were actively looking for an insider willing to betray Jesus. Rather, Judas was the one who took the first step. He set the betrayal in motion himself.
For the love of Christ, why did Judas do that?
Some people might use that phrase flippantly, but I’m serious.
Judas had just spent three years of his life walking all over Judea with Jesus. He had seen all of those miracles. He was there when the lame man walked, when Lazarus was raised from the dead, and when Jesus walked on the water. He had seen the miraculous healings. From the Sermon on the Mount to the feeding of the 5000, Judas heard and saw it all.
Didn’t he grow to love Jesus during that time? If so, then why would Judas betray Him?
Maybe it was …
For the love of money.
There’s no other reason that makes sense. Especially when you consider everything the Bible has to say about Judas and money.
You don’t have to dig around in the Gospels very far to figure out that money must have been extremely important to Judas. He was, after all, the treasurer for Jesus and the disciples, which meant he was in charge of the money bag.
We also know from Scripture that Judas was prone to helping himself to the money that was in that treasury. (John 12: 6) I can’t imagine that Jesus and his disciples had a lot of money to begin with, but Judas was sneaking out small amounts of it here and there for his own use. I’m sure he thought what he took would never be missed, but it appears that the others were aware of his tendency to take that which wasn’t rightfully his.
It seems that Judas had a problem money.
So money-loving Judas decided to go see the chief priests to barter for Jesus. The chief priests offered Judas 30 pieces of silver in exchange for Jesus’ betrayal. I have always assumed those coins must have been worth quite a large sum. But (as we have already seen), my assumptions aren’t always correct.
I did some research because I was curious just how much money Judas earned as Jesus’ betrayer. And what I learned is that Judas was most likely paid with Tyrian shekels, which was the type of currency used to pay the Temple taxes. In those days, every Jewish male over the age of 20 paid a Temple tax, which was the equivalent of two days wages or 1/2 shekel.
So if 1/2 shekel was worth two days wages, then 1 shekel would be worth four days wages. Do the math and 30 shekels of silver would be worth 120 days wages. Therefore the coins Judas received in exchange for the betrayal of Christ would be worth approximately one third of a year’s salary.
Not too shabby.
Unless you read the previous passage in Matthew 26 … .
Start reading in Matthew 26:6 and you’ll come across the story of the woman who anointed Jesus with the fragrant oil. It’s another very familiar passage. According to the Gospels, Mary (sister of Lazarus and Martha) came into a dinner party and poured out an entire alabaster jar of oil on Jesus’ head.
This oil was very costly. In fact, in another Gospel’s version of this same event, Judas himself tells us exactly how much this oil was worth:
But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected, “Why was this fragrant oil not sold for three hundred denarius, and given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” ~John 12:4-5
Later in the passage, we learn that Judas wasn’t known for being a man who cared about the poor and needy. His life of sneaking and stealing that which didn’t belong to him was known by those in Jesus’ inner circle. They recognized in this situation that Judas wasn’t concerned about money being used to help others.
So what was Judas concerned about? Why did he protest?
To Judas, anointing Jesus with an entire alabaster jar of fragrant oil was a nothing more than pointless extravagance. He didn’t see the oil being used in a sacrificial act of worship from a loving heart. When the precious oil was poured over Jesus, Judas could only see a frivolous waste of money. Money that could have lined the bag in which he freely dipped his hand.
It’s interesting to me that these two passages can be found side-by-side in the same chapter of Matthew.
Worship and betrayal.
Sacrifice and greed.
A humble heart seeking to worship the Messiah, and a prideful heart seeking after self-gain.
Mary anointed Jesus with oil. As she broke the bottle, out flowed the precious oil which could have been sold for an entire year’s salary. Yet, she knew the worth of the oil couldn’t begin to compare to the worth of Jesus Christ.
But to Judas, Jesus Himself was worth only about one third of a year’s salary.
Perhaps more accurately … a third of a year’s salary and his own soul.
Most Christians are familiar with how Jesus sent Judas away from the Passover table. Later, Judas led the Roman soldiers to the Garden of Gethsemane, where he betrayed Jesus with a kiss. Jesus was bound by Roman guards and led away like a criminal.
I wonder what Judas was expecting as he stood in the garden and watched Jesus being led away. Did he have any idea that Jesus would be condemned to die?
The gospel of Matthew (chapter 27, verses 3-5) tells us the once Jesus was sentenced to crucify, Judas was “seized with remorse.” He actually went to the chief priests to return the money.
“I’ve have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed innocent blood.” ~Matthew 27:4
The priests didn’t care about Judas’ admission of guilt or confession of Jesus’ innocence.
And Matthew’s gospels says that Judas threw the money into the temple and went away to hang himself.
And this is what boggles my mind … if Judas knew he had done something terribly wrong, why didn’t he confess it to Jesus? Why didn’t he seek forgiveness from the one he wronged? After three years, didn’t he know the heart of Jesus? Didn’t he know he could pray to God and receive mercy?
So what kept him from seeking out forgiveness?
Pride?
Probably. It’s what keeps most of us from going to God and seeking forgiveness. At least, pride is what most often keeps me from admitting my sin.
This is why I wish Judas didn’t hang himself, because feeling remorse for our sins doesn’t do us any good. It never has. Back in Genesis in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve sinned. The very first thing they experienced was remorse for their actions. They tried to hide their sin from God by sewing clothes from fig leaves.
Only their remorseful actions didn’t work then.
It didn’t work for Judas.
It doesn’t work for us now either.
So the lesson from Judas is to recognize that remorse for our wrongs doesn’t solve the problem. There needs to be more than just regret over our sins.
We need forgiveness, which comes through the confession of our sins to God.
We need repentance, which is simply the act of turning away from the wrongs we have done as we commit to live our life according to God’s way. It doesn’t mean we never sin again. Far from it! It just means we look to Jesus as our example as we strive to live our life according to God’s way.
I believe if Judas had confessed to Jesus and asked for it, he would have been forgiven. There would have been no need to hang himself in shame. He would have received grace and mercy. He would have the promise of everlasting life.
Because that’s what the cross is all about.
For when we died with Christ we were set free from the power of sin. And since we died with Christ, we know we will also live with him. We are sure of this because Christ was raised from the dead, and he will never die again. Death no longer has any power over him. When he died, he died once to break the power of sin. But now that he lives, he lives for the glory of God. So you also should consider yourselves to be dead to the power of sin and alive to God through Christ Jesus. ~Romans 6:7-11
So if the Son sets you free, you are truly free. ~John 8:36
This is a completely true story . It happened to my family Christmas Eve 2012.
The chiming of the doorbell broke the silence of the night.
Jon and I looked at each other in surprised alarm, and then our eyes instantly went toward the clock on the wall. It was nearly 10 pm.
“Who could that be at this time of night?” Jon mused . “And on Christmas Eve.”
Until the doorbell interrupted us, Jon and I had been talking as we in the soft glowing light of the decorated Christmas tree. The kids already been in bed for more than an hour, but preparing for Christmas morning hadn’t taken us any time at all. There were no toys to put together. No mountains of presents to bring out of hiding and place beneath the tree. No items to be sorted and carefully stuffed into stockings.
It had been a hard year for us financially. As always, God had provided for every need, but now at the end of the year there was very little left in our savings. Jon and I were determined not to use credit as we were working diligently to become debt-free, but that meant a lean Christmas budget. In fact, all total, we had just $60 to spend on our kids. Divided equally among the five kids, it meant I had just $12 per child with which to buy gifts and fill stockings.
At first, such a tight budget had left me feeling discouraged. How I could begin to make Christmas seem bright for our children? It definitely felt like a monumental task. As a Christian, I already knew that Christmas wasn’t really about presents galore, and yet it was easy to get caught up in all the hoopla of wanting to give my children the typical materialistic American Christmas.
To add more fuel to the fire of my worried state, I knew that our five children would receive several gifts from their other parents that were bigger and better than anything I could have afforded if I had spent $60 per child instead of just the $12 I had in my extra-small budget. So I asked the Lord to help me use that $60 to give my family a real Christmas to remember and not to feel jealous when faced with the financial bounty I would see all around me during the season.
Almost immediately, an amazing plan began to fall into place, creative and simple and focused completely on Christ instead of presents. Instead of dreading Christmas morning and fearing looks of disappointment on my children’s faces, now I was excited and eager to watch them experience the Christmas that God was planning for us.
One by one the ideas popped into my head. I found some fun treats at the dollar store and came home to wrap them up for the kids. Next I spent hours looking for the perfect Bible verse to be the clue for each item. My plan was on Christmas morning, the kids would play a guessing game, reading aloud the verses and and trying to guess what was inside each gift before opening it. The gifts might be small, but I knew my children would have such fun trying to figure out the prizes.
Another idea that came to me had to do with Christmas picture books, in particular a book called Oranges for Frankie (by Patricia Polacco) and The Candymaker’s Gift (by Helen and David Haidle). In the first book, a boy name Frankie loses his Christmas orange and what his siblings do next is simply touching. The second book explains how various traits of candy canes can remind us of Jesus and the Christmas story. We already owned copies of both books, but as a special surprise I bought a chocolate orange and seven nice, fat candy canes. On Christmas morning, I would read the books aloud to the family while we all enjoyed the candy treats.
Finally, instead of filling our stockings to the brim with chocolate kisses and other small trinkets, a terrific idea came to my mind. The week before Christmas, I gave each person in our family several sheets of paper on which I had written: “If I could, I would buy you something good!” I asked each one to think of a special gift they would buy for every other member of the family. On the paper, they could draw a picture, write a note, or paste a magazine clipping there to communicate what they would get for the other person.
All through December, I prepared for our simple Christmas with an excitement in my heart. I just knew that God was going to bless our hearts in a big way, and I was eager to share it with my family.
Soon it was the night before Christmas. After a simple supper, we read the Christmas story from the Bible and sang a few of our favorite carols. By 8:30, all of the children were tucked into bed. All there was for me to do was fill the stockings with the paper notes, set out the two picture books and the basket of candy canes, and set the small trinket gifts which I had already wrapped and labeled with the Bible verses under the tree.
But as soon as the Christmas preparations were complete, the old fears of not providing a typical Christmas for my children began to flood my mind. As I sat next to my husband in the stillness of the Christmas Eve night, I felt lost in the glow of the lights on the tree and the growing apprehension in my heart about how my children would receive the meager Christmas Jon and I had to offer them.
And then the doorbell rang …
Jon carefully peered out the window, but in the darkness he couldn’t see anyone at all. Cautiously he opened the front door. There was no one there.
“Perhaps they went to the side door, Jon,” I suggested.
Quickly we walked toward the other door. Again, Jon peered out, but again there appeared to be nothing but darkness. Opening the door wider, he stepped out onto the carport concrete … and that’s when he noticed it.
There on our doorstep were several extra large gift bags overflowing with presents.
Once again, my husband and I looked at each other bug-eyed. What on earth was this?
Jogging to the end of the driveway, Jon looked around the yard, and up and down the street … but after a minute or so, he turned back. Shrugging, he said, “I didn’t see anything … not even so much as the tail lights of a car.”
“Do you think perhaps someone delivered these gifts to the wrong house? I asked.
Jon laughed. “Well, normally I would say Santa doesn’t make mistakes, but I suppose there is always that possibility.”
Together we brought the bags of gifts inside. We began to spread out the loot, noticing that the gifts were all labeled with names of each member of our family. “I think these are definitely for us!” Jon grinned. “I don’t know why, but someone decided to bless us with some gifts.”
Quickly, Jon and I sorted the gifts into piles. There were a couple of gifts labeled as family gifts, along with a present for Jon and another for me. Each child had a stack of five gifts … well, for every child except for Nathan. He didn’t have anything.
“Do you think our secret Santa forgot about Nathan?” I felt panicky.
“Don’t worry,” Jon said calmly. “There are enough gifts here to spread out the love. Nathan will not be left out. We can unwrap the gifts, reassign them to the kids making sure that Nathan receives an equal amount. Of course, we’ll have to rewrap everything … Do you think we have enough wrapping paper?”
And then the doorbell rang again.
This time, Jon made a mad dash for the door, hoping to catch our family’s secret Santa … but again there was nothing. Nothing, that is, but a large bag filled with exactly five gifts, all labeled for Nathan.
It was early the next morning when the kids woke us up, eager to see what Christmas surprises lay in store. As we led them into the living room, a gigantic pile of gifts sat in the middle of the room.
A collective gasp rose from the kids.
“But I thought you said we weren’t going to get a lot of gifts this year!” Julia protested.
“I did. And truthfully, I didn’t think you were. But God had other plans.” I smiled. “Sit down and let me tell you about what happened after you went to bed on Christmas Eve.”
Jon and I retold the story. Then before we dove into the unexpected gifts, we went through our Christmas morning plan … playing the guessing game with the small gifts and Bible verses, reading the picture books and enjoying the candy, and oohing over the stockings filled with sweet notes from our family.
Already our hearts were full, and yet we knew that through a friend God had provided even more for us to enjoy on the blessed Christmas morning. As we opened our unexpected gifts, each one seemed to be perfectly chosen for the recipient.
To this day, we have no idea of who brought us the Christmas Eve gifts but we all remember how loved we felt by our special friend and by our Heavenly Father, who indeed answered my prayers and gave us a $12 Christmas miracle to remember.
Thanks be to God for His inexpressible gift! ~2 Corinthians 9:15
When I was growing up, I had many favorite Christmas traditions: baking, decorating and delivering Christmas cookies to some of the elderly members of our church; listening to Chrsitmas music; watching Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life or Bing Crosby in White Christmas (and, for some strange reason, The Sound of Music ) all of which came on the TV as this was before the time of VCRs and DVD players. Singing Christmas carols at church all through December; pulling decorations out of the box and hearing my mother recount where she had gotten them; caroling around the tiny village with my church; sipping hot chocolate in the glow of the Christmas lights. These were a few of my favorite things.
But there was one special thing about Christmas in my family that seemed to make the holiday extra exciting. My mother is a Christmas Eve baby.
I was always slightly jealous of my mother’s Christmas Eve birthday. How wonderful it seemed to me to be able to share a birthday with the baby Jesus! The lights, the decorations, the foods, the carols, the parties and gifts … why all of those wonderful activities and traditions must make a Christmas birthday seem to last forever! And who wouldn’t want to extend their birthday celebration out for as long as possible?
The countdown to my own September birthday began as soon as school started in mid-August. I was prone to making a big deal of the countdown, especially during the last week, while dreaming of all the gifts I would open and the fancy cake my grandmother would make me. The most exciting thing about my birthday is that I would be the center of attention!
But my mother never expected anyone to remember or make a fuss over her birthday. She didn’t seem to care if she only got one gift labeled for both birthday and Christmas among all the wrapped presents under the tree, and seemed to actually prefer to think about what good things she could do for others instead of thinking about how people might pay attention to her. And perhaps most of all, she seemed to insist that her three children put our Christmas focus on the Christmas Child in the manger and the reason for His Holy birth instead of putting even an ounce of importance that it was her birthday too.
I suppose a part of me figured she did those things because she was all grown up and grown ups aren’t supposed to love their own birthdays quite as much as little children do. And yet I don’t think that was the case at all. My mother, it seems, was always gracious about her birthday and not prone to expecting a big to-do over it.
I know this to be true because tucked away in my mother’s wedding album was a letter, written in my grandmother’s beautiful cursive handwriting. The fragile paper yellowed, dated December 24th of the year my mom turned 4 years old, contained my grandmother’s recollections of my mom’s 4th birthday party, just a day or two prior. All the neighborhood children came because Santa was going to make an appearance at the party. When it came my mother’s turn to sit on Santa’s knee, she asked him to bring a doll to a little girl who didn’t have one to play with. My grandmother recorded her as saying, “I already have a lot of dolls and toys.”
Most Christmases, I pulled out that precious letter and read it to myself, wondering about the little girl who had grown up to be my mother. How could she be so good even when she was so little? Even my grandmother seemed to marvel at her oldest daughter’s generosity.
As a child, I firmly believed that my mother got to share her birthday with Jesus because she was so very lovely and good. I would looked longingly at the old photos of her childhood, thinking how her white-blonde hair, bright blue eyes and sweet smile gave her the appearance of a tiny angel without wings. I wished I could be that lovely, too.
Instead, I felt more like Maria from The Sound of Music, desiring so much to be a good girl but constantly getting sidetracked by my own character flaws and failings.
Christmas only seemed to highlight this problem. After all, Santa Claus brought gifts to good children. The big question every year was would you end up on the naughty or the nice list? I never actually knew anyone on the naughty list. Even the worst kids in school got gifts from Santa! At the same time, deep down I knew that my ability to be good wasn’t very good either. My anxious little heart worried over being good enough all year long, especially at Christmas.
The trouble is none of us are good enough. The standard has been set and we absolutely fail at hitting that mark. The sum of our sins is remarkably high. Like the United States debt marker climbing to ridiculous numbers no one can truly fathom, our individual and collective sin debt soars to insurmountable heights.
Oh, we try to make it right, don’t we? Volunteer for a charity. Give money to the needy. Show up to work on time. Be polite. Do your best. Never give up. Be good. Do better. In the end all the matters is that you do more good things that bad things. That’s how you end up on the nice list … right?
Um … Really? I mean, it sounds good but is it even possible?
I can’t even manage to do more positive actions than negative ones in just one day, much less over my lifetime. Not a day goes by when I don’t say something snarky to my husband or rant at the car ahead of me in the line at the red light while cursing the driver in the depths of my mind. I sigh when my kids ask me for a favor that’s a bit inconvenient for me. I roll my eyes when someone does something I don’t like at work. I gossip. I exaggerate the truth (because I don’t want to call it what it is … a straight up lie). And on top of all that, I’m rather prone to being stingy, ungrateful, and totally self-centered.
Be good?!?
Ha! I know me and I know I am anything but good. The ugly truth is I cannot manage to be good for even half an hour, much less be good enough to eventually gain heaven.
I’m on the naughty list. You are too. Even my sweet little angel momma with her Christmas Eve birthday is on the naughty list. Because none of us is good enough.
That’s the bad news of Christmas.
Don’t worry … there is good Christmas news.
Remember the Christmas story? The angel visits the shepherds in the field and says,
“Don’t be afraid, for look, I proclaim to you GOOD NEWS of great joy that will be for all the people … :
Luke 2: 10 CSB
Shepherds, who were not good enough even to be considered upstanding citizens in their day, got the news first. And then, without hesitation, they raced off into he night in search of the baby born to save the world.
They found Him … just as the angels said, lying in the manger, wrapped in strips of cloth. He was the good news of Christmas, for God knew we would never be good enough to be on the nice list. Not on our own anyway. So He gave us Jesus, the baby in the manger, God in the flesh, fresh from heaven, born simply to be good enough for us all.
Perhaps the sweetest part of the story is those unworthy shepherds left the Holy Infant and went back into the night to tell everyone about the things they had seen and heard.
Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere …
And what were they telling?
That the best and greatest gift of Christmas is that we don’t have to worry about being good enough anymore for the One who is good enough for us all has been born. His name is Jesus.
This marks the 7th Father’s Day since my dad left earth for his eternal home. I miss him terribly, but feel so blessed to have had him as my father. Perhaps I am biased, but there wasn’t a better Daddy in the world. So in his honor (and in honor of good dads everywhere), I’m sharing one of my favorite stories about my father. (By the way, if you are a long-time follower of my blogs, you will likely recognize this story as I shared it several times on my previous blog Tales from the Laundry Room.)
Me and my wonderful Daddy, Easter Sunday 1973
Throughout my childhood, my family kept a tiny flock of sheep in the backyard, as part of a 4-H project. The project was pretty much all my dad’s doing, as once upon a time he had raised a flock of 4-H lambs too.
From the summer before my 9th birthday until my college days, there generally lived several sheep in a large pen in our backyard. And every day twice a day, rain or shine, my brother and sister and I trudged out to that pen to feed and water those wooly creatures.
I can’t say that at the time I loved playing shepherdess to a bunch of stinky sheep, but looking back the experience is a lot sweeter. I’ve discovered a lot of things about my childhood are that way. But I have digressed, so back to the sheep …
It was not uncommon for our sheep to find a way of escape from the small pen in our backyard. Typically, we only become aware of their fugitive state whenever some neighbor telephoned to let us know our wooly pets were out wandering along the roadsides.
Whenever our lambs went for one of their strolls, my father always insisted we immediately go track down those sheep, and return them as soon as possible to the safety of the pen in our backyard. It didn’t matter if it was day or night. As luck would have it, our lambs were infamous for taking moonlit walks, the deeper into the night the better … or so it seemed.
I could tell many tales about these sheep-chasing escapades, but one time in particular always stands out in my memory. It happened on a humid night the fall I turned sixteen.
The ringing of our phone roused me slightly from my deep sleep. It was soon followed by my dad’s hard knock on the door of the bedroom I shared with my sister. “Paige,” he said, “get up! The sheep are out along the highway, somewhere toward the high school. Your brother and I are heading out now. You follow along just as soon as you get dressed. Meet us on the other side of the bridge.”
I heard the front door shut as they walked out of the house, and then their voices carrying softly as they walked across the front yard, headed toward the highway that stretched out in front of our brick home. A wave of jealousy swept over me as I looked over at my younger sister, snugly tucked into dreams instead of being forced to go on a midnight goose (er … sheep) hunt for a bunch of wayward lambs.
Five or six minutes later I was dressed and walking out of the house. The night sky was dark. No moon or stars lit the ground. The street light shone dimly on the other side of the highway, providing me with just enough light to dodge a puddle of water at the edge of our driveway.
Walking down the center of the highway, I suddenly felt very alone in the deep darkness. At shortly after 2 am, the roads in our rural town were quiet. The only sounds I could hear were the sounds of tree frogs, crickets and the occasional hooting of an owl. I walked along, the fear in my throat growing thicker and sharper with each step that took me away from the safety of my home. I quickened my pace, taking hurried steps as my shoes pounding against the dark pavement in my efforts to reach my father as soon as possible.
Soon I approached the bridge. It was darker there. The trees overhung across the road, creating deep shadows. The intense darkness blocked out even the reflective yellow stripes dividing the two-lane road. I hesitated before stepping onto the bridge. In order to reach the safety of my father I had to cross the bridge to get to the other side. But there was a loud voice in my head that screamed for me to turn around and high-tail it back home instead of crossing over that deep, dark bridge.
Breathing a prayer, I put my foot forward and started across. Toward the midpoint of the bridge, I heard a noise, a sort of rustling that didn’t sound like the leaves on the trees. I paused, but didn’t hear anything other than the pounding of my own heart. I started walking again, but after another step I stopped. I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t alone on the bridge. Unable to see or hear anything, I shook off my fear and picked up my foot, determined to get to the other side.
At that exact moment, a voice boomed out of the darkness:
“Paige! Go back and get the truck!”
Immediately, I turned on my heels and began to run, faster than I had ever run in my entire life. (Honestly, this wasn’t a huge feat. I was never a fast runner to begin with, and so it wouldn’t have taken much more than a steady jog to beat my all-time fastest run. Still, I rather like to recall this run as if I made it back home in record time.)
I ran straight for my dad’s truck, the beat-up old Ford that he drove back and forth to his job at our family hardware store. Yanking open the door, I dove behind the steering wheel, slamming myself inside the truck. I took several deep, long breaths. My heart thumped wildly in my chest, though I wasn’t sure if it was due to the running, the fear coursing through my body or the realization that I had just heard the voice of God in the night.
The keys were in the truck’s ignition, just where I expected them to be, for in rural Louisiana during the mid-80’s, most people never bothered to take their car keys into the house. I turned the key and the truck rumbled to life. Three minutes later, I pulled over to the side of the road. Ahead was my father and brother, herding our small flock of sheep toward me. I quickly hopped out, leaving the headlights on and the engine idling.
As my father approached, he said, “Thanks for bringing the truck! You got here just at the right time.”
I nodded. “No problem, Dad. I’m just glad God told me to do it … and that I obeyed even though I was really scared.”
My father looked up from his task of calmly guiding the bleating lambs to give me a brief confused look … And then he started to laugh, deep and hard until it seemed as if he might never stop. He finally caught his breath. “Paige,” he said between chuckles, “that was me. I told you to go back for the truck. Didn’t you recognize my voice?!”
“That was you? You were on the bridge with me?” It was my turn to be confused.
Obviously still tickled over my confusion, my dad gave me a hug and said, “Yes, Paige. I hate to disappoint you, but voice you heard was mine … not the voice of God.”
Me (in pink) showing my 4-H sheep at the Louisiana State Fair, October 1982
It’s been three decades since that deep, dark night when I thought I heard God in the sound of my father’s voice. Yet each time I recall that bridge and the voice that boomed from the darkness, I reminded of two ways that my earthly father taught me important truths about my Heavenly Father.
Almost any Christian will tell you that hearing and recognizing the voice of God can be difficult. Many Christians go through life without ever really learning how to listen for God’s voice. I was fortunate. My dad taught me to listen for God’s voice by placing a great importance on studying the scriptures, daily prayer, attending weekly worship services, and by expecting me to learn and obey the teachings of Jesus Christ. Jesus once said, “My sheep hear my voice … and they follow me.” (John 10:27) I am grateful for my daddy who taught me how to hear the voice of the Good Shepherd.
The second truth is a reminder that in this life we will have troubles. Jesus Himself said, “You will have suffering in this world.” (John 16:33). But He also said, “I am with you always.” (Matthew 28:20) Just like my dad was with me on that dark bridge so many nights ago, my Heavenly Father is also with me whatever my circumstances.
Just as a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him. ~Psalm 103:13
I saw the disappointment in Jon’s eyes, so I rushed to try to smooth over my words with an explanation. “I mean … this is just not my sort of idea of summer fun, First of all, I’d have to wear a costume. You know how I hate to wear costumes. But then there will also be a large crowd of people, and large crowds always make me nervous. Plus the bugs and the summer heat. Honestly … I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less. Okay, well, except maybe spending a long hot day in the middle of July at a theme park full of roller coaster rides. That I would definitely hate more than this. But this is a close second!”
I knew this opportunity was a dream-come-true for him. Jon was a huge fan of The Chosen, a two season show currently ranked as the #1 crowd-funded series ever. Now he had a chance to be an extra during the filming of an episode of season three, specifically for the scene where Jesus feeds the five thousand. It was the sort of opportunity that only comes along once in a lifetime.
“Paige, out of all the people I could take, you are the one I want to go with me. I know it’s not the sort of thing you will enjoy, but the truth is I would enjoy it more if you were there with me. And so, of all the people I could ask to go with me, I still choose you. Please … just say yes.”
His words sank in. Jon could have taken several of his friends or almost any of our children. Yet all he wanted was to go with me. A dozen years ago, he chose me to be his bride. Now he was declaring I was still his favorite pick. How could I say no?
And so … I slowly nodded my head and agreed to go.
That conversation happened in mid-March. The filming of the feeding of the five thousand scene wasn’t scheduled to happen until early June.
Before long, we were receiving emails full of information from The Chosen costuming department. Everything needed to look authentically first-century, just as if we had stepped off the pages of the Bible.
Leather sandals without buckles or zippers. Check!
Tunics with sashes. Check!
Head coverings. Check!
Wooden walking stick. Check!
Long bags to carry so we would have a way to hide our modern day supplies (car keys, cells phones, etc). Check!
My first-century Greek costume. I decided NOT to try to make myself look Jewish.
Once we got our costumes put together, we started thinking of things we would need to help us survive a 12+ hour day in the middle of an open Texas field.
Sunscreen. Check!
Bug repellant. Check!
Electrolyte packs for our water. Check!
Portable, battery-operated fans. Check!
A small first aid kit. Check!
Easy to carry snacks, like beef jerky. Check!
Jon joined a Facebook group that was created just for The Chosen Extras, where he gleaned all sorts of ideas. It was so helpful, he added me to the group. Every day, we got new information — from warnings to products. We read through them all and tried to determine how to prep our bags for the big day. Someone in the group suggested packing a compact UV umbrella, so we added that to our growing collection of necessities. Another person warned against the field being full of chiggers and stickers. We threw some AfterBite and a pair of tweezers into the first aid kit.
After two months of prepping our bags, we were nearly ready … or so we thought.
As the filming day approached, I began to regret my decision to go with Jon.
The weather looked to be exceedingly hot with record-breaking temperatures upwards of 100 degrees. The Chosen Extras began to refer to the filming event as The Feeding of the Fried Thousand. It sounded cute in our little FB group, but deep down I felt nothing but dread in the days leading up to our experience.
Sitting out in a field in the middle of that kind of heat will quickly lead heat exhaustion. I knew all about the dangers of heat. I had a near heat-stroke a decade earlier, and ever since my body did not tolerate heat nearly as well. Now I was really worried about going to be a part of The Chosen filming.
“You go to the filming and I will stay back at the hotel. I can work on writing my book, “ I suggested a day or two before we were set to leave.
Jon gave me a long look out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he said, “What are you talking about? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
I sighed. “It’s the heat. I’m scared I’ll get sick again.”
“Paige, we have prepared for heat. We have electrolytes to add to your water and a fan and a UV umbrella. Besides, I read that they will have medics on site. I know it looks like the weather will be super hot, but I think we can manage. Last time, we didn’t know how to prepare to protect you, but this time we are preparing. You’ll be okay.”
“I know … but, I can’t help but think that it won’t be enough. I get scared thinking about how terrible I felt last time and what if it happens to me again? I can’t quit worrying about it.”
Jon gave me at thoughtful look and said, “I promise you that if you start to feel bad, we will both leave … together. I really want you to come with me. It just won’t be the same without you there.” He paused and then added, “Please … let’s do this together. Are you still with me?”
I nodded and agreed to go.
The alarm went off at 5 am.
As soon as our feet hit the floor, our bodies were moving quickly as we tried to dress ourselves in first-century garments. There wasn’t any need for make-up. After brushing our teeth, the only thing left to do was hide my blonde hair underneath a head wrap.
Half an hour later, we were in the car and on our way to the football stadium in Midlothian, Texas. The big day had arrived and we were about to become part of large throng of people needed to stage The Feeding of the Five Thousand scene.
Dressed and ready!
From the moment we stepped off the luxury travel bus onto the remote field, we knew we had entered into a special place. The feeling, though difficult to explain, was nearly palpable … a sort of holiness or sacredness. It was still early morning when we arrived, but the air had a coolish feel to it and the wind was blowing briskly.
Walking under the big archway as we arrived at the beginning of the day
The crowd was large and yet I felt right at home. Normally, I don’t do large crowds well. I feel nervous and my overactive radar is on high-alert in any sort of scenario where I am around a group of people I do not know. But on this morning, I felt right at home, almost as if no one was a stranger to me.
Our first stop was a large holding area where we would wait until it was time for our group to go to the filming site. We ate a bit of breakfast and enjoyed a concert by The Bonners. We talked about going to the gift shop, but decided to wait until after we had been to the filming area so that we wouldn’t need to lug anything extra with us. While we waited, I drank two bottles of water with added electrolytes because I wanted to stay fully hydrated for the day ahead.
Listening to The Bonner Family in concert while we waited.
Around 10:45 in the morning, it was our time to go and film.
It was a 10 minute walk over to the field where the filming was taking place. We joined the others in our filming group and began the trek.
It was exciting to crest the hilltop and see several sets. Most of them were little tents or huts, but there was a watering welling and a little cooking area, as well as a few other props.
The crew there to help usher us along gave permission to take photos as we walked, but we were not allowed to stop and pose as filming was on a “hurry up and wait” sort of schedule.
As the walk continued, we noticed a drone flying overhead. It made several trips over us as we moved toward the set. The next couple of photos are of the group walking along the path toward the filming area. I am leaving them large so that you can see the size of the crowd (guessing about 1000-1200 people in our filming group), and so you can see the drone.
Most of the crowd in my filming group is ahead of me, and you can see the drone flying over us.
We were near the back of the line, and yet there were many people still walking behind us.
Soon we were walking down into a smallish valley of sorts. There was already a huge crowd of people seated on the ground. The crew began to usher us into various areas for seating. Jon and I were guided over to a place on the far left side of the set. We settled our mats on the ground and sat down to observe our surroundings.
A large boom with a camera attached was nearby. We quickly realized we would not be able to see much of the action from Jesus or the disciples as we were situated near the camera crew. Instead, we mostly saw and heard the crew setting up the camera to capture various angles on each shot.
We were not very close to the action, but we saw plenty of the “magic” done behind the scenes.
Soon after we sat down, the sun grew very hot. It was close to 11 am and in that little valley where we sat, the wind movement had come to a halt.
Sweat caused sunscreen to get into my eye. My left eye began to water and burn. I felt it swelling.
About half and hour into our filming, I felt like I was getting overheated. I needed more water. Jon got up to find me some and soon brought back two bottles of water. I quickly added electrolytes and drank down the first bottle. Jon added electrolytes to his water and after he took a sip, I drank the rest of his bottle too.
By the time our group was released from the filming area, I was starting to feel dizzy and lightheaded. We still had a 10 minute walk back to the main holding area. I knew Jon was worrying about me. I staggered along, thinking if I could just sit down in the shade for a bit I would be able to cool down and feel better.
Instead, we got to a tent and I started to feel worse. My left eye was nearly swollen shut. I couldn’t open it fully. My head was pounding. My heart was starting to race. I knew I was going into heat exhaustion. Jon brought me more water and I drank another bottle with more electrolytes. Meanwhile, Jon soaked a rag in water and held it to my neck in an attempt to cool my body down.
Finally, he suggested we go over to the medical tent to see about my eye. He thought there might be a way to flush it out. I agreed to go. Once we got there, though, the medics were clearly concerned about me being overheated. It wasn’t long before the head paramedic suggested to Jon that we might need to leave. Jon agreed. I tried to let them know I was willing to try to stay longer … but Jon was adamant. “It’s okay, Paige. I knew when I chose to ask you to come with me, that we may need to leave early. But I still wanted you to come and I am glad you did. Now it’s time for us to go.”
Back at the hotel, I slept close to 4 hours. When I woke up, my left eye was still significantly swollen.
Still looking rough after my 4 hour nap
It was hard not to feel sad that we had to leave The Chosen set before the end of the day. And yet, God was still in all the details. From me not feeling anxious about the crowds of people to even part of a group that filmed a scene in the morning, God worked it out of us to enjoy an entire morning on the set of The Chosen.
Chosen.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be chosen.
Jon standing in front of the large CHOSEN sign … definitely my favorite pic from our day.
Something that is chosen is something that is wanted. When Jon asked me to go with him to be a part of the filming, he was choosing me over asking anyone else. I wasn’t his second or third choice. I was his first pick. His number one choice. I was chosen.
But what’s it like to not be chosen …
Perhaps you were the person with all the right qualifications and yet you still were not chosen for the job …
Your resume looked great. You had all the right training and education and experience. Your interview went smoothly. You wait anxiously to hear back and when the call finally comes, instead of getting a job offer, you hear the words, “We just don’t think you are a good fit for our company.” Or maybe the voice on the other end said there was someone else more qualified. Or perhaps there was just not a call back at all.
To be the one who is not chosen … wow, that stings deep down in the soul, doesn’t it?
But sometimes when we are chosen it can hurt just as much. Maybe you can relate…
Were you the kind of kid who was picked last for teams in school?
I was.
There’s nothing worse than standing there waiting for your name to get called, and when it gets down to the end you know deep down no one really wants you on their team.
Being the last pick is almost worse than being not chosen at all. The team captain picks this person and then that person … and so on and so forth until the team is complete. Still, when everybody else has been picked and I’m the last left, it’s like the leader is said, “We really don’t want you here, but if we don’t pick you it will make us look bad. So just to be nice, you can be a part of our team, but please don’t get too involved or you might cause us to lose the game. Tell you what … just stand over there and cheer.”
Or maybe you were chosen initially and then replaced … is that you too?
Once upon a time, my first husband left me for another woman. Fourteen years and three children and yet he left as if none of that ever mattered.
The heaviness of being unchosen hurts just as much as the sting of not being chosen or the bitterness of being chosen last.
Then there is God. Some of us don’t feel chosen by Him either.
God tells us that He is planning a large banquet, a wedding feast.
Invitations have gone out and literally everyone is invited to the party. Everyone. The entire world. Not one person has not received an invitation to go to the biggest and best wedding party ever given in the entire history of mankind.
How do you get to go? Basically, you just show up dressed in wedding attire.
What am I talking about?
Well … quite frankly, I’m talking about the state of your soul, both here on this earth and for all of eternity. But I am also referring to a parable Jesus told. You can find it in Matthew 22: 1-14, but here is a synopsis:
The king’s only son is getting married and he is throwing a huge feast to celebrate. He sends his servants out with invitations and instructions to invite everyone to the wedding banquet. Most people had one excuse or another for why they couldn’t attend … business trips, family matters, or just didn’t want to bother with attending.
The king sent his servants out again with invitations. This time the servants were beaten and killed by those who the king invited. The king sent out yet more servants and told them to look everyone and to bring anyone they could find for the banquet feast was ready. This time, they brought all the people they could find, some of whom were not ones you might expect to find at a royal celebration. And yet, the king wanted everyone in his kingdom to come and share in his joy, so that even those who had nothing suitable to wear were given a wedding garment.
The king walked into the banquet to see it crammed with people. He looked around and spotted a man who was not wearing to wedding robe provided for him. The king had that guest kicked out and said, “For everyone is invited, but few are chosen.”
Everyone is invited but few are chosen? What does that mean?
Maybe I should say this another way …
If you were invited to be a part of a particular team, but you refused to wear the jersey, are you choosing to be part of the team? Sure, you were invited, but by your own decision chose not to become a member simply because you wouldn’t wear the team jersey that was given to you to wear.
Jesus has invited everyone to be on His team.
Everyone. That includes all the worst of the worst people we can think of throughout history. Yep. You guessed it. Hitler, Stalin, Attila the Hun and Vlad the Impaler all got an invitation, too.
The thing is, you gotta chose to put on the team jersey. Like it or not, some people just choose not to wear their spirit shirt. Jesus isn’t going to come down here and shove it over your heard and make you wear it. Your momma might have made you wear clothes you didn’t like once upon a time, but Jesus doesn’t work that way. He isn’t your momma. No, He just holds out the team spirit shirt and says, “If you want to come to my party, you need to wear this.”
(By the way, a couple of years ago my daughter Julia decided to have a Star Trek themed birthday party. She made everyone wear black jeans and solid red, blue or yellow t-shirts. She crafted Star Trek insignias for everyone to wear on their t-shirts. It was part of accepting her party invitation. There were a couple of people who didn’t come because they didn’t want to wear the required outfit. Now I’m not much of a Trekki, but I still wore the outfit because I love my girl and I wanted to be a part of her party.)
In order to put on Jesus’ party clothes, you first have to take off the old clothes. That’s right … you will have to change your outfit. Ephesians 4:22 puts it this way: “Take off your former way of life, the old self that is corrupted by deceitful desires” It goes on to say that those who follow Jesus should put away lying, stealing, foul language, bitterness, anger, shouting, slander and malice.
Instead, we are to allow Jesus to renew our minds and give us a new self, one that is created in God’s likeness — to resemble His righteousness. The new outfit God gives us looks something like this:
Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another … And above all these, put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
Colossians 3:12-14
Jon invited me to be his plus one. I had to chose to go with him. I had to agree to wear the costume.
Jesus has invited you to his eternal banquet. But in order to attend, you have to chose to go. Doing so will mean changing your life. But it will also mean you are given eternal life with Jesus.
If you aren’t sure how to do that, please reach out to me. I’d be happy to talk to you more about it.
If you haven’t watched The Chosen, I encourage you to download the free app and start watching. It’s an amazing show that truly brings the Bible to life.
I grew up attending a Southern Baptist church in rural north Louisiana.
My family attended the First Baptist Church, which was the biggest Baptist church in our tiny town. The population was barely 500 people, yet there were at least four other Baptist churches in the area: Bird’s Creek Baptist, Kidron Baptist, Wallace Ridge Baptist, Pisgah Baptist.
It seemed like everyone I knew was also a Southern Baptist.
But if they weren’t Baptist, then chances were pretty good they attended one of the many Pentecostal churches. And there were just as many Pentecostal churches as there were Baptists.
As an elementary school child, I never really understood the difference between Pentecostal and Baptist beliefs … that is, other than the obvious one. Pentecostal women wore long dresses, had long hair and never wore jewelry or make-up; the men always wore long pants and long sleeves shirts, even in the middle of the hot, humid Louisiana summers. Oh, and Pentecostals believed in raising hands, speaking in tongues and other mysteries I never could quite wrap my childish brain around.
Still, I understood that at its core, Baptists and Pentecostals weren’t all that different. We believed in the same Jesus. We just expressed it differently.
But Catholics … well, that was a different story. I really didn’t understand what Catholics believed.
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I had only one Catholic friend growing up.
Somehow we never did talk religion with each other. She moved away in the sixth grade. I never did have another close friendship with a Catholic until after my 30th birthday.
Catholicism baffled me. Somehow, even though we talked about the same Jesus and read the same Bible stories, our religions were so different that it felt like we didn’t worship same God at all. To me it was this huge mystery, too sacred to touch, too frightening to ask questions about. Yet, more than anything else, I wanted to unravel it to discover everything that was hidden underneath.
Growing up, all I knew about Catholics were that they went to Mass and not church. They prayed to God and Jesus, but also to Mary and the saints. There was this mystery called Confession. And then there were all the different sorts of clergy: fathers, priests, nuns, cardinals, bishops, and the Pope who ruled over them all.
photo credit: The Sound of Music musical motion picture
Much of my understanding of the Catholic faith came from the musical The Sound of Music.
Oh, how I loved that movie! It came on TV at least once every year, back in those days before VCR’s and DVD players.
I was always fascinated by the main character Maria, who desperately wanted to love God enough to be a nun, but couldn’t manage to keep all the rules. I identified with that longing, so much so that I often pretended that I would grow up to be a nun … even though deep down I knew good Baptist girls didn’t become nuns.
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Nearly a dozen years ago, I married my husband Jon and moved to his home in the middle of Cajun Country.
If you know anything about Cajuns, you know that they are all Catholics. In fact, their religious beliefs is the very reason they were exiled to Louisiana in the first place.
While I was new to life along Louisiana’s Gulf Coast, the city of Lafayette has always been home to Jon. Like me, he grew up a good Baptist, our childhood faith stories mirroring each other’s almost perfectly. However, he lived in the shadow of the Catholic church, part of the Protestant religious minority. As a result, his understanding of Catholicism was much better than mine.
We had only been married a matter of days when Mardi Gras season officially kicked off. My previous Mardi Gras knowledge was very limited: parades, beads and King cake. I also knew that it would all culminate on Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras day itself.
Jon had already spent most of that winter in and out of the hospital, literally fighting for his very life. As the Mardi Gras season came to a dramatic close, Jon was back in the hospital. All day on that Fat Tuesday, the nurses bustled in and out of his room, beads and baubles around their necks.
“You missin’ the parades this year, Sha?” they playfully teased Jon.
I could tell that Jon was happy to be away from all of the Mardi Gras madness, but I grumbled because I was missing out on my first real Mardi Gras in Cajun Country. All I wanted was a chance to experience it for myself, to unravel a little more of the mystery.
But Jon wasn’t sympathetic to my desires.
“Paige, it’s just a bunch of people in costumes throwing out cheap beads. Trust me, the most you are missing is catching a couple of plastic cups … and if we are needing more cups, then you can just go buy some.”
So, I spent my first Mardi Gras in Cajun Country sitting in a hospital room, trying to be content to watch re-run episodes of Swamp People on the History Channel.
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The next day was Ash Wednesday.
Gone were the giddy nurses wearing beads from the day before. The lively spirit from the day before was completely gone. Instead, everyone who walked into the hospital room suddenly seemed much more somber, and there seemed to be a sadness so deep it felt almost palpable.
I questioned Jon about it.
“It’s Ash Wednesday,” he responded. “The party is over. Now it is time to repent.”
Late in the morning, my friend Catherine stopped by the hospital to check in on us. At the encouragement of my husband, Catherine decided to whisk me away for a few hours. Lunch, window shopping, but mostly time with a good friend were sure to cure my sagging spirits.
As we walked down one of the long passage-ways on our way out of the hospital, we passed by the chapel, where an Ash Wednesday service was just about to start. The next thing I knew, Catherine and I were seated inside.
Twenty minutes later, we left the chapel, an ash cross marked upon our foreheads.
image from clipart-library.com
It was well-after 1 pm by the time Catherine and I walked into a little sandwich shop for lunch. The lunch crowd has mostly left, and there weren’t but just a couple of other customers in the empty diner. As Catherine and I approached the counter to place our orders, the man behind the counter (who was clearly a Cajun) commented on our ash crosses. He went to great lengths to assure us that he was going to an afternoon service later in the day to get his ash cross as well. Soon, he was peppering us with questions about our plans for Lent.
Catherine, who had grown up Catholic though now practiced a Protestant faith, chatted easily with this friendly man, while I stood by silently, feeling like a mute impostor of sorts.
My mind raced frantically. What was I doing? Did this even represent my personal religious beliefs? I’m a Baptist, for crying out loud. Good Baptists don’t put ashes on their foreheads. I’m nothing more than a pretender!
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, those ashes burned against the skin along my forehead.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Several hours later, I walked back into the hospital room. Jon looked up at me and raised his eyebrows quizzically. “I see that you went and got yourself some ashes.”
I hung my head, not really sure how to respond.
Jon smiled at me reassuringly. “It’s okay, Paige. There is nothing wrong with putting ashes on your forehead. In fact, it represents a beautiful truth. Without God and His forgiveness, our lives are nothing more than heaps of ashes. But, when we give our hearts and the ashes of our lives to Jesus … well, He takes that and turns it into something beautiful for His glory. Wearing ashes on your forehead is just an outward symbol of your belief in Jesus, and not something to be ashamed of at all!”
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Twelve years later, I can laugh about my first Ash Wednesday.
Since that day, I’ve made more than a few Catholic friends here in Cajun Country. I’ve discovered more about their beliefs, comparing them to my own. I’ve come to the understanding that we do, in fact, follow the same Jesus, proclaim the same Savior, desire to know the same God. Our expression of faith might be vastly different and we might disagree over certain religious practices, but the basis of our faith is the same.
I’ve also learned to treasure Lent, something that my Baptist faith never taught me to do. What a blessing it is to spend forty days focusing my attention on intentionally living my life so that I grow closer in my relationship with Christ! Easter means so much more after this period of sacrificing and fasting and preparing my heart for the glory of Resurrection Sunday. It’s a worthwhile practice and I’m blessed each time I diligently consider how I might spend Lent seeking God.
Today is Ash Wednesday. While I won’t go get ashes smeared into the shape of a cross on my forehead, I will spend the next 40 days seeking God a bit more diligently. I am grateful to my Catholic friends who taught me how.
After all, even a good Baptist girl can celebrate Ash Wednesday.
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Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” ~ John 14:6
This is the true story of our family Christmas in 2012. It’s one of my most cherished Christmas memories. I hope it blesses you. Merry Christmas! ~Paige
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The chiming of the doorbell broke the silence of the night.
Jon and I looked at each other in surprised alarm, and then our eyes instantly went toward the clock on the wall. It was nearly 10 pm.
“Who could that be at this time of night?” Jon mused . “And on Christmas Eve.”
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Until the doorbell interrupted us, Jon and I had been talking as we in the soft glowing light of the decorated Christmas tree. The kids already been in bed for more than an hour, but preparing for Christmas morning hadn’t taken us any time at all. There were no toys to put together. No mountains of presents to bring out of hiding and place beneath the tree. No items to be sorted and carefully stuffed into stockings.
It had been a hard year for us financially. As always, God had provided for every need, but now at the end of the year there was very little left in our savings. Jon and I were determined not to use credit as we were working diligently to become debt-free, but that meant a lean Christmas budget. In fact, all total, we had just $60 to spend on our kids. Divided equally among the five kids, it meant I had just $12 per child with which to buy gifts and fill stockings.
At first, such a tight budget had left me feeling discouraged. How I could begin to make Christmas seem bright for our children? It definitely felt like a monumental task. But then the words of a familiar Christmas tale echoed in my head:
And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?””
from How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss
As a Christian, I already knew this truth, and yet how easy it was to get caught up in all the hoopla of wanting to give my children the typical materialistic American Christmas. To add more fuel to the fire of my worried state, I knew that our five children would receive several gifts from their other parents that were bigger and better than anything I could have afforded if I had spent $60 per child instead of just the $12 I had in my extra-small budget. So I asked the Lord to help me use that $60 to give my family a real Christmas to remember and not to feel jealous when faced with the financial bounty I would see all around me during the season.
Almost immediately, an amazing plan began to fall into place, creative and simple and focused completely on Christ instead of presents. Instead of dreading Christmas morning and fearing looks of disappointment on my children’s faces, now I was excited and eager to watch them experience the Christmas that God was planning for us.
One idea came from my good friend Christie, who makes Sonshine Boxes to cheer up friends. She wraps small trinkets and labels them with Bible verse clues. So I did the same thing. I found some fun treats at the dollar store, and spent hours looking for the perfect verse to be the clue for each item. On Christmas morning, the kids would play a guessing game, reading aloud the verses and and trying to guess what was inside each gift before opening it. The gifts might be small, but I knew my children would have such fun trying to figure out the prizes.
Another idea that came to me had to do with Christmas picture books, in particular a book called Oranges for Frankie (by Patricia Polacco) and The Candymaker’s Gift (by Helen and David Haidle). In the first book, a boy name Frankie loses his Christmas orange and what his siblings do next is simply touching. The second book explains how various traits of candy canes can remind us of Jesus and the Christmas story. We already owned copies of both books, but as a special surprise I bought a chocolate orange and seven nice, fat candy canes. On Christmas morning, I would read the books aloud to the family while we all enjoyed the candy treats.
Finally, instead of filling our stockings to the brim with chocolate kisses and other small trinkets, a terrific idea came to my mind. The week before Christmas, I gave each person in our family several sheets of paper on which I had written: “If I could, I would buy you something good!” I asked each one to think of a special gift they would buy for every other member of the family. On the paper, they could draw a picture, write a note, or paste a magazine clipping there to communicate what they would get for the other person.
All through December, I prepared for our simple Christmas with an excitement in my heart. I just knew that God was going to bless our hearts in a big way, and I was eager to share it with my family.
Soon it was the night before Christmas. After a simple supper, we read the Christmas story from the Bible and sang a few of our favorite carols. By 8:30, all of the children were tucked into bed. All there was for me to do was fill the stockings with the paper notes, set out the two picture books and the basket of candy canes, and set the small trinket gifts which I had already wrapped and labeled with the Bible verses under the tree.
Now, all the Christmas morning preparations were complete. Suddenly, the old fears of not providing a typical Christmas for my children began to flood my mind. As I sat next to my husband in the stillness of the Christmas Eve night, I felt lost in the glow of the lights on the tree and the growing apprehension in my heart about how my children would receive the meager Christmas Jon and I had to offer them.
And then the doorbell rang …
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Jon carefully peered out the window, but in the darkness he couldn’t see anyone at all. Cautiously he opened the front door. There was no one there.
“Perhaps they went to the side door, Jon,” I suggested.
Quickly we walked toward the other door. Again, Jon peered out, but again there appeared to be nothing but darkness. Opening the door wider, he stepped out onto the carport concrete … and that’s when he noticed it.
Several extra large gift bags overflowing with presents.
Once again, my husband and I looked at each other bug-eyed. What on earth was this?
Jogging to the end of the driveway, Jon looked around the yard, and up and down the street … but after a minute or so, he turned back. Shrugging, he said, “I didn’t see anything … not even so much as the tail lights of a car.”
“Do you think perhaps someone delivered these gifts to the wrong house? I asked.
Jon laughed. “Well, normally I would say Santa doesn’t make mistakes, but I suppose there is always that possibility.”
Together we brought the bags of gifts inside. We began to spread out the loot, noticing that the gifts were all labeled with names of each member of our family. “I think these are definitely for us!” Jon grinned. “I don’t know why, but someone decided to bless us with some gifts.”
Quickly, Jon and I sorted the gifts into piles. There were a couple of gifts labeled as family gifts, along with a present for Jon and another for me. Each child had a stack of five gifts … well, for every child except for Nathan. He didn’t have anything.
“Do you think our secret Santa forgot about Nathan?” I felt panicky.
“Don’t worry,” Jon said calmly. “There are enough gifts here to spread out the love. Nathan will not be left out. We can unwrap the gifts, reassign them to the kids making sure that Nathan receives an equal amount. Of course, we’ll have to rewrap everything … Do you think we have enough wrapping paper?”
And then the doorbell rang again.
This time, Jon made a mad dash for the door, hoping to catch our family’s secret Santa … but again there was nothing. Nothing, that is, but a large bag filled with exactly five gifts, all labeled for Nathan.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
It was early the next morning when the kids woke us up, eager to see what Christmas surprises lay in store. As we led them into the living room, a gigantic pile of gifts sat in the middle of the room.
A collective gasp rose from the kids.
“But I thought you said we weren’t going to get a lot of gifts this year!” Julia protested.
“I did. And truthfully, I didn’t think you were. But God had other plans.” I smiled. “Sit down and let me tell you about what happened after you went to bed on Christmas Eve.”
Jon and I retold the story. Then before we dove into the unexpected gifts, we went through our Christmas morning plan … playing the guessing game with the small gifts and Bible verses, reading the picture books and enjoying the candy, and oohing over the stockings filled with sweet notes from our family.
Already our hearts were full, and yet we knew that through a friend God had provided even more for us to enjoy on the blessed Christmas morning. As we opened our unexpected gifts, each one seemed to be perfectly chosen for the recipient.
To this day, we have no idea of who brought us the Christmas Eve gifts … but we remember how loved we felt by our special friend and by our Heavenly Father, who indeed answered my prayers and gave us a $12 Christmas to remember.
Thanks be to God for His inexpressible gift! ~2 Corinthians 9:15
Breakfast isn’t the meal you normal think of first when it comes to considering Thanksgiving Day festivities. But for 42 years, this was my family’s tradition … to gather together for breakfast.
You might wonder how such an event came to be. Perhaps because my grandfather was an only child, he loved having his family and friends (who he considered to be family) close by, especially on holidays. Thanksgiving was no exception.
As his kids grew into adulthood and began to marry, my grandfather complained to my grandmother that he could not figure out when to have the family Thanksgiving meal so that all five of his children could be there at one time. This one needed to be at their in-laws for a noon meal. That one had a 2 pm meal to attend. Another one needed to be somewhere for an Thanksgiving supper-time meal. My grandmother teased him, “Well, no one has a claim on breakfast yet!”
And so, that’s how Thanksgiving Breakfast came to be.
I’m not exactly sure how those first Thanksgiving Breakfasts went, but by the time I was old enough to remember the entire event took place back behind my grandparent’s house in a wooden recreation building that my grandfather called “The Outhouse.” It was crudely outfitted with cast off living room furniture, an old wooded church pew, and a pool table covered with a piece of plywood. At one end was a large fireplace and at the other end was a wood-burning stove. You could comfortably fit 15 or so people inside, but on Thanksgiving morning we crammed 50 or more into that small space.
On Thanksgiving morning, members of my family got up early to start prepping for the celebration. Someone had to build the fires in the fire pits and start the biscuits cooking. Inside “The Outhouse,” the fireplace roared. Right next to it, sat my grandfather in his chair — “holding court” as he greeted all the guests. No one entered without first stopping by to speak to my grandfather.
Across the room from my grandfather, my Uncle Ken cooked eggs in a cast iron skillet on the top of a wood burning stove, while one pan of biscuits baked to perfection in it’s old oven. (The remaining 120+ biscuits cooked down in “The Big House” where my grandparents lived.)
The rest of the family members made treks, up and down the brick steps, back and forth from The Big House to The Outhouse, carrying delicacies like Monkey Bread and large pots of piping hot grits and trays filled with slices of ham or turkey or even sausage.
It was early in the morning that the first guests started arriving. By 7:30 am, the driveway was crowded with cars and the chatter of voices carried all over the hillside. For the next two hours, everyone would huddle together in small groups, mugs of steaming coffee or hot chocolate in one hand and a plate piled high with biscuits, eggs and warm cinnamon rolls in the other. Laughter could be seen and not just heard as every breath hung in the air like tiny puffs of smoke. Hugs were as plentiful as the food. Every year, Thanksgiving morning was a morning I wished would never end.
Eventually though, the crowds would depart, each friend or family member headed home to prepare for other Thanksgiving meals later in the day. Those of us left would clean up The Outhouse, throw away the trash and put away the food. My brother and cousins would pile plates high with the extra food, then head out to make deliveries to a few elderly shut-ins and other folks my grandfather thought might appreciate being remembered with a plate of food.
Since 1973, this is the way every Thanksgiving I can remember went. Seeing as I was born in 1972, this is truly the only sort of Thanksgiving I have enjoyed. And a part of me believed it would go on forever.
But my grandfather died this past spring … and after a lot of discussion, it was decided that Thanksgiving Breakfast had reached its natural end.
This morning, I woke up at my mother’s, our Thanksgiving meal over as we had celebrated on Wednesday night. We set about taking care of other chores, mainly beginning to decorate The Big House for Christmas.
Mid-morning, my mother sent me to The Outhouse to look for her missing step-ladder, which we needed to hang up the stockings. Without thinking, I headed to the back door, opened it up and stepped onto the brick steps leading up to The Outhouse. The morning breeze caressed my face, and without warning I heard the echoes of 42 years worth of thankful hearts gathered on that hillside, which now seemed strangely silent to my ears.
As I neared The Outhouse, I passed by a cold fire pit, but I could nearly smell the smoke wafting in the air. As I opened the door and let myself inside, I heard the sizzling of the hot cast iron skillet. I felt the heat of fireplace. I squeezed past the shoulders of guests to get closer to my grandfather’s chair.
Only no one was there. The fireplace was not roaring with a fire. Nothing was cooking.
Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. The back of my throat burned hot. The weight of the end of something loved and good felt heavier than I expected.
Then, I remembered the step-ladder and why I needed it.
Down in The Big House, I needed to hang seventy stockings.
SEVENTY. (It’s not a typo.)
They hang along two walls in the over-sized dining room of The Big House, a band of colorful felt. No two are alike. Each one handmade. The stockings are as unique as the individuals they represent.
I can’t help but look at that long line of stockings and think to myself, “The only child got the big family of his dreams.”
A marriage that lasted 60 years.Five children. Thirteen grandchildren. Thirty-five great-grandchildren. It’s not just DNA either, for in that seventy are adopted children, step-children, and foster children.
This is the legacy my grandfather left … not money or possessions or even beloved traditions. But people. He loved big and he always had room for one more at his table, whether it was for coffee or Sunday dinner or Thanksgiving Breakfast.
Today I’m thinking about my family and our traditions … and I’m grateful for my grandfather and his legacy for it reflects something in God’s nature too.
God loves big. In fact, His love is the biggest there is. And He always has room for one more.
Some day in heaven there will be a great banquet. A feast to end all feasts. Thanksgiving Breakfast will pale in comparison!
And I wonder about the table. How wide and how long it will be! Even so, at God’s great table, there is always room for more.
Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb. ~Revelation 19:9
Let’s you and me agree to always have room for another guest at the table.
Many years ago, a certain little 3-year-old girl loved to twirl around our living room and say, “Look at MEEE! Dancin’ Queen!“
Trust me when I say this was nothing short of a miracle.
Not the twirling … the twirling wasn’t the miracle. It was the talking that was the miracle.
It’s the truth! In fact, these words were among the first full sentences she ever spoke. Until then, her vocabulary existed of about six one-word phrases:
NO!
MINE!
Doe (for Joel)
Nay (for Nathan)
DaDEE
MAAAAAAA!
Truly, these were all the words she knew until she discovered the music of ABBA and particularly the song “Dancing Queen.”
Fortunately, good music encouraged her to increase her vocabulary. One good phrase led to another and another and another until eventually she talked so much that in 1st grade she got to sit at her very own table in the back corner of the classroom because she wouldn’t stop talking to the other children — but that’s a story for another day.
Back to Dancing Queen … You know how Dancing Queen goes, right?
“You are the dancing queen
Young and sweet
Only seventeen
Dancing queen”
lyric of Dancing Queen
My little dancing queen is currently seventeen.
Let me tell you, from my perspective, seventeen has been a pretty good year for Julia. She’s come into her own, blossoming into a beautiful young lady with a unique personality .
Last year about this time, she was fretting over being the only child left at home. I don’t know what she might tell you about it, but on the backside I can tell you that I loved every single minute of her being the “only child.” She kept Jon and I laughing with her antics. All I can tell you is that this girl is a hoot and a half. If you ever get a chance to hang with her for a while, do it! You will have the time of your life.
“The time of you life” … another line from Dancing Queen.
“You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh, see that girl
Watch that scene
Digging the dancing queen”
lyrics from Dancing Queen
That’s what this past year has been for me … digging my dancing queen. 🙂
It’s July 1st. Later this month Julia turns 18 years old. In six weeks, she heads off to college.
Paige's Pencil 