Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. Psa. 62:8

Spring came, but I was not getting better. Then one morning my parents read from John 9 about Jesus putting clay on a blind man’s eyes to heal him. Daddy knew of a basement dig nearby so went there and brought home some clay, which they packed onto my knee with fervent prayer. God heard their prayer of faith and used the clay to draw out the infection. The swelling went down and the ache stopped. No coincidence. No doubt!

Yet, nightmares plagued me and I woke up screaming several times a night, night after night. My parents asked the doctor what they could do for me. He told them to give me a little beer before bed. I still remember crying and pleading not to have to drink it. Mommy held my nose so I wouldn’t have to smell it as they forced me to drink it down. Not only did it taste terrible to me but wasn’t it also somewhere on someone’s sin list? However, the “sinful” stuff worked and the nightmares immediately decreased, then stopped. . . except for nights throughout my life when my polio-compromised nervous system became too overstimulated.

Mother was such a nurse! A doctor told her I should never get a bad chest cold because the encapsulated T.B. spot on my lung could break free and fatally enter a bone. So when I caught a cold, she made musteroll from mustard powder paste, rolled it inside a tea towel, and laid it on my chest. It heated until I could not stand it any longer, then she would take it off.

She also gave me vitamin and penicillin shots. She loved to help people with her nursing skills and gave other people shots too. I remember the little jar of alcohol in which she kept her needles. The vitamin shots were especially painful, especially with an old and dull needle! The penicillin shots left blue bruises on my bottom, but no doubt the shots rebuilt my strength.

That spring I spent many hours at my little desk where I drew princesses with long beautiful dresses and rooms with windows. Outside the windows I drew trees and clouds and flying birds. A teacher told my parents I was doing perspective drawing. I remember the praise and encouragement. However, when my drawing talents extended to decorate the staircase walls, spanks replaced praise in no uncertain terms.

I remember Daddy saying he loved me after one of such spankings down in the coal room, but I also remember I could not believe he could spank me if he loved me. I realize now that I was a strong willed child, so it was a good thing I got disciplined instead of coddled. However, God designed me with a strong will to survive illness, months of hospitalization, and probably a lot of other things too. Our God is good and wise. He equips us with what we will need even before we realize our neediness. I’ve also grown to realize that God disciplines those He deeply loves.

When summer came, I longed to roller skate with the other kids. Even though I had to wear my brace, I tried to skate. I remember the day I unlocked the little metal clasps at my knee so I could skate better. By the end of summer I was skating. . . at the tail end of all the other kids, but still skating. I remember the day Mommy threw the ugly brown shoes that connected to my brace in the garbage because I had outgrown them. They had become familiar, ugly as they were. Why do I remember an unexplained wistfulness to see them go? Perhaps so I could better share God’s faithfulness with you today. This chapter in my life had forever changed me.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the LORD, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. Isaiah 43:2-3

I thought about the former days, the years of long ago; I remembered my songs in the night. Psalm 77:6

IT IS NIGHT TIME. The room is dark and quiet. A car rumbles up the street while dancing flickers of light and strange dark shadows dart across the walls. A clock ticks softly in another room I can see the outline of the archway between the dining room and living room and the blackness of Mommy’s big dining table under a ghostly lace tablecloth. In the corner of the dining room on the right are the forms of my rocking chair and little red table with all my crayons and papers with my princess drawings on them. Across from me in the living room are tall windows with lacy white curtains. The lights from the street peek through the lace making soft spots of light on the walls, the ceiling, and on Daddy’s big dark chair in the far corner.

I press my head against the arm of the couch and pull the warm quilt up around my neck. I turn my head back and forth. Again tonight my knee is hurting so much. I close my eyes and try to sleep. My heart throbs in my knee. Thin and pale I hear my voice calling through the darkness.

“Mommy! Mommy! My knee hurts!”

A tall shadow moves out of the darkness toward me. Mommy sits down at my feet on the couch, where I sleep in our big house in Saskatoon. She gently pulls aside the covers. Her hands feel cool on my hot leg. Slowly she moves her strong hands up and down, gently rubbing my swollen knee. I smell lineament. I hear the lineament bottle go “blupah” as Mommy pours a little in her hand and then rubs it onto my knee. Somehow it begins to feel better. Then, beautifully and softly, she begins to sing. I close my eyes.

I am glad to be home from the hospital in Chicago, glad to be out of the narrow iron bed with iron bars over it that held my leg straight up in the air. I can still hear the hollow clanging sound of the iron weights hanging down from the bars when I would swing under the bars like a monkey. I told Mommy how lucky I was to only have one leg in traction. If it were both legs, I couldn’t swing on the bars at all. I would have to lie flat like I was dead. I remember seeing tears in Mommy’s blue eyes when I said that.

I love my Mommy. I love her hands and her voice and her eyes and her dark curly hair. She is tall and strong. I think of when she carried me in the train from Saskatoon to the Chicago hospital. We missed Daddy so much but he had to stay home for a while to work and take care of baby Dicky.
I am so tired. I hear Mommy singing softly into the night. The smell of lineament floats through the darkness. My tears dry and I fall asleep.

Still His song is with me—and forms a prayer to my God who has been with me all my years like a loving mother caring tenderly for her child, “Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me. By day the LORD directs his love, at night his song is with me—a prayer to the God of my life.” Psalm 42:7-8.

Who could have known that a bone infection could wreak so much havoc? Sometimes both our physical and emotional childhood wounds heal. . . on the outside, but inside they can continue to fester and wreak havoc, spreading infection throughout our entire body and no one can seem to figure it out.

Nearly a month after my fifth birthday, I came home from St. Paul’s hospital, but my health did not improve. My mother’s sister Rita, a nurse in Chicago, told my parents to bring me to Chicago Kenner Hospital where they had a blood radiation machine. Chicago was far away. I remember riding on the train with my mother, who carried me because I could no longer walk. Daddy had to stay in Dalmeny to work and Aunt Mary took care of baby Dicky. Once we got to Chicago, I remember my hospital room, seeing black people for the first time in my life, the strict nurse I grew to dislike, and the little boy who drank from his bed pan. I don’t even remember all the medical tests but  T.B. of the bone was suspected. One night Mommy and Alice, a black Christian cleaning lady, prayed over me. Mommy put her hand on my knee and asked God to “kill that germ.” More tests. Yet, each test for T.B. came back negative.

A month passed and Daddy joined us in Chicago with Dicky. The doctors performed surgery on my knee to scrape out the infection, and then put my leg in traction. I had to lie flat on my back with my right leg held up in the air with weights and pulleys. I remember the embarrassment of having my Mommy help me change underwear and get them over and around the bars since there was no way to get my leg loose from the bars.

Another month passed and Christmas arrived with lights and a large plastic, lit-up Santa. The doctor fit me with a long brace that went all the way up my leg and locked at the knee so it could not bend. Finally at the end of January, I could go home because the doctor said there was nothing more they could do for me. His last words were, “I still say she has T.B. of the bone.” As far as they were concerned, they sent me home to die. We traveled back to Canada and Daddy bought a two-story, white house in Saskatoon. I had to wear ugly brown shoes that were attached to the brace but. . . at least I could walk. The swelling and pain continued and they prayed for a miracle.

King David said God desires truth in the inward parts, and in the hidden part He will make me to know wisdom (Psalm 51:6). GOD knows where we hurt and why. He is the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort who comforts us in all our troubles (2 Cor. 1:3-4). Sometimes all we can do is pray and wait for God to do what we cannot do—to heal us from the inside out, and sometimes that can take a very long time.

Have you noticed how certain insecurities from childhood seem to stick to us like peanut butter and jelly? No matter how many times we wipe our faces and fingers, it just spreads sticky stuff into adulthood and we feel and react to things without even knowing why. I struggle with unexplainable apprehensions to be alone in unfamiliar places and with strangers. I wondered if it might not be a good idea to trace these feelings back to their origin and ask the LORD to shed His light on them and redeem them by revealing more of Himself to me through them.

I loved to visit my cousins, Irvin, Shirley, and Joycie. We played house mostly, or Shirley read stories to us. A year after I survived polio, Irvin and Shirley took us to the school playground nearby and pushed Joycie and me on the swings. Suddenly I lost my grip and a strong push flew me through the air and I landed on my knees in the gravel. I remember bleeding and being inconsolable with pain as they held me up on each side and half carried me back to their house.

Some weeks went by and my knee healed on the outside, but inside something was wrong. It ached, was fevered, and stiffened at a forty-five degree angle. On my fourth birthday, September 27, 1952, I entered St. Paul’s Hospital in Saskatoon. To avoid “unnecessary drama,” parents were not allowed to visit their children at that hospital. Every day they came to see me but could only stand outside and look up at my second story window.

Imagine leaving your desperately sick four-year-old in a medical institution and not see them for three weeks while doctors experiment to diagnose the illness. Who will ever know what they did and with what drugs!? I remember lying in a large crib with iron bars, watching people—nurses, doctors, and sick children in beds that rolled by. I don’t remember much else, except a few months later I do remember a nightmare, one of many, of a witch standing over me as I lay on a table while Mommy sat on a bench at the back of the room weeping.

Finally, the doctors diagnosed me with a rare blood disease and sent me home. When my parents came to pick me up after those three weeks, they hardly recognized me! Cortisone shots had puffed up my whole body. One of the nurses told my Mommy that when she first saw my knee, she said, “Holy cow!” But she said I told her that cows were not holy. Only God was holy. She also told Mommy that it was important to me to pray every night.

In spite of all the insecurities that stuck to me from those weeks of illness, I’m amazed that God drew me to talk to Him every night. I had never stopped to imagine God being so intimately involved with my life at that time until now. As I grew older, I always figured that was my parent’s trial, not mine, since I hardly remembered it.  Yet, He must have comforted me through my fears, loneliness, pain, and illness with His own very Presence as He continues to do today. That trauma as well as God’s care became embedded into my subconscious memory banks. It’s all still there somehow affecting my emotions and choices to this day.

Psalm 27:10 says, “When my father and my mother forsake me, Then the LORD will take care of me.” I fully believe He remained at my side the whole time, every day, every night—watching, loving, tenderly speaking His peace into my mind and heart because He promised, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you” Hebrews 13:5.

These events could very well be the source of insecurities that stuck to me through my life. Yet to realize today how intimately God was with me, watching over me, caring for me, and intending to use it all for good, leaves me in awe of His faithfulness. Though He does not shield us from all harm, He does promise to use it for our good and His glory.

More traumatic events were yet to come. As I bring these memories before God’s light, I pray He will encourage both you and me with a deeper understanding to live fully in the security of His love and care.

GOD brings beautiful things out of hard places. I know. I’ve been there many times. One of the first began long ago.  The polio epidemic raged through Canada and in the spring of 1951 I came down with the dreaded disease. Between the late 1940s and early 1950s, polio crippled around 35,000 people each year in the United States alone, making it one of the most feared diseases of the twentieth century. In 1952, nearly 60,000 children were infected with the virus; thousands were paralyzed, and more than 3,000 died.

Just as I began to get better, my baby brother and my Daddy came down with it too. The hospitals were full and after diagnosis Mommy cared for us at home. We miraculously survived without obvious paralysis and life went on—bump after bump. Some bumps resulted from a polio compromised nervous system. Most polio survivors share a commonality—Type A personalities characterized by a strong will and determination not only to survive but to thrive. Yet, even for non-paralytics, polio attacks nerve bundles throughout the body, causing the unaffected nerves to work twice as hard. Therefore, after many years, many polio survivors find themselves with post-polio syndrome, which puts them back in wheelchairs and braces because when life comes down hard, a back-up system no longer exists.

However, none of us realized the compromise at the time so life did go on, yet with unexplained fatigue and exhaustion with minimal activity, muscle weakness, breathing and swallowing problems, greater sensitivity to cold and heat, loud noises, caffeine, and medications. Many also experienced a decreased tolerance for physical or emotional pain, less ability to multi-task, more easily overwhelmed, more sleep disturbances, and a need to often withdraw to find relief from stimulation. Our performance became worse under pressure and we became more susceptible to other illnesses related to a highly sensitive nervous system.

I nearly drowned twice, once at our youth group lake retreat, and once in college swim class. When I reached my limit, no second wind rescued me. Running, uphill hiking, or even day-to-day living pressures found no back-up system to push me through. I didn’t realize what was wrong with me and figured I just had to try harder, which abused my nervous system. Through each life challenge, I just kept my determined course. By the time the first of my four children entered college, news of post polio syndrome made me realize the drastic affect of polio even for non-paralytics.

As I look back now, I can see God used my polio to cast me upon Himself. I always wondered why my mother worried about my health, as if it was fragile somehow. She knew. . . but denial blinded me as a young person. As the years went by,  I admitted that my spirit was stronger than my body. When my weakness became more difficult to ignore, I found myself turning to the Lord for His strength. Sleepless nights, because of over-stimulation during the day, began my time to draw near to the Lord through prayer journaling. There, in the dim lamplight I cried out to Him, listened to His Holy Spirit speak to me through His Word, and recorded our conversations in scores of spiral notebooks.

He turned my weakness into strength—the strength to have to admit I could not go on, I could not succeed, I could not survive or thrive without Him—a kind of severe mercy. I thank Him now for my polio. I thank Him for writing down all the days of my life in His book before one of them came to be (Psa. 139:36). He has become my strength. He redeems my hard places over and over by calling me to Himself in my weakness and allowing me to see His strength and beauty there!

LORD, you alone are my portion and my cup; you make my lot secure…It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure…God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Psa. 16:5; 18:32; 46:1

Dicki began screaming and Mommy frantically rushed in to rescue him! We lived in what we called “Hydes House” then—a house we bought from Mr. Hyde in Dalmeny. Baby Dicky was very little when we lived there so I was three years old. Mommy was very careful with him because they both nearly died when he was born because of her toxemia.

I don’t think he was walking yet, but one day I was mothering him, as usual, and prepared “pepa zup,” a soup that Mennonites made often. I creatively made my own recipe with pepper and water and fed it to Dicky on a spoon while he sat trustingly at the bottom of the staircase. Mommy was in the kitchen and could not see what I was doing. That’s when, suddenly, and to my complete surprise, Dicki began screaming! Of course, Mommy rushed in to save him. My tears came next as I had to sit on the couch and eat some of my own cookin’. However, my crying came not so much from pepper burn on my tongue, but that my creative and good intentions ended so very badly.

Besides my very real little brother, I also had two dear imaginary friends—Boeby and Rhonder. One meal time I was making such a fuss about having them sit at the table with me that my Daddy sharply scolded Rhonder. It broke my heart because Rhonder had done nothing to deserve such discipline. That ended my imaginary playmates, though my imagination continued. One supper the meat on my plate looked up at me with the face of a wolf. With many tears, I refused to eat it. Daddy and Mommy could not see what I could see on my plate.

God designed me with an imagination and a determination that still motivates me to bring concept to reality. Yet, how many times throughout my life have I continued to get in trouble for being too creative and too helpful? You’d think having to eat my own cookin’ would have cured me, but we can’t underestimate the power of the will, or the blindness of our good intentions, or the fragility of the human condition.

I still battle the fear of being misunderstood, hurt, or of hurting others. Sometimes I grow weary of the battle of the flesh and long for Jesus to come. I’ve always longed to see Him and already prayed for Him to come and get us when we lived at Hyde’s House. However, along with my vivid imagination, I also felt quite afraid of bears. Mommy told me there were no bears there, so I assured Jesus He could come to get us because there were “no bears in this country.”

Sometimes, even yet, I see “bears” in my life that seem bigger than God. These “bears” can cause me to doubt God’s power, presence, and good intentions toward me. Yet, the prophet Jeremiah tells us that God “does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone” Lam. 3:33. And 2Cor. 1:3 tells us He is the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles.

In her fear, Mommy could not know my intentions, understand my need for relationship, nor have the imagination to see what I could see, but God knows us intimately. His sweet grace does not make us “eat our own cookin’” or become angry with our immaturity. He takes us into His arms, comforts our sorrow for hurting others, knows how much we want to be helpful, and knows our need for relationship. He also sees what is “on our plate” and it’s not scary to Him because He sees beyond our imagination to the joy yet to come.

As I go back to my early memories, recognize God’s presence there, and glean from them, I pray you will enjoy the journey with me and perhaps be reminded of things in your own story that God gave to you for a reason.

Thinking the world was flat and that Dalmeny was the center of the world gave me a starting gate, however erroneous. Our little town and way of life felt familiar and secure. Only two churches existed in Dalmeny—the MB and EMB, meaning “Mennonite Brethren” and “Evangelical Mennonite Brethren”. We attended both at different times for whatever reason. I still can feel the quiet security of sitting with Mommy and Daddy through the long services and very long German prayers. Though I couldn’t understand High German, I do remember a deep fervency in the prayers of the elderly. I also loved to look at the painted river mural behind the baptistry and hear the beautiful music of the choir each Sunday.

Children remained in the church service back then and learned to be still. We always sat near the front. To occupy me, Mommy would fold her white handkerchief in a triangle, roll up both ends, and pull one corner back under to make it into a little cradle with two babies in it. String beads also could occupy children during the service. I remember the sound of string beads striking and bouncing loudly all over the hardwood floor when the string broke—more than once. I also remember laying my head on Mommy’s lap and falling asleep during the long sermons.

When she became pregnant with my brother, she told me early on so I would not worry about her not feeling well. She later told the story that I stood up on the wooden pew in that M.B. Church, turned around, and excitedly announced to the congregation that my Mommy was going to have my baby brother. So much for keeping their secret!

My baby brother was born that spring and the following winter my Daddy built a little wooden sleigh with a three-sided box on it. When we went to church, they put my baby brother and me into that sleigh and completely covered us with a blanket because the air was too cold to breathe. I can still remember that crisp winter air, see the morning light filtering through the blanket, and hear feet squeaking on the snow ahead of us as they walked to church in sub-zero temperatures. From those early years our faithful attendance in church gave me the security and predictability of belonging to something bigger than myself or my immediate family.

One Sunday morning when the service was over and everyone got up to leave, we filled the isles on our way out. Without glancing up in the pressing crowd of very tall people, I clung tightly to my Daddy’s hand. When we got to the foyer, I happened to look up and with sudden embarrassed shock, burst into tears! The hand I held was that of a stranger! However, my real Daddy was right behind us and he swept me up into his arms. He had been there all along.

I can’t help but wonder if the security of my Daddy’s presence that Sunday morning didn’t give me a greater sense of my heavenly Father’s presence with me today. Somehow, I instinctively know that when fears or embarrassment seek to traumatize me, I can still run to my Abba Father who is always there, watching. . . waiting for me to realize I’ve been holding the wrong hand and comfort me in His arms.

The Psalmist says, “I keep my eyes always on the LORD. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.” and “Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory.” Psa. 16:8; 73:23-24

IN THE BEGINNING . . . in my beginning the world was flat and Dalmeny sat at the center of the world.  Everyone in the world was a Christian except a few who were not and they smoked.  Of course, then there was the city of Saskatoon about fifteen miles away, which expanded my view of the world, but at first I wasn’t aware of that.  I still remember my conversation with Mommy, and while I insisted the world was flat, she told me otherwise and I tried to grasp a concept contrary to what seemed so real.

Smoking was really bad and so was wearing earrings and lipstick.  One time I tried putting bobby pins on my earlobes to see what I would look like with earrings.  Not bad, actually.  Once my little friend and I tried dancing on the wide cement entrance to Daddy’s general store until some elderly woman came by and forbade us to do such a thing!  My mother was different from all the other women in this small Mennonite town because she was from the United States and she wore lipstick.

That was about sixty years ago and I certainly live on a different planet now than I did then.  Our stories all begin somewhere, and that “somewhere” sets a world view with a profound affect upon the rest of our lives. To look back and identify our world view can help us recognize inherent flaws and bring to light what needs to change as it lines up, or not, with the truth we discover as we grow up.  I had to grow up to realize that things are not always what they seem.  The world IS round and it is vastly larger than our small Mennonite village.  Real Christians are identified by the way they love God and each other, not by outward performance or dress or rules kept.  Yet, I did not learn all that overnight, especially not the identity of a Christian, which I’m still learning. 

So many voices tell us so many things.  In college I entertained human philosophy and the heady experience of feeling wise and knowledgeable came crashing down as did my earlier view of the world being flat—both deceiving and absolutely erroneous.  “For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God’s sight” 1 Cor. 3:19.  I still remember the raging battle in my heart as I walked between the library and chapel (both literally and metaphorically) about whether to follow my college friends into their intellectual sophistication or to trust that God had not led me down a garden path of error.  Once I made the choice to trust Him and not doubt, the battle ceased and peace flooded my. . . lonely soul.

Soon, however, I met the love of my life and discovered our similar spiritual passions.  However, there was so much more to come, to learn, more lies to shed, more choices, more pain.  The journey to find our way back to the hearts Jesus gave us from the world of performance and head knowledge is a very long and painful one.
Stay tuned.

I look in the mirror and what do I see?
Why, my dear Grandmother looking at me!
Her hair is all silver, pulled back from her face;
How could it be that I stand in her place?

I look at her now with skin soft as peaches,
With lines and patches, bags and creases;
Her eyelids droop softly just over her eyes,
That sit inside circles like an owl old and wise.

I miss my dear Gramma but would rather see
The young woman I once was looking at me,
With hair long and brown and skin taut and clear
But still keep the lessons I now hold so dear.

Lessons that brought on this silver grey mop,
Each wrinkle and circle, crease and spot.
Without them I fear I’d still hold to my pride,
So foolish and selfish as I was as a bride.

So on second thought, I’ll look at Gramma once more
And reconsider what I thought before;
Maybe there’s something of more value to note
That somehow I missed from this end of the boat.

Though outwardly I still am wearing away,
Inwardly I can grow more lovely each day;
For all things work together for good—
To conform me to the image of Jesus … not to Gramma, for crying out loud!

(MarJean S. Peters  copyright 05-05-2015)

After an exhilarating two-mile walk on this warm and sunny afternoon—up and down hills, past blossoming pink dogwoods, blooming tulips of all colors, and spring green trees all set against dark ponderosa pines—I’m ready to sit down to share with you a new step in a long journey.
I’m so seeking the LORD on what it means for me to blog. Not an easy decision or venture because if you are as inundated with e-mail news, good and worthy causes, and lots of junk mail, as I am, who has time to read one more thing!? Who even cares?
So, I asked the LORD, as I basked in His sweet sun shining grace this Sunday afternoon, “What on earth can I blog about that is valuable enough for anyone to read? Do You even want me to blog? I know I cannot do this without You breathing Your life and words through me, so I’m asking You for that breath.”
I listened. . . and He did breathe through His still, small voice deep inside my heart and mind:
“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” John 10:27.
I knew I must trust Him to give me words to write and that I will hear him and follow Him.
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” Psalm119:105.
Always, His Word lights the path before me. It will not be a flare to light up the whole valley, but it will give me enough light for each step.
“For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” Hebrews 4:12.
I can trust the light and power of His Word to guide my heart and my thoughts. It will reveal my motives for writing and purify them and direct them in ways that will draw me and those who join me to Himself. I can trust His Word to do that in and through me.
“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:13-16.
He reminded me that just as He did not design any two snowflakes alike, He did not design any two people alike. Each of us occupy one place in the universe that only we inhabit. No one else, past, present, or future can take our place. Each of our stories reveal God in a way that no one else can reveal Him. Therefore, I can trust that writing from my life circumstances and my personality will fill a place, a valuable place that no one else can fill no matter how many writers fill our mail boxes and book shelves, and book stores, and publishing houses. I cannot let the enemy convince me that I’m just a nobody, an insignificant blip on the screen and that I better not waste my time or anyone else’s time by writing. So many lies keep us from following Jesus and doing what He gives us to do. So much shame and so many accusations to paralyze our spiritual walk and fruitfulness.
I already know I cannot write to you out of my own human wisdom and understanding. Paul says, “Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” 1 Corinthians 1:20.
But, God has given to us who believe, His Holy Spirit who leads us into all truth and who lives in us (see John 16:13; 2 Timothy 1:14).
My body is actually the temple of the Holy Spirit of God, who lives within me, whom I’ve received from God. I’ve been bought by the precious blood of the Lamb of God to do His will, not my own. (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).
I can trust God’s Spirit within me to guide, inspire, motivate, and enable the melding together of God’s Word with my life.
However, the enemy still spreads doubt in my mind about blogging. He reminds me that I still am affected by my Old Adamic nature—prideful, selfish, fearful, insecure, corrupt. . . he also strikes fear into my heart that he will seek to thwart, distract, and deceive me any way he can. He reminds me of how weak and sinful and ignorant I am, hissing, “Who are you to write to anyone?!”
Once again the power of God’s Word and His Holy Spirit come to my aid saying, “But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ Jesus and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ.” 2 Corinthians 2:14.
As I walked through my neighborhood today, the fragrance of spring blossoms filled the air. I even stopped to drink in the aroma of lilacs planted beside the way. Oh to be the aroma of Christ to those God places in my life, and to you who read what He gives me to write!
I listed seven things God impressed upon me today concerning a decision to blog. First, His Word is my light. Secondly, He will reveal Himself through His Word as it relates to my life through my unique design. Thirdly, He gave me His Holy Spirit to breath through me. However, four and five were tough. I still have to contend with my old selfish, prideful, corrupt human nature, and I have the enemy who lies to me and tries to deceive me. I asked God what I needed to do about that.
“But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12:9-10.
So numbers six and seven followed with a burst of insight and encouragement. When I am weak, I am strong because God’s power rests upon me. His power will be made evident through my weakness. Lastly, I can even boast in my weakness because through my weakness God’s strength, love, and grace will be revealed to others
So, there I have it. In my blogging, I can vulnerably reveal my weaknesses, my failures, my sins and in so doing, God’s amazing love and grace can be revealed to others. In spite of and even because of my weaknesses, God’s Word will prove true, steadfast, and faithful through the stories of my life.
His Holy Spirit so sweetly reminded me from 2 Corinthians 4:7 that I have an amazing treasure in a common clay pot. I am that common clay pot and Jesus Christ is the treasure within me. You will see my human frailty through my forthcoming stories, but that is so you will never get mixed about who is the one to glorify because God says, “You have this treasure in a jar of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from you.” (see 2 Cor. 4:7).
Dusk falls on this spring day as the sun begins its descent over a bright horizon. Birds twitter among the full bodied trees and blossoms. I get up to close the patio door against the cooling evening air and return to my cozy rocker and laptop. My heart quiets itself in the presence of a Holy God who so faithfully answers prayer. Whoever God calls to journey with me, I pray for you. I fervently pray that He will bless us together with more and more of His gracious, loving, gentle, forgiving, wonderful Self. Pray for me too. . . that He will carry me along by His love, grace, and power.

My grandchildren always ask, “Gramma, tell us a story of when you were a kid.” So I tell them. They now have their favorites and ask again, and I say, “But I told you that one before.” They say, “Tell it again!” There’s many stories and I plan to begin near the beginning and weave God’s grace and goodness into each one.

Love and prayers for you,

Jeannie