You’re Out

By Mary Sefzik  –

I was never much of a sports watcher until the Texas Rangers made their first appearance in the World Series in 2010. Dad wanted me to join him in engaging in America’s favorite pastime so we watched the last several innings together. We counted down the outs hoping for victory.

Since I am blind, I can follow the action better by listening to the games on the radio. I prefer to come in during the last several innings—usually the most exciting part of the game. A recent Friday night game really captured my attention and taught me a lesson about life.

It was the bottom of the eighth. The Rangers were at bat and the bases were loaded. The batter swung on the first pitch and missed—strike one. The crowd booed. Pitches two and three were balls and were met with cheers. The next pitch was a strike, followed by another ball. The count had gone full-three balls, two strikes. The crowd was on its feet. The next pitch came and the batter fouled it back. The runners were in position ready to move. The batter swung and finally made contact with the ball. The crowd cheered, the runners took off, but the joy was short-lived. The ball landed in reach of an opposing team member who scooped it up and tagged the batter out. The inning was over and the scoring opportunity was lost.

Life can be like that sometimes. You are given an opportunity, but despite your best efforts you still strike out. A job is eliminated because of economic troubles, retirement savings are lost in a stock market crash, a new home is damaged by a spring tornado. Or maybe you blank out on the most important test of the semester, or the sale you thought was a done deal fell through at the last minute. How do you handle those times when you strike out of the game of life? Some will boo while others smile at your failures. Fear of another humiliating strike out threatens to keep you sidelined for the rest of the season. Each day you are given represents another chance to try and get back in the game. Grab your glove and get in line. Today an opportunity might be pitched to you which only you can nail. This may be the day you knock it out of the park. The bases are loaded. Let’s play ball!

BLACKBERRIES, STICKERS AND COBBLER

By DiAne Gates –

PRAYER: Father in Heaven, thank you for the miracle of Your creation, the love of family and friends and memories; but most of all, thank you for loving us and sending Jesus to die for our sins.

Springtime in Florida was a multi-colored landscape of green, buttercup yellow, and pastel pink. Delicate white blooms dotted prickly vines along roadsides and covered fence lines. Transparent flowers with pollen-filled centers, swayed in the breeze. Honey bees buzzed.

Lumpy, green balls replaced blossoms to confirm this was the perfect patch. We watched those hard green spheres balloon into hundreds of scarlet berries. And sunny days and spring rains urged their transformation into plump, luminous, blackberries.

The berries ripened. Our family piled into our ‘57 Ford, and headed toward our berry patch alongside a country road near the marshes of the St. Johns River, outside Jacksonville, Florida. The Gooding family joined this annual first-blackberry-picking-day.

Parents set boundaries and issued warnings about snakes, stickers and sandspurs. They might as well-a’-been-talkin’ to the wind. We grabbed our buckets and raced down the slope to be first to find the biggest blackberry in the patch.

We scrambled here and there, hoping to find the berry of the day—waiting to be picked by someone—hopefully me. Truth is, we ate as many as we picked, evidenced by toothy grins smeared with tell-tale black juice tinting our lips, our tongues, and grimy fingers.

During one of those scrambles Elaine lost her balance, bounced bottom first down the sandy slope, and landed right in the middle of a sticker-filled-cactus-patch.

Her wails brought an end to this event. Two dads carried the wounded berry-picker to the car where she laid, face-down across our laps, and cried all the way home.

Moms washed the black treasures, then mixed ingredients for the anticipated cobbler. My dad churned homemade vanilla ice cream that would crown the scrumptious berries already bubbling in the oven.

Elaine’s dad had the unpleasant task of removing those nasty stickers from her backside.

I’ll admit, we were not sympathetic onlookers. She had spoiled our fun. We snickered and giggled, sneaking peeks around the corner with every shriek of pain—secretly grateful it wasn’t one of us.

Glasses of iced tea, lemonade with mint sprigs, warm bowls filled with black-berry cobbler, piled with homemade ice cream, however, proved our berry picking day a success.

We lingered in the backyard, swaying in wooden swings hanging by gnarled ropes from aged oak trees as the last moments of the day slipped away. But fireflies flashed in the hedges and a new chase was on, to see who could capture the biggest, brightest insect.

Everyone but Elaine, who stood with her bowl of cobbler.

I no longer search country lanes, but drive to Walmart and buy expensive, tasteless berries, picked before they’re ripe, packed in plastic—not a kid’s bucket—only to find a layer of moldy ones on the bottom.

These days I sit on the patio to watch the day fade into evening while the latest accounts of troubling information blare on the evening news and my grandchildren text me in three word sentences.

I recall these joyful memories while one or two fireflies dart in the bushes around our pond and marvel that times change but God is forever sovereign and on the Throne.

My grandchildren will never experience the excitement of beating friends to the biggest blackberry in the patch, or catching the brightest firefly in their jar, or joining lighthearted conversation with grown-ups.

Memories of a tummy full of cobbler and fresh homemade ice cream, wrapped in the blanket of love family and friends provide, holding my jar full of God’s miraculous lights, are tucked into the secret places of my heart.

Precious memories this world of technology will never duplicate.

Yielding Your Right Away

By Diane Mayfield –

Once again, I find myself learning important lessons in this laboratory of life called the family. When I was a young mother, I knew children were God’s way of revealing my impurities and bringing me to my knees. But that was before adolescence. Those years were about running the race of endurance, perseverance, and prayer.

Now that my children are young adults, two married and one a parent, I think I imagined personal growth through my family was over for me. Well, I was wrong.

I just finished Beth Moore’s Bible Study on James. One of the lessons from that study was “ to yield your right away.” It’s all part of one of James’ major themes on proving to others that your faith matters, being a doer of the Word.

Picture the red and white yield sign on the frontage road helping to control traffic and prevent collisions. I’ve seen cars completely ignore those signs and I’ve been guilty of it too. If I think I can beat the other car, I’ll put my foot to the pedal and speed up.

That’s not Beth Moore’s idea of yielding the right away according to James. True to His way, God has given me several opportunities to learn this lesson. At 58, I still am not thrilled about growth opportunities. It’s just not natural. And I suspect that is the point.

My daughter and son-in-law came to town for a visit. It was suppose to be my Mother’s Day celebration with them. Prior to their arrival, my daughter and I had talked about plans for the weekend, both of us conferring together. Saturday the guys were going to play golf and the girls got to shop. We were having lunch at the club before that.

Lunch came and the plans shifted completely. After playing in a work golf tournament, my son-in-law was not sure he wanted to play golf, at least not eighteen holes. So after much discussion between the men, eighteen holes of golf changed to possibly nine later in the afternoon. Lunch was now at a local Mexican food place.

After lunch, we returned home and the guys are still discussing their plans. Suddenly golf was out and, consequently, so was shopping. My son-in-law wanted us all to hang out. I think he really wanted to be with his wife. Up popped that red and white yield sign.

I had a choice. By all rights, it was my Mother’s Day celebration. “Yield your right way,” the voice in my head said. When I saw that yield sign in my head and heard these words, “a sign of wisdom from God is to yield your right away,” I knew this was a God moment. I could choose to be a doer of the Word or just a reader of it. Praise God I did not put my pedal to the medal but yielded my rights away.

I’ve decided that’s what being an “in-law” is all about-yielding my right away. This is a new family member interrupting the “family system.” I can compete for control or yield, whether or not the yield sign is for me or not. In doing so, I prevent a collision, openly or behind closed doors. In doing that this time, we had a restful, relaxed afternoon watching a movie before going to dinner

It’s not natural for me this yielding. I take the lead in making plans. I look forward to experiencing what is planned. I learned though that those plans, being in the right, having it my way, means nothing in the light of being a doer of God’s Word.

“But the wisdom that comes from Heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial, and sincere” (James 3:17 NIV).

Provider

By Heather Allen –

You do not like your job. He does not like his car. She does not like her yard. I really dislike my kitchen. Add the small things. Scuffed shoes, gray hair peeking out at the root, a belly where there once was toned muscle. Look in the mirror. Wrinkles, receding gums, loose skin. The discontentment builds. Pause to take inventory of what goals have been met, and the tally falls short. But the years are clipping along, sailing faster than it takes to get your life preserver on.

Maybe it is turning forty. Maybe it is having teenagers and remembering when my parents were forty. Mid-life crisis jokes are something we grow up with. We might smirk at the fifty-year-old who has decided to grow a ponytail, get an earring, and buy the Mustang he always wanted.

The only sense I can make of this bittersweet pilgrimage is in scripture. I turn to Psalm 84. “For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly” (KJV, Psalm 84:11).

I keep reading.

“O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee” (KJV, Psalm 84:12).

“Define good,” I say to myself.

I meditate on the passage longer. Mentally I have re-worked it to read “no comfortable thing” rather than “no good thing.”

Costs are up. I weave a plan to compensate. I ask God to bless it. The plan unravels. I go back to the drawing board and ask God to look over the plan with me. I do not get a definitive answer. It comes out like this “it is good to wait for the Lord.” And for some reason this makes me cranky, from my gray roots to my chipping pink polished toes.

I start to analyze the situation. I narrow the problem down to my righteousness. Maybe I do not qualify for good things. Perhaps I have not walked uprightly enough. I start thinking about volunteer opportunities and supporting an orphan. And then in the quiet of my plotting a new more righteous course, I am softly reminded that my works will never qualify me for anything good. Verses packed with the truth flow from my lips as I remind myself that Christ is my righteousness. He came to save the lost because we could not save ourselves.

I ask my husband to walk with me. His quiet strength modeling meekness. God provides. Whether it is provisions or righteousness, He always provides.

And almost to punctuate this learning experience, the vise tightens. Expenses grow, the river floods, fishing trips cancel. My fisherman by trade glances at the rivers view from our back deck gauging the flows. I stand next to him, placing my shaky hand in his. He kisses me “trust God.” The river is swollen and muddy, and like all creation, in God’s hand.

I go back to Psalm 84 and think on verse twelve. “Blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.”

And while I am still uncomfortable, I know the truth. Trusting God means waiting on Him to use what looks bad, or scary, or hazy for my good. It means finding my safe spot in Him not in what I have stored up or can manufacture. It is choosing to believe God is love, when Satan tempts me, as he did Eve, to question His goodness toward me.

I choose to believe He does not withhold any good thing from His own.

Next Breath

By Makenzie Allen –

I listened on the phone as my dad’s voice gave away his excitement. “Makenzie, there is a baby raccoon down here. I need you to come get him.” Bounding down the stairs, I shoot out the driveway, kennel in hand, and hurry down the road to where my dad waited for me. I scanned my surroundings until my eyes landed on a baby raccoon pacing in my dad’s boat. As I walked home with the raccoon in a kennel, quietness enveloped me. And in the quiet, I prayed God would keep this baby alive.

The days passed slowly as I cared for Jasper the raccoon. Something had happened to his mom and he had been left alone. I did everything from giving him a bath to feeding him with a baby’s bottle. Cradling Jasper in a blanket as he held on tightly to the bottle with his perfect little paws, I resolved to restore his health. Only one problem stormed away my resolution. I didn’t control the times.

Comprehending why things happen when they do has been challenging for me. Why is God okay with people dying if He is good? If He really cared wouldn’t, He stop this from happening? Questions of this nature tend to scatter throughout my thoughts and words. Questions, when God is saying, “My child, why do you doubt Me?”

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 KJV).

I cannot pretend to know all the answers, but God in heaven does. He alone controls the times, and that indeed brings me comfort because I know He has my best in mind. Rather than questioning the Lord, I should be questioning my own trust.

“My times are in Thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me” (Psalm 31:15 KJV).

Not many attributes are more fulfilling than trust. Love always trusts and so, in order to love the Lord, I must first trust Him. People of old were commended for their brimming faith, as it says in Hebrews 11. Looking at past relationships between God and man, one can’t help but see the promise lying just underneath the surface. Bubbling and bursting forth, radiating out of men’s faces in smiles, in eyes, in actions. Daniel, Esther, Noah, Mary, all from different backgrounds but sharing common ground, they trusted in the Lord with all their heart.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5 KJV).

Jasper filled his lungs with the gift of God’s grace for the last time. In the same way, each breath I take is a gift and all I can do is trust God to give me the next.

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