I Am

By Makenzie Allen –

I am Makenzie Brook Allen. My name means little warrior of God. I am a daughter, sister, grandchild, niece, and friend. A passion of mine since I craved pacifiers and had a “blanky,” is creation. That’s probably the explanation for why my first word was “woof,” as in dog noises. It’s also most likely why I know for a fact chipmunks have at least three noises when communicating, and the reason I know this is because I confess to having attempted conversation with one. So now that my sanity is in question, I’ll also point out I do in fact have a life and God living in and through me is the only reason I am not too many eggs short of a birthday cake.

My identity, who I am, is all because of what God has placed in my life. Strangely enough, I’m thankful for the rough times in life. The times when I feel alone and broken. Almost as if I’ve built myself one way and the Lord comes and says, “No, we need to start over with this.” And I feel like everything I’ve built my life around comes crashing down. Then, the Lord comes and rebuilds my life for me. He comes and rebuilds my life right.

My memories pull me back to a time and place where I felt desperately alone. So alone, the light in my eyes hardly shone and my laugh was misplaced. I remember the bowed head and the heavy drag to my feet. How does one move on from this solitude?Where has my joy gone? I racked my mind night and day for some hint as to where my joy had departed. Answers to solve my feelings of loneliness and stolen joy had fled like thoroughbreds out of the starting gate. And I was the one left to stand frozen, helpless, as those answers ran around just outside of my reach. One thought reverberated through my mind nonstop, How will I find what I’ve lost?

Time moved on, but my burdened soul could not. It stayed, unwilling to let time take its toll. I acknowledged I was broken and could no longer try to sustain the world I had made for myself. Every last ounce of my determined, structured, goals had been demolished. I felt detached. People had moved on. But I stayed, alone. Except for One. He stayed too, waiting patiently for the day I would relent from my terrible building-and-repair job. When I would hand Him the tool belt, because only He knew how long I had pounded nails with the wrong end of the hammer and measured in centimeters instead of inches. Finally, I saw Him waiting, lovingly holding out His nail-scarred hand for the tool belt.

God’s repairs in my life were hard to swallow at first. But He built me from the ground up. The Lord was giving me a new identity, one built with hands of expertise. My character was no longer attached to what I had done or who I had tried to be, it was ground solidly as my identity in Christ. He is my Lord, and nothing could divide me from that relationship. Neither height nor depth could ever separate me from the love of Jesus Christ. All I can say is thank you Lord for rebuilding my life to be firmly rooted in You.

I am Makenzie Brook Allen, loved by the Maker of things seen and unseen. I am a daughter of the King, cared for by Him who wears scars proclaiming His love for me with pride. My identity is in Him. I am His. Forever.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” Ephesians 2:10 (NIV).

Hear Me . . . Whimper

By Jane Thornton –

Though I’m not much of a feminist, Helen Reddy’s lyrics, “I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Hear me roar,” inspire me to belt them out. I do lay claim to strength of character—obviously not of muscle—whether related to my sex or not, whether evident to others or not, whether justified or not.

My strength has rarely been tested with any severity, but I have presumed to believe I would endure bravely all the trials which the heroines of my beloved novels conquer. Sometimes I have even sunk to the depths of imagining myself graciously suffering through bankruptcy or cancer or widowhood. I tend to ignore prior evidence of the times I’ve sniveled my way through a common cold.

With little credit to myself, although I seem to be taking it, I have enjoyed a fairly successful life. My family relationships are close and encouraging. In both high school and college, I excelled in academics. Blessed with a brain whose left side dominated, I didn’t struggle overmuch with bookwork. My dating life could be judged as weak since it was almost nonexistent. However, that lack meant I didn’t deal with traumatic breakups, and I ended up with the best husband ever, so that area tallies on the win side, too.

Parenthood brought a small hiccup in my confident stride. Still, we didn’t face a lot of ordeals common to many, so we plowed forward. Perhaps I am glossing over a few struggles, but with our kids about grown, I’m proud to plop them in with my successes.

I started teaching as a four-year-old when my sister was a trapped audience. I have taught Sunday School to all ages over many years. I taught writing to homeschoolers. I quit a budding career as an accountant because I felt called to the classroom.

Then I became a public school teacher.

Never have I worked so hard and felt like such a failure. When the student fails, the teacher fails. Progress reports just came out, and my failure rate for seniors bottomed out at sixty percent. That figure is not a typo. Sixty. I want to cry. I have cried. I’m sure I’ll cry some more.

Of course, my defensive reaction blames the kids. They don’t do their work. True. They don’t try. True. They don’t care. True. Those students who do work, try, and care are not failing. However, I have to deal with reality. My job isn’t merely to teach, but to inspire effort and motivation in these teenagers too.

I work long hours, try everything I know, and care immensely—yet statistics attest to my failure. I want to scream at my students, at administrators, and at God, “What am I supposed to do?”

I hope you’re not reading this article expecting a pat answer. I don’t have one. But this semester, God’s words keep reverberating through my spirit. “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” (II Corinthians 12:9 NIV).

Bring on the power, Lord. I’ve got the weakness.

Last year, when failure rates were high, I had a heart-to-heart with my students, asking what I could do to motivate them. I teared up in front of them and left the room to compose myself, in spite of my acclaimed strength. The next day, they delivered a poster-sized apology, which they all had signed. So, maybe I’m teaching them tender hearts instead of English?

Comment prompt: Where has God used your weakness to show His power?

Remembering Christmas

By Kathleen Brown –

The techno tree stood on a maple table in the den. An unlikely hero, less than two feet tall counting the motorized revolving base, it thrust stiff green branches into the darkness of the room. A Christmas tree totally unadorned save for Fiber-optic lights that at the flip of a switch glowed in changing colors from the tip of each branch.

My sister gave the tree to my parents in the hope it would brighten this holiday dimmed by Alzheimer’s. But as I went to their home each day to help Dad care for Mama, I saw no signs this year would be better than last.

A year ago, Dad and I wrapped gifts, lit lights, and hung ornaments on a small, fragrant fir tree. I draped a white sheet over a side table and there, on 250-thread count snow, I arranged the old figures around the shaggy stable. Joseph held a pottery lantern in his upraised hand. Mary gazed on her sleeping Son. Even the donkey and the sad-eyed cow looked to the manger where Jesus, Light of the World, dozed in the flickering rays of Joseph’s lantern.

But Mama had forgotten about the stable and the Baby. And the gifts evoked so many questions, I finally put them out of sight. We took the tree down Christmas afternoon.

So this year, until the gift of the funky little tree, we made no Christmas preparations.

Almost forgotten, the tree sat dark until late evening on one of Mama’s difficult days. Her face still wearing the anger that had propelled her through the afternoon, she perched crooked and stiff on a chair at the kitchen table.

Dad and I sat with her. Our spirits were brittle with fatigue and the house was chill with despair. Perhaps it was desperation that turned Dad’s gaze away from the heaviness that shrouded the table. Abruptly he rose and walked toward the den.

“Where are you going?” Mama’s voice was hoarse and hard. She half stood then sat again and watched Dad walk to the table where the metal tree stood. He said nothing, only bent down and flipped the switch on the tree’s plastic base. From the Fiber-optic branches, tiny beams of color, delicate as starlight, ventured out across the room.

With a tiny hum, the tree turned ever so slowly. And ever so slowly, Mama relaxed. Her frown melted away and her shoulders sagged into the back of the chair.

“It’s a Christmas tree, honey.” Dad’s voice was low and soft. “Do you like it? It’s a Christmas tree.”

Just as softly, I began to sing. “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches….”

The old German carol. My mother’s favorite. As a child, I waited each Christmas for Mama to hear “her” carol playing on the radio. She’d stop and sing along every time, lifting her chin and raising her eyes to a long ago past. When the music ended, she always said the same words: “We learned that song in school.” It was like a story to me—Mama’s singing and her words.

Peace. Happiness.

That was Christmas, Mama taught me, using only her memories and the words of her favorite carol.

Apparently, not even Alzheimer’s could steal that remembrance from her. Somehow, evoked by the techno tree with its sweet hypnotic light, the melody of the old carol had survived in Mama’s memory, like a gift still wrapped in bright hope.

“O fir tree dark, O fir tree fair…” I sang on to her. Then at the end, “You learned that song in school, right?”

Here, in the December of her life, unaware, Mama reminded us what the season is about.

Peace, the heart of Christmas. A tree. A Gift. The sweetest story. The oldest, the eternal carol.

Glory in the highest.

Finding Joy in the Season

By Diane Mayfield –

Christmas traditions fill my heart with such joy. They always have. When our three children were young, part of our Christmas tradition was to have them choose a gift to put under the tree for Jesus’ birthday. I loved to see what they would choose. One might wrap her favorite doll to place under the tree. A stuffed kitty cat made her way under the tree for Jesus. There was even a favorite toy gun. When the kids grew, the gift giving to Jesus grew as well. Gifts of the heart were shared during a private family dinner that then would end with communion.

We also held a Jesus birthday party for the neighborhood kids. The first year we had the party, one of my son’s friends broke out in Chicken Pox the day after the party. Ten days later, all three of my children, under the age of four, broke out with that itching disease. Can I call that spiritual warfare?

It didn’t stop us though. We kept on having the party and inviting school friends and neighborhood families. One year, I dressed up as an angel, halo and all, and told the story from the angel’s point of view. Another year my husband Dave appeared as a shepherd, speaking from the shepherd’s perspective.

I loved those years of teaching and training our kids about Jesus. Several months ago, I asked them what they remembered about all those traditions and which one meant the most. You won’t believe what they said. They loved the praying together at the top of the stairs before we went down to the tree. All five of us gathered at the top of the stairs to pray. We thanked God for the gift of Jesus, His unconditional love, and for being able to share the day with family. Who knew that would be the tradition they carried in their hearts.

Well, those children are now grown. Two are married and live in Houston. One lives in Austin. So getting everyone together on the same day to celebrate Christmas this year is not possible due to extended family complications. And quite honestly, I’m heartbroken about it. It is one of my greatest joys in life being together as a family. This is the first year we won’t be together.

On my walk this morning, I said to God, “ Help me with all this. I need a renewed perspective. I need to find the joy in the season again.” In His sweet, gentle way, He took me to those memories of years ago and reminded me of my former teaching to my kids about giving to Jesus. It’s not just for kids. Because one thing didn’t work out the way I wanted it to, I’d lost heart. I’d thrown out what I’d spent so much of my life teaching. So, the question for me is what will I give to Jesus this season. How will I package it? And when will I start the giving?

I don’t have the whole answer yet, but suddenly the dark cloud has lifted and I’m filled with the joy of discovering what the gift will be. I’m starting with changing my focus from what isn’t going to happen to what is happening. I have time with my children and grandchildren, not all on the same day, but at least I will get time with all of them. Who knows, maybe in some way that will extend my joy.

Traditions change, but not the real meaning of God’s greatest gift to us, His Son Jesus.

My Peace I Give to You

By Anna Cannard –

I was brand new to town. Two thousand miles from home. On my own. I had lived in Tulsa for less than a month when I met little “Sandra.” In the midst of missing my days as an intern at the Child Welfare Department, I learned my school did weekly visits to a local children’s shelter. It sounded like the perfect fit.

When I went into the building, the first person I saw was a little blond boy, crying for his mommy. The staff told me he was very upset over being removed from his abusive home, and would benefit from being held by a woman. I spent most of my evening with the boy, contentedly snuggled in my arms.

Throughout the evening, it was hard not to notice the sound of an infant crying non-stop across the room. After two hours, the frustration was obvious on the staff’s faces. It was then I remembered my nickname back home—Baby Magic—for my skill in making babies happy.

I handed the boy to someone else and asked for a turn holding baby Sandra. The staff gladly handed her to me, and Sandra continued to cry loudly. I was told she was born addicted to drugs and almost did not survive. After three months in ICU, she was released into foster care. She would not eat and was restless with crying. They decided if she did not eat within the next few hours, she would be sent back to the hospital, but they were hoping that would not have to happen.

That moment I said a quiet prayer, “Lord, let her know she is safe. Give her Your peace.” Within seconds, the infant was asleep. Twenty minutes went by with her peacefully asleep in my arms when I was handed a bottle. “Maybe you can get her to eat,” a staff member suggested.

Ten minutes later, there was a circle of staff surrounding me, admiring the pink peaceful baby girl. “This is the first time she’s been quiet since getting here,” a woman said. The bottle of formula was now empty. “That’s the most she’s eaten, also.”

It was nearing the end of my time there that night, and I was asked to feed her again. People thought I must have some special ability to work with babies, but I knew the secret; it was not me but Christ working through me.

John 14:27 says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

I challenge you, as Christians, to walk with the peace of God. He has given it to you to change your world. It is rare; it can only be given to you by God, and through you, wherever you go, you may be His gift to the world.

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