Tie a knot and hang on

Psalm 121
1 I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?

2 My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

It's really difficult to feel secure in this world. Just when you think you've managed to come to terms with the possibility of total economic melt down, something else comes along. Now the news of this bankruptcy and that request for bail out has been replaced by photos of people in masks and maps showing increasing numbers of states affected by the swine flu. I had a spam email, from WebMD, my favorite source when I want to diagnose my symptoms myself, saying "Pandemic Imminent." Pandemic imminent? That makes me feel like I already have swine flu and I just don't know it yet...I better check my symptoms.

Most of this has little impact on me. I don't read the newspaper, I don't watch the local news, and I have no idea how to find CNN, Fox, or MSNBC on the television. I'm OK with that. I just don't think a constant barrage of experts and tickers to tell us all the possible means of destruction heading our way is good for us. That makes me nearly useless in any "current events" conversation. I'm OK with that too.

Even with those precautionary measures, it's difficult to escape the cloud of fear. To me, the threat of the soup kitchen line is bigger than the swine flu, so maybe while we're concentrating on one, the other will improve? Just looking for a silver lining. I'm sorta like that...maybe "naive" is the word, but some things are really easy for me to take on faith. Presidential press conferences reassure me, whether they be Democratic or Republican, that someone's on the job.

It's difficult to live worry-free in this world. And I have no idea how people do it. Most of my fears are not global in nature. They have more to do with cancer, bumps in the night, and where I left my debit card. And I know that God is with me in those moments (maybe not the debit card. I really should be in control of that one). God didn't send economic melt down or global pandemics but God is still in control.

I was going to post a video, either "Hold Fast" by MercyMe or "Praise You In This Storm" by Casting Crowns. I couldn't find one that I loved, but I've already posted the Casting Crowns here.

God of this city

For the story behind the song, watch this one.


To hear the acoustic version of the song, watch this one.

On the way in to work this morning, I was listening to KLOVE, like I always do in the effort to improve my attitude and tamp down my road rage (it doesn't usually work). And before she played this song, the dj asked, "Did God have KLOVE in mind when He sent this song to Blue Tree?" KLOVE is in Anchorage, Denver, San Antonio, Ft. Smith, and so many other cities. And God is there too. The most amazing thing about this song is the way it was written...God was working in a bar in Thailand, maybe the last place you'd expect but the first place in a list of a million where God is needed, His people are needed. It's easy to judge the people in those places. It's harder to love them.

I read recently about Christians wanting to distance themselves from the title "Christian" because it leaves such a bad taste in so many mouths, mainly because of how political lines are drawn. And I understand that. Changing the name means nothing. We've got to be out there working, showing our cities Christ. Being a Christian isn't about how we vote, it's about how we live every day. And we can say it loudly, over and over, but we've got to live it to make the change.

1 Peter 1:21-23

21Through him you believe in God, who raised him from the dead and glorified him, and so your faith and hope are in God.

22Now that you have purified yourselves by obeying the truth so that you have sincere love for your brothers, love one another deeply, from the heart. 23For you have been born again, not of perishable seed, but of imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God.

Where's my heart? Check my iPod

Matthew 6
¹⁹"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. ²⁰But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. ²¹For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

I like music. I listen to a lot of music. And I don't discriminate. As long as it has words and I can sing along (in the privacy of my own car at 70 miles per hour), I am happy. And the most recent love of my life is my first iPod. I think you can know a person through musical choices.

For instance, from the top 25 most played, you can tell:
1. I was a child of the 80s. Fully half of the songs in my top 25 come from either U2 or...get ready, the Beastie Boys. To be fair, you can't beat a little Beastie Boys to walk to. Seriously. They are also good to check cross stitch charts by...just sayin'.

2. Music to get me moving is big...All the Single Ladies and a little Will Smith round out the half that I call "music to move" by...there are more. And I'm sure they're just as shameful (Black Eyed Peas, Eminem, Luda...apparently I prefer to walk to some hip hop, urban beats), but they don't make it into the list. And music to get me moving in the right direction..."Only the World" by Mandisa, "I Will Not be Moved" by Nicole Nordeman, "Let's Go" by Mark Schultz (this one's dangerous 'cause it makes me want to pack my bags and go).

3. Love is big...love here and God's love. Contrast "Gotta Be Somebody" by Nickelback with "Yours" by Stephen Curtis Chapman. You probably can't get much further apart than Nickelback and SCC but I am eclectic. The video is a new favorite by Francesca Battistelli, "Free to Be Me." I had to overcome my natural aversion to the beautiful people to love it, but I do.

4. And I spend a lot of time singing about someday, about heaven. MercyMe kills me. There's the best-known "I Can Only Imagine" but in my Top 25 is "Finally Home" that on the wrong day "hug my daddy's neck and tell him that I missed him, tell him all about the man that I became and hope that it pleased him" can just Tear. Me. Up. And I listen to it again and again. Chris Tomlin "I Will Rise" is my new favorite and Jeremy Camp, "There Will Be a Day."

And that's just the Top 25. Nothing country, although I have some. No Madonna or Prince or Counting Crows or Eagles or Jimmy Buffet or All American Rejects or Pink or...and they're all there. So what can you know about me?

I'm not ready to be fitted for my halo yet. I'm pretty sure the Prince tracks alone preclude that.

GenX is getting a little old and out of touch (OK, maybe just me). The Beastie Boys should not feature so prominently.

I spend a lot time thinking about God's love, what it means to me, and the promise of heaven. I didn't used to spend so much time anticipating heaven. Really, who looks forward to sitting on clouds and playing a harp all day? I don't even know the harp and I don't think it has a beat you can move to. Two things have changed that. My father died and I felt the separation from heaven keenly for the first time. And I read Randy Alcorn's "Heaven" and understood that the future holds more than harp playing.

I guess this is my transparency week, because it doesn't get any more personal than showing you what I've written and what plays on my iPod. Well, Ok, I could show you my amazing stack of dirty laundry and perhaps the disorder of my closets. But I'm not going to. That's probably over the line into TMI-land.

Miss Chance

(Only the paint spill part of this story is true. It never happened to me, I'm not the character although parts of me are(?) and physically I'm pretty close but my feet are bigger, the person who spilled the paint is not the character even though I wanted to use her name and it would have worked better, I never even met the character, don't know any reporters, and I don't know this church, pastor, or town. And I have no idea where this story is going. I was lucky to make it to the word limit and it's probably dangerous for me to put this out there but I like to live on the edge. No, I don't. Don't tell me you read it. I mean it. Why am I doing this? Cringing even now but resigned...)

MISS CHANCE

Reflex Blue. It’s a beautiful color.

And, really, the irony is not lost to me now. The name on the label was “reflex blue.” And as I watched, frozen in place, reaction rate sadly slowed by sheer disbelief, the can slid from the stack in my arms, and tumbled, end over end, in a freeze-frame freefall to the beige linoleum floor, lid stubbornly clinging until the very last minute…the very last minute when the can made contact, crashing to the floor with enough force to make the lid let go with a muted, lippy “pop” and then it bounced. And as it bounced, reflex blue blew all over the place, covering my pants and my shirt and my shoes and my hands and my glasses and my hair. And the walls. Oh, yes, and let’s not forget the linoleum, currently covered by a puddle of bright purple-y blue-ish paint, aptly and ironically named reflex blue.

So that’s how the day started. Where do you go from there? What do you do when you’re covered in reflex blue? Wash, of course. What else can you do? In a lifetime filled with such singular events, the reflex blue episode would seem mostly unremarkable except that it was just the beginning.

I have a knack for these and other kinds of scrapes. I think of it as my super power. Mischance Mallory, able to topple tall buildings in a single bound, I am not rich or beautiful, not too clever or dull, and find myself firmly placed in the middle of the road most days, never too outstanding to attract attention. Except on days like this.

And this day began like so many others: totally mundane missions with small elements of “doing good” or “helping out” go horribly awry. I think my job as small town newspaper reporter and my penchant for attempting to do good have built up a karmic void of interest. And the universe wants to fill the void. I don’t honestly believe in karma or super powers, but I do have gift for attracting trouble. Days where I help a friend move and lose the dog in the process or I fill in for story time at the local library and an unexpected snow storm blows in a foot of snow (technically, I don’t think I can be blamed for that), they always end in trouble. Sometimes I expect these things to happen. These are events where my presence provides the missing ingredient for the recipe for disaster. Inviting me to cover the county fair rodeo leads to a bull escaping and rampaging through the town. Sending me to cover the biggest wedding the town’s seen in years means the bride won’t show because she’s trapped inside the limo by a rogue skunk. It’s my super power and it cannot be stopped. Believe me, I’ve tried.

The years I’d spent away at school hadn’t done much to improve my blending abilities and the things that were a challenge growing up, mainly an astonishing addiction to books and words, continue to challenge me today. What I mean is that I’ve been working at this reporting business for about eight years now, eight long years where I daily battle to work words like “penultimate” or “pandiculation” into an article. It’s my game. No one else plays, but it livens up my days. As I said, it’s a small town. I have to entertain myself.

So I’m actually more of a “not really a real reporter” than anything else. Some days I feel more like the mascot, but still I get the local interest stories, mainly who wins the Little League tournament and what’s for dinner over at the Baptist church on Wednesday. It’s a good job. Most days I like it. Until the karmic void or my unbelievable “wrong place, wrong time” luck kicks in and the Little League team is nearly destroyed by a freak tractor accident or I make the mistake of telling little Jimmie Sue Holland about the squirrel I had when I was about her age just before the dinner at the Baptist church. The squirrel’s name was Milkbone, and his favorite snack was the seed in Mama’s bird feeder. I loved to watch him climb and scamper. At 10, I had visions of training him and taking his act on the road. He did a number on the wood siding of my parents’ split-level before he mysteriously disappeared. I wanted a dog, but I loved that squirrel. And little Jimmy Sue took umbrage with the large pot of squirrel dumplins that were Miss Smith’s contribution to the annual wild game dinner. She dumped those dumplins right in the large gray industrial trash can with a militant cry, “This one’s for Milkbone!” I believe I was the only one that cheered. I expect I’ll be covering further exhibitions by Jimmie Sue in the future. Even at seven years old, she shows signs of being a true activist. Or maybe a criminal, I’m not sure yet. Miss Smith’s probably correct when she says “That child just ain’t right.”

But today was not meant to be one of those days. In the effort to improve my public relations with Miss Smith, who had faithfully served as the church pianist for nearly 60 years and probably had built up some significant pull with God, and the other fellowship hall folk, I volunteered to repaint the children’s area in a bright happy color to encourage Jimmie Sue to think happy thoughts, maybe a nice color like reflex blue. Instead, in my manner of attempting too much all at once, I allowed reflex blue to just fly all over the place. The only saving grace: there were no witnesses, and if I moved quickly enough, no one would ever need to know. Right?

The first matter of business was clearing myself of all evidence. I tracked my size 7 sneakers on into the kitchen of the fellowship hall, purple pointers indicating my escape route until I realized the problem and dropped my sneakers…and my pants at the door of the kitchen. Before I stripped myself of the reflex blue covering my top half, I managed to find some plastic tablecloths. Can you imagine the distress seeing me in my birthday suit would cause Jimmy Sue? Every jello salad in the place would probably have to be liberated as well.

So wrapped toga-style in plastic tablecloths with a dashing plastic cape to be sure all the pertinent wiggly parts, like my biceps, stayed covered, I took a bucket and water and towels and paper towels and newspapers and cleaning fluid and lighter fluid (because you just never know, do you?) back to the scene of the crime and did my best to eliminate all the evidence.

And I worked. I scrubbed. I mopped. I wiped. I made some good headway, even though my previously pristine plastic tablecloths absorbed an amazing amount of the paint. I was just about to call “good enough” to the clean-up efforts when I began to ponder how in the world I was going to make it home in purple-y blue speckled tablecloths. It was somewhat of a quandary, but I was still happy to have made it through my ordeal with no evidence remaining and no witnesses.

Although why I would worry about witnesses at this late date…well, there were only two reasons. I’d grown up in this town so most of my neighbors were blasé about my calamity. But I had almost always managed to cause an uproar with all my clothes on. There was one episode in kindergarten involving my swimsuit top, but that was the last of my bikini days and I’d since managed to only be involved in fully-clothed scandals. While the tablecloths did the job, they weren’t your “go to town” kind of outfit. And the second reason…well, his name is Joe and he’s the new pastor of the church, newly arrived from the “Big City,” a far-away place. And technically, this was not the first time I’d orbited around Pastor Joe. When we were at the same university, he was the Big Man On Campus, football quarterback with big plans. I haven’t gotten the story on what brought him here and as a preacher, but Pastor Joe was currently a Very Big Fish in our small pond. And the other fish were buzzing, if fish can do that.

As he’s been here only two months, I’ve so far managed to control myself and pretend to be normal. Not that I wouldn’t mind a little bit of his attention. In fact, any male attention not directed at me by emergency room doctors or angry policemen would be welcome. Unexpected, but welcome. Of course, nothing good could come of that. I can’t imagine any sainted pastor’s wife wearing plastic tablecloths to clean up paint slicks in the fellowship hall. And just because this particular lightning has already hit me once doesn’t mean it can’t happen again. I learned that lesson with the whole “losing the dog” scenario. At least no one asks me to help move anymore.

I decided the only way out was to rinse the paint off my clothes as well as I could and then slip-slide my way home to change. And so I was doing, mentally patting myself on the back. Thank goodness that cleaned up so quickly. What would have happened if Pastor Joe showed up to see me in my plastique couture?

I figured we both might have died from the shock.

I was celebrating as I put on my clammy shoes, draped in soggy shirt and jeans. As my back was to the door, I didn’t see destruction approaching.

Destruction, in the deep voice that I’d heard delivering news, events, and very interesting messages from the book of John so far, said, “Let me guess…you must be Mischance Mallory. What happened here? Freak indoor rainstorm? Or maybe freak indoor rainstorm that popped up while you saved us all from the invasion of the purple people eater?”

As I had never been introduced to Pastor Joe, I also guessed my reputation had preceded me. I had to work to get everyone to call me that. My original nom de guerre was just Bad Luck Mallory, and really, that just lacks all poetic flair. I started a campaign in high school to get that all changed to Mischance Mallory, but Pastor Joe probably didn’t know that. Clearly, he’d heard something about me. I figured that would be bad news.

And as I turned to meet Pastor Joe, I pondered what color his eyes might be called. Nothing as harsh as “reflex blue.” No, they were more like “breezy blue” or “baby boy blue” or maybe something a little tougher like “chambray blue” or something more accurate like “beautiful baby blue with a glimmer of periwinkle and a dash of spice.” I don’t know that he’d care for my color names either, but I had already done a thorough consideration on the matter. As long as I manage not to say them out loud, I think we’re going to be okay.

So, I know you’d never find yourself in a position like this, but say you did. What would you do? I guess some ladies might cry and maybe more would laugh. I have more experience. I did what I always do. I started to explain.

“Pastor Joe, it’s very nice to meet you. I was only trying to help when…”

In an ambulance?

Today in our Easter message, the preacher used a story as an illustration. In a nutshell: a little boy who had cancer befriended Beth Ann, who also had cancer. She died. He went to the funeral. He told his mother that when he died he didn't want to go to the cemetery in a hearse. He wanted to go in an ambulance, sirens wailing and lights flashing, so that Beth Ann would know he was on his way.

I remember the story. And it was a good illustration because Easter gives us that great gift, victory over death. Death is scary, particularly when you stand on one side and someone you love is stepping through or is already on the other side. My aunt told me a story too. Her story was real, a family in church, the mother both very clearly very sick and very clearly loved by her husband and her kids. If this truly was their last Easter together here, that husband and those kids are going to have a hard time, but her hard time is coming to an end. And she has no reason to fear that end. What a gift is Easter!

And honestly, I don't think you can understand that gift until you are separated by death from someone you dearly love. I understand and Easter is bittersweet because of it.

1 Peter 1
3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 4and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade—kept in heaven for you, 5who through faith are shielded by God's power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. 6In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. 7These have come so that your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.

Marketplace Connection

You know how you promise yourself that you're going to do better? Maybe that's just me. I had every intention of doing better, getting all my blogs done and all the things I need to do for all my extracurricular activities done with time to spare.

But I'm late. I haven't done better. In fact, I've done worse this week.

I have a looong list of excuses.
But I'm not going to share them.
And I needed a blog post so I'm using this, something I meant to do better earlier this week (so it may show up again), but this is my first ever attempt at building a website. I've been working with Marketplace Connection for almost a year and I've done some things I didn't know I could do. And it's just a website, following templates (which is more difficult than it sounds), and it took some time, but I feel pretty good about doing something I didn't know I could do. Yes, someone else could do better, but right now, I'm available and I worked at it even when I wanted to just say "Not me" and it's up and running. And that's a battle that I fight sometimes and it feels good to accomplish something new when you really have your doubts. You know? (Of course, it would feel even better for the right person to show up and take it over and improve it and pat me on the head and send me on my way. I'm just going to patiently wait for that day. OK, well, I'm going to wait anyway.)

And that reminded me of Ephesians where Paul says that God can do "immeasurably more" than we can imagine. That probably means that we can too. Here it is in the Message (Eph. 3:20)

^20-21God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.

If you want to see all the bells and whistles (and who doesn't?), go to www.marketplaceconnectionarkansas.com. If you're web-design-gifted and would like to improve the MC site, let's talk. Seriously. I'll be posting more info here soon (and casting a net for volunteers to help) about our upcoming fund raiser. I think it's gonna be good.

Next week, I'm so totally going to do better. I mean it.