Pickle-ball rocks! I’ve always enjoyed the racket sports as it seems they are the only sport I’m halfway proficient at. I started out as a youngster playing ping-pong and badminton with siblings and friends, and then later with sons and their friends. As a mid-aged adult I found racquetball, and as a senior adult, pickle-ball came on the scene.

The one thing I’ve noticed when playing any of these sports is that being active and involved with people energizes me and lightens my spirits. They say exercise releases the endorphins and dopamine in the brain which are known as hormones of happiness.

I really noticed the lack of these benefits when I recently had surgery and was unable to participate in pickle-ball for several weeks. Thankfully, I was still able to get out and walk – until I rolled my ankle on a rock. I was on a quiet street where no one saw me (thank goodness). I got back on my feet and limped home to the recliner. Ice became my buddy – but she did nothing for my melancholy mood. I thought ice cream and Doritos might help, but they only added pounds to my waistline and guilt to my woes.

I found myself teetering on the edge of the pity-pit. The recent circumstances added to the already existing stresses of life made me feel as vulnerable as krill chased by a blue whale. One more discouraging thought and a feather like nudge could have effortlessly sent me tumbling to the bottom. Ever been there?

One negative thought often breeds another negative thought and so on and so on. I hated feeling this way but I felt powerless to change it. (My idea for mood elevation is to DO something active which I wasn’t able to do at this time.) I needed someone to slap some sense into me. Thankfully, I’m a reader and Charles Spurgeon may as well have taken me by the shoulders and shook me. What I was reading was his take on Isaiah 3:10 that says, “Tell the righteous that it shall be well with them, for they shall eat the fruit of their deeds.” Pastor Spurgeon expounded on this by saying: In all conditions and under all circumstances, it will be well with the righteous. It is so well with him that we could not imagine it to be better, for he is well fed; he feeds upon the flesh and blood of Jesus. He is well clothed; he wears the imputed righteousness of Christ. He is well housed; he dwells in God. He is well married, his soul is joined in the bonds of marriage union to Christ. He is well provided for; the Lord is his Shepherd. He is well endowed; heaven is his inheritance.

This was exactly the slap and encouragement I needed. How could I teeter on the edge of the pity-pit any longer? When I think of the grace that’s been extended to me I am embarrassed that I allowed myself to even creep to the edge of that disastrous pit. When we call God our Father, we are so very blessed!

Until next time….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Some of my readers will have lived during the hippie era of the 1960’s and 70’s. You may have even been a hippie. If you were you may well remember older folks in particular, who looked down on you for rejecting the mainstream American life. And, if you were an older person at the time, you may recall how this young group seemed beyond reach. They were like aliens on planet Earth. This brought a lot of advice from the older folks that the young ones didn’t ask for. “Get a haircut, wear normal clothes, and for Pete’s sake – quit ruining your mind with drugs.” Not all, but many of the partakers of the hippie culture came from troubled backgrounds. The movement was searching for meaning and hoping to find it buried somewhere in this new kind of culture. If you are acquainted with Pastor Greg Laurie and have seen the movie, “The Jesus Revolution” portraying his life, you would know this was true for him. His mother was a severe alcoholic that had been married seven times. The man he thought was his dad – was not. Greg had no stability in his home; just a lot of confusion and lack of direction; having no idea how to contend with either one.

Like Greg, I see a lot of parallels of these past times, with those of the present times. Are young people not facing mountains (heaps) and pits (deep despair) of confusion today? Some don’t even believe who their bodies tell them they are. The Enemy is telling them that God makes mistakes and they are believing it. Not only believing it, but acting on it. Young men think they surely are a woman caged in a man’s body and vice versa. Some are identifying as non binary, meaning they don’t have any one sole identity of either a male or female.

I can’t help but wonder if I had been bombarded by confusion from adults, society, and the media as a child or young adult if I would have questioned my identity as well. After all, I was much more into climbing trees and riding horses than playing with dolls and having tea parties. I was a tom boy for sure, but it never crossed my mind or anyone else’s that I was anything but a girl. God had made that plain with special embellishments that only girl’s receive.

As Christians can we strive to converse with those that identify as transgender or non binary through the lens of confusion rather than rebellion. Who would choose on their own to attempt to change their identity based on rebellion only?

If an open transgender or non binary person visits your church, how will you respond? Maybe Philippians 4:13 has been written for us – And I find that the strength of Christ’s explosive power infuses me to conquer every difficulty. (TPT) I know that through their confusion, these folks (maybe more than some) need to hear the voice of God. Won’t their ears be more likely to hear it if surrounded by God’s love and not fleshy ridicule?

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Exhaustion. I’ve had many opportunities to experience utter physical exhaustion. I bet you have too. My first encounter with this type of weariness was as a young mother with two boys under two. There were plenty of interrupted nights with feedings, fevers, stomach aches, and bad dreams. And then, once I returned to full-time employment and signed up for 12 hour shifts – those often turned into 13 or 14 hour shifts; only to have to be back to do it all over again the next morning. Two or three of those in a row and physical exhaustion creeps over into mental as well.

Because I remember these times, it attests to the declaration that they were significant events for me. But no event kept in my “exhaustion file” stands out as prominently as the time I collided head first with the Epstein Barr virus – better known as mononucleosis. I’m not one to get ill often, but when I do it always hits hard. Dr. Kirven told me my labs looked worse than any he had seen with mono. There were many symptoms that went with this – but none as bad as the total physical exhaustion I experienced for weeks. I had two preschool children that more or less ran wild while I was in bed and their dad was at work. One time a day – usually around 3:00 – I had enough energy to make it from the bedroom to the living room couch and on a good day, I might have been able to wash a few dishes. Friends from work brought us out meals and took up an offering to hire a housekeeper to come clean our ram-shacked house.

Charles Spurgeon describes a comparable exhaustion of the dove that returned to the ark with no olive leaf. I had never thought about this poor bird and the state that it must have been in. But it makes sense – there was no place to light – not a bush or a tree branch or a rock. She likely flew and flew and flew over the expanses of water for hours upon end. Once she had given up, she still had a return trip to make. By the time she saw the ark, she may have felt there was not one more flap to be had in her spent wings. Charles Spurgeon writes, “She has just enough strength to reach the edge of the ark. She can hardly align upon it.” Genesis 8:9 picks up the story….then he (Noah)put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

Wow…isnt’ that just beautiful and isn’t that what God does for us….takes us in no matter what our condition? We don’t need to wait until we think we are presentable. His desire is for us to come in our rags, our sins, our mistrust, our doubts, our addictions, our shame….just as we are. When he holds out his arm to us we feel His strength uphold us. With Him, we can once again begin to soar!

Until next time….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Early mornings have always been my favorite time. While the noisy world to come is still asleep, the quietness offers my soul a few more minutes of blissful peace and strengthens me for whatever the day might bring. If I could choose my favorite place to have that first cup of pre-dawn coffee, I would imagine myself on the home ranch at the end of the long sandy road. I grab a hot cup and make my way to the patio outside the east door and sit on the bench. Every morning here is a gift, but at certain times it comes wrapped with a beautiful silvery bow. These mornings usually occur in the fall of the year when the air temperature begins to gravitate downward. The stream that twists and turns its way through the meadows, less than a block from the house I grew up in, has not yet given up the warmth it’s absorbed through the hot summer months. On occasion, when the temps of both the air and the water is just right, a trail of damp, eerie mist will hover above the stream. These are the mornings I can trace the hidden river – to the east and to the west – by the mystical ribbon that lingers several feet above the banks.

It seems my senses are sharpened on these special mornings – maybe the humidity plays a part. A pleasant earthy smell encompasses the damp air around me, encouraging me to take in deeper than normal breaths to enjoy the freshness. Extreme clarity is expressed in the cry of a lone mourning dove and the far away bellow of a hungry calf. I am grateful to have this almost sacred, momentary experience as I know it will not last long. Once the sun rises just a little higher and warms the air, the mist will flee as fast as it came.

Isaiah knew the truth of the mist too and used it to beautifully pen God’s response to our repented hearts. I have swept away your sins like the morning mists. I have scattered your offenses like the clouds. Oh, return to me, For I have paid the price to set you free. Isaiah 44:22

What peace comes with repentance and reconciliation! More peace than even an early misty morning.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

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In the center of the state of Georgia is an unincorporated town with the name, “The Rock.” Interesting label, don’t you think? The name is credited to Dr. James Anderson, who lived in the area in the early 1800’s. The mail at this time was delivered by stagecoach. Dr. Anderson, speaking with the stage coach driver and pointing to a nearby cleft in a rock, said, “Put my mail in that hole.” Soon, everyone in the community was riding up by horseback or buggy to retrieve their mail from this protected cavern in the rock. Over the years, it became enough to address mail to a recipient at “The Rock”, Georgia and it would be received.

We don’t hear the word, “cleft” used so much anymore. Probably the most well known use of it is in the popular hymn lyrics – rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee. And there is the mention of it in Exodus 33 when God puts Moses in “the cleft of the rock” and covers him with His hand while he passes by so that His face would not be seen.

My hiding place when I was growing up wasn’t in a rock, but on a log that trans versed the Calamus River (a stream, really) on the other side of the sheep pasture. Anytime I desired to be alone, I would head for the log. One bank of the river kept me hidden from the house; the other from the occasional traveler on the road. Even today, that sweet memory is so strong and comforting in my mind, that when I crave solitude and meditation time, I am drawn to sit on one of several benches that line Spearfish Creek in the City Park. The fast moving, clear water blocks out any park noises from behind me.

Whether our “hiding place” is in a rock or beside a stream, or any number of safe places we might go to, as believers it is really Jesus that is our safe place. Psalm 18:2 says it so well. The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my savior; my God is my rock, in whom I find protection. He is my shield, the power that saves me, and my place of safety. We really do not need a place to go to find Him; He’s accessible wherever we are. As I enjoy my senior years, I’m thankful that he’s just as accessible in my recliner as He is on the bench by the creek.

Until next time – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.