LISTEN

LISTEN

by Brenda L. Agee
 

            I believe we all want to belong.  No matter how young or old, we want to feel a kinship of some kind with another person.  My five year old granddaughter flounced into my apartment the other day and plopped down beside me without a word.  She very deliberately crossed her arms and looked around the room at nothing in particular but definitely not at me.  Her old brother followed and casually said his little sister had cut her hair, her beautiful long blond hair with natural ringlets and curls.  When I looked to see where she cut it, she promptly, and quite seriously, said her mother hid the shorter hair in the pony tail.  I asked why she cut it and she said she wanted her hair to look like her best friend's hair.  The two little girls have known each other since infancy and they couldn't be closer but there was my granddaughter trying to find another way to show their closeness.  When I started to ask another question about it my granddaughter sharply retorted, "I believe we've discussed it enough and I don't have anything else to say about it."

            That sums it up, doesn't it?  We all want to belong; we find similarities to show our belongingness; and we don't have to say anything else about it.

            Years ago my children's father and I were looking for a new church home.  We wanted a smaller church where we could feel more like family since our own families lived hundreds of miles away.  We wanted to feel like we belonged. 

            We went to one church, quite small, but were surprised when the pastor announced that he didn't want the men in his church to have beards because, according to him, beards were not masculine.  Hmmm . . .  I was too surprised to say anything but I wanted to tell him that my husband could grow a beard that would be much more impressive than anything I could grow.  I said nothing, of course, but I sure thought it!.  We gave him the benefit of doubt since he had been raised when men were clean shaven and yet the hippie era brought back a lot of beards.  He didn't like bearded men.  That declaration plus a few others made us realize we didn't believe we belonged in that church.

            The following Sunday we tried another church.  And no, we weren't church hoppers, if you know the term.  Anyway, we were slightly late in arriving and I hated being late so I was uncomfortable from the outset: Strike one.  We had to sit on the back pew even though we always preferred sitting close to the front: Strike two.  Now, getting to strike three is going to take a bit of explaining.  The preacher got up to preach.  He was a quiet spoken man and obviously of a gentle nature.  Not bad, I thought.  He read from the Bible and I thought, "Well, that's a good passage."  Then he began to preach.  He words were monotone - no emotion - but worse yet were his gestures.  Actually, there was only one gesture and it seemed out of place.  He would announce ahead of time that he was going to make a point and proceed to say what it was he wanted to emphasize.  However, about five seconds later, he would hold up the index finger on his right hand and slowly move it back and forth, horizontally.  What?!  Strike three!!  I'm out of here.

            I was bored.  I'm telling you I was BORED!  I fretted, I fidgeted, I looked around, I'd had enough.  I finally decided to tell my husband that I would wait outside.  Just as I leaned toward him, the Holy Spirit had something else in mind for me.  And in God's still small voice, He whispered to my heart, "Are you listening to the sound of his voice, or are you listening to the words I gave him to say?"

            "But God, he is so boring!"

            "Listen.  Just listen

            So I listened to the words and this preacher spoke the truth.  He spoke of the absolute glory, love, mercy, righteousness of Jesus Christ.  He spoke of God's salvation and our place with Jesus forever.   As I listened, I began to cry and the tears flowed in awe of God, and I was ashamed at how I had judged the tone of voice and misplaced gesture of this humble man of God.

            Yes, we allowed God to show us where we belonged and we stayed in that church for the rest of the years we lived in that area.  And I still say that I've still never known a more humble man.

            Listen.  Just listen.

            As far as listening, how do we decide which minister we will listen to?  There are plenty of preachers out there.  One might have a smile plastered on his face that shows perfect dental veneers that would make any orthodontist proud.  He might go on to preach about all the wealth God wants for us but says nothing about sin and our need for salvation.  He might tickle our ears with his words but adeptly skirt around the Word of God.  Another might be what we think is too old.  How can he keep up with a younger generation?  And what about the one who instructs the music leader to play nothing but extremely loud contemporary songs.  Yet, his church may be next door to the preacher whose instructions are for quiet hymns from the hymnal only.  It goes on and on doesn't it?  We like this and we don't like that.  We make up our minds according to our likes.

            I wonder even now if I listen enough.  If you read my blog last week, you know I don't always listen to my body when it tells me to slow down.  I don't always listen to the doctors telling me to slow down.  I'm in a rush to do what I can because I'm afraid my heart will give out and what if I haven't done enough?

            And, do I really listen to the people around me?  We may sit and talk, or exchange pleasant chit-chat now and then.  Do I listen to the sadness or hurt behind the smile?  Do I listen to God as He shows me that person's broken spirit?  When someone asks for prayer, do I pray right then?  Or did I say I will pray and then go on my merry way, only to forget praying?  Did I listen to their plea?

            I want to tell you about a time, an actual event, when I didn't listen to God.  It changed my life!  I was 21 years old and newly married.  I'd had surgery and couldn't work so a girlfriend used to come over every day during the week and we played Canasta, a card game.  We laughed, talked, carried on over nothing for hours and had a wonderful time.  One day, she showed me a rash on her arms, back, legs.  It had broken open, was raw and bleeding in places.  It was everywhere.   She had an appointment with the doctor the next day so I didn't expect her to come over.  However, two and a half weeks went by and I hadn't heard from her and couldn't reach her by telephone.  Then, her husband came by.  My friend was dead.  She had died of cancer.  The rash was only part of the cancer she had and her death was horrible.  The cancer was more progressive than any of which I've ever heard.  He detailed the nightmare she endured while awaiting death.  It was so horrendous that I won't go into detail to explain

            However, her death was just the beginning of my nightmare.  I had never once talked to her about God, about Jesus Christ, about salvation.  I had never asked her if she had a personal faith relationship with Jesus Christ.  I didn't know.  I thought of the horrors she endured her last two weeks of life and yet, I knew that if she were not saved, the horrors of Hell would be oh, so much worse.  I had failed her and I had failed God.  Her blood would be on my hands. 

            I was in agony and I prayed over and over again.  I promised God that from that point on I would tell others about Him.  I promised to tell of what He had done and was doing for me.  I promised I would never again be shallow and calloused toward the salvation of others.  I prayed, I begged, that He give me wisdom, knowledge, strength, and courage.

            Years later, I met someone who knew my friend and I was assured that she definitely knew Jesus Christ as her Savior.  Thank you, Jesus!  But I also thank God that I didn't know about her salvation at the time of her death.  If I had known, I might have stayed complacent.

            I get accused of talking about God too much, but that is okay.  My grandson, not in accusation, but in simple curiosity asked me if I had to bring God into everything.  Well, yes, I told him.  God IS in everything.

            So I'm back to listen.

            In the books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the account of God speaking after the baptism of Jesus has God saying (about Jesus), "Listen to him!"  Jesus then took it even further when He said in John 10:27, "My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me." (NIV)

            What does listening to God have to do with wanting to belong?  I know for myself, when I don't listen, I feel an emptiness no matter who I am with.  But, when I listen to God and do as He asks or wants, I feel complete and humbled.  I know I belong to Him all of the time.  But when I listen, that belonging is stronger and more wonderful. 

            Just think about this when you next have opportunity to tell someone - a neighbor, someone in the grocery store line, an elderly person who is bent over and ill - when you have that opportunity, God has chosen YOU out of billions of people in the world, to talk to that person at that very moment.  Isn't that fabulous?  It is beyond our own comprehension!  Yes, I talk a lot about Jesus but when I listen, I am humbled and in awe that He would ask me to do something for Him!  Nothing says it more clearly to me than the following chorus to the song, "Who Am I" by Jason Crabb:

"Who am I that the King would bleed and die for?
Who am I that He would pray not my will, Thy Lord?
The answer I may never know, why He ever loved me so
But to an old rugged cross He'd go for, who am I?"

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            Oh, God, may I be still to listen.  May I put aside all of the things I think I should be doing so that I might hear Your voice.  Please, quiet my heart, silence my mind, still the circumstances of my life, and speak to me that I might hear You.  

    

HAMLET'S QUESTION OR MINE

 

HAMLET'S QUESTION AND MINE

by Brenda L. Agee

         To push or to pace? That is the question! Okay, so I'm not quoting Hamlet exactly but for me, that is the question. I'm just not sure I fully know to live what the answer is. I know that Hamlet was thinking aloud about life and death and to him, either choice would be just as futile as the other. I'm not thinking about life or death, but the choice I make will have life or death consequences.

       Last week I was in the hospital and my cardiologist asked me if she needed to send me back to school to learn the difference between "push" myself or "pace" myself.  Understand that she is a marvelous doctor and I've been with her now for over 6 years, so she was using a bit of humor to get her point across.  I just laughed but I knew it was a serious comment and I had a decision to make for my own life. 

         I have now had about six balloon angioplasties and I have 11 stents in my heart.  I have always had a lot of energy and after being disabled now for several years with my heart, I have a tendency to think that being enthusiastic about something also means I have the physical energy to accomplish the task but I don't.  A few years ago my son told a new friend of mine, "My mother the most enthusiastic person who can't do anything that you'll ever meet." 

         I have to admit it but after all these years, the idea of my having serious heart problems still scares me.  I don't always show it, but I am fearful.  As a Christian, I'm not supposed to fear, or admit fear, am I?  Or do I think is it more important that I just don't show it? 

         I have read and believed the Bible all of my life so in my early twenties when I first became aware of Paul having written, " For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain . . . Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body." (Philippians 1:21-23; NIV).  He was in prison and he wrote to the Church in Philippi to let them know that it was alright for him to be in prison because he was telling others about Jesus.  He was spreading the word, as we would say.  He encouraged them and he thanked them profusely for their prayers.  He was so positive about it all.

         It was in the Bible so it was settled.  I would read it and say he's right! I felt like a cheerleader,

"Preach the word then preach again, yea Paul!

To live is Christ, to die is gain, yea Paul!"

       However, years later, my heart began to fail, the doctors finally found out what was wrong, and I was told that I would most likely not live very long. I had stent after stent but the results lasted only briefly. I wouldn't really get better, I would simply stay stable for awhile.

       It is as though life is a set of stairs.  Let's say there are 10 stairs.  Life is at the top, that is where the full landing is and that is where we do all the stuff we do without regard to or the consequences of any health issue.  We don't know any difference.  That's just life.  One day we don't feel well and we can't get over it.  We have to stand down on step nine.  It's not bad though, because we can see step 10 and do almost everything we did on step 10.  We get used to it and life if okay again.  But then, down goes our health, and down we go to step eight.  We find we can do less but we still want to do all we did on both steps nine and 10.  Adjust again.  With each step down we can do less and less and we can no longer see step 10.  Adjust again we are told and we try.  Our mind says we can still do anything but our body says NO. 

         Occasionally we hear of the things others can do and we are almost in shock that we simply cannot do any of those things.  In fact, we've forgotten what it was like to be so free and healthy.  But when we do realize how little we can do, it is painful, it is depressing, and it can be fearful.

         What happened to me?  When did this happen?  When I was younger I never dreamed it would be like this.  Everyone on the steps above keep saying things like, "At least you are alive,"  "Well at least you can still do this or that,"  "Stop talking.  We don't want to know."  One day you wake up and realize that most of those who were once your friends are no longer around.  It was difficult for them, too.  Sometimes they just didn't want to know they are as mortal.  Facing mortality in others or ourselves can be daunting.   

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         I've had to decide whether I really believe in my heart or just my head what Paul wrote.  When we face our own mortality we have to decide which it is that we believe.  Yes, we all face the possibility of death every day.  A car wreck, falling down the stairs, and something else.  Yes, God has our days numbered.  Sometimes we have a cavalier, or even absent minded attitude about our own death.  "Someday," we say, "I'll think about it someday, but not today," and we go about our business as usual. 

         A number of years ago, when I was married, we had a friend who had a habit of walking across the street without looking for cars, trucks, or even stampeding horses.  Not that we had stampeding horses in Nevada, Missouri, but you get the idea.  When he told us that he didn't think he should have to look before crossing the street, he justified it by saying that it if it wasn't his time to die, looking wouldn't matter and that it was God's responsibility to keep him alive.  When it's time to go, it's just time to go. 

         Oh my!  I wondered if doing what he did, and with that logic was the same as tempting God.  Didn't Jesus tell us to not tempt God?  Couldn't that mean also that crossing the street with that attitude would be like walking a tight rope across the Royal Gorge without practicing first?  Isn't that daring God to keep you safe? 

         Didn't I promise you that I would be candid?  Well, this is it.  This is me when I am afraid of all the things I can no longer do and afraid that I will never accomplish anything else.  This is me when I have to take step down again and I am fearful.  This is me and I know I have to turn to God and just cry it out and He will give me peace again and let me know I'm not alone.  He is with me on every step.  

         Hamlet wondered about the futility of both life and death.  The writer of Ecclesiastes wondered the same.  He said that there was a time for everything including birth and death.  He wrote that all was vanity or meaningless.  People come, people go.  The sun rises, the sun sets.  The wind blows here, the wind blows there.  Things are more wearisome than one could say.  Whew!  I'm beginning to think that Shakespeare read Ecclesiastes before he wrote Hamlet's speech, "To be or not to be, that is the question".  Hamlet and the writer of Ecclesiastes both sounded hopeless.
 

         Yes, I know Hamlet was fictional but a lot of people feel the same way Hamlet felt. The writer of Ecclesiastes, however, knew there was hope. After all his musings and realizations of how a person can place much importance on the everyday things of life and that the importance of those things was meaningless, he lastly said, " After all this, there is only one thing to say: Have reverence for God, and obey his commands, because this is all that we were created for.." (Ecclesiastes 12:13; Good News Translation).

      Should I continue to push myself to do as much as possible, knowing I could die because I pushed too much; knowing that I am weakening my body even more, knowing I am most likely cutting my life short?  Or, should I pace myself and get used to the feeling that I've accomplish very little?  Paul was in prison but thankful.  He used the opportunity to share the absolute truth of Jesus Christ.  He was not in control of his circumstances and he knew it.  God was in control.  Paul didn't push his way around and demand this or that.  He didn't say to the church in Philippi, "This isn't right!  I should be out there, going everywhere to tell others about Jesus!"  The Bible says he knew God had worked things out for him to be in prison so he could tell others about Jesus while in prison.  It was as if God put Paul down on step three and said, "This is the pace at which you will live for now.  Use it wisely."  Now, I know that isn't what the Bible says but try to understand what I am trying to say about how Paul's life changed when he could not be free to go or do as he had once been able. 

         But he didn't complain!  He used it all for God.

          I really believe that to push oneself all of the time is saying, "I’m in control.  I'll do this or that and it will be as I want!"  To pace oneself is saying, "God is in control and I will do what I can and trust Him for what I have done, can do, and also for what I can't do."

         Heart disease is the number one killer of women.  Most people don't know that.  I have now had heart disease for over 25 years and because God promised me I would have long life despite my heart disease, I've pushed when I should not have . . . I've tried to cross the Royal Gorge on a tight rope . . . I've crossed the street without looking . . . I've tempted God by pushing myself beyond my physical limits.  It has worn my body down and weakened me further.  I have now had one more warning and it could be my last.  Do I listen to God this time?

         To push or to pace is not the question.  Neither is the answer hard to understand.  We all push ourselves but maybe, oh just maybe! God is saying, "Pace yourself in Me and I will do more through you than you thought possible."  Do I truly with all my being believe that to die is gain and to live is Jesus? Absolutely!  Now it's time to live.  I think I'll slow down and do it God's way. 

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         Yes, Father, I know it's time to pace.  Sadly, I haven't paced myself but You have forgiven me and given me another chance to listen to You and to do what You want.  Let me not look ahead and be fearful of what I can't accomplish or that my time is shorter.  Help me not to think like Hamlet but rather, understand like the writer of Ecclesiastes.  Help me to surrender today, and each day You give me.  It doesn't matter what step I am on, Lord, because someone else is either on the same step or on a step just under me.  Help me to encourage them with Your love!  Thank You, with all my heart!

 

MERCY, MERCY!

MERCY, MERCY!!

by Brenda L. Agee

 

~Mercy Me!             

~ Lord, have mercy!             

~ Traveling mercies

~ At the mercy of my heart/enemies/friends/or something

~ Or, how about this one?   One male character in a popular 1990's sitcom always said, "Have MER-cy!"

~ Abraham Lincoln said, "I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.”

~ Psalms 23:6 is one of the most well known references: "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life . . . "  

~ Say, did you know that in the New King James Version of the Bible, the word mercy is listed 275 times?  That is a lot of mercy!        

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          In my early teens I felt great.  I was now a woman!  Or so I thought.  I started wearing a bit of make-up, I got my first pair of shoes that were "heels", my clothes were a bit more stylish and not childish, and I was in middle school!  Hooray!  I wasn't smug about it - or as the adults would say, "full of herself" -  I just felt great.  I was sure that all of the pain of my childhood would be forever gone and I was just simply happy.  I was a grown-up.  And my parents let me think so.  

          You remember how it was, don't you?  We absolutely wanted to be treated like adults, and we were sure that we were adults, but at the same time, we slept with our stuffed animals or held our baby-dolls when we thought no one could see us.  My brothers still held onto their airplanes and trains.  And maybe some of us still cherished our paper dolls.  That was me!

          Most of the time growing up, I walked to church since we only lived three blocks away.  To get there, I walked one block south and then had a choice.  I could either turn right for three-fourths of a block before going south again or I could turn left for one-fourth of a block and then turn south again.  Going right, I would walk on a sidewalk beside nicely kept houses.   If I went left, I would walk the last two blocks beside the highway.  Always as a child I took the residential walk and never thought of going the other way.  BUT!  Now that I was a teen-adult, I occasionally walked along the highway.  

          So there I was one Sunday evening, at the corner where I had to choose either left or right.  It was late spring, nice and balmy, with a soft breeze, and I had on a new dress.  My mother had made it, as she did most of my clothes, and I felt absolutely fabulous.  The dress was in a denim-colored summer fabric with a sailor's collar in red bandanna material (or handkerchief material if you want to be technical).  It buttoned up the front, was double stitched with red thread, had a shiny red belt, and the most glorious red buttons.  I also had on my new red heels and there I stood.  Was I to go right to the residential sidewalk or left to the highway.

          I can tell you that it took all of one second to decide I would go down the highway.  The highway would take me past two gas stations in that first block.  It had rained the day before and in front of the second gas station, beside the drive was a small bit of grass that had a slightly rippling water puddle.  Just a little puddle, you see.  I thought I was so cool, so cute, that even as a new young adult, I decided to take off my pretty red heels, and walk through the little bit of water.

          I was only slightly aware of the teen aged boys who worked at the gas station.  Oh, I didn't mention that part?  No matter, let me go on.

          Gently and oh, so gracefully, I took off my shoes.  I merrily looked at the little bit of water and walked right into it.  I suddenly discovered a whole new meaning to the phrase "Still Waters Run Deep" when quickly, quite quickly, I sank nearly up to my knees in mud.  It hadn't looked like a mud puddle!  And as much as I tried, I simply couldn't get out of it.  I tried to step up with one leg but the other wouldn't let go.  I tried the other leg and still couldn't get out.  I tossed my new shoes onto the drive and tried using my hands and arms to as leverage to pull myself up but then I was covered up to my knees and elbows in mud.

          I was horribly aware of the teen age boys who worked at the gas station with their dad because all of them started to laugh and they continued laughing all the while they lifted me up out of the mud. 

          I briefly mumbled my thanks, picked up my pair of shoes with my thumb and one finger, and turned around to trod home.  And, as if that wasn't enough, for the first time in all the weeks I had walked down the highway to go to church, a car load of boys drove by and whistled, honked, and yelled something I could neither understand nor wanted to understand.

          I have no memory of walking the rest of the way home.  I have no memory of what I said to Mama and Daddy.  I have no memory of how they responded but I do believe they probably laughed when I went to take my bath.  It was a long, long time before I walked down the highway again to church.  Maybe I wasn't so grown up after all.  How humiliating!

          There you have it.  That is how I started my teen years.  Life went on a bit less eventful and I was a lot more humble . . . until I was 15.

          At 15 I was ready to drive.  We took our Driver's Ed class in school the semester before turning 16.  My class was the second semester of my sophomore year in high school but since I wouldn't turn 16 until the following November, when I was a junior, Daddy said I could use the summer to learn how to drive a standard transmission, or stick-shift.  In fact, he said I couldn't even get my license until I learned to drive a standard and could hold the vehicle on an up-hill road while using only the gas and the clutch.  Sounded good to me.   I simply wanted to drive.

          The volunteer teacher was a young man who was working for Daddy and who also owned a brand new 1965 shiny black Ford Mustang.  And before you jump ahead of me, no, I did not crash his car.  After work in the evenings, my older brother and I piled into his car and off we went to a dirt road in the country.  I learned quickly and moved through the gears with ease and no grinding.  It wasn't long before I could balance that car on any steep hill, as Daddy required, and I could take off without rolling backwards.  Everyone was surprised and I was pleased.

          My young teacher had a younger brother who was home on leave from the Navy and occasionally went with us during the driving lessons.  He knew I could drive and drive well.   All was okay until I forgot my lesson in humility.

          Every Saturday afternoon during that summer, my girlfriend and I would walk downtown to the movies for the Saturday Matinee.  One Saturday after the movie, we were walking home and only had five blocks to go when the younger brother, the sailor, stopped and asked if we would like a ride home.  Now I have to admit that I was a bit flirtatious and a bit bold when I replied, "Yes, but only if I can drive."  I didn't expect him to say yes, but he just laughed let me drive.  Saying I wanted to drive his car seemed just as innocent as that water I walked into a couple of summers before, but proved to be anything but innocent. 

          I got behind the driver's wheel and took off.  As soon as I started my right-hand turn at the next intersection I had my first devastating lesson in driving a car with no power steering!  I rammed right into the car that was waiting at the stop sign at that intersection.  I didn't think to apologize to the young sailor, even though his skin kept going from green to yellow and back again because all I could think of was how I was going to tell Daddy.  

          Oh, you just don't understand!  My Daddy was wonderful, loving, caring, and protective of his children and family.  My Daddy would put anyone in his or her place if he knew one of his children was being wronged.  But!  Daddy was also strict and stern and expected his children to behave and to be respectful and to not do anything close to what I had just done.  I so rarely got into trouble and I was scared to death to tell him.  Part of it was knowing that I had let him down.

          I called him but he sent one of my older brothers to the scene.  My brother took care of talking with the officer and getting all the information correct and in sending home.  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening sitting alone in my parents' bedroom, on a chair in front of their floor to ceiling mirror.  I cried and I looked at my reflection with pity.  What a sight I must have been!  If you had only seen me, how dejected I was, and how pitifully I looked at myself in the mirror, you would probably have felt sorry for me, too, and then laughed when you left the room.   A couple of times one of my siblings came in, not to comfort me, but to remind me that I was in a lot of trouble!

          Daddy came home early for dinner that evening and said nothing to me.  I was scared.  He didn't even come into the room to see me so I was even more scared.  Daddy didn't go back to the shop to work after dinner and my fear increased.  My brothers and sister sat in the living room all evening just waiting to see what Daddy would do.  They seemed to always get into trouble, but not me, so when my siblings sat waiting, I was even more scared.  

          Finally, after the late night news, Daddy sent my brothers and sister to bed and mama came to me.  All she said was that Daddy wanted to talk to me.  She stayed in their bedroom so it would only be me and Daddy. 

          I slowly walked into the living room with my head low.  Daddy sat on the sofa and patted the place beside him.  I sat down absolutely not knowing what to expect and dreading the moments to come.  But suddenly, Daddy placed his arm around me, drew my head to his shoulder, and he softly called me by the baby name he had used when I was a little girl, "Well, Sugar Foot, they tell me you had a bit of a problem today.  Tell Daddy all about it."

          Oh how I cried and gulped for air as I told him every little detail.  The more I cried, the more he cried.  And he held me even closer.  When I began to sob less and breathe a bit more, all he said was, "We all make mistakes, Brenda, and I'm sure you'll never do anything like this again."

          Oh no, Daddy!  I never will!

          We sat there like that for the longest time.  When all was calm, he hugged me tighter, told me he loved me, gave me a good-night kiss, and sent me to bed.

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           Over two decades later I cried to my Heavenly Father.  I was divorced for the second time and felt like a failure.  I was still depressed and in counseling trying to grapple with my fears because the pain of my childhood had again reared its' ugly head like the serpent in the wilderness with Jesus.   How was I to survive a lifetime of pain and the belief that I was always failure?  How was I to raise my two children as a single parent who was afraid of making every mistake I could imagine?  I was terrified that my adult life would mirror my childhood.  I wondered if I would ever know peace or joy again or if my life would be a façade of outward joy with inward panic.     

          What troubled me most was that I believed I was letting God down, that I was a failure in His eyes, also.  I had known God's mercy, grace, miracles, peace, and joy throughout my life so how could I feel such anguish?  How could I feel what I did and still claim to know His love?  I gulped and sobbed even more and had no words.  How could God answer what I didn't know how to ask?  But He knew.  And He answered.

          In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, God reminded me of previous time I had cried and sobbed and I heard my Daddy's words, "Well, Sugar Foot, they tell me you had a bit of a problem today.  Tell Daddy all about it."  It was as though God Himself was saying those words to me.  

          "Oh Jesus!  Oh Abba!  I'm so afraid I've let You down and failed You.  I'm afraid and I can't stop crying." 

          I instantly knew mercy.  I stopped gulping and gasping.  I stopped crying.  I thanked God with a soft whisper and after a few moments, I started to drift asleep.  I wondered in those last moments before sleep if my Daddy ever knew that he had been the picture of our Father in Heaven and His mercy.  I wondered if Daddy had known what he taught me about grace.  I don't believe he did and I don't think it was a conscious thought with him.  Daddy was just being who he was.  Daddy was merciful because he himself had known heartache and pain and because he, too, had known the mercies of God.   

          I think of the Psalmist who wrote, "Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am in trouble; My eye wastes away with grief, Yes, my soul and my body! " (Psalms 31:9; NKJV).  Had he also known the peace of God only to find himself later thrown into despair?  I don't know, but that writer knew God would give mercy and peace from the grief.  The Psalmist cried, I cried and sometimes I still cry.  I know some of you do, also.  It matters not what our individual circumstances are, at times we all simply hurt and grieve, crying in our soul.  Will we turn to the One who is all merciful?    

          God's mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23; KJV) because He is faithful.  We need His mercies daily, every moment because of our own lives, our own actions, our own memories, our own experiences, our own needs.  There is no shame in our crying out to Him again and again because He is always there for us.  He has always known that we would need new mercies, a refreshing of His grace.  And yes, God promises that for those who trust in Him, His mercies are new every morning! 

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          I need you today, God, just as I always have needed you.  You have healed me of much, taught me much, and loved me much; yet, every moment, every morning, I need Your mercy anew.  Please be with all who know and recognize their need for Your mercy.  Some are only beginning their journey of healing while others realize we are in a constant state of healing.  All I can say, God, with a humble heart and gratitude is thank You.  Thank You and Praise You!  For Your Mercy Endures Forever!

"Blessed be God, Who has not turned away my prayer, 

Nor is mercy from me!"  

"If I say, 'My foot slips,' Your mercy, O Lord, will hold me up."

(Psalm 66:20 & Psalm 94:18; NKJV)