Saturday, October 31, 2009

The Cheshire Moon

Drinking coffee with my morning dose of the Wall Street Journal, I read about the annual Naked Pumkin Run in Boulder, Colorado. A few days ago, my cousin sent me the story of a bear executed for trying to eat Talitha the deer, a local wildlife preserve resident. Absolute absurdity, all of it.

G.K. Chesterton had some amazing insight into this extreme loss of direction. He said,
When men stop believing in God they don't believe in nothing; they believe in anything- trying to find happiness by running nude in freezing temperatures, or executing justice on a bear for doing what he was created to do. All this while millions of unborn babies are executed because of their mothers' "right to choose," and people are arrested for believing what the Bible says to be true. I think the creation is laughing at us for being such fools. The moon surely does.

The Cheshire Moon

Down he looks on the goings of man
As they bustle to and fro;
Questioning "Why? and Who am I? and
Where am I to go?"

Up in the sky, so dark so blue,
He sits and he laughs for he knows who;
Who made the stars and sky above,
Who made man and Who is Love.

His smile shines for all to see,
Reminding the world there is a King;
A King who reigns with truth and grace,
Calling all who seek His face.

The Cheshire Moon shines down on thee,
telling the world with verity,
There is purpose and there is peace
Joy and laughter- a coup de grĂ¢ce
to all the cynics who brood and swear
that there is nothing really there.

The Cheshire Moon is laughing still,
Calling all to listen who will;
To listen to the music of life,
the everyday stories, the struggles, the strife.
To listen and laugh with a heart at rest,
knowing the One who knoweth best.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

"When Helping Hurts"- A Review

There are six things the Lord hates. Seven that are an abomination to Him- Prov. 6:16.

Pride is the first and most insidious. It is a flesh eating disease of the soul--an inhibitor of grace, mercy, and redemption, causing the ultimate poverty of spirit. Before this or any other form of poverty can be remedied, we must repent on our knees at the foot of the cross. Then and only then can we practice true and undefiled religion by lifting our hearts and hands to the call of Christ to minister to the poor and needy, the widows and orphans in distress. Such is the convicting call of When Helping Hurts: How to Alleviate Poverty Without Hurting the Poor and Yourself by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert.

There is no room for pride in God’s economy, especially when 40 percent of the world’s population is living on less than two dollars a day. That's less than the extra hot, skinny, pumpkin spice latte I bought this morning. We have been given much. Much will be required. Even in our present economic slump we are incredibly wealthy compared the rest of the world and have a massive responsibility to minister to the poor.

First, we must shift our paradigm. When Helping Hurts pushes us to do this by defining poverty. Think about it a moment...who are the poor? Like me, your answer probably focused on the economically destitute.

That is true in part, but as you will discover in reading this book, there are actually four spheres of poverty: spiritual intimacy, being, community, and stewardship. All of us are broken in one or more of those spheres and “until we embrace our mutual brokenness, our work with low-income people is likely to do more harm than good,” the authors state.

Repentance and humility must precede, envelope, and characterize all further endeavors towards poverty alleviation. Fundamentally, this means restoring people to right relationship with God, with themselves, with others, and with the world around them. This is only possible through continued reliance on Christ as we repent from our superiority and seek to restore dignity to the destitute.

This is practically achieved by understanding the situation and appropriately diagnosing the remedy. Is relief, rehabilitation or development necessary? Determining the response is pivotal, because more harm than good can come of an incorrect diagnosis.

The authors define each stage in specific detail: relief is an immediate response to an unexpected catastrophe through temporary and emergency aid; rehabilitation is working with people to help them rebuild the beneficial elements of their lives and community; and development is an ongoing process in which both those helping and those being helped are restored to right relationship with God, self, others, and creation.

“The root issue in all of these considerations is that God, who is a worker, ordained work so that humans could worship Him through their work. Relief efforts applied inappropriately often cause the beneficiaries to abstain from work, thereby limiting their relationship with God through distorted worship or through no worship,” said Alvin Mbola, a Kenyan community development worker.

We must view those we are seeking to help with honor and respect as thinking, creative individuals, created in the image of God. Every person has specific gifts. It is imperative to discover and foster those gifts.

This strategy is known as “asset based community development” or the ABCD method. Christian agencies find this an effective strategy as it utilizes the individuals’ and community’s resources of land, social networks, knowledge, animals, savings, etc. This strategy affirms those in destitute communities by helping them discover what is right with them and the ways God is already working in their community.

The “helpers” then have an understanding of what assets a community has and what they are lacking. The next step can be perilous and must be carefully and thoughtfully mapped-out. The danger in bringing outside resources into a community is that the current infrastructures such as banks, construction companies, and small businesses can be destroyed, albeit unintentionally.

The authors believe that “it would be far better to let a nonemergency need go unmet than to meet that need with outside resources and cripple local initiative in the process,” strongly emphasizing the importance of not doing things for people that they can do for themselves.

Restoration comes by allowing people to worship God through planning, envisioning, and carrying out their work. The authors give example after example of the effectiveness of participatory reconstruction and development of a depressed community. They contrast the old model of development known as “The Blue Print Approach”- a one size fits all approach with “The Learning Approach”- a method that seeks the involvement, wisdom, and participation of the community. This approach can take years to produce change, but the change is more lasting.

The emphasis is on relationships and time. Consequently, this method collides with the idea of short-term missions (STMs). The authors devote an entire chapter to discuss the disadvantages and potential ineffectiveness of the popular short-term mission trip. Sadly, more harm than good can be done through them. The time and understanding necessary for long-term change are not always in place and cannot be produced in two weeks.

One missions’ expert put it this way: “To get the job done (on our time scale), imported technology becomes more important than respect for elders, for old courtesies, for taking time. We end up dancing like elephants. We dance hard and we have big feet.”

That is not to say that there is no place for short-term missions. The authors believe that STMs can be effective and productive if they are part of a larger, already established effort. For instance, groups going to minister to missionaries already in place, or going with an organization with an established presence and relational infrastructure can be very helpful. It is also important that the host community invite the team and be willing to have them come, learn, and serve alongside them.

The final chapters of the book focus on practical ways the church can minister to the poor at home and around the globe. Most of the poor in North America do not need relief. They need basic job skills, financial education, and the ability to save and accumulate wealth. These are all things churches can provide through various ministries, which the authors generally describe. More information and training is available on their website- whenhelpinghurts.org.

The other strategies for poverty alleviation are more complex and have to do with micro financing, savings and loan services, and entrepreneurial training. They give an overview of these methods, but direct inquiring minds to seek training from the Chalmers Center for Economic Development, founded by co-author Brian Fikkert.

Though a broad sketch of how poverty should be addressed, When Helping Hurts is a rousing call to action and an informative overview of how to seek poverty restoration in our own lives and those of the economic poor. In-depth questions at the end of each chapter and thought provoking exercises make this an ideal book for small group or bible study use. Reading and studying it will compel you to “get dirty” as the hands and feet of Christ.

If anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.

I John 3:17-18

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Culinary Terrorism

Has it ever occurred to you that cooking a pot roast could be worse than death or frying an egg more terrifying than Osama Bin Laden? I hadn't either until I heard the pathos and terror in my friend's voice as she retold the horrors of trying to cook for a gastronomically inclined husband who expects more than a steady diet of quesadillas and refried beans.

We were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and looking at recipes when she began to pour out her soul and the depths of her anguish. She was beside herself telling me of her complete lack of interest in cooking.

"I would clean a bathroom four times before I'd choose to make dinner," she wailed. "I try to find good recipes, but I don't even know what they are talking about half the time. I take my cookbook to the butcher counter to ask what a pork loin is or where in the world I'd find a rump roast.

One day I decided to try sweet and sour pork for dinner. I got everything I needed and started cooking. The pork had to be battered and then fried in oil. I started it way too late and Tom got home way too early. I was battering and frying away, but it was taking forever for the pork to cook. I was so afraid I wouldn't cook it enough and we would get some horrible parasite or something. The baby was wailing and Tom could do nothing to comfort her. The more he tried, the more she howled. The pork was sizzling and I was trying to hurry. Tom was hungry and losing patience.

Finally, he told me to take the baby and he'd finish cooking the dinner. I was so relieved I wanted to cry. Sophie finally settled down and Tom announced that dinner was served. He brought me a plate filled with charred bits of pork. They tasted so bad I didn't even want to eat them. It was horrible. I should have made ground beef."

I couldn't help chuckling about my friend's culinary malaise. She was being terrorized by the cook-top and phantoms of what she felt she should be capable of doing. The fact that Tom's family are devout foodies didn't help.

I made suggestions of various meals that seemed manageable, but her reply was that "Tom's mom makes that and has been perfecting it for years. I could never make it as well as she does."

That's when I pulled out my favorite ace-in-the-hole cooking advice. "Do you ever use the crock pot? It's pretty fail proof, and when your hubby gets home from work, he'll smell dinner cooking."

"Yeah, I get points for that."

"My favorite crock pot cookbook is Fix-It and Forget-It. It has everything from apple pie to beef au jus."

I think she picked it up at Barnes and Noble the next day. The only downside is that Fix-It and Forget-It doesn't have a lot of pictures, which are always very helpful. Recently, I discovered a fun blog written by a ranch wife in Oklahoma who documents her recipes with detailed photographs. Victims of culinary terrorism and devout foodies alike will enjoy Ree Drummond's fun presentation and tasty ideas. You can visit her blog at The Pioneer Woman.com.

And anytime someone would like to trade cleaning for cooking, I'm all for it. I'd happily trade dinner for a clean room. My housekeeping skills would horrify my friend, but we'll dispel my phantoms another day.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Edgar A Guest

A few years ago, my grandparents gave me a little book of poetry by Edgar A Guest. The book was published in 1916. It is small and blue and fits in the palm of my hand. I have its original box. The edges are frayed and torn by time and use. Flipping through it this morning, I found the following poem. I hope it encourages you like it encouraged me.

Failures
Edgar A Guest

'Tis better to have tried in vain,
Sincerely striving for a goal,
Than to have lived upon the plain
An idle and a timid soul.

'Tis better to have fought and spent
Your courage, missing all applause,
Than to have lived in smug content
And never ventured for a cause.

For he who tries and fails may be
The founder of a better day;
Though never his the victory,
From him shall others learn the way.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

The Daily Grind

Osawald Chambers is one of my favorite devotional authors. This morning's reading included the following kernel of truth. May it be a blessing to you as you go about your day.

Discipleship is built entirely on the supernatural grace of God. Walking on water is easy to someone with impulsive boldness, but walking on dry land as a disciple of Jesus Christ is something altogether different. Peter walked on the water to go to Jesus, but he "followed him at a distance" on dry land (Mark 14:54). We do not need the grace of God to withstand crisis- human nature and pride are sufficient for us to handle the stress and strain magnificently. But it does require the supernatural grace of God to live twenty-four hours of every day as a saint, going though drudgery, and living an ordinary, unnoticed, and ignored existence as a disciple of Jesus. It is ingrained in us that we have to do exceptional things for God- but we do not. We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things of life, and holy on the ordinary streets, among ordinary people- and this is not learned in five minutes.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

The Tale of Princess PumkinPat

The pumpkin patch was a wretched place. Pumpkin-Pat hated it. It was covered in dirt and the vines tormented her constantly with their scratchy fingers. She would have given them a good swat, but Pumpkin-Pat had no hands. Pumpkins never do, of course, but Pat dreamed of having them.

She would lay for hours in the dirt, staring into the vast blue sky, imagining herself as a grand princess with long graceful hands- clean hands, covered in gloves that never got dirty. Hands that held a jeweled scepter and ruled her pumpkin kingdom with strength.

Pesky vines would be imprisoned in the dungeon of her castle and only beautiful pumpkins would be allowed to wait on her Royal Roundness. Beauty is all about girth in the pumpkin world, you see. The rounder the better.

The trouble was, Pumpkin-Pat was not as round or as clean as the other pumpkins in the patch. She was plain and ugly and the vines would not let her forget it.

Pumpkin pie, pumpkin pie.
All you're fit for is pumpkin pie.
No one wants a pumpkin
like you

They chanted as they wrapped their tentacled arms around her stem, snickering as big pumpkin tears welled up in her eyes and made mud puddles on her orange face.

Pat despised them, but they were right. She wasn't beautiful. She was just Pat. Plain old Pat. Not beautiful Perlapat like her sister or Cleopat like her cousin, but plain, homely Pumpkin-Pat. How degrading! Maybe it would be better to be made into a pie. People loved pie.

She tried to imagine being a pie, but becoming orange puree wasn't very glamorous and she was afraid it might hurt. She would probably just shrivel on the vine and join the other castaways in the compost heap.

The chuff-chuff, grumble-grumble of a tractor engine rolled through the biting autumn air. They were harvesting today and all her beautiful siblings and cousins were wishing each other well as they ventured off to become centerpieces or tablescapes. Pat barrelled deeper into the dirt, determined not to open her eyes 'til the sound of the tractor faded and she was alone to dream her dreams and rule her kingdom.

The chuff-chuff, grumble-grumble got closer and closer. The workers were shouting and grunting with effort as they sliced the pumpkins from their vines and hoisted them into the trailer. A slice, a lift, freedom from vines, laughter, shouting- the noise was rhythmic and deafening. Pat felt herself being lifted and carried away with it all, but refused to open her eyes and watch the excitement. She just imagined she was one of the beautiful chosen ones being lifted into the trailer.

Chuff-chuff, grumble-grumble, bump, bump. Ouch! She opened her eyes in pain. What was that? She was surrounded completely by other pumpkins with no vines in sight.

"'Scuse me," she said to the voluptuous ochre beauty smooshed up against her, "Where are we?"

"Dahling," the elegant globe said, "we are going to meet our Destiny."

"Where is our destiny?" Pat asked.

"Seriously?" the damsel drawled. "How provincial can you be?"

Pat was embarrassed. She would never be elegant. She just wanted to know where she was. At least there were no vines. She closed her eyes and fell asleep dreaming of crowns and gloves and jeweled shoes.

It was dark when she woke-up. There were no pumpkins on top of her anymore and she was cold. She looked around and saw a big black field with white lines on it. It was a strange looking field. The ground looked very hard and there were lamp posts growing in it. She had never seen a lamp post, but she had heard about them from the old tractor. They cast little puddles of light around them.

"How beautiful they are," she thought. She could hear people's sleepy voices grumbling about how early it was, but she couldn't turn around and look. She just stared at the lamp posts and the black field. The sun rose and cars started pulling into the field, parking between the white lines.

"How odd this all is. Where are the vines and the tractor?" she wondered. "Is this destiny?"

People got out of the cars and walked past her. Some stopped and looked at her.

"Oh look. Pumpkins. We need a pumpkin for the table." They picked her up and looked underneath her, ignoring her altogether. "Oh! Here's a nice big, plump one. Perfect for the centerpiece."

The voices died away and Pat stared at the cars until her eyes hurt. People came and went all day, but no one wanted her. Sometimes they almost picked her, but they always saw another pumpkin in the bin that was cleaner or bigger or more orange. How she missed the pumpkin patch and the blue sky and the quiet air. At least there she could pretend she belonged and was beautiful. Here, there was no pretending.

The sun went up and went down. The day was almost over and the sunlight was dripping out of the sky leaving it darker and darker. Pat was sure she would be thrown away soon. She almost hoped she was. She couldn't bear it any more.

Then a lady walked up. She didn't say anything. She just started picking up pumpkins and looking at them. She had a nice face and seemed kinder than the others who had manhandled Pat all day. She looked at Pat and turned her around examining the big splotch of dirt smeared over her face. She put Pat down and looked at the other pumpkins. Pat sighed and a tears welled up in her eyes. She was tired of destiny.

The lady walked back to Pat and picked her up, brushing off the dust. She smiled.

"Nothing a little wash cloth won't fix," she said carrying Pat inside and paying for her.

Pat was in shock. Somebody wanted her. Somebody thought she was beautiful. She sat on a soft seat inside the lady's car. It was so much better than bouncing in the trailer. She felt like a princess. How could life get any better?

The car stopped and the lady gently carried her inside the house. She got a warm cloth and wiped Pat's face and body. The warm water felt so good. Pat wanted to sing. Then the lady put her up on a table.

A few minutes later, Pat heard a little girl's voice. "Mama, Mama, I saw the ducks and fed them and there were lots of them and..." she chattered on and on 'til her mama interrupted her.

"Baby, come see what Mama got you at the store."

The little blond girl ran up to the table. "A pumpkin, a pumpkin," she squealed in excitement. "Look, Daddy, a pumpkin."

"Here, have Daddy help you get her dressed," the lady said taking out a bag with two beautiful hands wearing gloves, two jeweled shoes, a sparkling crown, and dangling earrings. Pat was speechless. Her dream was coming true.

The man carefully put on the arms, the shoes, the crown, the ears and earrings, two beautiful eyes, a nose and lovely set of red lips. He turned her around for the little girl to see.

"Isn't she beautiful?" the lady said. "Let's call her Princess PumpkinPat, her Royal Roundness."


Wednesday, October 14, 2009



Story Time for Tots

Join us for stories, songs, and fun on Thursdays,
10-10:30 AM in the EVBC Bookstore

1820 W. Elliott Rd, Gilbert, AZ


Begins October 29th

This is specifically for children 4 and under, so please plan on attending with your child.

Call 480.889.5389 for more information

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Children's Hour

I am in the process of starting a story time for other mom's with small children. I love children's books and of course have several favorites- Blueberries for Sal, Bread and Jam for Frances, Make Way for Ducklings, Curious George, The Little Engine that Could, and The Bear Hunt, to name a few. I need your suggestions. What are a few of your favorite children's books, and why?

In the meantime, enjoy the following poem. It is also one of my favorites.

The Children's Hour
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.


I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.


From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.


A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.


A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!


They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.


They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!


Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!


I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.


And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Conceptually Charming

Have you ever been rushed for time and bought something that, theoretically speaking, should be terrific only to go home and find it it falls on the horrific end of the scale? This morning, my sister Catherine and I were casually strolling through J.C. Penney, trying not to be squashed or drowned by the tsunami of sale-seekers flooding the store. Catherine was pushing McKenzie. I was looking for a new blouse for the first game of the Arizona Fall League, in which Josh will represent the Orioles as a member of the Phoenix Desert Dogs. It is my rule that I buy a new article of clothing when a new baseball season begins.

Fall League begins Tuesday. Game time- 12:35. Today it was time to go shopping. We made a few stops before J.C. Penney. The parking lot was packed by the time we got there. Everyone else must have seen the same sale flier in the newspaper I did. Drat. What do people need to read the paper for? I should be the only one who sees these great deals.

We went in anyway. It was worse inside, but we persevered. Then my phone gave a well know shiver. Sliding it open to see who was texting me, I kept flipping through racks, mentally discarding everything I saw. Nope: too high school. Definitely no: too plaid. Not a chance: too Hannah Montana.

"I'll be done at 12," the text from Josh said. I glanced at my watch. It was 11:20. There was no way I could find a new shirt and two shower gifts, drop Catherine off at home, and get to Tempe in 40 min, unless I dropped everything and left, but I just couldn't do that.

The hunt was on. From strolling we went to charging, from flipping to rifling. We flew through juniors, and ladies, and back through ladies. Nothing seemed right. Too much or too little or just ugly. Then I saw a cute little black skirt. It was full and gathered at the top to a wide stretchy waistband. Very hip with a vague throwback to June Cleaver, albeit several inches shorter. It was clearanced clearanced, which was also attractive.

"That's cute," Catherine said.

"I know," I wailed, glancing at the fleeting time. "What am I going to wear with it?"

"How about this?" she said, holding up a white tank top flaunting a black chiffon rose and black beads draping the neckline.

"Oh...I don't know. It might work. I guess I could wear it tucked in to the skirt like all the little dresses that are 'in.'"

"Yeah, that would be really cute."

"O.k., I guess if I don't like it I'll just return it. We've got to hurry."

We sprinted through the baby and the home goods sections and made a mad dash to the check-out counter. I kept checking my watch. 11:37. 11:40. Yiiikes! Finally, we were out the door and in the car. There was no way I could be there by noon, so I texted Josh and told him I would be there at 12:15.

We pulled in to player parking at Phoenix Municipal Stadium at 12:15:05. I made it.

When we got home, I was curious to see if it was going to work, but duty called. McKenzie had to go potty, which I really think is all about the jelly beans she earns; she needed to eat lunch; and I needed to reply to several text messages that were buzzing my phone. I finally got her settled for her nap and went to don my purchases.

The skirt was cute, but I wondered if I should have gotten a bigger size. Oh well. It zipped. Time for the shirt. I untangled the attached necklace and examined the black rose, off-centered on the left side, and larger than life. I wiggled into it. Form-fitting would be an understatement. I would definitely need a camisole. I tucked it into the skirt, which to fit comfortably had to sit higher than my waist. I was skeptical.

I walked into the bathroom to examine my creation. Horrors! If I planned on waitressing at a Halloween spook-a-thon, where the skirts were merely a formality, I would fit the bill. Maybe it would be better if I pulled the skirt down to a humane length? It wasn't. It just made me look like an asparagus dressed in black and white with an unnaturally long torso. Well, maybe if I untucked the tank top and kept the skirt at the waist it would work? It didn't. I even tried it with black leggings underneath. I looked like a punk rocker chic who had sprouted a voluminous growth of black fabric. Never mind.

I laughed as I squirmed out of the skirt and peeled off the tank top, happily re-attiring myself in my blue jeans and striped t-shirt. I folded my costume neatly and put it back in the bag. I got the discount for spending $50, but I'll be making returns Monday morning.

Friday, October 2, 2009

Paradox of Pleasure

Last week I started running again after an extended hiatus. I hate running. Legs of lead, lungs on fire, a head throbbing to the pounding of my feet- not pleasant. The trouble is, I love the rush of accomplishment and the feeling of well-being and the knowledge that I beat my own laziness and the seductive inclination to be coddled by the couch. A paradox, to be sure.

Then I cleaned the bathroom. Trying not to breathe the Clorox, I began to see a pattern that transcended my shower walls. There are many things in life that I dislike or even loathe doing but do them anyway because the pain is worth the pleasure or product that results. Running and cleaning are just two examples.

Child birth is another: there is nothing comfortable about it; and there is nothing like the beaming bursts of joy sparkling from a new mother's eyes. Travel is similar. A man of letters once said that "traveling expands the soul." That is true once you get there, but the getting there is hellacious and causes more atrophy than anything else. So the paradox remains.

So what? Does it matter that things worth having are often painful? I thought of Christ's crucifixion- the most physically, mentally, and spiritually painful experience any human endured. It was the means of the ultimate salvation- a relationship with our Creator and salvation from His just wrath. The crucifixion of the Perfect Man made salvation a reality for all who would believe. This is the true form of the paradox. Everything else is but a shadow of this exchange.

This thought haunted me until I realized that in our little human exchanges of pain for something greater we are imitating the ultimate exchange. We are imitating Christ, "who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross , despising shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God" (Hebrews 12:2).