“Is the Lord’s arm too short?” Sounds like a silly question at first…but it’s one God asked Moses. The multitudes of Israelites were desert-hot, road weary, and hangry for meat. For reasons we don’t know, the livestock they took with them was off limits, so there was no optional food source in sight! If you think it’s difficult to come up with a satisfactory menu for a family of four, just think about the seemingly impossible task Moses was faced with. God, merciful God, met him in his despair. “Is the Lord’s arm too short?” You will now see whether or not what I say will come true for you.” (Numbers 11:23) Then God reached down and saved them once again. The Lord’s arms aren’t too short but mine sometimes are. It’s not uncommon for me to be standing in a grocery store aisle waiting for a tall person to come along and retrieve the last box of granola on a tall shelf just out of my reach. Pap used to tell a story about a dinner guest who rudely stretched his long arm across the table to get the butter. The man of the house asked, “Son, don’t you have a tongue?” To which the ill-mannered fellow replied, “Yes, but it wouldn’t reach that far.” When I taught school, it was among my duties to chaperone the 7th/8th grade trip to Washington, DC. I was in charge of the girl bus and as you would expect, there was an incident. Quite a commotion erupted when one crying girl got her arm caught in the reclining seats…and we weren’t even out of the parking lot yet! Kids aren’t as tough as they used to be. I remember when arm wrestling was a thing. And we suffered through violent games without complaint like Red Rover in which kids formed two human chains, and then dared one person to run as fast as they could and attempt to break through. My scrawny arms suffered the most because the runner headed for the weakest link in the chain, which usually included me. Arms are always flailing on the farm; swinging weed-eaters, swatting bees, slinging hay bales, or multi-tasking chores. Imagine carrying rocks with one arm and carrying a sword in the other! This never happened at Red Gate Farm (as far as I know) but it did happen in Nehemiah 4:17. People who were building the Jerusalem wall did their work with one hand and held a weapon in the other because they were getting death threats. Figuratively, the sword is part of the Armor of God we put on to fight evil. It represents God’s word (the Bible). Good idea would be to stay “read up” and ready for any surprise attacks. One arm should always carry a “sword”. A few years ago, a woman who runs a raptor rescue longed to acquire an ambassador eagle to use in her programs. But first she had to prove herself by holding the 6-10 lb eagle on her outstretched arm for two hours. I imagine her arm sure was tired, but God’s never is. Psalm 136:12 “with a mighty hand and outstretched arm; His love endures forever.” Sometimes our arms are raised in praise or surrender, or both simultaneously. Sometimes they go up if we have a question or an answer. My arm is in the air, excitedly waving around because I know the answer to “Where do we run when we’re faced with the impossible or the tiresome? Jesus. He’s waiting with open arms. “Let the one the Lord loves rest safely in Him. The Lord guards him all day long. The one the Lord loves rests in His arms.” (Deuteronomy 33:12) Here’s the deal-- nobody and nothing is out of God’s reach. “Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save…” (Isaiah 59:1) And that’s an arms deal you don’t have to wrestle with.
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Mom led us through the woods, leaves crunching beneath our feet, until we came upon a clearing-- the Coprio Place. They had been neighbors to my Grandma Balli’s family during the early 1900’s. Scattered rocks still formed a semblance of what once was the foundation of a house, and nearby, to our delight, there were daffodils blooming! The nodding colorful blossoms were no longer in rows but now grew in a swath of yellow amidst a sea of winter brown, telling us that this was once a home. Daffodils have the ability to self-propagate and create new bulbs each year, allowing one patch to grow and bloom for decades as a lasting testimony. And here they were deep in the woods on a remote WV mountain top telling a story. Daffodils, not native to North America, are the March birth-flower and symbolize rebirth and new beginnings. They are also called “Lent Lilies” because they bloom around Easter and nothing better represents newness of life more than a conquered grave and a risen Savior. 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” Famous poet William Wadsworth took a walk in 1802 through an English wood and came upon a patch of daffodils, which he commemorated in a poem, “…And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils.” I can just imagine the little yellow blossoms tossing and dancing in the breeze. I am not a graceful dancer by any stretch of the imagination, but truth be told I have danced and it was not unlike a daffodil. Dancing is in my blood because my parents do-si-doed and promenaded on a float in the Strawberry Parade as members of a square-dance club, and we’re pretty sure it’s hereditary. Elvis died when I was in fifth grade and we’d stay inside on rainy day recess and dance to Elvis LPs on Mrs. Paul’s old record player. It’s unclear who enjoyed it more, Mrs. Paul who reminisced, or the new generation of us kids thinking he was cool for the first time. As expected, the dancing gene passed down and once at church my daughter was on stage in pink sequins dancing with a plunger. (I realize this raises valid questions about what denomination we attended but rest assured, it was truth-centered.) My son also got his share of the inherited dancing trait and had the fortunate opportunity to show the world at a Quinceanera for one of his 15-year-old classmates. Afterwards he reported that most of the boys were a little shy about dancing so when he and some friends approached the mom to thank her for inviting them to the party, she forcibly corralled them onto the dance floor towards her twirling daughter. Gabe was the friend in front so as the others shrunk back he ended up getting sucked into the center of the vortex and amazingly found himself dancing with the guest of honor under a spotlight. Jack and the other boys watched in awe as Gabe brought out moves they’d never seen. They cheered him on! At one point he got so wound up he performed a riveting jig with his foot, twisting it around and around in the air. Back in the truck driving home the boys told him how impressive he’d looked and he sheepishly explained what they thought was a jig, was actually his foot getting caught in a tear in the hem of her expensive poofy dress and him trying to free himself! I conclude, on life’s big dancefloor, being graceful (Grace-full) might not have much to do with how we move but more to do with the One who moves us. In Jesus we will find freedom. He is the author of new beginnings… And sometimes reminders can be as simple as a daffodil or a walk in the woods… The whistle blew, steam shot forth from the massive Shay engine and a black cloud boiled out of the smokestack as the gears began to turn. It was awe-inspiring how a coal fire could move such a mammoth thing up a steep mountain. An unexpected souvenir we took with us from Cass Scenic Railroad that day was a ton of gritty coal ash in our hair that took us several days to completely wash out. Like most of my West Virginia friends, I am well acquainted with ashes…especially coal ash. When my soon-to-be-husband wanted to make a good impression on his in-laws, he offered to do the routine chore of emptying the ash pan in the stove (which allows air to flow and the fire to burn brighter). Mom instructed him to carry the pan every so carefully as not to spill any on the vinyl flooring and then back out the door, pushing it open with his backside. Under my dad’s watchful eye, Jeff tried to do everything right and was concentrating so much on not spilling any hot coals that he heard wrong or was just showing off and walked backwards all the way through the house. He truly made an impression because years later his extra effort and backing skills are still talked about. When our kids were little they’d roll down the mound at the side of the cellar in tire inner tubes but it wasn’t until recently I learned the mound had been one of Grandma’s ash piles. She would dump coal ashes there and over time built up a nice little hill that helped insulate the cellar and keep the potatoes from freezing! And apparently the ledge around the garden fence was also another one of her ash piles, purposefully constructed to prevent water from flowing into the garden from the pond. About the only other use I knew for coal ashes was before everyone had 4-wheel drive vehicles, we’d scatter the ashes on the slick, frozen, steep driveway to provide friction and get cars unstuck. Treasured wood ashes on the other hand have many uses! According to an article by Claude Davis on askaprepper.com, you can sprinkle some in corners or areas you don’t want roaches, mice, slugs, or deer. You can use ashes to preserve seeds in clay containers, or fruits and vegetables in an in-ground ash pit. And water mixed with wood ash can make lye water which kills bacteria. (Numbers 19:17 possibly points to this when an unclean person is instructed to mix water with ashes in a vessel.) Some homesteading websites also suggest you can brush your teeth with ashes made into a paste, but you have to draw the line somewhere… In the Bible they were always putting ashes on their heads and wearing sackcloth to show repentance. This year Ash Wednesday falls on Feb. 14—Valentine’s Day. What better way to fill our hearts than to lovingly repent (which can be symbolized by ashes). Job 42:2 gives us an example as he tells the Lord, “I know that you can do all things; no purpose of yours can be thwarted.” In verse three he admits he didn’t fully understand God’s plan and spoke of things he didn’t understand. (Haven’t we all been there, done that?) But in verse 6 he repents, “Therefore I retract, and I repent in dust and ashes.” In 1Kings 13:3 Jeroboam had one more chance for repentance. “And he gave a sign the same day, saying, This is the sign which the Lord hath spoken; Behold the altar shall be rent, and the ashes that are upon it shall be poured out.” Is there anything I can get rid of so the fire of the Holy Spirit could burn brighter in my life? I don’t know about you, but as for me, I’ve got some ashes to take out before the train leaves the station. We’re a month in from receiving cool gadgets for Christmas, and many of you have probably been guinea pigs for those “sharable” gifts. Growing up I recall a friend of my great-aunts who brought his new diabetic testing kit to Christmas dinner. He considered it miraculous that once a drop of your blood was squeezed onto a strip of paper he could tell if you were a diabetic or not without the necessity of med school. He wanted to test everyone but as the twinkle in his eye bounced off the pricking needle in his shaking hands, we all shrank into the furniture. Finally a couple adults reluctantly volunteered as tribute. It was a Christmas I can never forget. This year my son received a diagnostic scanner for cars that when plugged in will tell everything malfunctioning on that vehicle. Imagine if we had one of those for our soul. When our “check engine” light came on (and it would daily), we could immediately determine what needs worked on. Some things require much work but occasionally the fix is simple. Have you ever noticed how often an electronic problem can be fixed with unplugging it and then plugging it back in or flipping the right switch? While visiting Jeff’s mom in NJ we set up her Christmas tree and Christmas village with several ceramic houses and many many electrical cords. All was well until we decided to vacuum up the last of the fallen pine needles. When we turned on the vacuum cleaner everything went black. We “blew a fuse”. And then later on the farm in Hacker Valley, we again tripped the breaker when the circuit panel just couldn’t handle lights from 25 Christmas trees and the air compressor needed to blow up a flat tire. We were flipping breakers back and forth like our well-caffeinated friends who got an espresso machine for Christmas. The power source is critical. I’m not a trained expert but being raised a country girl has taught me a thing or two about power. Coal power is efficient and effective. Wood powered heat is rewarding and satisfying, speaking to a primal part of our soul. Electric power is always appreciated but is not always reliable in the mountains. The power of prayer is undoubtedly real. Many strong little communities are held together by prayer chains, and it shows. Powerball is not actually power-full so don’t let it fool you. If you’re given the opportunity to take a power nap in the middle of the day between cutting filth and gathering wood, take it. And in church, when my Pap sang “There is power, power, wonder-working power in the precious blood of the lamb”, he meant it. There’s an incredible power source that people sometimes overlook but it sure needs tapped into! Multiple scientific studies have been done involving scripture connected with neuroscience. One tested people of all ages who read the Bible four or more times a week. After three days they noticed a transformation happening. Loneliness went down 30 percent. Bitterness went down 43 percent. Watching pornography decreased 60-100 percent. Anger went down 32 percent. Yes, Grandpa Nelson, there is power in the blood of the Lamb! Let’s challenge ourselves in 2024 to read more of the Bible. May it clean out some cobwebs in our internal breaker box, and keep us grounded so the power of God can work through us as we understand more fully the sacrifice of our Lord. The stakes are higher than at a layman’s diabetic testing party. Jesus gave His life and shed His blood in our place so we could have life everlasting. “But if we walk in the light, as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.” (1 John 1:7) That’s a light that will never go out and a gift worth sharing! Open the draft on the stovepipe, shake the grate back and forth until you see some hot glowing coals drop into the ash pan, pour a coal bucket full of anthracite coal into the stove’s belly, and close the draft...I tried to give mom a break and “bank” the coal at night when I was home. Dad, unable to do physical work, was still a good supervisor, and his easy chair was positioned so he could watch the red coals drop. You wanted to see enough glowing orange in the ash pan to make room for an ample reload of coal to burn through the night but not too much red or the fire would go out. Long intro to say I know what “coal-fire-orange” looks like and I appreciate it. Today we see this color everywhere and call it “blaze orange”. It’s hard to believe that before the 1930’s our ancestors never saw it on anything other than fire, nor any of its fluorescent siblings like hot pink and safety yellow. The pigments simply didn’t exist! Brothers, Bob and Joe Switzer literally invented the colors when Bob hit his head and had to recover in a dark basement. For entertainment they experimented with a black light and chemicals (eye drops and shellac from the family’s pharmacy) to create glow-in-the-dark and florescent colors which evolved into pigments that didn’t fade and actually glowed in the daylight. They aptly named their company Day-Glo and “Coal-Fire-Orange” debuted on a Sandusky, OH billboard in the 1940’s. Later the color was popularized in product packaging (think Tide) and was even utilized by our military during WWII for visibility and safety communications. Notably nobody embraced fluorescents more than the psychedelic hippies of the 60’s, unless it was their spandex and parachute-pants wearing children in the 80’s. Truth be told most of the people I know in WV have fluorescent clothing hanging in their closet right this very minute. Probably not much spandex (but who knows)—what’s important is the color—Blaze Orange. Because apparently when participating in firearm deer season, they must have 400 square inches of their body covered in it. I can still see my dad back in the day attaching red bandanas to his hat and coat with safety pins, which he vowed met the requirements (?). He’d get his outfit ready the night before so he and his buddies could go hunt together at the crack of dawn. I don’t hunt but I have a hunting buddy—one who texts me from her hunting shanty. I remember vividly the time we were surrounded by a flock of wild turkeys which she described as surreal. I can still hear the wild gobbling ruckus I imagined. Recently her text said a pack of coyotes were howling nearby and I was a bit unnerved by it all. Another time a misty fog rolled in and we hoped her real-life hunting companion would come get her soon before I caught a cold. And then there was the text saying we got an 8 point with her bow-- and boy did we rejoice! Back when she hunted with her husband instead of her phone-a-friend, they were sitting really still waiting. There always seems to be a lot of waiting. Her husband pointed at something he wanted her to see. Her eyes got large and she said, “Are you not afraid?” And he made a face and said, “It’s just a chipmunk!” She then directed his attention to what she was seeing, which from her position was an approaching black bear! To wrap it up, may we have a Father who supervises us, siblings to create with, a friend who texts us from their hunting shanty, and companions who wait with us and warn us of approaching danger. And this Christmas may our attention be focused on celebrating together the birth of Jesus, who through His blood on the cross covers us 100 percent in Safety Red. She examined each piece of firewood that she and her sister had split with an axe. There was little rush but much intention. After assessing the size and shape of the piece, she’d carefully place it in just the right hole in the wood rick to balance out the weight or make it level. If the wood was a bit wet and needed to dry out, she’d stack three pieces headed right and then on top of them three facing the back, leaving about three inches of air space between them. Great Aunt Anna Balli sure knew how to stack wood. It was a work of art really. Even long after she was gone, her wood rack stood as a testament to setting high standards. Some years ago I stacked wood on the back porch with a friend. We worked hard and stacked it from floor to ceiling, but unlike Aunt Anna, we executed our task with much rush and little intention….and the next morning we all woke up to see a fallen wood rack. We had to stack it again. Mediocrity has been a growing problem ever since Americans have not had to work so hard to get by and luxuries have come easier. Then in 2020, with the pandemic, it almost became acceptable to do as little work as possible, either in the privacy of work-from-home situations or in public when dedicated employees were hard to find. Now it seems like slackers not only get a free pass but receive a pat on the back just for showing up! Good has become good enough. I’ll admit sometimes I’m a slacker too so I’m not going to throw stones if I live in a glass house. Besides, then I’d have to go get the stones and haul them around. And if my experience of filling potholes with river stones is any indication, throwing rocks is a hot sweaty mess, so I won’t. But admitting a problem is the first step in conquering it, so I’ve compiled a list of clues based on personal experience in an effort to help others. You might be a slacker if you’ve….Gone to the grocery store in your pajamas without a medical excuse. Loaded up on perfume, deodorant, and dry shampoo instead of taking a shower. Taken store bought food to a pot-luck in one of your own pans. Stayed home from church because of a late Saturday night, or because so-and-so might be there, or it’s raining. Posted a prayer hands emoji but forgot to talk to God. Known that something needed to be put back in its place but walked past it for two weeks. Planted but not weeded. Cut once but didn’t measure twice. Or lose hay bales in the river crossing because you did a mediocre stacking job and then didn’t secure the tie down straps on the truck load. There are not many things on earth heavier than a wet hay bale! This Thanksgiving my heart is full of gratitude for people in my life who don’t settle for mediocre. Mom, who asked for an “unspoken prayer” request every Sunday when we girls were growing up. (We just recently learned those prayers were for us.) And Dad who worked in the timber industry outside in the WV elements to provide for us and never complained. I’m also thankful for an exceptional sister who keeps me (and really everyone) grounded, a par excellent husband who is generous and organized., kids who stretch their schedules to spend time with their parents, best friends old and new who pray us through trials and triumphs, brave and smart people who contend for freedom and faith. And it goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) the most supreme, non-mediocre person of all is GOD, who when all odds were stacked against us, reached down and rescued us. (Colossians 1:13) When my husband participated in a Mudathon which included 3 miles of 40 obstacles and a mud trench, I didn’t join him. Cheering him on from the sidelines was my only option because, not to wallow in it, I simply wasn’t ready to run the course. This past August my niece ran a similar Spartan race that also included a mud challenge. She was faced with putting her entire head under the dreadful mire for a short distance OR taking the penalty lap for avoiding said challenge. I’ve thought about this extensively…What would I have done? What would you do? When asked if wearing goggles was an option, she explained how athletes usually avoided anything that would hinder running or achieving success with other obstacles. I read Hebrews 12:1 while still pondering this mud/goggle dilemma: “…let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Sometimes we have to ditch the goggles and sin, boldly put our heads down like my niece did, and keep going. Running the race is easier when we’re not weighed down with habits or thoughts that entangle us. In high school I was on the track team. My race strategy was to stay with the pack and conserve energy until the final sprint at which point I’d dig deep and pass a few runners to the finish line. It never worked very well and while sometimes I’d receive a placement ribbon, I never did win a race. To condition for those track events I’d run around the perimeter of the hayfield on our farm listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album on a Walkman knock-off. I’ve long since traded in my running shoes and the singer formerly known as Prince for a best friend who helps me solve the world’s problems as we walk, which I prefer. People all over the world are obsessed with races. We race cars, horses, goats, dogs, camels, ostriches, water buffalo, and even lawnmowers. At our annual family reunion we take seriously the big finale of racing craw crabs down a church pew. But one of the craziest races ever concocted has to be The Wife Carrying Race in which the man carries his wife upside down on his back with her legs wrapped around his neck. It’s awkward to say the least. As my dad would say, “It’s not how I would have done it.” But hey, Finland has won the title of the happiest place on earth twice so maybe there’s something to it. When someone signs up for a race, they begin training. Had I worked out more, I might have joined my husband in the Mudathon. (He doesn’t know about the Wife Carrying Race and nobody tell him!) The big question is: How are we training? Realistically, if you’re reading this you’re already a participant in a race…the human race. It’s not a sprint but one of endurance, from birth to the end of our days on earth. There are no sideline options so we must condition in order to do it well…the “gym” is our bible and our prayer room. I don’t know who needs to hear it but—persevere! When running our race, sometimes we stumble and some obstacles will be messy. Hebrews 12:2-3 encourages us to “Fix our eyes on Jesus” who endured the cross “so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.” And James 1:12 says, “Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love Him.” Crossing the finish line and receiving a crown of eternal life?! Isn’t that way better than being rewarded with a medal, a placement ribbon or a t-shirt? All I know is I need to go hit the “gym”… Growing up our parents would rein us in by saying “Don’t put the cart in front of the horse.” In other words, don’t be hasty. Another colorful saying used in our household was “jumping on the bandwagon.” This phrase began decades ago when horse-drawn wagons paraded through towns carrying loud brass bands, getting the attention of anyone within earshot. Usually this wagon accompanied political candidates or traveling circuses (now often indistinguishable). We’ve since adapted the phrase to describe someone committing themselves to a cause as if they’d jumped right on that band-wagon of revelry rolling through the streets. I admittedly have a tendency to get overly excited and jump on a bandwagon before the first song is even finished, only later finding out the music was just noise. Non-musical wagons and carts are necessary for farm work. A scene etched in my memory is Mom and Aunt Hilda stomping a mammoth-size pile of loose hay atop a precarious old wagon on a hill too steep for the baler. Another time we filled up the tractor wagon with cousins cuddled in blankets and set off like pioneers to find a cave way back on the ridge. And the year of the great harvest we replaced the cousins with hundreds of pumpkins! We nearly wore out that old hand-made tractor-wagon getting firewood every spring. In Genesis 22:6-14 young Isaac physically carried the firewood needed for the sacrifice, but in 1 Samuel 6:7-14 God brought the firewood to the people in a cart. It’s a beautiful story about God’s presence returning. The Philistines were instructed to “Get a new cart ready, with two cows that have calved and have never been yoked. Hitch the cows to the cart, but take their calves away and pen them up.” (Any farmer knows if you take cows that just birthed calves and try to send them away from their babies, they would never go in the opposite direction unless it was by God’s doing.) Next we see the cart carrying the Ark of the Covenant go and stop in the field of Joshua where the people were harvesting. They were overjoyed and quit work to offer up a burnt offering using the cows for a sacrifice and the wooden cart for the firewood. May we likewise glorify God with the gifts He brings us. Then there was the wagon recently used as a prop...As they drove along the winding road to the little church in the valley, Pastor Gary talked with his wife, Rebekah, about the sermon he planned to preach a few days later…he also wished he had a wagon to visually explain the main point of the message. When they arrived at the church 30 minutes later, there was a wagon! It was brought by a congregant for another purpose, but it was God who provided. That Sunday Pastor Gary used the wagon to explain the narrow path to life mentioned in Matthew 7:13-14 and how oftentimes we are hauling around things we don’t need…things that weigh us down. But the good news is God will help us get those things out of our wagon if we let him. Sometimes that narrow road also seems to be at an incline and when we have too much “stuff” in our wagon we can begin to back-slide. He wisely cautioned if someone is sliding back farther or faster than we are, we might wrongly feel like we are actually making progress. We need to be mindful of what’s in our wagon. And if you want to know what band-wagon is currently in town, just look at social media and see what new filter people are putting on their profile picture. All band-wagons are fun and loud, but we might not want to put the cart before the horse. Let the song play out and ask ourselves if it’s music to God’s ears before we jump on. ‘Tis the season! Yard sale season! Last week I pulled into the anticipated annual church rummage sale, wondering if I’d find the very thing I needed (maybe even something I didn’t know I needed until I saw it!) It was merely 15 minutes past opening time and already the parking lot was jam packed and almost everyone inside already! …Everyone except one woman who was actually running towards the entrance. I grinned thinking how we all need to be running towards church and picked up my pace a bit. Inside, friendly volunteers greeted us, and said not to leave until our arms were full. This seemed right as well. I cased the room, a churning sea of treasure hunters. Some kids scurried past with new aliases in wigs they found in the costume area. Men were examining boxes of tools to see if their garage needed something someone else’s didn’t. And the women were all over the place like skilled worker bees. This one needed a black purse, and that one was looking for something blousy. In housewares two college girls were getting a lesson from an older gentleman about a by-gone kitchen relic. I was enjoying their shocked amazement when my eyes landed on the love jar. Indeed, sunlight shown directly through the window, and lighted up the ceramic vessel like it was the Holy Grail. Stamped on the belly were the words “Unconditional Love”. Amazing, in this bubbling sea of humanity and not one person wanted the unconditional love! Equally interesting, obviously someone had possessed the unconditional love, and decided it was time to let it go. To me the jar was a metaphor and I too passed it by because, well, I already had it. Realistically, most material things aren’t as valuable as you might think. Even Hummels, and Beanie Babies won’t gain you a fortune, and we’d be better off collecting moments that are precious than collecting Precious Moments. Often a thing’s only value is sentimental. My hubby, Jeff, figured we’d be able to pay off the house mortgage or at least make a car payment with the sale of his authentic vintage Stewart’s root beer mug. Our yard sale visitors came and went all day, but no one offered to buy the fluorescent orange (plastic) treasure. Deflated Jeff marked it down to a quarter and then two hours later put it in the free box. Some dear friends of ours laugh about going to a garage sale when the family was not actually having a garage sale! They saw the open door and treasures scattered about the lawn so they parked and walked into the garage. The homeowner asked, “Can I help you?“ To which they politely replied “No, thank you we were just looking.” Truth be told I think everyone wants unconditional love, it’s just hard to know where to find it. There has even been some debate as to whether God actually offers us unconditional love. Romans 5:6-8 tells us that Christ died for us while we were still sinners, which seemingly demonstrates that, regardless of our “condition”, God still provides a plan of salvation for us all. This love, of course, does not mean that everyone will go to heaven, because the only door we can enter Heaven through is Jesus Christ and we should be running towards it. And herein lies the second camp of thinkers…while God’s love is unconditional His plan of salvation is not. He actually require us to do two things; repent and accept Jesus as our personal Savior, therefore faithfulness is a “condition”. The indisputable fact is that God loves us whether or not we love Him back. Obviously that kind of love can’t be bought or sold. Still, I can’t help but wonder if anyone left church that day with “Unconditional Love”…because they were looking for just that very thing. When life gives you a fallen tree, make firewood. It’s an Appalachian twist on the lemons/lemonade mindset. Admittedly, it was daunting staring at the huge trees lying in the field where spring storms had forced them to surrender. How were we ever going to solve yet another challenge added to our lengthy to-do list? My sister Cindy has a saying we often repeat, “God will provide.” And He did yet again. Cousins Chandler and Paula came with their chainsaw, wood splitter, muscle, and motivation. A quote by Henry Ford pretty much summed it up, “Chop your own wood and it will warm you twice.” He sure nailed that one! Many of those logs took two people to wrestle under the blade of the wood splitter, but in a few focused days we worked up enough firewood to keep Mom warm all winter! One thing that nearly broke me though was occasionally a log would crack open under the 28-ton pressure of the wood splitter blade to reveal several hideous flat-headed white worms sticking out of holes. Ugh! It gives me shivers just thinking about them! I wondered how they ever got into the center of the tree, so I looked them up online (which I don’t recommend unless you want to dry heave like a city-slicker). They are called Pacific Flathead Borer Beetle larvae, and the adult insect bores its way into the tree and lays eggs. They are like sin that creeps in and destroys us from the inside. Incidentally, the beetles seek out weakened or stressed trees to invade, which can also true of sin. Mountain people impress me. Firstly none of the others gagged and carried on over the Pacific Flatheads. Secondly, they knew their surroundings…naming trees and how to get them to fall in just the right spot…Oak and Locust are some of the best for firewood, but popular and sycamore aren’t ideal because they don’t produce much heat. I also learned the importance of getting firewood stored up now when winter is still months away, allowing time for the sap to dry out so the wood will be ready when the snow flies. Country folk also possess legendary tenacity and when I was ready to quit with my parched tongue dragging the ground, one of them would say spiritedly, “There’s still some room on the trailer!” I was curious if people split wood in the Bible and sure enough they did. Abraham split wood to take on the mountain for his most obedient burnt offering (Genesis 22:3). And when the Philistines returned the Ark of the Covenant to Israel in a cart drawn by two cows, the people stopped harvesting wheat, chopped up the wood of the cart, and sacrificed the cows as a burnt offering (1 Samuel 6:14). They knew what to do with the gifts God gave them, and used those gifts to praise Him. We can learn a thing or two from these ancient wood splitters. Scripture tells us God Himself did a lot of splitting. He split desert rocks to bring forth water, split water to produce dry ground, and at times split the ground to bring water. Whatever the people needed, He provided. He even split the temple’s curtain of separation! Let’s not split hairs, God sees the sin deep inside us that nobody else sees but sometimes is revealed under pressure…and He provides us with Jesus. We just need to decide what we are going to do with Jesus ASAP or as we say on the farm “lickety split!” because 1 Corinthians 15:52 indicates He will return ”in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye”. Imagine a split-second to change our forever! Let’s remember a double-minded man is unstable in all his ways, so like a good mountaineer, it might pay us to get ready in this season… because there is no time for a split decision. |
Janet Cowger- FliegelArchives
May 2024
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