What is it about truth that is so threatening? George Orwell would say, “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”

He also said “If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear” and my favorite, “What can you do against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?”.

We witnessed two bright spots recently in an otherwise dreary pattern of contention, corruption, and chaos.

Our First Lady, Melania Trump, took the stand to introduce President Trump and preceded it with the Lord’s Prayer. That act – praying in public if you’re not a minister asked there for that purpose – is an offense to many. This is the state our nation under God finds itself in during this sifting season. But it was also an act of offense rather than defense. That beautiful woman with a lion’s heart showed more courage than we usually see these days. She didn’t ask anyone’s permission. She took the matter into her own hands and took the gathering before the throne of God, Himself. All nations will answer to God. The sooner we acknowledge that, the better off we’ll be. Hers was a revolutionary act of truth.

A second bright spot was the attack on Milo Yiannapoulos, a gay conservative apologist – not the attack, but his response to it. The attack led to a publisher dropping his book deal and cancellation of an important speaking engagement. Because his life is in the public eye, there are numerous tapes of his comments, refutations, sharp wit, and dark humor. Stopdonaldtrumppac.com found some things he had said and twisted them to mean something else. This is the same group that once tweeted “we hate white children”. Lovely people. The accusation was meant to keep him from speaking out. We’ve become used to attacks and condemnations without conscience, but this one was, frankly, from hell, itself. * **

However, I am taking a stand for this man with whom I don’t have much in common, but who is amazingly gifted. Milo has faced much criticism and opposition over at least the last few years. Why? He tells the truth, brutally sometimes and eloquently other times. To accuse someone who has been sexually abused of pedophilia is one of the most hateful things I can think of. This group and others taking up the war cry struck at him with skillful timing. And Milo stepped up and displayed more strength than his accusers might imagine in anyone, including themselves. He publicly acknowledged the abuse perpetrated on him from age 13. (Think for a minute how harsh and despairing that is for a boy on the cusp manhood.) He rejected the accusation of pedophilia and voiced his disgust with such things. He apologized for any hurt those who have been sexually abused felt from his careless words. He refused to see himself as a victim and encouraged others to not see themselves as victims either. (Well that’s refreshing.) And he resigned from his job in order to spare his employer trouble. His clear, immediate, and rather gracious response is something to emulate. He didn’t once raise his voice during his press conference though those there were no doubt happy with his uncomfortable situation. He did what he does so well. He articulately spoke the truth.

Consider these three people. I don’t suppose I would have liked George Orwell personally, but his words are worth thought from everyone regardless of politics. I don’t know whether any of the three I mention here has a relationship with Jesus or if they want one. *** The thing about truth is that it’s true regardless of who says it. And here’s one more truth: The real conflict here isn’t about politics or even about free speech. The war isn’t one of words only. It’s a battle for truth, a war for souls, a battle between heaven and hell. Satan takes no prisoners. His native language is lies. If you fight him from one side, he’ll come at you from the other before you can catch your breath. You don’t have to agree with me or even believe there are such things. But in this time of universal deceit, we need courageous people who tell the truth regardless of the fallout. There’s more at stake than this world dreams of.

* I believe all sexual perversion is wrong, including homosexuality and child sexual abuse. I also believe all sin, seen and unseen, is wrong. (It seems to me that some sin is more detrimental than others depending on how many people are affected, how long they are affected, and the degree to which the person sinning is intentional.) However, all sin, known to others or not, is an affront to our Creator and acts as a death sentence without Christ’s redemption.

** There is a very real concern about pedophilia in this population; but not by this particular person.

*** I hope they do, because their bravery is something He would approve.

Quote: Partial quote from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of”.

Did your grandma clip things out of the newspaper or magazine and send them to you? Does your aunt still do that? How about your mom?

I was chatting with someone about this just the other day. I come from a long line of clippers. Over a lifetime I’ve gotten more clippings and articles than I can count. Whether or not I agreed with them, I dutifully read them, knowing that the one who took the time to send it thought it important enough to take that time to get it to me. Okay. Sometimes I just scanned them. I know I’m not the only one.

The thing is, clipping an article and sending it to someone is a way of saying, “Here. I think this is worthwhile. Maybe your day/week/life will be somehow enriched by these words.” Maybe it’s even saying, “I love you.”  And the person receiving it sighs, maybe rolls his eyes, glances at it, keeps it for a short period of time and then throws it away.

Enter Facebook. Let’s pause and take a sip of coffee first. Nicely done.

Sharing thoughts, beliefs, and information is an imperfect effort. No matter how or when, we really don’t perfectly understand each other very often. But we keep trying anyway. And now we’re living in a time when our lives are very much affected by what’s going on around us. Think what you wish, but I really don’t think things are going to get better. They are going to get worse. They are going to get more heated because time is short and Jesus is simply waiting to hear “Now”. Putting our hands to our ears won’t change that. Withdrawing from the news won’t change it. Neither will puppy posts. Okay, puppy posts might change it for a minute.

This blog post isn’t about the snarky and sometimes kind-of funny posts or the obnoxious why-would-anyone-write-much-less-share posts or the downright mean posts. I am writing about articles that float around the internet cloud and somehow find their way to your newsfeed. They are articles you love and articles you hate. Depending on who your friends are you get a lot of clippings. A downpour of clippings. A torrent of clippings. Folks get tired of the clippings. They’re getting bleary-eyed from the clippings. I’d like to take this moment to remind you, and myself, too, what those likes or shares or posts represent. They represent time your friend took to read something and (admittedly short) time they took to share it. Maybe you think it’s a decent article. Perhaps you shake your head and look at the ceiling. Or more likely still, you just scroll right on by. Why should you care what they think or what they’ve learned or thought about? But let’s remember what’s behind the effort: “Here. I think this is worthwhile. Maybe your day/week/life will be somehow enriched by these words. I love you.”

Sometimes life hands you things you don’t recognize for the gifts they are until you’ve done all the other things that appealed to you on some level and required work to achieve, but weren’t quite the things that made the most sense for you to do. God must shout down to us, “Look in front of you! No, not there – here, in front of you!” Then in our wisdom, we smile and thank Him for helping us there, not here. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s just a little funny. It’s not like we can’t enjoy a myriad of journeys. That’s part of the delight of life.

According to a sweet woman who, though shrinking, is still ten feet tall (my mother), when I was four I used to prop up my brothers’ piano music and play it in another key. I didn’t yet read music. It wasn’t until I had my fourth child that it occurred to me that I might write music. I’ll tell that story another time.

I’m writing this for two reasons. First, though you can’t see it, I have been working on my music. Still. Just slowly. And, boy, am I having fun – fun with the music and amazed at how I put an extra 16th beat in numerous measures for one of the songs. I didn’t say I was great. I said I was doing something that’s fairly natural to me. It’s probably even more natural to someone else, but – people – we work with what we have! 🙂 The first children’s musical I wrote was published with Meriwether Publishing – who sold it to Christian Publishers, https://www.christianpub.com/default.aspx?pg=ab&afn=Connie&aln=Pease . I still get a royalty check every year. It’s the little musical that could. For now, though, I’m going to keep closer control and so I am publishing with JW Pepper on MyScore. You can look there, http://www.jwpepper.com/myscore/comemessiah, for my musicals. My children’s musical, Come, Messiah! is already available as is the sheet music for Softly Now He Comes. Whither will be ready for purchase (if the Good Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, as they say) in another week or two. Or three.

Secondly, and more importantly, is just to say to you: You know that thing you do that makes time pass more quickly than you can imagine? The thing that seems to not hold much value because it’s just fun (for you)? Or interesting? The thing that grabs you and doesn’t let you go? Do that.

Maybe you’ll hear God shouting, “Look in front of you! No, not there – here, in front of you!” And you can smile and thank Him and . . . do it.

image: publicdomainpictures.net

Back in the day I had three delightful little girls who loved pink and purple and twirly skirts. Into their lives came a little brother who changed Barbies’ nice little town into one of dinosaurs lurking around every corner. They all grew up. Tastes have refined, but in some respects things haven’t changed all that much.

“I think they need a little grunge.”

We were walking amidst the greatest mess I’ve ever seen in Walmart. Truly. It was like walking down Bourban Street during Mardis Gras. It was December 23rd. I was just there as a support person for my son who thus far in his life is following the stereotypical man plan of Christmas shopping at the last minute.

Grunge wasn’t his first choice, but that choice was impossible to manage here in the place of the great unwashed with its low price guarantee. I suggested and he considered leggings in wild colors, and we sorted through them (why do things come in every size but the one you need?). I could kind of see it, though in my heart of hearts had to acknowledge it might be a stretch for the three sisters for whom he shopped. We trudged out of the store shortly thereafter.

On to the next place. Thank heavens there are only half a million stores in the city. He was resolute about his choice of gift. He knew exactly what he was looking for. I could hardly question it. After all, what do I know? I was giving socks and epsom salts to relatives.

And then, what to my wondering eyes should appear . . . not a miracle, but a sweet surprise. On Christmas this year graphic tees were unwrapped and immediately and delightedly donned. Truly delightedly.

So if you see a young woman who usually looks fairly put together walking around in a Red Hot Chili Peppers graphic tee, just remember she has a brother who gave her the perfect present. Take that, Barbie.

Images: http://www.sears.com/young-men-s-graphic-t-shirt-johnny-cash/p-043VA71329312P?sid=IDx01192011x000001&gclid=Cj0KEQiAhZPDBRCz642XqYOCpb8BEiQANUcwT_6M1i1uzOBg3biUeR9JxKJGmkSKBlBBHUTFBAmdnDgaAivM8P8HAQ&gclsrc=aw.ds; https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3ARHCP_Logo.svg; https://c1.staticflickr.com/7/6038/6238053350_5caa82f469_b.jpg

There is a little white chapel on the grounds of a beloved church camp. It rests near the road with a line of trees protecting it from the infrequent traffic of a nearby highway. Windows line the sides, and a large window reaches across the front.

I love that little white chapel. It’s heard a lot of inspiring sermons and music; seen hand-holding, laughter, and tears; and witnessed quiet prayers when no one was there but the one praying. I’ll bet I’m not the only one who’s done that.

Pine Haven Christian Assembly’s 75th Anniversary Celebration was held just this past weekend. We had more people than that little chapel could hold. We’d planned for an all-out rip the seams kind of Saturday with activities of all kinds and a hog roast and an outdoor service. People had come from all over the place. They were returning to a camp that had touched them and made an impact on their lives.

Saturday morning I walked past the flatbed in place for our outdoor service. I walked past the folks who’d risen in the early hours to put tents up for our 7:00 service that evening. And I walked over to the camp manager who told me there was a 100% chance of rain at 6:00 p.m. Sure enough. I could see that red storm cell headed straight for us. We were given the terms. Not 90%. Not 99%. One hundred percent doesn’t leave much wiggle room; but you know and I know that plan B is never as good as plan A.

Don’t you just love a challenge? I told the campers about the forecast and asked them to pray. And they did. It’s what Christians do. I don’t know what they prayed, but I’ll tell you a little about my prayers. I reminded God about His parting the Red Sea and the Jordan and all those things He’s done – big ones that everybody knows about and small ones that hardly anybody knows about. I asked Him for a favor. I told Him we’d go with what He preferred, but I preferred plan A, and if He’d be willing, we’d love it if He’d help us out and hold back the rain. Please. Please, please. I reminisced with Him about the time when there was a drought and He sent a gully washer because Elijah asked Him to. I reminded Him about how He loved this place. I suggested it could rain on the town, it could rain on the nearby cabins, it could rain everyplace else but this spot. Please just pass over this place. He knows something about Passovers, after all.

That afternoon the manager showed something to me on her very spiffy phone. The storm cell was splitting in two and going above and below our little camp. After we both stared at it, I commented, “Asked and answered” and she, being a woman of faith, agreed. And then the first raindrop fell. Really??!!!

But God was just having a little fun, a little teasing, a little question – even in the face of appearances to the contrary, do you still believe?

The rain stayed long enough for the baseball game hold-outs to get soaked, though I don’t know if they used a PA system to announce the game or had the Caribou mascot or drone for a “fly over” or bat spin race between innings or raffle or softball bingo (I did say rip the seams kind of plans, remember?) . . . The rain stayed long enough that we didn’t get to do wall-climbing or some of the other afternoon activities. But everyone did get in some really great re-connecting and visiting. And then, oh yes, then. Then. It. Stopped.

We just watched fireworks not very many days ago. Some of us watched them while lying on our backs in a park with a crowd of people around us. Some of us sipped something from a cup while nestled in a lawn chair near the shore and saw the result of someone’s magnificent efforts across a lake. Some of us crowded around a small stash of tiny fireworks and enjoyed their valiant sparks as only family members can.

We oohed and we ahhed. We clapped at our favorites. Maybe we remembered the initial idea – that these explosions were reminders of “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air” and how our flag, the symbol of our free nation, was still there at the end of it all.

But while we watched those fireworks, more likely than not we forgot one thing. We didn’t think about who was setting them off. Unless there was an error, it’s likely we didn’t notice much about the initial spark that started them. We couldn’t trace the outlines of those folks. It was too dark. They were too far away.

I love 4th of July fireworks. At the end of the show, though, I always feel a little overwhelmed. There are eventually so many explosions, it’s hard to take them all in. Look at that one! See the one there! I think that one’s the most astounding of all! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

That feeling I get after fireworks is now part of every day life. The climate is too cold! It’s too hot! We have to stop the changing temperature by doing this! No, that’s not right; we have to do that! If we do this it will adversely affect that – which anyone with half a brain knows would be terrible! Someone was shot! Oh no! Now a lot of someones were bombed! We should do this! No, that thing would be much better! We shouldn’t eat that thing anymore! Wait! It’s actually good for us! We should really stay away from that! Someone cheated! Someone lied! Someone shouldn’t be blamed for his own behavior since he had a tough childhood! Someone should be blamed not only for his behavior but that of those around him! A woman should have the right to abort her baby if she doesn’t want it! Spanking children is wrong! Sex can be decided by a person, not nature! Marriage should have parameters! Marriage should be available to everyone and everything – it’s about love! What people do in the privacy of their own homes is their business! We should limit privacy to protect ourselves! Someone offended someone else! Now more people are offended! Truth is relative! Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true for someone else! There is no truth and you’re not only insensitive, but all kinds of nasty things if you say there is!

Remember when we knew we didn’t have all the answers? When we prayed over big and small problems during prayer meeting on Wednesday nights and every day at home? When our president would use God’s name with reverence rather than as a prop? When the eyes of a majority were fixed on Jesus? Fixed: meaning focused.

If you ask me, someone’s doing a brilliant job of distracting us. Next time – and there will be a next time before you blink – you hear a new thing on the news, or see it on your computer or phone, or read about it in the newspaper, or listen to those around you talk about it; think about the thing no one else is seeing. Think about the *source.

Video: Youtube, Fireworks filmed with drone, drone hub; *John 8:44b, *Romans 1:25-32

You know how when you’re under 30 and you have a pretty good idea about what your life will look like and what it won’t look like? What you will look like and won’t look like?

Regarding those little things in life: I was going to wear make-up every day and my hair would look good. I would wear clothes that matched. Wearing slippers in the middle of the day hadn’t occurred to me, and if it had I would have scoffed. I would maintain self-discipline and be healthy.

I started strong. I used to do a pretty impressive set of calisthenics every morning when I woke up and every evening before I went to bed. I had energy! I was slim! I could run 5 miles with only a little spitting!

But then, well, you know how it goes. Earlier this year I pulled a back muscle that had been taxed over the years with sporadic heavy lifting and shoveling. This time it led to back spasms and middle of the night deliberations on whether inhaling or turning was worth the price.

I can’t complain. After all, as I write, my mother is sitting in my living room in a back brace (for her compression fracture) watching Dr. Phil.

However, something needs to be done before I end up like the dear one in my living room. Don’t you think we should make the effort to be strong? To strengthen the weak? Lift up the fallen? I’m sure Jesus wants it of us. Those kinds of thoughts drifted through my mind as I lay on my back on a Pilates reform bar trying to see if the trainer was kidding when she said to put my feet into two small black cuffs. It was enough of a challenge to remember whether I was supposed to breathe out or in. The cuffs weren’t by my feet. They weren’t even by my knees. They were above my head. Above my head. 

I managed to do it (applause here). Apparently not as well as I thought, because we didn’t continue that exercise very long.

They say that the benefits of Yoga include better spatial memory, but I’m not a Hindu and I can remember where I put my car keys. Pilates, though? I really did like my free consultation. The lady was very nice to me and laughed only once. It was when I said “Good luck to me” just before the cuff effort. I might go back. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll tell you one thing, though. It’s easier to breathe when you’re driving home.

Image: smiling winter girl, public domain

I recall a time years ago when my mother remarked about someone who wasted his time just gazing into a fish tank, talking to the fish. It wasn’t a comment of admiration. Enter Chub Chub.

My son’s university biology class offered its goldfish to whichever college students wanted them. At Easter, he brought his college-educated fish home until such time as he can offer it more luxurious accommodations than a cramped dorm room.

Little Chub Chub was apparently highly influenced by his initial surroundings. He doesn’t seem content to just swim around as I would think fish the wide world over do. Perhaps he grew used to the noise and conversation of a college class or the activity of a dorm room, because whenever someone enters the room, he rushes over to the front of the fish bowl, looks like he’s reciting Ronald Reagan’s “Remarks at the Brandenburg Gate” with great gusto, and dances up a storm. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Yes, I’ve begun talking to the fish. Honestly, it seems rude not to.

I happened to mention it to my mother the other day, knowing what was coming. Even though she is currently laid up with a compression fracture, even though she very recently lost her husband of 64 years, even though there is not much joy in Mudville just now, she managed to convey a degree of disdain and long-suffering that held in it a number of the unspoken thoughts of someone who, frankly, has a right at this point in life to have. She’s right, of course. But . . .

Oh Chub Chub. If only you weren’t so highly animated I could ignore you. However, on one point, let me be clear. No matter how much I admired Reagan, I will not “tear down this wall”. After all, conversation between species notwithstanding, there are some lines that cannot be crossed.

Image: By Pogrebnoj-Alexandroff (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons; reference: Casey At The Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer; reference: Remarks on East-West Relations at the Brandenburg Gate in West Berlin by Ronald Reagan, June 12, 1987.