Random Ponderings

Spring

/ bobbiblanchard / 2 Comments

Darkness, defined, is the absence of light. Buried deep within it, immobilized by the weight, you lose sense of up or down, left or right. Scents and tastes do not penetrate. Why am I here? What do I do? How do I get out? There is a penetrating coldness that seeps in and permeates your deepest corners.

Just when the isolation threatens to consume you, you start to hear. You’re not truly alone. The warmth of the Son thaws and softens the weight. The reassuring stirring within you brings an awareness of life. In the absolute stillness you listen thoughtfully and prayerfully and gain a sense of direction. HandsThere it is, the hand to guide you. It’s been there all along, holding onto you. You just couldn’t see it. But now, you can feel it. You grab on tight. And hold onto the promise that He will never let you go. Fall

Hands and prayers lift you up. The process is painstakingly long. You’re in too deep and you’re not strong enough to make it on your own. You lose your grip. Your process is slowed. But He hasn’t lost His. Powerful, loving hands still hold yours. Words written on your heart become a mantra in your mind. Phillipians

 

Hold on.

Follow Me.

You can hear the soft rain of truth gently poured out, raining down and saturating the dark around you.

Tighten your grip.

Light

Now you can see it. The light of the Son, penetrating the darkness and overcoming it. Your path is becoming clearer and you are pushing through.

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You were not buried at all. You had been planted. You weren’t just struggling to the surface, you’d been laying roots. Roots deep enough and strong enough to hold fast to the truth planted within your heart. Tenderly sprouting to the surface, buffeted by the cool winds of spring, soaking rains and thawing snow, you strain towards the light of hope in the Son.

Roots

And rejoice in the roots sewn so deep there is promise of the strength to endure, to persevere, to grow in Christ, and bear much fruit. The darkness is fresh in your memory and there are some bruises from the battle to the surface, but the darkness did not overcome!

And now! Now you can see the beauty of His grace surrounding you. His creation coming to life, blooming in a palette no artist can capture. You can hear His birds singing His praises and smell the damp earth shrugging off the last remnants of frost.

I will bask now in the warmth of the Son, soak in every last drop of truth poured out onto me, grow roots ever deeper in Christ and bear as much fruit as He calls me to. For today is the day that the Lord has made and I will rejoice and be glad in it for His glory, and my good.

 

Food For Thought

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spiritual milk.jpg

I encourage you to listen to the above podcast of a great message from our pastor, Mike, a few weeks ago on 1 Peter 2 in it’s entirety. However, if you are short on time, for the purposes of this particular blog, at the very least skip to about 31:45.

At about 34:20, if you listen closely, you might be able to hear me giggle and clap. Convicted. Because this image came into my mind.

birds

I’m convinced that our beloved pastor has, on occasion, looked into our congregation and seen this. If you look closely, that is me, the one on the right screaming, “feed me!”. I spent years (I know, right?) walking into that worship center waiting and begging to be “fed”. I longed for pure spiritual milk. I was dependent on someone to take a chunk of the meat of the Bible, dig into it, digest it for me, and feed it to me on a weekly basis.

This, in itself, I don’t think is a bad thing. We have all been places where, consumed with trial or suffering, we require a helping hand to “feed” us. And there are people perfectly gifted to nurture us in this way. But what happens when this is our only source of nourishment? We will have a “failure to thrive”. If you’re a parent, you know those are some of the worst feared words of a parent. There comes a time when milk is no longer sufficient to sustain your child’s growth. And, there comes a time in your walk of faith that it’s not sufficient to sustain your spiritual growth either.

So, what had stunted my own spiritual growth? Me. I had some ill conceived notions that my only source of nourishment was supposed to be corporate worship. That instruction manual was huge, and was surely meant for people gifted to read it, interpret it, and translate it into layman’s terms for “the rest” of us. Thankfully, I was pressed to take a Bible 101 class and with my first true step of obedience, I signed up. I learned some incredible things. First, I can read it. Second, He intended me to read it. And third, the more I read it, the clearer it becomes!

Another blessing in that step of obedience was the encouragement from those that were gifted to teach it and obedient in using that gift for His glory. They provided me with resources to give me the confidence to dig in on my own. Our pastor, Dave, shared a “light bulb” moment on a verse he had read just that morning for probably the hundredth time. They, too, looked up answers to questions they didn’t know. If these people still learned something new after years of study, if they still had to look up answers to questions, and still used tools to find them and consulted other Believers, then maybe I could too! Suddenly, this very large book of instructions seemed manageable and not so intimidating.

I like to think that I may have now progressed to toddlerhood. I still require supervision. I am still learning the rules and gaining the self control to follow them. I have a lot to learn, but I do know where to look for help when I need it. Some of my steps are clumsy but there is so much joy in the successful completion. I have days, okay sometimes weeks, where because of circumstances I still require a good deal of hand feeding. But now there are also days that I rejoice in some newfound taste and texture that He has revealed to me and the discovery only whets my appetite for more! Those days, I am praying hard for the next “growth spurt”!

Have you ever experienced a “plateau” of your faith? If so, what helped you move past it? What was holding you back? If you are currently, I challenge you to step out, however wobbly, in obedience. If you are actively seeking Him and His truth, He will meet you where you are, with the nourishment you need!

1 Peter 2

2 Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind. 2 Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation, 3 now that you have tasted that the Lord is good.

Hebrews 5:12-14

12 In fact, though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you the elementary truths of God’s word all over again. You need milk, not solid food! 13 Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. 14 But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.

 

Revelation

/ bobbiblanchard / 4 Comments

When we built our current home, my favorite room was the kitchen. After leaving my career as Electronic Data Interchange Coordinator for Chief Executive Homemaker years before, my kitchen had become my “office”. I spend most of my time there so I put a lot of thought into the layout and décor. Ten years later, I still love this space, even if it’s probably getting a little dated. The pale, warm, butter yellow walls, light oak cabinets, and accents of sage green, cream, and tan never fail to relax me. My favorite time of the day is (late) morning when warm sun pours in through windows dotted with sticky fingerprints, reflects off those yellow walls, and fills my kitchen with a sense of calm that belies the chaos it’s usually in. The counter tops are a magnet for things like forgotten homework assignments, chapstick tubes, and Hello Kitty erasers. The refrigerator is decorated with masterpieces created by grade school artists on one side, and the front sports a hard working calendar that schedules five precious souls. My “drop spot”, well organized with slots for unpaid bills, things that need to be filed, and hooks for keys is usually overflowing and accompanied by an assortment of chargers and their accompanying electronic devices. The sink is full of evidence of a well fed family and my stove top constantly needs to be cleaned because of pots that have boiled over during busy evening meal preparations. My oven is never clean for very long and the proof is the smell of apple pie drippings when you turn it on because as soon as I clean it I am guaranteed to forget to put a cookie sheet under my next pie or overflowing casserole large enough for our family. My office is not perfect. It is well worn, hard working, well loved, and the center of our home. I can only pray that it is a reflection of me, as it is the place I am most comfortable in.

I know some amazing women who diligently spend time with Jesus, every morning, in their “cloffice” or “war room”. If you’ve read some of my other posts you will know that I’m not talking about myself. My current Valley finds me with three young children and two of them now with medical concerns. I spend much of my time on the “needs” of my little family but I am slowly learning to incorporate Mom’s time with Jesus. And what I’ve discovered is that there is something special about my kitchen. Maybe because, as the esteemed Homemaker, this is my office. Or, maybe it is simply because I spend so many hours there surrounded by dirty dishes, school work, meal preparation and clean up, and the never ending scheduling required of a family of five. Or, it could very well be because it’s the place my children often avoid for fear of being put to work. Whatever the reason, I realized yesterday this seems to be the place He comes to me, and I to Him, most often.

As I’m prone to do, I was doing my morning chores, undoing the damage to my kitchen the night before, and worshiping while I worked. This time, I was singing and dancing to Third Day’s “Revelation” while emptying, filling the dishwasher, and washing pots and pans. A quick peak into the living room confirmed the toddler was content with important robot building. I had a moment to pray.

Father, please show me what to do. I can’t see the completed work of this valley, but you do. Tell me, please, do I stay or do I move? I truly need a revelation here Lord!

And once again, I was brought to the floor of my beloved kitchen. Staring at those hard wood floors Hubby labored to give me, which were currently covered in dog hair, cat hair, a few crumbs, and a Lego I would find again later with bare feet. This time though, it was with grateful tears streaming past lips curved into a smile on a face upturned in gratitude to my Father.

Child, I’ve been telling you. You just haven’t been listening.

I sat on the floor shaking my head as the pieces that had been eluding me for months rolled around and miraculously fit themselves together.

Thank you, Father!! I am so sorry for not listening. Thank you for once again pursuing me. For pouring out yet more grace and love and meeting me where I am to gently and persistently open my stubborn eyes!

You see, He had answered my prayers. Several times it turned out. But, because it wasn’t the answer I was looking for, one of the options I had in mind, I didn’t see it.

Psalm 23:3 (NIV)

3     he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
    for his name’s sake.

Psalm 17:6 (NIV)

6 I call on you, my God, for you will answer me;
    turn your ear to me and hear my prayer.

Toddler robot construction completed, he was hungry. He may have been a little surprised to find Mom on the floor, crying and smiling. He may have even been questioning my sanity. I set him up with his lunch at the  kitchen table. As usual, he ate his pickles first and asked for more. I assured him I hadn’t lost my marbles and that he still needed to eat the rest of his lunch before he got any more pickles. Two minutes later, maybe testing my mental status, he asked again. I told him we go over this every time, just because you are looking for a different answer, doesn’t mean I’m going to change my mind. I don’t know where he gets this from?!

 

Prayer

/ bobbiblanchard / 2 Comments

At our Pray First breakfast at church I received a welcome message from our well traveled pastor on prayer. He spoke of the differences in the way people pray around the world. Some pray with abandon, some are reserved, some very solemnly, some structured, some eloquent, and yet others who break into songs of worship and in unison return to prayer as if on some unspoken schedule. As prayer is not something that has come easily to me, I am encouraged to know that so many, pray so very differently.

You see, learning to pray in my thirties was intimidating and supremely uncomfortable. This may sound strange to those of you raised in the church, or in a family of believers. I assure you though, that a person can make it well into adulthood without having ever opened a Bible, or spoken purposely and thoughtfully to the One who made them.

Although I’d had my first glimpse  of faith in my great grandmother as a preteen, and I truly believe she was a woman of great faith, she was not particularly evangelical. Though at the time I knew there was a special peace about her and I saw her faith poured out into her life, I never heard her pray. No help there. So, with no experience to draw from, I was left to try to figure this thing out on my own.

I had been attending our church regularly and I was so often blown away by the prayers of some of our elders and pastors. Literally moved to tears by the obvious praise, love, and worship they seemed to so effortlessly pour out of their hearts, into words dripping with sincerity, and soaring to the One who made them. Prayers that touched me so deeply I was positive they had to be pleasing to His ears as well. In hindsight, I realize this gave me some preconceived notions about what my prayers should/would look like. In reality, it went something like this.

Kneeling. Has our bed always been this high? Maybe I can just sit on the bed. Or is posture important? Better just stay put.

Fold Hands. Okay, but now they’re above my head. That feels weird. Maybe if I kneel on a pillow? A little better. Am I stalling?

Pray. How do I start? Like a letter, with a greeting and a body, closing and maybe a postscript? That doesn’t seem right.

Throat Clearing.

Squeaking. Ahhh!!! This isn’t going well! Okay, hang in there. We will just pray silently.

Pray. Praise! I think I start with praise! Then thanksgiving? Then what I want? That just seems greedy. Gee, thanks for…EVERYTHING, now can I have more? Maybe I need to do some more research. Yes. I will get a book. Okay. I tried, right?

I realize now I may have set the bar a little high. I truly did want to pray but I’m pretty sure I thought it would come naturally. It didn’t. And, discouraged, I didn’t try again for awhile. That was exhausting! But, like so many things (i.e. Fifth grade math), I was pressed to learn so that I could teach my children. After all, if they didn’t see me do it, or if I didn’t teach them, chances are they may have that same awkward encounter.

So, like fifth grade math, I did a little reading so they wouldn’t catch on to the fact I didn’t know what I was doing. I came up with a plan. I memorized the Lord’s Prayer. images (2)Then, I taught it to them. After awhile, I started asking them if there was anything or anyone they wanted to ask God to help or if there was anything they wanted to thank Him for. Oh, the things they came up with! I was so touched by their thoughtfulness, but mostly by their genuineness. Wait, what?! No, my children were not eloquent. Their prayers were not well organized or brilliant. But they were beautiful for their heartfelt honesty.

Okay, God, I get it.

So, I tried again. And again. And again. And what I discovered is that when I step out in obedience, He takes me the rest of the way. Like a toddler learning to walk, there were first awkward steps (accompanied by a small sense of triumph), a few cushioned falls (habits are hard to learn too), and a couple of bumps along the way. But He has held my hand and led me through. There were several bumps when I’d get caught up in those preconceived notions. Really, I was kind of hoping I’d be a little more organized in my prayers than my children are.

But, I have realized that when the valley I’m in is hard, when my prayers are tangled and chaotic, or worse, when I just don’t even know what to pray for, He already knows. Thank you Jesus! He knows my Valley, He made my mind and He already knows what I need. The most important part is that I bring my heart.

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Hope

/ bobbiblanchard / 4 Comments

I have spent the last three days in a place too closely resembling the dark. I’m sure the details of which will come pouring out in a later blog, but for now, I thought I’d take advantage of the insomnia and a brief moment of clarity while treading water to share a small, yet significant, light bulb moment.

I have discovered, unfortunately, that there is something about pain and loss that makes me incredibly near sighted. Not the kind of near sighted I had fixed by a gifted ophthalmologist a few years ago, but the kind of near sighted that makes it virtually impossible for me to see past my own haze of pain and loss, to the world around me and the kingdom above me. Let me see if I can string enough words together to explain.

There is the kind of pain that explodes into your life with such force that you can’t believe that people within a two mile radius didn’t feel the reverberations. That makes you surprised that everywhere you look, people are just continuing on about life as if the world hasn’t actually slowed to a near stand still. They are going to work, buying groceries, and watching TV as if the searing hot white blast that is still causing your ears to ring and the breath to leave your lungs never happened.

There is the kind of loss that creates such a Huge void in your life that it sucks down with it things like laughter, days of the week, people’s names, prior commitments, and the ability to multi task. You stand at the edge of this vortex desperately trying to keep hold of your sanity with a white knuckled grip on HOPE. And sometimes that pain, it’s sucked down with the loss for awhile too. I believe it’s called “shock”.

But that HOPE I’m gripping? It’s not truly in my hands. It’s in the hands of my Savior. Or rather, at the foot of His cross.

This past Sunday, our message was titled, “Christ Centered Hope”. And I was blessed with the reminder of this message today. I’d like to say that my brain was functioning well enough that I remembered it myself. But alas, this information was in the fuzzy area obscured by pain and lost somewhere in the void. No, when I frantically searched for a piece of paper to write down our latest diagnosis and testing appointments, this conversation guide was closest at hand. Thank you God!

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Colossians 3:1-2New International Version (NIV)

3 Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. 2 Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.

So, where is my HOPE? Is it centered on the transient things of this world like finances, relationships, and health? Or is it focused on the HOPE in Christ?

Today, I am struggling to remind myself where I need to place my hope. I am struggling to see further than the pain and loss. Today, I am incredibly near sighted. But I’m also incredibly grateful that He is meeting me where I am and occasionally breaking through that haze to remind me that this is not my home, and my hope is not in my hands, but seated at the right hand of God. And He is with me.

For anyone reading who is struggling through the near sightedness of pain and loss, to see further than the grief:

Psalm 119:114  New International Version (NIV)

114 You are my refuge and my shield;
    I have put my hope in your word.

Isaiah 40:31  New International Version (NIV)

31 but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint.

Pray First

/ bobbiblanchard / 8 Comments

I just got an invitation to our church’s second annual “Pray First” breakfast. This time last year I took a look at my prayer life. Yes, I had made significant progress, but, was I praying first?? I wanted to! So often I found myself in the evening, worn down from all of the NEEDS and distractions, and messes. Thankful for the exhausted quiet that permeated the house. And lamenting every poor word choice, missed opportunity with the kids, and things I didn’t accomplish. When I stumbled, exhausted, into our bedroom, listening to Hubby’s rhythmic snores and the static of the baby monitor… I’d finally pray. And because this was the first time today, it took awhile! And because it was the first time today, half of my prayer was confession of every thing I did wrong that day. And begging for help for the next! So, was there room for improvement? Boy Howdy!!

But what does that look like? Realistically? Let me paint you a word picture.

I was blessed with two boys, who since crossing the threshold as squalling, wrinkled infants subscribed to the whole “early bird catches the worm” nonsense. I place the blame for this affliction squarely on Hubby’s broad shoulders. His mother confessed (after we were safely married) that until puberty Hubby also had the bizarre notion to rise with the sun. Now, our amazing daughter and I would happily stumble into our day at a much more reasonable hour, like lunch time.

So,even though I’m routinely woken up by a demanding toddler at the indecent hour of 5 a.m., this does not mean my brain is actually functioning. It goes something like this.

5 – Retrieve toddler, three “favorite” blankies and try to convince him to watch cartoons in my bed and stay quiet. Retrieve waffle. Retrieve milk. Change soggy diaper.

6 – Oldest boy wakes up. Send him to try matching again (also Hubby’s affliction). Sign folder. REMIND. Wash face, with soap. Brush teeth. Try again. Put deodorant on. Help him find socks, that match. Violin. Kindle. Coat. Eat your breakfast!! Out the door! 

7 – Wake up sleepy daughter.Repeat basic procedure minus the matching difficulties and add in time for the four feet of hair. Dress uncooperative toddler. Retrieve a dozen toys he needs to bring with.

8 – Out the door!

8:10 – Send daughter back in for her backpack.

8:15 – Everyone is strapped into their seats!

This is it! I close the passenger door, brain is functioning, I breathe that sigh of relief. If you’re a parent, you know the one. When they’re all buckled in and no one can escape and it’s QUIET!

Before I get in I realize, this is my moment! I stand shivering in the cold, watching my breathe come out in little white wisps of winter air and look at the sun He has given me today. I close my eyes and thank Him for car restraints, for helping me through a morning of chaos in which I’ve done nothing they’ll later pour out on a therapist’s couch, for the opportunity to care for this crazy family He’s given me. And ask for His guidance for the rest of the day, etc. At this point the natives are restless and a squabble is starting. Renewed, I get in the van, explain that Mommy needed a minute with Jesus, and tell them to turn on the Veggie Tales!

A funny thing happens when I “start” my day this way. During the ride to school I’m singing, out loud  (much to their dismay), songs of worship instead of mentally going over my list for the day. I get home and take advantage of Sesame Street and take a shower. But instead of rushing through my routine, to get to my chores, I take the time to put on the armor of God.

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This small amount of scripture, given to me at a Dwelling Place meeting at church, has helped ground me in His Word more mornings than not.

Sporadically throughout the day, when I’m counting backwards from ten for the tenth time, when I open that enormous unexpected medical bill, when I get that phone call, that threatens to send me into waves of anxiety and fear I am slowly remembering to stop and pray first. Do I do this perfectly? Not even close. But when I do, I’m rewarded with the reminder that I am not alone. That this place is not my home. That He will use all of this and make it good! And my thoughts are centered not on myself, but on the One who made me. Thank you Jesus!!

Someday. Someday when these whirlwind mornings become a thing of the past, I will miss it. Someday when I no longer need sheets of paper in my bathroom with life sustaining scripture just to catch a few minutes of His Word, or a broken piece of Alibaster jar in my purse to remind me who I’ve surrendered my whole mess to, or a blue bracelet on to remind me to believe Him, and I pass into that next phase I can’t wait to see how my prayer life grows!

Until then, I will continue to hunger and thirst for every drop of Truth and Love and Light He gives me, in whichever form I need to do it. Standing outside my van, at my bathroom sink, digging through my purse, at my kitchen counter, and be so very thankful that He continues to meet me where I am, as I am.

Do you pray first? And what does that look like for you?

Aroma

/ bobbiblanchard / 2 Comments

Whew! After writing The Dark, my witty, sarcastic self can only take so much soul bearing, heart wrenching, seriousness. So, here is a little levity.

Recently, during a message at church, our pastor was reflecting on the lingering aroma of a lost loved one. After which, I was pondering the very powerful impact our earthly sense of smell has. A single smell has the power to instantly transport us back in time to a place, good or bad, with all of the memories and emotions attached. Often complete with our other senses, bringing sight, sounds, and touch with it.

For instance, I will never again be able to eat Cool Ranch Doritos. In fact, the very sight of the bag makes me inherently queasy. When my oldest was three he spiked a fever that, in a panic over the inability to get it below 104 degrees, I raced him to the emergency room. While pulling his fevered, lethargic, little body out of the car in the carport of the emergency entrance he immediately lost the contents of his stomach. Into my hair. Those contents consisted of, you guessed it, Cool Ranch Doritos. Sympathetic, merciful, nurses found me some scrubs to change into, but there is only so much you can do “washing” your hair in a sink the size of a mixing bowl with no decent shampoo. Then, I smelled of wet cool ranch Doritos. And it was bad. So bad that, two hours later, when Hubby had to bring our six week old daughter to me so that I could feed her, not even she wanted to be near me! Luckily, her aversion to bottles was stronger than that of her aversion to my smell. My now almost twelve year old delights in asking for this bag of anxiety and nauseousness every time we’re in a grocery store.

As a young child, separated from my mother, I wore a pair of pajamas for two weeks, wringing every molecule of my mother’s scent from them until, in tears, I could no longer smell her in the fabric of those tired jammies. I forfeited them to the laundry hamper but then had difficulty conjuring her image and touch without the scent of her skin.

When each of my children were infants, the smell of their sweet heads was like ambrosia to me. No matter when their last bath was. Over time, that smell has changed from the sweet smell of infant, to the sweaty, earthy, cracker filled scent of toddler, to my daughter’s favorite strawberry shampoo, and the very different sweaty, adolescent, hormone filled smell of twelve year old boy. Every scent touches a place in my heart and makes me smile and I know those precious scents will be forever locked into my subconscious.

Yes, scent is a powerful thing. And if we look at it in the context of 2 Corinthians 2:15 it takes on much greater meaning to me.

 

2 Corinthians 2:15
For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.

 

What aroma am I giving off? What scent do I leave behind in the rooms, hallways, or elevators I’ve inhabited? I long to be the scent of Christ. Not just when I leave a room, but while I’m still present in it. An aroma so strong, so powerful, so beautiful, that it not only pleases Him, but attracts those who are perishing! That it leaves them longing for that eternal aroma that no amount of Downy can wash out. The kind of aroma that the smell of strawberry rhubarb pie and cow manure brings me to (If that sounds strange, see my First Glimpse ) of faith. The kind of aroma that brings people to the foot of the cross, wrapped in love, covered in Christ’s blood, seeking more of Him. Too often, I fear though that the smell I’m leaving behind is that of, well, wet Cool Ranch Doritos.