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Sunday, July 1, 2007
Then it came to me. And it started with the reason I was mopping in the first place. You see, I had needed to mop all week. No, make that for a couple of weeks. We've been busy, in and out with summer activities and a weekend trip to the lake, so the last thing on my mind was mopping the floor. Since our schedule has been packed away with our school books, the chore list on the back of the laundry room door has been all but forgotten, so whichever child had "mop the kitchen" on their list for the week had gotten a break. As I was lingering over my coffee enjoying a rainy Saturday morning chatting with my husband, I noticed the floor. But, I wasn't motivated to mop. Morning turned into afternoon and I was buzzing around the house doing other Saturday chores, but still not mopping. Not yet. Not motivated yet. Amid flitting from task to task, I was in the kitchen putting away some groceries, and it happened. A jar of pizza sauce went crashing to the floor. It was officially The Great Pizza Sauce-splosion of 2007. (We name the events at our house. There was The Milk-splosion of '04, The Cheeto-splosion of '05, The Egg-splosion of '06, and now, well, we have '07 covered. In pizza sauce, apparently.) Suddenly I was motivated to mop. As I was mopping, I was thinking about the blind man whom Jesus healed in John 9. There are so many things to learn from this story, but one thing that has always stuck with me is- Jesus gave a command and a big motivation to obey it. John 9:6-7 tells us that "... He spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man's eyes. 'Go,' He told him, 'wash in the Pool of Siloam'... So the man went and washed, and came home seeing." Have you ever had a grain of sand in your eye? For that moment, whatever you are doing is put on hold, you close your eye and run to the nearest sink or mirror because your new goal in life is- Get. This. Out. Of. My. Eye. And that's just one grain! Can you imagine not just one eye, but both eyes, being covered in dirt and someone else's spit? I can imagine that the man was quite motivated to do as Christ commanded Him! Oh, go wash? Okay! Of course, Jesus could've healed his blindness with a simple touch, as He did for the man in Mark 8:25, or as in Bartimaeus' case, with a word (Mark 10:52.) Who knows why He did it as He did in this instance, perhaps to show that the power lay with Him, not with spit or sand (common items) but one thing I glean from it is... He used an irritant. Are there some irritants in your life that perhaps God could be using to motivate obedience or facilitate spiritual healing in a certain area? Perhaps He may be using someone you're around everyday to help you learn patience. Physical symptoms related to anxiety could point to a need to trust Him more in certain areas (as I've been learning personally). Sometimes He uses an untenable job situation to force a much-needed job change. Financial difficulties can point to a need to change spending habits or simplify. If He's allowing (or applying) certain irritants, we can be assured that it's accompanied by His loving, healing touch. And like the believing blind man, upon yielding to His plan we can come out of the situation seeing things with new eyes.  I'd love for you to visit my personal blog, One Day More. Labels: Cyndi's Articles, Healing, heart matters, Obedience Leave a comment... 5 Comments Links to this post I tiptoed my way toward the teddy bear crib hoping to steal one last look before going to sleep. Crumpled up in his bed like a kitten slept the little man who was placed in my care. This baby, though only a few months old had already been through the valley of the shadow of death, but by the grace of God he lives—by the stripes of our Savior he’s healed. With such a marvelous glory before me I couldn’t help but to brush his cheek with my hand before leaving. Standing outside in the hall, I looked down at the palm of my hand, still feeling his warmth. This hand was a familiar one that I had seen somewhere before—adorned with a simple wedding band, marked with a touch of arthritis, and clothed with lines and creases liken to roads of years traveled—what I recognized were the hands of a mother. A vintage suitcase marked with stamps collected through journeys, my hands have traveled to far away places. Now bursting with riches they can hardly contain, these hands hold a treasure of memories locked deep inside. They held my own mother’s arms that pulled up my trousers, while I felt the warmth of her breath on my neck. They curiously turned the handle to peer at my father while he undressed for the shower—yes, the same hand that stifled a giggle as I ran from his voice. They held their first cup of milk careful to not spill a drop, and later their first glass of Coke as the bubbles jumped from the cup. My hands have waved high in the air, hoping that one would be seen and be heard. They’ve held the hands of fair maidens in the kingdom of friendship. They held the hand of new love, and took another in marriage. They’ve placed coins in the hands of the poor, and received coin when times have been rough. They’ve felt the coldness of death and the warmth of a newborn’s first grasp. They’ve reached out in the dark to give and get love. They’ve pushed the back of a swing that soared through the air, and tied the laces on skates making sure that each leg was tight. They’ve learned to hold on and let go. Then I see a different pair of hands, but unlike mine, they’ve been scarred from the journey. These hands have held his mothers arms as he felt the warmth of her breath on his neck. They’ve been used to stifle a giggle and place coins in the hand of the poor. They’ve held hands of royal princes in the kingdom of God. They’ve reached out in the dark to give love, and bring life. They felt the coldness of death and the power of life. These hands are familiar ones that I can only imagine to see—the hands of a Savior—my Jesus. My little man, Graham is seven years old now. Living and breathing against all the odds. I have seen him so near to death that a team of doctors rushed to his crib late at night, and the same child so near to the glory of God that his face reflected the light. Herein lies the power of life—the hands of a savior—my Jesus. “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” Isaiah 53:5  Labels: Darlene's Articles, Healing Leave a comment... 13 Comments Links to this post  I sensed that something wasn’t right by the tone in her voice, the way she turned the monitor away from my view, and the discomfort she expressed before excusing herself from the room. Something was terribly wrong—again. A solemn look washed over the doctor’s face as he walked into the room. “There seems to be a problem, …” he said as he began to explain the severity of what they were viewing on the monitor. I was sent for fetal assessment where they could survey the situation in detail. It was all too familiar a place, since I had been a regular there in the past. The same doctor who urged me to consider “my options” was there, as well as the nurse who made it abundantly clear that I “still had time to abort.” The smile on my face, and the calm reply to their horrifying news gave them only one conclusion—she doesn’t get it. Perhaps that’s why they called my husband at work, and rang me at home several times--to make sure that we did. We sat in the same office again looking at a new little being, marvelously and wonderfully made. Being only six inches long, his kidney was already enlarged to about an inch. “This one is a case far worse than the last. He will have severe kidney problems if he even makes it to term. You have options…” The only option I had was that of prayer. And we did pray, fervently and in faith before God. Lying in bed one night alone in the dark, I felt the gentle voice of God whisper, “Nathaniel,” in my ear. Nathaniel? I wondered, Why Nathaniel? It hadn’t been a name that had ever crossed my mind. I jumped out of bed, clicked on the lamp, and flipped through the pages of my reference Bible till my finger rested on the words… Nathaniel: Gift from God. I turned that name around in my thoughts the next day wondering why. Why “gift from God?” why not John or Mark, Luke, or Ichabod—why? Until the answer came to us, clearly and directly as though God was speaking Himself. Sitting in my living room that very night a woman prayed, “Every day that this child lives is a gift from you, Lord.” We knew from that very second that his name would be Nathaniel. I went back to fetal assessment for what would be the fourth look at the little man that God was forming inside me. The child who gave me only one option, and that option was to pray--and pray fervently before God. The little man who, one day, would be my living, breathing, giggling, praying, cart-wheeling, hand-holding gift from God--my Nathaniel. After looking at the screen, the nurse excused herself from the room. I sensed that something was right by the tone in her voice, the way she turned the monitor away from my view, and the confusion she expressed before excusing herself from the room. Something was very right.  An astonished look washed over the doctor’s face as he walked into the room. “There seems to be a mistake, …” he said as he began to explain the miracle of what they were viewing on the monitor. The confused look on his face, and their inability to explain this miracle gave me only one conclusion--they didn’t get it. Perhaps that’s why God called me to their office several times--to make sure that they did. Martin Luther said, "To be a Christian without prayer is no more possible than to be alive without breathing." In Nathaniel’s case, as with most of my children that’s true in the literal sense. When pain rips through your life taking down everything you’ve tried so hard to hold on to--perhaps even life itself, your left with only one option and that option is to pray--and pray fervently before God. Iris is hosting "In 'Other' Words" this week. Head over to Sting My Heart to read her take on the quote and meet other participants. Labels: "In 'Other' Words", Darlene's Articles, Healing, Prayer Leave a comment... 24 Comments Links to this post
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