tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8767405500695342392024-02-20T12:59:59.276-06:00Sounds of HopeJoyce Lighari, founder of The Age of Hope Ministries is blogging. Share snapshots of my life as I share the stories that made me who I am.Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.comBlogger249125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-50157327572271151572024-02-20T12:55:00.001-06:002024-02-20T12:56:44.777-06:00Hanky club<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSecaON2FOt25dRNjJ7AVfQRTXGJFJjCJNWbAMgDQ8sJfxon6LOawpXl3z-T6eYNnmxWOj9ECEUX74BN5xhOta2K4gGOinazxMEeyc6WFx2qsfX07QXZk7wWWzXXWKh7KGa-odp7RKll_yk5qjVf0hg4rbsCamcmmqQ4VmUsP_hn3y3L-jc4adGFwrotM/s207/Picture1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSecaON2FOt25dRNjJ7AVfQRTXGJFJjCJNWbAMgDQ8sJfxon6LOawpXl3z-T6eYNnmxWOj9ECEUX74BN5xhOta2K4gGOinazxMEeyc6WFx2qsfX07QXZk7wWWzXXWKh7KGa-odp7RKll_yk5qjVf0hg4rbsCamcmmqQ4VmUsP_hn3y3L-jc4adGFwrotM/s320/Picture1.jpg"/></a></div>
Having had a change in my status as a local pastor of a small Methodist church, I’ve had to find a new place to worship. Learning to sit in a pew and worshipping at a new church has been a challenge.
I’ve visited churches of many varieties. The churches with high liturgical practices such as Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Episcopalian, and some Lutherans have set predictable patterns and rituals. I may be confused, but the faithful, know when to stand, when to sit, when to bow, and when to kneel. If the church has kneelers, it give the less faithful or visitor a chance to prepare to kneel. It’s not hard for such worshipers to visit another parish.
My family is ecumenical, and I recently visited an orthodox church with our youngest daughter. I discovered they stand most of the time. The devout seemed to know a special cue and they’d drop to the floor and just as quickly stood. By the time I considered kneeling they were up again. It was quite an interesting experience. At one point, the priest was throwing rose petals and I got hit in the head with one. All my experiences in different houses of worship have enriched me and taught me much about culture.
I suppose I’m considered in the broadest sense, an Evangelical protestant. In general, there is a liturgy to the service. But each has its own unique style of worship you will find. Some sit stoically. Some are somewhat liturgical with robed children lighting candles and the clergy robed. Some sing enthusiastically. Others barely open their mouths. Some clap their hands, some dance, or run, and many raise their hands in worship. The collection of the offering can come early or late in a service. It’s like the proverbial box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get.
Having served in a church as Pastor, I certainly knew exactly what to do and when to do it at that church. Now I was in a new place. No longer a pastor. Just a person in the pew. I knew a handful of people and I didn’t know them well. But I had found “my pew.”
My pew was in the process of a make-over. The section I sat in was closed. I moved to what seemed like foreign territory and once again felt uncomfortable. A woman named Lucille asked if she could sit with me. She lives in an assisted living and is ten years older. Lucille is a very pleasant friendly woman who had spoken to me a time or two.
She was now seated on my right side. Soon, some women also in her age group filled in on the other side and gave me the “who are you?” look. I smiled. Now I was locked in place surrounded the matriarchs of the church.
The woman closest to me on the left introduced herself, and two other women. The one in the middle said, “and of course you know Bettye.”
“No, sorry I don’t know Bettye”
She was shocked. Her look said, “How could you come to this church and not know Bettye?” I smiled again.
Soon I was asked “how long have you been coming here?” I answered about six months. Their facial expressions and body language were hard to read. But we were all polite. I had a birthday coming soon and thought, okay, now I’ve made the “old lady” row at the church. Part of me wanted to scream “I AM NOT THAT OLD.” But of course, the truth is, I am.
That afternoon I got a phone call from Lucille. She had asked for my phone number and was following up. She wanted to orient me to the church’s activities for the older adults. She told me all about the Young at Heart group. I cringed. Oh, I knew about this group. They were the old people who went out to eat together once a month.
I sighed. Inwardly I said, I’m not ready for this. I am not that old. Afterall, I was a director of a Senior Center for years. I should be planning these things for old people not going to them. She told me that they used to take overnight trips – I thought, yes, another old person activity. I’m still raising a teenager and have a husband who works full time. I’m not ready for the senior trips.
She continued, “On the first Sunday of the month we go to Ann’s house. Ann can’t get out to church anymore and a group of us bring food to her house and spent the afternoon. We have so much fun! Can you come?” I hated to say no, so I said oh, that’s nice.
The first Sunday was the Sunday before my birthday. It wasn’t a “big birthday” and at this point birthdays just mean I’m getting old. We made family plans for that day. I knew I’d be asked at church and my plan was to say ‘oh, my family wants to take me out for my birthday.’ I was sure that would be sufficient.
I found my seat in my pew. But Bettye found me. She said, “Why are you over here? Don’t you want to come sit with us?” I smiled and said, “Oh I’m fine here.” Then she asked me a few questions to confirm the information that another person told her about me. Yes, they’d been talking about me. Nothing bad, but it is interesting to know that you are the subject of discussion.
The conversation switched to going to Ann’s house for lunch after church. I apologized and explained that my family had arranged something after church for my birthday. Bettye scowled. She informed me “We were planning to honor you for your birthday too.” I was shocked. How did they know? Then I remembered I had mentioned it to ONE of the women. Word had spread.
Bettye persisted. “Can’t you ask your family to wait?” After serious negotiations, I agreed to follow her and meet a few of the other woman. I would not stay and eat. She was happy. After the last amen, I followed her to Ann’s house.
My granddaughter was with me and opted to stay in the car. I went inside and was instantly greeted by ten women. Some I had seen before, a few I hadn’t. The woman who hosted us was healthier than I had thought. She greeted me with a smile. Soon all eyes were on me. All the women were named. I was presented with a small Birthday gift and two cards.
I thanked them. Some mentioned that I had written a book. I sold one. Four others indicated they wanted one. Then they sang Happy Birthday to me. It was sweet. Even though I still didn’t want to be part of the old lady group, I could see that it might be nice…eventually.
I graciously left clutching my cards and present. As soon as I got to my vehicle, I opened the gift. I laughed until the tears ran down my face. No, it wasn’t a gag gift.
So why did I laugh?
Inside a box were three machine embroidered white handkerchiefs neatly arranged in a box that looked 40 years old. Hankies, relics of another era. One I lived through. So, I was now a member of the old lady hankie group! Should I put it under my sleeve to have it handy?
My granddaughter didn’t know what they were for, but she thought they were very pretty. And they are.
It’s hard to go to a new church. It’s hard to find your place. But I have a place now. And the beautiful woman in the old lady hankie group have sort of won my heart.
I helped with the bazaar at the church and saw these old ladies working hard – they all wave at me and ask me about coming to Young At Heart. I think I’ll pass, but the love and acceptance these women have showed me reminded me that love comes at all ages and that acceptance is a gift.
The following Sunday, I went to “my pew.” I still don’t want to sit in the pew with the old ladies. A woman who wasn’t at the luncheon came after me – she was all excited. She had a card and another gift. This time it was a small devotional book. On the card, she wished me well, told me she loved me, and wish me the best. Sometimes it is the little things.
Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-78693383832357750272024-02-08T11:00:00.001-06:002024-02-08T11:00:27.215-06:00Old Cousin Mary<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy44JnowUCNY4Jk3cvbwhJUVaSQUqhF-iTRM4JRWFj-Ng4TZDyddM3-YsYzMQEsUO7W976SmgQkvnG6M4jjHFT6UoF9Gg7-J_SXZPf9FwIJO-kFT8T_omMR-3tIfgtPqCdULrtSNerDO6LbnfQ5VNCxpA_O3aOM9PbczCSJ-eA6oo0lDv9tYXO9x7T8Q/s259/images.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy44JnowUCNY4Jk3cvbwhJUVaSQUqhF-iTRM4JRWFj-Ng4TZDyddM3-YsYzMQEsUO7W976SmgQkvnG6M4jjHFT6UoF9Gg7-J_SXZPf9FwIJO-kFT8T_omMR-3tIfgtPqCdULrtSNerDO6LbnfQ5VNCxpA_O3aOM9PbczCSJ-eA6oo0lDv9tYXO9x7T8Q/s200/images.jpg"/></a></div>
A church is a family. That sounds so nice! And it’s true! I’ve been in many branches of the family of God over my life. Some have been essential and formed me into who I am. Others were sort of blips on the screen that were basically neutral. And then, like most anyone who has ever ventured into church, I’ve been hurt by those who I thought should love me. While tragic, it’s because all churches are made up of broken individuals and are products of their own pain.
I have started participating in a new family. My experience with larger churches has not been good. Usually, the larger churches have awesome worship and lots of good ministries and programs. They usually have dynamic teaching and preaching. I go to a church like that! It’s amazing. I love it. I also love that there are families with small church, new babies being born, teenagers and young adults in love with Jesus and growing in their faith. Another thing I love is that there are a lot of strong men.
The honeymoon is over with my participation. I have been there long enough now to be wanting to move to another level of participation. I want to feel that I belong. That is the hardest part of a large dynamic church, you are “new” for forever. Exceptions are those new people who come related to pillars in the church. Or a new convert.
This got me to thinking today. When a new convert comes into the church – they are so cherished just like a brand new baby in the family. I’ve been watching this new little baby boy. He’s passed around by everyone. Everyone wants to hold him and fawn over him. AS THEY SHOULD!!! Who doesn’t want to cuddle a new baby.
All this is right and good. It’s hard not to smile and reach out to hug a new baby. Likewise, with a new believer, we want to make sure they get everything they need. We want to see them develop and grow. We want to see them find their place. We are patient with them. We pray for them. As they grow, we will find a place for them to flourish.
Let’s look at this another way now. All of a sudden, your old Cousin Mary, that you have never met comes into the family and wants to participate. No one knows her. No one knows her history. No one is interested in her or her history. She is just there.
Cousin Mary is learning the culture of the family. She’s spent most of her life with another branch of the family but is now wanting to be part of your branch. That’s hard for the family. That’s hard for Cousin Mary.
Cousin Mary has things to offer. Cousin Mary wants to be a meaningful part of the family. She wants to contribute. If she pushes too hard, she’ll be dismissed because she’s old. Stereotypes abound.
It’s hard for a family to know what to do with old Cousin Mary. It’s for her to know where she belongs.
</b>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-38301553138087108662023-12-23T12:58:00.000-06:002023-12-23T12:58:04.834-06:00Suddenly<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising
God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest…Luke 2:13-14a It was October of
2021. The sky was clear and the sun was shining. I was in Florida, walking on
the beach. I could hear the waves break and the birds were everywhere. I don’t
know what it is about the birds at the beach – they are beautiful and also
annoying. They are aggressive and yet graceful. I was really enjoying the
solitude of a walk alone on the beach – the beach is my most happiest place. I
used to work in the mental health field and at times would do guided relaxation.
While I have some discomfort with this idea, it was required of the job. It
starts out with go to the place (in your mind) that you feel most relaxed and
peaceful. Immediately I go to the beach. There have been times of anxiety in the
dentist chair that I also use this technique and go to the beach in my mind. My
phone rang disturbing my peace. It was my eldest son. He doesn’t call often. I
answered. He was in a panic. He started with the familiar request – Mom, I need
you to pray! He had difficulty getting the words all together but I knew
something very serious was going on – it was just an ordinary fall morning in
Northern Missouri for him. His seven year old daughter had left for school on a
very ordinary morning. She was walking with a good friend. A car pulled up. The
familiar face of her biological mother appeared as the window was rolled down.
MOM! Excited to see her mother she approached the car. Her friend said – don’t
go! Don’t do it. But she did. She got in the car. Mom is not stable. We are all
flawed and damaged people so I won’t say much about her other than this was not
good for my sweet granddaughter. Police were called. There was nothing anyone
could do. Neither parent had a court order that could be inforced. She was gone.
To where? No one knew. Over the last two plus years, we’ve heard various things.
People had some idea where she was but the legal issues had never been resolved
and also no one knew for sure where she was – we were in emotional purgatory
waiting for news of deliverance. I prayed. Other’s prayed. Dad worked on his own
life. Dad had other children and eight grandchildren. But there was a huge hole
in his heart. There was a huge hole in all our hearts. Where was she? Was she
really okay? Family members had dreams – some were nightmares, some were dreams
of hope. It’s December 2023. Another Christmas is coming with no progress on
finding our precious granddaughter. My phone rings again. Again it is my eldest
son. He’s talking fast again. He’s asking me to pray again. He announced “I am
99.9% sure I know where she is! She’s in Idaho.” Idaho is a long way away from
Northern Arkansas. Rumor was that the mom had taken her to Idaho so that a
friend of hers could take care of her. The family sprung into action –
especially this grandma. Within 24 hours dad was on his way to find his little
girl. He found her almost immediately. He located the school she attended. He
even got to see her briefly. But there was a problem. This woman now had legal
guardianship and her dad couldn’t take her. But we knew where she was. In the
most expensive but most worthwhile Christmas present I’ve ever given, I paid for
an attorney. Legal proceedings were begun immediately. We were told that it was
hopeful that after the first of the year there would be a hearing for transfer
of guardianship. Dad returned home to Missouri. We resumed life and prayer. We
all prepared for Christmas with some hope. Five days before Christmas, I get
another call from my son. He was very excited and I wasn’t sure whether it would
be good news or bad news – I wasn’t expecting any news for weeks. The attorney
had petitioned the court and the court award my son immediate emergency
guardianship. I literally burst into tears. I could barely talk. I still can’t
talk about it without tearing up – I am even as I write this. Today it is two
days before Christmas. I am watching an app on my phone as my son is a few
blocks from the house where his baby girl is living. He drove 22 hours in the
last 36 hours accompanied by one of his granddaughters. I am praying for more
good news soon. Suddenly, we had a miracle. A miracle years in the making but
yet suddenly manifested. On an ordinary day, our lives all changed in October of
2021. Suddenly, today, December 23, 2023 our lives changed again. I just talked
to my sweet granddaughter. She said, I haven’t seen you in a very long time. She
sounded very happy. I am praising God today in the midst of many tears of joy
and gratitude. That which is lost can be found. Those prayers you’ve prayed for
years can suddenly be answered. Jesus has proved that to me over and over and
over again. And He did it again – suddenly!
Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-77408337533497678312023-05-04T22:06:00.002-05:002023-05-04T22:06:18.705-05:00MAY DAYS<p> May Days</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a beautiful spring day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was already warm as spring comes early in
Central Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was graduation day
at the University of Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood
at the hospital window and watched the proud graduates stream out of the
Hearnes Center.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A happy future awaited
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to high school with some of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was too far away and there were
too many to look at faces.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was 1975.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
hippies were finding Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The war was
winding down and would end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Patty Hearst
was in the news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had just given
birth to my third child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was in
trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had seen her rushed from delivery by forceps to the
pediatricians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked, what did I
have?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor in his haste had failed
to look to see her gender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went and
looked and announced it was a girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
looked at me and said Joyce, don’t get too excited, I don’t know if she’ll make
it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I stood at that window watching the happy students and
their families, I cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried for my
daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my peers walked into their future, I
wondered what mine would look like.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was now a single mother in a time when that wasn’t
common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had two other children, two
very rambunctious boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would we
live?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would I ever feed them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food stamp program with its Monopoly type
money, had just started and I had been first in line to apply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My father had died several years before, and my mother had
remarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She still was a “blushing
bride.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her attention was on her new
life, and not her daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband,
Allen, came to the hospital with his girlfriend to ask when I was going to file
for divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked him if he wanted to
see our child, he said no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him
her condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t interested.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Life was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
a high school dropout with three children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While I did have a GED, I couldn’t type and the only job I could get was
fast food and very low-level jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
then there were all the issues of childcare.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the next May, I had finished my first year as a student
at the University of Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something
came over me in my tears the year before – it was a voice that said, you don’t
know if you don’t try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pieced together
financial aid and welfare benefits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
struggled and we ate a lot of macaroni and cheese.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I went to school year-round and by May 1977 I had chosen my
major and my grades were good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between
summer classes I had a random conversation with a graduate student who would
become a father to my children, be my husband, and my life partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">May 1978, two more semesters to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I completed my practicum that summer, applied
to graduate school, and was dually enrolled as a graduate student.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graduation came in December of 1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In three and a half years, with three
children, I had finished a degree, married, and was expecting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was no ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no cap and gown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">May 1979 and I was back in the same hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was once again giving birth to a
daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time she went home with
me and was healthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was done with
school for then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d get to the Master’s
later.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Years came and went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Joys, sorrows, pain, success, multiple moves, the most recent from
Connecticut to Tennessee. I had a successful career and one of the highlights
was in May 1995 when I was a congressionally appointed delegate to the White
House Conference on Aging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our family welcomed four more children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four of my 8 children were born in May. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now had grandchildren including the one we
buried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to May 2009.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The day had come that for the first time in my life, I would wear a cap
and gown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have my first official
graduation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally, I walked in a
graduation procession as I received a Master’s degree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of sociology that had been my
previous goal, this MA degree was in Biblical Studies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The baby who almost died that May in 1975 was there with her
daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In December of 2009, that
daughter had her first grandchild, my first great grandchild.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The journey from May 1975 had been hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m often asked, “How did you do
it?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only answer I have is by the
grace of God.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But there would come another May of significance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On May 4, 2013, I was once again a graduate
donning a purple gown and a tam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over my
shoulders was a doctoral hood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All my
children were there for this graduation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We threw a graduation party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
on that day, I officially became Dr. Joyce A. Lighari.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That same May, on May 15, 2013 I got a call for my first
appointment as a Pastor with the United Methodist Church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May 2023 I will complete ten years as a
pastor and move to something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
that is, I don’t know yet? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know God is
leading me onward. I know my journey isn’t complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be more Mays to remember and
celebrate.<o:p></o:p></p>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-79866286393457097452021-04-03T10:48:00.000-05:002021-04-03T10:48:10.334-05:00 Sweet and Sour Sauce<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpikSNCRrJRH3zYk1e95rG_n4HfeDU-E1OtYSphDAmo9EJfEf3WFB8zbUf8y8cz5f4lilU_JoacFS8MT56eQl3i_Hw-KQoAgjXFs849NfQvnIDxIknrJwFVF0eAlmc-jpnmbgQCWswPWE/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1426" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpikSNCRrJRH3zYk1e95rG_n4HfeDU-E1OtYSphDAmo9EJfEf3WFB8zbUf8y8cz5f4lilU_JoacFS8MT56eQl3i_Hw-KQoAgjXFs849NfQvnIDxIknrJwFVF0eAlmc-jpnmbgQCWswPWE/" width="320" /></a></div><br />The last few days have been like sweet and sour
sauce.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m not a fan of sweet and sour Chicken
or similar dishes.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m more of a sweet
hot person.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I love pepper jelly and make
my own.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Nothing brings a smile to my taste
buds like some hot pepper jelly on a gluten free sesame cracker with some lactose
free cream cheese.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I don’t indulge in
this culinary delight as often as I’d like because frankly, once I start, I
keep eating.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But sweet and sour is a better description of my
experiences over the last few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rarely do I get to see more than one or two of my children at a
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the last few days, five of my
children were gathered in one place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was so sweet to be able to see them, give them hugs, and share a meal with
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This always delights me and brings
the sweetest of memories.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Like the cherry on the top, I got to see my youngest
grandchild, a little princess named Phaenyx (Phoenix) ElsieDawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held her just briefly, but it was enough to
satisfy my urges to hold this newest member of the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then came the great grands!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those are the ones I see the least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Times between our visits are long
spaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of them have no idea who I
am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I know who they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are the sweetest human beings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I held the youngest of the great grands, beautiful
little miss Ainsley. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As 16 of us enjoyed
a breakfast yesterday, her older brother Aiden and sister Amira played around
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While oblivious to the sorrow around
them and not knowing who most of the people were, their happiness sweetened the
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other two great grands, sisters
Abrella and Tiana also brought us joy and hope that life goes on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But the sweetness was mixed with sour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were there to celebrate the life of
Christopher Jason, my 28-year-old grandson who is now in the presence of the
Lord.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So tragic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So sour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So sorrow filled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are not
enough adjectives to describe the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Scanning face of his family, his father, his children, and all those who
loved him brought harsh reality amidst the sweetness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The moment when the sweet and sour mixed was seeing
and hugging my beautiful twin great granddaughters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These girls lost their father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To see their little eyes, fill with tears,
not understanding the magnitude of their loss, and yet experiencing the power
of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To hug them and feel the love
exchange as we smiled for our picture together, brought the sweetest moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sweet and sour mixed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0wYTs9ZsbYcbpA4XO7GV5bEcHsXfkGmyGJxPuBDJWYNzq9JnPKlGcni-81CxmeNG6XJ7gQJchrB0idwizulNE_o12bIBVfWNJp56RspbwEYZjbV0NJdSCE8R8fTc7mvMYmkEQxmpQdo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_0wYTs9ZsbYcbpA4XO7GV5bEcHsXfkGmyGJxPuBDJWYNzq9JnPKlGcni-81CxmeNG6XJ7gQJchrB0idwizulNE_o12bIBVfWNJp56RspbwEYZjbV0NJdSCE8R8fTc7mvMYmkEQxmpQdo/" width="180" /></a></div><br />The last time I saw these girls they were babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was also the last time I saw their dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the hug he gave me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was deep and rich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I loved him and was so proud of
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But these girls live on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 8 years old, they can not understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their lives are forever mixed as sweet and
sour sauce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is sweet and sour.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My prayer for them, for myself, and all of us who grieve
losses is that we will remember the goodness of the Lord and remember:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="background: white; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the </span><span class="sc"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Lord</span></span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> forever.</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-30796955567691294882021-03-26T14:09:00.002-05:002021-03-26T14:09:47.452-05:00Kaleidoscope
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycVVRgfEA5WMtIufrRUVdYqpuu0sDqQXvLBSEhTJmcvDZdF_NZZXCi1ApskFOrgJqJvB6HeNpmorDeuIUVqkI8ntXsXKWPrs5l82mz3fvu0JHCwObOgm3aSYwg6YLmy00WJljTEcFtCg/s278/kaleidoscope.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycVVRgfEA5WMtIufrRUVdYqpuu0sDqQXvLBSEhTJmcvDZdF_NZZXCi1ApskFOrgJqJvB6HeNpmorDeuIUVqkI8ntXsXKWPrs5l82mz3fvu0JHCwObOgm3aSYwg6YLmy00WJljTEcFtCg/s320/kaleidoscope.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">
Have you ever looked at a Kaleidoscope? When I was a kid, I loved those cardboard tubes with the hole on one side. Magnificent colors and design flooded my eyes as I peered into that hole. A twist to the right changed the visual display and a turn to the left yet another. Perhaps because I was a child before the internet – long before the internet – such a simple object could bring such delight. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Today, I am looking in a kaleidoscope of dark colors and painful memories. Each little piece of brilliant colors and changes of light has turned into torturous memories of previous pain. Each piece familiar and each piece dim. Someone else is turning the wheel. It is spinning out of control. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Death of a grandchild, I revisit that pain. Each layer of pain is now compounded by the most recent loss. I grieve not just this precious young man, but his brother, and his little cousin who was the first to go. Then I think of a beautiful great granddaughter whose life was snuffed out. Too much pain for one to bear. And yet, my pain pales to that of my children.
We are separated by geography, experiences, and even emotions. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">These colors are not full of light. They are muted and dull. They are dark and murky. No vibrancy, no joy.
I need time to adjust to each turn of the wheel. But there is no time. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Fate or life or whatever forces are at work is turning that wheel too fast. Loss of home, sickness, death, tragedy, chaos, disorientation, each turn of the wheel brings another layer of painful memories and new pain. I’ve been here before. I am tired of being strong. I want to sit in sack clothe and ashes but there is no time. Life just keeps spinning in chaos. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This is my lament. This is my reality. This is the painful existence of my life right now. Prayers will help. But they aren’t right now. Right now, I feel forced to peer through that hole of this kaleidoscope of pain and weep.
Like the Laments of the Ancients, I will end with an affirmation of faith: </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">
<b>You are my God, and I will praise you; you are my God, and I will exalt you. (Psalm 118:28)</b></span></div>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-58004360677319596962021-01-13T11:01:00.001-06:002021-01-13T11:13:59.886-06:00CHILD'S PLAY<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFSdvt3o9_lUUohcyeAxuMs1YOncVbiupSISNdFKg2n1LzSCpvNchm5FVxFXcpxpCNGkSjM72o7IgPUJ7UGU1YKaq0s5y-3YjRV8P5LPzOWqfykoblKJgG8mY1XmMXunfGOr_OcpZUms/s600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFSdvt3o9_lUUohcyeAxuMs1YOncVbiupSISNdFKg2n1LzSCpvNchm5FVxFXcpxpCNGkSjM72o7IgPUJ7UGU1YKaq0s5y-3YjRV8P5LPzOWqfykoblKJgG8mY1XmMXunfGOr_OcpZUms/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hide and Go Seek, a child’s game.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Hide while I count.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Skip count by fives til you get to 200.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…ninety-five, 100!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeat Five, ten, fifteen, twenty…ninety-five,
200!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ready or not, here I come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But no one comes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You have followed the rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
have hidden yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have tried to
make yourself invisible and hide your pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hide your disfunction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hide your
sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hide your essence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have no place in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always unwanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always marginalized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Be good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be
quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Child seen but never heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always hiding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You learned it well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You always thought someone would come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone would come and listen to your
pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone would come to affirm that
you are ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, you are amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no one like you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet, you wait, hidden long after the counting
is done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one comes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Mother May I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother, may I take three
giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, you may take three giant
steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One, Two, Three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your brother’s turn, Mother, may I take two
giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, you may take two giant
steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One, Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your oldest brother steps forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother, may I take ten giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, you may take ten giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN,
EIGHT, NINE, TEN!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You never catch up – the sun has risen on the first
born like in some ancient story of patriarchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Always in the shadows, and never catching rays of sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You and your brother, always in the shadows
of the first born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother, may I take
three giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NO, you may not take three
giant steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may go back to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will never finish.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A third sidewalk game is played.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>STATUES.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The one who was mother in Mother May I, spins you around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are disoriented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are dizzy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life is a series of whiplash
experiences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is up, what is down, what is right, what
is wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stops and you turn into a
statue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only no one comes to release
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You stand still a shell of yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No delight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No crying out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just stand there, be a good girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do the right things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are frozen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-10110341653184968502020-11-26T10:33:00.002-06:002020-11-26T10:33:41.984-06:00Pure Gold<div><br /></div>
One of the first things my sleepy eyes focused on this morning is a text message. Just the notification of the text message that flashes when you pick up your phone. It simply said, Happy Thanksgiving! No gif, no picture, just simple words. Then I saw it was from my BFF from 53rd Street. <div><br /></div><div>Fifty Third Street was my universe. This tree lined street of mixed style houses and diverse neighbors shaped my existence. It is hard for people from other universes to understand how one city block can be your world. But it was my world. </div><div><br /></div><div> Diverse neighbors wove a tapestry of friendship and understanding. They also fought and squabbled as they dealt with all the complexities of life. To paint that world as idyllic robs the world of its reality and truth. I've written about all these things before. I've written about the horror of abuse, the misunderstandings, the fears as well as the joys and triumphs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Recently, a voice from the past has emerged into my present world. Someone from the universe. Someone I never would have thought I'd enjoy sharing frequent emails with as we ask - what happened to so and so? Or, do you remember? Or what was the name of _____ ? It's been pleasant and a gift. </div><div><br /></div><div>My strongest memory of this boy from across the street, the older brother of a very dear friend, is that he teased me. I grew up as an only child so I didn't have the gift of brotherly tormenting. Now this voice of the past is gifting me with many precious memories. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today is Thanksgiving. The urge to write elludes me too much of late. I still have a book to finish. Alas, it will get done. But today I'm thinking about how thankful I am for friends. I was thinking about that old song I learned as a child:</div><div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Jy-mcks1TGcI9LlGPX-UuPsnaaZjIQhX7Ep2P-0YNE52QfCI1Jh3Z-wWuO0vwUNbSSg_9w-TWpG_tw0nu0dx_PDrSM3oxYXjrQoVR88KNqgX5kmAEuXHVUHA_3goMOmxc6KPkFL4Srs/s1300/gold.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Jy-mcks1TGcI9LlGPX-UuPsnaaZjIQhX7Ep2P-0YNE52QfCI1Jh3Z-wWuO0vwUNbSSg_9w-TWpG_tw0nu0dx_PDrSM3oxYXjrQoVR88KNqgX5kmAEuXHVUHA_3goMOmxc6KPkFL4Srs/s200/gold.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">
Make new friends but keep the old, One is Silver and the Other Gold. </span></b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful for the BFF who thought of me early this morning. Memories of her always bring such joy to my heart. I longed for half my life to find her and finally I did - now she's a text or phone call away.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful for the girl across the street who is also a BFF. We don't interact much but I see her face and beautiful quilted creations. I know I can reach out to her. I am thankful for her friendship and hours and hours of play in her basement or on a street corner. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm thankful for her brother. A voice from the past to share precious memories and find out what our lives brought. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the triumphant. I'm thankful for his memory - as he shares with me the tales of our 53rd Street world. I'm thankful to learn from him more about the depth of his mother's faith. I think of his mother often and her insistence of "magic words" (please and thank you). I'm thankful she was strong enough through faith to trust God through her own struggles and tragedies. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm so thankful for 53rd Street. I'm thankful for a precious but complex childhood. It wasn't without pain and sorrow. But it was my universe and it is so nice to visit those day with my old friends.
Make new friends but keep the old. I am thankful I am keeping the oldest of friends. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">THEY ARE PURE GOLD</span></b></div>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-16305000399942254732020-10-11T09:45:00.005-05:002022-10-11T18:54:31.052-05:00Waves<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">The ocean beckons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It speaks softly and loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It breaks
in rhythmic cadence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All day, all year,
its rhythm never changing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it speaks
softly to me, it’s sound tickles my memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The beach, a place of solace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
beach, a place of warmth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beach, memories
profound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 107%;">Coney Island.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Loud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hot sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dad but never my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
black and white photo of my brother tormenting me with hot sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A look of pain on my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The carousel and catching the golden
ring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knishes! Hot Knishes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ice cream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nathan’s hot dog and amazing crinkle fries, NO Ketchup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cotton candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; background: white; color: #4d5156;">George C. Tilyou</span>’s </span>Steeplechase
Park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parachute jump.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Skee ball!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each crash of the wave sparks another memory.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">My childhood seemed happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My parents seemed happily married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Likely they weren’t but they made commitments and stuck to them no
matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no other
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too much social pressure to even
consider anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unwanted
child who arrived was made room for and accommodated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">In the stillness at the beach I experience another
memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little girl who was not
happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little girl aware she was
unwanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little girl who carried
shame for which she had no words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
girl who was broken inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl
whose world was marred by a middle-aged man in her neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">At 8 years old, and at 9, and at 10, and 11, and 12,
when this little girl would go the beach, she would walk to the waters
edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waves would erode the sand
around her feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her feet would sway and
at times she would lose her balance and stumble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she’d think, I wish I didn’t know how to
swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her daddy had held her above the
water until she learned to trust the water and swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">If only, if only she didn’t know how to swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How easy it would be to walk into the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To let the water surround her like a blanket
and then like a pillow over her head, the waves would take her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would take her away from her pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would take her away from her shame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps they would even take her to heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This little girl wondered who would cry when
she was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Then she’d try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One step after another, deeper in the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was now over her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes she’d try to breathe the water
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spit, spatter, gasp – she’d always
come back up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The waves had also
rejected her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As she got older, her thoughts would devise other
plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plans for relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plans for the end of the internal anguish her
little soul suffered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, she never
understood why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buried deep below was a
piercing wound that would not be healed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As I look out the fourth-floor balcony at the crashing
waves and remember, I look down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older girl and woman who
would assess a pinnacle by two criteria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If she fell, would she just get hurt or paralyzed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is this height enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would she die?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fourth story is not enough she reasoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">She wasn’t serious today but many days she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 13, 14, and 15, the roof in Brooklyn would
call her name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Asphalt sunbathing would
turn into thoughts of falling – or jumping. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she looked over the edge, fearing a life of
paralysis she never gave in to these impulses.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The wound has largely healed but its scars still call
out to her through the crashing waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is pain that will endure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
insecurities and anxiety still come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the waves restore my soul and let me breathe deeply reminding me that I survived.<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-88837161904929668322019-09-14T10:21:00.003-05:002019-09-14T10:22:13.769-05:00QUESTIONS OF THE SOUL<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your love has been rejected, how do
you love?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your love is never enough, how do
you love?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your love is shattered, how do you
love?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your love is betrayed, how do you
love?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your dreams are but shadows, how do
you dream?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your dreams never come true, how do
you dream?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your dreams are scorned by those
you love, how do you dream?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your dreams turn to nightmares, how
do you dream?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When you’re misunderstood, how do you
understand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your understanding is deficient, how
do you understand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When your understanding is false, how do
you understand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When you understanding is clouded by
pain how do you understand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">When no one in your life has ever loved
you, dreamed with you, or understood you;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">How do you love,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">How do you dream,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">How do you understand?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">You turn to God and pray.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Begging God for love, dreams, and
understanding.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And you cry a waterfall of tears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And sometimes, you wish to die.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-33322630771991438582019-07-04T18:38:00.000-05:002019-07-05T15:57:36.448-05:00Ode to Columbia<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Missouri</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Misery</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Mizzou </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Words</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Images</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Feelings</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They come flooding over me like a fountain dammed
up for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Are they good, are
they bad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> I know they are strong.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><i>Why,
what?</i></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Why do I feel this way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> What is it about <b>MISSOURI</b>?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Not just
Missouri but specifically <i><b>Columbia</b></i>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Visions
flash in front of my eyes – </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Hickman High, 16 years old, new girl in school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> A year
later, married, pregnant, drop-out, failure – a ne’er do well.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But MIZZOU</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> Legitimacy, not a failure, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> a graduate, a degree </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> but to some, still and always a
loser.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So much
misery</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> so much pain</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> so much rejection </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> volumes waiting to be written. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Is it <b>MISERY</b> or <b>MISSOURI</b>?</span><br />
<b></b><b></b><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Visions of
churches, 1<sup>st</sup> Assembly where I married at 16; Christian Chapel where
I tried to be legitimate and accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Trying to be a grown-up, teaching Sunday School and Missionettes –
marriage restored only to have all that hope crushed into a thousand pieces and
now I’m a single mother with three. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christian Fellowship – more of the
same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All these churches shaped me, all
of them wounded me deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always seen as a
problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not spiritual enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not married enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children who were too lively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My child would NEVER do that!” the refrain repeated so often.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then I see
it – then I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know why this odd
calmness comes over me in Columbia despite the misery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s because little pieces of my heart that
broke and shattered in every corner of Columbia – Weymeyer Drive, Bearfield
Subdivision, Worley Street Apartments and countless other dwellings, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">trailers</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">houses, and apartments; churches, schools, and jobs - </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>the places where wounds
were made and my heart shattered in hundreds of pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pieces left behind of my broken heart.</i></span><br />
<i></i><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But here I
am, I’m ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have survived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For a few brief moments, as I drive through
Columbia, little pieces of my shattered heart and dreams join to fill the holes
in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For that moment, I’m almost
whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But alas, it’s temporary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the pieces will only remain in Columbia
and I will go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t seem to take
them with me because <i>I’m not that girl anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></i></span><br />
<i></i><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-44993630352666870722018-08-10T18:42:00.000-05:002018-08-10T18:48:09.048-05:00The Beauty of a Leaf<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmIS0JHLaMeYCXliW8owRerJrFsLQsnWUvrFI4l_N1w4B0-hLQ7kXCapQrvmO6-v8A5dq1Yr51G-ApTcBxItV_wLAhF2IBXBSyJCnq8h7gHVInDzkyp45nzPpGg6_Vplw2ScxvIZprLE/s1600/leaf+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmIS0JHLaMeYCXliW8owRerJrFsLQsnWUvrFI4l_N1w4B0-hLQ7kXCapQrvmO6-v8A5dq1Yr51G-ApTcBxItV_wLAhF2IBXBSyJCnq8h7gHVInDzkyp45nzPpGg6_Vplw2ScxvIZprLE/s200/leaf+%25282%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I’ve been anxious to return to the park.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>This park, like many parks, has become my
morning sanctuary.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The weather wasn’t
too hot.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>There was rain in the forecast but
only occasionally the clouds spit some rain.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I was ready.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It was my first round.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I felt a little out of sync.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Even
though I have continued to log many miles in my race for health and wellness, I
haven’t been to the park for months.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I
saw a familiar face in the distance.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>A
faithful dog walker who always greeted me.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Then another dog walker who usually doesn't, but today, perhaps because I
hadn’t been seen for months, she greeted me.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>It was good to be in the park.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Something caught my eye.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I was listening to a podcast to feed my soul. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But there it was, lying on the ground.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was a leaf.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>A heart shaped leaf that had fallen to the
ground.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was badly damaged.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It spoke to me immediately.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I thought of how many times I’ve asked how
many times a heart can be broken until it exists no more.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I continued to walk.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I
marveled at the bluffs.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’ve seen them
so many times and yet their majesty always awakens me.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I know the river is there.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It is flowing but I can’t see it.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But it is there.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I imagine it is low right now, but I have
also seen it flowing so high that I could see it from the walking path.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Someday I will walk a trail and stand on the
banks.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But not today.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Soon I was the only one walking.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The town employee who comes every morning was
gone.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The dog walkers had gone on with
their day.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I was alone with my thoughts and the beauty of the park.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The podcast was perfect for this morning.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I was listening to <a href="https://onbeing.org/programs/john-odonohue-the-inner-landscape-of-beauty/" target="_blank">John O’Donohue speak of beauty</a>.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was powerful, profound, and
gave me much to ponder.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I had now passed
that leaf four times.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I had seen it each
time.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I had looked at the tree that had
born that leaf.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I’m not sure what kind
of tree it is but I think it might be the Eastern Redbud.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>In the spring, I’ll see if it blooms.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It is the only one like it that I’ve seen in
the park.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3P0vBkREUUXegPEx8Qp1cp0BrG0I6m_1PM1uTX4wccMmBv4ybjAyBnItANXLO4cwjAhuvRUa_r8EBTvKcsb3aS5_iJSEacOlfhOKu2OSwBYAnzQIwXoNBqZraKuVGOPMEZ8B7X3WTlw/s1600/leaf3+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="1600" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk3P0vBkREUUXegPEx8Qp1cp0BrG0I6m_1PM1uTX4wccMmBv4ybjAyBnItANXLO4cwjAhuvRUa_r8EBTvKcsb3aS5_iJSEacOlfhOKu2OSwBYAnzQIwXoNBqZraKuVGOPMEZ8B7X3WTlw/s200/leaf3+%25282%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">At one point, I pondered why we draw a heart shape that way.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It really isn’t shaped like a biological
heart. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Yet everyone knows a heart when they
see it.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>As I took my fourth turn I
stopped.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I felt compelled to pick up
that leaf.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I did.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I held it.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I listened for it to speak to me.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>It did.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The leaf was not complete.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>It looked as if some thing had taken a bite out of it.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was brown around the bite and discolored.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>There was green peaking through but much of
the leaf was yellow or brown.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It had
become disconnected from the tree, it’s source of life.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Yet, there it was, in my hand.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I looked at the leaf and it said, this is your heart.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Your heart has been so bruised and damaged.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The pain you’ve endured is real.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Others can’t see it.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Some don’t care.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>But the damage is there.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>And it’s real.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I held it and thought, my heart needs care.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My heart needs softness.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My heart needs to be seen.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>My heart still has beauty.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I took the leaf home.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>I will save it. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I will cherish
it. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It reminds me that even though my
heart has damage and may never be whole, God loves me.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>He will pick me up and care for me. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>It was an important sermon in an early morning
sanctuary.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-27598146438816143032016-11-04T11:42:00.001-05:002016-11-04T11:42:41.068-05:00Heartsick<br />
<br />
Unrelenting disappointment leaves you heartsick. (Proverbs 13:12a The MSG)<br />
<br />
I've believed in fairy tales far too long<br />
I've believed in hope;<br />
I've believed in dreams<br />
I've believed in working hard<br />
I've believed dreams came true<br />
<br />
I've dreamed I'd be loved and cherished<br />
I've given when I had nothing to give<br />
I've cried an ocean of tears<br />
I've loved faithfully<br />
I've loved completely<br />
I've loved selflessly<br />
<br />
There is no prince charming<br />
Dreams don't come true<br />
Hope disappoints<br />
My heart is empty<br />
The pain never ends<br />
And tears never dry<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-57912807901486619072016-10-09T13:41:00.002-05:002016-10-09T14:17:05.135-05:00Wedding Bells<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've not written for a very long time. I say I'll start again, and then I don't. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This morning I saw a random picture. The caption said prom pictures - the picture an innocent looking girl. Something stirred as I looked at that picture in seconds, this is what poured out of me:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguv8vaEpg_T5n485AVgCFhUr-d8x-5RendQC_eA-68SCn1GElPHCyEzGq4kjC-XdXSiRqUjTZVkOVi8p3u-ib16a9CddqCWID9M0UuDWzWyeQtz5OpiuzY-4LAlvgT-aqSGN8K1xr0JNY/s1600/bells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguv8vaEpg_T5n485AVgCFhUr-d8x-5RendQC_eA-68SCn1GElPHCyEzGq4kjC-XdXSiRqUjTZVkOVi8p3u-ib16a9CddqCWID9M0UuDWzWyeQtz5OpiuzY-4LAlvgT-aqSGN8K1xr0JNY/s200/bells.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She is sixteen; she is a child.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She wears a satin dress.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She longs for love.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She holds her daddy’s hand as
she did as a child in Brooklyn.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She walks with him as so many
strolls in a park lined with trees.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She feels the exhilaration of a
push on a swing that takes her high, higher than the sky.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She feels the fear of climbing
to the top of the monkey bars.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She hears music – it reminds her
of the tune announcing the </i></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Mr. Softee</i></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i> truck – a treat awaits.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>She hears music – it reminds her
of Salem where she learned about Jesus.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>A future awaits her.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Someone has chosen her; she must
finally be worthy. She is finally wanted.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Her daddy hands her to the boy at
the end of aisle.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Unknowingly, he has handed her
to more rejection and abuse.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Scars upon scars,</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i><br />
<div style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>wounds
that can’t heal,</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>voices
of pain,</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>unworthy
again.</i></span></span></div>
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<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><i></i>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-58131557062753290062014-02-14T18:51:00.000-06:002014-02-14T18:51:08.660-06:00Facebook chatter...<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up in a Christian home. My mother was a homemaker who taught children
about Jesus. My dad was a night janitor
at a bank who spent most of his “leisure” time going to church service so he
could learn more about Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a child, I saw my father bundle all manner of Christian
reading materials – all my Sunday School quarterlies, Christian magazines, etc.
– to send to his niece, my Tante Ruth, a single WOMAN who was teaching other’s
about Jesus in Swaziland. One afternoon
a week, my father would take me to the Salvation Army where a wonderful WOMAN
named Captain Johnson oversaw the Sunbeam program. As a single woman, she was the “Pastor” of
the congregation of Salvationists – she preached, administered, and served her
corp as the sole officer. Walking with my dad we'd often encounter Captain holding a street meeting on a corner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a child, I read a book about <a href="http://www2.wheaton.edu/bgc/archives/GUIDES/280.htm#3">Malla Moe</a> – a single WOMAN missionary who would trek across Africa. As I got older I read and heard about <a href="http://www.foursquare.org/about/aimee_semple_mcpherson">Aimee Semple
McPhearson</a>. The list could be quite
long if I continued.</div>
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Today I responded to a comment on Facebook. I probably
shouldn’t have because I sort of knew it would start something… my bad… but
sometimes impulse gets the
better of me. It did start a small
firestorm. On and on it went about how
women can’t be preachers, or pastors, etc., etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It still surprises me even though it shouldn’t. I find it best not to “fight” a theological
battle with folks. I did add some links
for ammunition today but usually the best answer is to say I’m doing what God
called me to do – if I don’t, I’m being disobedient to God. But that never seems enough – sigh…. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been thinking about this all day – and I wondered – Do these
folk think that one day I sat down and said – I know! I want to be a preacher! I just want to do this because it is a
glamorous job – or it pays well – or the hours are good. Really???
Do you really think that anyone that really loves God just sits down and
says that to themselves? Or do you think
my problem is I don’t love God? And of
course, as a woman, I certainly can’t have God speak to me. I think the women at the day of Pentecost would have an argument with that – or the women that surrounded Jesus,
especially those who first proclaimed the gospel after the resurrection … You know those women who went to the tomb when the disciples were hiding? Yeah, those women...<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I’m delusional – I’m so delusional that I have spent
nearly the last ten years of my life in school preparing – preparing so that
when I stand in the pulpit (a place I approach with humility and a deep sense
of responsibility) I am “rightly dividing the Word.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whatever the problem some folks have – please take it up
with God! Ask Him with an open heart for
guidance and wisdom – you may still come to a different understanding than I have –
but, if you really seek the Lord He’ll probably ask you to receive me as a
sister in the Lord with respect and honor. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If my being in ministry offends you, I'm am sorry you are offended. <o:p></o:p>But nothing will stop me from answering the call of God on my life – like those women who proclaimed the gospel in my childhood – I’m going to continue.</div>
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Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-6166036838940970532014-02-06T09:12:00.000-06:002014-02-06T09:12:04.303-06:00It's that day... First thing in the morning, as I sit up in bed, I take my iPhone from under my pillow. Now that I'm not working, I don't need it there as an alarm except on Sunday. I have it there because all night it has been monitoring my sleep quality. Last night was really good - 100%! I have this cool little app that I got called sleep cycle. It has the best alarm on it and it also monitors your sleep quality. The more peaks and valleys, the better your sleep! <div>
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But this morning, before I could slide the snooze off and see my graph and numbers there were two alerts from my calendar. Both were reminding me of the same thing - not the luncheon I'm going to later this morning but the day I could never forget. Today is February 6, 2014. Today is the 17th anniversary of the day our precious granddaughter went to Jesus. I have this date set on my calendars because I never want to forget her. I never want to forget the joy of her sweet smile and bright eyes. I never want to forget the painful lessons I learned.</div>
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As I always do on February 6th, this morning in the shower I started to relive that day 17 years ago. It was about the time I was putting the shampoo on my hair that I thought, yes, it was about this time that I got the call. It had already been a painful year. A house fire, emergency trips to Pakistan for my husband and youngest three children, living in a motel over Christmas without the travelers, being divided into two corporate apartments - my mother and younger children upstairs, my husband and three older children downstairs, and a very sick 13 year old son. We were preparing to take our son to the ER, me dressed and ready, husband in the shower, when the phone rang. It was my secretary. That meant it was after 8:30 a.m. eastern time, it was about 9 a.m.</div>
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Margaret said that the children's hospital had called and that our daughter was there with her daughter and that I should call immediately. I called the hospital. I heard my daughter's faint voice saying she's dead. I collapsed to the floor. Calls to our pastor, calls to the school to let our daughters out of school, calls back to my secretary - then in the van and off we went.</div>
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I've written the whole story before. It starts <span id="goog_146529883"></span><a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2010/02/one-hundred-and-fourteen-days-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a> <span id="goog_146529884"></span>and ends <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2010/02/one-hundred-and-fourteen-days-part-vii_10.html" target="_blank">here</a>. If you want to follow that portion of this blog, go to the start point and read forward. Little did I know that a few weeks after I wrote about the One Hundred Fourteen Days that I'd be experiencing death again. My mother would also go to Jesus - as much as my mother loved children and particularly babies, I imagine that her great-granddaughter was one of the first to greet her. But knowing my mother, it was Jesus she wanted to see first.</div>
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I recently read <i><a href="http://heavenisforreal.net/" target="_blank">Heaven Is For Real</a></i>. One of the things that struck me was Colton's account of the children - he said there were lots of children in heaven and that Jesus really loves the children. I thought about our precious granddaughter - was she one of the children that he saw? Or do children continue to grow in heaven but Colton says that old people are young in heaven. </div>
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Mysteries, mysteries... I also thought about Juliette, the daughter I lost to miscarriage. I smiled when I read about Colton's sister who had been miscarried years before him and how she had no name because her parents hadn't named her. I thought of how I heard God tell me He had named our daughter Juliette because she was a jewel. Fantasy of grief? Maybe? But I prefer to think of her as Juliette.</div>
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But as on every February 6th, I think of the song that seems to have the strongest lesson from our One Hundred Fourteen Days - <i>I Will Cast All My Cares Upon You</i>. If you are old enough to have played <a href="http://www.psalty.com/" target="_blank">Psalty</a> cassettes when you were little or for your little ones, you know that song. Over and over we played Psalty when our daughter was little. She even had a blue Psalty Bible. Our daughter asked for it to be sung at her daughter's funeral. </div>
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On the day we were to put her tiny white casket in the ground, her mommy, my daughter, remembered her Psalty Kid's Praise 5 song. To cast our cares upon Jesus was so hard that cold February morning. As we shivered in the cemetery, committing her body to the ground to await the resurrection, that was all we could do - all any of us can do is to cast our cares upon Him. </div>
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Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-56428299140996296192014-01-28T10:25:00.000-06:002014-01-28T10:25:08.815-06:00Going Through<div>
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Yesterday, someone asked me - so, now that you've finished your PhD what are you doing? I wanted to correct this person and say, no, I don't have a PhD, I have an EdD. I knew this person thought that my degree of EdD was useless and that only a PhD will do... he is an academic elitist and quite arrogant. I opted to ignore the PhD part of the question and just answer him.</div>
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Even though I'm not still working as a teacher I said - I've been teaching at a Technical College. I'm sure that in his mind he was saying tsk tsk, a technical college. If I told him that it was a proprietary school that taught welders, electricians, HVAC techs, and a variety of medical programs I am sure that he would have thought - what a waste of time. I don't like arrogant elitist people. I think that's why I loved teaching at the school where I've pour my heart into for the last year and a half.</div>
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By most standards, I'm considered well off. I live in a nice house, in a nice small community. I drive a Mercedes (used and older) but nonetheless, I have a Benz. I get my nails done regularly now. I won't let just anyone touch my hair - in that regard I'm almost snobby. In the last five years we have finally reached that place that when a bill is due, it is paid. Even my credit score has gone up. Life is good.</div>
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I'm still the scrappy girl from Brooklyn. I'm the girl who wore hand-me-downs and whose father was a janitor. I'm still the poor single mother. I remember having no food and standing in line to get it. I remember getting my box filled with commodity butter, peanut butter, green beans, and even canned beef, chicken or pork. I remember... I remember well. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Food Stamp coupons</td></tr>
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What a wonderful day when your food stamps came. I never had an EBT card - I would receive large envelopes with monopoly type money - food stamps in the mail. Or sometimes we'd go to a bank and the bank would give us our rations. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Change for specific grocery stores</td></tr>
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The grocery stores even had fake change that you had to keep track of so you could use every penny of your food stamp allotment. Everyone knew you were poor - everyone saw you with those books of Food Stamp coupons. Everyone saw you fumble to make change with fake money. It was better than not eating. I managed my money well and fed three children. Without those Food Stamps I'd never be who I am now. I'd never have been able to get through school, alone, a single mother, with three children. </div>
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I remember the hot August days of standing outside <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Wardrobe/197105103694825" target="_blank">The Wardrobe</a> in Columbia MO for new free school clothes for my kids and voucher for new free shoes. Everyone knew what you were there for -- everyone knew the line was forming so children could get new clothes for school. Tuesday was the day you could shop for free with a referral - a referral meant you were officially poor.</div>
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Not all of the students where I worked were poor, or single parents, or on welfare - but some where, most were there to better there lives just like I did when I scraped together every possible resource and went to school. I saw myself in many of them. Frequently when I'd share that my biggest accomplishment was a GED - they would smile and start raising their hands and say ME TOO Dr. J, ME TOO. The single moms knew I knew what it was like to go to school as a single mom.</div>
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The conversation wasn't over with the man who asked me "Now what?" I said I also pastor a church. His response jarred me. It didn't surprise, but comments like his always jar me. He said "Oh there is better money in that." He proceeded to tell me a story about a man who made a good salary as a president of a university but left it to pastor a church because the money was better. I don't know if that's true - I rather doubt it - I don't know if the man who left the university was driven with a passion and a call for ministry or money.</div>
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Sadly, church and ministry have that reputation. It's all about the money. It's all about mega-churches and offerings. It's about driving a big car and living well. If you give, you'll get. The bigger the church, the bigger the success and the bigger the salary of the pastor. Later, we hear of sin and failings by these some public ministries.</div>
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He was wrong again. I don't pastor for money. I pastor because of passion. I pastor because it is what God called me to do. We seemed to have lost the idea of sacrifice, self-denial, and holiness. We pour our hearts, our time, and our energy into success rather than being with the real folk - the folk like my former students or the folk who worship in a small church. </div>
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And I guess not surprisingly my thoughts turned to an old song. As a child I sang this song and wondered about being one of the Lord's <i>despised few.</i> We are no longer dying to self. We are no longer sacrificing and giving all. </div>
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As for me - <a href="http://www.hymntime.com/tch/htm/i/m/g/imgointh.htm" target="_blank">I'm going through</a>.</div>
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Lord, I have started to walk in the light<br />That shines on my pathway so clearly, so bright;<br />I’ve bade the world and its follies adieu,<br />And now with my Savior I mean to go through.</div>
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Refrain</div>
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I’m going through, I’m going through,<br />I’ll pay the price, whatever others do;<br />I’ll take the way with the Lord’s despised few;<br />I’m going through, Jesus, I’m going through.</div>
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Many once started to run in this race,<br />But with our Redeemer they could not keep pace;<br />Others accepted because it was new,<br />But not very many seem bound to go through.</div>
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Refrain</div>
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Let me but follow my Lord all alone,<br />And have for my pillow, like Jacob, a stone,<br />Rather than vain worldly pleasures pursue,<br />Than turn from this pathway and fail to go through.</div>
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Come then, my comrades, and walk in this way<br />That leads to the kingdom of unending day;<br />Turn from your idols and join with the few,<br />Start in with your Savior, and keep going through.</div>
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Refrain</div>
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Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-70362679212509921652014-01-23T13:23:00.001-06:002014-01-23T13:23:52.013-06:00Everything I needed to know to be a Pastor I learned as a Sunbeam!<div class="WordSection1">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Two weeks ago I said I was going to start writing… well,
didn’t do too good on that one. At least
not yet! I suppose if you have nothing
to say, you shouldn’t say it. I think I’ve heard that before. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now I’m a pastor. I’ve
been a pastor before but only “sort of.”
By most accounts pastoring a small group in a coffee shop doesn’t really
count. I’ve been pastoral in many ways
but without a church. Just that person
people come to with their needs and concerns.
The one with a shoulder people could cry on and find support. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Prone to self-reflections and doubts, I wonder if I am
really prepared. I have the
education. I have the desire. I have the heart. Most importantly, I have the “call.” Now I have somewhat of a stamp of approval
from a large denomination. The church I pastor has a wonderful history, beautiful people, and meets in a lovely white church with a steeple that lights up at night. It's the type of church of Norman Rockwell art. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I drove into church last night from a
different direction. I could see the
steeple in the distance. Like a
lighthouse for souls in the song <i>The
Lighthouse</i>. You can hear it <a href="http://youtu.be/7h6ioYxD11k">here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of the congregants in the church said I glow in the
pulpit. Glow? Me? I think what she meant was that she can tell
how very happy I am to be a pastor.
Preaching is the easiest part.
Visitation is the hardest. I’m
shy by nature and much more introverted than people think when they see me
preach or teach. I’m polite to a fault,
a product of my childhood where children should be seen and not heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I guess this makes me the glowing pastor of the church with
the glowing steeple. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But isn’t that what the scripture says?</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Listen to Matthew 5:14-16 from </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The Message</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"> “Here’s another way to put it:
You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a
secret to be kept. We’re going public with this, as public as a city on a hill.
If I make you light-bearers, you don’t think I’m going to hide you under a
bucket, do you? I’m putting you on a light stand. Now that I’ve put you there
on a hilltop, on a light stand—shine! Keep open house; be generous with your
lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this
generous Father in heaven.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That’s it – bringing out the God colors in the world. Not keeping God a secret - being a
light-bearer. I don’t have to worry
about how prepared I am; I just have to shine.
God has put me on that hilltop with a lighted steeple with a congregation of people who love Jesus, now we need to shine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a kid I was a <a href="http://salvationarmyalm.org/youthministries/girl-guards-and-sunbeams/" target="_blank">Sunbeam</a>.
It is the Salvation Army’s girls scouting type program. I’ve written about it before, you can read
that <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2009/11/its-not-just-thrift-store.html">here</a>.
As a Sunbeam, I learned how to
shine. The words of this song seem to
capture it very well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoY5oB1cqaozskJk9lRg1si-X-TbFsehyAEf9qSRRLJ93o5pyUuKDmrevffkkELyfJQx_gv-RC5XFYEpTRvfl6bY2OBGbwybHrSWtGD-YRknOyYWlndBlZquuTl6L5KNXT6SxxtBuL5DM/s1600/sumbeam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoY5oB1cqaozskJk9lRg1si-X-TbFsehyAEf9qSRRLJ93o5pyUuKDmrevffkkELyfJQx_gv-RC5XFYEpTRvfl6bY2OBGbwybHrSWtGD-YRknOyYWlndBlZquuTl6L5KNXT6SxxtBuL5DM/s1600/sumbeam.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jesus
wants me for a sunbeam,<br />
To shine for Him each day;<br />
In every way try to please Him,<br />
At home, at school, at play.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">o<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Refrain:</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
A sunbeam, a sunbeam,<br />
Jesus wants me for a sunbeam;<br />
A sunbeam, a sunbeam,<br />
I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jesus wants me to be loving,<br />
And kind to all I see;<br />
Showing how pleasant and happy,<br />
His little one can be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I will ask Jesus to help me<br />
To keep my heart from sin;<br />
Ever reflecting His goodness,<br />
And always shine for Him.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ll be a sunbeam for Jesus,<br />
I can if I but try;<br />
Serving Him moment by moment,<br />
Then live for Him on high.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-90153607326083568492014-01-11T10:52:00.000-06:002014-01-11T10:53:34.055-06:00Got the Itch<br />
<br />
It was in a classroom on one of the lower floors at John Jay High School in Park Slope Brooklyn. We had to write a composition about an essay, or short story we had read. I remember picking up my pen and putting it to the three holed paper - loose leaf paper, we called it. I wrote something about enjoying what I read because I too wanted to be a writer.<br />
<br />
That was a very long time ago. My attempts at writing have filled these pages as well as those of <a href="http://viewsdakota.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Storehouses of Snow</a> and <a href="http://3forjc.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Kingdom Bloggers</a>. I can't tell you how many times I've been told to write a book or how many times I have asked - should I write a book? My analytic mind asks endless questions and never settles on an answer. <br />
<br />
But I've got that itch. I've got that itch to set my fingers to the keys and share my thoughts once again. Will I ever write that book? I don't know. But I need to write. I thought about a new blog but decided this one will do just fine - I'm still listening to the Sounds of Hope.<br />
<br />
I'm a pastor now. I pastor a wonderful country church. Since I last wrote I got a doctoral degree. So yes, it's Dr. Joyce now. I guess I have published my first book - my dissertation on social media and Christian community. <br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: blue;">When I graduated with my doctorate, my students <br />gave me these balloons and the dog. <br />Yes, I'm bragging but notice that <br />I'm the best teacher in the universe.</span></i></div>
<br />
I got to hear students call me Dr. Joyce in classrooms at a Technical College. I recently resigned feeling the pastorate needed more of time. I loved being a teacher and pray God will open up that door again. I've seen adult minds expand. I've seen ideas light up the face of students. I've laughed with them and heard them share their deepest secrets. <br />
<br />
I wonder if I should have been a teacher all along. I don't know. I should know. I'm old. <b><i>But perhaps one is never old if one is still exploring and learning and changing.</i></b><br />
<br />
Exactly what thoughts will fill these pages, I don't know yet. Come along with me. Share your comments and thoughts. I'm off on another journey. Join me.Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-7143085884710080462012-05-04T09:52:00.000-05:002012-05-04T10:05:56.213-05:00Chasing the wind<br />
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Last night I made a comment on Facebook. I’ve been better about these type of
comments, learning to think before I type.
During Lent, I disciplined myself to say only positive and thankful
things on Facebook. But I slipped last
night. Maybe it was a good thing. Comments reminded me that my status updates
are read and understood as well as misunderstood. I realized the power and the foolishness of
my words. I also began to realize the
root of the comment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No one likes to realize that they are sinning. Nevertheless, we all do it, don’t we? As I pondered my comment, I realized that I
had broken the 10<sup>th</sup> Commandment – sounds really serious, doesn’t
it? Perhaps I should get some sackcloth
and ashes. This blog is my virtual
sackcloth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The 10<sup>th</sup> Commandment is that one about
coveting. I looked up the word covet and
its meaning isn’t all negative. Covet
means both to wish longingly for something.
It can also mean envy. My comment
on Facebook last night was all about coveting.
It came from the frustration of my heart. It came from the frustration of unfulfilled
dreams. It came from a sense of being
rejected. It came from a sense of
hopelessness. It came from asking the destructive
question, why not me? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am frustrated. I am
wondering why not me. I am feeling a bit
hopeless. My husband hears it the
most. His reply is always – it’s all
God. That’s too simple an answer for
me. That brings up all the endless
questions of “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodicy">theodicy</a>.” Since Job, we have pondered why? My husband’s answer makes me ask if God is
mean. It makes me ask if God just doesn’t
like me. Am I some rejected step-child
rather than His beloved child? <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I pondered my sin this morning, I asked why this is
sin? I don’t know. The older I get, the more I realize I don’t
know is the best answer. Nevertheless,
my thoughts went to the issue of forgiveness.
So often, and rightly so, we are reminded that forgiveness is not about
the other person. It is about us. </div>
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Unforgiveness eats away at the soul of the
person harboring those feelings against another. It shortens your life by stripping your
joy. Revenge is its food but never truly
nourishes the soul. It is likewise with
coveting. It hurts me. Those I covet go on their merry way with
their life, while I sit destroyed, further being robbed of hope and joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This morning I read the book of Ecclesiastes. You should too. It won’t take you long. It puts life in perspective. As I read its overall depressing themes, my
heart begged for hope and resolution.
Everything is meaningless writes Qoheleth. Everything is a chasing of the wind. Fearing God and enjoying life seems to be the
prescription to avoid chasing the wind.
It sort of reminds me of the serenity prayer – accepting the things I
cannot change, changing what I can, and wisdom to know the difference.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is no room for coveting if one wants to enjoy
life. My days are getting shorter. I have less years ahead of me than of those
behind me. I cannot change how God
blesses others. I can only receive and
enjoy what blessings God choses to give to me.
I’ve prepared the best I know how to answer His call and purposes – if He
chooses to not allow me to serve Him with my gifts, there is nothing I can do about
it. That brings tears to my eyes. But it changes nothing. To try to change it is chasing after the
wind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I pondered Qoheleth, I came across this quote:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
As I sit here reading yet another book, desperately
continuing to search You out God, I read about the many who are “famous” in
their service of You. While I attempt to
live a life pleasing and worthy of You, I have a twinge of jealousy in my heart
because I too want to be that kind of faithful servant – famously faithful. I also fear that fame, that it is an in
itself, a desire leading to destruction.
But, my yearn to do Your will is consuming so, somehow I must no care if
anyone but You know that I serve You well.
All I can do is pray that I have the faith to endeavor to serve well, to
pray that I am serving well, and hope that I may be anonymously famous, even to
myself. (Anonymously Famous, <a href="http://qoheleth.com/Random.aspx">http://qoheleth.com/Random.aspx</a>)</blockquote>
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<i><b><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;">Ecclesiastes 9:11 I have seen
something else under the sun:</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 115%;">The race
is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen
to them all.</span></b></i></div>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-69212063634750266572012-04-27T18:14:00.001-05:002013-08-23T10:12:44.867-05:00Homesick<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXeccq2HRsa4n_S7npSHvrco5ycHcc_R78Axe1_G3jT1UQ29MLMKbkdl22GCZszQdRSqCSPVlcPwBQLkjL6juoOZiqKTkUadkBX-Yc_kHTpxAnretNR9nvJPxMIvoEJaI7GvH1uuDMPg/s1600/brooklyn1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXeccq2HRsa4n_S7npSHvrco5ycHcc_R78Axe1_G3jT1UQ29MLMKbkdl22GCZszQdRSqCSPVlcPwBQLkjL6juoOZiqKTkUadkBX-Yc_kHTpxAnretNR9nvJPxMIvoEJaI7GvH1uuDMPg/s200/brooklyn1.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<br />
I wrote the other day about <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2012/04/edna.html" target="_blank">Edna</a>. I met another Edna type person today at a Panera's in Hoboken. Hoboken reminds me of Brooklyn. I guess any place with sidewalks and stores reminds me of my home. I love being able to walk places and see people. Like Brooklyn, Hoboken is becoming one of the best places to live in the area.<br />
<br />
<br />
As we ordered at Panera's, this older woman was walking alongside of a stroller. I thought she was with the people. She grabbed my coat briefly to steady herself. I smiled. We picked our seats and soon we found that this delightful woman had sat beside us. She welcomed me to come and sit with my family... How nice of her!<br />
<br />
It didn't take long to realize she had dementia. She told us her mother had worked at Panera's and that her mother died a few years ago at age 27. I asked if she had children. She told us that she did but wasn't too clear about the details.<br />
<br />
She finally decided to order. The young man at the counter reminded her that she had already had coffee and should have saved her cup for refills. He smiled and gave her another one. She paid for her soup and bread. He filled her coffee again. He was so gentle with her. Even though they were busy, everyone treated her well and with respect. All this, in the Northeast! Hmmmm -<br />
<br />
That was the vibe I experienced the whole time I've been in the NY/NJ. People aren't smiling and making big fuss over us in that southern polite friendliness but a genuine friendliness. I don't know how to describe it but I've had more friendly conversation with people I don't know since I've been here than I ever do in Nashville.<br />
<br />
Okay, I know. You're going to say:<i> isn't this woman ever happy?</i> She moaned and groaned for Nashville when she lived in South Dakota - now she's complaining about Nashville. I guess it seems like that. But it's not that... I like Nashville overall and am thrilled that I live there and not in South Dakota. <br />
<br />
It's just that every time I come home, I feel better. I enjoy random conversations with guys who sell me hot dogs in Manhattan, and the Edna's. Sometimes I wonder, what if? What if we never moved away from Brooklyn? I've lived long enough now to know that what seems like a crisis when you are a teenager is just a short passing bubble - it will burst and life will sort itself out. Almost everyone grows up and figures life out.<br />
<br />
But we did move and leave Brooklyn. I guess you can never really go home, but I sure wish I could - I wish I could call the Northeast home again.Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-65874857953397108082012-04-25T11:03:00.000-05:002012-04-25T11:03:28.832-05:00EdnaYesterday we did the mini-Brooklyn nostalgia tour. I so love returning home. I think anyone who is disconnected from their roots and home can understand the feeling one has when you return "home." I suppose it is also understandable that those with me don't feel the same warmth and exhilaration when they see the streets, shops, trees, churches, and diverse people of Brooklyn.<br />
<br />
As we toured, I told my 17 year old granddaughter that she had visited Puerto Rico, China, Israel, and the Arab Middle East in that afternoon alone. There was a quick trip into a Norwegian shop a remnant of a large Norwegian community that was replaced by the Chinese. As we left, we munched on Kransekake and Krumkake. YUM. In my hand was a block of precious gold - Nøkkelost cheese. I will savor every bite of it later. Those with me could never appreciate its flavor or delight in its taste as I will.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGGuauyRBhfKTC0LpBzG69TCZiaFwU43Mr6zz_LfHy7HiFRN7xJNVaLavSNHWYE9EbFg9OOBDz0hTDtZNe5WEjdiADTaoMGd4X3h4wPZCPsHUgIUhkLPqhplEK8dIaW4eBys3979w6Sng/s1600/nordic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGGuauyRBhfKTC0LpBzG69TCZiaFwU43Mr6zz_LfHy7HiFRN7xJNVaLavSNHWYE9EbFg9OOBDz0hTDtZNe5WEjdiADTaoMGd4X3h4wPZCPsHUgIUhkLPqhplEK8dIaW4eBys3979w6Sng/s320/nordic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The last stop was Hinsch's. I don't recall when was the last time I was there. It was likely around the time I was sitting in Mrs. Cedar's class in the fourth grade at PS94. A frequent ritual was to accompany my bff Barbara and her grandmother Rose to this delightful old-fashioned soda fountain/ice cream parlor. <br />
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The 33 block walk each way was hard on the little legs. The walk was worth the feast of a hamburger and crinkle cut fries. Barbara and I would share the fries. She liked ketchup; I didn't. My pleas to put the ketchup on the side were unheeded. I would hunt for fries not smothered in ketchup. I'd give anything to share fries with Barbara and her grandmother again.<br />
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My family has a difficult time appreciating my walks down memory lane. It's not their memory. I ordered egg creams for them. I savored two sips of a vanilla egg cream as my lactose intolerance prohibited more. I twirled a little on the stool at the counter. I looked longingly at the booths and pictured a little girl with her bff and Rose - Rose always wore a hat. I could see her.<br />
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The server became an instant friend of my granddaughter Maria. Here is their picture:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOugOqm7oIwHBelbpIsUpgoJht_-9rm0jAjtNpOdsdrNiAmhH-8xcQDF1Qe8dgXYO5SKHxT5S-V1tFu2U7D0vgVBbr6tiCeJPL_jhMzc-encPBnbOCSkugDpm7FTciX261agfmCUHrWRw/s1600/hinsch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOugOqm7oIwHBelbpIsUpgoJht_-9rm0jAjtNpOdsdrNiAmhH-8xcQDF1Qe8dgXYO5SKHxT5S-V1tFu2U7D0vgVBbr6tiCeJPL_jhMzc-encPBnbOCSkugDpm7FTciX261agfmCUHrWRw/s320/hinsch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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As we lingered a bit longer, Edna came in. Edna was greeted by Lisa, the server. Edna ordered some vanilla ice cream to take home. Edna got a big hug from Maria. It was like an instant family! Once a Brooklynite, always a Brooklynite. Edna, probably in her 70's, had lived in Brooklyn all her life. She told me that she had loved once but the day before her wedding to her love, he died. He died in a scaffolding accident. Their apartment lovingly furnished for a life together was never lived in - she gave their furniture away to the Salvation Army. She told me she'd never found love again.<br />
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It was like I knew her all my life. It's like that with people from Brooklyn. As she left, she said, "I'll see you tomorrow." I said, "no" with a frown. I wish I could see Edna today. She told me I was good looking - then she exclaimed: "But you work here." I said, "no, I'm just visiting - I don't live in Brooklyn anymore." She told me to talk to the boss, a typical Brooklyn guy sitting reading the newspaper on the first stool. She was sure he'd give me a job.<br />
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Sometimes I fantasize about moving back to Brooklyn. Yesterday, I knew I could. I knew I could find Edna's and Lisa's and even the guy on the stool who'd welcome me back to my home. I'm homesick.Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-83829648491731568792012-04-04T11:25:00.001-05:002012-04-04T11:31:39.418-05:00Hospitality - A Holy Week Discipline<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhftGIla7Md2LJd2kBpTQYlv9ZU9j2cYcDyJO8nE0mYqytFJNr2_cszdF6V1Jg_yJ6p56S9VQ0uWiTrUyd8ghiRFIMMyOaYnsQoQLzn4CXnDFldmLA9eluXpt56dH96aS7InOnwYf8ovE/s1600/FFA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhftGIla7Md2LJd2kBpTQYlv9ZU9j2cYcDyJO8nE0mYqytFJNr2_cszdF6V1Jg_yJ6p56S9VQ0uWiTrUyd8ghiRFIMMyOaYnsQoQLzn4CXnDFldmLA9eluXpt56dH96aS7InOnwYf8ovE/s200/FFA.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I heard an interesting sermon on Monday. No I wasn't at church when I heard it. It wasn't from a preacher either. It was from this very blond, very white, very young, FFA (Future Farmers of America) leader. If you know me, or have read my blogs, in particular <a href="http://viewsdakota.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Storehouses of Snow</a>, you know that I am usually not too excited when I have to go to FFA, 4-H, Fairs, Achievement Days, Farm Bureau Events, and the like. As we pulled up to see the sea of blue jackets, I remembered when I first saw those jackets at Hickman High School. When I was a kid, there were no FFA Chapters in Brooklyn that I was aware of - this was new. I would laugh at the Aggies. <br />
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Later my husband would teach Vo-Ag. Those blue jackets took his time and attention. He'd leave me for long trips to the State Fair, State Conventions, and the Annual National Convention that always fell on my birthday. I don't have a long love affair with FFA. FFA, 4-H and the like have always interfered with my life and happiness even though it has been our bread and butter. As a good wife, I go with him when I can. This event on Monday had no cows or smelly barns. My husband was to be given an award. I am proud of him. As hard as it is for a girl from Brooklyn, imagine coming from a different country and culture and teaching Aggies.<br />
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This blond in blue spoke to her peers and those assembled about practicing your values. She told a story of bullying and name calling. She didn't participate but she didn't defend. Her core value was challenged in elementary school as she realized because she didn't defend and speak up, she too was guilty. As she spoke, I tossed the message aside. Oh she was right - but I also thought how young and idealistic she was. I thought "wait until life beats you up." It beats up everyone.<br />
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Today I am thinking again about her message. I realize that her sermon was for me. I am preparing for a visit. My brother-in-law is coming to visit with us for a few days or weeks. I like my husband's family. They may not realize it because I often succumb to resentment. Everything in my life changes when someone comes. We will eat different. While I scrounge around for some American leftovers, I'll fix curried dishes until my house smells like an Indian restaurant. I'll dress differently. I will be careful concerning my attire and be unable to come in my PJ's to drink coffee in the morning lest my brother-in-law see me. I'll wonder whether it is more rude for me to sit and stare at the wall as Saraiki is spoken or leave and watch TV alone in my room. Yes, everything will change.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr3unjg4Ww5GulrW29fCr9VmTBjPYos3rdTtzli6DjmGzBS42RzJ4nCpF-xyJBz2ZxukScYXSzSsUkdJk9F_ovhRhhJoTMTE8O7vAJCXDO1QvyCNvo2hv-nde0exfe3Z0u_K1fbDY-is/s1600/hospitality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr3unjg4Ww5GulrW29fCr9VmTBjPYos3rdTtzli6DjmGzBS42RzJ4nCpF-xyJBz2ZxukScYXSzSsUkdJk9F_ovhRhhJoTMTE8O7vAJCXDO1QvyCNvo2hv-nde0exfe3Z0u_K1fbDY-is/s200/hospitality.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>And it's Holy Week! What bad timing is that? Or is it? I talk a lot about love of God, love of neighbor. I say my core values include love those that are different - loving the other. I believe that hospitality is a Christian virtue. I'm feeling challenged to be like Jesus during Holy Week. I'm feeling challenged to put my values into practice.<br />
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As I prayed this morning, I could sense the Holy Spirit nudging me. I was reminded of practicing your values. I was reminded that Jesus' life was one of loving the "other." As I thought of the coming Passover season, I thought of the passage at the heart of the Holiness Code:<br />
Leviticus 19:33-34<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. </span><span style="background-color: white;">The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.</span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">All this is easier said that done. I've tried to be hospitable for my husband before. I've tried because it is the right thing to do before. I've failed every time. Today, I'm offering this up to Jesus. I'm going to do it because of and for Jesus. I am going to do it because Jesus asks me to live my faith in actions - </span></span><br />
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</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">James 2:20-24</span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="versetext" id="jas2-20" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">You foolish person, do you want evidence that faith without deeds is useless<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="d"></a> ?<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="30"></a> </span><span class="versetext" id="jas2-21" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"> Was not our father Abraham considered righteous for what he did when he offered his son Isaac on the altar?</span><span class="versetext" id="jas2-22" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"> You see that his faith and his actions were working together,<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="32"></a> and his faith was made complete by what he did.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="33"></a> </span><span class="versetext" id="jas2-23" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"> And the scripture was fulfilled that says, "Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness,"<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="e"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="34"></a> and he was called God's friend.<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=876740550069534239&postID=8382964849173156879" name="35"></a> </span><span class="versetext" id="jas2-24" style="background-color: white; display: inline; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"> You see that people are justified by what they do and not by faith alone. </span></span></blockquote>So when I'm feeling that I want to run into the bathroom in frustration and cry my eyes out, I pray God will give me the grace I need. I will, with God's grace, offer hospitality as part of my spiritual worship during this Holiest of Weeks. My sacrifice is nothing compared to that of my Lord who offers me the hospitality of life, grace, hope, and salvation as I commune and partake of Him at His Table.Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-8979023153456935182012-03-12T13:30:00.001-05:002012-03-12T15:15:35.214-05:00Daddy's Girl<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've always been a Daddy's girl. I miss my dad more and more every day. That may sound odd since he's been gone for nearly 41 years. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxrlbk5f6CFOdfik51DnOCgdtKl9B41colrm1Jm9bVKetBCQRjUvF7zMDJxhtNzRQzwu51glduYoh-6vtrCNcoz3AK6WaD2D5YkxhpHkGf5_fm92YtSIg-L5VVG8dLZIWwqZBXem3uMg/s1600/dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvxrlbk5f6CFOdfik51DnOCgdtKl9B41colrm1Jm9bVKetBCQRjUvF7zMDJxhtNzRQzwu51glduYoh-6vtrCNcoz3AK6WaD2D5YkxhpHkGf5_fm92YtSIg-L5VVG8dLZIWwqZBXem3uMg/s200/dad.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today I've been thinking about how much I still want to be a Daddy's girl. No, I can't climb on his lap anymore and ride the horsey on his foot while hearing <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ciframe%20width=%22420%22%20height=%22315%22%20src=%22http://www.youtube.com/embed/mcLGc5mh8hQ%22%20frameborder=%220%22%20allowfullscreen%3E%3C/iframe%3E" target="_blank">Rida Rida Runka</a>. I can't snuggle in his arms and hear him say Lille Venn. <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2010/01/coffee-break.html" target="_blank">I can't beg for the extra piece of lump sugar while having my Biblical knowledge tested with the story of Naaman</a>.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I want to be a Daddy's girl by being like my dad. </b> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have a very eclectic group of friends both in real life and on Facebook. My scroll on Facebook fills up with all sorts of things - mostly nonsense. I see things about how to love your pets and why dogs are wonderful. I see things about politicians. Unfortunately, I see a lot of hate stuff about people who are different or those who are perceived as enemies. I see calls to action to repair a fire station or to vote for someone to be the next model. I see Bible verses used AND twisted to suit an agenda. And of course, what would Facebook be without a YouTube video.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was YouTube video that caught my attention today and made me think about my dad. It was a video criticizing a popular Televangelist. Now if you know me, you know that I don't really care for any of them. I just don't care at all for big name preachers, teacher, prophets, etc. because most of them have egos bigger than their names. I don't see a lot of Jesus in that. Oh yeah, I know they build a well in Africa at times to try to get more money from you and pull on your heartstrings (I know, cynical) - but overall, they live in big houses, fly in private jets, and live a celebrity lifestyle expecting people to think they are God's only messenger.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You get the picture - I just don't care for any of them. A YouTube video telling me that this one said that and the other said this - and how it isn't Biblical is not big surprise to me. The person doing this "exposé" usually isn't Biblical either. A quick scan through YouTube's similar offerings looks like the dual on Mount Carmel between Elijah and the prophets of Baal but without Elijah. Everyone is right! Everyone KNOWS exactly what God wants, thinks, says - they have TRUTH. Here is the most ridiculous example I've found so far:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mcLGc5mh8hQ" width="420"></iframe><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's where my Daddy comes in. My Dad was one of those rare individuals that never said anything about anyone unless he could say something good. Seriously! He really was like that. He wasn't stupid or naive - he just didn't say things. If he could find even the smallest thing good to say about them, he would. If not, he kept silent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And I always knew who my Dad admired. He would tell me he had a lot of respect for this one or that one. He demonstrated a strength of character that I want to have. I want to not be looking to expose someone, but to cover them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is a story in the Bible that we usually don't find in the children's coloring books about Noah. In fact, we rarely hear it from the pulpit either. It's found in Genesis 9:20-23. Noah our hero plants a vineyard after all that time on the stinky Ark with the animals tossing around on the flooded earth. He makes wine. He gets drunk. He lays naked in his tent. One son sees him and does nothing. The other two walk in backwards so as NOT to see their father's "shame" and cover him. The son who does nothing is cursed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So what's the lesson? The lesson is we need to be careful how we "expose" people. We need to keep our mouths silent, turn off the video cameras, and live by the scriptures:</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">By this everyone will know that you are my </span><span style="background-color: white;">disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35</span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></b></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I want to be Daddy's girl. I want to focus on the positive, love, and speak kindly with mercy.</span></span>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-876740550069534239.post-29679617831043119012012-03-10T11:52:00.029-06:002012-03-11T08:36:05.323-05:00Lent<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why Lent? I’ve been ask this question a lot this year. How does a born and bred Pentecostal decide to observe Lent? Maybe because I am in contact with more and more people from my past and present who have never considered Lent. This is not my first year to consider Lenten practices.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several years ago now – probably at least five – I decided to in a small way practice the ancient Christian practice of observing Lent. I didn’t go for ashes that year nor did fast. I wasn’t quite ready for that “Catholic” of an experience. Nor did I understand enough to consider it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That year I had picked up a book at Goodwill. It was a book by Phyllis Tickle: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Eastertide-Prayers-Through-Easter-Phyllis/dp/0385511280" target="_blank">Eastertide Prayers for Lent through Easter with the Divine Hours</a>. Five times a day (well, most days) I'd open the book, recite the reading, pray the prayers, etc. Often it was rote; I would read with mind elsewhere. However, just as often, the Holy Spirit would move in and the time with the book expanded long past the reading on the page. Often while sitting on an early spring morning alone on my deck, the written prayers turned into heartfelt prayers of praise, worship, petition, repentance, and longing. As a Pentecostal, I would say these times were times of "praying through" an issue - usually a heart issue. I grew spiritual in ways that I hadn't expected. I have returned to the ancient practice of <a href="http://explorefaith.org/prayer/fixed/" target="_blank">Divine Hours</a> and find the discipline always a spur to my spiritual growth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHu8NWZHHBYCPMxtiNh94PnrLRyBIB6alJqI9xk6ER7mSyNRc4qOZlblIep_75vnbbloHNjFbtLlQsMzcDUw_kOlD76tBXmkSAPayrUHcZwvy6bS9wZETspIEER1qyNsKxSSPn_YQDqPg/s1600/lent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHu8NWZHHBYCPMxtiNh94PnrLRyBIB6alJqI9xk6ER7mSyNRc4qOZlblIep_75vnbbloHNjFbtLlQsMzcDUw_kOlD76tBXmkSAPayrUHcZwvy6bS9wZETspIEER1qyNsKxSSPn_YQDqPg/s320/lent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><h1 style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></h1><div>My first experience with Ash Wednesday and the imposition of ashes came surprisingly at a Nazarene church. Small, meeting in a shopping plaza, for a short time I joined in regular worship with this Nazarene church. Much to my surprise, on a Wednesday night in that place I had my first experience with the imposition of ashes. Part of me thought perhaps I'd be struck with lightening for becoming "Catholic." The other part of me was struck with the symbolism and profound meaning of the ritual.<br />
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</div><div>In 2010, during our <a href="http://viewsdakota.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">sojourn to South Dakota</a>, I was home for an interview for the doctoral program at Trevecca. I had this urgency in my spirit to go find a church and receive ashes again. It was odd. I couldn't shake it. I thought how ridiculous and yet... it compelled me. I recommend you read these two of my previous blogs to understand: <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2010/02/i-am-dust.html" target="_blank">I am Dust</a> and <a href="http://ageofhopeministries.blogspot.com/2010/02/suddenly.html" target="_blank">Suddenly</a>. As you read, you'll understand that urgency I felt for the ashes was God's way of preparing me for the death of my mother. Her death vigil started the day after I received ashes reminding me that I am dust and to dust I will return.</div><div><br />
My "record" with Lent is spotty. Last year I received the imposition of ashes at the Catholic church with my daughter. It was a rather routine experience and not particularly profound. We shared fish sandwiches after. That was about it for Lent last year except for failed attempts to not eat meat on Friday.<br />
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This year I have once again felt the need to attend to my spiritual disciples. While I know I don't need to follow Lent. It's not in the Bible; it's not a command. However, I do believe that ancient Christians developed these practices for spiritual benefit. I can testify that they have benefited me. If you would like a short version of the history of Lent in ancient Christianity, go <a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/ch/news/2004/lent.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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</div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This year I have a church home. As I pulled up to the church on Ash Wednesday my sense were alive as I smelled the palms burning in preparation for ashes. I ate a bread and water supper with my brothers and sisters. I received ashes on my forehead once again. I purposed to fast meat on Fridays this year. I cheated already. I had a turkey sandwich last Friday and feel no particular guilt about it. However, the </span>intention<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of trying to fast is a good one and one I will continue to strive to practice this year during the Lenten season. </span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most importantly, I am drawing closer to God through this season. I have humbled myself and asked for prayer. I have seen answers to those prayers already. I am aware of the Holy Spirit working in my heart. Changes are coming. I have purposed to not be negative in my speech and outlook and to be grateful and express gratitude. I am dust. I am nothing except for God. Lent reminds me of that. Lent helps me focus on my heart and soul to self-discipline and repentance.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've learned that God can speak to me in infinite ways. I only have to listen. Just yesterday I watched a video sent to me by an intercessor. It's a video of a Jewish Rabbi teaching on Esther. It pierced my heart and brought both tears of conviction and tears of hope. You can see it <a href="http://youtu.be/MKJnB1m8kcw" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I would never discount or discredit my Pentecostal heritage. I love it. I cherish it. I embrace it. I practice it. Sometimes I long for it as one does your favorite meal from childhood. My heritage taught me to pray through, to see God, to fast, and to pray. For me, that's what Lent is all about.</span></span></div>Joyce Ligharihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13853208533065317514noreply@blogger.com0