by jphilo | Apr 2, 2012 | Church Newsletter Columns
For who has despised the day of small things?
Zechariah 4:10a
As a young child, I day dreamed about becoming big things kind of girl. I had big plans for a career as either a television star or a princess. Therefore, I focused on the big things like dramatic poses and tiaras rather than little things like learning to tie my shoes. Or telling time. Or making letters like b and d point the right way. Or memorizing math facts. Eventually, my parents and teachers made life miserable until I learned convinced me to pay attention to little things.
But I remained a big things kind of girl at heart for many years. Even after I became a Christian and started reading the Bible. I preferred the big, showy stories – Moses parting the Red Sea, Daniel in the lion’s den, and Jesus feeding the five thousand – to hidden, quiet events like Moses in the bull rushes, Ruth gleaning grain, or the long drudgery of rebuilding the temple in Zechariah’s day.
I remained a sucker for bright lights and big things until two babies entered our home six years apart. When they arrived, life became a river of small things. Tiny fingernails to clip. Itty bitty diapers. Minuscule onesies. Little bodies asleep in my arms. The first tiny hints of toothless smiles.
Slowly, my attitude about material things began to change. The arrivals of these little people made the sacrifices – buying a minivan, sleepless nights, spit up stains ruining expensive clothes, fun money diverted for college savings accounts and day care providers – worthwhile.
My spiritual attitude began changing, too. When I bathed our babies, I imagined Mary bathing her son. Wiping his nose. Drying his tears. Hugging his small body, holding him close, caring for her little boy. I imagined Jesus, God’s Son, beginning his life as the smallest and most inconsequential of small things. A baby born in a barn. Yet that baby grew up to do big things. He lived a perfect life. He healed hurting people. He fed the five thousand. He died on a cross, rose from the dead, and ascended into heaven. All to reconcile small and petty sinners to the eternal, omnipotent God.
My children are grown. I haven’t bathed a baby in years. But as the shadow of the cross grows large in the days before Easter, my thoughts turn to the babe in the manger. The hope of a fallen world contained in a small package. The baby who guides sinners to the foot of the cross.
My God works through small things. He uses the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong. He uses small things like us to demonstrate our need for the great gift of His Son. At the foot of the cross, kneeling before the manger, I am finally content with small things.
by jphilo | Apr 20, 2011 | Recipes
A couple weeks ago, I started an occasional series about the Family Camp sweet roll recipe. The first post showcased basic cinnamon rolls, with the promise of more variations to come. With Easter around the corner, it’s time to keep the promise by unveiling the recipe for orange rolls.
Don’t think more highly of me than is warranted. I’m not feeling festive or magnanimous. I’m craving orange rolls. And with the daughter and new son coming to celebrate with us, the craving may get satisfied on Easter morning. Who needs an Easter egg hunt with warm rolls fresh from the oven?
Orange Rolls
Prepare dough according to the recipe for cinnamon rolls. While the dough is rising, make orange filling:
3 tablespoons butter, softened
1 tablespoon grated orange peel
2 tablespoons orange juice
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
Beat butter, orange peel, juice, and powdered sugar until creamy and smooth.
When dough is done rising, punch down and divide dough in half. Roll one half into a rectangle and spread with 1/2 the orange filling. Roll up from the long side. Pinch ends of dough into a roll to seal well.
Cut the roll into 12 slices. Place slightly apart in a greased pan. Let rise 45 minutes. Bake 25-30 minutes at 350 degrees. Remove from oven. Cool slightly and frost with remaining filling.
Double the filling recipe if you want to make orange rolls with all the dough. (Or use half as much filling if you don’t like too much sweet.) Or make cinnamon rolls from the remaining dough using the original recipe.
by jphilo | Apr 19, 2011 | Family
Our son called yesterday, as he does every weekend. My heart swelled with joy and gratitude after we said our good-byes, and I thanked God for our resurrected relationship, our evidence of Easter in our lives. The world is crowded with hurting people who need the promise of resurrected dreams. But they live in darkness, hopeless and alone. My prayer for them hasn’t changed since a year ago when the post below was written. God, meet them in their pain. Give them hope. And give them laughter, too.
God, Give Them Laughter, Too
Most of the time, identifying with women in the Bible doesn’t come easy to me. I’m not queenly like Esther. I didn’t follow my mother-in-law to a foreign land like Ruth, and my chosen professions have been quite different than Rahab’s. My humility and faith fall far short of Mary the mother of Jesus, and I certainly didn’t raise a perfect child. (Sorry kids!)
I can’t dance like Salome, cut hair like Delilah, or sit contentedly at Jesus’ feet like Mary of Bethany. I can be as bossy and driven as Martha, but who wants to admit something like that?
Even with my rotten track record, one woman from the Bible made my kindred spirit short list about eight months ago when our son announced his engagement to a wonderful young woman. Sarah, wife of Abraham, is one chick I totally get. I get why she laughed when God promised she would bear a child, though she was old, old. old.
Two years ago, if God had said something like, “Your son will get married on April 11, 2010,” I would have laughed, too. See, back then my son’s career choice made no room for marriage. And after five long years of his stalwart resolution to pursue that course for life, I’d come to accept his choice. More than that, I’d found peace and a way to maintain a loving relationship with my son. I’d even learned to accept God’s will instead of demanding He fulfill my hopes and dreams for my firstborn.
After I made my peace, if God had dropped the he’ll-get-married-and-you-might-have-grandchildren-someday bombshell, I would have done one of two things. Either I would have gotten really mad and told God to quit raising my hopes about something I didn’t dare hope about, or like Sarah, I would have laughed at his joke. Sarah made the better choice, to laugh, drop the matter, and move on.
But God, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t drop the matter. He gave Sarah a son in her old age. In Genesis 21:6, Sara says this after her son’s birth. “God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me.”
I totally get what she’s saying because what she describes happens to my family these days. When we tell people about our son’s upcoming wedding, everyone responds with joy. Smiles, chuckles and beaming grins abound. Sarah’s words come alive.
God has made laughter for me.
Still, in the midst of joy, I am aware of the suffering and sorrow of others. My laughter could mock a mother estranged from a son, a single person wishing for a spouse, an infertile couple unable to conceive. So in the midst of joy, tears fill my eyes. I ask God to comfort those whose stories are so painful they can’t laugh for someone else’s joy.
Help them find your peace in their current circumstances, dear Father. Give them hope to hang on until you bring laughter back into their lives. Give them a sweet story to tell, one that brings joy to their hearts and to the hearts of all who hear it. Amen.
by jphilo | Apr 1, 2010 | Church Newsletter Columns
Blessed is the one whose transgression is forgiven,
whose sin is covered.
Blessed is the man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity,
and in whose spirit there is no deceit.
Psalm 32: 1-2
Ever since the first pre-Christmas blizzard covered our state with snow, I’ve been waiting for it to melt. Of course, I never imagined the white stuff would stick around until a few weeks before Easter, but it did. By the time it disappeared, I was ready for green grass, green fields, and green leaves on the trees.
In my eagerness, I forgot one important thing. When the snow melts, there’s a whole lot of ugly to live through before the green carpet of spring is rolled out. For a few weeks, the grass is brown and matted, and the tree limbs are a dull, monotonous gray.
But worse than gray and brown are the sins of winter, gradually exposed as the snow melts away. Garbage litters the landscape with covert sins – the dog poo Fido’s owner didn’t bother to pick up since the snow would hide it – and overt sins – three months worth of bottles, fast food containers, old tires, and grocery sacks tossed and forgotten in the ditches.
Without snow’s soft, cold blanket, it can’t be ignored. The litter along our gravel road saddens me. Though the residents of our neighborhood didn’t make the mess, we’re anxiously waiting for our neighborhood ditch walk, to wiping away the sins of winter so spring’s beauty can return.
I’ll be stiff and sore for a few days after the walk, but compared to what Christ experienced on the road to Golgotha, my aches are nothing. But as he hangs on the cross, my sins lie exposed. I can no longer cover them with a blanket of excuses. They are the bloody crown on his head, the wounds on his back, the nails in his hands and feet.
My heart is cut in two, and I kneel at the foot of the cross. I weep outside the tomb, horrified by what my sin has wrought, humbled by the death of him who knew no sin. In the shadow of the cross, I’m confronted with my own ugliness. Even though I repent of my sins, I am powerless to conquer them. In deep sorrow and weakness, I forget one important truth.
The God of the crucifixion is also the God of the resurrection. He’s the Father who recognizes a heart broken by his suffering. He’s the Son who wipes away my sins and covers my repentant heart with his own holiness. He’s the Spirit of holiness who restores beauty and hope.
Because Christ died on the cross,
I am the blessed one whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.
Because Christ rose again,
I am the blessed one against whom the Lord counts no iniquity,
and in whose spirit there is no deceit.
Because of Christ’s work on the cross, I am blessed and so are you.
Alleluia! He is risen!
by jphilo | Apr 14, 2009 | Family
Chris, an old high school friend, sent this blackmail material photo this morning. Either he or his wife Jane, my best friend in high school, took it during an all night band trip bus ride. The picture revealed something precious I hadn’t noticed before – a resemblance to my daughter, Anne.
For one thing, we have the same pout. It’s not a feature I was particularly eager to pass on to her, but since she looks and acts more like her dad’s side of the family than mine, I’ll take what I’m given. But it’s the smock, not the pout, that reminds me of Anne.
In high school, I sewed most of my clothes, including the smock, one of my favorites, in the picture. Thought I don’t sew much anymore, Anne does. During Easter Break, she sewed up a storm in her bedroom, which looked like a tornado had hit. Scraps of calico, buttons, and snippets of thread littered the floor and crept into the hallway. By the time she went back to college, she’d finished a dress, most of a skirt, and cleaned up her mess.
Sewing is a greater delight for her than it ever was for me. She finds pleasure not only in her own handiwork, but also in what others have made. When she discovered a stack of my old creations stashed in the cedar chest, she was ecstatic and added them to her wardrobe. The smock, which I wore out, wasn’t among the treasures she unearthed. Too bad. She would have looked sweet in it.
Unless she was pouting. Then it would have been blackmail material.
