Be Discerning

Last night, I decided to begin a conversation with my husband at 11 p.m.,  realizing that the early alarm would ring Sunday morning signaling us to get ourselves and the kids ready for church and out the door.   Usually by 9 p.m. I'm tucked away in the land of ZZZ, but last night my heart was troubled, and I needed to share my burdens with my very patient husband.  

As some who may read this know, my health seems to be in a constant stage of putting out fires while doing all I can to prevent new ones.  I'm awaiting blood work to be done for yet another blood clotting disorder, which would make it my third clotting disorder.  Hyper-coagulant, anyone?   My heart is also being pesky, and my oxygen levels are dipping when I do more than getting out of bed and get dressed.  I may very well live to be 89 and independent, like my maternal grandmother.  I may end up seeing Jesus before my first grandchild arrives on the scene.  I just don't know.  Like you, I don't know the number of days assigned to me.  But, I know the Giver of those days, and live trusting in His sovereignty.  

Perhaps because of the roller coaster ride my health is giving to me, the burdens I have for my friends who are my Christian brothers and sisters grows more intense as moments in this life go by.   A few days ago I shared on Facebook my  plea for people to open their Bibles and compare what Scripture says with what a well-known and much adored current teacher is putting in to print, and vocalizing on her television productions.   My intent was not, and is not, to attack her personally (I think I'd actually enjoy her spunk and humor), but to question the biblical accuracy of her teachings.   Some accepted the what I hoped was lovingly wrapped challenge, and others saw me as being picky, picky, picky.    You know what?  That's OK.  When handling the Word of God, we NEED to be picky, picky, picky.

There is yet another author who has published books that many people (including some of my dear friends) are running to for inspiration and guidance.   And why not?  It's the words of Jesus.  Or are they?   We as Christ followers have His God-breathed, inspired Word in our hands when we open our Bible.   Why, oh why, would Jesus have to speak outside of His Word through the pen of another human?   While the author states that her book is not inspired in the same way the Bible is, I ask then how?  Then why?    There is a blogger I stumbled upon when looking for more information on this book, and I came across the words of a woman who expresses my concerns far better than I am able.  

I hope that if you have a pause in your heart about this book, you will find answers why that pause is there in this blog post:  

/http://steakandabible.com/2012/07/04/is-deception-calling-a-review-of-jesus-calling-by-sarah-young/

Lessons

Life has been a bit rough and bumpy lately.  I've been trying to navigate my way around potholes of health issues, loneliness, parenting challenges,  uncertain addresses, and other life situations.   There have been moments where I have felt like giving up and not pressing on to what I have been called and equipped to do on my life's journey.   It's been too tempting to stay in my pajamas while teaching math and science to my children, to heat up the umpteenth can of soup and call it a meal.

Yesterday morning was a tough one.  My natural inclination was to stay home from church, cocoon myself away from others, and try to grab some extra hours of sleep that have been in short supply the past few weeks.  I made it through the morning, albeit sans make-up, and almost got through a yummy potluck dinner at church before Micah experienced another of his massive nosebleeds.   After Dave got it somewhat under control, I took Micah home to get him cleaned up.  He was pale and not his usual zippy self, but he was determined to play in his basketball game.  

While Micah was getting his team's tee shirt on, and tying up his basketball shoes,  I gathered wipes and hand towels to bring a long in case another bloody nose came upon Micah.   We got to the gym full of enthusiastic first and second graders, parents, and grandparents.   Thankfully I had remembered to take some pain reliever for my already throbbing head.  An hour, I could make it through.

Finally Micah's game began.  A game that is supposed to be basketball, but in actuality looks like a combination of football, wrestling, soccer, with some a foundation of basketball underneath it all.  It's entertaining.  It's precious.   My son is not the fastest on the court, he has yet to make a basket, and he likes to guard his own teammates who are trying to make baskets.   He does it all with a smile and zeal. It doesn't discourage him when others say, "What ARE you doing?".  He doesn't give up when he is playing at half strength and looking pale as a glass of milk.   The loud buzz of the signal causes him anxiety, so he wears his bright orange earplugs and doesn't care when other children stare at him.  He lives.  He goes on.  He presses forward.  He doesn't let his different style and abilities hinder him.  He finds solutions, gets the assistance he needs, and continues on.   He is my little hero with a big heart and a giant love for life.  He is my teacher.  He is my son.