The Reluctant Witness.

I leave for Romania in just over a week, to serve with a wonderful new ministry called Red Page. I’m humbled to be on the Executive Board for an organization so committed to caring for the discarded in that country, and have been inspired by the churches already on board because of of their love for her people. They are amazing.

And I feel so ill-equipped. I don’t know the language, don’t know anyone I’m traveling with, don’t even really know what my day-to-day is going to look like there. It’s a youth camp, and I’m 51. It’s a sports camp, and I’ve got the coordination of a slug. And it’s all about Jesus – and now for some reason I’m even concerned I’m going to suddenly forget everything I know about Him.

The Aqueduct

It’s raining outside. It’s of those gentle rains that soak the earth and fill the lakes and streams in a kind, nurturing way. I always hear my mom’s voice say, “it’s a soaking rain - the kind that gives life.” And today, I can almost smell that life in the heavy wet air.

It’s a beautiful thing, the rain that falls not just onto the ground but also tickles my face like an impish schoolgirl. Its work isn’t just in the immediate - its power will go on as it is carried by streams and rivers to farmland or as it is purified and used to quench the thirst of people in need. Flowers will bloom and wildlife will flourish and the air will be a bit better because of it. As it is carried along, today’s gentle rain gives life tomorrow and the next day and the next.

(musing)

Jesus, life is a vapor. I pray mine has the sweet fragrance of eternity as it is carried in the breeze. Let me live this day fully...and let me love this day fully.

Upon Me in the Evening

It's a hard season.

Don't get me wrong. It's a beautiful time. But it's a hard season, because of one thing. I can't sleep. I've always been prone to wakefulness (something that comes in quite handy when fixing meals for 150 teenagers at summer camp or praying for a suffering friend), but as of late, my insomnia has taken a turn. And the road I'm now on with it is rocky. Occasional nights of sleeplessness have become weeks, and I am sustained by prayer and music and caffeine day after day. My body craves sleep, yet my soul is troubled and stays on watch. And I've tried every trick - warm showers and herbal teas and half-doses of Benadryl or full-doses of Advil PM. But it's a hard season, and my soul rages against sleep. My long nights are filled with tears and petitions. I hunger for release.

Even in this moment, the Lord speaks. And I am thankful. He provides words when the ink fades on mine. The following is from Charles Spurgeon's Morning and Evening.

"Now the hand of the Lord was upon me in the evening." -Ezekiel 33:22

In the way of judgment this may be the case, and, if so, be it mine to consider the reason of such a visitation, and bear the rod and him that hath appointed it. I am not the only one who is chastened in the night season; let me cheerfully submit to the affliction, and carefully endeavour to be profited thereby. But the hand of the Lord may also be felt in another manner, strengthening the soul and lifting the spirit upward towards eternal things. O that I may in this sense feel the Lord dealing with me!

A sense of the divine presence and indwelling bears the soul towards heaven as upon the wings of eagles. At such times we are full to the brim with spiritual joy, and forget the cares and sorrows of earth; the invisible is near, and the visible loses its power over us; servant-body waits at the foot of the hill, and the master-spirit worships upon the summit in the presence of the Lord.

O that a hallowed season of divine communion may be vouchsafed to me this evening! The Lord knows that I need it very greatly. My graces languish, my corruptions rage, my faith is weak, my devotion is cold; all these are reasons why his healing hand should be laid upon me. His hand can cool the heat of my burning brow, and stay the tumult of my palpitating heart. That glorious right hand which moulded the world can new-create my mind; the unwearied hand which bears the earth's huge pillars up can sustain my spirit; the loving hand which incloses all the saints can cherish me; and the mighty hand which breaketh in pieces the enemy can subdue my sins. Why should I not feel that hand touching me this evening? Come, my soul, address thy God with the potent plea, that Jesus' hands were pierced for thy redemption, and thou shalt surely feel that same hand upon thee which once touched Daniel and set him upon his knees that he might see visions of God.

(musing)

Our lives are picture books for all to read. I pray mine is full of both delicate water-colored flowers and messy scribbles - the story of a Love well-lived.

Reminders of Communion.

In the midst of celebrating Christ, I’ve missed Him. Like crazy. I’ve missed just sitting and basking in the warmth of His presence and writing. I’ve missed the liberty that comes in communion with Him.

Today I wanted to breathe in His presence, as I craved the tender-hued hush of words falling onto the page. Even if the words are just those - words. Phrases aren't necessary any more. And paragraphs? I don't know if I'll ever see them again. But words can be enough in this season. Anything to commune with Him. So I prayed He would speak as I ran on the winding roads overlooking the lake, I prayed He would speak as I drove to meet friends for an afternoon outing. I prayed He would speak in the quiet places and in the chaos.

And He did.

He spoke through birdsong and dancing leaves in a grocery store parking lot. He reminded me beauty and song can be found in discarded places.

He spoke in a pink-dappled afternoon gathering as I watched friends savor the quiet peace of a pedicure. He reminded me all good gifts - including those friends - come from Him and are for His glory.

He spoke as I made a pot of soup for dinner, reminding me of His power in working all things together for good.

And through it all, He reminded me of His attentiveness. His love. His presence. His communion.

Just a Little More. Christmas.

I awaken with a familiar pang - my mom used to talk about it every holiday. She felt the blues so strongly in the days following - she hungered for the days of family and love and togetherness to stick around. But for our family, those days were rare. With an alcoholic husband, parents who never came to visit, and relatives and friends who needed more than they gave, my mom's everydays were difficult days.

Things are different for me. I have a good husband, a great son and daughter-in-love, a precious grandson, friends who have become family and family that reminds me of my roots. But the blues are

just as strong, and I find myself needing just a little more Christmas, just a little more kindness and togetherness. Just a little more holiday. Just a little more holy day.

The more I ponder the season, the more I hunger for holy moments that begin earlier and linger longer. I long for candles and choirs and whispered prayers of loved ones. My heart hungers for the awe that comes in a night sky blazing with starlight and the angels singing. And my soul needs to feel the joy that comes from the surprise and delight of unexpected gifts - gifts given not out of obligation but out of love.

I’m ready for Christmas to be here - again.

Senses.

I love how God has woven our senses together so beautifully – and how a photo or a fragrance can say things no vocabulary can begin to touch. Today, I am in a “no words can adequately describe” place – and I couldn’t be more thankful. Because today my heart is so very full of tender moments triggered by sight, sound, smell, touch.

Smelling these

Peanut butter miracles, being baked at CasaRock.

makes me remember this

Peanut butter miracles being served at Evita's house in Guatemala. The girls made them!

Seeing this

Special art on the jeans I'm wearing today to paint wooden Christmas trees at church.

reminds me of this

The school in Santiago that is making a difference in the lives of children - and the village. We painted classrooms there.

And listening to this

takes me here

Little Ana at the Orphan Hospital in St Petersburg. We danced. I didn't want to say "goodbye."

What treasures are in your heart, just waiting to be revealed and shared?

We’d love to know.

~Ronne

The Dance (James 1)

It's no secret how much I love to dance. The picture is from our last trip to Guatemala - my sweet friend Tricia and I were a blur on more than one occasion.

This morning, I read some of my favorite passages of scripture from James. JB Phillips paraphrase, which encourages us to embrace trials as if they are friends, has always resonated with me. This time, the Lord revealed another precious picture of the beauty of hard times. He's good that way - to paint His own words in beautiful ways, using whatever medium He chooses to point us to His timeless truth. Today, He paints with dance.

------------

Be sure to dance just a little when trials come to court you. They are there for good purpose, and they shouldn't be anything you fear. Your faith will breathe in new life when you take their hand and begin to move in unison.

There's a rhythm to be found in the awkward stumbling, and with a little patience you'll soon discover it.

The dance is precious and tender, like sixth graders at Cotillion or a little girl in red velvet and shiny shoes following every step her dad makes just a bit smaller while they move to the band at a fancy restaurant.

And if you have two left feet, you simply need to ask the Lord of of the Dance. He knows the steps and the music and even the trials that have asked for your hand in the first place. He will cause those feet to move in time. He will place His hand under your chin to keep your eyes set on Him rather than the dance floor. And he will place a smile on your face - like a crown.

The Margins.

I’m in grad school. Yes, I am the OLDEST student in my class this semester at St Edward’s University, a wonderful private institution that sits on the crest of a hill overlooking the stunning state capitol of Texas and the much-larger University of Texas. Returning to school to pursue a graduate degree has been a passion for years (or perhaps two decades, if one wants to be precise), and finding a program in Global Issues was an answer to prayer. Even if I don’t ever receive the pretty piece of paper at the end of the road, I know the steps I’ve walked have been focused and good.

The class this semester is entitled “Perspectives.” Our professor has defined that as “what it means to be human,” and has walked us down roads of social and political philosophy, psychology, art, and spirituality. I’ve written journals about seeing things from an eternal perspective (something I can’t NOT do) and the beauty of redemption. This journal is a bit different. Thankfully I have an instructor who allows us to speak using more than words. Yes, this video is my assignment. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care about the grade – the beauty in the margins is far greater to me. God is Father to the fatherless. And He makes beautiful things.