Val's Stage

Faithful

Ruth’s Story (as fictionalized by Valda)

(Ruth 1-4)

My heart swells with pride as I watch my mother-in-law hold my newborn son, Obed. Her gnarled, wrinkled fingers caress his soft cheek with adoration. His quiet mewling sounds voice his appreciation of her touch.

The old women of the community gather around her exclaiming, “Praise be to God, Naomi has a son!” For they know, as well as I, how many years Naomi has suffered and how long it has been since we’ve seen her smile.

She’d had such a beautiful smile. When I first married Mahlon, his mother Naomi was one of the happiest women I knew. My father-in-law Elimelech doted on her and praised her as a great example of a godly wife and mother. They had been living in Moab, my homeland but not theirs. Driven from Bethlehem by a famine that threatened to kill them all, Naomi had moved there with her husband and two sons. She welcomed Orpah and me into her home with open arms.

“I’m so happy to finally have daughters!” she exclaimed. She touched my arm and said softly so others couldn’t hear, “I honestly wasn’t sure a Moabite woman would be good enough for my son, but you please me very much. You make my son happy.”

I felt a heated blush move up my neck to my face. I knew it hadn’t been easy for Naomi to live so far from her home. She had left behind her friends, extended family, and her Temple to live with foreigners. I made it my goal to help her feel loved and cherished in Moab, so they would stay.

“Promise me that you won’t make me leave my home like that,” I often said to my husband after seeing the homesickness in Naomi’s eyes.

He would stroke my hair and whisper, “Never, my love. This is our home now.”

My throat fills up with unshed tears whenever I allow my mind to drift there. Mahlon. My husband; my first love.

Naomi’s face always lit up when her sons were around. She wore her pride in her warm smile. She waved worried goodbyes as they journeyed for business, calling long after they were out of earshot, “God be with you and protect you, my sons.” It was for them that she lived so far from home; for their security.

I only dreamt of being such a good mother. Mahlon and I had been married for almost ten years and no child had been conceived. I knew Naomi was disappointed that neither I nor Orpah had made her a grandmother yet. I hoped and prayed that this would change soon.

But my god Chemosh wasn’t listening. I envied Naomi’s faith in her God. While she worried about her sons, she would kneel after they left and place them in her God’s care. Then she would go about her business believing that He would protect them. Meanwhile, I bit my nails and watched the horizon for Mahlon’s silhouette the whole while he was gone. I didn’t have the same trust in my god.

When tragedy struck and the rider galloped to the door with the devastating news of death, it wasn’t Naomi’s sons who weren’t returning. It was Elimelech. Her wail of grief pierced my soul. For weeks I tended to a mother-in-law that I didn’t recognize. She was a shell of her former self. She barely ate, and barely slept. Orpah and I did our own work and hers too.

I rubbed her back and hummed soothing tunes from my childhood as she lay on her side, her tear ducts empty and her heart in pieces. “Call on your God, Naomi. He will comfort you, right?”

We all encouraged her in our own ways. Mahlon and Kilion tried to make her laugh. Orpah cooked her favorite meals. I prayed to Chemosh, and secretly to Naomi’s God too. I suspected He was the more powerful of the two. And finally, she began to shuffle around and to resume her daily routine. I missed her smile and her cheerful disposition. Her name, Naomi, meant sweetness. I wondered if we’d see that side of her anymore.

Soon Mahlon and Kilion had to leave again. They both took extra time to say goodbye to their mother, recognizing her frailty. I tried not to feel jealous of my husband’s attention to her. Our relations had been strained lately while our house mourned his father. I missed my husband.

When I heard the horse’s feet pound toward our house for the second time, an intense fear gripped my chest. My hands shook as I opened the door to the lone rider. His words knocked me to the ground. The animalistic sound that tore through my throat brought Orpah running to the door.

“Ruth, what is the news?” She crouched beside me and wrapped her arms around my trembling body. Her warmth seeped into my pores but brought me no comfort. It was my responsibility to break her heart as well.

“They’re gone, Orpah. They’re both gone.”

Her face went white. “Gone? What do you mean?”

I nearly choked on the word as it hitched on a sob. “Dead. They’re both dead, sister.” I held her tight and cried until my throat was sore. She did the same.

“We have to tell Naomi,” Orpah whispered.

This would crush her. I wasn’t sure she had the strength to bear it. I found myself praying again to her God.

She tore her clothes and fell, laying as dead on the floor for long minutes. We bathed her forehead with cool cloths to try and rouse her.

Needless to say, the next weeks were horrendous. Naomi grew thin and frail in front of our eyes. But this time, Orpah and I had no comfort to give. We mourned too. Villagers stayed away from the house of death, believing it to be cursed. I believed it too.

Then one morning I awoke with surprise to the sound of Naomi moving about. She was packing all of her belongings.

“What are you doing?” I asked sleepily.

She didn’t stop making piles as she emptied the contents of the house onto the floor. “There is nothing here for me now, Ruth. I’m going home.”

“Home? To Bethlehem? Is the famine over? Is it safe to go back?” There was a mad look in her eye that concerned me.

“Yes, of course.” She waved her hand in the air, indicating that this response was to all my questions. “God has punished me for coming here. What more will He take from me? I cannot stay one moment more.”

I began to help her with her things. Then I started packing my own.

“Where will we live? Do you still have a home there?”

She froze. Turning her head slowly to look at me for the first time in weeks, she said, “Ruth, go back to your father’s house.”

Orpah drifted into the room then, rubbing her eyes. They widened as she took in the scene and its implications.

Naomi grasped one of my hands and one of Orpah’s. The squeeze was bony but strong.

“May the Lord show kindness to you both as you have shown to me and my sons. You will always be my beloved daughters, but I have nothing more to offer you. Go home. It’s time.”

She kissed us both on the cheek and wiped our tears with her fingers. “You are young enough to marry again. Go find new husbands and have their children. You both deserve that.”

Our response was unanimous. “No!”

“We will go with you to Bethlehem,” I said, with Orpah nodding her agreement vigorously.

But she shook her head. “No, go home. I have no more sons to give you as husbands. I have no husband, no sons, no money; I have nothing. God has turned His back on me. It is as the people here whisper about me: I am cursed. I will return home alone and broken. You have been wonderful daughters to me. I will forever be grateful.”

We all cried as we held each other, although our tears should have run out long ago. Orpah kissed us both and went back to her family.

I looked at my heartbroken, fragile mother-in-law and knew I couldn’t leave her. She really had no one. Just me. I would not desert her.

“I will not go,” I said stubbornly. “I am your daughter. You cannot send me away.”

Naomi sighed and shook her head as if I was the mad one. She pointed in the direction that Orpah had gone. “Look, your sister-in-law has some sense. She’s gone back to her people and her gods. You do the same.”

I stared her in the eyes. “I respectfully decline your offer, Mother. I will follow you wherever you go and live where you live. Your people will be my people and your God, my God. I will die where you die, and I will be buried there. Only death will part us now. Let us make haste and speak of this no longer.”

My face burned and my heart raced. I’d never stood up to Naomi before, and her eyes did not reveal her emotions.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “A more faithful daughter is not to be found. We will do this together then. Be prepared for hardship. With no husband or kinsman-redeemer, life will not be easy. We will have to fight to survive.”

I smiled. “Then you’re going to have to start eating more, Mother. You couldn’t fight a flea like that.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but smiling was still beyond her capability.

Stay tuned for the riveting end to Ruth’s story of faithfulness. Although the beginning paragraphs are a spoiler to how the tale ends!

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The Centurion’s Admission

When the mob sentenced the accused man to death by crucifixion, Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the whole Jesus Christ trial. As a centurion, it was my responsibility to oversee the whole affair.

My soldiers were especially cruel, as they were prone to be in treason/blasphemy cases. After they flogged him with a lead-tip whip, they dressed Christ in a purple robe and completed the outfit with a crown of thorns to mock and humiliate him.

“Hail! King of the Jews!” they taunted, bowing before him as they laughed and ridiculed him.

I watched his silent acceptance, and a heavy weight settled in my gut. Something wasn’t right here. He did not defend himself or argue. He didn’t even struggle against their abuse.

His silence only incited the men to more torturous methods. They struck him on the head with a reed stick, spit on him, and rained down profanities of the lowest kind. I cringed in embarrassment. I’d never seen them so amped up.

I gave the orders for a standard crucifixion for the three accused. Christ would be flanked on either side by two known criminals.

The others were raised long before the middle cross. There was a flurry of activity as the soldiers continued their abuse. I shook my head as I realized they had divided his clothes and were throwing dice to decide who would get each item. Had he not suffered enough humiliation at their hands?

My eyes widened when the cross was finally raised. A sign affixed to the top read, “The King of the Jews.” Much later, I learned Pilate had commissioned this sign with the words written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek.

Still, despite his pain and debasement, Jesus Christ remained silent and accepted his fate without argument. I can’t say the same for the two miscreants on either side of him.

As the hours passed, my men weren’t the only ones to throw insults at Jesus. Passersby mocked him. Despite his reputation as a religious man, the leading priests and teachers of religious law mocked Jesus. Even his fellow cross-mates joined in the jeering.

Only a small group of observers quietly sobbed as they witnessed his torture. Likely family members, I thought.

At noon, after the third hour of execution, suddenly, the sky went dark as if the sun had been deleted from the sky. Fear washed over the faces of all who drew near.

It remained dark as midnight until three o’clock. At that moment, Jesus broke his silence and called out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”

A chill ran down my spine. Some in the crowd misunderstood Christ’s message, thinking he called out to Elijah. But I knew better. He spoke the language of my ancestors, and he beseeched God like he was family.

I watched one of the bystanders run and fill a sponge with sour wine, and I gestured to my men to allow the compassion. He held it up on a reed stick so Jesus could drink.

Then, as if he saw the Angel of Death coming, Jesus shouted, “It is finished!” and he released his spirit. His head fell as the life energy departed.

Suddenly, the earth shook, and I saw huge rocks split apart. I took off my helmet and held it to my chest. My heart hammered against the chainmail as I bowed my head.

“This man truly was the Son of God!” I whispered.

One of my men within earshot looked at me with wide eyes. It was too late for remorse. Not many had witnessed the conversation between Jesus and the repentant criminal next to him when Christ assured him that he would join him in paradise that very day. But I did.

I raised an eyebrow at the soldier and nodded my silent reprimand. We had killed an innocent man: quite likely the son of God.

My heart silently repeated the criminal’s request: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”

What became of that centurion? Did he seek Jesus’ disciples to find out more about him? Did he witness the resurrection or wonder as he heard about it?

We don’t know. However, we have the advantage of reading the full story in the four gospels in our Bibles and celebrating as we learn of God’s plan of salvation.

What is your response to this story? Is it just a familiar story told from another point of view, or does it affect you more deeply?

This weekend is a time for reflection. Jesus died. He rose again. He invites us to accept His atonement for sin and welcome Him into our lives.

The rest is up to us.

Father, thank You for Your grace and love, enabling You to watch Your son die on the cross for us. Thank You, Jesus, for going through the suffering and humiliation of the crucifixion. I accept Your invitation to live in my heart and lead my life. Thank You for the assurance of eternal life with You when my time on earth is done. Take my hand, Lord. I look forward to all You have in store for me. Amen.

I also have a FREE gift for you when you sign up! Your welcome email will include a link to the PDF file of my e-book, Tickle Me with a Crowbar! It’s a 30-day illustrated joke book and devotional just for you.

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Spring Complaints

“It’s so cold!”

“What? It’s snowing?”

“Seriously. More snow?”

No one complains about the weather more than Canadians after March 20. The calendar says it’s SPRING. And the weather does too, but we seem to forget that spring in our part of the country is a transition season involving a variety of weather patterns. One day, we go outside in t-shirts and bask in the sun. The next, we bundle up in the same down-filled jackets we wore in February. We check our weather apps several times a day and never consider leaving our homes without asking someone for the wind chill or “real feel” report, so we know how many layers to put on.

I look forward to someday flying away south with the snowbirds and only returning in April, on the summer side of spring! These first few weeks are more tortuous than hope-filled.

Our expectation for spring is that the temperature will warm up and the ground will thaw. Tiny green sprouts will burst from the soil, and the trees will yawn, stretch, and grow leaves. We will launder and pack away our hats and mitts and stick our winter boots into the far back corner of our closet. We have lost patience with winter by the middle of March and want to trade our snow shovels for rakes.

Why do we act so surprised? This happens every year!

But it never comes soon enough.

Of course, while we complain, we forget our neighbors who live further north or closer to the Atlantic Ocean. They get to endure more wintery conditions much longer than we do here in Canada’s capital.

What do people in tropical countries talk about? “It’s hot. Again. Just like the past 365 days.” I bet no one is checking the wind chill report before going outside.

Often, we are disappointed when our expectations do not match our reality. It could be attending school, getting married, raising children, owning a home, starting a job, retiring, or any other circumstances life brings. If we have unrealistic notions of what those things will look like, we might be in for a letdown.

On the flip side, if we never had things to look forward to, we would live without hope for the future. And on our worst days, we could allow the greyness to swallow us and steal our joy.

One of the things I love about being a follower of Jesus is that I have a lot to look forward to. I especially like to read about our final destination in God’s Word. We get a little glimpse in Revelation 21:

I heard a loud shout from the throne, saying, “Look, God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”
Revelation 21:3-4

Note that it doesn’t mention no more snow or cold or shoveling… Yet, I can’t picture Heaven without palm trees and sunshine. Are those realistic expectations?

If you love winter, your picture of Heaven may look different.

Whatever our final home is like, with no death, sorrow, crying, or pain, I expect there will also be no complaining. Don’t quote me on this, but this leads me to conclude that there will be no SPRING in Heaven!

What is your favorite season? Does winter or early spring bring your energy level and demeanor down?

It might be time to start a gratitude journal. If our biggest complaints are about the weather, we have much to be grateful for.

I challenge you to write down 10 things you are thankful for. If you are a child of God, include “salvation” and “hope of eternity living with Him” on your list.

Father, forgive me for allowing simple things like the outdoor temperature to steal my joy. Remind me of all the blessings You have given me and the promises You made in the Bible. Thank You for offering me the opportunity to do life with You and giving me the expectation of a joy-filled eternity with You. Use my life to grow Your kingdom. Amen.

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Both books in my Tickle Me with a Crowbar! series are now available on Amazon in Kindle or paperback formats or as E-books at Kobo.com! Order yours today to get two months of jokes and Christian encouragement.

If you live in Ottawa, email me at valda.goudie@gmail.com to order an autographed copy or purchase books at Indigo Orleans or Chapters Gloucester!

Taking a Break!

It may look different for everyone, but we all need to take a break occasionally.

As teachers, March Break is a much looked-forward-to week. Winters in Ontario can seem cold and long, and by the time March roars or baas in (lion or lamb?), we are fully prepared to lock the classroom door behind us and sprint out of the building.

Some of us head to tropical destinations where we enjoy beaches, palm trees, and all-inclusive pampering. Tired educators pack cruise ships and resorts, desiring to relax and delete the word “do” from their vocabulary unless it’s in sentences like, “Do read a book” or “Do put your feet up.”

Not all teachers have the financial comforts to head south for such luxurious accommodations. These colleagues may embrace spending more quality time with their families in ways they don’t have time for during the busy school year. They might lace up skates or put on skis to enjoy the activities winter allows.

This year, my husband and I chose to travel AND spend time with family. Rather than run away to burn under the hot sun nearer to the equator, we flew to another part of Canada, known for colder temperatures than our Ottawa home. Spending time with our son and his wife was a bigger priority than escaping winter.

The destination is not the point, though. It’s the break.

We are not built to go, go, go without rest and recharge. And that can be done anywhere, as long as we intentionally set our mind to do it.

So, I painted my nails in bright yellows and oranges, got a palm tree tattoo, and flew to “Winter-peg” (Winnipeg, Manitoba)! And on the first full day of our visit, we saw palm trees, flowers, butterflies, and even a lizard in a warm, humid biodome called The Leaf. Life is good!

When was the last time you took a break? What might that look like for you?

Wait, rest, relax, and breathe. Be fully present, using our five senses to experience life. When we do this, we are reminded that God is good! (Even when life sometimes takes sour turns.)

Father, You created us to balance our work with rest. Help me to follow Your instruction to take a weekly Sabbath and to make the most of these work breaks. Thank You for all the good things You have given us. You are so good! Amen.

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If you live in Ottawa, email me at valda.goudie@gmail.com to order an autographed copy or purchase books at Indigo Orleans or Chapters Gloucester!

Hair! Ugh!

Hot water bubbled around us, and the jets massaged our backs as my friend and I sat in the hot tub, catching up. An upbeat tune on my Bluetooth speaker contributed to the beautiful haven of relaxation.

Midsentence, my friend’s face scrunched into a grimace as her arm shot up out of the tub. “Ugh!” she exclaimed, raising her hand to display the Catch of the Day.

A clump of long, black hair hung off her fingers, reminding us that condo amenities were shared with many others even when, at the moment, it seemed a private retreat. Fortunately, these two strawberry blonds didn’t let the discovery ruin our evening.

The following afternoon, my Bluetooth speaker kept me company again as I cleaned my son’s bathroom at his apartment. I think that’s what all mothers do while puppy-sitting, right?

I swept the small room and then vacuumed. Yet, every stroke of my washcloth left black puppy hairs on the white tile. My takeaway from this frustrating exercise was that shower tile perfection cannot be achieved with puppies in residence!

This is not the first time hair has been featured on Val’s Stage (See Sweet, Hairy Lies from January 2023). This speaks to my ongoing issues with hair. I’m not a fan.

I’m sure God had good reasons why He put hair in the places He did on our bodies. Yet, if He had consulted me, I might have presented some arguments. The only body hair I gladly embrace is eyebrow and eyelash hair. In fact, I intentionally supplement these areas by penciling in strands or adding extensions. Don’t get me started about my fine, soft head of hair. While I’m grateful for what I have and the enjoyment I get shocking people with my changing colors, I’d have picked out a flowing mane of waves if given the option to choose.

But it’s not the hair ON the body that I’m focusing on here. It’s the hair that falls off the body. Hair in the tub, in the sink, on the floor, stuck to cushions, in your food… My friend said it best: “Ugh!” Those single strands (or worse, clumps) ruin the purity of the place where they have landed. While those white tiles were clean and sparkly, a single dark hair spoiled the image of perfection I had longed for.

They are like sins. When God looks at my life, He sees a creature He made in His image. But He never sees perfection. While He provided salvation from my sin, I wander off sometimes like my son’s black-haired puppy, chasing something interesting. Each time I ask God to forgive me for my sin, He brushes those dark hairs from my life and makes me clean again. But, just like with puppies, perfection cannot be achieved with humans in residence!

When I finished cleaning that bathroom, I didn’t scold my sweet grandpuppy for shedding hair. I sat next to him, stroking that dark fur and showing my affection. God loves us with unconditional love that sees beyond our mess. He longs to clean us up and spend time with us, lavishing his affection on His children.

Aren’t you glad God doesn’t turn His back on us and the messes we sometimes create? The Master Mr. Clean waits for us to ask for His help to cleanse our hearts. And for a split second, He’ll get rid of every stray hair that mars our perfection.

Father, forgive me for the things I do, words I say, or thoughts I think that do not honor You. Each time I follow my own will instead of Yours, I become less pure. Cleanse my heart and draw me close to You. Thank You for loving me through my messes. Amen.

I also have a FREE gift for you when you sign up! Your welcome email will include a link to the PDF file of my e-book, Tickle Me with a Crowbar! It’s a 30-day illustrated joke book and devotional just for you.

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Both books in my Tickle Me with a Crowbar! series are now available on Amazon in Kindle or paperback formats or as E-books at Kobo.com! Order yours today to get two months of jokes and Christian encouragement.

If you live in Ottawa, email me at valda.goudie@gmail.com to order an autographed copy or purchase books at Indigo Orleans or Chapters Gloucester!

Bumping into Things

Long before I was old enough to drive a car, I drove our family’s snowmobile, a decent Skidoo with ample speed and a seat that fit two. I loved the freedom, the speed, and the feeling of trust that came as my dad handed me the key. I even loved the smell of gasoline as I squeezed the throttle and heard the responding roar of the engine. Driving the Skidoo was one of the few benefits of the long winters we endured in rural Newfoundland. As much as I loved school (yes, I was one of those…), on afternoons when it was my turn to have the snowmobile, I couldn’t wait to hear that final bell.

On one such day when I was in the eighth grade, I rushed home and suited up with the appropriate riding gear: snowsuit, warm woolen socks inside winter boots, mittens that had a good grip, and a heavy helmet; just in case. I left our backyard and joined one of the trails which snaked through the trees, leading eventually to the more open spaces, where I would fly over ponds and feel that thrill of speed.

With my ears tucked inside the heavy helmet, I couldn’t hear much over the engine’s noise. It was important to be alert, depending solely on my sight for noticing other drivers on the trail. On the winding one-way track through the trees, this was especially important.

I hadn’t gone far from home that day when I zipped around a sharp turn to come face-to-face with another driver. His snowmobile was bigger and fancier than mine, and in my memory, he drove it like he owned the trail and would run over anything in his path. Skidoos are hard to run over, however, so when he rounded that corner, it wasn’t OVER he went, but THROUGH. His wide skis pierced my bonnet like a hot knife through butter. While I was unharmed, my stomach felt like that block of butter as I looked in horror at the front of our machines, which were now joined together, each engine still running, waiting to be directed. Shards of thick plastic littered the snow on the side of the track. I stared at them in horror before registering the angry words flowing out of the other rider’s helmet. He clearly felt I was at fault. The only fault, however, was in the timing. Leaving my house a few seconds earlier or later, squeezing the throttle a millimeter more or less, these were the only ways this collision could have been avoided. It was a blind turn, on a single track, with two machines going in opposite directions. The crash was inevitable.

Lucky for me, the other driver’s snowmobile had the capability of driving in reverse. When I needed to turn my Skidoo around, I had to get off and lift the back end in the necessary arc. With a flick of a button and a loud roar, he smoothly detached our machines by withdrawing his skis from my hood, causing more broken pieces to fall next to the path, each black fragment standing out in stark contrast on the white snow. Unlike a car crash, there was no exchange of names or insurance information. The man inspected the front of his snowmobile with mutters and curses, used that nifty reverse option to turn his machine around, and zipped away in the direction he had come from. He left thirteen-year-old me and my rapidly pounding heart standing next to my broken Skidoo.

I picked up all the pieces from the ground and threw them in the storage compartment under the seat. Afraid of staying in such a vulnerable parking spot for long, I lifted and dragged the back end until the machine was facing the way home and motored back, my speed reduced and my spirit broken.

My dad took it all in stride. When you trust a teenager with your snowmobile, you can’t be upset if she has an accident. Repairs to the bonnet were needed, but the damage was cosmetic; the motor still ran okay, and nothing else seemed to be affected.

In fact, my younger brother still took his turn after school the following day. After all, while it didn’t look pretty, the thrill of the ride hadn’t changed. I can’t remember, but can imagine, the look on Dad’s face when his son returned home to admit that he bumped into a telephone pole!

“At least the thing I ran into was moving!” I exclaimed.

The Skidoo’s adventures that week ended two days later when my dad, himself, went through the ice, and the crippled machine ended up in the river. Some weeks are like that.

Bumping into things is rarely ever on purpose or desirable. It’s not difficult to imagine that Jesus was likely bumped and jostled as He taught huge groups of people and made His way through the crowds. Like any celebrity, though, fans may have actually TRIED bumping into Him, desiring to touch the Messiah or His clothing, no matter how brief the contact.

For one such woman, touching Jesus was her last hope. An outcast for twelve long years, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to touch someone. This poor woman was considered unclean, her uterus sending out a steady flow of blood for all that time. Ask any woman who’s had a period lasting more than seven days how fun that is! After spending her last penny on doctors and healers, she left her home that day, defying the ‘unclean’ restrictions that confined her there indefinitely, and set her feet on a path that led to Jesus. Many of her neighbors had seen His miracles and recounted the stories excitedly just outside her door. Did she dare hope? Was the slim chance of healing worth the shame and reproach she’d face by joining the crowd? Considering that tampons weren’t introduced for another 1900 years, I can understand the risk she took.

When she reached the throng of people vying to see the Messiah for themselves, her hope must have grown dim. They were two people in a crowd. How would she ever get His attention? But it wasn’t His attention she wanted. She just needed to touch Him. If this man was the Great Healer that everyone talked about, maybe reaching out her hand in faith—just a tiny, unnoticeable contact, was all that was required.

People likely bumped Jesus here and there: an elbow to the side—“Oops, sorry!” A toe stomped—”Oh, pardon me!” But bumping into Jesus didn’t heal anyone that we know of. This woman touched Him on purpose, believing that this act would heal her. Her FAITH in Jesus’ power to heal was necessary for results, not just the touch.

The happy ending to this story is that the woman was healed instantly with the act of reaching for the Healer, demonstrating her belief in God’s Son. And Jesus knew the instant it happened that the touch He felt was not an accidental bump. He didn’t let her slip quietly away without testifying of His healing power. When she verbally acknowledged what she had done and its miraculous outcome, Jesus touched her heart as well, saying:

“Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”
Luke 8:48

We can bump into Jesus by casually reading the Bible or going to church, whether online or in person. But, unless we reach out in faith and activate our spirituality, we will not see results, whether we look for healing or for Jesus to meet other needs. Calling ourselves Christians without real relationships with Him just won’t work. He desires our whole hearts, our trust, and our submission.

Reach out and touch Jesus with PURPOSE. Grab onto His robe and don’t let go until He looks at you and calls you Daughter (or Son). Accept His healing and His peace. That takes FAITH.

Do you have a relationship with Jesus or do you bump into Him occasionally when you have a need? God doesn’t dole out miracles like a fairy godmother. He wants to be your Father—your highest priority.

It’s often in our busiest seasons of life that we realize we’ve pushed Him off that place of honor. The good news is that He forgives us of our neglect if we ask Him. He will restore our communion and welcome us back into His arms. What a loving God He is!

Spend some time with Him today, and work on making that relationship your number one priority. He waits for you to invite Him in.

Lord, I want more than a shallow relationship with You. I intentionally reach out in faith and receive all that You have for me.
Thank You for Your gift of salvation and Your promises to me as Your child. Every good and perfect thing comes from You.
I claim healing in Your name.
Amen.

Today’s post is one of my favorite devotionals from my third book which will be coming soon:

Tickle Me with a Crowbar 3! Your Morning Chuckle & Faith Challenge.

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Two are Better than One

“I have bad news,” my friend announced on our weekend walk.

“Oh, no! What’s going on?” I held my breath as possibilities flashed through my mind.

“My landlord called, and I have to move.”

Relief was my first emotion. I’d heard too many acquaintances and family members share cancer diagnoses recently, and I silently thanked God for her health.

I listened quietly to her story and the plans she had made in the days between her phone call and her confession to me. She had time to process the news and had begun to take charge of the situation, planning her best response to a disappointing circumstance. When I applauded her acceptance and courage to move forward, she admitted to suffering through sleepless nights and anxiety-induced health consequences before taking the bull by the horns.

I didn’t have the same time to explore my emotions. So, after my initial response that the news could have been worse, I felt sadness. We’ve been friends for a long time, first having met over fifteen years ago when we taught at the same school. Teachers and mothers, we discovered we also both enjoyed brisk walks. And by “brisk,” I mean there were few people who could keep up with us as we pounded the sidewalk on our lunch breaks!

When I switched schools, our friendship changed. We only saw each other when our girlfriends got together for baby showers or cottage weekends. It was challenging to maintain a close relationship without daily interaction.

However, several years later, we became neighbors when my husband and I bought a condo in the building where my friend lived! We were excited to walk again and ride our bikes together, too.

During the pandemic, our bond strengthened even more. Every day, after finishing our school hours online, we walked and debriefed. It was nice to have a friend who lived a similar experience of teaching young children from a computer screen.

We still walk as often as we can, sharing our lives, always in constant chatter. Following this latest news bomb, we talk about continuing our regular treks, but will we?

Friendships often ebb and flow, evolving as our lives change. We become close for a while and then later drift apart. Our affection doesn’t usually diminish, but circumstances are the culprits that drive wedges between us. Busy lives or geographical distances prevent us from staying close.

I’ve always envied people who maintain friendships since childhood. My family moved every couple of years, so I learned to prevent my roots from going too deeply into the friendship soil. What was the point when I would leave again in what felt like a few months?

When I look back on my adult friendships, I see a rollercoaster social life in blocks of years where I was close to one individual at a time. These special friendships often occurred when one of us really needed the other; they were tied to traumatic life events. We sheltered in place together to survive those storms. Then, when the strong winds ended, the gentle breeze blew us in different directions—still friends, but friends from a distance.

The Bible mentions friendship often. I especially like that Jesus tells us in John 15:12-15 that He is our friend. When we accept Him into our hearts and show His love to others, we become besties with Jesus! This is an unbreakable bond unless we walk away and intentionally sabotage our intimacy.

While human friendships evolve and sometimes fade away, Jesus will remain.

Do you have a close friendship with Jesus? Unlike some human relationships, this Friend will love you unconditionally, and He will never break your confidence or stab you in the back. And as tight-knit as those childhood friendships can be, this relationship is more desirable.

Jesus said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). And that’s what He did when He died on the cross for us. That’s the action of a committed friend!

What’s more, the supernatural nature of Jesus means that He can be best friends with each one of us!

Jesus, thank You for earthy friendships. It is a blessing to share our lives with others. I especially thank You for being my friend—one who is always loyal, sticks closer than a brother, and picks me up when I fall. I did nothing to earn Your devotion, but I gladly accept Your hand to walk this life together. Amen.

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A Fresh Start

“You show the green ball when he is doing well and the red ball when his behavior is unacceptable.”

I nodded and tried to seem interested, but my attention was not fully focused.

The young man had good intentions, and his ideas for helping the student in our class were ponderable, but he offered his suggestions on the last day of school before the Christmas Break.

My teaching partner and I smiled at each other in silent agreement. When our little friend returns after being home for two weeks would be the more appropriate time to introduce new approaches to improving his school behavior. It would be a fresh start for all of us.

We often approach January 1 with the idea of “a fresh start” in our minds. “I will eat better,” “I will exercise more,” or “I will give up a bad habit” are some of the resolutions made as the number changes on the calendar. It’s too bad our willpower and our lofty goals don’t become friends.

For many people, the start is strong, but they tire as the race continues. When they stumble, they lose stamina. When they fall, they don’t have the strength to get up. They feel like there’s no way to win the race anymore, so they might as well give up trying. Maybe next year will be a more successful fresh start.

I’m happy that God doesn’t see my failures as insurmountable hurdles like we seem to do. Lamentations 3:22-23 describe God’s mercy towards us:

EACH morning! His mercy extends to me with a fresh start every morning, not just at the beginning of a new year. So, when I stumble in my walk with Him and exhibit less-than-godly behavior, He waits with His arms open wide for me to go to Him to receive His love and forgiveness.

The start of this race began the day I began a relationship with the Heavenly Father: the day I asked Jesus to be my running partner in this life. Some days I might not feel fit enough to run, but that doesn’t mean I’ll give up. God’s mercy is fresh, and His strength is available if I ask for it.

All along the sides of the track, there is fresh water held out to me in the form of His Word (the Bible) and fellow believers who cheer me on with encouragement and prayers. I need to take advantage of these to stay focused and connected to the race. How easy it would be for my mind to wander, which could lead to a faltered step.

There’s nothing wrong with fresh starts, but journeys that end with failure because of lofty goals or a weak resolve often make us feel terrible about ourselves. At that point, we wish we’d never started the race.

Today, as we reflect on the year that has passed with gratitude and maybe some regrets, we turn our face toward tomorrow morning’s mercies—God’s mercies. Yes, eating healthier, exercising more, and chasing our dreams can be part of our race, but, ultimately, if our New Year’s resolution is a closer walk with God, those other things can be achieved through His strength. And when we do give in to our taste buds (when there are salt and vinegar chips served with a bowl of delectable chocolate-covered almonds), His mercies are new every morning, and we can start fresh again the next day. Our prayers in the grocery store might prevent a few of those treats from sneaking into our carts.

Let’s fall into step with the writer of Hebrews in our spiritual race:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God’s throne. Think of all the hostility he endured from sinful people; then you won’t become weary and give up.
hebrews 12:1-3 (NLT)

Do you make New Year’s resolutions? Do you follow through with them? Don’t feel too bad if you don’t—you’ve got company. According to Happy Habits.com, only 9-12% of people make it through the year without dropping their resolve.

Why don’t you join me in asking God for a closer walk with Him in the new year? Then we will resolve to pray more, keeping our Father in the loop and asking for His advice and guidance in our decisions. We will create or cultivate daily habits of reading the Bible and learning more about Him. Attending a church where we will join other believers in praise and fellowship can finish the list of resolutions. When we care for ourselves spiritually, we may find our goals to improve our physical health are much easier to chase.

Tie up those runners and jump onto the track—the race with God as your running partner is the only one worth joining. Whatever hurdles you face this year, He will be there to hold your hand and keep you upright.

Wake up to a fresh start—not only on New Year’s Day but every morning after that!

Father, as I reflect on the past 365 days, I thank You for all Your blessings and small miracles. Thank You for Your love and faithfulness to me that provided mercy when I stumbled in my race and for the strength and courage You gave me to face my more challenging moments.

I invite You to join me in the race again this year—I don’t even want to know what trying to participate without You would feel like. With a fresh start every morning and You by my side, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13)! Amen.

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Parenting the Son of God

I looked at the sleeping child I had carried in my body for nine months, now cradled in a manger. My breath caught with the realization that I beheld the face of God—that I had birthed the son of God!

When I touched his soft, warm cheek, he opened his eyes.

“Joseph,” I whispered. “He’s awake.”

“Does he have enough swaddling cloths, Mary? I found more in the back.”

“Yes. Come here, my love,” I called again.

When he was at my side, I slipped my fingers into his, weaving our hands together. “Stop fussing. He is fine. We are both fine.”

The crease hadn’t left the young man’s brow since the last innkeeper’s apologetic refusal.

“This wasn’t at all what I had planned. I’m so sorry, Mary. Maybe if we had left Nazareth sooner? I should have gone ahead to secure a room.” He bit his lip, a gesture I recognized as self-doubt.

His eyes filled with tears as he gazed at the child. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

I laughed. “Joseph, he is more than okay. He is perfect. This was God’s plan all along, and there was nothing you could have done to change it.”

I touched the cloth covering his tiny toes with my free hand. “Our little boy is wrapped up tight and cozy. Can’t you see how happy he is?”

The baby made a small mewing sound that made me laugh again. “Listen! He agrees!”

Joseph’s face finally relaxed then as he smiled.

“Look, Jesus, you just performed your first miracle!” I giggled. “You made your earthly daddy forget his troubles for a moment.”

A blush crept over Joseph’s face as he shook his head silently.

I rested my head on his shoulder. “You’re going to make a wonderful father, my love. I don’t know why God chose us to parent His son, but He did. As long as we put our trust in Him, we don’t need to worry because He will guide us. It’s incredible, but we are part of His perfect plan.”

I barely heard the words my husband whispered as he raised his head, but they formed a promise of trust and dedication to the Mighty One.

Jesus scrunched up his beautiful face at that moment and began to wail.

With the loud cry, uncertainty briefly flashed in Joseph’s eyes again.

“I got this one, Dad. The boy is hungry!” I laughed as I scooped the baby up to feed him.

But my brave words suggested more confidence than I felt. Even this small, motherly task was foreign to me. It was my turn to pray for guidance as I nestled the child’s face towards my chest. The one thing I did know for sure was that I would be communicating often with this child’s all-knowing Father.

Children don’t come with instruction manuals unless you count the sometimes-conflicting advice of your mother and mother-in-law. When new parents gaze at their infant for the first time, I doubt that any feel confident in their abilities to parent their little one. I can only imagine how the parents of twins or triplets must feel!

Not only was Jesus Mary’s first child, but he was also God’s Son, the expected Messiah! Now, that was a heavy responsibility. While the scenario above is fictional, I don’t think it’s a stretch to believe that Mary and Joseph were nervous about this undertaking.

As the mother of three grown boys, I sometimes reflect and question various parenting strategies I used while they were young. But it is what it is now. Without a time machine or some large magic stones at the entry of a time portal, I’m left with the one thing I can still do for my children that can positively impact their future: pray for them.

Just like the Mary in my retelling knew that she would need to consult God regularly during her child-rearing, I know I need to communicate with Him often about my sons, too. And then I have to trust God and believe that He’s got them in His hand.

Have you ever considered how daunting Mary’s role as the mother of Jesus was? I believe God purposely chose a young girl who would not feel confident in her position, so she would depend on Him more.

God has chosen you, too. His plan for you might involve a parenting role, or it may not. Either way, He extends His hand to you as your Father and invites you to share your life with Him. Bring Him your regrets and ask forgiveness for your sins. Then ask Him to use you to share His love with others.

Father, thank You for sending Jesus into this world in such a humble way. Thank You for choosing an ordinary woman to be the Messiah’s earthly mother, proving that You can use ordinary people like me to do big things for You. Guide me in my day-to-day tasks and show me how I can bless others this Christmas season. Amen.

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Does God Care About the Little Things?

“Alexa, turn on Christmas!” I commanded, without a please or thank you.

The beautiful white lights on my Christmas tree and mantle lit up the darkness, resembling a magical fairy kingdom. Arriving home after sundown was worth the thrill of saying the special words and watching the results.

That was last year.

As I attempted to replicate this experience ten months later, the setup repeatedly failed, eating up hours of my day. My frustration grew more rapidly with the memories of previous successes and the ease of setup. And, no, recognizing this as the “first-world problem” it was, did not ease my irritation. The SMART outlets were not living up to their name as they forgot how to connect to the Wi-Fi.

I was willing to admit it might be a user error. What was I doing wrong? Since our undecorating last Christmas (a sad day of tree-mourning for me), two things had changed: our internet provider and my cellphone. The problem had to be linked to one or the other. Or I’d have to accept that I’d lost brain cells since last year.

I grumbled to anyone who would listen (my husband being the only other person in the condo) as I paused and resumed the project several times throughout the day. After all, life goes on, with or without twinkly Christmas lights.

The Wi-Fi in our condo was accessible and operational. The power to control the lights and make them bow to my commands was within my reach. I just had to connect the giver and the receiver.

Similarly, as believers, when we fail to connect with God (our power source), our lights refuse to work, too. The people around us do not see Jesus reflected in our words and actions. They might notice a grumbling, frustrated individual instead.

“Knowing Jesus doesn’t make her any different than me,” they might think.

While being a daughter of God doesn’t guarantee me a trouble-free life, it should influence how I respond to frustrations. I don’t have to deal with every challenge on my own. Yet, I often need reminders of this fact.

Before I went to bed, admitting technological defeat, the memory of our pastor’s encouraging words in church that morning flashed through my mind.

“Pray about EVERYTHING,” he said. “Every little thing. Don’t think that God doesn’t want to be bothered with the small things. He loves you, so He cares about all of your requests.”

In all of my troubleshooting, I did not consider prayer to be an approach to solving my problem.

“Forgive me for my impatience and grumbling today, Father. Please help me figure this out,” I prayed, connecting to my Power Source.

Within minutes, the lights were functioning on my demand.

Now, you can believe what you will about miracles and God taking the time to help me with such a relatively insignificant thing when the world is in turmoil, but all I know is, I spent all day trying to figure something out on my own, and when I asked God for His help, I finally solved the problem. The verse our pastor quoted was Philippians 4:6:

When you have a problem, it always feels better to vent to someone, even if it’s just to blow off steam. Why not vent to God instead? Pray about everything. Maybe, we won’t need to grumble and complain to anyone else. Our spiritual lights will continue to glow because God eases our malcontent.

Do you pray about everything? Do you believe God loves you enough to patiently listen to your problems? To care about the little things?

Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are?
Matthew 6:26

God takes the time to feed the birds. He’s got your back. Talk to Him.

Father, help me to make prayer such a regular habit that I make it my first go-to in times of struggle. I believe that You loved me enough to sacrifice Your son for me. So, I also accept that You care about the things that upset me. Guide me today in my words and actions. I love You and want to share every part of my life with You.

Amen.

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