My Dear Siestas, it has been way too long! I’m sitting here in my gown in my very own bed with pillows behind my back and Star lying across my feet. (She has no intention of taking her eyes off me today. The last time she looked away, I disappeared for 5 days.) I’ve already had prayer time and two cups of coffee. About to start on my 3rd.

So much has happened this week that has deeply impacted me but nothing, you might imagine, more than Melissa’s post. I sat in an exhausted heap at a long layover at an airport yesterday and read and read and read the blog and your comments. It was everything I could do not to roll in the floor. It was so much more than I deserved but a spring to a weary soul. I love my girls so much. I don’t just love them. I respect them. Like so many of you, they are such fine and gifted young women. God has given Keith and me no greater proof of His grace and redemption on our sinful, former pit-dwelling lives than our two daughters. Both of them are a little undone that they won’t be home for Mother’s Day this year (btw, look for a Mother’s Day post tomorrow – I think God has given me kind of a neat idea) but I have told them over and over (and meant it) that I am among the most blessed moms on earth who hear every single day from their children that they are loved. We are a very close family and they are my favorite people – wise and impossibly witty – on earth. Thank you for allowing us a little room to be family on this blog.

Many years ago I heard someone say (don’t even remember who anymore) that “no amount of success in ministry can make up for failure at home.” And I wrote that in the very front of my Bible and have it engraved upon my brain. Family life is tough. It’s never all clean and tidy because it is lived wholly without cover. We Moores, Jones’s and Fitzpatricks are not without bruises and scars from all-things-family but to know each other intimately and still respect each other is a profound gift of God we do not take lightly. I say again and again to you in hopes that you will be encouraged to hang in there, our family is a miracle and He can perform that same miracle in your home.

And now, for just a few other highlights – written in long hand, of course – from a very exciting week in Washington, DC. Because you’re my dear Siestas, I’m giving you the personal goods:

*Being told by a darling young woman that I mentor that, in her intercession for me, she’d never prayed so many patriotic prayers in her life and, at the end of a very intense time of prayer (by herself) for our national leaders, NDP, and those of us serving in the observance, she didn’t know any other way to close it. So she put her hand over her heart and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I laughed so hard I cried. I thought of it so many times during the week. But then when we said the Pledge together in the Cannon House at the actual observance, surrounded by these difficult days in our country and mounting persecution against the belief system upon which it was founded, my lip quivered so hard I could hardly get the words out of my mouth.

*Spending the week with Travis and Angela Cottrell. I’ve told you before how much we love these ministry partners of ours. These two unlikely couples have been on a wild ride with Jesus together for eleven solid years. We can almost read each other’s minds at this point. We pray for one another, serve together, and laugh until we cry together. Honestly, we laugh so hard sometimes we throw ourselves into muscle spasms. And Keith and Travis tease each other unmercifully and wrestle and punch each other, for crying out loud, like they are nine year-olds. If I snapped my fingers and said, “Stop it!” one time to the two of them this week, I said it a hundred times. Lord, have mercy. Then Travis gets up there and sings and I think, honestly, that he is the most gifted man I may know. Mystifying.

*Touring Mount Vernon. I’m not kidding. It was THE most interesting thing!! I’ve been to D.C. many times but I’ve never been able to take the time to go on the tour of George and Martha’s homestead spread. It is the coolest thing ever. The grounds are gorgeous and the house so entirely telling of what their lives were like. (Did you know he had step-children and no natural heirs? Did you know he and Martha raised their young grandchildren after the deaths of their own children? And did you know they had overnight guests several hundred days a year??) Michelle Parrozzo, my new assistant (Amanda’s age and a long time friend of Amanda’s), worked in D.C. for 6 years (in the Whitehouse, Pentagon, etc.) and, through her long list of connections, she was able to get the Cottrells and us (and her and her good friend, Lauren) a private tour. Mr. John Marshall was our Mt Vernon expert-guide and I learned later that he had the opportunity to personally tour actor David Morse as he prepared for the role of George Washington in the superior HBO miniseries, John Adams.) We history nuts were completely bug-eyed. I learned later that evening that they used to display George Washington’s Bible in the exhibit but it has been removed in light of all the secularization of recent years. (It’s a privately owned park so it’s not a government thing.) I found that flabbergasting.

*Having dinner with Caroline and Karen. The evening of the tour, we had an NDP dinner right there at the Mt Vernon facilities. Keith and I had the pleasure of sitting at a table with several courageous (and fun, by the way) God-seeking congressmen and their wives. Needless to say, I soon migrated to more personal conversations with the women. They were both absolutely delightful. Karen Pence told me something that I’ve replayed in my mind over and over. She said that a while back she checked with her husband’s office staff about what they’d need to expect schedule-wise regarding this year’s National Day of Prayer. One of the staff members wrote her back with details and told her that a woman named (well, you know…that’s so awkward) would be speaking and that she’s some Bible lady. Karen said her response was, “That’s my Bible lady!” Turns out she’s done many studies with us. It was one of the most wonderful things anybody has ever said to me. I was so tired on the plane ride home that tears stung in my eyes every time I thought about it. I have loved serving you women so much. I’d be honored to be your Bible Lady any time and would marvel over the grace of God to this needy life.

Caroline was equally delightful. She was from Alabama so her accent drew me in immediately like a bee to a honeycomb. I discovered in our conversation that she and her good friend, Sharon, had developed a reputation for their pound cakes and been encouraged to go into business. Pound cakes?? Did someone say pound cakes? Outside the Word of God and a great time of worship, can anything on earth minister like a pound cake? I sat straight up in my chair. These were words worth listening to. Worth salivating over. I learned that Caroline and her buddy have developed a small business right there in their own kitchens in D.C. and, since they’re both proper Southern women, they named it “Two Belles.” I assured her I would place an order the moment I got home and it was all I could think about that night. The very next night at the next NPD gathering, lo and behold, Congressman Aderholt delivered me two pound cakes, compliments of his beautiful wife. One was called “The Annemarie” (cream cheese!) and the other “The Miss Becca” (chocolate!). (They offer seven flavors and each is named for a woman who inspired the recipe.) Keith and I tore into those things with violence the moment we got to our rooms. Girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend. THE POUND CAKES OF MY LIFE. Honestly, we brought those babies home on the plane and I ate pound cake for breakfast just a few minute ago.

*Meeting honest-to-goodness present-day Esthers like Texas Supreme Court Justice Priscilla Owen and Congresswoman Michelle Bachman from Minnesota. They LOVE Jesus and serve Him and the people He’s entrusted to them with utmost integrity and with a strong swim against the current. And don’t forget that God used Vonette Bright and Shirley Dobson to found and direct the annual observance of the National Day of Prayer and each has served several presidents of the United States. It really is awe-inspiring. (Y’all know me better than to think I’m on a feminist binge here. Woman to woman, I’m just telling you about some hard-working Esthers on our planet right this minute.)

*The Thursday observance itself at the Cannon Building. Profound. Surreal. Everything about it but here are a few things that especially moved me: the Joint Armed Services Color Guard marching in with the “Presentation of Colors” at the very beginning. My heart was pounding like a drum; the Ambassador of Zambia praying for our country in her wonderful thick African accent. I thought my soul would jump out of my skin; the official and personal message of General James F. Amos, USMC to us. He was so impressive. Everything you’d want a General to be. And he loves Jesus. His testimony took us straight to the battlefield and exploded our appreciation for our troops like fireworks on the fourth of July. Keith and I have talked about it many times since Thursday.

*Our NDP chapel at the Pentagon. Keith and I got to go alongside Dr. Ravi Zacharias and his wife, Margie, when they served in this position last year and we were both greatly moved by the people at the Pentagon observance. To be there this year was beyond what we could have imagined. Whatever you may be picturing, they were the furthest thing from stiff and formal. Very, very warm gathering. Sweet time of praise and worship. Many in uniform. Others right beside them who labor in administrative and support roles every day of the week. I share this with you to boast in Christ alone – goodness knows it was only grace – and because I know you won’t take it any other way than a sister sharing a highlight: they presented me and Lillie Knauls (who sang in the observance) American flags that had hung over the Pentagon. It was baffling. I would have given anything on earth for my dad, retired Army Major Albert B. Green, to have been there with me. Keith and I remarked later that he would have been right there beside us…and insistent on wearing his uniform, no less, whether or not we thought that was the best idea. Incidentally, he was buried in it. And rightly so. He bore a scar on his cheek where he took a bullet right in the face protecting democracy.

*Immediately flying out of D.C. in a bouncing prop plane in cloudy weather with the Cottrells and our good friends, Herb and Dona Fisher, to one of the largest NDP observances in the nation in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We would be on the platform there in only a few hours. I cannot tell you what it was like to go from the very (appropriately) intense atmosphere of our nation’s Capitol into an open air, outdoor praise and prayer celebration for NDP in Pennsylvania. Both were so memorable and so distinct. Approximately 18,000 people gathered on those green grounds on the most beautiful afternoon and evening you could possibly imagine on the tail winds of an Eastern storm. Dona is the chairperson for that NDP event that she began under God’s leadership eleven years ago with 350 people. Oh, what God can do through a willing soul with vision! Through the years it grew into 10,000+. The gathering of diverse people (a number of Mennonites) from every conceivable background and denomination for corporate prayer on behalf of our nation was simply amazing. Dona chose children and high school students to lead the prayers this year and it was the sweetest, most convicting thing ever.

Well, OK. Enough is enough. But you prayed so hard for us, I could not even consider pitching you a few dry leftover bones. You mean more to me than that. I wanted you to taste the event like a piece of Southern fried chicken. Or maybe like a pound cake. You can have cream cheese or chocolate. I’m going to go cut us both a piece and pour me another cup of coffee. I wish so much I didn’t have to eat your part.

Siestas, I love you like crazy. Thank you for welcoming my family and me into your lives. Our deepest desire is to serve Jesus Christ. He is IT.

Calling all Scripture-Memory Siestas: It’s time for Verse 9! Get those spirals out and ready!

We purposely reserved the blog all week for Melissa to share her India trip with us but, needless to say, we have to push pause long enough for our Scripture memory team to sign in with our verses. I’m so anxious to hear Melissa’s report about the Compassion blogger team meeting the children they sponsored that I told her to go ahead and post even on the same day if she has it ready. SO, you may end up with two posts today. Keep an eye out!

I have relived so much of my own time in India through Lis’s vivid descriptions. As I looked at the pictures she posted for us, I had the same thought that occurred to me over and over while I was there: the stark contrast between all the brilliant, rich colors and the darkness of poverty and oppression. They are honestly the most beautiful people you have ever seen in your life. The children are breathtaking but the shocking life they are forced to live is so haunting that a pang goes through your heart every time you picture one in your head.

That’s the real price of a mission trip. You can no longer act like those kinds of conditions don’t exist. So many stories stick out in my mind from the time I spent in India but one in particular recurs in my thoughts almost weekly. I’d been in southern India the first week where there is a large population of Christians and where our women’s groups were comprised of hundreds. I spent the second week in northern India. A completely different story. We went places where you could get arrested if you crossed certain verbal perimeters in public. We served in areas where people who put their faith in Christ signed up instantly for a life of persecution. Stunning. Here’s what I will never forget: one evening I addressed a small group of women in a very modest meeting room. I prepared a Bible lesson that I prayed would reach across our cultural barriers. The twenty-or-so women sat on the floor and listened carefully and respectfully as I shared through an interpreter but I could tell we were not connecting. I mean, why should we? What on earth did I really have to say to them? We had almost nothing in common. I was nearly shamed. I kept delivering the lesson but, in my spirit, I was imploring God for a breakthrough. Then the oddest thing happened to me.

It was like God reached all the way down into the recesses of my memory and emotions and pulled up to the surface the part of me that had experienced abuse and oppression and helplessness. He touched off a whole part of myself I do everything possible to avoid. It was as if all of it had happened the day before. I went straight to my knees and began crawling from woman to woman, laying hands on them and praying things over them only God could have told me to pray. I bawled and they bawled. I wish you could picture the interpreter crawling right behind me. The Holy Spirit fell on us that day and I knew right then one of the reasons God allowed me to have those horrible experiences. How could we even begin to know what others are enduring if no suffering has come to us? We can say the words but nothing is quite like feeling the feelings. No, I still couldn’t enter into their world or their insurmountable challenges and, yes, I’d been free of that oppression for years and they probably never would be this side of Heaven. Still, it was the closest I could come to sharing some small measure of their pain. That evening in northern India was one of the first times it occurred to me that other people could become worth what you’ve been through if Christ could touch them through you. I’ve thought it many times since then. God alone is worthy.

Thanks for letting me share that with you. I’m so proud of you for jumping on board with sponsorships and copious prayers for the Compassion children that I hardly know what to say. Never EVER feel pressured on here about any kind of participation. I mean that concerning everything from Scripture memory to summer Bible study to Siesta Scholarships and to Compassion children. Only do what the Holy Spirit Himself prompts you to do. Otherwise, you’ll miss the ecstatic joy that so often follows obedience. We’re just sharing our ministry lives with you as we live them.

OK, I haven’t forgotten what we’re doing on here today. It’s time for Verse #9! Please, please, PLEASE don’t quit! Our minds are being renewed. Can’t you feel it??
Here’s mine. I just love it! You’re welcome to share it if you’d like:

Though you have not seen Him, you love Him; and even though you do not see Him now, you believe in Him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy. 1 Peter 1:8 NIV

Let’s hear it, Siestas! Name, City, Verse and Translation!

I love you so dearly and I am honored to serve this generation beside you. Keep the faith, Darling Things.

Hey, my dearest, most darling Siestas!

I’m writing you once again from the shot gun seat of my man’s blue Ford truck via the wonders of my nifty internet card. Keith and I are high-tailing it down I-10 to the cactus ranch with Star and Geli in the back seat so that I can write like a maniac for four days. I am working on a project that I am very close to telling you about. You won’t waste a prayer on me but, far more importantly, you won’t waste a prayer on Melissa!

I finally heard from her a couple of hours ago and, after departing Atlanta Friday afternoon, she’d just made it to her hotel in Calcutta!

Oops. Keith just pulled us into a random convenience store in a town of 200 outside San Antonio because I’ve been whining about wanting a treat. We tried to stop at the infamous Buccee’s right there on the feeder in Luling (yes, the mascot is a huge, buck-toothed beaver) but, as usual, there were ten jillion people there. I was so ticked. What on earth can I hope for here? I’ll find out. Be back in a sec.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and giveth again! You’ll never believe that God secured ten – count them – TEN Moon Pies for my man right there on the shelf in that very store. I have never heard Keith say “the favor of the Lord” more times in my entire life. Needless to say, he’s already called Amanda and left a message.

As for me, I was hoping to find one of those rare popcorn balls (not the normal caramel kind but the ones made with karo syrup) that you can happen on occasionally at off-the-wall gas stations where a good God-fearing woman makes them, wraps them in saran, and puts them on the shelf to make an extra few bucks. I’d pay her five. No luck. Apparently Keith is the one with the favor today. I got peanut brittle. I’ll probably break a tooth and have to have a root canal and, where our ranch land is located, they’ll probably use a roto-rooter.

Anyway, stay with me here. I’m trying to talk about Melissa. She’s safe and sound and totally exhausted but thankful to be part of this incredibly important venture with Compassion. She’ll have so much to tell us soon. Until then, keep praying for her and her wonderful team. For those of you who follow Angie Smith’s wonderful blog, I’m sure you know she’s part of this team, too. Shaun has really taken a stellar group with him to India to cast some much needed light on poverty-stricken children living in conditions we can’t imagine. I’m chomping at the bit to adopt me some but I’m going to wait for Melissa to tell us a little bit about them. As you picture this team of Americans over there, picture them dealing with 120 degree heat! Even a young woman from Houston, Texas isn’t used to that! They are undoubtedly in for an adventure and we’ll get to tag along through Melissa’s posts.

OK, well, I can’t type and eat my peanut brittle and I’m feeling cranky for sugar so I’ll sign off now. You know I love you like crazy.

Oh, my word. Keith just realized his Moon Pies are double-decker. He nearly drove this rig off the road. He’s beside himself. Is there no end to what God will do for a man whose wife and daughter stole his pies?

ttyl!

Keith walks through the door gruffly and slaps a plastic bag on the kitchen counter.

Him: “You wanna hear something awful?”

Me, bracing myself because I really didn’t want to hear something awful but my man was clearly disturbed: “What is it, Baby? What happened?”

Him: “You can’t even get a Moon Pie at Kroger anymore. You can’t get the danged thing at Randall’s. You can’t even get one at Amanda’s fancy HEB. Not a Moon Pie on a single shelf. Good grief.”

Me: Silent. Staring. Baffled.

Him: “Do you know the only place in this town you can find a Moon Pie anymore is Bass Pro Shop?”

Me: “I had no idea.”

But, thought to myself that it might explain some things. However, I didn’t say that. He was too raw. Been through too much. This was no time to speak the truth in love. This was the time for lies.

Me again: “That’s awful, Honey. I’m so sorry.”

There was only one thing that was going to make my man feel better. Our spirits intertwined, we both seemed to know. I nodded toward the bag and he opened it. He pulled out a chocolate Moon Pie. I pulled out a banana Moon Pie. And we ate them in total silence.

But in my heart I felt that inner glee bloggers feel when you know that you’ve just had an encounter that is destined to become a spectacular blog post. It’s a rush of sparkling, clean adrenalin. Keith was just about to head to the ranch so I said, plotting, of course, “Honey, do you want me to just send you with a couple of these and save the rest?” (He’d gotten a large bag full. After all, they’re hard to find.) So, he said, just as I knew he would, “Yep, that’s what we better do.”

So he headed out the door and down I-10 with a ration of one-a-day and I headed to work with a bag of Moon Pies. On my way, I called AJ and said, “Bring your camera to lunch. I have some pictures I need you to take for a blog post. It’s going to be great.” Only, when she came to lunch, between the baby and all the commotion of the restaurant, she didn’t have time to take the shots.

Her: “Can I take them home with me and do it there?”

Me: “Yep, and then be sure to give them to Curtis.” And that was the exact moment the plan went totally awry. MY MEANING WAS: GIVE THEM TO CURTIS SO HE CAN BRING THEM BACK TO WORK AND I CAN RETURN THEM UNSCATHED TO THE KITCHEN OF KEITH MOORE, MY MOON PIE MAN.

Thinking we clearly understood one another, I promptly forgot.

Until last night after Keith got home from the ranch and I heard the biggest ruckus in the kitchen followed by colorful choices of words.

Me: “What on earth is the matter?”

Him: “I can’t find my Moon Pies!”

Me, but only to self: “Oh my gosh. Please, no.”

So I text AJ: “Your father is tearing the kitchen apart looking for his Moon Pies. Where are they?”

Oh, the painful finality of her response. At times of crisis, all you can do is turn to Scripture.

“She took of the [Moon Pie] thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat.”

And swore I’d told her to.

It was a rough night at the Moore house. Sometimes a man doesn’t need his woman. He just needs his Moon Pie. The man has the taste buds of a ten year-old.

Thank goodness, the sun came up again this morning even after a moonless night. But there will be a reckoning at Bass Pro today.

Here are the moon pies before things went wrong – very, very wrong.

And the bag from Bass Pro.

So, OK, Siestas. So it made me think about you. What treat from your childhood do you still long to have?

Greetings, You Sword-wielding Siestas!

It’s time for Verse 8! Can you believe it? Our Swords are getting sharper with every flip of a spiral! (It’s that kind of thing that Melissa responds to with, “Mom, you’re real sweet.” Translation: “You, Mom, are the Cheese Whiz in every 8 ounce jar.” You have to have some compassion on my girls. They’ve grown up with statements like, “Is your Sword in its sheath or are you using it?” It’s been hard being them. To this day, Travis Cottrell still brings up the fact that, for Amanda and Curtis’ rehearsal dinner at Pappasito’s, I made him help me stuff a piñata with Scripture verses written on little pieces of paper while we were driving from the church to the restaurant. I didn’t even realize it was weird until our next speaking engagement when he laughed until he cried and had to hold his side. He spared me the humiliation in that moment. After all, I was the MOB. The girls do, on occasion, make fun of me but at the end of the scorn, they each usually say something like, “I have never loved you more.” And it’s worth it.

And anyway, they’ve got plenty of their own weirdness. I had to talk Melissa out of having one of her professors do an exegetical explanation of the Trinity as part of her wedding ceremony. (And did I ever tell you that she originally wanted both her dad and me to walk her down the aisle?) And Amanda is more like her mother than she’d ever want to admit. She’s already started some Scripture memory with Jackson. It might not surprise you to know that his life verse is “Children, obey your parents for this is right.”

We’re freaks. Freaks that know their own flesh and don’t trust themselves for five minutes. Each one of us in our own way has proved ourselves stupid. We blow it but we know our way home. I love my family. We don’t let each other take ourselves too seriously.

Back to important things like cheerleading. The way I see it, cheerleaders have to be cheesy. And through our challenging year of Scripture memory, I, Girlfriend, am your (modestly dressed, ever-so-slightly outdated) cheerleader.

So here’s my Verse 8! It’s a 3-verse portion that I didn’t want to split up but, if you’d like to share it, you are welcome to select the one verse that speaks most clearly to you:

“In my anguish I cried to the LORD, and He answered me by setting me free. The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me? The LORD is with me; He is my helper. I will look in triumph on my enemies.” Psalm 118:5-7 (NIV)

I LOVE IT! Will that, as my grandmother used to say, cure what ails you or what? Go kick some devil tail. In Jesus’ name.

Let’s hear your Scriptures, your names, your cities and your translations!

I love you,

Beth

Hey, my Darling Ones!

I’m sitting in the bed in my jammies with pillows propped up behind my back on a rare morning off. I’ve just finished my quiet time and on my second cup of coffee. (I’m obviously a little behind on the coffee.) Keith’s still sound asleep and the dogs are in the backyard playing in some fresh mud. Oh, what they have done to my beautiful garden yard! But that’s another story. My mind is full of other things and I know a few good friends who might help me process it.

It’s Good Friday. I tend to have lots of heavy thoughts around this day every year. I do love Christmas so very much but I am far more moved by the season of reflection on the Cross of Christ and the celebration of our only true hope: His glorious resurrection. We are obviously so much surer of the timing of His Passion than we are His birth. We really can say, “Approximately this many years ago, this happened right around this exact time.” Anniversaries are a powerful thing.

Yesterday I served at the memorial service of a fellow servant of Christ. She was just a few years older than me and her children, both boys, are the same ages of my girls. Belinda and I don’t really have a family history together, though. We have a shared history of faith. Years ago, I suppose somewhere around 1990, I started teaching my first ungraded women’s Sunday School class. I’d been teaching for years by that time but was a constant source of irritation to my department head because women came to the class who weren’t the right age and some of them were even “single!” (To be fair, it really was supposed to be a class of young marrieds from 29-32.) I’d finally even been reported to my pastor, Brother John Bisagno, who called me into his office, laughed his head off and said, “I’m about to set you free.” And Dayspring Class was born. Any woman of any age could come.

I cut my Biblical teeth on that class. I really did. I’ve told my beloved Curtis many times that there’s nothing like being thrown out there to teach week after week after week. (He’s doing that very thing, by the way.) Blowing it over and over then having the courage and the humility to get back up there again. It gets a communicator out of the habit of delivering a few overly-perfected speeches with just the right punch lines but a dwindling anointing – and pitches them out there into the world of high risk and steady criticism. Separates the men from the boys, so to speak. It is HARD WORK. Make no mistake. Don’t ever wish for it. Do it only if you must because it is your God-given gift and not to use it would be disobedience. It’s too hard otherwise and too much flesh can get tangled up in it. “Be ye not many teachers, because you will be more harshly judged,” James warned us. But back to Belinda.

Early on in our class, this darling, petite blonde (bleached, like yours truly) entered our ranks with a personality that stole the hearts of every person in the class. Or, then again, it was her story that stole our hearts. She became quite a center of attention because she’d battled breast cancer several years before and it had come back with a vengeance. By the time I got to know Belinda, the doctors had told her that cancer had spread to her bones all the way from her skull to her knees. She was covered. Almost hopeless. Only that wild woman absolutely refused to give up. Her boys were still young and she intended to see them to manhood.

I have no idea why things work the way they do. I’ve seen mothers just as determined to raise their children yet die of cancer in only a few months. These things are only for the fathomless mind of God. We can’t figure them out for the life of us. But if I were to offer a little conjecture, with His permission and patience, I’d tell you that maybe He gave Belinda those extra years (somewhat like Hezekiah) so that she could teach a tight-knit group of women how to put their faith where their big mouths were. She sought the Lord for Scriptures then told us what to pray for her and how to pray and that, if we were going to doubt, not to bother. And all of this in the most winsome way. She had the cutest personality ever. Several in our class nicknamed her Bubbles. I never could bring myself to do it. Too cool, maybe. But I tell you what I did call her. I called her a warrior. As I told them yesterday, I have never known a more courageous woman in all my life.

Some years later, I was asked to move to a different Sunday school hour to teach and I left my beloved Dayspring Class to the plans God had for them. Most of those women stayed intact and still study and worship together today. Belinda came to my new class many times but it was so large that it did not lend itself to the closeness we’d all enjoyed before. By this time, we no longer had the same need to pray for Belinda anyway. She was thriving. God had indeed given her what she’d so vehemently asked. There were others who moved to the top of our prayer lists.

Then about six months ago, at a Tuesday night Bible study, I saw Belinda at the altar weeping during praise and worship. (Our worship time is also an open-altar time and it is very, very special.) I went to her with haste and she looked up at me with an expression I’ll never forget. “Beth, it’s back. And if the Lord doesn’t heal me, I’m going to die.”

I felt it in my gut. I knew this time He was going to take her Home. That somehow her job was done. Though her assignment was undoubtedly much broader than this, God had used her to teach a group of women (of all ages, praise His Name!) how to pray with wild faith. Our lives had been changed forever. We’d seen first hand a little of what God could do.

Yesterday morning I grabbed my Bible, my black purse, and a prayer journal from 1994 that I’d taped a precious blonde woman’s picture on and headed to my church. We celebrated Belinda Edgerton’s life in a chapel packed full of people from all dimensions of her life. She’d made a mark on everybody from her coworkers at Shell Oil to her neighbors right there on her cul-de-sac. As I reflected on her life and thought about what I wanted to share, God brought the woman out of Luke 8 to my mind who pressed through the crowd to get to Jesus. She reached through the push-and-shove of public spectacle with the purity and simplicity of desperation. She somehow latched on to the hem of His garment and, let this fall afresh, she was healed.

We don’t hear any more about that woman. Lord have mercy, she must have told her story a jillion times to anybody who would listen. But somewhere over there in Israel, her body has turned to ashes just like all her friends. It occurred to me that, while we are here on earth in these flesh-and-blood mortal bodies, all we can hope for is a hem of healing. Even if Belinda had been completely healed of her cancer, she would still have gotten sinus infections, stomach viruses, bad knees, and, one day, her sons still would have gone to her funeral. She just might have been a tad older. These bodies of ours are fashioned for a flash of time on this planet. God has healed all of us of many things but, in His great purposes, we can only grab the hem. Even a miracle of instant restoration from a terminal disease is still just a hem of healing.

One day we will trade the hem for the real Him. No more pressing through the crowd wondering if we’re going to be among the few that see that kind of miracle. We will see Him. Jesus Christ, the risen King. We won’t just touch the edge of His cloak. We will touch the God-man Himself in His spectacular immortal body but, significantly, one still bearing the scars of His visitation here. His wholeness is so utterly complete and infinitely perfect that we, upon the very sight of Him, will be made whole as well.

This, Beloved, is what we live for. Not for just another day here. But for that very day there.

Several months ago, Melissa had insisted upon going with me to have a dye test to follow up a suspicious mammogram. (No rumors please. I do not have breast cancer. Because my mother died with it, however, I never get the luxury of drama-less annual check-ups.) We were sitting in the waiting room and a rack was within arms reach offering all manner of brochure on various cancers. Melissa took one out after another and glanced over them, shaking her head. She looked up at me with that classic expression of hers and said, “Life is brutal, man.”

I nodded.

We both sat silently for just a moment.

Then she said one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard.

“He knows it’s scary to be us.”

Yes, He does. Yes, He does. He does NOT take the fact lightly that we go through medical tests to see if we have a raging cancer. He does NOT take lightly that some of you are secretly fearing that the monster has come back. He does NOT take lightly that some of you are going through the cancer treatments of your own children. I had to pause and put my hand over my mouth on that one. Holding back the tears.

Son of David, have mercy on us! You know it’s scary to be us! It’s almost too much here, Lord. It’s almost too much.

And the thunder crashes in the heavens and the earth grows dark in the middle of the afternoon and a man, beaten to a bloody pulp, cries from a cross between two thieves, “It is finished!”

And death is overcome.

One day, Sweet Darling. ONE DAY. We will trade that hem for the real Him and there will be no more sickness. No more death. No more sadness. We will all be healed.

Bliss.

BLISS.

Hey, You Darlin’ Thangs!

This has to be super short because I’m sitting at the gate for my New Orleans flight and they’re just about to call for boarding. I dig airports. Great people watching. I’ve been sipping on my Starbucks and taking it all in. I just love watching people walk through the terminals with their neck pillows still on. It brings me a ton of joy. I hope some of them come to the New Orleans LPL…and wear their pillows. You never know when you’ll need a quick snooze.

I just wanted to let you know that 50 – count them, FIFTY – women will attend the Living Proof Live this weekend because of your scholarship fund. Give the Lord some praise!! Pray for God’s Spirit to fall on us like a holy flood. The glorious and welcomed kind of flood.

I’m so honored to take this journey with you. To love Jesus with you. He is everything. I hope you have a wonderfully blessed weekend with one Jesus sighting after another.

Talk to you soon! I love you.

PS. Our precious Annabeth is 2 months old today! We are deliriously happy!

Dear Siestas,
Last week one of you alerted us to the fact that this special day was quickly approaching. Our minds immediately turned to a dear friend of Living Proof Ministries whose family has been touched by autism. This story is not about recommendations for treatments or medications. It’s a story about a miracle and we hope so much it will bless you today.
Love,
Beth

Today, April 2, is World Autism Awareness Day. This is an unusual day to celebrate, but this is a day my family can rejoice in. I have a wonderful 18-year-old son who has autism and is blessed by God.

When my baby boy was born he was the most unusual baby I had ever seen. He had a cone-shaped head, ears rolled up like a newspaper, a big bruise on his face from the forceps, and he was blue and wrinkly. And he broke my tailbone! But he was just what my husband and I ordered—a baby. We had lost our last two babies in miscarriages. Our son was perfect in our eyes and we felt he could do no wrong

As our baby grew, he did things a little differently—like crawling backwards, for example. He spoke languages unheard of and thought the rest of us understood. He seemed to go off into his own world a lot. At times he seemed not to see or hear, but other times it seemed like he could. By the time he was two, I still had not heard the word “mama.” I was pregnant with his little sister and had extreme morning sickness that lasted the entire pregnancy. We had his hearing and vision tested and everything was normal. Finally, my mother talked us into taking him to the local school district for testing. So my very pregnant self, my husband, and our son went to the testing center. I watched as my two-and-half-year-old baby boy was taken by some sweet ladies to be evaluated. After two-and-half hours, our son was returned to us and we were told we would get the results in a couple of weeks. What! I have to wait longer?

Over the next two weeks we determined that he was fine. He simply learned at his own pace. We just needed to work with him more and everything would be fine. I hate denial!

We went to the meeting with the school district and were bombarded with words we weren’t familiar with. Once we heard the phrase “autistic symptoms,” we never heard another word. We had no clue where to turn or what to do. We were given a mountain of papers to review and read. None of them was in everyday English and they told us to call if we had any questions. What I needed was a translator!

I sent the reports to our wonderful pediatrician and asked what it all meant. A few days later I met with her and she explained that our son had many symptoms of autism. However, the education and medical communities did not like to label children that young. I asked what we should do or where we should go. She suggested that I look at local schools for special children or at the school district’s program. So I began researching everything I could in-between bouts of nausea. (Remember, this was before the internet was in every home.)

I became very angry with God. I could not believe He would allow this to happen to my child. I told God to leave us alone if this was the best He could do. But Jesus never left our side.

Based on what we could afford and what the school district offered, we decided to enroll him in the district’s Preschool for Special Needs when he turned three. Little did I know what a blessing this would be.

Mrs. Trainer was my son’s teacher for three years and Ms. Donna was her faithful assistant. His first class only had 4 students. With the specialists who frequented the classroom, it was often a one-to-one ratio. Mrs. Trainer and Ms. Donna worked with the students and the parents. She taught us how to teach our children, helped us keep dairies of our son’s progress, and encouraged us through hard times. They were sent to us by God, I believe.

Our son did not make much progress at first and it was very frustrating. We began sign language and flash cards to try to develop his language, only to become more frustrated. He was now four years old and had echolalia, which means he repeated everything we said. It was like living with a parrot that mimicked everything he heard. He was not potty trained. And he never called me mommy except when I said it first.

Then God blessed us again. Our son got the worst stomach virus you could ever imagine! It lasted a week and I will spare you the details. Let’s just say I had no furniture or any clothes that weren’t permanently marked. He was given a medication to stop the vomiting and it worked after a week, but little did I know what was about to happen.

We had enrolled our son in a Stay and Play program at a local church so he would be around “normal children.” The week after the virus, his Stay and Play teacher stopped by our house to ask me what medication we had put him on. I told her we had not put him on any medication. She said that he sat during story time! And followed instructions! I drove her crazy asking every detail. I began to watch and pay attention over the next couple of days and I did see improvement.

I called the neurologist and asked what could have caused the changes. He wasn’t sure, but he told me about a medication similar to the anti-nausea medication that we might want to consider. Unfortunately, he said it had long term side effects. I hate these types of decisions. We tried the medication and our son began to communicate at first in sign, and then verbally. He became potty trained! And all those flash cards I used for years? He knew those words and how to use them! He made great progress between four and five. God helped us find what we needed through a virus. Only God could turn something so bad into good. Amen?

(While the use of medication was a turning point in our son’s story, we believe his progress came from a combination of many things. There is certainly no magic pill to cure autism. Using medication is a personal choice and one that does not work for many autistic children. The side effects can often outweigh the results.)

Our son started going to kindergarten part-time at age five. He was our district’s first all-day-kindergartner the next year. Yes, he went through kindergarten three times—and twice in the same year. He progressed with teachers hand-picked by God and me for the next six years. Don’t get me wrong, I was still mad at God. But God never left my side. How else would I have known what to do?

When the school district told me he would not be able to do this or that, we would just work on it at home or during the summer. We always had tutors and worksheets and projects outside of school. We worked on social issues and developed friendships. My husband and I worked non-stop and our son worked very hard. He always proved everyone wrong. He would exceed what was expected. He had teachers who encouraged him and friends who supported him, but mostly he had a God who loved and watched over him.

When our son was nine, my mother talked me into letting him attend Vacation Bible School at her church. She promised me she would be in the room next to his and would hand-pick the teacher. So, I let him go against my better judgment. God was so sweet to put him in a class with his best friend from school. By the end of that week, his friend and the VBS had taught him all about Jesus. So on a Friday night in June, 2000, my son asked Jesus into his heart on his bunk bed. Then he asked if we could go to church on Sunday. I said we would see. My husband wanted to know what all of this was about. I said, “Don’t worry, he will forget about it by tomorrow.” On Sunday morning, early in the morning, my son insisted and insisted and insisted we go to my parents’ church so he could walk the aisle and make his profession of faith. We went (again, against my better judgment) and at the end of the service my son pulled—and I do mean pulled—me down the aisle. That day my husband was saved as well. I was so angry at God for coming back into my home, I was crying. Everyone thought I was crying for joy. No, I wanted nothing to do with this! I was mad!

We went home and my husband asked what we should do now. And I told him either we do it all the way or not at all. So we began doing it all the way the best way we knew how and I worked through my anger with God.

The way Jesus worked his way back into our home was so sweet. We still had hard times and many joyful times as well. But God never left our side. This year my son will graduate from high school and attend college in the fall. We consider him completely healed by God and believe God has a glorious plan for the rest of his life. We cannot wait for it to unfold. We believe God has a perfect plan for each person He created. I pray that you will seek out the path God has for you and follow Jesus no matter where it leads, because sometimes what seems like a bad thing might be a blessing in disguise.

I ask that you lift up prayers today for all families that have children with special needs, but please say a little extra prayer for those with autism. May God bless you.

Siestas, we would love to fill up our comments with prayers for these families today. Our friend has a very tender heart for the mothers who may read this who have worked so hard, remained faithful to God, and have seen little or no progress from their autistic children. She shared with me her heartache for these parents who have such a difficult life. Please help us encourage these sisters with your prayers. Thank you ladies!

Hey, my wonderful Word-memorizing Siestas! I am so excited about your response to our celebration event next January! We got some great enthusiasm back from you. I’m looking as forward to it as anything on my entire year’s calendar. (If you aren’t up to speed on it, see the March 15th post.) Amanda and I met up the other day to leave one of our cars in a parking lot and ride together to evening church. Since Annabeth is too young to be exposed to that many people and hadn’t yet had her first round of shots, I’ve been hanging out with her and Amanda on Sunday mornings while the boys go to church, then she and I have been going to the 6:30 PM service. When I jumped in the car with her, she said, “Have you been waiting on me long?” “Nope,” I said, “And anyway, it gave me a chance to work on my Scriptures. I want to qualify for the celebration event!” She laughed and said, “I do, too! And I need to get with it!” She’s got a pretty good excuse for being a tad behind on her memory work.

Don’t think for a second I’m not working hard on these Scriptures, too, Young Ladies. What we’re doing together is not easy for any of us. Memorizing this much and this often takes a tremendous effort. It also takes discipline and, to be lovingly frank, self-discipline is not highly valued in our Western world. It’s part of what can make our popular breed of Christianity so sloppy and, at times, so void of power. I’m not being cynical. There are fabulous things happening in the Body of Christ today. I just want to encourage you that this is one of those things. Stick with it! We’d be hard pressed to overemphasize the importance of Scripture memory.

Whew! I have chosen a HARD one this time! It came up in my Scripture reading one morning last week and I fell in love with it. I think it will bless so many of you to read it even if you don’t choose to memorize it. Here goes:

God’s love is meteoric, His loyalty astronomic, His purpose titanic, His verdicts oceanic. Yet in His largeness nothing gets lost; Not a man, not a mouse, slips through the cracks. How exquisite Your love, O God! Psalm 36:5-7a, The Message

Here’s this week’s tip: When I have a really challenging verse to memorize like this one, I read it over and over (please revisit our RENEW acrostic video-lesson from January if it’s been a while) then, if it invites various images, I sit back and visualize it. I deliberately begin associating pictures with various words and phrases. This is what I did, for instance, years ago when I memorized Psalm 1. It opens with “Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked or stand in the way of sinners or sit in the seat of mockers.” I pictured a man walking, standing, and sitting in that order over and over and, to this day, I can say it from memory based on those visuals.

On this selection, Psalm 36:5-7a, I can picture a huge meteor for God’s love and the starry hosts for His infinite loyalty, an unsinkable Titanic for His purpose, and an ocean with a consistent tide for His verdicts. All of those things speak to me about His largeness so that part of the text comes next naturally. The words “man” and “mouse” begin with the same letters so that helps me remember them. The conclusion is joyously appropriate: “How exquisite Your love, O God!” That’s why I had to tag on the first half of verse 7. I wanted to respond with the psalmist to those enormous attributes of my God.

Somebody may be thinking, “Good grief! I didn’t want to have to think about it that much!” But, you see, that’s the BEAUTY of it! We could be thinking how ticked we are at somebody. We could be thinking how tempted we are toward somebody. We could be thinking how dissatisfied we are with something. We could be thinking AGAIN about what so-and-so had the gall to say to us. I am never more prone to mental defeat than when I just allow my mind to wander anywhere and to anything. I’m by no means suggesting that we never allow our minds to rest. Of course we do. I’m saying that when, in that state of rest and idleness, our thoughts begin to go left toward something destructive, we need a pretty fail-safe way to switch gears. I know no better way than to immediately start letting some verses scroll through my head. That’s what it means to take thoughts captive to the knowledge of Christ and that’s how we tear down everything that exalts itself against Him.

I’m also prone to mental defeat when the enemy has pitched me a great opportunity to obsess about something or to give way to fear and stress. Each of these represents perfect moments to turn to my Scripture memory. There are tons of things we COULD think about today but we have the power in Jesus’ Name to choose the things that edify our spirits and renew our minds. Remember, every defeat and every victory takes place on the battlefield of the mind before it erupts in the exterior life. Listen, Darling Things, we don’t have to let every mental struggle turn into a stronghold. We can successfully cut things off at the pass. And this is one huge way we do it.

OK, Sisters! Let’s hear your selections! Remember to list your name (first is fine), your city, and your verse and translation. I cannot adequately express how thankful I am to serve you. You are a very important part of my ministry life and I think about you every day.

To God’s great glory!

I love you,

Beth

I have just had the onion rings of my life. OF MY LIFE. Actually, they came with Keith’s order (a side of beef, ground and shaped into something resembling a Goliath-burger). I wouldn’t have dared order onion rings for myself but what you eat off somebody else’s plate is cancelled out calorically by the exertion you use to reach across the table. No brainer.

Actually I didn’t want to stop and eat. I was anxious to get on home to AJ and the babies and just wanted to get something to-go and eat it in the truck. Keith said, “Lizabeth, there’s some kind of award-winning little cafe in Junction that I been dying to try ever since we got some land this direction. Whataya say we get a bite there?” I pouted half a second then felt my stomach growl. “Are you sure you’re not talking about a barbeque joint? Junction can do some barbeque. For the life of me, Honey, I’m trying to picture an award-winning cafe there.” He swore (not the bad-language kind) and declared. Even knew what side of the road it was on.

Lo and behold. We pulled up in a diagonal parking space outside a restaurant called “Isaacks” (hear that really loud. It was a Texas-size sign. One of our Siestas, Holly, just reminded me of the best part of the signage: underneath the name in bold letters is “Air-conditioned.” A make-or-breaker in Texas.) Clearly the restaurant has been there since Abraham courted Sarai and probably wooed her right there at the soda bar. That was before the Law when Abraham didn’t have to worry about kosher. Because I don’t think it’s kosher. I don’t know for sure. You can bet your last dollar it still has its original charm though. I didn’t see a single sign of a remodel in at least 50 years. Why fix somethin’ that ain’t broke? That’s what my Papaw used to ask.

Sho –nuff. (Also my Papaw) Right there at the check-out counter hanging just above the jumbo jar of super bubble was the plaque: “Texas Monthly: The 40 Best Small-town Cafes 2008.” I was beside myself. I do love me some culture about better than anybody you know. I knew we were in for a treat.

“Help yourself,” chirped Miss Helen, waving us to any spot we liked. She’s been waiting tables there since 1967. Yes, of course, I asked. Are you kidding me? You know how much I love all manner of women. And I’ve just got to say, the woman could still wear a mean pair of blue jeans. I told her so. Even tucked in her shirt. She was sassy. It was one of those kinds of restaurants with a lot of taxidermy on the wall. I wouldn’t have been a big surprised if Miss Helen shot ‘em and stuffed ‘em herself.

She handed us a couple of large, tri-fold menus with the heavy clear plastic covers so the proprietor can change out the menu when he has a special. Only I don’t think they’ve done much changing-out in a while. But let me be clear: some things don’t need changing.

Like Isaacks.

I got the Mexican dinner. Miss Helen said they made their chili gravy from scratch. That did it. I slapped the thing shut and handed it back like a woman who knew what she wanted. Keith first had a mind to get chicken fried chicken since Miss Helen told us it was one of the local favorites. I couldn’t have been happier. Knew I’d get to share. Then at the very last split-second, he threw a curve ball. “The hamburger and the onion rings.” Miss Helen jotted it down, nodded, and scurried into the kitchen for a refill of tea.

I was baffled. “You got a hamburger?”

“Yep.”

“Instead of their famous chicken fried chicken?”

“Yep.”

“Are you out of your mind? Or watching your figure?”

“They batter their own onion rings here. Homemade it says.”

And I am telling you as I live and breathe that, fifteen minutes later when Miss Helen emerged from the kitchen, it was like a beam of light from Heaven shone all around that 9-inch-high plate of golden battered, deep-fried onion rings. It was a sight to behold. I nearly put my hand over my heart. I think my eyes watered. Never, I said N-E-V-E-R, IN ALL MY LIFE have I ever tasted an onion ring that good.

The onion rings of my life.

I’ll be dadgum.

Surely you don’t think that could wait till I get home.

Come on and tell me the best kept little café-secret in your neck of the woods. Keith and I are road warriors, remember? We go WAY out of our way for a darn good meal.