I just have a second but I can’t get something off my mind so I decided to log on and throw it up here. I’ve told you before that I really dig birds. I keep lots of feeders and feel really co-dependent when I’m out of town and can’t fill them up. As ridiculous as it sounds, they bring me untold joy. One of my birds, however, is having a serious issue. I think it’s mental – and I can certainly relate – but it’s manifesting itself in all manner of outward expressions. I’ve been home plenty lately so it’s not my fault…I don’t think. But it may be my responsibility. I’m too co-dependent to know for sure. Here’s the scene: This lone female red bird keeps attacking the mirrors on both sides of my car. She wildly flaps her wings, chatters madly, and runs into one mirror repeatedly then flies to the other side of the car and gives it an equal piece of her mind. Like she’s got anything left. She makes such a racket that I can hear her all the way in the kitchen and I just stand there in total astonishment, looking out the window onto the driveway. I, then, proceed outside and try to talk some sense into her. No matter how close I get, she never lets up. She just keeps attacking her own self. Only she doesn’t realize it’s her.

She’s got such a beef with the red bird in the mirror that she has nearly pecked her blessed little beak into a nub. Clearly, the whole ordeal has her stomach upset. I’ve had to hose down the car on both sides. I keep trying to tell her, “It’s you! It’s only you in the mirror! Let up, Girlfriend!” For lack of a better solution, we now have old kitchen towels draped over the mirrors which upsets me since some of my neighbors think we’re crazy religious freaks as it is. Now they’ll think we’re vampires to boot.

I think the problem could be hormones. Hers. Not mine. I’m not sure if birds have hormonal issues but I know that girls do and she is clearly a girl. (In case you aren’t up on your basic ornithology, you can tell by the color.) It really doesn’t matter what age she is. All it takes to have to have hormone problems is to be the right gender. She and I could start a support group. I feel sorry for her and I hate to see her go on this way. After all, I know how she feels. I’ve been pecking at myself a lot lately. I always have had the tendency to self-peck. I recall one time clearly but silently in my own mind saying to God, “You hate me.” Absurd, I know. And after all He’d done for me. The chilling part was that I sensed an unexpected clear response come right back at me in my mind. “No, Beth. You hate yourself.” Dang it. And it’s sin. Self loathing is sin. It’s just another form of self-absorption.

Maybe you’ve got some anger issues like that bird and maybe the person you’re maddest at it you. Maybe regret over a decision you made years ago or a path you took a long time ago is still eating you alive. Maybe you’ve nearly self-pecked your beak into a nub. Maybe, truth be told, you’ve been thinking that God hates you, despite all He’s done, but today He’s opening your eyes to the fact that it’s you who hates yourself. And it’s got to stop. Nothing about it honors God. Your God loves you with an everlasting love. A love that heals and restores and takes a disfigured soul one day at a time, treats it with Truth, and makes it whole. A love that breaks old patterns and paves new pathways and not just for you. For a lot of people who are walking behind you. But you have to let that love in. You have to believe God feels it for you just like He says He does. You’ve got to be convinced of it to the marrow of your bones. What more could He do to tell you? What more could He do to show you? Choose to accept it. Embrace it. Wallow yourself in it.

“This then is how we know that we belong to the truth, and how we set our hearts at rest in His presence whenever our hearts condemn us. For God is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything.” 1 John 3:19,20

Thanks, Rich!

Oh, my gracious! Thank you so much for praying for us as we gathered in expectation of a Jesus-show in Omaha, Nebraska. (I had prayed this acronym over Omaha after I arrived: Omnipotent Merciful Advocate Here Appear. I believe with all my heart – despite human frailties and inadequacies – that He did.) I fell head over heels in love with those women and their lean-forward and grab the seed out of the air attitude. I challenged them to memorize a (hard and wordy) verse and they screamed it out with holy passion over and over. Now, that’s my kind of group! (I never have a group I don’t end up crazy about but this was one of those that came to meet with Jesus and wasn’t leaving without a revelation.) I don’t know about the 6000 others but this woman right here had her own personal God encounter. I came to this event with a battered heart from an onslaught of hurts and God had profuse mercy on my sad soul. (Please don’t get distracted by that. All of us have hurts. You might just say a prayer for me and for my extended family then leave it to our faithful Father. You and I have plenty of others to pray for who are hanging on by a thread.) I’ve already seen several requests for the commissioning we did at the conclusion of the event so I’ll include it below. I often get the ladies in pairs at the very end, ask them to look each other straight in the eye and call each other to faithfulness as we prepare to take on our worlds once again. The commissionings are always different because they reflect the Scriptural subject matter. This one was based on our three sessions out of Philippians 4:4-13. Even if you weren’t there in Omaha with us, you might read those verses then grant me the privilege of speaking these challenges over you, Darling One. I love you dearly.

Beloved, in the Name of Jesus
I commission you
To rejoice in the Lord always
And again I say rejoice.
Stop worrying about everything!
Dump your anxiety
And start praying like mad.
Start thinking about
What you’re thinking about!
Start feeding your spirit
And stop feeding your flesh.
Never forget the true Secret:
Christ in you, the Hope of Glory!
You, Dear One, have the supernatural CAN DO!
Now, believe God
And turn your CAN DO
Into WILL DO!
You are NOT a wimp.
You are a warrior.
In the Name and power of Christ
Go out there and act like one.

Yesterday I went to “Muffins With Mommy” at my son’s mother’s day out. We got to sit at his little table in the little chairs and eat little muffins together. We watched a video of the kids playing on the playground. They were having a blast going down the slide with their teacher. When I picked him up in the afternoon, I was given a gift bag that Jackson had made me for Mother’s Day. I’m saving it for Sunday. Even if there’s just a used Band-aid (as long as it’s his) or a banana peel inside, I will love it. The bag alone is enough. Jackson’s little hand print decorates the front and I couldn’t help but kiss it. I was overwhelmed with the joy of motherhood. Drunk on younguns – my youngun – as my mama always said.

We will spend this weekend celebrating the women who have poured out their lives to provide for us in every way. We will send flowers, buy gifts, write heartfelt I love yous on greeting cards, and go to brunch. We will try to communicate our gratefulness and find that words just aren’t enough. But our meager attempts sure do mean a lot to Mom. We will not forget to honor the women who didn’t birth us, but who have loved us like their own. Women who, like my mama always said about herself, could mother a fence post.

To celebrate Mother’s Day LPM blog-style, let’s hear what your mama always said.

This weekend my little sister graduated from Wheaton College with her Master’s Degree in Biblical Exegesis. She worked unbelievably hard for the past two years to accomplish this goal. We are so proud!

Mom, Dad and I flew up to Wheaton to be with her for the big weekend. It was the Original Four Moores for the first time in quite a while. Dad treated us to a celebratory dinner at a French restaurant called Suzette’s where we enjoyed a five course meal and live jazz music. We were in food heaven with every kind of crepe you can think of. I don’t have any pictures because I was too busy with my fondue, salad, vegetable chowder, chicken crepes, and bananas foster to bother with it!

It was my first time to visit Melissa in Wheaton and I had so much fun seeing her campus, staying in her cute apartment, meeting her friends, and seeing the professors she loved so much. A few of her professors even wrote commentaries that our mom uses when she researches for her conferences and Bible studies. Melissa has had the privilege of studying under some of the world’s most incredible Bible scholars while at Wheaton.

When Melissa came walking down the aisle with all the other graduates, our hearts overflowed with joy. She flashed us a sassy smile and we said to each other, “That’s our girl!” When she took her seat next to her classmates all I could do was cry. My sister had earned a Master’s Degree. From an incredibly hard program. And what a spectacular person she is. She’s beautiful, brilliant, hilarious, outgoing, godly, and a friend to anyone – especially the friendless. Daughter, sister, prom queen, varsity athlete, sorority girl, fasionista, and now scholar. Melissa, I don’t even have the words to describe how proud I am of you. You might be the most unique person God ever made. I can’t wait to see how God will use everything you’ve learned during your time at Wheaton. I know He has great things in store!

Hey, my dear Sistas! I wanted to invite you over to my backyard for a few minutes because it’s so dear to me…and you’re so dear to me. I thought it was time the two of you got together. This is the place I most often meet with the Lord Jesus. Yep, right there at that iron table my wonderful Sunday School class gave me. Before it was another. And before it was yet another. My devotional books, an extra Bible of a second translation, my colored pens and my index cards sit perched on that table at all times, ready at a moment’s notice for a Divine meet and greet. It’s the dearest spot on earth to me.

I’m really not much of a house person. I’ve had the same house for almost twenty-three years and, and even though Keith refurbished it for me last year, I still spend the majority of my awake time at home outside. I am a yard person. I love garden flowers because my mother loved garden flowers. And my mother loved garden flowers because her mother loved garden flowers. I especially love this time of year because my 2 jasmine are in full bloom. I have a huge vine covering much of my front porch and an even bigger vine in my back yard that you can see in the picture below. You can’t open a single door at my house right now without your senses being enraptured by the most delicious scent. My bird feeders are usually swarmed with feathered friends singing for their breakfast. The pictures don’t really do it justice because you can’t smell the fragrances or hear the birds, but I wanted to share with you my little corner of the world where I have poured out my heart to God and, through the pages of His Word, heard Him pour out His to me. Many tears have been shed in that very spot. Many confessions made. Many questions posed. Much coffee consumed. What happens in that small place marks my whole day. If I’ll let it.

So, what about you? Where’s your favorite place to meet with God? In as few words as possible, draw me in and help me picture how the two of you get together. Moms of young children, don’t get a stronghold of discouragement or self-condemnation. This entry is not about how much concentrated time you spend with God. He meets you where you are as you lift your sweet chin to Heaven and bring Him your sincere desire. I’m just wondering if there’s a special place you most love to seek Christ’s face. And, if there is, I bet it’s His very favorite place in your entire world.

Hey, Precious Ones. It feels like I’ve been out of the loop and almost on another planet for weeks. I am so grateful to Amanda for keeping you posted on all that has transpired around here recently. I have been astonished by so many shows of sympathy and affection in the homegoing of my Dad, the Major. You would think that we would have known that it probably wouldn’t be long until Dad passed away since he was 86 years old. (I have a large family and I fall toward the end of the birth order which helps to explain why my parents were ten years older than Keith’s.) It’s just that Dad was so dang active. So hard to pin down. Impossible to keep off the highway. (He drove amazingly well for a person who insisted on using both feet, one on the accelerator and one on the brake. Let’s just say there was a fair amount of whiplash to be had when you took a spin with him. You didn’t nap much with Dad at the wheel.) He and his beloved wife (my step-mom), Maddy, had just driven to Pasadena, Texas for fried catfish the day before. Their Scrabble board was still out in the breakfast room with all the words on it. (Reader that I am, I had to stare at the words and see if I could discern any kind of deep message in them. I couldn’t.) We went through such a long and arduous journey toward my mom’s death nine years ago. Something of our family slowly died with her, one difficult day at a time. That was our only experience with death in our immediate family, I’m thankful to say, so I think we were expecting something like that. That’s not what happened.

Last Friday morning, I was getting ready for the day. Amanda, Curt, and Jackson were in town and I was going to get to take Jacks to lunch at Living Proof with my staff while AJ and Curt grabbed lunch with some of their best buddies. I was looking so forward to it. Then I got a call from Maddy. “Beth, Honey.” (Always calls me those two words.) “Your Daddy is really sick. I wonder if you’d help me figure out what I should do.” She told me his symptoms and, honestly, I thought an old ulcer that had left a lot of scar tissue had acted up again. We decided she should call 911 then I soon headed out the door to drive across town to the hospital where we anticipated they’d take him. I called most of my brothers and sisters (who live all over the country) and told them what had happened but that I didn’t expect it to be life threatening. Boy, was I wrong.

I reached the hospital soon after Maddy arrived. She and I were tightly huddled in the waiting room when a young physician came out and told us that a helicopter was on it’s way to get him. That he needed to be at the Texas Medical Center so they could open his skull. He was bleeding pretty profusely in the brain and they needed to relieve the pressure. We were floored but prepared to head wherever they told us to go. The fewest moments later, the same doctor came back out and told us that the bleeding had been too severe and that it was too late for surgery. In the same breath, he took me to the side and said that Dad would never wake up. He explained that his life was ending and asked if we knew any instructions Dad had concerning life support. I could not believe my ears. It all happened so fast my brain couldn’t catch up. Thankfully, Dad had been hauntingly clear about not wanting to be kept alive on any kind of machines and had placed it in writing. At the same time, I’m not sure I’ve ever been through many things more immediately traumatizing than holding his warm but lifeless hand while they removed that breathing tube. I could sob about it even now.

A few minutes later, my man arrived. Moments after that, one of my sisters. She proved utterly indispensable through the ordeal and I’m not sure I’ve ever loved her more. Dad was moved to a room and his blood pressure, breathing, and heart rate remained stable and strong for the next hours. (Actually, they continued that way until they simply and suddenly ceased.) I tried so hard to get Maddy to let me spend the night with Dad so she could go home but she wouldn’t budge. Nor would I if it were, God forbid, my life partner. My sister insisted since Amanda, Curt, and Jackson were at my house that I go home while she took the night shift and I could take the day shift. I crawled in my bed and tried my hardest to rest but couldn’t. Not many hours later, I wrote my family a note, got back in the car while it was still night, and headed forty minutes back across town to the hospital. Dad’s breathing was very labored but the nurses said he could go on like that even for days. I looked at the tiny little woman he loved so much and could hardly stand the thought of her enduring a long ordeal. After all, she knew her man was gone and would never be back. I asked my sister and Maddy if they wanted to join me around Dad’s bed and ask God to receive His faithful servant speedily, hastening his reward. Neither hesitated. So with tears and firm conviction, three women who loved the same old man in such different – and complicated – ways got on our knees around the three corners of that bed, draped our hands across his feet and asked God to make a merciful visitation to that room at the earliest point His perfect will would allow.

My beloved Jackson had been so upset the night before because he sensed something amiss with the family. The little guy had wanted me to hold him in the waiting room but I had my hands so full with Dad that I couldn’t tend to him. With Maddy and Gay’s insistence, I decided to run back to my side of town early that morning so that I could be there when Jacks awakened, hold him tight, and give him his morning bottle. I’d then head straight back up to the hospital. I never got that chance. God answered the prayers of those three women on their knees around that hospital bed before we knew what hit us. God was so gracious to allow my sister to be right there with our Dad when he was ushered from that cold, sterile hospital room into the warmth of the glorious Sun of Righteousness. Although I wish I had been there, too, I am so touched by Christ’s healing agenda in the way He ordained those circumstances that I can do little more than bow to His wise and graceful plan.

Within an hour, my sister, Gay, and I were with Maddy at the sweet house she shared with my Dad. All three of us were in a state of shock and suddenly in the throes of making countless decisions. Someone needed to make a move and I decided it better be me. Gay hadn’t had a wink of sleep and my step mother was stunned. “Maddy, I know this is so hard right now but I need to get into Dad’s files and get out his burial policy. Could you please show me where I should start looking?” She got me by the hand, walked me in their little home office, and opened a drawer full of well organized files. A few moments later I pulled out a brown folder clearly labeled “Burial.” Not only was his policy right there for easy access, he’d written fourteen implicit instructions for his funeral. (Yes, they were numbered. I have nearly all of them memorized in order at this point.) Some of them were so “him” – so completely HIM – like how to cut corners on the spending (Lord have mercy, he was cheap) that Gay and I lapsed into a pool of hysteria. We laughed until we cried and the writer of Proverbs was right. It was good medicine. Soon, all of my brothers and sisters, all the grandkids, nephews, and nieces, converged on Houston, Texas. And every time they asked me a question about “how” we should do “what,” I got to say, “Number 6 – or number 9, or number 12 out of 14 – states clearly that…”

Major Dad was gone. But his list was still with us. Number 14 provided the perfect wrap up: “It is my hope there will be more laughter than tears.” How perfect that God would use the man himself to provide so much of it. With great affection and respect, I’d like to suggest that my Dad was never funnier than when he didn’t mean to be. Ask any of us. He was a handful.

My Dad poured out the last many years of his life to feed the homeless. He was a constant fixture at the area grocery stores where he gathered day-old perishables to take to shelters. I have no idea how many day-old pastries all of us who loved him have eaten with him. Mary, Dad’s pastor’s secretary, told me that Dad was personally responsible for the ten extra pounds on her hips. You see, as if the donuts were not fattening enough, since they tended to be a bit stale, the staff would cut them in half, toast them and butter them in order to make them taste good enough to eat.

Though I trust God has a provision, I don’t know exactly what those homeless shelters will do without Major Dad. I’m not sure you can get that level of dedication and service out of a person who hasn’t served in a couple of wars and who never learned the word “quit.” He’d taken a bullet in the face, for crying out loud. Nobody but nobody was going to get between him and Kroger day-olds. If Dad could have his last wish, nobody would ever be homeless. Nobody would ever go hungry. Major Albert B. Green is Home now. Home in a zip code anybody can share. “On this mountain the Lord Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples, a banquet of aged wine – the best of meats and the finest of wines. On this mountain He will destroy the shroud that enfolds all people, the sheet that covers all nations; He will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces; He will remove the disgrace of His people from all the earth. The Lord has spoken.” (Isaiah 25:6-8)