A Summer Trip.......

One year (2007, 2008?) Charles and I drove down to California, spent a week with my parents, and then drove them up to Montana to stay with us for a few weeks.  We took a long, meandering route...down to Southern California so Mom could visit with her Mom, and then up through Utah, stopping so we could visit some of Mom's family there too.

Once in Idaho, we began seeing signs for "Yellowstone Bear World"...and Mom started getting interested.

"Do you think they have lots of bears there?" she asked.

"Probably why it's named Bear World, Eileen," I remember my Dad's dry response.

"Have you been, Beth?"

"Nope."

"Even with all the drives you two have made down to see us? You've never stopped?"

"Nope."

"We should go.  We really should."

Charles and I looked at each other, he smiled and shrugged.  Knowing Dad had always wanted to see a Grizzly bear, and that Mom loved every and any kind of "tourist trap"....isn't that what road trips are for?

So we stopped outside of Rexburg, Idaho and paid the admission to drive through the park.  All sorts of northern Rocky Mountain wildlife was there...bison, elk, deer....and lots of bears.

One sitting near the road, on his "bum" almost waving at us.

Now...everywhere there were signs, "Keep your windows rolled up. Do not attempt to feed or pet the bears."

So what does Mom do?

Roll down the window, of course.  So she could take a better picture!

"Roll up that window, Eileen! Can't you see those signs?" My Dad said.

"Of course I see them.  I'm not blind.  But I need to take this photo, look how cute he is!  Charles, can you stop the car?"

Signs were also posted...."No stopping your vehicle."

Charles said, with a touch of regret, "Sorry Mom...."

"Oh fine. Just drive slow then. Very slow."

She got her pictures, with Dad and I fussing at her, and Charles laughing.

"I swear, Beth....at least your husband understands. You and your father just don't get it.  Pictures help save memories....they're important. And I'm your Mother..so stop scolding me...it's my job to scold you."

We stopped at the parking lot and went into the petting area...where Mom and I were harassed by goats that wanted to be fed and a peacock that wanted to take the buttons off her sandals.  We bough huckleberry candy and jam in the gift store, and posed for a picture with the bear statue out front...with Charles snapping the shot.

It was a good day, of a good trip.

it really comes down to every thing we say and each time we interact with people, we either glorify God or dismiss Him.

Kinda a hard day for me...actually, a really hard day. Pentecost Sunday was one of my Mom's favorite holidays, and I've been missing her acutely today.

I keep thinking back to a conversation we had a few years back on the nature of being God's messenger in such a hard, conflicted world. (Yes, we talked about stuff like that often.) After discussing and reflecting Mom said, "You know Beth, it really comes down to every thing we say and each time we interact with people, we either glorify God or dismiss Him."

So true, Mom, so true. Each interaction, be it verbal, written on facebook or another medium, in action or whatever....either magnifies and draws people to God, or we, in our hearts, dismiss God to please ourselves or others before Him.

What have your interactions, postings and words said in the last 24 hours?

Thanks for still keeping me on track, Mom.....

--Beth

Mom...what comes around....goes around. (The invasion of the frogs)

Growing up in an area that experiences regular droughts, the city I lived in did everything they could to gather as much rain water as possible. Parks were built all over town that were nothing more than big water basins...grassy most of the time, but when a rain would fall, they would fill and let the precious resource drain back into the ground.

Such a park was built only around the block from my home.  And in it was a fenced off drainage area that had turned into a marsh...where there were toads and frogs.  Lots and lots of them.  (While I'm the sort of girl who hates spiders and is squeamish around snakes, frogs are a different matter altogether...frogs and toads are cool.)

I was in the first year of Jr. High (7th grade) when during a late summer rainy day (rather rare for there) a friend and I decided we were going to catch some of those frogs.  Not to hurt them...but to bring some to my parents yard.... so we took a big bucket my Dad had, and went to the park.  We had discovered a loose segment of fencing some weeks back, and we shimmied under it...getting rather muddy.  Then, standing in marsh (and never having the reasonable wonder if there were snakes in said marsh) we caught baby frogs. (Or maybe they were toads...I couldn't tell the difference, and still can't generally.)  The little froggies and toads were tiny, about a digit of one's pinkie finger in length...and there were LOTS.  As we splashed all about the marsh, catching frogs by the dozens and dozens, with the rain softly falling upon us, we got muddier...and muddier....and muddier.

When we had caught all we wanted, we went back out and headed the short walk to my home...sure that Mom, an avid gardener, was going to be *thrilled* with all the frogs for her garden!  Imagine all the bad bugs they'd eat!  She was going to love it!

She met us on the walk-way coming up to the house....not looking pleased.

It wasn't the frogs that phased her...those were fine.

It was the fact that we thought we were going into her new home, covered in mud.  Looking at each other, my friend and I realized just how filthy we had gotten.

We were a mess.  A happy mess, but a mess all the same.

Mom, ever practical, hosed us off in the front yard.  Thankfully, summers are warm there, so the cold water felt nice....but she didn't stop until the water ran clear off of us.

As we dried off...Mom laughed and said, "Well, I suppose I earned this."

We perked up.....

She sighed and told us the following:

When she was a little girl, she and her brother would walk to school past this marshy area each day.  One day....they noticed little frogs.

Now, her brother John, being a young boy instantly said, "We should catch some and take them home!"  Mom....following John in all things (and being a bit of a tomboy) agreed.  On their way home from school, the caught dozens and dozens of little frogs and stuffed them in their metal lunch boxes.  Happily content, they set off towards home.

On the way home....a group of their friends caught up with them and urged them to drop off their stuff at the house and come play. Who can resist such an offer?

My grandmother worked nights then, and my grandfather didn't get home until seven.....Mom's Scottish grandfather lived with the family and looked after the children until their father got home.  The daily routine was to place the lunchboxes on the counter, and when my grandmother got home in the wee, dark hours of the night, she'd make the lunches and head to bed.

So my Mom and her older brother put their lunchboxes on the counter, dropped their book bags, told their grandfather they were going out to play and zoom- they were off!  They played tag and kickball and didn't come home until the sunset and they were ravenous for dinner.

They forgot all about the little frogs in those lunch boxes.

Late that night, my grandmother...a very, very, very prim and proper woman who liked things "just so" got home.  Into the still, quiet kitchen she walked.  She got out the makings for a sandwich for her for a late supper, and to make lunches with for the children.....and then ....

The house awoke to screaming.  And cursing....which was very rare, my Mother told me, to hear from her Mom at that point in time.  Yelling and cursing and the sound of a chair being yanked across a tile floor.

"AL!  AL you get up right now!  And you get those children up! Right now! AL! John! Eileen! This isn't funny at all!"

My grandfather (Al)...John, Mom and their sleepy grandfather (Andrew) all rushed into the kitchen.  There, on a chair, in the middle of the room, stood my grandmother, flushed, scared and angry.  All around...on counters, on the floor, hopping, hopping, hopping were little frogs. Everywhere.

No one got much sleep that night.  Frogs had to be caught and put outside.  Baby frogs are fast and hide easily...it took all night.

My grandmother looked at my uncle and my Mom and said, "Don't you ever....ever...ever...even think of doing something like this again!"

When Mom finished telling us the story, she was wiping tears from her eyes from laughing. (And no one had a laugh like my Mom's.)

"So Beth," she said, "I guess I can't really blame you at all.  Now let's go put these frogs in the garden."

Mom and the Blackberry Pie

Mom and the Blackberry Pie

One year my cousin David had to be away from his home for much of a month in the summer, and he offered his house to my parents for a vacation. Now, as his abode was right near the beach in Crescent City, CA....they kindly took him up on his graciousness.

So we packed into the car...Dad driving, Mom starting out in the passenger seat, my older brother Scott and I in the back seat with the two dogs, Gus the dachshund and Calen, my little mutt. After 45 minutes, as Mom was drifting off (as she always, always did on road trips) Dad pulled over and woke her up.

"Change places with Beth, Eileen," he said. "You're snoring already and I need a co-pilot."

My brother Scott, who had also already fallen asleep, challenged this, saying he should get the front...but Dad told him "No one who sleeps in the car sits in the front. Deal with it. I'm not going to hear whining and moaning for the next ten hours over this crap."

We got underway again. My job on road trips was to change the channels, hand Dad his coke and entertain him with talking. He has trained me for this job since I was two....and now my husband Charles reaps the benefit of having a wide-awake passenger who likes to tell stories, prepare sandwiches on the go, and hand over drinks. I don't think Charles appreciates my "the radio is mine" attitude...but really, a co-pilot has to have some advantages, right?

We finally reached Crescent City...tucked at the top of the coastline of California, found the house, unloaded the car and called it a night.

The next day...Mom got up early. And spied from the front porch a vacant lot filled with berry bushes. Blackberry bushes. Full of fruit.

Her excitement was such that she got me up at six in the morning.

Now....she had slept almost the whole ride up the day before. I had not. I did not think getting up at dawn was a great way to spend the first morning on vacation.

What I thought...didn't matter.

By 6:30 we had found buckets and were heading towards the berry bushes.

We picked berries forever. It might have gone faster if I hadn't been eating so many. (It's not like she gave me a chance to make breakfast!)

We trudged back up the hill (everything in Crescent City is on a hill)....and that afternoon, Mom made a pie.

While she was a good cook, and made wonderful cookies and breads...my mom wasn't that familiar with pies. She was a little intimidated by them at that point in time....after all, Dad's Mom and his sister made the pies at family get-togethers, and everyone always raved about those pies.

But what was she to do with two bucketfuls of berries....that demanded one make a pie, right?

She picked the prettiest berries, and made the pie crust. (She made a wonderful pie crust.) I took extra berries and put them in containers with sugar to have berries and cream the following day and she looked at me and said, "Why on earth are you sugaring those berries? They're sweet enough!"

I started to differ,and then she sent me out to talk with my Dad.

Later that night...the most beautiful pie I have ever seen appeared. It was tall, with a gorgeous crust and plump whole berries glistening under the lattice cut topping.

She set the pie down on the table reverently, and cut us each a piece...setting it before us as if each perfect berry was a gem. It smelled heavenly, our mouths watered.

My Dad and I each took a bite and looked at each other....

I couldn't swallow.....

My brother, who is challenged and says whatever comes to mind, spit his bite into the napkin and said, "This shit is sour!"

Mom's face was crestfallen. Dad and I managed to swallow our bites.

"It's not bad at all, honey, "Dad said. "A little on the tart side, but lots of flavor."

He looked at me with stern eyes.

"It's great Mom, really," as I took another bite....my taste buds screaming horrible things to me.

Mom smiled at us and frowned at Scott. "Really Scott, if your father and your sister like it, there's nothing wrong with it! After all, I put *one whole cup of sugar for the three cups of berries...and they were already sweet!*"

Then she took a bite. We watched her face contort....her eyes water. She struggled but did finally swallow the pie.

She sighed. "You're right Scott....this ...pie...is sour. Beth, let's have those berries in cream you were making earlier. And next time...warn me to put more sugar in."

We laughed about that pie for 20 years. Which makes it...in the end, the best pie I've ever had.

One of the stories about Mom...and yard sales

Mom Memory of the Day:

My Mother loved few activities more than going to garage sales.  Many the Saturday morning was spent rousting me (often grumbling) out of bed and hurrying us to the car to meet up with one of my Mom's best friends, Paula.

 Hours would be spent in the pursuit of good bargains that someone was overlooking, with Mom or Paula driving like a mad woman and doing u-turns in the middle of the street if we passed a sale by accident somehow.

"Look Paula, look," I can hear in my memory, "We missed one, turn around, turn around!"

Wheels screeching as I grabbed the "please God- don't let me die" handle in the backseat.

Mom would look back, "Don't tell your father about that turn."

Sometimes we found good deals, sometimes...not so much. But there was always much laughter, frolic, fun and scary driving.

One Saturday...we're driving on Cartmill in Visalia (a town I spent my younger years in before we moved to Tulare)....when Mom's eagle eyes spot someone setting items out on the lawn.

"Yard Sale, yard sale!" came the alert.

Paula whipped the car around and pulled up to the curb, and two women hurried from the car in excitement.  I was slower getting out...something wasn't right....

"Oh Eileen, look at this lamp! You NEED this lamp for the hall table!"

"Paula, look!  An elephant, do you have one like this?  It's a candy dish!"

A man in sweat shorts and a t-shirt comes out of the garage with a baffled look...

"Umm...ladies...." he tried to begin.

"How much for this?!" They both chirped, holding up finds.

I had a sinking feeling...

"Look gals, I'm not having a yard sale, I'm just trying to clean my garage!"

Mom and Paula looked at each other. This was a new one on them.

A moment of quizzical silence....  Other cars were slowing down and beginning to park. More bargain hunters were on the way.

Mom asked, "Do you want to sell any of it?"

The man just looked at them as if they were crazy (and they were)...when his wife walked outside.

"$5 bucks for the lamp, $3 for the elephant!" she announced.

"SOLD!" said two happy women in unison.  I sighed.

We left that "garage sale" with four bags of "finds".....and a great story.

-Beth Haynes Butler​

Sunday is Pentecost...one of my Mom's favorite Church holidays.  The day of the Holy Spirit being recieved..and one of the songs often sung is "I will go Lord, where you lead me..."....referencing the going out into the world to spread the Good News.

I remember a year or two talking with Mom who was lamenting, "I never *went* anywhere far out for God, to any other land...I wish I could have been more of a missionary."

Ahh...Mom....you didn't realize it perhaps, but God was using you powerfully right where He placed you.  My whole life, it seems, you were teaching Sunday school classes and making costumes for pagents. You were reaching out to the shy kids, the hurt kids...the vulnerable ones and bringing them into an inclusive circle.

I remember you weeping when, at the church of my youth, one of your Sunday school children, fresh from Laos, told you she had never had an ice cream sundae...and that maybe one day when she was old she'd be able to.  You went, broke as you and Dad were at the time, and bought all the fixings and ice cream (though Thrifty's did give a discount if I remember right) so you could hold an ice cream sundae party for your class, and any other of the Sunday school kids who showed up.....you and Dad dipped ice cream forever, it seemed...and I know you had roped me into doing the toppings counter.  I remember that little girl, smeared ice cream and chocolate sauce on her face, hugging you and calling you an "angel lady."

Or Mom...what about when you would track down families that were having a hard time, and put together Christmas boxes of dinner items and wrapped toys for the children...(and always putting in a small item each for the parents because "everyone should have something to open at Christmas, Beth.")....and having Dad and I deliver those boxes late at night.

Or when you'd take me, when very young, to volunteer at Soup Kitchens...so that I learned what service in action was.

Or how you started the clothing closet, and job closet at your church, and the food pantry, and worked at the youth events, and was active in the women's ministry...and how you always, always, always looked for anyone who was lonely or looked uncomfortable so that you could say some warm words to them.

Mom....I'd say you did great just where God put you. I have gotten so many messages from people who told me of what I already knew...of your love, your kindness, your light...your faith.  You happily acted as the hands and feet of God right where you were....

You were a missionary all along.

Thanks for showing me...all my life...what faith is and how to live it.

Beth Haynes Butler​

Look...another rock.

This makes me think of my Mom...(sorry guys, for the next...however long, I'll probably be telling a lot of stories and memories)....

We went up to the state forest, and Mom wanted rocks for her yard. (I was a child, and I have no idea whether we could take rocks from state land...so don't chide me and ruin my memory)...

We...my Mom, my Dad, my brother Scott (who is challenged) and I spent all morning huffing and puffing picking up these huge rocks. (Seemed huge to me.)

In recollection, we're really blessed there were no rattlesnakes under any of them.....

One of the rocks, which took three people to load, was finally in...when my brother looked at my Mom and said, "I don't EVER want to hear, Look-Another-Rock! as long as I live. I hate damn rocks."

And we all laughed and laughed (and Dad and I secretly agreed with him.)

But for years....when Mom and I would be out, she'd look for boulders...impossibly large to move, and say, "hey look, another rock!"

Wild Horses

We, Charles and I, were very blessed to be able to share trips and vacations with my parents. One such trip, my folks and my Aunt Sue came out to Montana to stay with us near Red Lodge. They wanted to see the Custer's Last Stand site and all of that....so Aunt Sue, Mom, Dad and I headed out one hot, dusty August day...(Charles stayed at home working on a paper for his Masters.)

After touring the site, the museum and the military cemetery...we had a picniclunch and Mom and Aunt Sue started talking about how someone (drat that someone) had told them about the wild horses of the region.

Did I know where these wild horses ran?

No.

(And it was getting very hot, and Dad and I wanted to head home....an hour's drive away.)

Could I find out where the wild horses were?

I couldn't hardly ever tell my Mom no...so I headed into the local post office to ask..and was shown small roads leading into a high plateau where I was assured that *sometimes* the horses could be seen.

Armed with this dubious information....we headed out. Only to find the "road" we were traveling on was a small, pitted dirt road headed through an almost uninhabited region of the huge reservation and state land. (One ran into the other.) My aunt, very protective of her car...didn't want to drive fast. 15 mph was a good speed...I looked at the directions...we weren't getting home anytime soon.

I checked the cell to call Charles to tell him of this "adventure." No signal. Great.

About an hour of slow driving in...a rain storm hit....a deluge of water, turning everything to mud. We had to slow down even further....but, with Montana weather, it was sunny again in 15 minutes.

Finally...finally we saw some horses up on a hill.

Now...I noticed that there was a fence...and the horses seemed pretty used to people...but Mom and Aunt Sue were ecstatic.

Wild Horses!

Get out of the car and go look closer...oh they must be wild horses!

On a high Montana plateau outside of the Beartooth Mountains. How exciting.

Take pictures...lots of pictures!

I leaned over to Dad and said quietly..."I think they're just tame horses. Probably for that ranch we passed a while ago"

"Not today," Dad replied. "Not today. Today...they're are the wildest horses in Montana."

cattails

Mom used to do flower arrangements for the church of my youth, and later the church they joined, from time to time. (And another time, I'll tell you about picking Black Eyed Susans for just such an arrangement)....

But for this late summer church arrangement...Mom had decided she wanted a "woodsy feel".... "I just think we should focus on the natural world this week, Beth....so I'm going to look for wild pieces to use."

I sighed.  That meant she was going to get me into some trouble or another...

The trouble turned out to be...cattails.  You know, those long stalks that end in the brown tube, that grow in marshy areas....like canal banks.  Guess who got to go into said marshy area and cut a dozen cattail stalks?

It wasn't Mom...SHE had new sandals.

Who knows what bugs and snakes were in that grassy wetland. Ugh.

So I cut the cattails, I hand them to Mom, Mom puts them in the trunk, and we head off for errands. Getting this, getting that...stopping for frozen yogurt. (That was something Mom and I loved to do together)....then heading home towards Tulare along the quiet back roads.

It's dark-ish now....and hot. It is, after all, August in the Central Valley.  Hot...kinda humid. (I had NO clue what humid was until I moved out to the Midwest.)

Then, as we're passing a foreclosed house....the only one for miles (we're in the greenbelt/ag area)....we hear...

"POP. POP. POP."

We look at each other in shock.

Mom exclaims, "Someone's shooting at us!!" And starts taking evasive manuervers...like she's some specially trained police officer or something...

"POP...POP..POP...POP..POP..."

"Keep your head down Beth, I'll get us home, honey! Some damn drunk farmer is probably the shooter.."

More evasive driving...I'm getting alarmed, we're almost to the overpass by the old Tagus Ranch..I really don't want her to take an evasive drive over the edge....

"POP...POP...POP...POP..."

then...silence.

"Oh thank the good Lord, honey, we got away. Wait until your father hears about this!"

We drive the last few miles...Mom with an angry glint in her eye...me shaky from Mom's driving and whatever that sound was....

As we got home, and got our shopping out of the backseat, Mom said, "Oh yeah, let's get the cattails..I'll soak them in water tonight..."

And we opened the trunk...to a world of fluff.

Cattails explode in the heat, ladies and gentlemen. And make an unholy mess when they do.

In silence we looked at each other.  Then Mom sighed...turned to me and said, "Don't tell your father."

Something my Mother told me once: Somewhere there is someone smarter than you. Somewhere there is someone more creative than you. Somewhere there is someone in more pain than you. Remain humble. Remain grateful. And remember ...no child has ever been more loved than you."

Thanks Mom....for all the lessons....and all the love.

Somebody wrote me that what is happening with my parents and their health, "isn't fair...you're all believers after all."

While I was touched by their caring, what is happening has nothing to do with being fair...or not.

It is simply life.

Death comes to us all. As does illness, and suffering, trials and storms. It is the nature of life; we live in a broken, fallen world, with broken fallen people.  Some things happen just because (people get sick...be it a genetic issue, environmental issue, or a simple virus that is picked up that almost kills them....had that happen to me as a child with a double staph infection).....and some storms and hardships come because as broken people, we're hard on each other, and we hurt each other. Sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose.

But it is all simply part of life.

Cancer can strike the nice...and the cruel.  Strokes can hit the kind woman who runs the clothing and food pantry at church....or the career focused business person.  Such things come to the believer, and non believer alike.

The difference is that those who have faith, have God to comfort and uphold them. They have the promises that there is more than this broken world, and that one day all things shall be set right. And we know that we do not go through our suffering alone, Jesus is with us, bearing the greater burden of it all.

I don't worship God because I expect Him to solve all of life's issues with miracles, or to make my life easy just because I believe.  He's not my servant, I'm His.  He does, at times, give miracles, I've seen them, I've had them....and sometimes He says "no" to a fervent prayer...because He is looking at the eternal scope of things, not the immediate.

And that is when we simply trust God's will....because we don't know all things, nor see them in the proper perspective.

My perspective right now is laced with grief and gratitude as I wait upon the Lord.

Yet one thing I know...most especially now:

I am blessed.

I was raised by two wonderful parents; I'm their only child together and the child of their older years.  I have been beloved and cherished and doted upon all my life. They have always been two of my best friends. They taught me my faith, my love of books, music and ideas, the enjoyment of nature and of cooking, to love and treasure animals, and the fun of a good baseball game.  They taught me what loyalty and friendship meant by how they interacted with other people, and how to be gentle with the vulnerable, young and elderly. They taught me that with even limited finances, you can be a blessing to the needy...that faith involves more than just words, but rather it is love in action. They taught me that friendship has no color or cultural barriers, and that people are to be measured by the content of their hearts.

I am blessed.

Even as Mom goes further and further into the waiting hands of God, I am blessed.

Even as my Dad, who just had a pacemaker operation and who has non-treatable cancer, is in the hospital, and we are awaiting news, I am blessed.

And my parents are blessed, because God knows them and has inscribed their names upon His palms and has secured them through the great love and sacrifice of Christ on the Cross.

When God does call them home at whatever times He has ordained, to the King's Country across that far, shining river, my consolation shall be this; that I was blessed to have them, to be raised by them and loved by them...and that I shall see them once again.

And that is a promise, an assurance, I can cling to.

In my prayers these last days, talking with God over my fears and my pain and how hard it is to be on the brink of losing  parent, a thought occurred to me:

That in even this, Jesus knows my suffering, for He went through it as well.

He lost Joseph, after all.

The man deemed worthy by God the Father to raise His Son  Jesus.  Joseph, who we must imagine, taught Jesus so much...and who loved Him and watched over Him.  We don't know how or when Joseph died...but I can only believe that it must have been a great sorrow for Jesus.  Remember, Jesus wept over Lazarus, even knowing He was going to raise him....how much more He must have wept over the loss of his adopted father.  And how He must have sought to comfort Mary, who had lost a beloved husband.  That home echoed with grief, even as ours has.

It eased my soul a bit to know that even in this, I am not walking a road that my Lord didn't trod before me.  He has been through this, and thus, will lead me through it as well; gently and tenderly, safe to the other side.

And it is with the trust in my Shepherd, that even in the stormy valleys of life I say, Blessed be the name of the Lord, my rock and my salvation.


-Beth Haynes Butler​

Much of the last ten...15 years, we've dealt, as a family, with my parents both battling cancer...and now Mom's stroke.

But because health was precarious, both of my parents have told me many stories...and Mom did in particular. So many of them, I've written down. I am so grateful for that now.

I am also...deeply, profoundly grateful that only two or so weeks ago Mom told me that outside of "Jesus first, then your father, you're my best friend, Beth." That means so much now....

In all things:

In rejoicing...and in sorrow,

In plenty...and in need,

In joy....and in pain,

In knowledge...and in questions,

In peace....and in heartbreak,

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

He is our rock and our salvation, worthy is He to be praised.

Soft, humid spring air rolls in....
as I soak in the quiet,
wrestling
--not as Jacob by the ladder did, with God--
but with possibilities and memories
and laden thoughts.
Wondering, pausing,
searching recollections
for shadowings of what might...could have been...
With melancholy ceaseless as a tide-
urging, pulling, whispering -
and hope laced with trust as an anchor--
binding, keeping me held fast.
And maybe I think...
through breathe salted by tears,
just maybe I am wrestling
by the ladder after all.

-Beth Haynes Butler

IF you are a Christian, we are told not to lie. Sharing political posts which purposely distort/change actual quotes (or cut off a speech or quote before it is finished, thus leaving an inflammatory statement in place) is to take part in telling a falsehood...a lie. And the Bible says don't do it.

I don't care if you don't like someone's politics. Either share honest posts about an issue, with full and honest quotes, or don't share anything at all....to do otherwise is to shame your faith and mislead people.

This is why politics, so very often, is evil...because even normally rational and faithful people sometimes engage in such behavior (too often in our country)....and by doing so they, they're NOT doing the work of God.

The Bible never says we (as Christians) are to be known by our condemnation and hatred; but rather, by our love. So, what are you known by?

"I don't care how you sit with the great, but rather with the broken."  We've all seen that meme, haven't we?  Or something worded to that effect?

And....I tend to agree with that sentiment. How one acts with the popular crowd, or one's friends isn't nearly as big a deal to me as how one interacts with the vulnerable, outcast and broken.

But, for Christians, there is another group that is weighing on my heart......how we sit and treat *each other.*  We can be so harsh on other believers, and put so many restrictions, rules and standards on them that it is almost as if we are Pharisees chiding Jesus for how His Disciples behaved.

We nit pick about prayers, music styles, worship buildings, outfits of the clergy and choir....it is like watching chickens attack a wounded bird.....they keep going till the hurt chicken is dead.  So many people of faith will keep attacking someone whose faith is not quite kosher (in their view) until that person's faith is dead and null.

Now...I'm not talking about addressing heretical teachings, or even gently bringing a Christian who has fallen away in faith back into the fold.....(and if those two just mentioned aren't done in love, respect and gentleness...they'll backfire anyway)....but rather, I'm addressing the general, day to day "every man" kind of believer.

It goes beyond squabbling about prayers and music, style of worship and clergy titles.....lately, these last months, I have seen so many Christians saying that you have to agree with them on all points of politics to be a believer. Or you have to endorse their social justice cause to be a real believer and have a real ministry. Or you have to adopt their restrictions and qualifications to be considered a "true disciple."

Balderdash. Hogwash. Codswallop.

You know what you have to do to be a follower of Jesus Christ?  Believe in Him, repent of your sins, and love, trust and follow Him as closely as you can.

You know what you need to do to have a ministry?  Be a follower of Christ...because we ALL have a ministry, whether we realize it or not. We are ALL missionaries that either bring people closer to Christ or push them further away.  We ALL have the ability to show God's love to others and share the Good News...and we're ALL commanded, via the Great Commission, to do just that.

So no one else has the right to tell you that unless you adopt their special program, idea, cause, etc...that you're not doing what God calls you to do. That your faith isn't as genuine as theirs. That you can't do a ministry unless you conform to their statements.  If you are reaching out to others in love, sharing the Good News and loving God and your neighbor as best you can....you are in a ministry.

If you want to be effective for God....then use the lessons and life He has given you to reach out to others. Because....He doesn't give us all the same talents, gifts or life stories....we're each made as special, distinct and beloved individuals...and we're each given our own ministry to do.  I know former homeless people who now lead homeless ministries...and former addicts who are helping those held captive to struggle free.  I know single moms who lead Bible studies, reaching out to hurt and wounded women; I know a formerly abused women who runs a shelter for those escaping domestic violence. There are Veterans helping other Vets deal with PTSD and returning to civilian life...and former gang members who go back into those war zones to help pull kids out.  There are housewives who reach out to other women, helping to form family bonds in an often lonely age....and businessmen who run prayer groups weekly.

We're not all called to be missionaries to the Middle East or Asia....but we're all called to work where God calls us to be.  For many of us, most of us, that will be in our communities, in our homes, and even through social media.

We need to stop trying to tell people that God will only use them if we approve of their gifts, passions and causes.....and start celebrating the differing gifts amongst us all.

The Bible says we all make up the Body of the Church (1 Corinthians 12)...and just as a hand doesn't do the same work as a foot, nor an eye the work of an ear...so we are all called to differing ministries.  I have a friend who is a great exhorter of the Word, and that is very different that another friend who is called to be a great encourager.  I have many friends who are great teachers, and some who are called to show great mercy.  We each have our work.  And just because your work may be rooted in a social cause, do not put down another whose work is in the realm of the scholarly. Because your work may be in the inner city, do not chastise those God has called to work in the rural fields.

You and I do not call anyone to their work for the Lord.....the Lord does.  He knows how He has outfitted them, He knows His purpose for them and He sends them.

Just as a person who hurts themselves purposely is working at odds with their own health (both physical, mental and spiritually)...when the Body of Christ has members that seek to needlessly criticize, wound and maim other believers, the work of the Church is hampered and hindered.

It would be well if more Christians sought to remember what Jesus said concerning how the world would know we are His Disciples...." A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; as I have loved you, that you also love one another.  By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)

"They'll know you are My disciples if you have love for one another."  That pretty much sums it up.  Let's stop pecking at one another, putting each other down and finding fault needlessly...and start lifting each other up in prayer, love and fellowship.  Let's be known for our love.

In the name of Him who loved us first, let's show His love to the world...and to each other.

-Beth Haynes Butler​

This life is hard. People suffer....for a number of reasons and in a number of ways. We're all broken, we're all vulnerable, we all hurt at some time..and often much of the time.

Which is why it is so crucial to be kind. To love. To care. To reach out to others....for everyone you meet, everyone you've ever met...had a story, has sorrow, has pain, has joys and has lessons to impart. Listen, care, learn.

But don't pick up the unnecessary baggage.  You don't need to carry someone else's guilt and issues unless you want to. You don't have to carry around someone else's judgment of you. Put that crap down.  How can you heal...and how can you help others, if you're so immersed in the mire that you can't escape?

You want to help others? Love them.  Pray for them. Help as you can. Be there as a friend.  You want to change the world?  Love people.

But do so by living not only a life of love, but of purpose and joy. Don't swallow the poison of "you should have, could have, would haves".....walk away from that garbage. God gives us a purpose of love and outreach, embrace that, it is far more freeing and uplifting.

-Beth Haynes Butler​