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Wisdom From the Gym

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The happy pill I take each day is at my local gym. The older I get, the less I can do without it. Thanks to Bill Phillips and his warm personality and inspiring videos I picked up my first pair of 5 lb. weights about seven years ago. As silly as I felt, as out of place and wimpy with all those burly manly types around me heaving 80lbs and grunting like cavemen, I was hooked. There is absolutely nothing like the sheer joy of a million giddy endorphins frolicking through the body.

Now for those of you who snub all those diets and the three thousand aerobic options at your local gym, let me commiserate with you for a moment. First, diets stink; they make me feel starved and nervous. Second, most aerobic classes are an hour long, and who has an hour? Yes and those gym people do seem a little bit consumed with their work-outs, don’t they? Two hours nightly? Are you kidding me?

But weights aren’t like diets or long aerobic workouts. What nobody ever mentioned to me before I (virtually) met the Bill man, was how lifting up heavy chunks of metal for very short periods of time not only turned my body into a machine that needed more food—a nice problem to have—but that it would also give me a sweet and natural buzz. Thirty minutes of lifting and I’m tingly all over.

The reason I bring all this up is because my weight training has recently been of great service to my emotional maturity. As with most of us, I have a few people in my life who drive me crazy. I do not choose to orbit their sphere, but somehow, into every life, a little group of these people must fall. I call them joy vacuums; mostly because they seem to suck up all the joy like a Hoover on dirt.

And so it was that someone whose name isn’t Jane entered my life. Maybe she was abused as kid, maybe she was bitter. Whatever it was, she had enough unacknowledged pain to drive dysfunction through the most secure of relationships. Jane could twist up the best situation with just a few words.

Well, after one particularly intense Jane encounter I was frustrated and muttering my way to the gym when something fantastic hit me. I had donned the robes and picked up a gavel and was passing judgment on Jane right there in my car when suddenly the word dumbbell began ringing in my head. It actually entered trapped in a sentence. Jane is a dumbbell… Jane is a dumbbell… a huge grin stretched over my face.

Now before you think I’m mean, let me connect the dots. As a student of the teachings of Jesus, I know that the practice of love is my destiny. Love, simply put, is bestowing tangible acts of favor. Jesus taught that to feel and honor God we’d have to bestow favor on everyone—especially the Janes of the world, and as hard as this could be, He promised it would grow us up and make us emotionally mature.

What I also was very aware of was that bestowing favor on mean people is a slow-grow kind of learned behavior that I’ve never been too good at. If unconditionally loving people who loved me was at the bottom of the chart, and loving people who were crucifying me and my family were at the top—see Matthew 5:38-43—then I pretty much maxed out near the bottom somewhere.

So here it is. Dumbbell is the endearing term used for heavy metal objects one hoists at the gym to build muscle. Dumbbells (thank you gravity) create resistance that when pushed and pulled against, builds strength. Jane was my emotional dumbbell. She created resistance that would enable me to build muscle, the love muscle. If I stayed focused and repeatedly bestowed favor while she resisted, then just like my biceps, my heart was going to grow strong and mature. I actually needed her. Rightly “used,” she would make me buff enough to love like Jesus.

I grinned all the way to the gym that day. Yes, and now when I run into somebody who is up there on the “who to love anyway” chart of Jesus Christ, I flex and grunt like the best of my manly gym friends. Bring it on!

Clarissa Worley Sproul writes from the Pacific Northwest.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Christmas In My Closet

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The other evening I started looking for my leftover holiday wrapping papers. I moved luggage, shoes and long-forgotten odds and ends in my closet. I actually had to remove my childhood baby doll carriage from its retirement spot in order to reach the corner of the closet. As I wheeled it out, I noticed a small tear in the top of the carriage. I felt sad for my old toy and patched it up with tape. Along with a couple of salvaged dolls inside, these are a few remnants of my childhood. They used to be my constant companions. I parted with the doll playpen and a little metal bed the last time we moved. Yet the carriage and the old babies are there to greet me every time I open the closet.

Suddenly I became melancholy. Doing some quick math, I realized that the carriage is 50 years old this Christmas! I was flushed with memories as I recalled that Christmas when my suspicions about the Santa Claus myth were affirmed. My dear father, in his haste to take some large presents upstairs a few days before Christmas, asked me to carry the box that held my carriage. Evidently he did not understand how much I was able to read in the second grade or he was too tired to care. As I followed him up the stairs, it seemed that all the glitter and mystery of Christmas shattered like a fallen glass ornament. I wanted to believe that there was a Santa yet somehow I knew it was all just for fun. It was time to start growing up. Even so my brother and I continued to place cookies and milk out for Santa on Christmas Eve for many years.

Earlier last week, I experienced several days of missing my mother — her voice, her baking and little gifts. Six years have passed since she died, six years since my brother had Christmas with us, and about 10 years since my whole family — grandparents, my brother and our children celebrated together. I rarely consider what present I would buy for Mom anymore. A woman friend and I each acknowledged that Christmas can be sadly nostalgic as we miss family members. Last year she lost a mother and this year her father is ill. Another friend will probably lose her father this winter. That can change Christmas and create a bittersweet mood.

Christmas is a time of great and broken expectations. A multitude of memories are wrapped with all the songs, parties, cards, shopping, decorations, and food. Such holidays mark periods of our lives — who we were with, beginnings for babies, divorces, endings for senior family members. Even if we try to avoid the commercialization of holidays, loss can creep into the season and steal away the sparkle. Sadness and depression can darken our days inviting us to believe that this world is cold and we are alone. Yet even in our losses, there is a promise of restoration, reunion and rejoicing if we know Jesus Christ.

I have been reading 1 John this week. In the middle of the first chapter is the reminder, “God is light, pure light; there’s not a trace of darkness in him,” MSG. How bleak and empty this place would be without my Savior — a dark closet of painful memories and imitation babies. He came to bring us light, truth, love, and hope — a clearer picture of our God. And I am promised that after inviting Jesus into my life, I am never alone again — He dwells within me — God with us. There is no other god like Him.

This week I am clinging to a verse in I John 3:20: “For God is greater than our worried hearts and knows more about us than we do ourselves.”

Questions for personal journaling or group discussion:

1. Who or what do you miss this holiday season? Could you mark this person/pet/place with a small ritual such as a special candle, treat, or dedicate a gift in their memory?

2. How could you “take Christmas out of the closet” of melancholy memories and create a new positive experience for someone else?

3. Find some Scriptures that speak to you about Jesus as Light, Truth and Love. Memorize a verse for this holiday season.

Karen Spruill writes from Orlando, Florida.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

I’m Gonna Die

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When I was growing up, my weekends felt boring and ritualistic. Since my dad is a pastor, we went to church, and then my parents spent the better part of the afternoon taking a nap. But that isn’t what I wanted to do after church. I wanted to explore in God’s beautiful world with my friends, not entertain myself while my parents slept. One weekend after the service ended, my best friend, Cody, said, “Want to come hiking with my family this afternoon?”

Yes! Finally I would escape the boredom I knew awaited me if I went home. This was my opportunity to explore and have the adventure I had been waiting for. I happily accepted Cody’s invitation, and we all piled into his family’s sedan and drove into the heart of the El Dorado National Forest.

We headed for our favorite hiking trail. We loved it because the hike ended on the top of a peak in the Sierra Nevada mountain range that had a panoramic view of the Sacramento Valley. Its crowning feature was an eight-story waterfall — fueled by a large river — that cascaded over the edge of a cliff and fell onto boulders at the foot of the mountain. It both scared me and drew me in.

Cody’s family had a border collie that they brought along. After we pulled to a stop, he leaped out of the car shivering with energy and excitement. I adored him. I had never owned a dog, despite my obsession with them. As we set off on our hike, I followed behind him, watching him explore and sniff at the base of rocks and tree stumps. As we neared the mountain’s summit, the border collie sensed that we were close to the rushing water that fueled the deafening falls, and he ran circles around us, wagging his tail in excitement. He saw the water first and sprinted toward it without hesitation, and I, caring for nothing but the chance to watch him leap in, ran full speed behind him to the water’s edge.

I changed pace to a light jog as the dog slowed down in search for a place to jump into the water. The banks of the river were made up of huge granite boulders covered in slimy green moss. To avoid slipping I played hop scotch, dodging moss-covered areas as I trotted along the riverbank. Suddenly, I heard yelling behind me. My friends were screaming words of warning to me. I whirled around to hear them better. As I turned, I put my foot directly on one of the slimy patches of wet moss. My feet slid out from under me and I fell back onto the slope of the boulder. As I slid down the steep face of the rock I felt a rush of pain. The rough and uneven surface of the boulder scraped against my back and shoulders, tearing my shirt and cutting into my skin making me bleed. I had only a millisecond to comprehend the perilous situation I was in before I plunged into the frigid current and was swept from safety.

Rushing water enveloped me. There were rocks everywhere jutting out of the river and I smashed helplessly against them as the current tossed me against everything in its way. No matter what I did, I couldn’t avoid the rocks. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t call out for help. The current simply carried me away as if I were merely a piece of driftwood. “There’s nothing I can do to save myself,” I thought.

Every time I bobbed above the waterline, I could see that I was drawing closer and closer to the edge of the falls. Though I only had a few tangible thoughts, all of them were cries of fear and desperation. I was sure that I was going to die. Slamming against rocks, the rushing water and other river debris disoriented me and left bruises all over my body. The helpless struggle to stay above the water to avoid obstacles made me feel more exhausted than I had ever been. As the current swept me close to the edge where a watery abyss and certain death awaited me, I smashed into branches from a tree that had fallen and was submerged in the river. The branches entangled my arms and legs, keeping me from going over the falls. I was so exhausted that I couldn’t even pull myself out. All I could do was let the branches hold me safely long enough for my friends to make a human chain to reach me.

Until I get to heaven, I will not know if my guardian angel orchestrated the tree’s location and position. What I do know is this: God had a plan for me, a plan I had not yet discovered. He watches over me everywhere I go and keeps me safe, according to His will.

Jonathan Hager writes from Northern California.

The post I’m Gonna Die appeared first on Answers for Me.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

The Gift of Ciara

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Ciara was our first child, born during the lazy days of summer when hopes were high and dreams weaved themselves into the fabric of our lives. As first-time parents, we folded and refolded tiny rompers and snuggly sleepers, placing them gently in the newly purchased dresser that smelled of pine. A package of newborn diapers sat by the door, waiting. My bag was packed — for one on the trip to the hospital; for two on the trip home. Pacifiers, blankets and a couple of outfits, as I couldn’t decide which one would look the best, lay zipped inside.

My husband Roy and I drove to the hospital early that July morning for a c-section, eager to meet this little person that had grown inside of me for nine months. We took pictures — Quick! Get one of the bassinet — that’s where they will place her when she’s born! Or Here we are — 15 minutes before it all begins! And then — Here we go!

And then she was born. Immediately they whisked her away, her tiny cry echoing through the white-washed walls that kept me company as I was deserted by a crowd of whispering doctors and hustling nurses. Wheeled into recovery, Roy zipped in and out, giving me quick updates that lacked detail and left room for concern. “She’s so tiny,” he said.

“But is she okay?” I asked, begging for reassurance. There was no answer.

A doctor came in, his face somber. Her arm is crooked…she only weighs four pounds…she has trouble breathing and needed to be resuscitated… The list continued and my dreams crashed!

As they rolled me to my room, we stopped at the nursery so that I could see my baby — my baby that I had dreamed for, and prayed for, and longed for. I placed my hand on her chest, touched her, held her in the only way I could — and ached inside.

The next few days crashed together, filled with doctors with long faces and tragic news that seemed to spiral endlessly. We went home, just the two of us with cries of “Why, God?” screaming in our heads. We closed the door to the baby room as it taunted us with the smell of pine and an empty cradle. And we wept.

A few days later I sat in my car at a stop light and looked around me. The girl in the car next to me sang her heart out, unaware of my piercing eyes. The older man in the pickup truck wore a half-smile, his thoughts evidently elsewhere in a place that brimmed with good times and pleasantries. How could it be? My thoughts raged. How could all of these people find happiness while my world caves from despair?

But then I held her. I held this little bundle that was fragile and broken and beautiful and perfect and mine. And I loved her. Instantly, I loved her.

At last we got a diagnosis: Trisomy 18 — an extra 18th chromosome that gave my baby an early death sentence. And so we brought her home and I promised to fill her life, no matter how short, with all good things: birthday parties, Christmas presents, Easter egg hunts, satin shoes, and dresses trimmed in lace. No matter that she would never walk, never hold up her head, never say ‘mommy’: she would know love and compassion and warmth. She would understand security in my arms.

And then we buried her. It was a cold winter day in January that Ciara was laid to rest in the western plains of Oklahoma at the tender age of eighteen months. The wind bitter, I wrapped my coat around me and gazed out into the eastern sky that Ciara’s eyes would greet when Jesus came to take her home.

And now, three healthy kids later, I am so grateful for the gift of  Ciara — so thankful for what she taught me in her short life, and the hope her memory brings. What began as the most devastating, tumultuous time of my life became the defining moment that taught me what it really means to live.

My heart bled sadness that day; yet she left me with new words of compassion to share with those who are burdened with a staggering heart; new eyes to see beauty and worth in those whom others deem unfit; renewed hope in a future that shines brighter than the sun. She left me with the memory of her smile, vibrant and alive.

Vonda Seals writes from Keene, Texas.

The post The Gift of Ciara appeared first on Answers for Me.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Christmas Joy

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In 1967, Charles E. Hummel published a small book entitled, Tyranny of the Urgent.1In it, he asked if we’d ever wished for a 30-hour day. “Surely this extra time would relieve the tremendous pressure under which we live. Our lives leave a trail of unfinished tasks. Unanswered letters, unvisited friends, unwritten articles, and unread books haunt quiet moments when we stop to evaluate. We desperately need relief.”

Hummel goes on to answer his own question. “But would a thirty-hour day really solve the problem? Wouldn’t we soon be just as frustrated as we are now with our twenty-four allotment?”

This Christmas season we’re probably all wishing for more time, more money, and more energy. We worry about things that are nearly out of our control and things that we should have had more control over. Do we have enough presents for each of our children/parents/grandchildren/neighbors/co-workers. How can we make it to the Christmas pageant at church, cook all the food for Christmas dinner, and find time to visit grandmother in the nursing home? And there’s that nagging fear about the credit card bills due to drop in January.

When was the last time you stopped and thought about the miracle of Jesus’ birth? When was the last time you looked at a baby and wondered anew at how God could send his son to a dirty barn to be born to a teen-age girl? When was the last time you looked at a star and thought what a fitting global positioning system that was for the magi?

It doesn’t get much simpler than this: God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life (John 3:16 KJV).

Put down your lists and stop wrapping your presents and share the Christmas story with someone you love. Keep it simple. God did. When the angels appeared to the shepherds on the hills of Galilee, they weren’t given a deep study into the plan of salvation. The angel calmed their fears and told them the good news of a savior who was born nearby, who would bring peace and good will to men. They believed and rushed to see the baby.

I recently heard my son explaining the birth of Jesus to my 4-year-old grandson. The description of the stable was an easy one for Brandon to visualize because they have a chicken coop. Although kept quite clean, no one Brandon knew would want to be born there. He imagined the chickens clucking and wandering with curiosity near that tiny baby and then all the farm boys coming in to visit. The same angels that protect him every night, that surround his bed, were also there singing for the baby.

Where’s your wonder? Have you replaced the feeling of wonder with the tyranny of the urgent? Are you so important and have so many things to do that you don’t have time to refresh your spirit and remember God’s special gift?

“Over the years the greatest continuing struggle in the Christian life is the effort to make adequate time for daily waiting on God, weekly inventory, and monthly planning,” wrote Hummel. “Because this time for receiving marching orders is so important, Satan will do everything he can to squeeze it out. Yet we know from experience that only by this means can we escape the tyranny of the urgent. This is how Jesus succeeded. He did not finish all the urgent tasks in Palestine or all the things He would have liked to do, but He did finish the work which God gave Him to do.”

Dee Litten Whited writes from the U.S. East Coast.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

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