Inspirational – Straight From the Heart

Just Like His Momma Used to Make

Southern melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk biscuits that I made with my own two little hands for breakfast this morning

Ever since we retired seventeen years ago, my husband has taken over the kitchen. I have to make an appointment just thinking about cooking something. And when he hears me stirring around in there, he yells all the way from outside, mowing the grass, “Get out of my kitchen!”

Funny how the roles have changed. And funny ha, ha, that he thinks because he cooks, I’m supposed to clean up the big messes he makes. Oh, no! If he wants to play King of the Castle, he has to be his own scullery maid, because I’m the Queen! That’s how it works in the Queen’s castle.

But this week, I took over the kitchen. I cooked the sausage. I fried the eggs. I made the brown gravy. And I made the buttermilk biscuits! Without creating a blizzard like he did the last time he attempted to make biscuits and dumped flour all over the kitchen.

I’m not a southerner; I’m a pure-blooded Yankee from Newark, Delaware. My mother didn’t make biscuits; she made yeast rolls. I had to eat supper at my best friend’s house to get a homemade biscuit. Her family was from South Carolina, and her mother was the Michelangelo of making biscuits.

Before my husband kicked me out of the kitchen, I learned to make biscuits. Big, fluffy, golden brown biscuits that would make a cannibal drool. Okay. Maybe that’s a little extreme.

Growing up, my mother did all the cooking, and I gladly stayed out of her way. Daddy was happy. My brothers were happy. And I was ecstatic! I cleaned the house. She cooked. That’s the way we rolled at our house.

I finally learned how to cook, though, but making biscuits was never my life’s goal. There’s an art to it, and southerners turned it into a masterpiece, at least my mother-in-law did. She’s the one who taught me, but it took a lot of practice. And when I finally learned, I made biscuits every day. I shared them with my neighbors. I shared them with my friends. I wanted to share them with the whole world!

But I had to stop making them . . . everyone was getting fat! So, when my husband took over the kitchen, I was lucky to get a slice of bread tossed across the table. You know the saying, “Use it or lose it”. Well, I completely lost the art of making biscuits.

But this week, like being zapped by the Energizer bunny, I kicked my husband out of the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and cooked breakfast every morning; biscuits and all. The first morning, the dogs started gagging. The second morning, they were great, swimming in gravy. The third morning, my husband’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. But this blessed, sacred morning, the heavenly host began singing, “Hallelujah!”

I Dated the Devil

I met him at church. He said he was a Christian. I was a lonely, gullible, single mom who fell for his charming good looks and sugar-coated lies.

I was twenty-three. My son was three. He was thirty-six with a thirteen-year-old son that he had abandoned in an orphanage. Red flags were popping up everywhere, but stupid Cupid shot them all down.

He made me laugh. He made me feel loved. He made me as pliable as clay in his hands, twisting my Christian morals and ripping out pieces of my soul.

The more time I spent with him, the more the devil reared his ugly head. The same devil I’d seen many times throughout my life. Didn’t I see him in the glaring eyes at home? Didn’t I see him in the man who promised to love me till death do us part? Didn’t I see him behind the curtain of witchcraft?

Suddenly, his twisted lies became as transparent as glass, his heart as faithful as a harlot. He didn’t own a house, a vehicle, or even have a job. He pushed his way through life using and abusing the weak and the vulnerable, and lying his conniving head on the pillow of his victims. But I kept closing my eyes and turning the other cheek. I kept going to church, singing the hymns, hiding my shameful heart in the chamber of religion.

But each day became harder to live with the person I had become, the person I said I would never be. I was making it on my own, raising my child without any help from his father, and keeping my standards high. I was a good mother, a good person with a strong determination to do the right thing, but out of sheer weakness and stupidity, I traded my sacred heart for ashes in the wind.

Kicking him out of my life was the smartest thing I had done since I had invited him into it. I made a big mistake. I can’t go back and erase it; it’s forever etched in the shadows of my mind. But I walked away from it. I learned a valuable lesson from it, and I became a better person because of it.

It was a Saturday evening. Robbie and I were sitting on the couch watching The Flintstones when he suddenly barged through the door, waving a gun around and blabbering like a lunatic. Frantically, I pulled Robbie closer to me, watching our lives vanish in the midst of a disastrous storm.

His eyes were as black as coal; his face twisted like a raging monster as he stood in the middle of the room, threatening his way back into my life. When that didn’t work, he held up the gun and said he was going to shoot himself. With a deep sigh of relief, I gasped, “Fine! I think that’s about the best thing you can do for yourself!”

God, despite turning my back on him, in his love, mercy, and forgiveness, protected Robbie and me that day. I can find no other logical explanation why a crazy, life-threatening maniac would suddenly turn around and walk harmlessly out the door.

Being a single mom back in the sixties was as tough as being a single mom today. The challenges and temptations are the same. Human soul snatchers are the same. The need to be loved and valued is the same. And God is the same. He never leaves us. He never betrays us. He never condemns us. He lovingly takes us to the Potter’s house and diligently restores our broken souls.

Mary’s Little Lamb

Mary had a little lamb
His heart was pure as gold
And everywhere that Mary went
Her lamb was sure to go

Then before her very eyes
Her little lamb grew up
The hour had come to make his climb
And drink his bitter cup

How Mary mourned for her little lamb
She once cradled in her arms
And kissed away his every tear
And protected him from harm

In her heart she always knew
Her lamb was born to die
To save the dying world from sin
And give it eternal life

So as you kneel beneath the tree
Gathering treasures in your hands
Remember to thank our loving God
For Mary’s little lamb

The Woman at the Bar

Alone, she sits, glass half empty in her trembling hand. Her occasional visits have become a nightly ritual of total surrender to the toxic, amber liquid numbing her brain. And there, forsaken and forgotten, she sits in the dim light, mopping her tears with a soggy napkin. She’s the talk of the town, an outcast, looking for love in all the wrong places. Every bartender knows her name, but no one knows her gut-wrenching story.

She was orphaned as a young child and taken into foster care, where she was beaten, molested, and worked like a slave on the farm. Her foster mother was a demon from hell and lashed out all her resentment, anger, and rage on her tiny, frail body. She walked miles to school in the freezing cold and rain, and many times, she discovered rocks in her lunch pail instead of food.

When she wet the bed, her foster mother would hang the stained wet sheets out her bedroom window for everyone to see. She had no friends. No voice. No one to dry her tears in the dark and lonely nights.

When she was finally old enough to leave the foster home, she found her estranged family, who lived nearby. But it was not a happy reunion. Again, she met with danger in the filthy, greedy hands of her alcoholic father and one of her ten brothers. Betrayal of the worst kind; unwanted, unprotected, unloved. That’s the badge she wore on her heart that never aged with time.

Barely in her teens, she fell in love with a handsome, blue-eyed Romeo and gave him her body, heart, and soul. But when she got pregnant with his child, he slammed the door in her face. She wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, smart enough. Neither he nor his family wanted anything to do with her or the baby girl she carried.

Months later, she married a man who claimed to love her, and despite having given him two sons, she didn’t love him. He began drinking, sleeping around, and contracted a sexually transmitted disease. So she took her three children and left him. But her troubles were far from over. Her second son was born brain-damaged. When he was three, he became severely ill with encephalitis and suffered extremely high fevers, causing even more brain damage, and was committed to a sanitarium, where he spent the rest of his life.

So each night she pushes open the door, every head turning, every eye rolling, as she shuffles across the floor and slumps heavily on the barstool. Greedily, she gulps down the first glass, and then another.

Suddenly, a man walks through the door and quietly sits on the stool next to her. His smile is warm, mysterious, compelling, drawing her into the depths of his soul. Even before he spoke, she knew he was no ordinary man.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said, her voice low and raspy. “Do you come here often?”

His penetrating eyes pierced her soul, exposing the darkness hidden there. What does he see? Why is he sitting here next to me? There are other empty barstools. Why did he pick that one?

Clearing her throat, she presses her arms tightly against her body, as if to shield it from further exposure. He’s so strange, yet so intriguing, his eyes so piercing. What does he want with me?

“So, do you have family around here?” she asks, trying to control her slurring tongue. “What’s your story? I’m sure you have one. Everyone has a story.”

Chuckling softly, he answers, “Yes, I have a story. A story so wild and out of this world that most people don’t believe it. But, right now, I’m interested in your story.”

Seriously? He walks into this dreary, noisy, godforsaken barroom looking like a saint, and wants to hear my life’s story? The story I try to forget? The story that haunts me in my dreams and tortures my days? The once-upon-a-time story with no happy ending?

Gulping down another swallow of the fiery liquid, she squirms on the barstool as a flood of emotions stumbles from her mouth. “I lived with a man once. But he threw my love away. Then I married a man, but never gave him my heart. He gave up on me and found solace in the arms of other women.”

“Yes, I know about your husband, and the man you lived with but never married. I also know about your childhood and the reckless decisions you made as a result. I know everything about you. Nothing can stay hidden in the dark from my all-seeing eyes.”

Slowly, she raised her head and, gazing intently into his soulful eyes, her stone-cold heart began to melt. Feelings she tried to numb, memories she tried to forget, are suddenly revealed in the light of his presence.

“Excuse me, sir,” she stammered. “I heard about a man called Jesus who came to free the world from sin. I even heard that he died on the cross and rose from the dead! You couldn’t possibly be him, could you? I mean, it doesn’t seem likely that you’d come to this godless place, least of all talking to me, a woman, scorned and rejected by society.”

“Yes, I am he, and I’ve come here to set you free. In your blinding grief, you stumbled off and were captured by the jaws of death. Night after night, you come here to quench your thirst, but stagger out the door thirstier than when you arrived. Drink from me, the springs of living water, and you will never thirst again.

Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Messiah? (John 4:29).

Closing words:
This is a true story about my mother’s abusive childhood and her tumultuous life as a result of it. She sang in the bars for mere pennies to help support herself and her two children. No, she didn’t meet Jesus at a bar in the flesh; she met him at the foot of the cross, where she repented and gave her life to him.

It doesn’t matter where you meet Jesus; it only matters that you do and invite Him into your heart and life ~Sandi

Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me (Revelation 3:20 NIV).

Silently, he stands in the freezing cold, his knuckles raw and bleeding. His knocks are gentle and persistent, barely audible above the noise of the world. He could knock louder. He could pound the door down, barge in, and make his presence known. But he never will.

Trouble lies behind the door, hidden from the outside world: broken hearts, shattered dreams, pillows drenched with tears. Love once built on trust has been betrayed. Forgiveness is consumed in the flames of anger and rage. Peace, joy, and happiness have shriveled and died in the arms of grief. Hope has been swallowed by the darkness of despair.

Knock, knock.

So gentle. So persistent. His tender voice pleading, desperate, his heart broken and crushed by grief. His perfect, blameless body is deeply scarred, bearing the stripes of atonement for a world lost in sin. A world tricked by the evil one, the father of all lies, the prince of darkness, the silent killer of the soul.

Knock, knock.

Who’s There?

Jesus.

Jesus who?

Jesus Christ, the Son of the true and living God.

What do you want?

I want you to open the door and invite me in.

Why?

Because I want to heal your battered, bleeding soul. I want to forgive your wayward, rebellious heart from sin, guilt, and shame. I want to wash your heart clean and fill it with joy, peace, and happiness. I want to show you how much I love you. I want to release Satan’s murderous grip. I want to set you free and give you eternal life.

Knock, knock.

I created you. I breathed into your nostrils the breath of life. You are my masterpiece. You belong to me, but the evil one snatched you from my hands to devour your soul. Unless you open the door and invite me in, I won’t be able to help you. I can’t make you believe in me. I can’t give you everlasting life without the forgiveness of sin. The choice is all yours.

Knock, knock.

The clock is ticking. Don’t delay. Death is crouching at your door. The choice is yours; life and death are in your hands.

For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 6:23).

Trust Me

Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, himself, is the Rock eternal (Isaiah 26:4).

“I don’t like going off and leaving you all alone. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Of course, I’ll be okay. I want you to go and spend time with your old Navy buddies. It’ll be good for you. Go and have fun.”

He’s only been gone four hours, and already I feel trapped in an eerie tomb of silence. No TV, no crazy, made-up songs bouncing off the walls, no shouting, “Honey! I love you!” Nothing but the deafening sound of silence.

He’s taken little trips before without me, but this time it feels different. Maybe because I’m older, now, and realize that one day, I may face life without him. And that scares me. I think about that a lot these days. How do you learn to live without your best friend and marriage partner of 53 years? How do you adjust to living alone?

Like shifting sand, life is always changing. Nothing ever stays the same. One day, you wake up young and vibrant, the next day, you can barely drag your old bones out of bed. You don’t see it coming. You don’t even notice the slight changes. It’s like bam! And you find yourself waist-deep in the murky water of old age.

Old age changes your way of thinking. It rips the mask of denial off your face, and the ugly truth appears, like a dark, lifeless shadow dictating the final chapter of your life. Old age. The Phantom of the Opera. That younger, vibrant self, smothered in the cloak of decay.

How do we tell ourselves to stay calm when we visit nursing homes, when we see the struggles, the fear, and the sadness in people’s eyes? How can we feel safe in the hands of a broken health care system? How much money is enough to get the proper care we worked so hard and saved for?

I don’t know because I’m not there yet. But as a believer in Jesus Christ, I know that through the promises in His Word, He will take care of me, that He will walk with me through the shadow of death, and into eternal life with Him. No more sorrow. No more tears. No more old age. No more death.

Old age and I are not friends. It’s an intruder. I’m a fighter. But fighting against old age is fighting against God. Through disobedience, Adam and Eve sinned, and the world was given the death sentence. Who am I to change God’s mind? Who am I to stand before Him with clenched fists, expecting Him to change the rules? To make an exception. To remove the sting of old age.

We all face many challenges throughout our lives, and we either learn to deal with them or we learn to run from them. To stick our heads in the sand and hope they go away. Old age is a challenge that you can’t run from or bury in the sand. If we’re fortunate enough to live a long life, we must be brave enough to accept it as God’s gift to us and trust Him to walk with us through it.

I thank God for my life, for all the challenges, and for being there with me every step of the way. He created me, and He is able and willing to take care of me for the rest of my life.

The world is a scary place with all its vices and distractions. Today, more than ever, we need someone we can trust and rely on. Someone who has our best interests at heart. And God is the One. He proved it in a lowly manger, He shouted it from the cross, from the tomb, and at His glorious resurrection! I love you! I will take care of you! Trust me!

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matthew 11:28).

Then There Was Light

There’s my yard. There’s my house. And there’s me. The control freak. The one who has a place for everything and everything in its place. If it’s broke, I fix it. If it needs painting, I paint it. If it’s out of order, I put it back in order. I am a number one self-inflicted taskmaster. Superwoman and the fairy godmother rolled into one and twisted like a pretzel.

No job was too difficult with energy to spare. Like a mean machine, I mowed the grass, trimmed the shrubs, pruned the trees, and did the weed-eating all in one day. Then I’d go to work and clean the church/school till midnight or after.

Then things began to change. It’s as if I woke up from a long winter’s nap to discover that my energy had dropped dead, and everything in my world was in total disarray. No matter how hard I kicked and screamed against it, old age has me in a death grip and refuses to let go. I can’t control it. I can’t fix it. Like it or not, I’ll have to learn to live with it. But it’s tough, like slowly being eaten alive.

Spring, with its fragrant, cool breezes, was followed by summer’s scorching blaze, dripping like honey from a jar. We could barely breathe sitting on the back porch, and working in the yard was impossible. But like two old dogs digging for a bone, we kept trying.

My husband prefers taking things slow and easy, while I like to get everything done before sundown. But some days, just getting him in the same boat with me was like pulling a stubborn bull by the horns. So, between the weather, yellow jacket attacks, blood, sweat, and tears, and getting nowhere, I was more monster than human. All I wanted was to put everything back in order, but all I got was a head-on collision with reality.

This summer has been one of the toughest seasons of my life. A season of being crushed and broken. A season of surrender. A season of change. And in the midst of our brokenness, anger, tears, and frustration, my husband and I found a church that feels like home. It’s truly a God-thing because I never wanted to set foot in a church again.

But God had other plans. While I was tenaciously working on the yard, He was tenaciously working on me: my stubborn will, my delusions, my idealism, my pride. He revealed to me my insecurities and lofty, unrealistic goals I set for myself and those around me. For me, old age is a slap in the face; a wake-up call I never expected. A bubble-buster of the worst kind.

God never gives up on me. And he never gives up on you. He knows our struggles. He knows our weaknesses. He knows all our dirty little secrets and loves us anyway and takes us just as we are. He is the Mighty Fixer, the Majestic Super Power, the Creator and Ruler of the universe, the crucified Savior of the world. The Devil puts blindfolds over our eyes and leads us to destruction. God removes the blindfolds and leads us to righteousness, peace, joy, and contentment. All we have to do is believe.

Today, I look out my door and windows with a deep sigh of relief. Not because every inch of the yard is perfect, because it isn’t. But because I have a clearer vision without the blindfolds blocking my spiritual and emotional view. Things don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. I’m slowly learning that.

The night was long and hard, and I thought the sun would never shine again. But it did, and continues to shine as I stop following my illusions and follow God. He is my light and my salvation, my solid Rock, the only One who never leaves me stranded on a dark and treacherous road. He always shines his light to brighten my path and to lead me safely home.

This is after removing all the rocks and numerous shrubs. Too much upkeep.

If you want to know the whole yard story, I’ve posted two other links below:

I Should Have Stayed in Bed!

Oh, No! Not Again!

Oh, No! Not Again!

It’s been a long, hot, stressful summer of extreme heat, rain, tears, and frustration. Working in the yard was and still is like digging a bottomless pit in the desert. There’s no end to the misery, as if I’m being smothered to death by a vicious monster of chaos.

But yesterday was my day to get back on track. I am going to finish one natural area before the sun goes down if it kills me. And if it kills me, I won’t have to worry with it anymore.

When we first moved here, thirty-plus years ago, I had a brainy idea to make a natural area down our long driveway and border it with rocks. And that’s what we did. The rocks were free, thanks to a nearby farmer, allowing us to dig up as many rocks as we wanted. And seven truckloads later, we had enough rocks piled in the yard to build a house!

This summer, I got another brainy idea. Let’s undo it all. I can’t keep up with it anymore. It’s too hard, and I’m too old and stressed out to mess with it. It was good in its day, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s got to go. Low maintenance is my motto these days. Besides, it won’t take that long, a few weeks, tops.

HA! Five months later, my low-maintenance landscaping dream became a Freddy Krueger nightmare of rocks piled sky-high in the backyard, scattered in the front yard, the side yard, and even in the neighbor’s yard, who got several trailer loads for his natural area.

I never do anything halfway. It’s either all or nothing, so I created other natural areas in the front and backyard and embellished them with rocks, creating little landscape monsters to grow up and devour me when I get old and haggard with only one brain cell left.

So, back to the beginning. The sun was going down, I was hot, tired, and hungry, but feeling relieved that I was almost done. I couldn’t wait to get cleaned up and maybe celebrate what’s left of my birthday.

My husband pulled up on the lawnmower, and as we chatted, I noticed tiny mosquitoes swarming around the hole in the ground where I was sitting. Then I noticed something else. Something mean and sinister, like devils from the pit of hell. Suddenly, like a turtle in slow motion, I scrambled to my feet and yelled, “Yellow jackets!”

I can’t believe this! How stupid can I be? I thought he killed them all the last time. Same place, same stupid rock, same idiot repeating the same episode that happened a few short months ago.

Yellow Jackets! Singing, “Happy Birthday to you” while setting my arms and legs on fire. Visions of my last encounter shot me into panic mode as I hobbled into the house, moaning and kicking myself in the butt. Splashing cold water on my arms and legs, my husband yelled, “Where’s the Benadryl? Where’s the Peroxide? Where’s the alcohol? And I just wanted him to shut up, get the gun, and shoot me!

My husband called 911, and I promised myself I wouldn’t spend ten days in hell before finally marching my butt to Urgent Care. And since it was already closed, I climbed into the ambulance and went straight to the ER.

Three agonizing hours later, my name was finally called, and relief was on the way. I’d already received a shot of Benadryl in the ambulance with no side effects. Then came the IV and three vials of medication. Still no side effects. But when the nurse added a more potent dose of Benadryl into the concoction, I knew this was the day I was gonna die! My number’s up! Saint Peter’s waiting, arms open wide at the pearly gates, singing, “Happy birthday to you!”

Well, I didn’t die, I just had a frightening reaction to the medication, which caused a full-blown panic attack and visions of the Grim Reaper pounding at my door.

I guess you can’t live for seventy-nine years without a little danger and excitement. That would be boring. Besides, grandkids and great-grandkids don’t want to hear about Cinderella and Tinker Bell these days. They want to hear about Grandma getting run over by a reindeer, and how much blood poured out, and how many stitches she got, and if it hurt! Real grandma stories with bloody meat on their bones!