Brick by Brick: Rebuilding the Broken

A Man Healed at the Pool of Bethesda  A fter this there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.  2  Now there is in Jerusalem by the Sheep  Gate  a pool, which is called in Hebrew, Bethesda, having five porches.  3  In these lay a great multitude of sick people, blind, lame, paralyzed, waiting for the moving of the water.  4  For an angel went down at a certain time into the pool and stirred up the water; then whoever stepped in first, after the stirring of the water, was made well of whatever disease he had.  5  Now a certain man was there who had an infirmity thirty-eight years.  6  When Jesus saw him lying there, and knew that he already had been  in that condition  a long time, He said to him, “Do you want to be made well?” 7  The sick man answered Him, “Sir, I have no man to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; but while I am coming, another steps down before me.” 8  Jesus said to him, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.”  9  And immediately

Most people wouldn't give a second thought to a Monarch on the ground during the last dregs of summer. But then again, I am not most people. In certain circles a butterfly sighting might bring a wee bit of interest. Nature lovers, little children and puppies, tree huggers, photography buffs, and the group who no one ever wishes to belong, any of us who grieve a loved one. The butterfly becomes a symbol of something greater than we can see with our finite eyes. Many funeral homes use it as a logo, to try and soften the reason we attend. Absolutely nothing can soften the grief we feel. The time spent planning these things are done in dull shock, barely aware of anything except the gaping hole in our hearts. But eventually, as time passes and the gaping wound builds scar tissue, we can see how a butterfly does bring a small bit of hope to a bleeding heart. The funny little striped caterpillar eats as much as it possibly can before the magic begins. He can not stay a cat

It's a warm and peacefully quiet Monday afternoon. You decide today is a great day to go shopping at your local discount store. Thinking it's hot enough that all the activity will be splashing away in a pool somewhere. Anywhere. Away from you, anyhow. Life is different now. Crowds of people no longer feel invigorating. In fact, more than a very small group of close friends or family, is nothing short of draining. The simplest way to cope is to avoid them. But still, the world revolves around get-togethers. Celebrations are dull at times, harsh even. Holidays of any sort are painful. Another sharp reminder that someone you love can no longer brighten the room. Their chair remains empty. Sacred, somehow. OK, FOCUS. You are parking the car. Don't run over the little old lady shuffling across to the cart returns. Put your blinker on so the red jalopy knows you are actually turning here.  Yes! You scored the parking spot closest to the exit, making it easier

 I am going to take you on a tour of gardens. A walk through someone else's garden is usually a delight. But this time, the paths we will tread upon may seem similar to the rocky ledges we intrepidly scaffold every day. Listen closely to the voices heard in gardens of long ago to reveal a place in our own souls we may have forgotten. In the first garden we are traveling today, you may recall as one of history's most famous garden of all. This is the garden of Eden, the home of Adam and Eve. It was a place of beauty and perfection, until darkness knocked and humanity open the door. The promise of God was to be able to walk with Him daily, enjoying the splendor we can only imagine. However, another promise was given, which make many shake their heads in wonder at the reason why. Why would a loving God create humans in a perfect state, living in a perfect world, only to give them a chance to lose it all? As humans, in retrospect, we can mostly see that it wa

Summer. Hot and humid. Sticky sweat dripping down your forehead in beads, glistening in the harsh afternoon sunlight, reminding you just how miserably thirsty you are every time you taste the salt collecting on your lips. Summer. Rainy or dry? Morning dawns another promise of cooling the air, only to be left with one more thunderstorm rolling across the prairie, leaving the rivers swollen with too many days of overactive weather, filling the farmers' crops with more acres of a washout than ample bushels of grain. The local coffee shop buzzes with complaints of flooded basements and unpassable dirt roads from trenches cutting deeper and deeper, making everyone wonder if a drought would be welcome soon. Summer. Lazy and crazy. Every teacher's hard work and effort takes a tumble into the barren lands of fuzzy memory loss. Every schoolboy and girls' favorite time of year, no homework drudgery, no cranky teacher adding one more assignment to the list for the weekend,

Just when you think you have a grip on your grief, it jumps out of nowhere and knocks you flat. I am still in the process of cleaning out our house room by room.  I haven't stopped since we repainted our son's room four years ago, updating it into a theater room complete with all his favorite movie posters.  I am pretty sure he would give me a great big smile and the work would be worth it. I think he would even like the carpet - nice, fluffy, shag, black and white.  Needless to say, it was a very difficult job. Somehow, it was the thing I had to do - Just to be able to put one foot in front of the other.  A reason to continue, even when I saw no good reason to try.   As I prepared for the remodeling, I lovingly, heartbreakingly, slowly,  went through his things deciding where it will go.  He had many drawings, notes, and songs written down, which I made into scrapbooks.  Some day I plan on making a quilt out of his favorite shirts. His blue jeans are b

I am a gardener. I may not be the best at what I do, but I love what I do! (translation: my gardens are weedy...) We have a vegetable garden every year. The older we get, the smaller the plot becomes. I have flowers tucked in almost every nook and cranny possible. I love sharing my blooms whenever I have plenty to go around. It's fun to watch faces light up when I carry in a vase or two. Some plants have been shared with friends, some are from friends, and some have traveled from house to house with us.   How do my little gardens of color have anything to do with where I am in life? The gardens are my happy place. They are peaceful, quiet and relaxing. Even surrounded by mosquitoes, knowing full well I will be bug bait. Even with a bad back, knowing tomorrow I will be down for the count. The rewards are worth the pain. I look forward to them every year. Every spring I walk around searching for the tiniest hint of buds

                                                                  I'VE GOT THE JOY, JOY, JOY, down in my heart. WHERE?   How many of you remember this fun little children's song? I, for one. How many of you can sing this song now with as much enthusiasm as a roomful of squeaky clean, squirmy and ambitious, Vacation Bible School children? I can't say that I ever will again.  It will never be the same. I have the Source of Joy.  But it does not come naturally anymore. WHY? Sometimes, I am at the point now, when I should reply -  "If you have to ask the question, then it's not worth my stress level to explain." I have the Peace of God, which brings me inner joy. Yet, it seems buried six feet underground. "Pray" - you may say - "God is a healer of all wounds." Yes, I do. "Pray more" - some may say - "it works for me!" Yes, perhaps it does. But my God is not, never has