SelahV Today by hariette petersen

DINNER IS OVER, LET CELEBRATIONS BEGIN

Thanksgiving at my daughter's house was beyond wonderful.  All she let me do was peel a few potatoes and carve the turkey.  She did everything else.  Stuffed the big bird, rolled out all the pie crusts and baked all the goodies.  My granddaughter, Bethany, made stuffed eggs and homemade clover-leaf yeast rolls.  Then we ate.  And ate.  And ate.  After a day of photo-shoots, football games, family video-viewing, and several hands of Rook, my granddaughter packed up her two little boys, and she and her hubby headed back to Mississippi.  We're hoping they'll be back for Christmas.

This week is filled with various plans for celebrating the Christmas season.  Gingerbread House Competition.  (We never win, but it is so much sticky gooey fun.)  I bought candy canes, and peanut butter cookies to brace the walls made of graham crackers.  I need to go get the colorful little sugar-coated chocolates to use as lights on the roof.  I have a plan this year for our Gingerbread House.  I plan to try and build it to withstand the weight of candy decorations.  Hopefully my plan will succeed.  I've told my 18-year-old grandson that I think he should join my construction crew this year.  Don't know if his mom and dad will allow him to defect, but I'm gonna try.   Will let ya know how that goes.  ho ho ho.

I have one open-house party to attend with my hubby.  And I need to decorate my daughter's house before Saturday night.  She's having her Sunday School department over for a party.  I won't go overboard with decorating.  At least I'll try not to go overboard.  Never know what will happen with me when I get in the spirit.

THURSDAYS WEREN'T MADE FOR TURKEYS

As a child, I never looked forward to Thanksgiving.  For weeks before school break, we'd draw pictures of turkeys, corn, and pie.  We learned about Pilgrims, and Indians coming together and giving thanks for what they had because of how harsh conditions were in early New England colonization of America.  Classmates talked about Thanksgiving like they were going to have some feast like the Pilgrims.  They were all going to grandma's house.  For some kids, that was far away.  Thanksgiving fell on Thursday every single year.  Why Thursday?  I hated Thursdays more than any day of the week--worse than Mondays.  Thursdays guaranteed our family a big white porcelain bowl filled to the brim with bean soup.  It was tradition.  Don't ask me how that got started.  I can only speculate.  Family traditions are weird sometimes.

When I was growing up we never had Thanksgiving on Thursdays.  [READ MORE]

MORE THAN THANKFUL

So many of you have stopped by through the past few years and have supported my efforts on this blog.  "I thank my God upon every remembrance of you..." Philippians 1:3  I appreciate, more than you know, for the emails and comments and prayers.

Thank you for your faithfulness in reading my blog; thanks for sharing it with others.  I am grateful for each one of you and pray God blesses you so much today.  I pray your family and friends have a wonderful Thanksgiving. selahV

ABSORBING Lessons From a Broken Chopstick--REVIEWED part 2

I'm haunted by images Mary Anne Phemister described in her book, LESSONS FROM A BROKEN CHOPSTICK.  If any woman has ever had a reason to throw a pity-party for how she was forced to grow up, Mary Anne is that woman.  But she doesn't throw a pity-party.  That action would be inconsistent with the brave and courageous Mary Anne whose persevering spirit defied life's hardships to break her emotionally, and destroy her spiritually.  There are times I longed to reach inside the pages of her book, wrap my arms around her, and shelter her from the turmoil, upheavals, and uncertainty.  Other times I wanted to grab her--whisk her away from her forced exile in a strange land.  I wanted to join her, to walk alongside and simply be her friend.

Mary Anne touched a chord inside my soul.  As I wrote a portion of a review of her book [link], I felt a need to say something more.  I didn't know quite what.  Between the lines that Mary Anne offers in her manuscript of memories, were spaces in which my thoughts and emotions ran rampant with questions.  Questions for God.  These questions led me to consider how God fills all the empty, loveless spaces of our lives with His unfathomable grace.  Mary Anne's accounting challenged me once more as Job; how dare I question what God allows to those He calls according to His purposes?   

You need to read Mary Anne's contribution to missionary life.  See how our Sovereign Lord pours out His grace upon her and leads her to forgive, to love, and persevere.  Perhaps you'll find, as I, God's unforsaking, unrelenting, all-sufficient power to carry a child through the difficulties of life when questions have no answers.  May you find it as absorbing as I did.  selahV

LESSONS FROM A BROKEN CHOPSTICK, by Mary Anne Phemister, Published by Hannibal Books.

"Lessons From A Broken Chopstick" REVIEWED

I've always been fascinated with stories shared by missionaries.  Often I am challenged in my own walk with Christ as I read the personal sacrifices missionaries make to serve God around the world.  I've sometimes wondered how missionary kids (MKs), handle cultural changes, and how they grew in faith as a result.  Mary Anne Phemister is a missionary kid.  Her book, LESSONS FROM A BROKEN CHOPSTICK, surprised me.  Reading her "memoir of a peculiar childhood" saddened me; at times it angered me.  This book is a sobering revelation of how some missionary children can be the most sacrificed in a missionary's effort to reach a lost world.

Mary Anne chronicles snatches of her childhood memories that may break your heart.  The book seems a therapeutic endeavor, a search to understand her past and how it connects her to her present.  She survived a seemingly loveless relationship with a father, whose quest to share the gospel with an idolatrous world did not allow room to enjoy the blessings of God.  She cradled isolation, abandonment, and insecurity, as companions throughout a childhood fraught with hardships.  Shuffled from school to school, and left to the care of other missionaries and natives of China, she and her siblings adjusted to separation after separation from her mother and father, as her parents worked as missionaries in Asia.  These were not occasional separations; they were years of separation.

How did she cope?  The author shares several anecdotes that give insight into the diversions she had, and people from whom she gained strength, and comfort.  It reminded me of the verse: "Though your father and mother forsake you, the Lord will lift me up." Psalm 27:10

The author touches upon her mother's skewed understanding of a wife's biblical role as a helpmate.  She gives the reader glimpses into how her mother suffered spiritual and verbal abuse as a wife.  Phemister shares how her father ignored his missionary board's urgings to leave China when communists were taking over their province; this resulted in his family being placed under house arrest for 16 months.  Years later, he refused to follow the board's policy to leave Vietnam and was fired.  He literally abandoned his wife and family to preach to the lost in an Asian world. 

Chapter after chapter left me with questions.  As I waited for the happily-ever-after ending, I found unanswered questions and Mary Anne's resolve, "Many things in life I cannot fix, nor should I even try."  There is wisdom in that statement, and an unbreachable peace.

Today, Mary Anne Phemister is the wife of noted concert pianist, William Phemister.  She is a nurse, author, mother and grandmother.  In 150 plus pages, Phemister opens a place inside her heart, and reveals her struggle to understand memories lost, and memories never created.  She exemplifies a lady who rose above hardship, and grew stronger in her Christian faith as a result.

HOW GOD GROWS THE FAITH OF A CHILD

Four years ago, I took my granddaughters over to my daughter's house to swim.  While looking in the pool filter drain, we found a tiny Red-eared Slider paddling around in circles.  The girls were elated.  "Can we keep him?  Please, Grama; please."  My first thought was, of course.  Hubby had some misgivings, but 8 year-old Brooklyn was so excited, it didn't take much to bend Grampa our way.

We found Snappy the year after my granddaughter had lost her daddy.  When she begged to keep the turtle, I thought of what my son would have done had he been there.  He would have gone to the pet store, gotten the best of turtle-homes, the right food and taught his little girl how to care for the turtle.  So that's what I did.  And Brooklyn took Snappy home to live at her house.

One day, Brooklyn called and told me she'd lost Snappy.  They'd been playing with him and left him on the bed when they went to eat supper.  When Brooklyn returned, she couldn't find Snappy.  She was crying.  She thought her dog had eaten him.  They looked high and low for Snappy to no avail.  I felt so bad for her.  She'd taken such good care of the turtle for months.  To some this would be a silly thing, to worry over a turtle.  But a child's pet is important to them.  Brooklyn was also mad at herself for leaving Snappy on the bed and not putting him back in his bowl.  She blamed herself for his loss.

I assured her that I didn't think Ali (her chihuahau), could have eaten Snappy. "He's probably hiding somewhere."  He was only the size of a quarter and would be easily missed on her dark brown carpet.  She couldn't grasp that in light of Snappy's absence.  "But we've looked everywhere."  I told her I'd pray for her.  A little while later, she called me back.  She was so excited.  "Grama, I prayed for God to help us find Snappy and about two minutes later, Mommy found him under the bed in the corner.  God helped us find him.  He answered my prayer."

I couldn't tell what excited her more--the fact that God answered her prayer or that Snappy was safe.  Today, when Brooklyn holds that quarter-sized Snappy in her palm, he completely covers it.  He has grown 4 times the size.  Occasionally Brooklyn will remind me of that story.  God has faithfully grown Brooklyn's faith time and time again through the years since He answered her prayer.  Snappy is just a tiny bit of visible proof for her to hold in the middle of daily difficulties.  Maybe God planned it that way from the moment we rescued Snappy from the pool drain.  Who is to say?  selahV 

THIS OUGHT TO GO VIRAL

NO MATTER WHAT, GOD IS MY REFUGE

So many folks I know today are enduring hardships, loss, and illness.  I'm sure you know lots of people who are coping with the same things.  It isn't easy to endure, to persevere.  It isn't much easier to watch our friends and family battle, cope, and keep faith in these situations.  We stumble and search for words to offer; we want to comfort where comfort can only be brought from God. 

All things turn back to our salvation in Christ.  That solitary fact--salvation.  Though thieves of life want to rob us of sleep, peace and security, we still own security.  We have security in the salvation of our Lord.  Nothing can separate us from the hand of our Lord.  Famine, joblessness, nor death...we still have our salvation.  That is our glory.  That is worth more than anything this world offers us or takes away from us.

We feel so weak, so faithless in the darker moments of our struggles.  But our refuge is in God.  He is the Rock--the foundation, the strength we need to make it through the fire, flood and storm.  When the world casts doubt, we trust.  Each day, every moment, at all times, we trust Him to see us through.  We know we cannot rely upon ourselves, which is why we falter in our faith.  We must remember to pour out our heart to Him and let Him know we trust Him.  He knows we are battered.  He knows we are weary.  He knows we are broken.  He is our refuge, our healing place.  He says, "Come unto Me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden."

"In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us. Selah"  Psalm 62:7,8

Leave the burdens of the world--the crushing weight of despair, discouragement, and weariness.  "Come."  selahV

IT JUST DOESN'T END

Day after day.  We lift our eyes unto the hills from whence cometh our Help.  Day after day a perpetual avalanche of trials roll down upon us.  Sometimes I wonder if we will ever dig our way out of the mound above us, around us, beneath us.  Just when we break the surface and our fingertips feel a ray of sunshine, we're covered again.  The earth seeks to swallow us whole.  It just doesn't end.

I pray.  I seek God only.  I know there is no one other than He who can help.  The problems are too insurmountable.  If only we could catch a breath of air between the pressures.  But it seems we are meant to be crushed.  We do not know what to do.  We cannot do anything that is not circumvented with the rising of another sun.  Does God have someone He meant to send to us and they did not hear His voice?  Does someone hear His voice yet ignores Him?

There are no ships to come in.  The tunnel ahead is dark.  I still cling to my Lord.  When will the snow melt?  When will Spring begin, my Sovereign?  selahV