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Expectation and Hope: Aka How God ruined the Church Picnic

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  We all have our favorite writers. Mine is a man by the name of Gerald May. He is not an easy read – more like a rich fudge filled with caramel, nuts, chips, and all things gooie. Little bites to savor – too much you get a tummy ache. But oh those bites – so filled with deep truths and spiritual insights. The man was brilliant. He was a Psychiatrist and an Addictionologist, Author, Poet, Theologian of the Contemplative nature and was Director of the Shalem Institute in Washington DC before he passed. His foot notes alone were good reads… Now, that’s talent.   One chapter in his book The Awakened Heart was titled ‘Expectation vs Hope’. Coming across it was serendipitous as my life was pretty devoid of hope at the moment. I felt as if everything I touched turned into a Lime Slushy with way too much green syrup. I desperately needed some help cleaning up the mess. Growing up as Pollyanna I had unknowing put myself into far too many painful situations than I needed to. Reading this c
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The Tricky Wickets of Emotions

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 ðŸ‘¿     “I AM NOT ANGRY!” He furiously exhaled the words with a clenched jaw, his throbbing jugular vein was pounding in his neck with eyes all squinty as if the sun was burning his face. Yet there he was, professing to be calm. He had just come from what sounded like a fun family outing and yet everyone had gotten on his nerves – especially his mother. On the inhale he professed to be at total peace and acceptance with all of them (uh huh) and then he went back to the exhale with more of the same rage about their behavior. This man’s emotions were clouded not only for that event, but unfortunately, his entire life was filled with anger. I mean nothing was going to make this poor man happy. All women were users. Charity events for truly unfortunate irritated him as there were just too many of them. Traffic was always bad. His boss always got things wrong, the dogs barked too much, and his church sang the wrong music. Etc. etc. etc. “I AM NOT ANGRY” That is what angry people soun
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FORGIVE AND FORGET

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I killed my husband’s favorite dog.   We had been dating 4 months and he had left me in charge of locking Shiloh in his cage when I left for work as he would not be back until after I had gone. Seeing that the garage was dark and the cage old, I did the best I could to secure Shiloh as I left for school. Upon my return, I opened the garage door and much to my surprise, there stood Shiloh at the garage opening posing a ‘Call of the Wild’ stance. Indeed, he was part wild - this stunningly beautiful White Huskey with steel-blue eyes that were distant as sapphires under a sea of ice. He was now free not about to be subdued. It was a standoff to be sure – and by the looks of it, I was sure to lose. Jim had told many a story of Shiloh’s reluctance to join the pack after he was rescued. He often had thwarted Shiloh’s escapes by the keen ex-Army Ranger trapping skills.   I had to think fast – instead, I froze in fear as I knew how much this dog meant to Jim. You see, what first attracted
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RIP Bart Starr   May 26, 2019 We all know of Bart Starr’s prowess on the field both as a quarterback and coach of the Green Bay Packers.   But he was also earned legend status off the field. It was the fall of 1983.   Starr was entrenched in practice with the Packers when he received a phone call that a special fan was near death. Starr paused practice and took a personal time out to make a stranger's last days happier. That fan was my father.   It was a quiet day in our hospice house when the phone rang. A secretary informed me that Bart Starr wished to speak to Pastor Bartz. Pause. Did she really say, Bart Starr? Thee Bart Starr of Green Bay Packer fame? “Yes,” she replied with a smile in her voice. I told her to give me a minute as I pondered the consequences of waking him. You see, dad was dying of Leukemia at the ripe old age of 58 and had stopped seeing people or taking phone calls the week before. He was simply too fatigued and depressed. Daddy w
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My Hound From Heaven

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My Hound From Heaven It’s been years since Francis Thompson’s epic poem, “The Hound of Heaven” crossed my path. It is a Victorian poem.  Whereas it’s language is outdated to our modern ear, it is still as endearing as the day it was penned as it centers on the pursuit of a sinner by a loving God. It’s a poem about Grace. Raw Grace. Unbridled and unfettered Grace.  Grace that reache s beyond the surface facades into the grit of life. It is this Grace for which I am most thankful as for without it I would not be standing today. Not until a few months ago, when unable to sleep, did the poem show itself again – and in such an odd fashion.  God is like that you know – popping up at the most inopportune times when we are so busy trying to handle life on our own. It was about two in the morning and I could not sleep. It’s almost as if I had been summoned to my easy chair to find the answer.  I crept out of the bedroom, tippy-toed over the dog’s gate trying not to wake them.
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