Stooping Down

A few months ago I read a devotion from a mom who said her New Year's resolution was not to be a great wife and mother, just a good wife and mother. And my first thought when reading this was, "Amen, sister!" There's no way I can be a great wife and mother as tableaus of Martha Stewart's picteresque dining room table and Mrs. Cleaver's startched white aprons flashed through my head.

But that same day in my Bible reading I came across Psalm 18:35. David says that the Lord stoops down to make him great. That verse has been somersaulting around in my mind for a while now. And my prayer has become that God will reach down and make me a great wife, mother, and teacher. Not great in a Martha Stewart perfect sense, but great in a Godly paradoxical sense. I've praying that God will stoop down and make me so great that I will rise up to serve others.

Psalm 18:31-35
For who is God besides the LORD ?
And who is the Rock except our God?
It is God who arms me with strength
and makes my way perfect.
He makes my feet like the feet of a deer;
he enables me to stand on the heights.
He trains my hands for battle;
my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
You give me your shield of victory,
and your right hand sustains me;
you stoop down to make me great.

Welcome Home

I listened as the radio announcer asked a famous Christian musician what she expects God will say to her once she goes to Heaven. The singer replied that she was speechless and honestly didn't know. But I knew my answer immediately. God will say, "Welcome Home."

I can remember the first time I heard the now overused quotation from C. S. Lewis: "If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." That quotation stalked me and stole my sleep because I had lived its truth. I had never felt just right, perfectly comfortable, or at home in my own skin. I knew there must be more to life than . . . well, life. And even though I now know Truth, the haunting feeling of being in foreign land still nips at my heels because my own skin is not my home.

Those thoughts shape my picture of Heaven. It smells like freshly baked bread and chocolate chip cookies and just-out-of-the-dryer sheets. It feels like a cozy afghan and strong arm around my shoulder. It tastes like hot tea with lots of cream and sugar. It sounds like wind chimes and nursery rhymes. It looks like my home, everything familiar but nothing the same.