Yet Another Snake!!

So I had another snake in the house! I've lived out here in the country for 20 years but a snake in my house is something I will never get used to. I was walking down the little hallway by my kitchen and there it was. Here's the thing about snakes - they are fast! And if they disappear into an area where there is a lot of stuff, i.e. closet, pantry, etc. you just have to sell your house and move. You'll never find the darn thing. What to do?

The first step is to begin hyperventilating. This provides more oxygen to the brain so that in your panic you can still think clearly. (Actually, it causes dizziness and possible fainting but whatever!) I was hyperventilating and panicking with the best of them but I was home alone and I knew I had to rise to the occasion. I backed up into the dining room, ran out my sliding door to the patio and around to the garage. This allowed me to open the door leading from my kitchen area to the garage. Back into the house I ran. I grabbed my broom and gingerly approached the snake. It was a young one, maybe only 18 inches long. Its markings looked very similar to a rattlesnake but I couldn't be sure. I very carefully began to sweep the monster towards the outer door. It had the nerve to get angry! And not just a little. It was flipping around, hissing, trying to coil and strike, and twisting every which way. All the while, I was screaming bloody murder as I kept trying to sweep it away from occupied territory and out into the garage. I got it to the door where it got stopped by the threshold but I finally managed to flip it over the edge and slam the screen door. Now it sat, coiled up and hissing on the mat just on the other side. I tried to talk myself down while I considered what to do next. I did not want it loose in my garage. Of course, my only available bucket was clear at the other end of the house in my shower and was filled with water. I ran down the hallway, grabbed the bucket, headed to the front door, dashed outside and dumped the water and then ran back inside the house. I was still hyperventilating and though I was no longer screaming, I was making noises that only the Holy Spirit could interpret. Back to the garage door I scurried.

The snake was gone! This was a new crisis! My garage is so full of stuff! In a split second, I envisioned this aggressive little snake living in luxury in my garage, growing to mammoth proportions, while it fed on the mice and lizards that are native to the garage environment. I was too nervous to walk right out that door so instead, I again ran around to the dining room, out the slider, and entered the garage from the other end. Now I wasn't just hyperventilating. I was truly gasping for breath. I am, after all, an out of shape 63 year old woman, and all this excitement and exertion was wearing me out. I cautiously approached the mat where the intruder had last been seen. It was at this point that I finally began to pray but all I could utter was "Please, God. Please, God". I looked to my left but saw nothing. To my right was the chest freezer. I carefully looked behind it and still saw nothing. I stepped a little more to the right and bam! There it was. Now what to do? I still had my trusty bucket and my broom so I placed the bucket on its side on the ground in front of the snake. I then began to try to sweep the snake into the bucket. This required more hissing and twisting on the snake's part and more screaming from me but I persevered and only by God's grace, got the thing into the bucket. I carried it outside, put the bucket on the driveway, and then put an old cat litter box on top of the bucket. No way that sucker was getting away from me again.

I called my fabulous 89 year old father (he and I have dealt with snakes before) and he came up immediately. He used to backpack and camp and hike and is really good at all that outdoor stuff. Even he, however, was uncertain if this was a rattler. The babies don't have rattles yet and though this one was certainly not a newborn, it wasn't that big and it was hard to get a good look. Every time we peeked into the bucket, it was coiled and striking the side and we were just a tad bit nervous. We decided that we had better err on the side of caution and dispatch the thing in case it was poisonous. Don't get me wrong, I hate to kill things. But I was defending my home, my refuge, my sanctuary. Long story longer, my dad and I did what needed to be done. (I'll be honest here, though. My dad supplied the plan, the courage, and the execution. I was simply the assistant.)

I'll admit. I was shaken. I had been walking around outside one evening, just a few nights before this. I was thinking how nice it was that we had made it through snake season without an incident. Now that thought was shattered. And worse, the snake incident was inside my border, not outside. Now, I was looking in every corner. Now I was wondering if there were more. Now I was uncomfortable in my own space. I was on guard and I was definitely not relaxed. And how did it get in? What was the point of entry? It was irrational really. A snake in the house is a very rare occurrence. There was absolutely no reason to think that I had been invaded by an army of snakes. Nevertheless, it was unnerving and unsettling. I was immediately grateful that God had shown me the snake. What if I hadn't seen it? I was also grateful that He gave me the ability to get it out of the house, even though I didn't do it with any beauty or finesse. And I was so grateful that it happened at a time when my dad was home. But...I would have been more grateful if God had never allowed it at all!

If you know me at all, you know that I tend to look for spiritual lessons everywhere, especially in my trivial, everyday happenings. I woke up this morning thinking about that little snake and what God could teach me. It was such a perfect analogy. After all, in the Bible, the snake represents sin. In the same way that God allowed me to see that snake in my hallway, He reveals sin in my own heart to me. If I am paying attention, I get it. I see it. But I do need to be paying attention. In fact, I need to constantly be asking God to show me my sin and my faults. That way, I can deal with the sin in obedience. And then I need to be on guard. I'll never know how that snake got in my house but I try to do everything I can to make my house "snake-proof". I don't always know how sin slips into my life. It is so subtle. I need to be "sin-proofing" my heart. I need to stay in the Word and be obedient to God so that sin can't find that point of entry. But when it does (which it will), I need to chase it outside with a vengeance, maybe even screaming all the way. And then I need to check myself and make sure that there is nothing else that needs to be shown the door. I'm working on it!

A Quick Look At the Life of Joshua

I work for a dentist and so if he goes on vacation the office closes and that is when the rest of us take our vacations also. Last month, I was going to have a week off but I had failed to make any plans. As I thought about it, I realized that if I didn't do something I would get pretty cranky. I don't have to be gone for a long time. I enjoy being home and doing stuff around here and I don't mind my own company. But, I couldn't stand the thought of not getting away at all so at the last minute, I made a reservation for one night in a hotel in Cambria. This quaint little town has become a sort of refuge for me. After my mom died, I spent a few days over there by myself, and just re-grouped. After Paul left, I saw a counselor for about a year and on Fridays (my day off) she saw clients in her home which happened to be in Cambria. I got into the habit of preparing for that day and making it a "mini-retreat". I would listen to praise music on the 45 drive over and pray the whole time. Often after the counseling session I would spend time on the beach reflecting on all sorts of things. When I could afford it, I got a massage while there. Anyway, Cambria has come to represent to me the place I go to slow down and meet with God.

I arrived at the hotel around 3:00 p.m. on a Monday. I settled in quickly and then spent the next couple of hours walking along the boardwalk and watching the ocean. There is something about staring at that incredible vastness. It quiets me which is a good thing. But then my plans seemed to stall. I didn't feel like eating at a fancy restaurant so I ended up picking up fish 'n chips to go and a few things from the grocery store. After eating way too much, I found myself just zoning out, playing games on my tablet or watching mundane T.V. It was frustrating because I had specifically asked God to speak to me, to give me something that I could take home with me.

I don't know why but when I got up in the morning, I decided to read the book of Joshua. I asked the Lord to enable me to focus and it helped that Joshua read like a fascinating story of war, victory, defeat, and incredible faithfulness. I've been wanting to solidify my thoughts about Joshua ever since so this is my attempt to do that.

First of all, Joshua was a great man of God. I know that God uses fallen men and obviously we recognize the value in understanding that we are all sinners saved by grace and that even the redeemed sin. Abraham, David, Peter - all great men of God who had some pretty major lapses. But in reading Joshua I realized that he started well, he continued well, and he finished well. That isn't to say that he was perfect. But for the most part, he was single-minded in his pursuit of God and dedicated to living a life of obedience. What an example for us! I can't go back and fix my past but I can commit to living life well from here on out. Ah, but that commitment! Was Joshua ever afraid of what God might ask of him? I am. Later that day, I was watching a couple of guys try to learn to surf. Now, I can't surf. But I grew up around surfers so I figure I'm qualified to judge. I watched them over and over again, ever so timidly, approach the waves and try to decide whether they should flip around and try to ride one in or if they should duck under it and get out a little further. Because they were indecisive, every time they did take off they started too late and the wave either rolled under them and broke too far in front of them to propel them anywhere or it broke right on top of them and pushed them under while they floundered toward shore.

In Joshua 3, the Lord instructed Joshua to tell the priests to carry the Ark of the Covenant into the Jordan River. As soon as the priests' feet touched the flood waters of the Jordan, the water stopped flowing and all of Israel crossed the river on dry land. But the priests first had to dip their feet in the water. And if my surfers had bravely committed to a wave, they might have succeeded as well. And then there's me. Talk about timid! I live with a lot of fear and I am not saying that reading about Joshua changed that overnight. It's definitely given me food for thought, however. As I pray and think about what God wants from me and how He wants me to live, I think about Joshua and all that he accomplished in his life. I know he wasn't afraid because he knew his God and he knew he could trust Him to accomplish His will. And, if he ever was afraid, he was still committed enough to keep moving forward because his desire was to live an obedient life that was pleasing to God. That's what I want too.

There were a couple of significant glitches in Joshua's life. In Chapter 7, his army was soundly defeated when they tried to conquer the city of Ai and it turned out that it was because some of the people had sinned against God by stealing and lying. God is for us. He is on our side. But He won't turn a blind eye to our sin. The people involved in Israel's sin had brought trouble on the whole nation and all suffered the consequences of their sin. God later granted Israel victory but the impact of sin was definite and lasting. It is a sobering thought - who might my sin affect besides myself? Is it worth it? Absolutely not! Another little glitch occurred in Chapter 9. The people of Gibeon presented themselves to Joshua and the men of Israel and asked them to form a treaty with them. They said they had come from far away and they tricked Israel into believing them. Joshua made a peace treaty with these people. But there is a phrase that stood out to me. It is in Joshua 9:14 and it says, "...but did not inquire of the Lord." God had very specific things that He had commanded Joshua to do and conquering the WHOLE land, not just part of it, was towards the top of the list. Joshua and his men may have meant no harm. Maybe they didn't think this episode was important enough to bother God about. That's my life in a nutshell. I save God for the "big stuff" and bumble about the rest of the time on my own. Such a simple phrase, "inquire of the Lord". My study of Joshua is reminding me to do that more. Nothing is beyond the scope of God's involvement and nothing is too trivial.

I want to live my life more like Joshua did and I am grateful that God is bringing me gently along that path. Joshua summed up how we are to live in Chapter 22.

Joy

I have a problem with joy. How stupid is that! But it's true. It's not that I don't feel joy. I definitely do but I am so hesitant to express it. Why is that? When someone asks me how I'm doing, I usually respond, "Oh, pretty well," with a slight shrug of my shoulders and a rolling of my eyes. The unspoken implication is, "You know, I'm doing O.K. under the circumstances. I can't be expected to be great, now can I? You know, because..."

I need to get over myself. I think the reason I do this is that I feel like if I express too much joy or admit that I'm really doing well, it will trivialize the loss of my marriage. And that, to me, feels a bit like a betrayal. I can't really get over Paul, can I? I shouldn't get over him, should I?

The Bible has a lot to say about joy. I'm realizing that I can be joyful, and admit it, and still mourn my losses. When I keep my joy to myself I rob God of the glory He deserves. He has been so gracious to me! He took me through a very difficult experience and almost 6 years later I am doing well. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm even sometimes great!

My perspective has been twisted. I somehow got the idea that joy cannot co-exist with sadness. But I was wrong. I lost a husband. There is certainly nothing unique about that. Job lost his entire family but he was still able to rejoice because he knew his Creator. I truly believe that God is sovereign and that He is good. I may never understand the reasons why my marriage broke up but I can accept that God allowed it and I can embrace the path He has placed me on. And I can rejoice in all the blessings that are mine as a child of God. That sounds so holy but it is true. I can also rejoice in less spiritual things. It is no sin for me to dance with joy with a grandchild or celebrate with the anticipation of another one. Grandchildren aren't technically a "spiritual" blessing - like salvation, forgiveness, prayer, etc. but they sure bring me a lot of joy! I think I've been willing to testify to God's "spiritual" blessings but I withhold expressing joy over more earthly pleasures because I got it into my head that I should continue to suffer. Bizarre!

I will never, ever, get over (at least not completely) the catastrophe that was my marriage. But... I have an 89 year father who is a man of integrity, I have four fabulous daughters, and I have nine (almost 10) grandchildren, I have girlfriends, I have a home, a job, fairly decent health, I have ideas, I have time... the list is endless.

I spent a lot of time praying today that God would hold back the fires and prevent them from consuming Hume Lake Christian Camp. I was so struck by comments that a friend, Scott Saunders, made. He said,

"From its inception up until yesterday, the official report is that the Rough Fire is at 0% containment. Presently it is at 3% containment.

That statement is false.

The truth is that this fire is 100% contained.

It is 100% contained in the palm of the Almighty Creator. The one true God. The Lord Jesus Christ. The Maker of fire, the forests, the lightening, and the sustainer of the very ministry of Hume Lake Christian Camps.

Yet we gauge it by how much mere man can contain or control it.

As I try to sleep tonight wondering what news of the fate of our homes and community will be tomorrow, God is reminding me that He is the one true Incident Commander and to have peace. That peace should not come from the outcome all of us are fervently praying for but because He is God, His Will will be done, and He has a plan."

Someone else, talking about the fire, said that all that was left to do was wait for the inevitable onslaught and be ready to defend the camp. These comments are so applicable to all of life. My life is totally under my good God's control. My life, my joy, my successes, are measured by His ruler, not man's. He has sustained me and will continue to do so. The onslaught will come. We all suffer trials. But that does not change who is in charge nor should it change how we live our lives. He is the same God whether I'm married or single, and my joy (and peace and trust) does not depend on my circumstances but depends solely on the God who holds all things in His hands. 

"Lord, let me go through my days giving praise to You for all that You are and for all that You have done for me. Forgive me for being afraid to express joy for fear that someone will misunderstand and think that I am glad I am no longer married. My understanding of You is so limited. Bless me with Your wisdom and humility. Amen!"

Reflections On A Quiet Morning

I was able this morning to take a few quiet moments and sit outside with my cup of coffee and just rest thoughtfully. It was still cool so it was comfortable and it was a beautiful morning. The hummingbirds were busy buzzing all around me. I had finally filled their feeder last night. As a side note:  Wouldn't it be awesome to have a metabolism like hummingbirds and get to eat nothing but sugared water all day long? Anyway, I sat there on the swing with my cat Abby on my lap (ironically she was the last Christmas present I received from Paul). I was feeling a little melancholy I guess. I'd been in Auburn last weekend and had a sweet time of fellowship with old friends. I was missing that solid connection with people who know me so well.

I reflected on my struggle for contentment as a single woman, balancing desire for relationship with another human with the reality that my husband is MIA. I was thinking about Bible verses that speak about God as a husband and wondering how that works. How does that apply to me and how do I appropriate that truth? I began to search scripture and honestly, I didn't find too many verses about God being my husband. I read about the church as a whole being the bride of Christ but I was looking for something more individual.

I'm no Bible scholar and so I realize that I have a very limited knowledge about such things. But I came to think that I may have been under undue pressure. I had constantly come down on myself because I was still aching from the misery of separation and I felt that I was sinning because I wasn't perfectly content as a "bride of Christ."  I am His and some day, all of us as Christians will be united with Him and that will be glorious! In the meantime, we live in a fallen world and that involves anguish.

I'm not implying that I have an excuse to be discontented. The Bible is clear about being content with what you have and where you are in life. However, woman was created to be a "helper suitable" to the man. And for many years, I was that helper (although not always as "suitable" as I should have been). That part of my life has ended and I haven't always allowed myself to feel the pain involved with that because I felt guilty - like I was failing God by not being satisfied with Him. It's a delicate balance. I know that God is all-sufficient and I'm so grateful for that. But after all, He did create the marriage relationship so why have I thought that I wasn't supposed to feel hurt and loneliness when that relationship ended? We cry for what is lost, whether it is a marriage, our health, a child, a job, etc. That doesn't have to mean that we've abandoned our faith.

I know this is basic and possibly most of you reading this wouldn't even struggle with it. But this has been my battle. Who am I now that I am no longer a wife? How do I grab hold of God's love and comfort when I'm simply missing what once was? And how do I avoid "looking for love in all the wrong places?"

These days, we most often hear "the love chapter", I Cor. 13, used at weddings or in reference to the love between a man and a woman and it is about that. But it is also, and perhaps more importantly, a love letter to me from God Himself. His love NEVER fails me! His love doesn't hold a grudge or keep an account of my failures and wrongdoings. He is infinitely patient with me. How I need that! He ALWAYS protects me! This is what I need to cling to:   God is enough still.

As I sat outside, looking over a hillside view that I loved so much, I told the Lord that I had lost the joy that I once felt here. Here. A place. A time. A circumstance. Much has changed in my life but the Lord has not. If I have lost joy, that's my bad and it's on me. God didn't leave me. I've just chosen at times to focus on earthly things and have lost sight of the bigger picture. God understands my pain and He's okay with it. But through these reflections He has reassured me that I am surrounded by His perfect love and though the sting of this life is still felt, it does not have to have victory over me. The pain I feel is not the sin. The sin is when I let that pain define me or rob me or control me. And so this morning, I feel a bit freer, lighter, relieved in fact. Maybe I'm not in as bad a shape as I thought! And if I'm not, it's only because of God's grace in my life. Apart from Him, I can do nothing!

"Without Him I Can Do Nothing"

A Veteran's Trip to San Diego

My dad had been wanting to go to San Diego for some time. He's been before but since his last visit, the USS Midway Museum opened and he really wanted to tour the huge aircraft carrier. He still travels on his own but when he does, he does it through Road Scholar, a nonprofit educational travel organization. Once he gets himself to the chosen location everything else is provided. He wasn't certain he wanted to try San Diego on his own so he had been asking me for quite some time to accompany him. Also, I think he realized that I never go anywhere so it was his way of providing me a trip while making me feel useful. I had vacation time this past March because the office would be closed so the trip was planned for that time. He also wanted to take the train down to San Diego. He loves to travel by train! That was fine with me. I didn't particularly relish the thought of driving all that way. I was also planning on having hand surgery just a few days before we departed so recuperating on the train seemed to be a good plan. Until I discovered...

We had to catch the train at 6:55 in the morning in San Luis Obispo. My dad likes to be early for everything so that meant that he wanted to arrive at the train station at 6:30 a.m. It's a good 45 minute drive from our house so the morning of March 8th, I found myself leaving Peachy Canyon at 5:45! Those who know me know I am NOT a morning person. Also, Daylight Savings Time had begun the same day so though my clock said 5:45, it was actually 4:45 a.m. This is a stretch for any human! However, though neither one of us had slept much, we made it and were ushered onto the train promptly. No one even glanced at our tickets that we had painstakingly printed out in duplicate - just asked us our names and welcomed us aboard. I love small towns!

We parked ourselves in a downstairs car that was reserved for the disabled and senior guests. Dad didn't have to climb any stairs to get to the bathroom and we could still see fine. Also, it was roomier since there weren't as many seats in order to accommodate wheelchairs. I tried to ignore the fact that I could have legitimately been seated in that car even if I hadn't been traveling with a guy who was just six weeks shy of 89. I had hoped to sleep a bit on the way down but that didn't happen. Nevertheless, we had a very pleasant trip and arrived at our stop in Old Town San Diego about 3:30 that afternoon.

Our plan was to use all public transportation while there and not rent a car. So there we stood on the platform watching our train pull away. We each had a suitcase on wheels and a backpack and a jacket. In addition,  Dad was wearing a trendy fanny pack and I had a purse slung across my chest. I studied the Map Quest directions to our hotel and we started off on the almost 3/4 mile trek through Old Town to the La Quinta Inn. The sidewalks were narrow in most places so we trudged along, single file, like two homeless people, dragging our suitcases behind us. After a missed turn or two, we gratefully arrived at the hotel and settled in. Dad first plugged in an alarm clock that he had packed. When I questioned him about it he said that he didn't trust the hotel clocks. I informed him that we were on vacation and I had no intention of being awakened by an alarm clock! By mutual agreement, we tabled that discussion. The next order of business was to venture out to forage for food. (I had packed our breakfast and lunch for the train so we had eaten carrot sticks, almonds, granola bars, bananas, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and goldfish crackers.) We were both ready for something hot, preferably preceded by a glass of wine.

Off we went in search of an acceptable restaurant. Neither one of us wanted Mexican food however, Old Town is the site of the first permanent Spanish settlement and the first mission built by Father Junipero Serra. After walking up and down the two little main streets, we discovered that our only option, besides a small Thai restaurant, was a classy looking Italian place. Every other eatery was Mexican food. Italian it was and we had a very satisfying dinner served by extremely friendly people. We walked back to the hotel and Dad was in bed and sound asleep by 7:30.

Monday was our first day of sightseeing. Since visiting the Midway was the main reason Dad wanted to be in San Diego, I decided to make that our first day's excursion so that we would be relatively fresh. Dad was content to let me do all the planning as well as figure out how to get us places. This was not a role I was comfortable in but I had done some research before leaving Paso Robles and had at least a vague idea of how the S.D. transportation system worked. Dad gets up earlier than I do so he got up and went to the hotel breakfast while I took my time sleeping a little later. Eventually, we embarked on walking back to the Old Town Transit Center. I parked Dad on a bench while I went in search of a place to buy transportation passes for us that would allow us to travel all over San Diego and do it quite inexpensively. I was pretty proud of myself and returned to the bench clutching our "Compass Passes." When I had read about it online, the public transit was called the San Diego Trolley System. I was envisioning slow moving, picturesque trolleys that would be a pleasure to ride. Instead, what they call a trolley is, in fact, a train. Ours roared into the station and we had about 45 seconds to throw ourselves up very steep steps and into the train and then grab a pole while we searched for a seat, before the train sped off. It was harrowing to say the least. We got off the train at the main Depot in Downtown San Diego and walked about another 1/2 mile to the Midway Museum. If you haven't been there, it is quite an interesting place. You can click on the link below to read about it.

Midway Museum

Dad has a WWII Veteran cap that is his favorite and he wears it a lot. On our trip, he wore it every day. This meant that every 10 feet or so, someone would stop him and want to shake his hand and thank him for his military service. This gave him an opportunity to chat with strangers and he was always interested in each individual. He would ask about them and enjoyed hearing their stories, even the homeless man on the corner whose father had been in WWII. Of course, on the Midway itself, he was quite the attraction. We were surrounded by veterans and they all certainly appreciated the fact that there weren't too many WWII Veterans left. We spent hours touring the ship and walked countless steps. There were many planes on display and lots of them were quite old. One of the first that we stopped at was a dive bomber and Dad was so excited to see it. He told me how he'd never been up in any sort of plane before until this one. A pilot stationed with him needed practice hours and offered to take him up in the dive bomber. Dad would later get a pilot's license himself after he got out of the Navy.

The flight deck on this ship is over 4 acres! Amazing. After seeing everything we could on three levels, we noticed a line forming for a tour of the "tower." This involved 4 flights of very steep, narrow steps up to the tower where somebody (whose rank I have forgotten) would steer, command, direct etc. the huge ship. Dad was determined to make it up those steps and into the highest point on the carrier. And you know what? He did! Dad found Christ when he was a young man in the Navy so that period in his life is extremely special to him. You can read about his conversion here:

Dad meets the Lord

Finally, after many hours of enjoyable meandering, listening to stories of Dad's time in the Navy, we headed back to the train depot to catch the "trolley" back to Old Town. We walked from the train station back to the same little Italian Restaurant as the previous night and then back to our hotel. It was a great day and Dad still talks about it.

The next day our plan was to make our way to Balboa Park. This is where the San Diego Zoo is although we had decided we would skip the zoo because it is a fairly strenuous trek and we had both been there before. But Balboa Park has many other attractions, museums, and an Imax Theater so we knew there would be lots to do. Getting there, however, became somewhat of an issue. My directions said to take a bus from the Old Town Station (remember, that was a 3/4 mile walk again) with a transfer to another bus somewhere downtown. Unfortunately, I was unable to find the aforementioned bus but a somewhat detached security guard directed me to the "trolley" and we once again found ourselves headed downtown. We transferred onto another "trolley" at the instruction of the guard and met a very nice young woman who struck up a conversation with us. She was a local who was engaged to a Navy man stationed in San Diego. She was honestly a little trashy looking but she was working full time as a chef and also going to school and was incredibly helpful. It was a good reminder to me to not be so judgmental based on appearance. She told us exactly where to get off the trolley and what bus number to get on in order to get to Balboa Park. Were it not for her, we might still be riding around on the San Diego Trolleys. I was reminded suddenly of an old Kingston Trio song that my dad had taught me when I was just a kid. If you're interested, you can follow the link below to listen to it.

The M.T.A. Song

Anyway, we transferred onto a bus successfully and then onto a tram and ultimately arrived at Balboa Park. It had seemed to take forever and I was exhausted just from the stress of not knowing where in the heck we were and how to safely get my dad there. We bravely stumbled into the park and headed straight to the Imax Theater where we contentedly sank into comfy seats and watched two movies - one about Humpback whales and the other about the South Pacific. They were fabulous! The sort of sad thing was that when we left the theater it was already close to 4:00 p.m. and the park was closing at 5:00. We went into one very disappointing photography exhibit and then had to head back. We could have spent days in the park but we just didn't have the time. We began to re-trace our steps. The tram took us easily back to our bus stop. Again, God sent an angel to watch out for us. When we got on the bus, for some odd reason, I told the bus driver where we needed to go. He told us our trolley was the 4th stop. What he failed to mention was that he didn't always pause at every designated stop. Dad and I were sitting comfortably in the middle of the bus, surrounded by college students, and I was happily preparing to count each layover and looking forward to getting back to the security of our hotel.  Finally, the bus pulled over for the first time. Dad and I sat and waited for numerous kids to disembark. We were really tired by now and were collapsed in our seats when I suddenly realized that the driver was hollering at me. I looked at him questioningly and he said, "Get out! This is your stop!" I thanked him profusely as we hurried off (I use the term "hurried" very loosely") but we found ourselves on an unfamiliar corner. We wandered around a bit and discovered that this was our trolley stop. It was just that we needed to board on a different corner than we had on the way to the park. Whew! That trolley took us to the Downtown Station which felt like an old friend. We knew our way from there and flopped onto the trolley that took us back to Old Town. We walked to an old refurbished hotel-turned-restaurant, had a wonderful dinner and then again, plodded back to the La Quinta. Dad was a trooper!

Wednesday was our last full day in San Diego and we had planned to go on the Harbor Cruise. It originated right next to the USS Midway so I was relieved to know where I was going and had more confidence as a seasoned traveler. The day before had really taken it out of me and I was looking forward to relaxing on the cruise. The day was somewhat overcast but that seemed to add to the atmosphere. Dad especially enjoyed seeing the USS Ronald Reagan as well as the submarine base and some fighters jets practicing take-offs and landings.

After a very satisfying couple of hours we got off the ship. Dad was feeling pretty perky so he wanted to walk along the harbor front to a shopping area called Seaport Village. We wandered through a lot of tourist shops looking at everything from expensive artwork to hanging chairs to hats. We finally headed back to the train station and caught the trolley back to our home territory. We got off in Old Town at about 4 p.m. It had been a long but gratifying day. I think the trip had finally caught up with me. I suggested we head to the same restaurant in the old hotel and have an early dinner. Dad hadn't eaten since breakfast and I hadn't eaten yet at all that day. For some reason, he insisted we couldn't eat that early so we began to traipse in and out of old shops - the old post office, the old cigar shop, the old stage coach stop, etc. I practically begged him several times to let us go eat but he kept on saying it was just too soon. I was done in so I sat down on a bench outside while Dad went in yet another old historic exhibit. When he came back outside he said to me, "You know, I know I should be interested in all this but I am just so tired!" "What? Are you kidding me?" I replied. "Let's go! It's Happy Hour!" I got him over to the restaurant and I dropped into a chair and ordered a glass of wine. Relief settled over both of us as we realized just how tired we really were. Dad still wouldn't order dinner for almost another hour but that was O.K. The restaurant was beautiful and almost deserted, we were off our feet and we had alcohol. I could survive. After a delicious meal, we headed back to our hotel, still on foot, and Dad hit the sack before 7:00 p.m.

The next morning we decided to splurge and take a taxi to the downtown train station. By then, neither one of us could face dragging our baggage through town. It was the best $27 Dad ever spent! We were worn out but happy and all we had to do now was sit on the train that would take us home. We arrived back in SLO at 10:00 p.m. and were home and in bed by 11:30. What a wonderful opportunity God had given both of us. How many kids get that kind of time with a parent?

Diets, Sin, Bad Habits, and the End of the World

So. I've been thinking about going on a diet. Again. I've written before about how I obsess about what I eat, how I look, what I weigh, etc. It's gotten to the point where I recognize that Satan has used this subject to draw me slowly and subtly into total self-absorption. I don't have time to pray. I'm pondering my belly fat. I don't have time to read the Bible. I'm considering my portion size of Goldfish Crackers. I don't have time to encourage a struggling friend. I'm too busy feeling guilty about what I ate last night. I don't have time to exercise. I'm consumed with trying to figure out how to lose weight without any actual physical movement.

I had hand surgery four days ago and so I have been holed up at home recovering. I started reading a diet book ("lifestyle change book" the author would say) that had been recommended to me by several people. It's a method to "reset your metabolism" in 28 days.* "Oh, you can stick to anything for 28 days!" You think? I haven't stuck to much of anything for more than six days except my marriage and that didn't work out so well for me. This particular author is quite passionate, however, and she's even got me thinking about trying - one more time. (I should confess that as I was reading the book, there was a Party Size bag of Cheddar & Sour Cream chips and a large bag of Rolos sitting next to me. Truth.)

Here's the issue...what if I don't stick to it for 28 days? It will be just another failure in a long line of perceived inadequacies that will be added to my pile of "personality shortcomings." It was a beautiful day so I had taken the book outside so I could alternately read and gaze out over the lush green fields. I'd read a bit, think a bit, nibble, read, think, etc. Abruptly, my mind switched gears and I began to consider what we've been studying in our Women's Bible Study group. We're going through the book of Revelation. Let me tell you, there is some scary shit in there! Freakishly frightening and at times, overwhelmingly confusing. You know what occurred to me? I'm serious here - if I can't stick to a 28 day plan where all I have to do is eat whatever this lady tells me to eat - how am I ever going to survive the Tribulation? I don't think I would ever deny Christ but there are times when I sacrifice an entire evening fighting my way through WalMart for a bag of chips so how can I tell what I am capable of? Believe me, it was a sobering thought. But let's set aside the end of the world for today and get back to my diet.

I began to notice some odd correlations between what I was reading in this book and spiritual issues in my own life. Let me share with you a few examples of what I discovered...

1.  "Drink half your body weight in ounces of water every day." I'm not going to tell you how many ounces that translates to for me but suffice it to say that I would not be able to venture too far from a bathroom for more than about 20 minutes if I actually accomplished this inhuman task, not to mention the feeling of all my internal organs floating. Of course, we  know that our bodies need water to survive and that it is essential to our health. What about our spiritual health?



I have plants outside that haven't died because of the drought but they sure aren't blooming. They're not dying but they're not thriving either. What would happen if I availed myself of all that Christ has to offer me and did it as seriously as I do my water consumption when I'm on a diet? What if I flooded my soul with the Word of God until I was so full that I felt like I was going to be floated right into God's presence?

2.  "No refined sugar." It's interesting how sugar affects us. When we eat sugar, even just a little bit, we are not satisfied. We want more. For days. At least that's how it is for me. Once I start eating Rolos, I'm just going to keep eating them until they are all gone. And then the next day I will be scouring the pantry for some leftover crumb of something sweet. I tend to think that sin is the same way. We get a taste for it and it makes it harder to resist. I don't like to admit that but I'm not immune. One "tiny" sin paves the way for a little bit bigger sin etc. until we're in a terrible place with no idea of how we got there. So much better to blow off the sugar and the sin from the beginning.



3.  "No artificial sweeteners." In the diet book, you're not allowed artificial sweeteners because they are "fake and poison." O.K. That makes some sense to me. But as I enjoyed the peace and quiet outside, I thought about some of my bad habits. While not necessarily sin, they certainly aren't productive or constructive. I never used to watch much T.V. but since Paul has been gone my friends have become Stacy and Clinton, Lori and Monty, and Gibbs and Abby.** As enjoyable as the time is that we spend together, it is not real. It is fake. Don't worry - I'm not saying, "NO TV!!" I am recognizing though, that sometimes I get started and then that's all I want to do. That's where things can get poisonous. One of my favorite weekends was when I was sick (but not too sick) so I had an excuse to watch an NCIS marathon for 15 hours or more. The next weekend, fully recovered, it was a struggle to get anything done because all I wanted to do was get back in bed and watch T.V. I believe God can give us the ability to have healthy self-control but that doesn't mean we won't have to work at it a bit.


Self-Control

Well, these are just random thoughts that reading about dieting generated. I still don't know if I'm ever going to commit to some kind of "healthy eating lifestyle" but I do hope I will allow God to use the spiritual insights He brought to mind as I read. It's funny - He meets us anywhere and everywhere - even in my chip and Rolo induced coma.

*The Fast Metabolism Diet - By Haylie Pomroy
(I'm not pushing this book. Just wanted to give credit where it's due for some of the info.)

**In case you're extremely sheltered, these are characters from What Not To Wear, Say Yes to the Dress Atlanta, and NCIS.

Not My Finest Moment

For some reason, I have been feeling nostalgic lately, and pondering thoughts of attempting to recapture youth. All that is for another day, however. The following story is absolutely true and just goes to show that our youth isn't necessarily something worthy of reliving.

I think I was about 16 years old and a 10th grader. I lived in Goleta, in a neighborhood in which I would eventually raise my own daughters. Only difference? It wasn't the ghetto when I was 16. It was a neighborhood of families much like my own. I took a bus to the high school, was a good student, and didn't generally get into trouble. On one particular night, though, the tide turned.

Everyone had gone to bed. My brother and parents were asleep. My room was at the front of our very small house and faced the street. I have no recollection of what time it was or who hatched the scheme. Somehow though, I was on the alert, and eventually there was a quiet knock on my window. My room had a window that stretched floor to ceiling and was about four feet wide. There was a solid piece of glass on the bottom third of the window. The next section had the old-fashioned crank windows that opened out and screens that popped off in a jiffy. Before I could change my mind, I quickly hoisted myself out the window and slipped away to join a few friends. I don't remember that we had any definite plan. Just a little joy riding maybe? Who knows? I jumped into my friend Peter's station wagon and off we went.

We drove out of the housing tract, went down Hollister Ave. and headed over the the Fairview overpass towards the other side of the freeway. As we crested the top of the overpass a police car passed us going in the opposite direction. In the rear view mirror, Peter noticed the police car make a u-turn so that it was now behind us. All of a sudden, he floored it and the wagon took off. I had no idea what was happening. We hadn't been doing anything (well, other than sneaking out of the house) and now, all of a sudden, we were apparently eluding men with guns! Seriously? What was happening?




Peter deftly zigged and zagged and we found ourselves in another housing tract off a street that ran parallel to the 101 N. He pulled over quickly, parked the car, and someone shouted, "Run!" And just like that I was alone. I looked around and my pals, my buddies, my friends had disappeared. I was out of my element to be sure. I mean, I had been a willing participant in this escapade but now, I had no idea what to do. So, budding criminal that I was, I hid. Under the car. I can hear you smirking. Anyway, sure enough, the police car arrived quite quickly and then there was a flashlight shining in my eyes.

"Hi. What are you doing?" This from a very calm, polite policeman.
"Uh, taking a walk." I was a quick thinker.
"Under the car?"

Needless to say, I was asked to join the officer in the back seat of his sedan and escorted home in grand style. We got to my house and he walked up with me and knocked on the front door. Remember, last my parents knew, everyone was tucked in tight. The door opened somewhat slowly and there stood both my parents. My mom was silent - shock had set in, I'm sure. My dad stared at us for a moment and then said, "No matter what you've done, we still love you!"

Let that comment settle in for a moment. I am not that sort of parent. I seem to do fairly well in a crisis, especially if blood is involved, but if one of my girls had shown up at the front door with a new friend sporting a uniform, I'm pretty sure I would have had a freak out. Not my folks. I don't even remember that there was any yelling or screaming. I did get grounded for a good long time and also got mono so I guess that was fair. I later found out that Peter may or may not have had some beer in the back of his station wagon that may or may not have been paid for and he may or may not have only been 16 so that's why he had taken off. The other kids I was with were picked up shortly after me.

I was required to go downtown a few days later to talk with some sort of officer. I can't remember what his position was but I think his job was to put a good scare into me. He was successful! I remember him saying to me, "Your father is a high school counselor and consequently, you have a greater responsibility to behave yourself."

"Oh no she doesn't! She has the same right to make mistakes as any other kid." Bam! Can you believe that guy? He was and is patient, kind, and wise. Of course, all that kindness didn't stop him from grounding me but hey, I knew I deserved it.

That fateful night wasn't the end of my screwing around but it was certainly the most memorable. Teenagers. We're just so stupid when we're young. I didn't realize it then, but God certainly kept a protective hand over my life. For a long time I didn't even want to acknowledge that I'd been such a hellion. Now? Well, most of us have stories to tell that we're not proud of but that we can laugh at when we look back on them. My girls know me. I want to make a sermon out of everything and hope to convince them to see things the way I see things. But tonight, I'm going to resist that temptation. The foolishness in this account speaks for itself! What was I thinking? Not my finest moment.

Hope

I've been home sick for three days and done nothing but watch NCIS for hours at a time. As much as I am an NCIS fan, serious boredom has set in. Perhaps because of this, I have been looking through old pictures and looking back through the years, pondering the direction my life has taken. (That also may be because I am feeling my age these days.) I understand the concept of God using people and circumstances in our life to accomplish His purposes. Joseph's story in the Bible about how his brothers sold him only to have him save them from starvation is a classic example. I'm sure there have been countless times in my life when God has used people to somehow impact me; many times I am not even aware of it occurring.

I remember reconnecting with Paul when I was 19 or 20. We'd known each other for a few years but had gone to different high schools. I had been dating a very nice young man (now a nice older man) for a few years but he was not a Christian. I was, but I was a nominal one and it hadn't taken much for me to slide away from the church, Christian friends, etc. And then Paul and I started dating and his life revolved around "Jesus music" and the church and ministry. It was part of his attraction. He had, I thought, what I had forgotten I wanted. Falling in love with him drew me back into a close-knit circle of fellowship that I hadn't even realized I missed. Eventually, I was drawn back to God Himself in addition to His people.

As I thought about this, I sort of began to question God. How was it that this man, who I believe was used by God to change the direction of my life, now haunted me by his absence? How did that make sense? During a long, sleepless night, I struggled to put the puzzle pieces of my life together. I wasn't doubting God and it wasn't a demanding, arrogant questioning of Him. Just a wondering...about His ways, His times, His methods.

As the sun rose, I realized that 40 some years ago, Paul was used in my life in the precise manner that God meant for him to be used. And though I know that God intended marriage to last until death, human sin had torn mine apart. It occurred to me that God was, once again, using Paul to draw me back to Him. Paul's disappearance from my world was way beyond me and I had been laid low. So low that I was able to peek under the wall of my own pride and independence, grab hold of the "hem of His robe" and hang on for dear life. I really could do nothing else. I was powerless in the face of my sorrow.

It seemed ironic to me. Here was my life in a nutshell: Meet the boy, fall in love with the boy, fall back in love with God, move along for years with only a few bumps in the road with the boy by my side, then suddenly boy is gone and I grab the hand of the One who has been there all along.

Perhaps I should write Paul a thank you note for leaving me! Just kidding. Nothing justifies sin, his or mine and we are all sinners in need of grace. But maybe this little tiny tidbit of insight will give me a different perspective. Instead of looking at him as the villain in my story, maybe I just need to see him as another fallen, sinful, broken individual. No different from myself, an instrument in God's hands. Our paths crossed for a while and then, painfully, separated again. My focus needs to be on the One who designed my path. If it is, I won't lose faith when things get dark, dangerous, or depressing.

As a mom, I learned long ago that there is nothing like a child to bring you to your knees. Like alien soldiers, children are relentless warriors - capable of breaking down the walls of the most fortified parent. Seriously, how do any of us survive it? Why should a husband be any different? The Bible tells us to expect trouble and suffering. But I, for one, expected it from without, not from within! Yet the greatest pain comes through those we love the most - just as it did for Christ when He was murdered by those He had come to save.

This month marks the 5 year anniversary of Paul leaving. God has been so patient with me. I don't take pleasure in the dissolution of my marriage. But I do rejoice in His faithfulness, in His sovereignty, in His holiness. Five years ago, all I saw was a deep pit of despair, but even then, I knew it wouldn't last forever. Don't misunderstand me - I'm not so holy. I can't honestly say as Paul did (Paul in the Bible, you know, not the other one ☺), "I rejoice in my sufferings...". But I can say with confidence that God continues to gently turn my face toward Him and I can't deny that I see God a little more clearly today because of my invisible husband. Who am I to question the ways of God? Sad about it? Yes. Lonely and afraid? Sometimes. Struggling? Not always. Content? Mostly. A work in progress? Amen!! I don't have to understand why God does what He does and allows what He allows. I just have to know that there is no wrong in Him, no misguided intentions, no mistakes, no sin. In Him and Him alone is my hope. I'm so grateful.

5 “It is God who removes the mountains, they know not how,
When He overturns them in His anger;
6 Who shakes the earth out of its place,
And its pillars tremble;
7 Who commands the sun not to shine,
And sets a seal upon the stars;
8 Who alone stretches out the heavens
And tramples down the waves of the sea;
9 Who makes the Bear, Orion and the Pleiades,
And the chambers of the south;
10 Who does great things, unfathomable,
And wondrous works without number.
11 “Were He to pass by me, I would not see Him;
Were He to move past me, I would not perceive Him.
12 “Were He to snatch away, who could restrain Him?
Who could say to Him, ‘What are You doing?’  (Job 9:5-12)


Who indeed! Enough deep thoughts for one day. Right now, I'm hoping I sleep tonight!

"My 2nd Baptism" by Guest Blogger Robert Hager

My dad, Robert Hager, known to many as Papa, has been writing stories for years. For a while, he taught a class about how to write your memoirs in the form of short stories. I thought it would be fun to occasionally feature one of his recollections. 

My Second Baptism by Robert Hager

     Sunday, December 7, 1941! My mother and I had attended Sunday School and the morning worship service at the Monroe St. Methodist Church in Toledo, Ohio. We walked home and ate Sunday dinner. Mother cleaned up the kitchen; then we went into the living room and turned on the radio to listen to the Longine Symphonette. Instead of the music, we heard the awful news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor which had begun about the time we were singing the closing hymn of the worship service.

     I was only fifteen and a half years old and I thought, regretfully, I'll never be in this war. It'll be over before I'm old enough to enlist. Of course, history proved me wrong. It took the Allied Forces nearly four years to overcome the determined Axis Powers, and on April 24, 1044, five days before my eighteenth birthday, I enlisted in the U.S. Navy. In late 1944 I was a Seaman 2/c aboard the U.S.S. Pelias, a submarine tender, anchored in Pearl Harbor in the Territory of Hawaii.

     By habit, but not much conviction, I attended the Sunday services led by Chaplain Frazee, a devout middle-aged Congregational minister from New England. Every Sunday he would lead us in singing the U.S. Navy hymn, "Eternal Father, Strong to Save." It became on of my favorite hymns, and still is, though it is seldom sung in civilian congregations.

Eternal Father, Strong to Save
   
    In addition to the Sunday morning service, I began to attend an informal Bible Study group because I was invited by a shipmate. We used material supplied by a Christian organization called The Navigators. The Navigators were very strong on Bible memorization. I began to realize that my Christian background, though long-standing, was weak, almost ephemeral. I had attended Sunday School and church all my life because that was what one did in my family, not because of any personal belief in the redemptive powers of Jesus Christ. One night shortly after Christmas of 1944, I said in the Bible Study Group, "I think a person accepts Christ gradually, over a period of time."

  Ray Piper, a study group member said, "Bob, a person accepts Christ, becomes a Christian, because he makes a God-led decision to do so, and a decision is made in an instant of time - not gradually." God had prepared me to hear exactly that kind of statement, and on December 29, 1944, a new name was written down in glory as I bowed my head and said, as St. Thomas did, "Yes, Lord, I believe."

     During the first week of January, 1945, the Pelias sailed for Midway Islands, two little sand piles nearly in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. After arriving at Midway, I began attending services led by Chaplain Nelson, a Captain in the U.S. Marine Corps, and a Southern Baptist from Alabama. Because of Chaplain Nelson's teaching, I came to believe that I should be baptized. I had already been baptized as an infant but that had been the choice of my parents. I felt now that I should make my own decision to be baptized following my earlier decision to commit myself to Christ.

     As the day of the baptismal service approached, I wondered more and more about how I would feel immediately after my baptism. Would I be euphoric? Would I hear angelic choirs? Would I see visions? Would I receive a startling revelation? Would the Spirit of God descend on me in the form of a dove? I thought I might even get a command from God to become a missionary or minister.

     It was a Sunday afternoon in the late Spring of 1945, shortly after my 19th birthday. It was cool and somewhat overcast. The sea was quite calm which made the baptizing easy for Chaplain Nelson. One by one, the men waded into the ocean to meet and be baptized by the chaplain. When I reached the chaplain, he put his arm around my shoulders and turned me to face the shore where the other participants were standing along with twenty or thirty additional worshipers.

     In a voice loud enough to be heard above the surf, Chaplain Nelson asked, "Seaman 1/C Robert William Hager, do you publicly confess that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that you have accepted Him as your Savior and Lord? And is it your intent to follow His commands and teachings and to live a godly life as the Holy Spirit enables you?"

     My answer came clearly and resolutely, "Yes, Sir."

     "Then," said the chaplain, "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." As he began the word, "Amen," he dipped me under the waters of the mighty Pacific Ocean, surely as thorough a baptism as any Methodist ever received.

     As he helped me to my feet, I thought, now, I'll find out how it feels, but all I felt was cold and wet. I was disappointed. That's it? Where was the euphoria? Why didn't I hear a command? How come the angelic choir missed its cue? I suppose I should have shared my questions with the chaplain, but I didn't. I continued to wrestle with them for a couple of weeks. I'm a slow learner. But, finally one day the light dawned on me. The foundational question was why didn't the experience of baptism match my expectations? The answer? I had faulty expectations.

     The basic reason for getting baptized was not to have some kind of emotional feeling, but to follow a biblical command to make a symbolic public statement of faith. The basic reason for getting baptized was simply to obey. I was at peace. Maybe I did receive a revelation after all, or at least some divine instruction.

   

My Sure Foundation

I read this verse the other morning and it was exactly what I needed. Think about it. "A sure foundation for MY times." I've been pondering retirement lately, or more accurately, the possibility that I will need to work until I keel over at my desk. I'm 62 and the reality is that I need to consider a few things and maybe do a little planning. When I was younger and married, I didn't give it any thought. However, there were certain assumptions made. We would have two incomes for quite a while, then two social security checks, Medicare, a small retirement account, and finally, the option to sell the property and buy something for cash.

My times have changed. Now there is one inadequate income, a future of only one social security check, no retirement account, and a property that could potentially provide for me when I lose my mind as long as I can sell at a reasonable price. Add to that all the controversy and turmoil with the whole medical insurance situation, civil unrest, the struggle that young families have to just survive...the list of worries is endless.

God expects me to be prudent. Trusting Him with my future doesn't mean just sitting down and waiting for a retirement plan to drift down from heaven. After all, death is the only retirement option that is guaranteed to provide for us forever. It's often hard, though, to be prudent and prepared but not cross over to anxious and controlling. Was I trusting in my husband's presence in my life? Was he my old age security blanket? I wasn't conscience of that but maybe I was a bit. At least I wasn't going to be in the struggle alone. But now...?

Yesterday, I heard about a young couple that had money in the bank, cars paid for, good jobs, etc. Then one night they were hit head-on by a drunk driver who had almost no insurance. In the blink of an eye, their lives changed. They were devastated both physically and financially. No amount of planning could have prevented the tragedy. They needed a sure foundation. I need a sure foundation.

I don't have a husband anymore but I am most definitely not alone. In fact, even when I was married, my husband wasn't the foundation on which I should have been basing my life. We are all sinners. Consequently, we all let each other down at times. God is the only foundation on which I can depend. And as if His salvation isn't enough, He also promises "a rich store of wisdom and knowledge." The Bible calls these three things, salvation, wisdom, and knowledge, our "treasure". And, since, I am not the brightest bulb in the box, the Bible even tells me the key to unlock this treasure:  the fear of the Lord, meaning, a reverence, an awe, a respect, a knowing of our God.

So, in these days, when I wonder how I will survive when I'm 75 years old, when I question how I will avoid throwing myself on the mercies of my daughters, when I panic about retirement, I need this verse. I must constantly remember that He is the foundation for my times. I need nothing else. I can completely trust Him to care for me until He decides to release me from the confines and stresses of this world. I need to immerse myself in His Word so that I can unlock this precious treasure.

This isn't easy for me. For too long, I have made it my mission to fix and take care of everybody from my dad to my kids to the family dog. I do some good things. I also drive people crazy. Most importantly, I lose the peace that comes when God is acknowledged as my foundation. He never changes. He always was and always will be my sure foundation. This is truth and it will continue to be truth no matter how I behave. I need to live what I believe. I can't do it under my own power but my gracious God will enable and strengthen and carry me.

Praise God! You are my sure foundation!