Broken Alabaster Boxes

When we were children, my brothers had a trap line. And I don't mean a trap line in the house to catch those horrid mice, though we had that too. But a real trap line. With real conibears and leg holds. They spent hours walking. And sometimes I would go with them. It was no feat for the faint of heart, at least coming from a child's perspective. We walked on a narrow trail packed through the snow. It wound through the peat moss swamp, around evergreens heavy with snow. Trudging through the forest, we were careful not to disturb anything unnecessarily, careful not to break any twig. Craters in the snow showed where big branches shook loose, sending their burdens hurling down with a wump. We called them elephant prints. Eyes searching the snow-covered ground, we found evidenced weasels, pine-martins, and the ever-present rabbits. It was cold. The trap line must be walked every day despite the weather. The trail must be re-broken if it snowed. My brother carried a backpa...

My day, busy. My life, a little stressed. And a way to relax, a good book. And since the day was hard, the default is to gravitate towards a book that requires less thought. Something that amuses, that entertains, that does not demand the use of tired brain cells. So a book is chosen to relax, to entertain, to soothe the tired mind. But when I lay my head on my pillow, I do not look forward to the next day, refreshed and encouraged. Rather I shut my eyes with a weary sigh. What I thought would entertain me, would amuse me, did just that. But it did not feed me. The book was not wrong. But it did not challenge a closer walk with Christ. So rather, I choose a book that requires more thought, more mental exertion. But most importantly, it pushes me towards Christ. And in the morning, I rise, more ready to face the day. What books have you read that pushed you closer to Christ? What are your thoughts on wise book choices?

In reaching to the hurting lost there is a danger. A danger that perhaps I will become like them. Immersed in the bitterness, the selfishness, the sin, At times I feel surrounded in darkness. Yet perhaps harder than myself being in that darkness, Is seeing a brother or sister shining their light in the thick of the dark. I ache because I understand the temptations. I cringe because I know the tug. Even though I understand it’s their battle, I want to pull them away, protect them. But I can’t. I want the darkness to abate. I want to know they will not fall. Yet how can light shine unless it is faced with darkness? How can Christ make a difference if they do not tell? I worry about them in the darkness they face, But yet I think myself able to face my darkness. Am I more able than my brother? Do I truly think I can walk and not stumble? So I pray, for me and my brother. Not to be strong, But to see more...

I actually wrote this earlier this summer. Yet it still leaves an ache when I read it. "Father, help me be faithful!" A young man came into work early one morning. Throughout his entire order he was constantly moving, restless. He could not be still for one moment. As he walked across the yard with his completed order, he zigzagged, unable to walk in a straight line. The phrase came to me, "a soul in torment." He didn't look much older than me. Already cracked on drugs. He seemed tortured, unable to get away. "Oh Father, have mercy on his soul." And then a cheerful man in drive-through the same day. And talking to him, he said he's perfectly healthy, except his head, the inside, his soul. "Jesus can heal that," I thought, but I hesitated, and didn't say it. I missed a wonderful opportunity. I had the chance, yet I left another soul in torment.

Winter. Cold. Dark. Daunting. A struggle against the elements of nature. The wind pushing, pulling, tearing at you. Shrieking, as a person, determined to claim you. The cold, menancing in its intensity. Stalking the unprepared, bidding it's time to snatch the ignorant. The evenings, dark, quiet. The days grey and gloomy, sky pressing down. It feels as though it takes all your determination to simply live. Winter in the north. Yet is there not a blessing in the winter? Is there not something to praise God for? When you begin to count, you find a charm in the winter. Stark white poplar against evergreen. The lazy drift of snowflakes. Nights filled with the noise of Kids Club. Cheerful socks. Evenings spent reading. Birds devouring seed. Warm sweaters. Delicious hot drinks. Leisure time to create gifts. Light spilling out into the dark cold as we hurry in for supper. A comforting bowl of steaming soup. Hockey, breath...

It was a new place. A different group of people. A community who was unknown. And the mother had been made aware of the stark difference between her child and theirs. She struggled. She cried. She hurt. They had art class together, the children did, and her daughter participated with her age group. The children stared and wondered. They were not unfriendly. But neither were they friendly. They were not purposefully hurtful, but in excluding, they hurt. And the mother heart hurt for her daughter. The day over, the children were directed to find their pieces of art drying on a table to take home. Beautiful black and white silhouettes of wolves, noses stretched upward, and graceful horses, ears alert. The mother searched for her daughters picture among the many paintings. Where was it? Then suddenly she saw it. How could she have missed it? It was a mirage of colors. No pattern. No design. No beautiful picture. A mess of paint. The mother heart cried out. Could not s...

She gave us the recipe, written out in her own hand. And we’ve made them dozens of times, measuring, stirring, scooping; the warm smell enveloping the house, the delicious chocolate morsels enveloped in cookie dough tempting. But they never taste quite like hers. “What do you do, Grandma?” we ask. “I just follow the recipe,” she replies. So, we follow the recipe. Exactly. Yet somehow they still taste different. It's just a small variation. Yet it's difference is huge. Maybe it’s the brand of ingredients she buys. Maybe it’s the quality of flour. Or maybe it’s Grandma, her loving hands dumping ingredients, stirring together, shaping the dough, and finally removing the delicious cookies from the oven to be served to her eager grandchildren. And we savor the scrumptious cookies. Grandma’s cookies.