O Lord, You know we finally relegated our ancient phones, along with our landline, to the trash. OMG, I’m so glad You and Your love are the same as when I gabbed on the 1967 Princess Phone my parents unwisely allowed in my bedroom.
Jesus, so glad You traveled with me to Louisiana, where I was blown away by an excellent writing conference in New Orleans; bayous, sugar cane fields and shrimp po’ boys in Cajun country; and fun times with piney woods cousins. And thank You that, despite my superpower for getting lost, I kept one step ahead of the hurricane … mostly.
Image by Clkr-Free-Vector Images by Pixabay
Jesus, You Know our washer roars like a rocket launch during its spin cycle.
Our microwave’s “done” beep sounds like a threefold BLEEP.
Our car’s alarm probably will never go off amid a theft; no, it brays like a dinosaur-sized donkey whenever my husband dares pull a quarter from his pocket.
OMG, how can I be still and know You
when my world won’t shut up?
Some elementary classmates considered choir cruel and unusual punishment. Not me. Although stuck in the back row because of my height, I didn’t permit boys’ cooties to lessen my joy in music. I grew up singing.
As an adult, I directed my church choir. We developed spiritual closeness and musical mental telepathy … that didn’t transfer to sitting/standing together. I’ve never seen another choir do the wave every Sunday. Still, we sang with gladness and authenticity.
After moving, my husband and I joined a large church with a bigger choir and classically trained director. How I missed old friends! But now I didn’t direct while belting out alto and/or tenor to compensate for members lost to the flu du jour. I sang my natural soprano!
However, our director discovered my past. Would I substitute for him? I attempted the game all God’s people, beginning with Moses, play: Ask Somebody Else.
Other directors weren’t available.
The director believed in miracles. He also promised his compassionate pianist would cover my back.
O-kay.
What to wear? Often, seams split and zippers opened as I conducted. In the past, arm motion sent shoulder pads traveling. Once, I appeared to grow a bust on my back.
Wardrobe decided, I caught cold. While I directed, would God send an angel to wipe my nose?
What if singers didn’t show? Without them, I was only a crazy woman waving her arms.
They came, though. A row of Bach’s descendants gave me the eye.
We practiced well, but questions erupted about missing music, standing up, sitting down …
“Only God is infinite.” I answered. “Ask Him!”
When I stepped up to direct, congregational eyebrows rose. But it wasn’t about me. Or anyone else.
We worshipped an audience of One: Jesus. All who lifted heartfelt praises to Christ belonged.
In His choir, nobody has cooties.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you deal with feelings of inadequacy?
Jesus, You know that I love getting 50 percent off chocolate bunnnies.
Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay.
Even better, though, on this Monday after Easter: OMG, knowing You are alive!
Image by Arnie Bragg from Pixabay.
Does your family celebrate Easter in traditional ways?
My siblings and I hid Easter eggs so well, truants were located weeks later by their potent odor. We awoke to yummy treats … in our polished shoes. Years before, Mom had possessed only pennies to spend on Easter. Having poured out frustrations in prayer — Mom talked to Jesus about everything — she recalled reading about Dutch children receiving Christmas candy in their shoes and nested jelly beans in ours.
My father, a pastor, celebrated Easter wholeheartedly, his bass voice leading “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today,” “He Arose” and … “Joy to the World.”
I thought everyone sang that hymn at Easter. As a teen, though, I realized other churchgoers sang it only at Christmas. I kept our odd custom a deep, dark secret, hoping no Easter visitors knew me.
Fast-forward 20 years. My children and I dyed eggs, their clothes and mine. One helpful toddler knew egg-zackly what to do with eggs.
Crack them.
Our family could afford Easter baskets. Repeating the story of their grandma’s faith, though, I filled my kids’ shoes with grass, chocolate bunnies and jelly beans.
My grandchildren still receive Easter treats in their shoes and hear of their great-grandmother’s prayer. They will dye Easter eggs — and their clothes. Our congregation will sing “Christ the Lord Is Risen Today” and “He Arose.”
Joy to the World”? Probably not.
I’ll save that hymn for a visit to our parents’ graves. I didn’t want them to die. They weren’t crazy about the idea, either. But because Jesus came alive again, they will too. Someday, we’ll all be together with Him.
Joy to the world! To all who believe in Jesus’ Resurrection.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you celebrate Easter?
Wow, Jesus, our politicians feel as if they’re being crucified this election year, but their pressures can’t begin to match those of Your last days. Unlike them, You could have zapped Your enemies with a wave of Your hand. Instead, OMG, You gave Your life for their sins — and mine.
Protest image by Bruce Emmerling from Pixabay. Christ image by marinas32 from Pixabay.
Jesus, our pear tree seems out of sync with most flowering trees. Every spring, it insists on producing scrawny, green leaves first and luxuriant flowers later. ??? OMG, I’m so thankful that when I, too, get life backwards, You still help me bloom.
Jesus, thank You for brave pastors who preach to cranky congregations the day we spring forward. Because, OMG, if I were a minister, I’d be tempted to refuse until every member had consumed at least two espressos and a giant jelly doughnut.
Image by Günter from Pixabay.
Image by Wikimedia Images from Pixabay.
Jesus, thank You for presidents who, while far from perfect, have served our country in more ways than we can imagine.
Washington image by OpenClipart Vectors from Pixabay. Lincoln image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay.
But, OMG, contemplating this year’s election, I’m glad You are King!
Image by Raca C. from Pixabay.