Congratulations to the Class of 2011. You have probably anticipated this moment for a very long time. The years devoted to your education will be crowned with a well deserved degree, and as soon as that paper is in your hand, your parents will likely breathe a huge sigh of relief. While you may view this day as an end to your education, I pray it is only a step to the next level of learning.
A recent survey revealed that one-third of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives, 42 percent of college graduates never read another book after college, and 80 percent of U.S. families did not buy or read a book last year. I hope the Class of 2011 does their job to improve these statistics. Be good stewards of the brain God issued to you, and never stop learning. Above all, place the Word of God on your "Must Read" list of books.
Of the many students who will cross a stage, accept a diploma, and turn a tassel during graduation ceremonies this year, I am blessed to know several, and have not neglected to pray for each of them. One of these new high-school graduates is my next door neighbor, and niece, Tiffani Serven. I'll let you read the note I'm putting in the envelope with her gift.
Dear Tiffani,
Thank you for the graduation picture. Lauren has already taped it to a kitchen cabinet. It's a beautiful photo, and just as good as the many others taken throughout the years. That collection includes class, volleyball, cheerleading, wedding, family reunion and prom pictures. And although I love each and every tangible and artfully captured treasure, the pictures I have in my mind are the ones I see when I think of you. These are the scenes I hope to forever hold in my heart, for it's there that I still see you and Victoria playing volleyball in the pool, sitting at the table eating chicken fajitas, crashed out in my bed after a long day at school, jumping on the trampoline, running after the ice cream man, working on an art project, inventing a new recipe, experimenting with a pottery wheel, and finding me in PJs to talk me into letting y'all buy a fish. However, even more than I cherish the past, I anticipate your future. You have been fully prepared academically and trained in the character of Christ.
Remember the time Victoria broke her arm? Not when she was in Kindergarten, ran up the high slide the wrong way, and fell off when a student came sliding down. It was the year before; she fell while climbing in the gym. After surgery, and a night in the hospital, I brought her home and set her up on the couch. You walked into the living room holding your latest gift, a puppy named Sable, carefully placed Sable in Victoria's good arm and left her there to comfort your cousin.
As you walk into your future, you do so fully equipped with many God-given gifts. I pray you use those gifts in service to God and to the people with whom He graces your life. Continue to bring comfort into lives which have been broken. Speak strength into the weary. Encourage the exhausted, and urge them to hold on to hope. And as you walk, know that my prayers surround you.
I love you forever,
Aunt Ronny.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Age!
It's official. I am now 52 years old. Maybe it's just me, but it sounds so much older than 51. It's okay though, really. I don't mind talking about, or revealing, my age.
My youngest child, Victoria, used to hate to talk about her age. For several months prior to her sixth birthday, she insisted she was already six years old. One day, after I corrected her and reminded her that she was only five, she ran to her oldest sister and pleaded, "Monique, Momma thinks I'm five, but I know I'm six. I've been counting my birthdays."
My husband does not enjoy talking about age. I’ll never forget a conversation we had many years ago. It was one month after I finished chemotherapy. We were celebrating his birthday when he glumly asked, “Don’t you get depressed about getting older?”
“Depressed?” I shouted. “I’ve been fighting for the past year for the privilege of getting older!”
No, I’m not depressed about getting older. I’m 52 and even if I would for a minute try to deny it, the mirror, and the many pairs of reading glasses that I have strategically placed throughout my home, would scream otherwise. I’m so thankful that I didn’t die at 33. And if getting older did sadden me, I would never tell that to my sister-in-law, whose nephew lost his battle against chicken pox when he was only four years of age. Nor would I tell my Dad, whose friend's son died during his high school football practice. And I wouldn’t dare tell the mother of one of my students, whose husband, the father of her seven young children, was killed. The list of people whose lives have been tragically cut short is endless. I refuse to complain about getting older; it’s a blessing.
I want to squeeze all of the life that I can out of each day of the additional years that I’ve been granted. I’m determined to live this life to the fullest. There are no ordinary days for me, every day holds something extraordinary if I just open my eyes and look for it.
Whatever your age, celebrate; and celebrate the ages of those around you! I love the children, for their energy and enthusiasm invigorates me. I love the young adults. In them, I see parts of my past and I am flooded with memories of life when Monique and Geoff were my babies. And I especially love those who have journeyed on this path of life a little longer than I have. They know where the road may twist and turn and where the potholes may lie. If I stay close and gleam from their wisdom I am sure to learn something.
May God grant more years to your life and more life to your years
My youngest child, Victoria, used to hate to talk about her age. For several months prior to her sixth birthday, she insisted she was already six years old. One day, after I corrected her and reminded her that she was only five, she ran to her oldest sister and pleaded, "Monique, Momma thinks I'm five, but I know I'm six. I've been counting my birthdays."
My husband does not enjoy talking about age. I’ll never forget a conversation we had many years ago. It was one month after I finished chemotherapy. We were celebrating his birthday when he glumly asked, “Don’t you get depressed about getting older?”
“Depressed?” I shouted. “I’ve been fighting for the past year for the privilege of getting older!”
No, I’m not depressed about getting older. I’m 52 and even if I would for a minute try to deny it, the mirror, and the many pairs of reading glasses that I have strategically placed throughout my home, would scream otherwise. I’m so thankful that I didn’t die at 33. And if getting older did sadden me, I would never tell that to my sister-in-law, whose nephew lost his battle against chicken pox when he was only four years of age. Nor would I tell my Dad, whose friend's son died during his high school football practice. And I wouldn’t dare tell the mother of one of my students, whose husband, the father of her seven young children, was killed. The list of people whose lives have been tragically cut short is endless. I refuse to complain about getting older; it’s a blessing.
I want to squeeze all of the life that I can out of each day of the additional years that I’ve been granted. I’m determined to live this life to the fullest. There are no ordinary days for me, every day holds something extraordinary if I just open my eyes and look for it.
Whatever your age, celebrate; and celebrate the ages of those around you! I love the children, for their energy and enthusiasm invigorates me. I love the young adults. In them, I see parts of my past and I am flooded with memories of life when Monique and Geoff were my babies. And I especially love those who have journeyed on this path of life a little longer than I have. They know where the road may twist and turn and where the potholes may lie. If I stay close and gleam from their wisdom I am sure to learn something.
May God grant more years to your life and more life to your years
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Lens of God's Love
"What do you want for your birthday and Mother's Day?"
I hate that question, but I do understand it. Because I've probably returned as many gifts from my husband as I've kept, Michael has become quite apprehensive before expending any energy in buying gifts for me. What he does not know is that I am now committed to a 'no return' policy. I will keep, use, and appreciate any and every gift he takes his time to select. However, thinking I would save him time and money, I answered, "Nothing. I really don't need a thing." And I meant it.
Michael left the house in search of a new grill, which he is unfortunately buying too early for me to pawn off as a Father's Day gift. A few hours later, he found me on the patio. "Guess what I bought for your birthday?" He grinned while holding a Cabela's bag.
"Well, I hope it's fudge. That's the only thing I want from Cabela's, and I think fudge is a wonderful birthday gift."
"Sunglasses!" he announced.
"Oh, no," I groaned, totally dismissing my new pledge to appreciate all gifts.
"But these are different…" he began.
"Save it," I said, stopping him before he launched into full salesman mode. "No matter what you've read, somehow I will scratch them. Or sit on them. Or lose them."
"Not if you keep them…"
"I know. I know… in the special brown pouch…" I said. We've played out this scene before.
"It's not just a pouch. Look. You can use it to clean the lenses."
I tried on the sunglasses before simply and honestly saying, "Thank you."
A couple of days later, Monique asked me, via facebook, what I wanted for Mother's Day. I guess she forgot about my birthday. The first thing that came to my mind was fried pickles. (Let's just totally ignore the fact that fudge and fried pickles rank high on my wish list.) In response to my daughter's question I answered, "I would like fried pickles from the Wharf in Orange Beach, Alabama." Monique has not yet issued a response to my request.
In the meantime, I've been wearing my new sunglasses. What a difference from the ones I usually wear. These filter the glare and improve the visual quality. My new sunglasses literally change the way I see things.
Much more important than sunglasses is the lens through which I view life. I tend to look through the proverbial rose colored glasses, which casts a cheerful and optimistic view on even the worst of situations. I don't wish to look through a magnifying lens, exaggerating faults, and focusing on the smallest of defects. Mother Teresa said, "If you judge people, you have no time to love them."
Speaking of love, perhaps that would offer the best view of all, looking at people through the lens of God's love. His love cuts out the glare of my judgment, gives me a more realistic view of the situation, and improves the way I see things. That's it! I'm going to remind myself to look at life through love every time I reach for my new sunglasses.
And speaking of sunglasses, the next time I hear from Monique I will offer her the use of my new pair. She may need them for the drive to Alabama.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com.
I hate that question, but I do understand it. Because I've probably returned as many gifts from my husband as I've kept, Michael has become quite apprehensive before expending any energy in buying gifts for me. What he does not know is that I am now committed to a 'no return' policy. I will keep, use, and appreciate any and every gift he takes his time to select. However, thinking I would save him time and money, I answered, "Nothing. I really don't need a thing." And I meant it.
Michael left the house in search of a new grill, which he is unfortunately buying too early for me to pawn off as a Father's Day gift. A few hours later, he found me on the patio. "Guess what I bought for your birthday?" He grinned while holding a Cabela's bag.
"Well, I hope it's fudge. That's the only thing I want from Cabela's, and I think fudge is a wonderful birthday gift."
"Sunglasses!" he announced.
"Oh, no," I groaned, totally dismissing my new pledge to appreciate all gifts.
"But these are different…" he began.
"Save it," I said, stopping him before he launched into full salesman mode. "No matter what you've read, somehow I will scratch them. Or sit on them. Or lose them."
"Not if you keep them…"
"I know. I know… in the special brown pouch…" I said. We've played out this scene before.
"It's not just a pouch. Look. You can use it to clean the lenses."
I tried on the sunglasses before simply and honestly saying, "Thank you."
A couple of days later, Monique asked me, via facebook, what I wanted for Mother's Day. I guess she forgot about my birthday. The first thing that came to my mind was fried pickles. (Let's just totally ignore the fact that fudge and fried pickles rank high on my wish list.) In response to my daughter's question I answered, "I would like fried pickles from the Wharf in Orange Beach, Alabama." Monique has not yet issued a response to my request.
In the meantime, I've been wearing my new sunglasses. What a difference from the ones I usually wear. These filter the glare and improve the visual quality. My new sunglasses literally change the way I see things.
Much more important than sunglasses is the lens through which I view life. I tend to look through the proverbial rose colored glasses, which casts a cheerful and optimistic view on even the worst of situations. I don't wish to look through a magnifying lens, exaggerating faults, and focusing on the smallest of defects. Mother Teresa said, "If you judge people, you have no time to love them."
Speaking of love, perhaps that would offer the best view of all, looking at people through the lens of God's love. His love cuts out the glare of my judgment, gives me a more realistic view of the situation, and improves the way I see things. That's it! I'm going to remind myself to look at life through love every time I reach for my new sunglasses.
And speaking of sunglasses, the next time I hear from Monique I will offer her the use of my new pair. She may need them for the drive to Alabama.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mother's Day
I expected groans of disapproval as I informed my family of my desire to attend the early church service on Easter. When they readily agreed, I still wondered if we'd make it on time. Despite my lack of confidence in my three youngest girls, we pulled out of the driveway closer to 8:00 a.m. than I had anticipated. Lauren did cause a slight delay. She hates wrinkled clothes and refused to put on her blue linen dress until the rest of us were headed to the car. I believe people who hate wrinkled clothing should stick to polyester, but because I choose my battles, I said nothing. Besides, I was still celebrating my victory of getting them to the early service.
Elise quickly climbed into the third seat and closed her eyes. I expected the same from Victoria. Instead she asked, "Is it weird to have kids?"
"You mean to give birth?" I wondered.
"No. To have them around. To see them. To talk to someone who came out of you. Who started as a tiny speck and is now living around you. What does that feel like?"
As I turned to talk to Victoria, I became a little distracted by Lauren. She was looking in Michael's rearview mirror, arranging and rearranging her necklace, and fluffing her hair.
I thought of what it was like to watch a piece of my heart walk and talk and move independently from me. To be overwhelmed by the desperate desire to prevent a child from repeating my mistakes, to experience the burden of trying to download everything I think I know, painfully realizing they just might make mistakes of their own, and praying their gradual independence from me will lead to a lifelong, growing dependence upon God.
In the midst of all of these thoughts and emotions, the only words to come out of my mouth were, "Wow. I never thought about it like that. It is weird to have kids." I'm now embarrassed that this was the best I could do.
Motherhood! Nothing I've done has been more difficult, or more rewarding. Fortunately I've been blessed with an excellent role model, for my own mother is patient, loving, and unselfish, not just with her family, but with everyone she knows.
Many of us will spend the coming days in search of the perfect gift to express our love for our mothers. May I suggest you share your heart with her through a letter? Not a text message or a facebook post, but a real handwritten, heartfelt note of appreciation. If the relationship needs mending, attempt to do so before any more time elapses. If your mother is already gone, write a note to a young mother in need of encouragement. You may even want to thank someone who has been a mother figure to you.
And to all mothers, I want to remind you that motherhood is, without question, the most important job in the world. From the moment of your child’s conception, you have accepted the responsibility to care for their miraculous life.
A mother has the incredible challenge to be available to their children 24 hours of every day. A wise woman realizes this task is impossible without God’s continual assistance, and she seeks His guidance daily. No one but God realizes the amount of time and energy you put into raising your children, and only He can equip you for this lifelong commitment.
I honor you for the job you’re doing with your children. But I know your impact reaches far past your own family. You often go beyond your borders and touch the lives of all of the children you love… nieces, nephews, grandchildren, students, children of friends and your neighbor’s children, as well.
I want to speak for them, for all of the children you have mothered, and thank you for a job well done. I want to stand, representing them, and applaud your unselfish and often sacrificial gifts of time, energy, love, and, yes, money. And I want to kneel in their place and ask our Father to strengthen you, to energize you, to fill you and allow you to overflow with His love, joy, peace, mercy, wisdom, and blessings.
I know I'm a little early, but I'd like to be the first to wish you a Happy Mother's Day. Psalm 127:3 beautifully declares, "children are a gift of the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward." May God continue to pour out His grace on all mothers as we daily care for our precious gifts.
Oh, and if I could have a redo with Victoria, I'd simply say, "Having kids is wonderful; watching Lauren get ready for church is weird."
Elise quickly climbed into the third seat and closed her eyes. I expected the same from Victoria. Instead she asked, "Is it weird to have kids?"
"You mean to give birth?" I wondered.
"No. To have them around. To see them. To talk to someone who came out of you. Who started as a tiny speck and is now living around you. What does that feel like?"
As I turned to talk to Victoria, I became a little distracted by Lauren. She was looking in Michael's rearview mirror, arranging and rearranging her necklace, and fluffing her hair.
I thought of what it was like to watch a piece of my heart walk and talk and move independently from me. To be overwhelmed by the desperate desire to prevent a child from repeating my mistakes, to experience the burden of trying to download everything I think I know, painfully realizing they just might make mistakes of their own, and praying their gradual independence from me will lead to a lifelong, growing dependence upon God.
In the midst of all of these thoughts and emotions, the only words to come out of my mouth were, "Wow. I never thought about it like that. It is weird to have kids." I'm now embarrassed that this was the best I could do.
Motherhood! Nothing I've done has been more difficult, or more rewarding. Fortunately I've been blessed with an excellent role model, for my own mother is patient, loving, and unselfish, not just with her family, but with everyone she knows.
Many of us will spend the coming days in search of the perfect gift to express our love for our mothers. May I suggest you share your heart with her through a letter? Not a text message or a facebook post, but a real handwritten, heartfelt note of appreciation. If the relationship needs mending, attempt to do so before any more time elapses. If your mother is already gone, write a note to a young mother in need of encouragement. You may even want to thank someone who has been a mother figure to you.
And to all mothers, I want to remind you that motherhood is, without question, the most important job in the world. From the moment of your child’s conception, you have accepted the responsibility to care for their miraculous life.
A mother has the incredible challenge to be available to their children 24 hours of every day. A wise woman realizes this task is impossible without God’s continual assistance, and she seeks His guidance daily. No one but God realizes the amount of time and energy you put into raising your children, and only He can equip you for this lifelong commitment.
I honor you for the job you’re doing with your children. But I know your impact reaches far past your own family. You often go beyond your borders and touch the lives of all of the children you love… nieces, nephews, grandchildren, students, children of friends and your neighbor’s children, as well.
I want to speak for them, for all of the children you have mothered, and thank you for a job well done. I want to stand, representing them, and applaud your unselfish and often sacrificial gifts of time, energy, love, and, yes, money. And I want to kneel in their place and ask our Father to strengthen you, to energize you, to fill you and allow you to overflow with His love, joy, peace, mercy, wisdom, and blessings.
I know I'm a little early, but I'd like to be the first to wish you a Happy Mother's Day. Psalm 127:3 beautifully declares, "children are a gift of the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward." May God continue to pour out His grace on all mothers as we daily care for our precious gifts.
Oh, and if I could have a redo with Victoria, I'd simply say, "Having kids is wonderful; watching Lauren get ready for church is weird."
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Easter 2011
Although my Grandmother always told me to wait until after Easter to plant flowers, this year I couldn't resist. Justifying myself because Easter is at the end of April, my backyard is already filled with my favorite flowers. I couldn't wait.
Another temptation I've had difficulty resisting is the large glass canister of jelly beans on my kitchen table. I thought it would make a pretty display. It just looks a little different now that I've picked out most of the yellow and orange jelly beans.
While I reserve this time of the year for planting spring flowers and eating more candy than I should, I don’t wait for it to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus. That’s something I think of daily. As a child, I never understood why it was necessary for Jesus to die. I had a difficult time wrapping my mind around the idea of a sinless man dying a brutal death. Now, when I think of Easter, my thoughts go back to the Garden of Eden.
Created in the image of God and clothed with His Glory, Adam and Eve were naked and unashamed. Once they disobeyed God, they realized their nakedness. Their guilt brought shame so they attempted to clothe themselves with fig leaves, and then tried to hide from the presence of God.
Before banishing them from the Garden, God made them garments from the skin of animals. Animals were sacrificed to cover for the guilt and shame brought on by the sin of Adam and Eve. For many years after that, people sacrificed animals to atone for their sins, while prophets predicted God would send a Messiah to redeem man.
John the Baptist introduced Jesus as the Lamb of God Who takes away the sins of the world. God had sent His Son to be the sacrifice for the sins of the people. Although tempted in every area, Jesus was without sin, yet He willingly became the final sacrifice for our sins. “He Himself bore our sins in His body on the cross, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness; for by His wounds you were healed.” I Peter 2:24
I could make a lengthy list of the sins from which I’ve been forgiven, the sicknesses from which I’ve been healed, and the freedom I’ve found from financial difficulties, fear, and mental torment, all as a result of Jesus’ sacrifice. As difficult as each one was to bear in my life, they were spread out over a fifty-one year period. What astounds me is that Jesus bore not only the contents of my list, but the lists of everyone at one time. This is a pain I cannot imagine, endured by a Savior I will not deny.
Although my sins were enough to nail Jesus to the cross, they couldn’t keep Him there. Easter Sunday marks His triumph over death. May we daily experience the results of His sacrifice, and live in the freedom He so willingly purchased for us.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
Another temptation I've had difficulty resisting is the large glass canister of jelly beans on my kitchen table. I thought it would make a pretty display. It just looks a little different now that I've picked out most of the yellow and orange jelly beans.
While I reserve this time of the year for planting spring flowers and eating more candy than I should, I don’t wait for it to celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus. That’s something I think of daily. As a child, I never understood why it was necessary for Jesus to die. I had a difficult time wrapping my mind around the idea of a sinless man dying a brutal death. Now, when I think of Easter, my thoughts go back to the Garden of Eden.
Created in the image of God and clothed with His Glory, Adam and Eve were naked and unashamed. Once they disobeyed God, they realized their nakedness. Their guilt brought shame so they attempted to clothe themselves with fig leaves, and then tried to hide from the presence of God.
Before banishing them from the Garden, God made them garments from the skin of animals. Animals were sacrificed to cover for the guilt and shame brought on by the sin of Adam and Eve. For many years after that, people sacrificed animals to atone for their sins, while prophets predicted God would send a Messiah to redeem man.
John the Baptist introduced Jesus as the Lamb of God Who takes away the sins of the world. God had sent His Son to be the sacrifice for the sins of the people. Although tempted in every area, Jesus was without sin, yet He willingly became the final sacrifice for our sins. “He Himself bore our sins in His body on the cross, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness; for by His wounds you were healed.” I Peter 2:24
I could make a lengthy list of the sins from which I’ve been forgiven, the sicknesses from which I’ve been healed, and the freedom I’ve found from financial difficulties, fear, and mental torment, all as a result of Jesus’ sacrifice. As difficult as each one was to bear in my life, they were spread out over a fifty-one year period. What astounds me is that Jesus bore not only the contents of my list, but the lists of everyone at one time. This is a pain I cannot imagine, endured by a Savior I will not deny.
Although my sins were enough to nail Jesus to the cross, they couldn’t keep Him there. Easter Sunday marks His triumph over death. May we daily experience the results of His sacrifice, and live in the freedom He so willingly purchased for us.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Baseball... and Life
I'm not going to say sports are important to my family, but before making an appointment for her surgery, my Dad asked my Mom to consult the baseball schedule. There's just something about baseball that I love. You start from home with the intention of rounding the bases. To do so means you must face everything the opposition throws at you. Curve balls, fast balls, sliders. They all come flying as you attempt to bat that ball as far away from you as possible. When you do, your teammates cheer as you venture away from home and run out to make your mark. All the while, the other team still attempts to put you out of the game. Your goal? To make it back home safely, where your teammates run to greet you.
During a recent baseball game, my Dad approached me with a question. "Do you want to come with me to Fountainebleau Treatment Center tonight? Mrs. Lola is bringing some of the ladies from the prayer group." Although I had gone to the park with the intention of staying for two games, I welcomed the opportunity to watch my Dad minister to the men at the treatment center, and to visit with the ladies.
Mrs. Lola Mahler started the St. Francis of Assisi prayer group thirteen years ago. These devout women meet every Sunday evening to pray for many people, including my parents, and the ministry of Get High on Life. Seven members of the group were taking the ninety minute trip to Fountainbleau and they were bringing food. Dirty rice, corn, biscuits, 200 pieces of Popeye's fried chicken, and more desserts than I can name. Yes! The decision to accompany them was an easy one.
As I sat at the treatment center and listened to another of my Dad's inspiring talks, I wasn't just impressed by the words, but by the sincerity, love, and commitment he has for the people at Fountainebleau. He speaks with the same excitement and zeal he exhibited when he first started his weekly trips there, over seventeen years ago.
Just as impressive to me was the prayer group. They were attentive during the meeting, served food until not one more man could eat one more bite, then visited and encouraged many of the clients who are seeking to better themselves, and eventually return home. As they went about talking to men, I thought of the prayer the ladies pray at their own weekly meeting.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.
"O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen."
As I watched them interact, I realized these ladies don't just pray the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, they live it out. By interceding for the people at Fountainebleau, they have placed themselves on the same team. They pray for them to be successful, to be able to handle the temptations thrown their way, and for them to eventually make it home safely. And if I am allowed just one more baseball analogy, may I say that last week, my Dad and the St. Francis prayer group knocked it out of the park.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
During a recent baseball game, my Dad approached me with a question. "Do you want to come with me to Fountainebleau Treatment Center tonight? Mrs. Lola is bringing some of the ladies from the prayer group." Although I had gone to the park with the intention of staying for two games, I welcomed the opportunity to watch my Dad minister to the men at the treatment center, and to visit with the ladies.
Mrs. Lola Mahler started the St. Francis of Assisi prayer group thirteen years ago. These devout women meet every Sunday evening to pray for many people, including my parents, and the ministry of Get High on Life. Seven members of the group were taking the ninety minute trip to Fountainbleau and they were bringing food. Dirty rice, corn, biscuits, 200 pieces of Popeye's fried chicken, and more desserts than I can name. Yes! The decision to accompany them was an easy one.
As I sat at the treatment center and listened to another of my Dad's inspiring talks, I wasn't just impressed by the words, but by the sincerity, love, and commitment he has for the people at Fountainebleau. He speaks with the same excitement and zeal he exhibited when he first started his weekly trips there, over seventeen years ago.
Just as impressive to me was the prayer group. They were attentive during the meeting, served food until not one more man could eat one more bite, then visited and encouraged many of the clients who are seeking to better themselves, and eventually return home. As they went about talking to men, I thought of the prayer the ladies pray at their own weekly meeting.
"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; and where there is sadness, joy.
"O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen."
As I watched them interact, I realized these ladies don't just pray the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, they live it out. By interceding for the people at Fountainebleau, they have placed themselves on the same team. They pray for them to be successful, to be able to handle the temptations thrown their way, and for them to eventually make it home safely. And if I am allowed just one more baseball analogy, may I say that last week, my Dad and the St. Francis prayer group knocked it out of the park.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Painting Party
"Hey, are you going to the painting party?" read the text from my friend, Beth Hitt. I was anxious to attend, but reluctant to go alone, so I quickly made plans to join her.
In the meantime, I convinced myself that surely we would be given a stencil of the fleur de lis to trace. I should have spent the time convincing Bonnie McKenney, the art teacher, for when I arrived at the class, I found no stencils, but I did find some great company. Joining Beth and I was her mother-in-law, Rosemary Hitt, and sisters-in-law, Rachael Hitt and Margo Brockman. Margo's daughter, Amanda, and her friend, Margaret Hassell were also there, as was Rachael's friend, Mrs. Frances Troxler. My Mom, Aunt Judy, and my sister, Ann, showed up, too, but our group was not exclusively female. Joey Brady and Eddie Jouty completed this anxious group of artists. "It's like a family reunion," Rachael said, and I had to agree, while realizing I would be quite content spending the evening visiting, rather than painting.
Marie DuPont, St. Charles Catholic's Development Director, interrupted my thoughts as she got the party started by showing us to our tables. We were each given
a blank canvas, a palatte of paint, and three paint brushes. That's it! And by the end of the night, we were to transform these simple items into works of art. Suddenly I was stressed. And hungry. Fortunately Cherie Accardo arrived with food. (Cherie chairs the After Prom Party Committee, and the proceeds from the evening of art were directed towards this group, which provides a fun and safe environment, free of drugs and alcohol, for the students after the prom.) Plates piled with salad, shrimp pasta, and crab cakes were passed around, and since I had no intention of being a starving artist, I accepted a plate. The food did provide some comfort as I began to draw.
Because Bonnie broke down the drawing into small, easily manageable steps, even I was able to complete a sketch of a fleur de lis. I didn't spend much time looking around, but became more than a little curious when Joey said, "I'm going to paint what Jesus tells me to paint." We ate, we talked, we sketched, erased, sketched, and we laughed, and soon we were ready for the paint. Something about filling in the sketch with paint was so soothing to me. Choosing the colors and the intensity with which I would use them had me so focused that I put down my pasta, after eating all of the shrimp, and devoted most of my attention to my art. I could stop eating, but I wasn't about to ignore the conversations that flowed nonstop.
Before I was ready, the party came to an end as we admired the new artwork we had produced in just a couple of hours. They all looked wonderful, but I must admit Joey's was the most creative. I guess he listened to Jesus.
Since the party, I've been thinking of Ephesians 2:10, "For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago." I've often thought of my life as a sketch God provides, and directs me to fill in a little at a time. I view every season of life as a new space, and aim to completely and obediently fill in one before moving on to the next. It doesn't surprise me that sometimes, even in the midst of doing all I know to do, God allows a little pressure to be applied. This no longer causes me to stop and worry, but to go on living and doing and trusting His direction. Later on, as I look back upon those times, I find the pressures provided a richness and a depth to my life (just as deeper colors do in a painting) that I would not have otherwise experienced. And in His mercy, He always gives me ample times of airy, light, fun times to balance things out. The painting party was one of those times.
When I look at my painting, still perched on the stairway of my home, I don't just see a fleur de lis, I remember the process. The instructions, the effort, the choices, the food, the conversations, and the laughter. I still hear the laughter, and I'm so thankful to God for placing so many of His priceless works of art in my life.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
In the meantime, I convinced myself that surely we would be given a stencil of the fleur de lis to trace. I should have spent the time convincing Bonnie McKenney, the art teacher, for when I arrived at the class, I found no stencils, but I did find some great company. Joining Beth and I was her mother-in-law, Rosemary Hitt, and sisters-in-law, Rachael Hitt and Margo Brockman. Margo's daughter, Amanda, and her friend, Margaret Hassell were also there, as was Rachael's friend, Mrs. Frances Troxler. My Mom, Aunt Judy, and my sister, Ann, showed up, too, but our group was not exclusively female. Joey Brady and Eddie Jouty completed this anxious group of artists. "It's like a family reunion," Rachael said, and I had to agree, while realizing I would be quite content spending the evening visiting, rather than painting.
Marie DuPont, St. Charles Catholic's Development Director, interrupted my thoughts as she got the party started by showing us to our tables. We were each given
a blank canvas, a palatte of paint, and three paint brushes. That's it! And by the end of the night, we were to transform these simple items into works of art. Suddenly I was stressed. And hungry. Fortunately Cherie Accardo arrived with food. (Cherie chairs the After Prom Party Committee, and the proceeds from the evening of art were directed towards this group, which provides a fun and safe environment, free of drugs and alcohol, for the students after the prom.) Plates piled with salad, shrimp pasta, and crab cakes were passed around, and since I had no intention of being a starving artist, I accepted a plate. The food did provide some comfort as I began to draw.
Because Bonnie broke down the drawing into small, easily manageable steps, even I was able to complete a sketch of a fleur de lis. I didn't spend much time looking around, but became more than a little curious when Joey said, "I'm going to paint what Jesus tells me to paint." We ate, we talked, we sketched, erased, sketched, and we laughed, and soon we were ready for the paint. Something about filling in the sketch with paint was so soothing to me. Choosing the colors and the intensity with which I would use them had me so focused that I put down my pasta, after eating all of the shrimp, and devoted most of my attention to my art. I could stop eating, but I wasn't about to ignore the conversations that flowed nonstop.
Before I was ready, the party came to an end as we admired the new artwork we had produced in just a couple of hours. They all looked wonderful, but I must admit Joey's was the most creative. I guess he listened to Jesus.
Since the party, I've been thinking of Ephesians 2:10, "For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago." I've often thought of my life as a sketch God provides, and directs me to fill in a little at a time. I view every season of life as a new space, and aim to completely and obediently fill in one before moving on to the next. It doesn't surprise me that sometimes, even in the midst of doing all I know to do, God allows a little pressure to be applied. This no longer causes me to stop and worry, but to go on living and doing and trusting His direction. Later on, as I look back upon those times, I find the pressures provided a richness and a depth to my life (just as deeper colors do in a painting) that I would not have otherwise experienced. And in His mercy, He always gives me ample times of airy, light, fun times to balance things out. The painting party was one of those times.
When I look at my painting, still perched on the stairway of my home, I don't just see a fleur de lis, I remember the process. The instructions, the effort, the choices, the food, the conversations, and the laughter. I still hear the laughter, and I'm so thankful to God for placing so many of His priceless works of art in my life.
Ronny may be reached at rmichel@rtconline.com
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