The words of my mouth

May the words of my mouth . . . be pleasing in your sight, O LORD. – Psalm 19:14 (NIV)

At our house, Thursday is leftover day, meaning supper is whatever is left over from meals earlier in the week.

Last Thursday was no exception. On Wednesday I’d made enough stewed tomatoes and macaroni, one of my husband’s favorite meals, to fill his still-a-farmboy stomach and a 2 ½-quart casserole dish with leftovers.

Thursday’s supper, I figured, would be easy: pop the casserole in the nuke, shake packaged salad into bowls, and throw a loaf of fresh bread and soft butter on the table. Nice and quick—just what I needed on grocery day.

But when I was in town, a “fresh corn” sign caught my eye. I envisioned steaming yellow cobs dripping with melted butter on our supper plates beside the leftover stewed tomatoes and macaroni. And I pictured a delighted look on my husband’s face.

I’ll surprise him, I thought, flicking on my blinker and turning into the parking lot.

When Dean called to say he was on his way home, I had the water boiling and the corn husked, ready to drop into the pot. But his reaction wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t rave about the corn—nary a word about it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked when we sat down at the table. After 36 years, I can read his body language pretty good.

“Nothing.”

I gave him my best “I know better than that” look.

“The corn is sweet,” he said, “and the macaroni is, too. You know I don’t like something sweet with something else that’s sweet.”

Sure it’s sweet, I wanted to say, with all the sugar you dump on the macaroni. Instead I said, with just a touch of sarcasm, “Thanks, Michele, for thinking of the fresh corn. It hits the spot.”

Now, my husband doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’s honest to a fault. He’ll never tell me, for example, that I look nice just to make me feel good. But, gee, can’t he lie a little, just once in awhile?

Perhaps I’m too sensitive, but I’m not alone in this longing to be appreciated.

“There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation than for bread,” Mother Teresa once said.

St. Paul instructed the early church to “let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them” (Ephesians 4:29 NLT).

Like oil on squeaky hinges, a few words of appreciation can go a long way—in building up relationships, soothing a battered spirit, refreshing a weary soul, and putting a smile on a sad face. I can get a lot of mileage out of one compliment.

“Pleasant words are a honeycomb,” penned the writer of Proverbs, “sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24).

Sweet words of appreciation—who in your world can use them today?

Open my eyes, Lord, to the many kindnesses others show to me every day—and remind me to express my appreciation often. Amen.

Special-Tea: Luke 17:11-19

My new hero

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. – 2 Corinthians 12:9 (RSV)

Meet Diane Dike. She’s an effervescent, enthusiastic, middle-aged blonde with a smile that lights up a room and a face that radiates a joy that bubbles up from somewhere deep inside. And who carries around in a Snugli an Italian greyhound named Gracie that she adopted from a local animal hospital.

Gracie goes with Diane everywhere—restaurants, schools, even on stage when she is speaking. Gracie is Diane’s service dog.

Confined to a wheelchair most of the time, in pain all of the time, Diane needs Gracie not only to retrieve things for her, but also to keep her warm. Diane suffers from a rare, incurable blood disease called cryoglobulinemia, that causes her blood to turn to a deadly jello-like consistency, especially when she’s exposed to cold, such as air conditioning and drafts.

The first line of treatment is to stay warm. She wears mitten to open the refrigerator and dons full mountain ski gear to go shopping. Gracie’s body heat helps Diane to stay warm, preventing her blood from congealing.

When she was first diagnosed, Diane found ways to continue her active, athletic lifestyle—skiing, hiking, swimming, even hang gliding. But as the disease progressed, a wheelchair became necessary. Standing or dangling her legs while sitting causes painful flare-ups, so keeping her legs and feet propped up in the wheelchair prevents the blood from pooling in her feet.

If this debilitating, progressive disease isn’t enough, she’s also been diagnosed with fibromyalgia, autoimmune disease, TMJ, chronic fatigue syndrome, endometriosis, bipolar/manic depression, vasculitis, and colitis associated with her blood disorder. But in spite of all this, she’s as radiant as an angel.

But she’ll be the first to tell you she wasn’t always this way. After her diagnosis, she went into a downward spiral, which included divorce and homelessness, and abandoned the faith she professed as a teen. She wound up on a suicide watch in a psychiatric hospital.

One day, as she prepared to move back home with her parents, she entered the empty kitchen of her apartment. In Diane’s own words, “I felt so sad as I looked in my kitchen cabinets and thought, that is exactly how I feel, empty. Then, as if God himself gently reached His hand to my chin and lifted my face skyward, a song came on the radio that pierced my heart and brought me to my knees. The kitchen was all aglow and He was with me.”

Diane rededicated her life to God.

“My test became my testimony,” she says. “My mess became my message.”

She moved from her parents’ home in Florida to Colorado, where she met her husband, Paul—her “knight in shining armor” she calls him. And she finally completed the coursework for her doctorate. Yes, I said doctorate. By the grace of God.

But God had more grace in mind for Diane.

One night while sick in bed, she prayed, “Lord, is there a little puppy dog out there that needs me as much as I need her?”

Two days later a friend from the local animal hospital called her. An Italian greyhound with two broken front legs and a broken tail needed a home.

“I want her,” the friend said, “but the Lord keeps telling me she is for you.”

The rest, as they say, is history. (For more of Diane’s story, visit her online at www.dianedike.org, where you can order her book, God Made Only One of Me, which chronicles her journey from pain to hope.)

Diane Dike is a living example of what God can do. It doesn’t matter how broken you are. Or how far from God you’ve strayed. He’s just waiting for your permission. As Diane says, “God loves you, He likes you, and He made only one of you!”

I met Diane, Gracie, and Paul at a writers and speakers conference last weekend. When I came home, I told my husband, “I’m never going to complain again.”

OK, I probably will. But when I do, I’ll remember Diane’s radiant face and the joy that bubbles from a spirit that knows the transforming power of God.


Dear God, may those whose lives and spirits are broken either by circumstances beyond their control or by their own doing, find healing and purpose in You. Amen.

Special-Tea: 2 Corinthians 12:7–10

Where am I?

As Jesus and the disciples left the city of Jericho, a huge crowd followed behind. Two blind men were sitting beside the road.

When they heard that Jesus was coming that way, they began shouting, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

The crowd told them to be quiet, but they only shouted louder, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

Jesus stopped in the middle of the road and called, “What do you want me to do for you?”

“Lord,” they said, “we want to see!”

Jesus felt sorry for them and touched their eyes. Instantly they could see! Then they followed him. – Matthew 20:29–34 (NLT)

Jesus walks in the world today, like He did 2,000 years ago. You can see Him if you look hard enough.

He’s the mother cradling a sick child, the father playing catch with his son, the grandfather putting a popped chain back on a bicycle with training wheels, the grandmother setting aside her what she planned for the day so she could watch the kids while their mother ran some errands, the friend who listens no matter what time of the day when you call.

But when Jesus walks by, where am I?

Perhaps I’m one of the blind beggars, crying out for mercy and healing, ignoring those who tell me to give it up, God’s too busy or important for little me, or that my problem is too small or too large or impossible. “Who are you to ask God for anything?” I’m chided. “You’ve been that way all your life. Accept it.” But I’m desperate. I’ve tried everything else. He’s healed so many—the woman who spent all her money on doctors and only got worse. The thousands of people He fed at one time with a little boy’s lunch of bread and fish—and had food left over! Surely there’s hope for me.

Or am I one of the crowd, shushing up those who don’t meet my standards? They’re too dirty or smelly or lazy. They have no hope, so why bother? Or maybe I don’t want to share Jesus, don’t want Him to take time away from me for those dirty beggars who never worked a day in their lives. They’re not “our kind” of people, you know? Am I one of those who love Jesus because of what He can do for me, for the thrill of the miracle?

Or am I one of the disciples, in training, trying to grasp all that this Man can do, all He’s teaching me. I’m watching, waiting, learning—relearning because I was too thick the first time. Or the second. Or third. Jesus is the Man everyone loves and listens to. I’m merely riding on the coattails of His popularity, basking in the reflection of His glory, important only because of my relationship with Him. I’m one of THE disciples. I’m in with the “in” crowd.

Or am I Jesus to someone who will see Him in me? In what I say and do? In my attitudes and responses. Do I dare touch the untouchables. Step out of my comfort zone to help in a tangible way someone who is sick or hurting or needy? Or do I just drop a few extra dollars in the offering plate so someone else can do it?

Where am I in this scene? Or, more importantly: Who am I?

There’s a story about a statue of Jesus that was damaged in World War II. The villagers tried to reconstruct it, but the hands, they discovered, were beyond repair. “A Christ without hands is no Christ at all!” someone said.

They considered replacing the statue, but then someone wrote a poem that was inscribed on a brass plaque and attached to the base of the bomb-damaged figure:

“I have no hands but your hands to do my work today.
I have no feet but your feet to lead men on their way.
I have no tongue but your tongue to tell men how I died.
I have no help but your help to bring men to God’s side.”

Jesus still walks in the world today. Do you see Him?

Dear God, remind me that I don’t just GO to church—I AM the church and part of the body of Your Son. Show me how I can be Jesus to somebody today. Amen.

Special-Tea: 1 Corinthians 12:12-27

Time in a bottle

Children are a heritage from the LORD. The fruit of the womb is a reward. – Psalm 127:3 (NKJV)

On the kitchen windowsill above my sink are two vases of flowers: daisies my 5-year-old grandson Kyle picked for me the day he was a little stinker and got me mad, and a handful of tiger lilies my husband plucked on the way home from work the day my daughter and her two boys left after a wonderful three-week visit home.

Since Jaime lives 700 miles away, we don’t get to see her and her family often. Now that she’s teaching full time, her week-long Christmas visit is no longer feasible, so she decided to make her annual visit home in June and extend it to three weeks.


So Dean and I brought two mattresses in from the motorhome, emptied a few drawers, moved my lateral filing cabinet into the closet and transformed my writing room into a bedroom for the boys, Alex, 8, and Kyle. I took a monthlong sabbatical from writing and stocked up on macaroni and cheese, paper plates, disposable cups, Band-Aids, Fruit Loops, paper towels, and laundry detergent. I made sure there were children-friendly games, puzzles and movies on hand for rainy days.

Our other three grandchildren, ages 10, 6, and 2, who live next door, were thrilled to have their Southern cousins visit during the summer, when they could play outside. The kids spent every minute they could together. We had a houseful from morning ‘til night.

I sat back and savored every moment, soaking in the sounds of children’s laughter and spats when a game they were playing got too intense, and enjoying my brood together at last. I made a note to hang up a few strips of fly paper in strategic but out-of-the way places. And, of course, I kept the vacuum cleaner within reach.

My refrigerator was crammed. My bare feet picked their way through scattered toys and pieces of toys and games. I stitched a seam on Kyle’s stuffed penguin, did loads and loads and loads of laundry, and ran the dishwasher sometimes twice a day.


Before they came, I’d thought that after three weeks, I’d be ready to see them go.

I wasn’t. I could go for another three weeks (give me a few hours every now and then to myself, though). The day they left I cleaned the upstairs, washed all the bedclothes and hung them on the line, and kept so busy, I made myself sore.

The next day, however, I cried for two hours in an empty and too quiet house. Good thing my daughter-in-law called and asked me to watch the kids in the afternoon. But the oldest, Brent, who had bonded with Alex, looked like I felt—bereft.

When my kids were little and creating chaos, I couldn’t wait for them to grow up and move out, so I could have peace and quiet and order—and a life.

Now I realize they and their families are my life, and an empty, too quiet house isn’t what I really want. I want my brood close, filling my house and heart with life and love and joy.

There was a song back in the ’70s called “Time in a Bottle” that pretty much sums up what I’m feeling today. If I could save time in a bottle, I’d bottle up the first time I held each of my babies and the times I’ve held my children and grandchildren in my lap, reading to them or scratching their backs or just watching TV. I’d bottle up the Sunday evenings we made homemade ice cream using an old-fashioned, hand-crank ice cream maker and the times we spent camping. I’d capture those fleeting moments watching my children run through the grass on a glorious summer day, and I’d bottle up every single visit they made home.

And in lonely, missing-them moments like these, when the reality of how quickly life is passing hits home, I’d pluck down a bottle, open it, and inhale the love and energy of the most cherished moments of a life that’s been blessed beyond all I could have asked or imagined.

Life is passing by all too quickly, Lord. Teach me to number my days aright, that I may gain a heart of wisdom (Psalm 90:15) and to rejoice in each day, each moment, that You give me (Psalm 118:24). Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 127