Hacked!

The LORD is my light and my salvation? whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life?of whom shall I be afraid? – Psalm 27:1 (NIV)
     
I knew something was up when I logged into my HughesNet account Tuesday morning and read an email from Yahoo that I’d reset my password. I thought for a moment, trying to recall anything I may have done that would have inadvertently changed it. No, nothing. “If you didn’t authorize this change,” Yahoo wrote, “click here.” I clicked.
     
Not only had my password been reset, but 200-plus emails that had been in my Inbox were gone, as were all the emails that had been in the Sent box. Not good. Then someone forwarded me an email that I supposedly sent, asking me, “What’s up?” The subject line read, “SAD NEWS from MICHELE HUEY.” The next thing I knew, emails were flowing in, all wondering the same thing, all with the same forwarded message: I’d been robbed at gunpoint in Spain and needed money to get home. 
     
Now, the fact that the email I supposedly sent was one long, run-on sentence; the grammar, punctuation and other mechanics were horrendous; and the syntax atrocious, should have been a dead giveaway. Surely I’m a better writer than that. Which is why I received no less than a dozen phone calls and at least two dozen emails about it.
     
Nosing around further, I discovered that another email account had been set up, supposedly mine, but misspelling my name. My profile had been changed (I am now a 22-year-old New York City gal), and my address book was empty.
     
I’d been hacked. Everyone whose email address had been in that address book received the same damsel-in-distress email.
     
There went my plans for the day, as I spent it changing passwords, answering phone calls and emails, and ignoring a demanding, intimidating do-list. At one point, I felt desperation and frustration sinking their claws into my spirit. I’d had emails regarding financial matters in there. What if the hacker had gotten sensitive information and my accounts were now compromised?
     
Now, I’m not one to see the devil behind every tree, but when things start flying in left and right, I know ol’ Beelzebub is cranking up the heat. There had been several crisis points over the past few months, but this one was a real doozy. I must be doing something right.
     
As my panic mushroomed, a Scripture verse popped into my mind. I grabbed my Bible and opened it to Psalm 46 and read—prayed—nice and loud so the enemy would know where I stood: “God is my refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore I will NOT fear . . .”
     
The panic abated. It would be all right. I knew Who was in control.
   
Folks who know me know that had I really been robbed at gunpoint—in Spain or elsewhere—I wouldn’t ask for money. I’d ask for prayer. It is, after all, along with the Holy Spirit and the Word of God, the strongest power on earth, in cyberspace—and everywhere else.
   
Dear God, when things come flying in left and right, and the panic begins to rise, remind me to be still and know that You are God. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 46

Hacked!

I've been hacked! Someone hacked into my Yahoo account, changed the password, added another email account, and sent a hoax message to everyone in my address book. I'm not in Spain. I haven't been robbed at gunpoint. I'm home safe and sound. I apologize if you received the hoax email. Gee--don't some people have anything better to do?

Voices and fleeces

In his heart a man plans his course, but the LORD determines his steps. – Proverbs 16:9 (NIV)

It was 33 years ago that I heard His voice.

I was a new mother, a recent “retiree” (I’d resigned from teaching to be a stay-at-home mom), and a spanking-new Christian with a vision. I’d heard Christian singer Sammy Hall in concert and wanted to bring him to Punxsutawney. I just knew area teens would love his music and respond to God’s invitation like I had.

I’d already secured a concert date with Sammy Hall Ministries. Now I was figuring out a way to pay for it. My idea was to create an interfaith youth group comprised of teens from local churches to raise the funds. I ordered boxes of candy from a fundraising agency. The next step was to contact area churches, and for this, I needed a name for the youth group.

I was on my knees praying when I heard it—“Youth for Christ.” Not audible, but loud and clear and sure. I knew I’d heard the voice of God. So I sent out letters to local churches explaining my vision and inviting their youth leaders to a planning meeting for the Sammy Hall concert. I signed my name, followed by “Punxsutawney Youth for Christ.”

Besides my own, only two or three other churches sent someone to find out what this was all about. At the meeting, a pastor asked me if this was connected to “Youth for Christ.” My blank look told him I had no clue what he was talking about. So after the meeting, he enlightened me. Youth for Christ, I learned, is an international organization dedicated to reaching the youth of the world with the Gospel and teaching them how the Bible directs us to live.

Hmmm, I thought. Does God want me to bring Sammy Hall to Punxsy or establish a YFC chapter here? The latter was a much bigger venture—bigger than me, bigger than the vision I’d had—bigger, wider, and further reaching. Back to my knees I went. But God was silent. So I asked my associate pastor for his advice.

“There’s good, there’s better, and there’s best,” he said. “Sometimes we have to determine which is good and which is best.”

“But how do I know?”

“You don’t,” he said. “But God does.”

That’s when I learned about putting out a fleece (Judges 6: 36-40).

“Lord,” I prayed, “if You want me to establish a Youth for Christ chapter in Punxsutawney—if that’s the direction You want me to go and not have the concert—have something come up that Sammy Hall can’t come.”

When I called Sammy Hall Ministries to confirm the date of the concert, the manager told me they couldn’t make it on that date and he’d get back to me (which he never did). The Punxsutawney chapter of YFCI (Campus Life) began a few months later and ministered to area youth for more than 20 years.
     
Dear God, thank You for the many ways You direct my steps. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Judges 6:36-40

My Baker's Dozen

Your Father knows what you need before you ask him. – Matthew 6:8 (NIV)

I call it my “Baker’s Dozen.”
         
Back in December, I’d grown weary of praying for the same things—some for years—over and over and hearing not even a whisper of an answer. What was I supposed to do? Keep praying? Give up? I felt stuck in the Valley of Wait.

It wasn’t like I was asking for a million dollars. Things were getting old and needed replaced—like the roof, the pickup (our only vehicle), and the redneck porch—I mean, how many times can we build a deck using wooden pallets? The heating oil was getting low, I needed a new winter coat, and the paint on the kitchen floor, actually the subfloor, was chipped and stained and hard to keep clean. The throw rugs I used to cover it were showing their age (37 years). I didn’t even want to think about the aging equipment in my writing room.

So one morning during my quiet time I decided to take God at His Word. After all, doesn’t He tell us in His Word that He’ll supply all our needs? Don’t get me into the wants vs. needs debate. I refuse to analyze to death a simple thing like a prayer request. Either God is Who He says He is or He isn’t. Either His Word is true or it isn’t. I choose to believe the former, in both cases.

So I opened my journal and printed across the top of a blank left page, “Needs.” Then I listed all that I’d been praying for. The list numbered 13. On some of the items I gave God a deadline. On the opposite page, I wrote “When and How God Provided” and numbered the lines from 1 to 13. This was my Jehovah Jireh page (see Genesis 22:14). Jehovah Jireh, or YHWH Yireh, translates “The LORD Will Provide” and means “God who will provide all of your needs.”

I rewrote the list on a sheet of paper, folded it up, put it in a glass candle dish, and set a match to it. No, I wasn’t throwing a hissy fit. In the Bible, things that were given, or dedicated, to God, were burned.

Then I waited. I refused to fret. I had put the list in God’s hands, and He would take care of it. Period.

Eight months later, six of the requests have been answered. But God gives what we don’t ask for, too, and provides for needs we don’t even know we have. It just so happened that the payment I received for a writing assignment in May was enough to purchase a new laptop, printer, and an external hard drive. No sooner had I copied all my files from the old laptop to the external hard drive when the old laptop gave up the ghost. In December I hadn’t a clue. But God knew.

As far as the unanswered half of the Baker’s Dozen list, I have no doubt that those blanks will be filled, too.
   
Jehovah Jireh, thank you for meeting all my needs. Amen.

Special-Tea: Matthew 7:7-11

More tea: Philippians 4:19, 2 Corinthians 9:6–11, Matthew 6:25–34, Luke 18:1, Malachi 3:10     

Burned out

Do not say, “Why were the old days better than these?” – Ecclesiastes 7:10 (NIV)

   
“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you.” – Isaiah 46:4
     
Another tea kettle bit the dust. That makes three I’ve filled with water, put on the burner, then forgot about. Now this is over a period of years—decades, even. And three is the number of kettles that were rendered unusable, not the number of times I forgot I put water on to boil for a cup of tea.
     
It’s not that I’m getting senile or forgetful. (OK, so I’m getting a little forgetful.) It’s just that I’m a one-job-at-a-time person. I focus on the task at hand, often to the angst of my husband, who doesn’t understand why I can’t make supper and talk to him at the same time. But I digress. Now what was I talking about? Oh, yes, my tea kettle.
     
The most recent kettle to suffer the consequences of my single-mindedness was my whistling apple kettle. Bright red and shaped like an apple, it had endured many near burnouts, as well as the effects of hard water. If I didn’t empty the unused hot water, the inside would turn black, which could be removed only by boiling water with baking soda and lemon juice in it—which made a mess on the top of the range when it bubbled over. Good thing the inside was painted black.
     
The kettle now rests on an old coffee table outside on the redneck porch, a transplanted double impatiens bobbing its dark pink petals out of the top. I recycled the other two ruined kettles, also. The blue one—the one I had to pry from the burner—is used to store tea bags. The white one with the pretty yellow flowers painted on the side holds the big tea bags I use for iced tea.
     
I recycle my damaged kettles for two reasons: one, because I can’t bear to part with them, and, two, because they remind me that even though something can no longer be used for its primary purpose, it’s not ready for the junk pile.
     
I often think about the years when the kids were still with us. How did I ever have the energy to do all I did? My life is more sedate now. Not better, just different. I’m in another life season. Are there times I miss the old days? Yes. Are there times I wish I had the energy I had back then? Yes. Are there times I long for that sense of satisfaction that comes with accomplishment? Yes.
     
Like my kettles, I, too, have been damaged by the fires of everyday use. But old kettles that no longer sing can still be used to store tea bags, hold flowers—or remind me that even when I think I’m too burned out to be useful, God has another job for me to do.
     
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”  – Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)
            
Thank you, Lord, that I can still be used of You no matter what shape I’m in. Amen.

 

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 90

Dancing in the rain

However many years a man may live, let him enjoy them all. – Ecclesiastes 11:8 (NIV)

If they’d seen me, my neighbors doubtless thought I’d lost it.

“Look at that crazy woman dancing in the rain,” the newer neighbors might have said. “She’s doing what?” the ones who have known me for 30 years may have questioned. My husband said both—within hearing.
   
But the Saturday afternoon sun was sweltering, and sweat oozed from every pore of my body as I transplanted, with the help of my 8-year-old granddaughter, my cascading calibrachoa into a larger flower pot. I thought the job would be fairly simple—lining the bottom of the new pot with stones, dumping in some potting soil, then lifting the plant from the old pot into the bigger one. But the wider pot left a gap between the lip and the roots.

For a woman who wipes the counter after every little spill and pinches every penny, this was the dirty, time-consuming part of the job—scooping potting soil from the bag and shaking it into the gap, careful not to get any on the stone wall or in the grass. Dirt, as you all know, sticks to sweaty skin. By the time I was done, I felt pretty cruddy. Thank God for garden hoses and outside spigots—and summer rain showers.

Just as we finished rinsing out the old flower pot and hosing off the stone wall, I glanced down the hollow. A sheet of gray headed our way. Hurrying to retrieve the bedsheets from the clothesline, I motioned to my husband, who was astride the lawn tractor, mowing three weeks’ worth of growth.

As we stood on the back porch, I had the strangest urge to dance in the rain. There was no thunder, no lightning—only a warm, refreshing summer shower. I stepped off the porch. As my husband and granddaughter watched in disbelief, I opened my arms wide and lifted my face to the sky.

I beckoned to my granddaughter. “Come on,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows.

“It’s just water,” I told her. “It won’t hurt you.”

As she gingerly stepped off the porch, I handed my eyeglasses to my husband.

“Come on,” I urged him. “Don’t be such an old fuddy-dud. Have some fun.”

He just grinned. Madison joined me in a few barefoot twirls. All too soon the shower ended. I was soaked to the skin—and happier than I’d been in a long time.

In my younger days, I was impulsive, frequently succumbing to a restless spirit. But time and life tamed my youthful wildness—and squeezed a certain joy out of my soul, boxing me in with messy kitchens, piles of laundry, floors that needed swept, and bathrooms that were growing mold.

Every now and then you gotta ignore that boring do-list and do something crazy and spontaneous, even if you’re pushing 60 . . .  maybe because you’re pushing 60.
     
This is the day that the LORD has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24).
   
Dear God, help me to inject joy into every day—even if it means being a little “crazy.” Amen.

 

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 100