When a plan comes together

"I love it when a plan comes together." I think more often than not, when we say that, it is after we've had a rather half-baked plan and the stars have somehow aligned and all of a sudden we're looking back a bit dumbstruck, amazed that everything turned out so splendidly.

Today, I had no plan, except to leave for work on time and to make sure I squeezed in my reading for the day. I achieved both goals by 7:05 and jumped into the car pondering Paul's words in Romans 4. Abraham was a pretty amazing guy. He believed the promise of God even when he was stretched to the breaking point. When the angel told him ole' Sarah would be having a baby in her 80's, he took him at his word. When God asked him to sacrifice the son of promise on an altar, he was ready to obey, up to the moment God provided a substitute. He uprooted his family and went wherever God told him to go. Abraham could well point to his record and figure he was in pretty good shape. But God told him it was not his resume that was impressive, it was his faith.

When I am tempted to think I'm all that and a bag of chips, God reminds me that it is not what I do that brings his declaration of acceptance - it is the belief of my heart that he is who he said he is, and my desire to be wholly devoted to him. THIS is the crux of the matter: when we were unable to meet his expectations on our own, rather than lose us altogether, he came himself and took what we deserved on himself so that by grace alone, we could receive his righteousness.

I had completed this whole line of thinking before the garage door was up and was basking in his amazing love.

As I backed out of the driveway and pointed the car to the east, I was met by a nearly unspeakable sight. The layers of rippled clouds were only partially camoflaging the morning sun yearning to burst through. The pinks and orange streaks were painted across the sky and a sole beam of light was penetrating the canvas, shooting straight up, as if it were connecting heaven and earth. There were several other points of light straining like a horse against a bit to break free. I gasped out loud, moved to the depths by this incredible display of beauty and majesty and power.

The words to a favorite song came to mind, and I was compelled to sing as I drove:
There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

The magic lasted only a few minutes - not even long enough for me to get past the views obstructed by powerlines to pull over and take a picture. The sun did break through and shine so brightly I could not look upon it. I imagined the face of God and how his overwhelming light-filled majesty will send us to our knees, unable to bear his brightness and his beauty.

It was like the execution of the perfect plan had just played out before my eyes. It was no coincidence that the reading for Jan. 26 was from Romans 4 and that it illicited a response of awe-filled gratitude. That gratitude was met with a spectatular display of light and color which commanded a deeper sense of worship, followed by the inconquerable sun bursting through brighter than ever announcing the day and declaring who was in charge of it all.

What an incredible way to start a day...and for some inconceivable reason known to God alone, I got to be a part of his plan.

It's the little things

Thank you to my adorable grandson, Carter, who while looking at photos with his mom this morning saw one and said,

"That's Gigi. I love her. She's my friend."



Carter, you made Gigi's day. You're my friend. I love you.

Aaah, the classics

Some of our dearest friends have a very dear daughter who has grown up to be a lovely young lady and is now a librarian. I follow L's blog and had to chuckle at her New Year's resolution to read this year. This from the girl who read over 100 books last year.

I like to read, too. But I have absolutely no self-control or sense of time when it comes to a good book. Meal prep goes by the wayside, sleep cannot be found, and nothing stands in the way between me and the final page. That being said, I've had to cut back on the books until I can muster a little more self-discipline.

Over the holidays, Heather and I got our hands on a series of books from our church library (there are 7 in all) and both read them all. They're by Dee Henderson and chronicle the O'Malley "family", a group of seven unrelated siblings who grow up together in an orphanage, claim each other, each change their last name to O'Malley, become professionals, and are there for each other to the end. The books are fairly well written, but become predictable after the first few. While we enjoyed reading them, there was a drive to finish whatever book you happen to be on as soon as you picked it up. As I look back on the O'Malley clan, I have to think hard to remember who fell for whom, who solved what crime, and how it all came together. It's kind of a blur.

In the meantime, Heather ran into a copy of Jane Eyre at Barnes and Noble and decided to reread it. She enjoyed it so much the first time (the first reread, that is), that she turned around and read it again. I am rather embarrassed to admit that my literary resume is rather lacking in the fact that I have not read Jane Eyre. When Heather finished it (again), she brought it upstairs and said, "you're going to love it."

I have decided there is definitely a difference between a classic and a pop culture novel. Since starting Jane Eyre I find myself not yearning for the end (which is a good thing, since the book is over 500 pages long) but thoroughly enjoying every page, wanting to stay in the moment just a little longer before moving on. Bronte's 19th century use of the language coupled with her uncanny ability to paint a picture in your mind make for a winsome combination.

I'm savoring it. Jane arrived at Thornfield and has just met her new charge Adela.

Heather says that Bronte didn't do much writing other than Jane Eyre. Definitely our loss.