The Gatekeeper

It used to be that we would send cards to remember someone on their birthday or anniversary. And though there are many advantages to the Internet and the connections we find in social media, it has also changed how we acknowledge those we love, or at least like a little. Maybe not for the better.

Facebook has become the gatekeeper for my greetings. It tells me when someone has a birthday, and that someone might be a dear friend or family member or merely some casual acquaintance in the diary of my life that is now represented by my FB friends list.

If in securing my private information from data miners and hackers, I neglect to post my birthday info, then I don’t exist—at least in the birthday world; whereas, other years when it was posted, I received greetings, well wishes, and dancing GIFs and cake emojis. Quite a happiness pill. Until you realize that you were not on anyone’s mind, let alone their calendar. And it’s so easy. You can even copy and paste the same greeting if more than one of your “friends” has the same birthday.

Easy peasy.

Queasy, sort of.

I am guilty of relying on FB myself; though I must say, I only send greetings to those names that appear if I have some reasonable relationship with them, either past or present. If it is a person I barely remember or one who tends to hijack my posts on food to make them political, I use the strength of my will to ignore FB’s reminder. They get no greeting, and certainly no dancing cake and candles.

I am not saying we should rewind the clock and go back to cards and stamps, though that would be nice. Texting, email, and even FB are quick and easy ways to stay “connected”—whatever that even means anymore. And as my hubby reminds me, FB is just a tool, no different that putting an important date in a phone or written in a notebook. Maybe.

And I’m not pouting . . . well, I am a little. But we have come so far down this technological road that it just might be too late to put this genie back in its bottle.

The One Next Thing

No matter how long I have lived and how many lessons I’ve learned, it never fails that my desires betray my selfish heart,

my answered prayers run smack dab into my control and ambition;

and once again, I find the need to humble myself before God,

just do the one next thing He has put before me,

and leave my future in His careful, tender hands.

Mum’s Cookbook

I have Mum’s old cookbook. It has seen many years. The cover is long gone, and some pages are tattered beyond use, but from these pages, she celebrated birthdays and weddings, she entered fair competitions, and archived the best recipes handed down to her from my grandma, great grandma, and others.

It may be tattered, but it a precious piece of my past.

A thought . . .

*

In my Scripture reading this morning in John 18:28-29:

“Then the Jewish leaders took Jesus from Caiaphas to the palace of the Roman governor. By now it was early morning, and to avoid ceremonial uncleanness they did not enter the palace, because they wanted to be able to eat the Passover.

So Pilate came out to them and asked, ‘What charges are you bringing against this man?'”

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I wonder how many times I avoid desecrating the religious aspects of my devotional life while at the same time betraying my Savior.

. . . For You

L onely . . . in this time  

O f increasing unbelief, looking frantically, hungering,

N ot for miracles, but for signposts that used to be so faith-clear, undisputed—

E ver-present testament, truth, surety,

L ooking for sanctuary, and I guess . . . just lonely for

Y ou.

***************

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you.

Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” 

~John 14:27

My House Is Haunted

My house is haunted.

I detect the wily ways she uses to move about, subtle but there,

unnerving.

My husband notices dishes that I have previously washed—meticulously, I might add—and they will have miniscule specks of baked on something or other. Not enough to be “dirty,” but just enough to be irritating.

She is saying, “I’m here; get used to it.”

Shoes I have put away appear in walkways so that I almost trip over them if I’m not careful. She sprinkles dust in the night. She leaves the light on in the garage, burning electricity, making me burning mad.

What is probably most disturbing is that every so often she appears in my mirror, her white, disheveled hair, her wrinkled brow,

those staring eyes.

I stare back; I glare back, but

I cannot be too irritated for too long because she does look familiar;

and she looks to have stories to tell; and yet,

she seems trapped, prowling around, haunting my house.