love

Sparkle is my Color

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment
Photo by Alexandr Podvalny on Pexels.com

The Road Less Taken is Colorful, or, How about Being a Human Being?

I’m promised great and marvelous outcomes if only I join the 10-item capsule wardrobe crowd, the minimalists, the organized and responsible ones; if I am oblivious to what I like and adore, in favor of what everyone else is liking and adoring.  My heart isn’t meant to sing, it’s meant to follow the leader in gray.  In grey (for our purposes today gray is a color, grey a state of heart and mind).

I once had a grey heart–charcoal, dead.  I saw it, lying on a weed-infested sidewalk crack.  That was the result of following, being untrue to my true self, untrue to God.  It was, and is, SIN.  Sin is, after all, defined as missing the mark, or forfeiting God’s best—color, light,  LIFE. Satisfaction.  Peace.  Trusting myself as I first trust my Maker.  

Much cleverer than heeding and trusting people who so assiduously look, talk, act and walk like everyone else.  Human, but AI.  Artificial “intelligence” is artificial, yes, but intelligent—I think not.  We are told that pink is in, blue (or is it brown?) is the new black, or whatever.  Who has time to worry about it?  Worry is unintelligent.  It’s the devil’s programming.

But I am encouraged even as I impatiently await the light to penetrate those who are, to quote the Eagles, “programmed to receive.”  Hotel California goes on to say, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”  But people are leaving, exploring the forbidden territories of authentic living, starting with the clothes on their backs.  Floaty florals and vintage high-waisted jeans call to remembrance that pair of pastel plaid, cuffed bell-bottoms I had in high school.  The other girls didn’t look at me with jealousy, they looked with hopeful sighs, and gleams in their eyes.  They, too, were going to dress like that. With a twist—their very own spins.

So, “you can never leave” is a lie from Hell.  You can begin checking out of this Culture of Grey right now.  Go change into something that makes you feel like you want to feel today.  If that happens to be the gray of sophisticated style, thoughtful quietude and understated elegance, that’s great.  Just beware that it’s not the grey of a drizzly, damp, depressed state of mind—grey begets grey. 

I admit there are times for such as this, but cozy yourself against the elements.  Yes, go weeping and walking in the rain, but choose a red umbrella, or a bright scarf, and a good hanky. Sit alone in the darkness, but light one candle, or turn on a small lamp and begin to read a beautiful book, such as Little Women. The unutterable sadness of the death in Little Women is cocooned and made bearable by Jo’s sparkling authenticity and color-filled antics, delivering you, Dear Reader, away from the tortuous landscape of apocalypse-grey living.

And now back to the Levis and such: add lipstick, lift your head, and make like the child scripture exhorts you to become.  This means that instead of getting rid of most of your clothes, you gleefully explore the possibilities:  give something away to someone who will look great in it, put a thing or two in the trash because it’s not worth sharing, iron what needs ironing, and maybe organize by color—this is good, cheap fun.  Say, “So there!” as you ignore the mandate to “get rid of anything you haven’t worn in the past year.”

Now it’s time to shop your closet.  And if you can’t imagine going out with the wacky outfit you come up with (or if you’re like me, the Levis and white man’s shirt with big gold hoops), then stay home with your new and happier, more human self. 

If you’re feeling brave by now, Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger will suit your dancing feet, or maybe begin more gently with Thank You, Jesus by Charity Gayle and some crooning with Vince Gill, or praise God with and for CeCe Winans.  What’s your almost forgotten old favorite, or that song your friend likes?  Mine would include some in-your-face-to-Grey with Dwight Yokum, or Midnight Train to Georgia.  A fine finish would be Freedom by Michael W. Smith and Soldier by Phil Driscoll.

It is, after all, a fight to be free from mindless following, so that you are of real use and benefit to those who don’t yet know how to.  It’s a call and a challenge worth meeting—being human.  A Human Being.

Human is better.  Human responds to color and light, to movement, rhythm and grace, and especially to the uniquely beautiful, enchantingly lovely, and quite colorful.  You.

The Only Narcissist You Need to Worry About

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

First, can we agree that time spend on YouTube learning how at least half the people we know are raging narcissists is, well, not time well spent? And what is the point, anyway? I’ll tell you what Maryl di Milo said in a YouTube video about a book she was reviewing, which advocates, among other things, getting away from less than pleasant (narcissistic) people: “It’s about self-preservation.”

I haven’t read this book, and it may be extremely helpful, but if it’s another book that points me to me, I don’t need it. I can do self-preservation instead of trusting the only One who can preserve me, easy peasy–no help needed.

And anyway, is that what we’re here for–self-preservation? I think not. Let’s learn that any self-focused thing (oops, isn’t that narcissism?) may not be our friend. Let’s learn that so often the people so determined to label people as narcissists may have a few less-than-selfless traits themselves.

Shall I look into the mirror? Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the most narcissistic of all?

Oh, that’s my husband, my daughter-in-law, my neighbor. Why can’t we just know that as long as we’re here we’ll likely be fighting self-worship in some form, and simply mind our own narcissistic business.

And here’s a thought: Let’s find something a little more constructive (see the New Testament) to do about troublesome people than just toss them out of our lives.

The Goal of Life–and it’s not Man-Bashing!

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

See the last post first, this is Part II.

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

Life is Good. Worry is bad.

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

I live with kind and undemanding folks, which sounds like a very good thing, right? But it can cause me to get a bit selfish and too into my own thing, which never seems to satisfy my soul. So, in my recent adventures in doing less and going my own way more, I am reminded of what I should KNOW by by: There is satisfaction in sharing, satisfaction in sacrifice.

And I am reminded of my mantra: A smart girl like you oughtta be able to figure this out. Of what am I speaking? I am speaking of the lack of shared meals happening of late at House of Parker.

We all have differing schedules, dietary preferences, and priorities–one person gets up at 3:30 a.m and is home any time between noon and 5:00; another gets off work at 11:00 p.m. The easy thing is to just say, “Who cares?”

The voice plaguing me says they don’t know or appreciate what it takes to put healthy meals on the table; it takes too much time; we’re in a new season and it doesn’t matter that much anyway. “Reason” continues: If I cook what they want it’s too hard to stay low-carb; let them cook their own–they know how.

And yes, they can and often do “cook their own” with the attendant continually messy kitchen, use of ingredients meant for other things, formation of unhealthy habits, and a general state of culinary chaos.

But that isn’t “the thing” really. The thing is that we no longer have “Table Share”. When I read a beautiful quote, or hear an amazing tale which simply must be shared for the joy and edification of all parties, for the common bond created via the ensuing good conversation, the best opportunity for doing so–while enjoying a meal–is unavailable.

What then shall a smart girl do? Give up? Sigh? Call someone and gripe (true friends share joys, not gripes)? No, she changes things here and there. She calls a family meeting first of all, enticing everyone with milk and no-bakes (chocolate oatmeal cookies cooked stovetop with plenty of butter, vanilla, salt, maybe some peanut butter and almond flavoring, and a bit more salt than called for).

In this meeting it is discerned that everyone is fine with her having more time to “do whatever” she wants, and that she should just “make herself happy”. And so . . . the hope that they will tell her what to do, how to solve this issue about which she is apparently the only one who cares, fades into more of the voices: It doesn’t matter; no one cares; you’re the only one bothered by this.

I own it. I am bothered by this, and that’s reason enough to do something about it, and I will find a solution.

So here it is: Breakfast together will be in the form of a weekend brunch; we’ll have dinner together (sort of–when it’s possible) and I will have beautiful times alone, as well as lovely times with only one of my beloveds at a time per their schedules, and on those marvelous times we’re all available, it will be all the more beautiful and lovely for the rarity.

And I will relax, and live in the unforced rhythms of grace given by my Creator. Because it always comes down to this: As smart as I am, He is smarter. He cares about what I care about, and He cares about me.

So rather than losing my creative juices via fretting, I will stop. Rest. And make my darlings happy by making myself happy. I will live each and every day without a plan or a goal, except to receive what God has for me–peace and love and joy–and pass it on. If that happens to be over a meal, so much the better.

Life is good. Worry is bad.

What Would Smith Wigglesworth or a mom do?

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

The March 21 offering in Devotional by Smith Wigglesworth is the tale of a miracle healing, wherein before Smith came on the scene God prepared a woman’s heart to receive. This was a handy thing for me to be reading, as my son came to ask for healing prayer just after I finished. My heart was prepared to pray, and I wanted his heart prepared as well.

“First,” I answered, “Sit down and do me the honor of letting me read this to you.” Benjamin sat and I read Smith’s marvelous story, beginning with Matthew 8:17: He Himself took our infirmities and bore our sicknesses.

After finishing the devotion, I took Benjamin’s right hand and wrist (where the pain was) and began praying, during which action I was impressed to remind my son that his name means “Son of the Right Hand.” There was much more, and he received more than healing. He received encouragement.

I didn’t wake up encouraged today, and I was in no mood to encourage anyone else. But then there came that miracle thing called Quiet Time, and I was encouraged by the words of Jesus in the Gospel of John; then by Paul in I Corinthians with Love words, and David speaking straight to my heart in Psalms.

In Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest I was struck by the statement, “I have been identified with Him in His death.” Pondering this, I read from Smith Wigglesworth, focusing on the fifth verse of Isaiah 53: But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.

I choose to identify myself with The Healer.

The final thought in this devotion is, “One bit of unbelief against the Word is poison.”

He IS the Healer. Amen.

Love is Success, Success is Love

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

I appreciate Grant Cardone because so much of what he wrote in The 10X Rule applies to success in the most important thing of all: family. “Pretend,” he writes, “you’re being recorded as a model by which your children and grandchildren will learn how to succeed in life.”

If you’ve read this blog for very long, you know I define success a little differently than most people–something like, “Success is being free from the approval of others, from the tyranny of selfishness. Success is being a homemaker.” It can also be being a butcher, baker, or candlestick maker, as long as in that role we are also the one who doesn’t pass by on the other side when we see the opportunity to give, the opportunity to sacrifice.

(I must pause here to say you don’t impress God when all your giving is done outside your family, and all you have left for them is impatience and unkindness. And judgment.)

Back to sacrifice–WE ARE MADE FOR IT! What story is better than that of the Good Samaritan who “took pity” on the half dead man? I’ll tell you one that is as good, but first a word about the Good Samaritan. He was on his way to somewhere and it was not in his plan, on his calendar, or convenient for him to stop. He was likely a man of affairs and means, as evidenced by his leaving the man at the inn, promising to be back, and promising to pay any and all costs. The innkeeper trusted him and I think that was because people who take the time to help others at great inconvenience to themselves–people who sacrifice–are trusted.

Now for another good story: Once upon a time there were scores and scores of women who “took pity” on their husbands and children, and cared for them, without access to success gurus, social media, nannies, new SUVs or throw-away diapers. They had to lean on the Helper, the One Who (if we will let Him) sticks closer than a brother.

In making such sacrifices they raised children also willing to sacrifice. They were rich inside.

We are created in the image of the God of Sacrifice, and apart from a life of sacrifice, we cannot ever be whole.

This is not a call to return to the “good old days” of twelve diapers and no washing machine, or of no central heating and running water, or having nowhere to go if married to a brute. In America, because of the sacrifices of those who came before us, we live in such a lovely world as regarding physical conveniences and social supports, but not one so lovely when it comes to sacrifice.

It’s time to not only be willing to sacrifice and give, but to be on the lookout for opportunities for doing so. And if you have the immeasurable privilege of having people living in your own house for whom you can sacrfice, it’s time to give thanks, not complaints. Just remember this when the doubts and self-pity come in like a flood: your reward is guaranteed, even if not immediately seen.

If you don’t believe me, read the New Testament. If you don’t believe that, you’re doomed–to the misery of a life without sacrifice.

The Big “I Will” Trap

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

Even as I speak that the tongues of liars be tied, or better still that it becomes true–liars’ pants really do catch on fire, I MUST, we all MUST, forgive.

Satan, the enemy of all freedom, is full of tricks. He is, after all, “The Great Deceiver” and “The Father of Lies.” The Apostle Paul said, “We are not unaware of his schemes,” but it seems that perhaps we are, at least when it comes to the pit of unforgiveness, into which we fall again and again. The stakes are too high now. We can no longer afford the luxury of being offended–that account is way overdrawn.

In “Limitless Love” Gloria Copeland says, “The devil is continually devising plans and schemes to throw believers off course. He is constantly sending offenses, troublesome circumstances, pressures and temptations designed to trip us up and keep us from finishing our race in God.”

We must win this race, and God’s way is the only way we can do so. I have been praying we will be steadfast. I have been praying for a strengthening of the hands that hang down, and for unity in the body of Christ, that our prayers be not hindered.

No more hindered prayers! I have prayed deliverance from fear that our prayers be not hindered, as God works through faith, not fear. And now I am praying that we will be finished with the pride that will destroy us, the pride that says we can do anything apart from God, the pride that He resists.

Pride says I will take offense, I will denigrate and despise and deplore the denseness and debauchery of those people, I will ignore what very Word of God says about who the real enemy is, and I will take offense. Not only will I take offense, but I will hide it deep in my heart and pet it and feed it by continually talking about it.

No. Try this, Bev: When someone mentions certain witchy women in government, put on Gollum and say, “We do not speak its name.” Or do as Pastor Mark Hankins’ mama did when things got negative. She began to sing, “Let’s Talk About Jesus.” She was fighting against the I wills.

I will, regardless of what God says, refuse to trust and obey. My prayers will be, as the Bible assures me, hindered, as I coninually consider “evil reports” rather than considering what God says.

Oh and by the way–lest you think your anger at man is accomplishing a single thing, let me assure you, again as the Bible says, “any fool” can be angry. Let’s get angry at the real enemies, Satan and our own big mouths and small faith. Small faith is what we have when we put our faith in anything or anyone except God.

“We the People” trusting the One who made this great nation is what will save us all. Let’s do all we can to stand and then stand. Amen.

II Corinthians 2:10-11

What’s in a Package?

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

Love.  I have packed a box as full as I could get it, and then added just a few more things.  And as I wrestled it closed with the miracle that is packing tape, I thought, “The postage is going to cost more than the contents are worth.  If the postage is over $50 I’ll just unpack it and send the cash.”

But no.  That didn’t seem right.  Because you can’t put a price on Love.

This package is for my daughter Rebekah, at Bible College in Fort Worth, Texas.  She has friends coming for a tea party and a movie, but no tea things, no bedding if they want to spend the night on her air mattress, and no movies to watch, which is what they’ve suggested they want to do.

She has one plate, and nothing on her walls.  “Mama, I want you to come and visit and help me with my little house,” she said over Christmas break.  Code:  “Mama, I want you to come and visit.”  (She calls me Mum via e-mail, Mom in person, and Mama when she’s lonely.)

Well, OK.  I will.  But for now I’m sending Love in the form of a package.  And now that it’s all packed and addressed, I feel that ridiculous sense of joy and accomplishment that sending Love in the mail always brings.

I’m thinking over what I’ve sent:  two sets of sheets, a lovely kitchen painting of a giant red pepper, and then a sacrificial gift –  the collage Rebekah made as a child that shows me her heart every time I look at it.  It brings me joy, but it is now hers.

Then there is a tea set, a Pioneer Woman plate (also VERY sacrificial giving) to match the one she has, two other personality plates, a sack of hanging paraphernalia (stick pins, hooks, nails) along with safety pins, tape, scissors, and a Leatherman-type tool.

What else?  There is some gourmet summer sausage, canned meats, two beautifully wrapped gifts from a friend (I know what’s in them, but I can’t say), and a book she’s going to love.

And then a favorite movie per her request:  Amazing Grace.  Well, why not add two or three others?  I chose National Treasure, Letters to Juliet, and Enchanted.

There are a few more items for decorating, and a love note to go with the Love.

So, as I have now convinced myself that I will send this package regardless of the cost of postage, I will also urge you to put a little something in the mail to someone you know.  Someone who might enjoy a bit of Love.

It costs fifty cents to say, “Hi.  I love you.  Bye.  P.S.  Please write back soon.”

Don’t Butt Heads with Buttheads, or with Granite-Skulled Mountain Goats

~ Bev Parker ~ Leave a comment

goats

There is Door Number 3, the door where I don’t go to jail.

Door Number 1 goes into Strife City, and the path leading there is Stupid Street.  Someone says something idiotic and offensive and devoid of all logic, reason, and wisdom, and I act accordingly.  That is, I decide I am going to set them straight.  This is idiotic and devoid of all logic, reason and wisdom, and I end up even more offended than when I started.

“Don’t butt heads with a butthead, Bev,” I admonish myself and promise never to do so again.  I know!  I shall (once again, even though it’s never worked before) try Door Number 2.

Door Number 2 is the High Road, where I pay them no mind whatsoever.  At first.  But I keep thinking about what they said, and vainly imagine (the Bible says to cast down “vain imaginations”) what I coulda, shoulda, woulda said.  I stew, and simmer, and stew, and simmer.

And then I murmur, and maybe gripe a little about it to someone else.  Then comes the fun had by all:  the rant.

Which leads me to, finally, mature spiritual genius that I am, Door Number 3.  I think I know the way, and what to expect, based on past (admittedly rather limited) time spent here.  I take the path marked “Forgiveness” and follow it to “Pray for them” and finally bask at a high place:  Mount Victory.

But, lo, what is this heretofore unnoticed path?  And what do I see here in this high spot but a Granite-Skulled Mountain Goat?  I look to the left and to the right and there are others.  I turn around, hoping to go back the way I came.  Another goat.

I’m surrounded.  I did the tried and true.  The Formula!  I forgave and prayed for any and all buttheads in my life – past, present and future.  And what did I get?  Another version of the same animal.

I look to Heaven.  That’s the joy of Heaven!  No buttheads allowed!  Sheep, not goats!

I look around me again, hoping the goats will go away.  Instead, one is moving toward me, a little one, making tiny “maaaaa” sounds.  I can’t help but reach out my hand toward it, and suddenly it becomes a sheep, a little lamb.  I look at its anxious mother, and she too, is morphing into a fluffy sheep, fretfully following and nudging her baby away from me.

I squat and gather grasses into my hand, reaching and gently calling.  “It’s OK.  Here you go,” I whisper.  I turn toward the fretting mother and reach to her.  She sniffs and gently nibbles the grasses in my hand, then backs up and lets her little one approach.

And I hear our Maker’s voice on the mountain breezes:  If you think in butthead, you will see in butthead.  Don’t be a granite-skulled goat.  Be my sheep and feed my sheep.  And I felt His hand stroking my fleecy head, and maybe even scratching behind my ears.

The mama sheep and her baby stand before me, at attention.  I feed them more grasses, pat and stroke their heads, make lovey noises at them, and even scratch behind their ears.

The goats watch to see if such treatment is only for sheep.

I repent.