Living by my faith...

I care not today what the morrow may bring,
If shadow or sunshine or rain,
The Lord I know ruleth o’er everything,
And all of my worries are vain.
Refrain:
Living by faith in Jesus above,
Trusting, confiding in His great love;
From all harm safe in His sheltering arm,
I’m living by faith and feel no alarm.

 ~James Wells, 1918

Romans 5:1 Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ

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My faith is very important to me. Not religion, mind you, but my faith. Religion is a form that excuses us from thinking for ourselves. I have found that religion can be anything, and doesn't necessarily have to include anything heavenly. 

My faith leaves me open to feelings. Many folks have told me that feelings have no part in our relationship with God. I beg to differ.

On a daily basis, I have feelings. Feelings of accomplishment, defeat, happiness, sadness, triumph, failures, contentment, restlessness - these are part of everyday life. 

Why should my relationship with God be empty?! You see, I love my Heavenly Father. He has forgiven me of my trespasses and continues to guide me. Why shouldn't I have feelings for the Savior I love?!

I am blessed beyond measure, and I give God all the glory. And that makes me content in my life. And I can compare my daily life with my husband, son and all our dysfunctional mayhem to the realm of faith. 

Tomorrow is to yet be seen - but we all look forward to it in some fashion or the other. My faith is the same - I look forward to what it holds. It may not all be sweet. It may not all be what I dreamed. But it is what I need.

Because I have been blessed to develop faith, I have learned to live in my beliefs and make them part of my everyday walk. I don't have to put on my religion as I do my clothing and take it to church twice a week. I can use it every day and be thankful that it has developed me into the woman I am.

I am far from perfect. I have many needs that God only knows how to fix. But, I have found that everyone I come in contact with has needs that only God can meet. They may not be the same, but are similar flaws that we deal with daily, weekly, monthly, yearly and throughout our lifetime.

The only way I have the confidence to make my journey is because God promised He would never leave or forsake me. That's a mighty big promise, and I know He'll keep it. And that promise is not just for me, it's for us all.

Now I have a scrap box...

 Exodus 35:35

Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work, of the engraver, and of the cunning workman, and of the embroiderer, in blue, and in purple, in scarlet, and in fine linen, and of the weaver, even of them that do any work, and of those that devise cunning work.

When I was growing up, it was a common sight to see mom sitting at the sewing machine. She made most of my clothes and she and I spent many hours looking at patterns from the McCalls and Simplicity catalogs.

At the right hand side of her machine sat a cardboard box. This box was necessary for her and invaluable to me. It was the scrap box. Bits and snips of fabric filled it to the brim, and many times spilled over. 

It wasn't an ordinary scrap box...it was a craft waiting to happen, a Barbie doll dress to be made, a crazy-quilt block or a stuffed animal. It was a treasure trove that I would dig through on wintery evenings and boring Saturdays.

And no matter the color of the material, she had the thread to match it. I don't really remember her teaching me to sew...I guess I mostly learned because I sat beside her while she sewed.

I'm not a great seamstress by any stretch, but I can sew up a skirt, quilt block or owl pillow without much difficulty. I can also mend blue jeans and torn shirts for my "men". To do my mending, I often need small pieces of material and I automatically reach into my scrap box to find a suitable match. 

I was mending a pair of Jason's jeans and cut off a small piece from a mutilated piece of denim and it hit me...I now have my own scrap box.

When mom was my age now, I was young and excited over the possibilities in bits of fabric. Now I am a grown-up with a family of my own. I have a scrap box that my son loves to rummage through. 

Life has rolled a full circle and did it while I wasn't aware of the time going by. But looking back, I can see that it has been measured by things like the scrap box. It has taken a while to fill my box with the items I use now.

I have sewn many a piece of fabric to have the box filled up. I can measure time by the pieces that accumulated while I was busy sewing and carrying on with my projects.

My life is like that box...it is filled with all sorts of pieces that make me a whole. All those snips and bits have formed me, molded me. I am a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. And I am a woman who is capable and prepared because I have my scrap box.

Happily working...

2 Chronicles 29:15

And they gathered their brethren, and sanctified themselves, and came, according to the commandment of the king, by the words of the Lord, to cleanse the house of the Lord. 

Families in our church congregation take monthly turns cleaning the church building. Gage was one and two years old while we were building the new building, and he sat strapped in the stroller many a day while we painted. He had to stay strapped in, because my niece had once found him standing on the top of the step ladder in the unfinished restroom, by himself, very proud of his accomplishment. Much like a mountain climber having reached the precipice.

So, when we take our turn cleaning, it feels as comfortable as home. It's a place where we gather to worship and be with God as a unit, and like all church houses, it is a restful place. 

It is also cold inside during the winter months because we keep the heat set low until the weekends. Gage and I ran through swirling snow in the parking lot to the door and dove inside the building.

The extreme quietness was broken by a chattering voice who announced he wanted to vacuum the carpet. He dragged the vacuum out and hauled it into the sanctuary. He unwrapped the cord and found an outlet. And he set to work. While I swept and cleaned restrooms and Sunday School rooms, he vacuumed. While I took out trash, he vacuumed. While I restocked supplies, he vacuumed. When I was finished, he was still battling that vacuum cleaner.

In and out of pews. Around the piano. Along the edge of the wall. Excited to find a few dead ladybugs. Finally, he stopped and looked at me, his eyes sparkling. "All clean, mom!" 

Yes son, you did a great job. He missed all the corners. There was still some lint here and there, along with a tiny scraps of paper. However, for an eight year old, he did a wonderful job.

We gathered up our cleaning supplies and turned out the lights. Gage dragged the vacuum cleaner back to storage and happily announced that he had done his part. I didn't redo his job, even though in my eyes it wasn't perfectly clean. I had a feeling the not-so-perfect work was perfect in God's eyes and that was enough. 

One day, Gage will have grown enough and be strong enough to clean the carpet to an adult's specification. Until then, he had provided all the service he was able to accomplish to our Heavenly Father. And I could feel His smile.