By Lisa Huddleston

“Therefore, since we also have such a large cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily ensnares us, and run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus, the source and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that lay before Him endured a cross and despised the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of God’s throne” (Heb. 12:1-2).

I know you’ve seen them, too.  Euro stickers on the back windows of every third or fourth car on the interstate (it seems):  13.1 or 26.2.  The sticker announces to the world that the owner of the car has run a half- or a whole marathon!  26.2 miles!  I can’t even imagine it without getting worn out. 

I know some of these amazing people, and while I am greatly impressed by their determination and endurance, I am surprised that they set and accomplished such a lofty goal.  They are ordinary people–not super heroes.  Ordinary people who persevered through long months of training regimens and the actual race itself.  Their ordinariness makes the accomplishment even more incredible!

Recently, my husband and I were pondering why the desire to run a marathon seems to be on the rise.  Ours is a day of leisure.  Most people don’t seem to be into deprivation or hardship.  So why run a marathon?

We were inclined to think it had something to do with the definition of the event.  No matter where you run a marathon, it is always carefully measured and clearly marked–26.2 miles.  No more.  No less.  It can’t be dumbed down.  It can’t be achieved virtually or through an on-line gym.  It must be run one step at a time until the entire length is completed.  No variation allowed.

Maybe that’s what people want today.  A true standard.  A rule or a measure that never changes.  A clearly defined course to conquer.  And a marathon is just that.  As is choosing to become a follower of Christ.

No, there are not mile markers to follow or specified distances to cover; yet, I do have One who runs before me upon whom my eyes are fixed.  And He who endured the cross knows what it means to persevere.  He understands my weariness and encourages me not to lose heart as I run.  He is both the source of my faith as well as its perfecter–starter and finisher–and He never leaves me behind in the dust.

Help me run, Lord!  Not for a sticker or for the applause of witnesses (although a large cloud surrounds me), but for the joy that lies at the end.  One foot after the other.  Drawn forward, ever forward, with my eyes fixed on You.

By Lisa Huddleston

I am devoting this day to wearing comfy clothes (yoga pants), drinking coffee, and studying for my last (hope so), fast-paced, J-term class–New Testament I.  You got it.  Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and Acts all in a month!  I have to admit to having already learned much in the three classes I have attended as well as in the enormous amount of reading I have been doing.  I do wish I could slow the train down in order to savor more, but we have a deadline to meet so … chug, chug, chug.  I think I can.  I think I can.  I hope I can.

This morning, I read The Gospel According to Mark in one sitting–something I don’t think I’ve ever done before.  As I read, I almost laughed at how closely Mark’s writing style matches the pace of my studies.  “Immediately …”  “Then …”  “As soon as …”  “Right away …”  Whew!  What was his rush?

Just this.  People who knew Jesus were dying for their faith, and others were dying without knowing Him.  Mark’s friend, Peter, may have already been martyred by the time of Mark’s writing, and persecution was increasing.  Even if none of his fears came true immediately, Mark knew his days were numbered, and he had important information to share.  Therefore, he wrote with wild abandon careening through the highlights of Jesus’ life and ministry in order to arrive breathless at the most important news a writer could pen–”This man really was God’s Son!” (Mark 15:39).

As soon as, immediately, right away, Mark did what he could to tell the good news.  Not Mark’s gospel but THE gospel according to Mark.  Others would write their accounts as well, but Mark (perhaps the first of the evangelists) led the way with an urgency I would do well to follow.  And I wanted to slow down for a minute to acknowledge that fact before necessity pushes me past the thought and onto the next thing. 

Right now, immediately, and forever–Jesus is Lord!  Thanks for sharing, Mark, and reminding me to do the same.

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

–“The Chambered Nautilus,” Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.

It has been several weeks since I have had the time or inclination to write—more lack of time than inclination—but the outcome is the same.  No writing.  And I feel the urge.  In fact I felt it so strongly last night that I could not sleep.  I think even the dog sensed my unrest as she would not lie down in her cozy bed but preferred to wander around my room and poke me with her wet black nose from time to time to let me know that she felt my pain.  It was a long night as I pondered and strained to link my thoughts together.  It’s New Year after all—how hard could it be to come up with a topic?

My brain toyed and teased the topics of the past.  New Year’s resolutions.  A Word for the Year.   Changes for which I give God praise, and modifications that have still not been made.  Transformation, reconstruction, evolution, restyling and remodeling.  Whew … it was a very long night.  And as my brain ached, a verse began to run through the chaos.  “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul …”  And the repetition soothed the sore struggle of my brain.  The melody of the words and the crescendo of the thought helped my cramped ideas to expand into a more comfortable space, nobler and more vast, till I at last could sleep.

And so, here we are.  Drinking my second cup of coffee and remembering the struggle which is yet to be resolved.  No New Year’s resolutions.  No Word for the Year.  No lists to check or promises to break.  Just a certainty that I must continue to grow and outgrow my earthly shell as the swift seasons roll and beyond.  Till I at length am free. 

May this year bring spiraling growth in incremental inches—one step and one choice at a time—until we break the confines of the past and have our feet set in a very spacious place indeed.  Happy New Year!

By Lisa Huddleston

“And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn” (Luke 2:7).

I sat in the Christmas program’s audience brooding.  In my heart I knew that I was being a truly horrible person, but I didn’t really care.  Everything had changed this year including the congregation with whom we worshiped, and I felt woefully out of place. 

For many years, our family had played a large role in the Christmas programs of our former church–in choir musicals, in handbells, in plays, and children’s choirs, and as a family band singing “Oh Beautiful Star of Bethlehem” and “Christmas Time’s A’Comin!’”  Now I barely recognized a face in the crowd as I moped in the dark of an unfamiliar sanctuary.  Where was my place in this church? 

So much was different in this new place I had proclaimed, “Spacious!”  Borrowed nativity scenes appeared in the window sills, unusual carols hung in the corners of the high ceilings, and unfamiliar faces proclaimed the ancient meanings and lit the candles in the Advent wreath.  What had seemed refreshing in the heat of the summer now overwhelmed me with melancholy and a longing for the good ole’ days. 

But those days had passed. And they wouldn’t be returning even if we were sitting in the same church as we had for the past 17 years.  The kids had grown and were moving into their own traditions.  Time had marched on, and even Christmas had to change.  Sure–good times and new traditions lay ahead as we opened our family circle to include a new son- and daughter-in-law.  But at that very moment, I missed the old and to heck with the new.

A few weeks ago, Chuck and I had strolled along the walls of our new church home, perusing the nativity scenes that families had contributed to the seasonal decor.  The variety was wonderful and the descriptions sweet.  One contribution stayed with me as we made our way back to our seats and throughout the following days.  It was an old and inexpensive menagerie of the usual shepherds and animals and angels and wise men and … green army men, orange orangutans, and an enormous, pink, lone ear!  What?  Do you hear what I hear?  I smiled at the owner’s description of how he had added characters to the usual scene to warm it up and thought of times I had done the same.  The quirky additions appealed to me, and I pondered them as that morning’s service began–no new character could ever take center stage in any nativity scene.  Only Jesus could fill the manger, but there was room for anyone (or anything!) to worship him.

Oddly, this thought returned to me as I pined away in the anonymity of last night’s crowd.  I confess.  I was longing for an important place–as I had had in the past.  My long face, hopefully hidden in the dark, had nothing to do with the performance of those on the stage.  It was all about me and my inability to find my place.  I felt like that awkward, disembodied ear or the ugly orangutan on the roof of the creche–out of place and maybe not so very appreciated.

But Christmas, and even last evening’s Christmas program, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with me and my self-centered complaints.  It was and is all about the one who had no place in the inn, nowhere to lay his head–as it always has been and always will be.  He was not welcomed into this world as I have been welcomed into this church.  And the spotlight he lived in from his birth to his death brought suffering and pain rather than applause. 

I confess it.  I missed my old place.  But I learned a needed lesson in discovering my new place.  It isn’t in the manger, and it isn’t on the stage, but it is on my knees forever at the feet of Jesus.  Humbling and true. 

“To God be the glory,  Great things He hath done;  So loved He the world that He gave us His son. … And give Him the glory, great things He hath done.”  –Fanny J. Crosby

By Lisa Huddleston

I should be writing my final paper for my Missions class right now, but I had a thought I wanted to share in more than 140 characters. Tuesday night was the end-of-semester dinner honoring those who will be graduating this month. It was a typical event–lasagna from Demos, “tokens” of UU’s appreciation, and impromptu speeches from professors and students. A group hug experience, literally.

I enjoyed the words that were shared as well as seeing some students who had finished their work one or two classes ago. However, I went home that night feeling a little discouraged. After all, I only have a couple of classes left to complete the program. Why don’t I have a better sense of where my path is headed? Several graduates have found places on church staffs or will use their degrees in current positions of teaching or preaching. I still don’t know for certain why God pushed me to start this journey–and time is running out.

I voiced my concern to one of my professors and this was part of his response. He challenged me to ask, “What activity, job, or ministry will wake me up every day and send me on my way with great passion and purpose?”

Awesome question! I am asking it of myself with expectation of finding an answer, and while I don’t have a revelation I want to share with you right now, I do want to share the question.

What’s your passion? What’s your purpose? What activity, job, or ministry will allow you to serve without compromising God’s design of who you are?

Hope you already know the answer to these questions, but, if you don’t, I challenge you to join me in the search! Passionately and purposefully!

By Lisa Huddleston

“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given; and the government will be upon His shoulder.  And His name will be called: Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6, NKJV). 

Last week I received an email invitation to an exhibit called “23 Years Without War Since 1000 AD.”  In the body of the invitation the gallery stated, “To us peace is the normal state of being.  But peace is a state of absence–the absence of strife and discord–the absence of war.”

Really?  Is that all that peace is?  A void or an absence?  That declaration struck me as sad and untrue–especially in the time of year when we celebrate Peace on Earth and the incarnation of the Prince of Peace.  Surely peace is more than a vacancy.

As I’ve pondered this startling statement, I’ve come to believe that peace is in fact the complete opposite of a void.  Rather, peace is a filling.  Just as he came to fill a manger with the Bread of Life, the Prince of Peace came to fill empty hearts that really are shaped with a proverbial “God-shaped Hole” deep inside.  His peace that passes understanding fills and then keeps filling until it overflows the saturated heart and reaches out to the world.  Peace is here to fill a void–it is not a lack but a surfeit! 

“For a child has been born–for us!  The gift of a son–for us!  He’ll take over the running of the world.  His names will be:  Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness” (Isaiah 9: 6, The Message).  Fill us, Lord, and make us wholly whole!

Tacos? For Thanksgiving??

By Lisa Huddleston

“Give thanks in everything, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (I Thess. 5:18)

Like many of you, I have been texting, emailing, and calling relatives over the past few days working to find the best times and optimal ways to get us all together for a meal on Thanksgiving Day. Part of the annual logistics for this awesome gathering is planning the menu so that we don’t have too many duplicates and everyone can contribute a dish that she or he likes to make and that their families like to eat. Right at the beginning, let me say I am thankful for the many ways to connect with those I love. Email has simplified this task greatly, and our meal is planned. It will be a Potluck Extraordinaire, as usual. Way too much food and way too many cooks in the kitchen.

As I have pondered this huge feast, I have laughed as some have moaned over the absence of a favorite dish or shown some distaste for what their addition to the meal will be. I have had to promise my eldest that I will make his favorite later in the week and have asked some to make a little less than maybe they would like to in order to avoid too much excess—but it promises to be delicious, and I guarantee that no one will leave hungry.

Along with my inward chuckles, there is a growing awareness of how appropriate a potluck Thanksgiving meal really is. After all, isn’t life a potluck? Don’t we have to accept some things that aren’t exactly what we would like and don’t we have to manage our relationships with the bringers (and Giver) of those strange dishes with thanksgiving? (No, Mom or Mom-in-law or sisters or brothers-in-law or fiancés or girlfriends, I’m not saying that anyone is bringing anything strange! It’s just a metaphor.) But that’s life, and that’s what potlucks are all about.

And therefore, I am thankful for turkey and dressing (both northern and southern style) and cranberries (fresh and canned) and deviled eggs and pies and tea (sweet and un) and anything else that makes its way onto our buffet for this Thanksgiving meal. Just as I have learned to be thankful for jobs that turned out to be more than expected, out-of-the-blue calls for help, surprise guests, not enough bedrooms and couches that “sleep good.” I am thankful for misunderstandings set right, boundaries that make good neighbors, sore muscles, and junk yard dogs that live in my house.

Heavenly Father, your will for me in Jesus Christ is sometimes surprising but always good. For the whole potluck called life, I am thankful.

By Lisa Huddleston

“When Peter saw he had a congregation, he addressed the people” (Acts 3:12).

What a loaded statement!  At least three things jump out at me from this simple segue from Peter’s and John’s encounter with the crippled beggar to Peter’s sermon from Solomon’s Porch. 

Peter saw that he had a congregation.  There are many times when we fail to see our congregation.  We think our actions don’t matter or we feel that no one is watching.  Times when we lose our temper, let our emotions control us, or become so self-focused that we are blinded to those who are looking to us as examples.  Look around you–do you see your congregation?

Peter knew who his congregation was.  Peter and John were on their way to the Temple for prayer, as were the other “Israelites” who were gathered in astonishment to see the formerly lame beggar “dancing and praising God.”  Peter knew his audience and addressed them appropriately.  He called them “Israelites,” he referenced Moses and the prophets, and he reminded them of Yahweh’s covenant with Abraham–which was fulfilled in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  Peter spoke their language.  Do your words and actions convey what you hope they do?

Peter knew what he had to tell them.  If you see your congregation and really know who they are, what is the message you have to share?  I see people all the time who want to be speakers or writers or have some kind of impact on their culture, but they haven’t yet discovered what they have to say.  Peter had walked with Christ.  He had made huge mistakes and learned great truths.  He had seen the risen Christ, and he knew exactly what he wanted to say.  He was ready when he saw his congregation, and he didn’t hesitate to share the Good News.

Do you see your congregation?  Do you know who they are?  Do you have your message ready?  If not, what can you do to answer these questions affirmatively?  If so, address the people, and preach it, preacha!

"Does this new collar make me look fat?"

By Lisa Huddleston

It’s a rainy, chilly, gray, November day, and, no, Dottie, I do not want to wander aimlessly around the soggy yard waiting for you to do your “business.”  In fact, I’m not really convinced that you have any business to do.  What I really suspect is that you enjoy tormenting your weak-willed, adopted mother by making me follow mole trails and cats all through the muddy, soupy grass.  I am cold and ill-tempered and highly impatient.  It’s only 9:30 in the morning, and we’ve already made this happy trek at least three times with only sporadic success.

But what’s a foolish dog owner to do?  You are still very young and a novice at house training.  When you whine anywhere near the vicinity of the back door, we all jump to do your bidding, cooing, “Good girl,” with every step and allowing you to drag us wherever your little puppy heart desires.  Yeah—you’ve got me where you want me, and you know it.  I’m just saying, you aren’t fooling me for a minute.  I know it, too—for whatever that’s worth.

So, really, what can I do but jump at your bidding and slog around the yard hoping and praying for you to do what you do best—better in the yard than in my house!  Yep.  It’s a lovely day at the Huddleston Animal Farm, and some animals definitely are more equal than others.  (But isn’t she a cutie-pie?)

By Lisa Huddleston

I finally took that walk in the woods I’d been planning for weeks.  It was Sunday afternoon, and I had several hours free so Chuck left his football game, I set down my knitting, and we headed out.  I was shocked!  How had I missed it?  The leaves I had been planning to enjoy lay in crunchy piles around our feet so noisy that we couldn’t even carry on a conversation.  Where had the color and beauty gone?

Before you give me the benefit of the doubt and say that we all are busy, I must confess to you that I live in a small cove of pasture that cuts a deep horseshoe right into the center of said woods.  I live right in the middle of it and still I had missed the opportunity to take a stroll amidst the once-a-year coloropoly.  My disappointment weighed down each step as I trudged through the leaves trying to make the best of it. 

Surely, the woods are still beautiful.  I dearly love the ancient trunks and the scratched, bluish-brown sassafras bark, the acorns in their caps, and the wild holly, but it feels like an eternity lies between now and when the autumn colors will return.  My heart ached and groaned like the wind in the trees.  Why did I wait too long?

Unfortunately, the leaves are probably the least important thing I’ve missed lately.  Friends have moved without my taking the opportunity to wish them well, it’s been ages since I’ve visited with my sisters, and I missed a webinar today because I thought the time meant CST when it really was EST (as the email clearly stated).  And the list doesn’t end there.  Notes I haven’t yet sent.  Phone calls I really should make.  So many good intentions buried like the acorns in a sea of dried, dead leaves.

After our woodsy walk, we attended a memorial service for a dear friend we had not seen in quite some time, and one of the men who shared his memories confessed that he also had not taken the time to express appropriately his deep thankfulness for his departed friend. The lost opportunity had jarred him. He had written four other friends that week to let them know how much he appreciated them, but he realized that he couldn’t recover the chance he had missed. 

And I guess that’s the best we can do.  We can’t recover spent time.  Once gone, it’s gone forever.  However, we do have 24 new hours each day.  Hours that we can choose to spend in appreciation for the beauty around us, in thankfulness for the blessing of true friends, and in awareness of the passing of each valuable moment.

As I write it is 11:45 a.m., CST.  I have half a day ahead of me.  Some of those moments are already planned, but many still lie in vaguery and good intentions.  May I see the opportunities more clearly and may I access the time I’ve been given to love, to rejoice and be glad in this day, as the Lord leads.   Amen.