Easter Series, Part 10: Two Men Out for A Walk

Posted on April 26, 2011 by Sherri Woodbridge

Sunday morning. The third day. Mary has already run to the disciples to tell them the good news – Jesus is alive! There’s a buzz in the air and anticipation is quietly growing.

A disciple named Cleopas is walking toward Emmaus with a friend at his side. The two are talking.

“So, if he’s not in the tomb, where then?”

They continue talking to one another. Cleopas’ friend replies as he continues to walk, kicking a stone along the road. “Well, I say someone’s taken his body somewhere else or he did what he said he’d do and came back to life.” Cleopas’ friend kicked the stone ahead of him. “Did you see him bring his friend Lazarus back to life?”

“Yeah, I did. It was… incredible. I know He’s got the power to raise someone but how’s He gonna do it if He’s dead? That’s what I don’t get.”

“Man – that’s what’s been going on in my head. I mean—”

From out of nowhere, Cleopas’ friend is interrupted by a stranger who joins them on the road as they walk.

“Good morning,” he greets them.

“Hey,” Cleopas nods, looking up momentarily to make eye contact and then continues watching the dirt road in front of him as he walks.

The stranger continues to walk beside the two men. “So what are you guys talking about?”

“You must not be from around here. You haven’t heard what’s happened?”

“What’s happened?” the stranger inquires.

“There was a man creating a lot of stir among the people here – Jesus of Nazareth. The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death and they crucified him on Friday. We were hoping that he was the one who was going to save Israel. The king we’ve all been waiting for.”

“Wow. Sounds like I really missed something.”

“That’s not the half of it. He told his apostles that he would rise again on the third day and today’s the third day. There were a couple women who amazed us with their news of his tomb being empty and – .”

Cleopas’ friend interjects. “Yeah, they said they even saw angels who told them he was alive and some of our friends went to the tomb to check out the women’s story and his body was gone, but no one has seen him anywhere. We don’t know what’s going on.”

“Haven’t you read the scriptures?” the stranger asks.

“What do you mean?” Cleopas replies, head hanging low to the ground and his hands in his pockets, he kicks another stone.

The stranger stops momentarily to face them as he says, “How can you not believe what the prophets said? Don’t you remember the scriptures teaching that the Christ would have to suffer all that’s happened and then enter his glory? Remember the story of Moses? Remember when…” as they being walking again on that road to Emmaus, the stranger begins to explain to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself. They walk another few miles, the two friends, feeling their hearts burning inside and listening intently as the stranger speaks. They don’t realize how late it has become when they finally reach Emmaus. The two men begin veering west to the place they are staying, while the stranger appears to be continuing down the road.

“Hey, it’s late – stay with us for the night,” Cleopas’ friend invites the stranger. The stranger accepts.

Cleopas introduces the new face to the other men who are present and the meal is ready shortly after. They gather around a table, much like Jesus and his apostles had just done three nights prior. And, much like the three nights prior when Jesus and his apostles celebrated the Passover, the stranger takes the bread, gives thanks, breaks it and begins to give it to the men with him at that moment. And – it is at that moment the two men who had been walking on the road to Emmaus realize who this stranger is and then… he is gone as quickly as the moment he showed up when they were walking.

Cleopas and his friend immediately “got up and returned at once to Jerusalem. There they found the Eleven and those with them, assembled together and saying, ‘It is true! The Lord has risen and has appeared to Simon.’ Then the two told what had happened on the way, and how Jesus was recognized by them when he broke the bread.” (Luke 24:33-35)

Thomas, one of the apostles, is also known as ‘doubting Thomas’. He is probably known best for doubting it was actually Christ, (after being resurrected) who now stands in front of him. He is in need of proof before he will believe. However, it seems Cleopas and his walking partner aren’t too far from having the same problem. After all, it doesn’t appear they’re really expecting him. If you were there when Christ said he would rise on the third day and really believed he was going to be back on Sunday as he said, wouldn’t you be checking out the favorite hangouts that you and all the guys had been to in the last three years to see if he shows up?

That’s a tough call. You’re staring at reality as you know it – no physical evidence of Jesus in the flesh – and yet, inside there’s a stirring telling you there’s more to come.

Are you a Cleopas? A Thomas? Will you believe that Jesus was real? Will you believe the scars from the nails that had been driven into his hands are really there without needing to see them? Will you believe the only reason those scars are there is because Someone really loves you and hung on a cross to prove it?

Well, it’s true. And that someone is Jesus and yes… He’s Alive!

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Easter Series, Part 7: The Passover Lamb

Posted on April 23, 2011 by sherriwoodbridge.com

For centuries, God’s chosen people have celebrated the Feast of Unleavened Bread, the first day being the more commonly known ‘Passover’ and also known as The Last Supper.

At that first Passover, the children of Israel were commanded by God to kill an unblemished lamb and take the blood from the lamb and put it on the doorposts of their home. The blood was a sign for God’s spirit to ‘pass over’ the homes with blood-stained doorposts and the first born males in that house would be spared from death.

The exile and freedom from the Israelites out of Egypt is celebrated during this week, but what significance does all of this have for us today?

It is no coincidence that Jesus is crucified on Passover – the very same time they were sacrificing unblemished lambs at the temple. God was saying to the world, “ It’s done. This is the Lamb of God and no more sacrifices are needed. The blood of my son has become that which will cover the sins of the people from this day forward.”

Jesus Christ became the final sacrifice for our sins. All we had to do was to believe. Believe who He said He was and repent from our sins.

Can salvation really be that easy?

It wasn’t so easy for Christ to provide such a gift. Undoubtedly writhing in pain as he hung there on the cross, He took on the sins of the world as His father turned His face away. Imagine the isolation, the loneliness, the darkness. He could have saved himself, but He didn’t. Instead, He chose to save us.

He created a New Testament type of Passover. If we believe He is the Son of God and died for our sins, that belief becomes the blood spread on the doorposts of our life and death no longer has a hold on us. When God looks at us on Judgment Day, it won’t be me He sees, but the blood of His son, which covers me. No gimmicks, no bucket full of works to save me – just grace found at the foot of the cross.

I don’t know about you, but that fills me with a hope and an excitement of things to come. So, this week, remember the perfect Lamb. The One who set you free from death when He allowed himself to become your sacrifice – if you just believe.

Easter Series, Part 3: Surely He Was the Son of God

Posted on April 20, 2011 by Sherri Woodbridge

I have always wanted to prepare for Easter by taking the month leading up to that holiday and reflect on the events that make up what we call, Easter. I began that the other day with “When Jesus Says Your Name“. It was the story of Mary as she stands at the tomb, distraught over her Jesus being gone.

The second in the series, Bound For My Freedom, is the story of Asher, the young shepherd boy who sat next to Jesus in the stable, only to meet up with him again at the foot of the cross, as he assists his cousin Joseph in preparing Christ’s body with burial.

Today’s story, third in the series, is seen through the eyes of the centurion who saw the darkness of Good Friday turn to the light and hope of Easter. Enjoy!

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“For God so love the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

For many, that verse has been heard a thousand times and it can mean next to nothing. For others, they have heard Jesus died on the cross, yet leave that fact hanging in mid-air where it stopped, so as not to allow it to pierce their heart. They, like I once did, have heard the story of the cross like this: “Jesus died on the cross for your sins.” That’s pretty plain. Pretty simple. But was that all there was to it, really? Just a plain and simple fact?

The last six hours in the life of Christ can show you, once again, (or for what may be the first time), that for Jesus to die on the cross, was not so plain nor was it so simple.

Jesus has been up all night with a great amount of anguish. After all, He is the Son of God and knows the Father’s thoughts. He knows what lies ahead. He had spent these precious hours on His knees, praying in the garden of Gethsemane. His prayers are powerful, intentional and pleading. So emotive that crimson drops of sweat drip from His pores. In the middle of His prayers, He is apprehended as if a criminal.

He is taken away, only to endure three legal, yet not so just, trials. He is flogged – a lashing done with the use of a whip made of rawhide.

In a flogging, the whip that is used contains steel like balls in the middle of the rawhide and at the end, pieces of bone that cut glass. The criminals in Jesus’ day were put on a pole and the authorities would then swing the whip. As it would swing around the criminals body, the balls would hit and cause major contusions to the organs as the pieces of bone cut into the flesh. When pulled out, it ripped away the flesh. Thirty-nine lashes was the legal limit, for few individuals ever lived beyond those 39 lashes.

That’s what Jesus gets.

When Christ lay, most likely almost dead, they strip him of his clothes. They spit on Him. They shove a twisted crown of thorns on his head. They strike Him on the head. They mock him as king.

Emotionally he is exhausted. Physically he is almost dead. Mentally he is drained. And yet, it doesn’t end there. In such a weakened condition, He isn’t able to carry the load of the cross – my cross. But he was the One chosen to bear it and He is led off to Golgotha – the hill on which he must die.

The nails are like spikes and he winces with each strike of the mallet that pounds each one into His hands and feet. Hanging there, they hurl insults at him and He does not retaliate; when he suffers, he makes no threats. Instead, he entrusts Himself to His heavenly Father, who judges justly.

A continual life of obedience, even in the face of humiliation. Obedience in the face of mockery. Obedience in the face of a death He had every power at hand to stop. Still, he endures. They aren’t finished with him yet.

They lift up sour wine for him to drink. They insult him, take his clothes and cast lots for them. It’s all a game to them. It’s all about taunting what appears to be the underdog. It’s all about obeying the rules of the mighty and twisting them to fit your pleasure.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

He doesn’t use His words to bite back. He doesn’t say, “I’ll get you!” or, “Come on up here and say that to my face!” or, “Just wait until after the resurrection, buddy!” No, these statements were not found on the lips of Christ. Instead, He left the ways of judgment up to God and demanded no apology. Instead, he spoke in their defense.

“Father forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing!”

How Jesus, with a body wracked with pain, eyes blinded by his own blood, and lungs yearning for air could speak on behalf of some heartless thugs is beyond my comprehension.

Jesus didn’t die from loss of blood. He didn’t die of pain. He suffocated, for to die by means of a crucifixion is to die of suffocation. As His arms are nailed cross-ways above, soldiers bend his legs and put a nail between both ankles so that he is able to push up with his legs and pull himself up but as he hangs there, his arms quickly dislocate. As he tries to pull himself up, his organs begin to slide down and the pain of pulling himself up, is compensated by trying to get a breath and he suffocates.

“The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life …

No one takes my life from me…

I lay it down on my own accord.

I have the authority to lay it down or to take it up again…”

A centurion sits nearby. He watches the three men who are lined up on crosses – no respect, no cause for care or concern, no dignity – just pieces of meat. A conversation develops between the center man and the one to his left. The centurion can’t hear much but he definitely hears a proclamation by the man on the left that this man called Jesus is innocent. The rumble of voices quiet and the world grows freakishly silent.

As the centurion stands, he notices that the man in the middle is lifeless but out of somewhere, the lifeless body musters strength to lift its head upward and like a bolt of lightening and the roar of thunder he proclaims, “It is finished.”

The centurion takes three quick steps toward and falls at the foot of the cross of Christ. Not because he suddenly realizes just who this is that he has hung up to die, but because he loses his balance. The earth is shaking as the skies grow dark with anger.

He looks up into the face of this man, so near to death. Jesus looks down. His arms outstretched, hammered with nails the rugged post, He is unable to embrace this one who now understands. They lock eyes and in that instant, he falls under the grace of God and states a truth that will ring throughout history:

“Surely this was the Son of God.”

The faith of the centurion was born that day at the foot of the cross and forgiveness was poured down over him by the crimson blood of Christ. And, he weeps.

“Surely this man was innocent.”

Surely, He was.

Easter Series, Part 2: Bound For My Freedom

Posted on April 19, 2011 by Sherri Woodbridge

Today, I hope you enjoy the next story – that of the shepherd boy who sits by Jesus when he’s born, only to meet up with him again as he assists his cousin Joseph with Christ’s burial.

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On an assumed cold, wintry night, approximately 2,000 some years ago, a little baby was born. His mother wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a feeding trough (more commonly known to all as a manger), somewhere in a little town called Bethlehem, located in what is known as the West Bank of the Middle East. A tiny, little baby in a big part of the world.

As his mother slept and his father tried to figure out what they were going to do next, the little baby cooed. All wrapped up in his swaddling cloths, he was quite content and happy enough for just being born. And besides, Asher, the shepherd boy who had listened to what the angels had told him, sat right at his side in awe of this little miracle.

Asher straightened the baby’s cloths. He had an inkling to loosen them, seeing that they bound him from moving about. How he wished he could hold him. Why did mothers wrap their babies so tight, anyhow? It was a practice he never understood. All those strips of cloth, binding his limbs still, all to ensure that this little man would grow strong and his arms and legs straight? Oh well. For now, Asher just traced the little baby’s face with his index finger, softly following the baby’s brow line and then down his baby nose, over his baby lips and then up to the other brow, repeating the process over and again until the newborn fell asleep.

Asher wondered if his mother had wrapped him in linen such as that. In that way. Was he bound tightly so that he couldn’t move? Wouldn’t move? Was he constrained from stretching his fingers up into the air? Were his feet confined from layers of cloth wrapped around his legs so that he was unable to kick freely as he had done while in his mother’s womb? How was a little baby supposed to strengthen his muscles if constricted from movement?

Swaddling clothes seemed to be a form of bondage to Asher. Bondage that kept this little baby from being welcomed freely into the world. Perhaps it was a sign. After all, his route in getting here to this stable was a bit miraculous, if he dared to use such an explanation.

The baby’s father looked tired and his eyes bloodshot as his head rested against the wall of the stable. Asher felt pity toward him.

“Sir – I can guard the little baby if you fall asleep.”

The father moved his head from the wall and turned it slightly to face Asher. A weary smile crept over the man’s face as he contemplated Asher’s offer.

“Thank you,” the deep voice sounded. “I’m not sure if I can sleep. But what about you? Is your mother worried about you? Shouldn’t you get home?”

“Oh, no. The other two boys that were with me earlier – they were my brothers and it was our turn to tend the flock tonight. She’s not expecting me home tonight and they told me it was okay to stay a while when they went back to the field. But, I – I can leave if you want me to.”

The father smiled. “No – you can stay. I think he likes you here,” he said, looking at the baby. “Maybe I will take you up on that offer. You wake me up if he wakes up.”

“Yes, sir,” Asher promptly responded and with that, the baby’s father rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes and the mother continued to sleep soundly, her head resting on the father’s lap, as the rest of her body lay on a mound of hay.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jesus knew he wouldn’t see his next birthday. Things were moving rapidly now and heating up amongst the people and officials and he knew His time to do what He was sent here to do was now at hand.

As he knelt in the garden, he continued praying as he had been doing all night, only now he was hearing voices coming from the front entrance. Within moments, on every side Roman soldiers surrounded him, death dancing in their eyes. Did they really think they needed hundreds of men to take him captive? Did they secretly believe He was who he said he was and think they couldn’t stop him unless they brought a battalion of men?

He went peacefully and some might say, He suffered peacefully. When it was over – the beatings, the mockery, the crucifixion – he died.

Joseph, a good and upright man and having been granted permission to take Jesus’ body down from the cross, began preparing Jesus’ body for burial as Asher helped. For Asher, there was something familiar about this man who had been hung on a cross to die for no apparent reason. Something Asher couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Asher knelt beside his cousin, whom he had come to visit and helped him remove the spikes that held Jesus’ hands to the timber, splintered and now coated with the stickiness of dried blood. With great gentleness and care, after each spike had been removed, they gently laid the body beside the cross on which he had breathed his last breath.

Joseph untied a cloth bag and removed strips of linen. Asher helped his cousin to wrap the dead body. Around and around the feet, methodically they wrapped the body, moving up the legs. Then, positioning the stiffened arms straight against the sides of his torso, Joseph and Asher continued wrapping, overlapping layer after layer, until they were to the neck.

“Who was this man?” Asher finally sliced through the silence, a feeling of familiarity once again surrounding him. “What was his name?”

“They called him Jesus.”

Asher stopped. “They called him what?”

“His name was Jesus. I really believe, no matter how stupid it sounds, He was the Son of God.”

Asher’s face turned white.

“Are you okay, Ash? You don’t look good.”

From swaddling cloths to grave cloths, this was no coincidence.

“Do you remember that story I told you about when you helped me tend the flocks that summer when I was twenty? The story about the angels and the baby we found at the stable when I was a little runt?”

Joseph’s face was expressionless as he stared at Asher, except for the wideness of his eyes, which were staring back at Asher. “Yes.”

“I think this is him.”

“You told me he was born in Bethlehem.”

“He was, but his parents had gone there for the census and eventually, I heard they left to go back where they came from. His father told me what I told you that night we were talking – he was no ordinary baby and the angels that told us to go into town and we’d find a baby in a manger – this was him. I know it.”

Joseph looked at the baby, wrapped in linen except for the blood stained face and matted hair. A tear dropped from his eye and landed silently on a piece of cloth that he held in his hand.

“I remember watching him that night in the stable and for some reason, wishing I could have removed the swaddling clothes and let him be free to move around. And now, here I am wrapping him up, making him bound once again.”

“You’re not going to bind him. He said after three days he would rise again. Even the Pharisees are afraid. You can bet they’re going to station guards at the tomb. Nothing’s going to hold him back, Asher. Nothing. And that – I know.”

Asher sat and listened to his cousin, who was so confident that this man they tended to was the Messiah. Did he realize what he was saying? And yet, didn’t Asher himself believe that the little baby some thirty years ago, who he watched try to wiggle his way from being bound with the linens of long ago – didn’t he believe that little baby would change the world – just as the angels had said?

With sorrow, now mixed with anticipation, they finished what they had come here for. They wrapped Jesus’ face and then carried him to the tomb. There was nothing more they could do. They laid him down on the stone and with the help of the soldiers already waiting at the tomb, rolled a large stone in front of the entrance as two women watched from afar.

As they walked toward Joseph’s home, Asher asked, “Tell me again what he said about coming back to life after three days.”

And so it was – the third day. Asher was heading back to Bethlehem and decided to take the path that passed Joseph’s tomb. A nagging curiosity had been his companion the last two days. He stopped, seeing commotion ahead.

Sliding off his donkey, he tied it to a nearby olive tree. He walked closer, seeing the two women who had been watching from afar as he and Joseph rolled the stone across the front of the tomb just days before.

Three men were talking to them and suddenly they gasped, ran into the open tomb; back out again, and down the road – right past Asher. As they passed, one of them turned to him, exclaiming, “He’s alive!”

His eyes followed her as she ran by, yet she never stopped and kept running.

He turned back toward the tomb. The men were gone. They hadn’t passed him. They weren’t walking away from him down the road in the other direction. They were just – gone. He looked all around – no one. Slowly, he walked toward the place where the men had stood while they were speaking to the three women. He could see the tomb.

It had taken six men to roll that stone in front of the tomb. The women couldn’t have moved it, even if the three men had helped. He and Joseph could barely do it with the assistance of the four hefty built Roman guards.

Asher stood at the entrance, took a deep breath and then stepped inside. It was dark, but bright enough with the light from outside streaming in behind him, was able to see what he needed to see. They body was gone. And, at that moment he was certain.

The body hadn’t ‘disappeared’. No one had taken it. He knew how he and Joseph had wrapped that body. Carefully – oh so carefully. And there, on the stone where they had laid the body, lay the grave cloths. Neatly folded, in a pile, on the stone.

Asher was shivering, every inch of his body tingling with excitement. He picked up the top cloth and a strange peace coated every inch of his being as he held the cloth to his face, lightly passing it across his cheek.

The little baby he had fallen in love with. The baby he wanted to set free. And though for burial Joseph and he had bound him as a man, Asher knew in his heart that this man they called Jesus and had hung on a cross – truly he was the Messiah. He saw him wrapped in swaddling clothes as a baby and bound him in grave cloths in death. But he knew – the next time he saw him – it would be with outstretched arms, as Asher’s Savior and Lord.

Just as the angels had said.

Being Justified

Posted on March 1, 2011 by Sherri Woodbridge

Walking into the house the other day, there laid a pair of pants at the front door. I picked them up. Did I have a cheerful attitude? I hardly think so.

“I get so tired of picking up after everybody”, I mumbled within hearing distance of one who was in the next room. I should add this was not the owner of the dirty pants.

“I don’t like when you say that. You lump me in with everyone else and I don’t do that.”

I was instantly convicted. For leaving my stuff around. For having piles of this stuff or that stuff. Stuff I needed to deal with, all scattered around the house – here, there, and everywhere. The difference was (I justified), I don’t expect someone else to come behind me and clean up my mess.

And almost as soon as that thought entered my mind, another thought came as quickly… One day Someone did come behind me and clean up my mess. Ouch.

I went to a seminar a few years back where the term ‘justification’ was explained. Two people stood at the front by the speaker, who is holding three different colored robes – one red, one white, and one black.

One team member stands as sinful man. The other stands as God. (That would be me, there on the left, as sinful man.) The speaker explains that man began on earth with a relationship with God – as God’s friend. However, because of sin, man became separated from God. That’s when the black robe of sin is placed on the sinful man (one of the two volunteers). Meanwhile, God (the other volunteer) is wearing white, representing holiness/righteousness.

The speaker then explained that Jesus came to earth as man and yet He was still God and he took on the robe of red, representing death through the shedding of blood. We are taught in the Old Testament that without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins. This was to be the final sacrifice – the sacrifice of God’s own son upon the cross.

So there they stand, the two volunteers. One as a sinful man in his black robe, covered with sin, and the other as Jesus Christ in his red robe, having shed his blood for the sin of man.

We are told that Christ is crucified and buried and rose on the 3^rd day, just as He said would, but before He takes His rightful place in heaven, He puts His robe on man. The robe of red. The robe that represents the shedding of blood for our sins. Now when God looks at man, He doesn’t see his sin because we no longer wear the black robe. We are miraculously clothed in WHITE– for we have been made clean – holy and righteous – through the blood of His son. Now He sees His son’s robe of righteousness – not the black of sin, but the white of purity because of the red of the blood.

That, the speaker explains, is being justified. That, I now saw, was Christ coming behind me and cleaning up my mess.

I sat in front of the window of my living room, humbled by that thought. I asked for forgiveness, then got up and picked up the pants that still lay on the floor. I’d like to say I did it with a cheerful attitude. Let’s just say, I did it and I’m working on the cheerful part.

Being A Martha

Posted on November 9, 2009 by Sherri Woodbridge

Once upon a time, there were two sisters. One sister was always busy mopping or dusting, fixing lunch for those that would drop by and secretly envying her sister, who instead of helping with the chores, chose to squander her time hanging around the guests and making sure they were comfortable.

Sound familiar?

That’s the story of Mary and Martha, the two sisters who serve Jesus. One serves him by making sure dinner isn’t burned and the other serves him by doting on Him. Which does he prefer? You got it. He likes to be doted on. After all, He is God. However, Martha had a hard time understanding that and thought that what she had to do was more important than what Mary was doing (paying attention to her Lord). Martha was making pie crust while Mary was giving Jesus a foot massage with her hair and some rather expensive oil. She spared no expense and he enjoyed every minute of it, even telling Martha that Mary had chosen the most important thing to do.

Poor Martha. In her own way she’s trying to do the right thing and serve a delicious meal, in a spotless house, surrounded by a group of men who could care less. They preferred having their feet rubbed. So she gives up and throws in the kitchen towel and goes and sits out on the couch and watches Mary. She’s really into this perfume and toes thing. The bottom strands of her hair are oily where she used them to rub Jesus’ feet. This – this thing Mary was doing for Jesus – this was more important than a fresh potato salad and a perfectly cooked steak?

She watched. She watched the look on Mary’s face. She watched the look on Jesus’ face. She watched the faces of the disciples who had come with Jesus.

Mary was intent. You could see, without her having to say a word, that she loved this man called Jesus with a deep love. As Martha watched, it was easy to see that Jesus almost as if Mary knew him better. How could that be? She hadn’t spent any more time with Him than Martha had. Or had she? When he’d drop by, Martha made snacks in the kitchen while Mary chose to sit at her beloved’s feet and listen to his stories.

Martha watched Jesus’ face. It was almost as if she could see the burdens he carried, melt away with each tender touch. There was something about the human touch and it’s healing effects that not even apple pie could fix.

The longer she sat there, Martha began to understand. What she did was important and needful, but not every time Jesus came to visit. Every once in a while he asked for some iced tea. She would get it. Sometimes he’d ask for a sandwich and she’d make it. He knew all he had to do was ask and she’d gladly do it. Maybe that’s what she needed to do – wait for Him to ask and until he did, she’d spend some of that spare time doing something a little more important - like rubbing her master’s feet and seeing him smile as He looked into her eyes saying, “Well done.”

Moments Made for Worshipping

Posted on October 5, 2009 by Sherri Woodbridge

This is a moment made for worshipping.

What if the moment is filled with heartache? What if we’ve forgotten how?

This is still a moment made for worshipping.

We can easily forget how to look up – up toward God Almighty. And if we’ve forgotten how, then we need a refresher course on who God is. He is the God of swaddling clothes. He knows how to wrap us up – His children – in such a way that we are comforted and cared for. And, when we are wrapped, we know what protection and love and grace is all about.

Oh, to become like little children who allow themselves to be comforted in the arms of God!

In the moments when I tell myself — and honestly believe that I can’t do this thing called life much longer – I listen to this song (words have been slightly altered) –

Monday morning – hiding again.

Somewhere in the distance I remember yesterday

Singing hallelujah, full of wonder.

But right now I’m just wondering –

Why don’t I feel anything at all?

It’s not about feelings, is it? Where did we ever get the idea, after all, that life was a bucket filled with everything we could ever dream of? Where was the birth certificate that says, “Endless bliss and contentment, from here on out kid.” Yet, we feel it should be. Somewhere amongst the bliss and contentment that others are enjoying, our bucket appears empty and we feel cheated. No one feels like worshipping when they feel jipped.

Every little girl has heard of Cinderella in some shape or form and dreamt the dream of being a princess. Entertained the crown, the carefree lifestyle – the lie. Little girls that I’ve known, don’t grow up and ride off into the sunset. Little girls grow up to be single moms and working wives, battered and bruised, unappreciated and unloved. They come from broken homes without examples of unconditional love and scattered instead with love that has boundaries, intruders that steal their innocence and surrounded by walls made of steel. They come from homes that don’t believe in happily ever afters but hang on to Santa and the Easter bunny instead, where happiness is seen twice a year. They come from homes that have replaced hope for hangovers and morals for immorality. And all the while, in the midst of these moments that can bring us to despair, they are the moments made for worshipping.

Why a moment made for worshipping if all we seem to feel is pain and all we seem to look upon is heartache? Because – God hasn’t changed and He never will. He was there for Moses and parted the waters, leaving an almighty and angry God to deal with the bad boys on God’s terms. He was there for David to take Goliath down with one of five stones, strategically placed in his noggin. He was there for Peter when he walked on the water. But like Peter, we forget He’s there and look down and begin to understand what if feels like to be drowning. We forget who God is and that He longs to save us – as many times as it takes.

We desperately need saving so often – don’t we?

How do we worship in those times? In the times when the tears won’t turn off? In the times when we are overwhelmed with life’s burdens? We worship with those steady tears and by bringing our bags full of burdens to the throne of God. We remember that our tears are precious to the Lord, who told us He stores them in a bottle. He knows every moment that we have been hurt. We worship because He loves us – in tears of pain or in tears of joy. We worship by laying our burdens at his feet – saying without speaking that we trust Him to take it. We believe that He will do what He says. In that – He is glorified.

A moment made for worshipping. It’s easy on Sundays. It’s the Mondays we need to put on the hard hats and remind ourselves to stay focused – to keep our eyes on Him in order to keep us from sinking. When Peter tried to go solo, he started going under.

We can’t go it alone. We need His strength, His power, His grace and His mercy to sustain us. We especially know that, when life is painful. That makes those moments in life, moments made for worshipping. Moments when we realize we can’t, and that He is, He does, and He will.

-Sherri

[1] Steven Curtis Chapman, A Moment Made for Worshipping, from the album ‘All About Love’

Fact or Feeling?

Posted on April 3, 2009 by Sherri Woodbridge

I used to wear my heart on my sleeve for all to see… and comment on. Not that I wanted to. Who am I kidding? I still wear my heart on my sleeve for all to see… and comment on. Not that I want to.

It is a curse, one might say, to be so vulnerable. It is a curse in the sense that you want to keep the feelings that are so deeply felt, hidden away so no one can see. Really, so they can’t mock or tease or condemn. At least it feels that way sometimes.

It is a curse in the sense that you want to keep those feelings that are so deeply felt, hidden so you don’t have to deal with them. Feelings of loss. Feelings of isolation. Feelings of inadequacy. Feelings you have when you have what others don’t. And you want to keep them hidden because they don’t, they won’t, they can’t understand.

Mulitple Schlerosis.

Lupus.

Pancreatic Cancer.

Alzheimers.

Breast Cancer.

Alzheimers.

Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Prostate Cancer.

Crone’s Disease.

Unless you’ve got it, or a disease like it, you won’t, you don’t, you can’t get it. You can’t understand. Not that you don’t want to, but you just can’t. Not fully, anyhow.

You can sympathize, you can pity, you can encourage and support, but you can’t understand. And so, some try to empathize, rationalize, apologize and humorize the situation. But sometimes, it’s not funny, there’s no rational reason one awakes day after day to face their foe in the mirror, nor is it anyone’s fault that they or a loved one suffers with a disease.

I guess I’ve felt a bit frustrated of late, feeling as if some people in my life ‘don’t get it’. I get to the point that I don’t want to even mention PD because it is viewed as an excuse for pain, stiffness, memory loss, or any other ailment I might be experiencing at the time. Sometimes it seems that the fact of my disease, being ever present in my body, has disappeared from sight to the outer world. Yet, I know it is there as it hides within and can definitely be felt moment by moment.

As recipients of a disease or illness, we try when our bodies and our energy levels permit, to do what we are able – garden, write, work on cars, play games, socialize… We have a new vision for the short time we are allotted here on earth and strive to make the most of it. There are some days we feel we could climb a mountain ( a little one) and there are other days when we know we can’t even walk to the base of a hill. It may even hurt to glance upward to look into the sky. These are the days when sometimes others watch us (me) and I wonder if they think PD can’t be so bad. Look at her! She’s digging up flowers! No one with a disability would have that much energy or strength.

To be fair, I often don’t, just as others I know with PD don’t. We push ourselves in the tasks we yearn to function in and finish because it feels good to be used, to be useful, to work, to move. Yes, we push even in the pain because, at least for me, the pain says I’m alive, I can still do it – today. And yes, it also cautions me to take it a little easier, but not so easy that all that is left is to sit and watch life instead of participate in it.

I may wish to hide what’s going on inside, but I’ve never been good at it. I wear a feeling of loss at times, because the fact is, I’ve lost something – control. And I wear a feeling of isolation – a feeling of being alone in the fight. I wear inadequacy by feeling I can’t do, can’t offer what I used to. Everything’s just a little harder to accomplish. But as hard as things may be at times by dealing with something others can’t understand, people mean well. They intentions are honorable and they are trying to deal with this intruder from a different angle: it’s taken a part of the one they love or it’s trying to.

So I guess I’m thankful that sometimes I wear my heart on my sleeve because sometimes I don’t want to give this monster any more attention and talk about it. But sometimes I need to and that’s when someone asks how it’s going and if my answer is a little less than accurate, they glance at my heart laying there bare for all to see and re-examine my answer.

You sure? they ask after receiving a less than convincing ‘Okay’ response.

Fine. You’ve got me. I’ve got PD and no, I’m not okay. Today I just really need a friend.

**Earaches, Heartaches, and Doorways

Posted on March 3, 2009 by Sherri Woodbridge

When my son was born, until the age of almost three, he had constant ear infections. After the third or fourth time, it became easier to identify that another was coming on and I could get him to the doctor before it became too painful. Most of the time.

I do recall one experience of having that motherly instinct of knowing he was getting another and taking me in. His regular doctor was out and another doctor saw him. He assured me after checking him briefly that there was no cause for worry. I wanted to assure him that I was most certain he was wrong.

At twelve o’clock that night, my son woke up screaming, his ear filled with pain. I did everything I could to help him. I gave him Tylenol. I held him. I rocked him. I cried with him. He screamed in pain until morning.

A few weeks ago, I had an ear infection. It began with a gradual achiness followed by intense pain and pressure for about five days, at which time I felt it was going to burst and to be quite honest, I almost wanted it to just to relieve the pain and the pressure.

No one ever gave me Tylenol. No one held or rocked me or saw me crying in the dark when I could not sleep because the pain was so intense, but then, they did not know because I was not crying out in agony.

This is what I learned…

When my son, at the age of two, was in pain, he writhed in discomfort and screamed for release from the grip of his ear infection. Oh how I wanted to comfort him and hold him tight so that he knew he was not alone. I rocked him to try to soothe him and as I held him closely, I cried with him, wanting badly to be able to take his pain away.

When I was in pain a few weeks ago, for the most part, I kept it inside. No one else needed to hear how much it really hurt. No one could rock me and comfort me and it made me think… Isn’t that what God wants us to do with him? Yet, we try to keep the pain in our lives and the heartache we experience hidden deep inside, when all the while He is waiting for us to cry out to Him for help.

I was chatting online last night with a friend and he was saying that one of his friends was not going to be able to do an event that they had planned for this year. He said the other person had been having some recent struggles and had to cancel. Then he withdrew and ‘disappeared’ (not literally) from his network of friends. My friend made a comment that went something like this: “I’ve told him there’s still a spot for him on the team, but he’s got to walk through the door.”

I liked that. We sit and cry but we do not run through the door screaming to God for relief. We do not writhe in pain when it hurts so bad inside that we think we cannot tolerate it for another minute. A foreclosure on the only home you have known. A divorce. An illness. The loss of a loved one. You lose your job. The list goes on.

When a child cries out in pain, the parent responds immediately. When he whimpers and sits off to the side, if the parent does notice, s/he probably knows it is not a life-threatening issue or the child would be screaming as loud as he was able. The child that is crying out for mercy gets mommy or daddy by their side – immediately.

I am not saying that if we talk to God politely, He is going to ignore us, but there is something to be said about crying out to Him. Sometimes that is the only thing we can do. Sometimes that is the best thing to do. To become like a child and let Him hold you and rock you. Let Him soothe you and wipe the tears as He wraps you safely in His arms.

He is waiting to love you. It is up to you to walk through the door.

**Bittersweet Lessons

Posted on February 1, 2009 by Sherri Woodbridge

It began with “Welcome”, posted on a website. A health website in an area for those with Parkinson’s Disease or someone caring for a person with Parkinson’s Disease. The ‘Welcome’ has turned into lifelong friendships that have developed through laughter, heartache and commonality… we all have PD.

Two days ago I met a friend who I have known for over two years and just had the blessing of meeting personally. A friend who also has Parkinson’s disease. She met me at the airport in her famous, ‘da Coat’, overcoat and the friendship has grown by leaps and bounds since that moment.

I suppose so far the highlight has been today, after an exhausting (due to lack of sleep) evening at her women’s retreat and getting to know her friends. I have been immensely blessed by their company and hospitality. After cleaning up after the gathering, we went back to her house (this morning) to work on our PD site, Parkinson’s Journey. Afterward, she took me to a friend’s home, who also had a friend visiting from out of town. These two women also have PD.

This has been my first experience meeting anyone else with PD. It gave me a reality check in two major areas. First, realistically confronting the facts of this disease and second, the blessings of this disease.

First, the confrontation. After meeting Judy (‘da coat owner) in person and watching her, the realization of where this monster (PD) is headed hit me in the face (not literally of course, but it actually felt like it could have happened). After meeting Peggy (TNPeg to some out there) and seeing where she has traveled on her PD journey (she recently underwent a clinical trial for PD that involved having five holes drilled into her head), once again, I was hit in the face. Hard. This monster has no mercy. It has no preference of attack. It does not care who it hits. Young children, young mothers, young fathers, spry grandfathers, first time grandmothers, elderly parents – it doesn’t play favorites. It will attack them all and leave them to fend for themselves in what could be a useless shell. It knocks them to the floor. It will laugh when they cannot voluntarily move their feet. It will mock when others stare as you flail about without control.

But it will not win.

In the pain, the struggle, and the heartache, there is a blessing. The blessing of joy.

It will show up in the darkest hours. It will shine through the things we can still do. Like painting a mural on the side of a barn. It will radiate gratitude in knowing that five out of ten fingers still work pretty good. It will weep with joy on the days that are ‘pretty good’, because there are days that are pretty bad. The monster (PD) may appear for a battle, but it will not win the war when hope and joy stand as its defense.

The facts are, PD doesn’t get better. It can be controlled to a point, but it won’t get better. Though it won’t go away (unless God wills it), the sorrow over its presence in our lives can, if we look at the to God and the blessings in the trials and tribulations throughout this journey.

It is hard. Many times blessings come through hardship. They can sometimes definitely be easier to see when we in the midst of a hardship because we are elated when something good finally seems to happen in the middle of a hard time. The blessings can almost tend to stand out. However, they can be hard to see if we get caught up in pain and sorrow and lose hope.

This week I have watched these women of faith, women who are filled with hope, strive to maintain some sense of ‘normalness’ in their lives and hold on to some measure of control of their bodies. This week I realized, that is what I also try to do. I guess I call it pressing on.

I have wept in silence for these women. Some not only deal with their own disease (PD), face to face, day after day, but some are carrying loads that press in on every direction, often leaving anyone else to give in instead of pressing on. One woman is grieving over her mother’s battle with reoccuring cancer and the war with chemotherapy treatments. She also runs errands for her father in-law who has just been admitted to a nursing home for health problems.

Where does her hope come from? The kind of hope that allows her to stand when she has no strength left? The kind of hope that allows her to smile in the face of despair? A hope that perseveres in the midst of the trials and tribulations of this life? Her hope comes from her Savior. It seems so appropriate that the One who saved us, saves us continually from much.

Paul said, ”

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. …Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”
(Philippians 1:2-12)

Joy can be found in the midst of trials – if we believe there is a purpose in those trials. What if the only purpose was just to develop perseverance? Would that be enough reason to press on? Would it be enough reason to know that you were going through a hard time merely so that God could teach you to not give up?

That is easy to ask but tough when considering the response. However, if you consider the rewards of learning to persevere, it may be easier to answer.

Perseverance produces maturity. Completeness. Character. Not only does that staying power produce the kind of character that pleases God – a maturity and completeness in Him – but what a promise we are given if we persevere for His sake, to receive the crown of life! Yet, Paul says this comes when we persevere under trials. The kinds of trials and test that God allows in our lives. Tests that can feel as if they will claim the best of us. Storms in our lives that feel as if we will drown in the smashing waves and be thrown against the rocks, left to wash ashore limp and lifeless. Trials that claim ownership of our strength and hope and joy and strive to leave us empty. Tribulations that trap us into a dark crevice which close in on us, inch by inch of every passing day and chide us into believing the sun will never shine again.

But God made a promise to those who love Him. The promise that these things in life that hurt, that often make no sense, would make us better. Even if they don’t make us well.

That is the blessing of our trials – our diseases, our losses and sufferings, betrayals, and more. The blessing of not only receiving the crown of life, but knowing that we were allowed those trials because we are loved by a merciful God. Knowing that He has a confidence in us that we cannot even begin to fathom in our small minds.

He knows what we are able to endure. He only gives us what we can handle. He will give nothing less, as it won’t produce what He desires for us to become and He will give nothing more, as He is a loving and wise Father towards His children. He allows just enough to become stronger in Him.

If you are facing a trial that seems as if it will destroy every ounce of strength you have, every drop of joy that remains in your spirit and every spec of hope you thought you possessed, take heart. God is using it for your good. He is using it to bring about abundant blessings in your life. It is being used to produce perseverance. He wants you to develop into His mature and complete son or daughter whom He loves beyond any measure that you could ever imagine. He has not left you nor has He forsaken you.

Jesus said, “In this world you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). He has already gone before us and knows the path we are on. He has walked it Himself. He persevered to the bitter end. He will be your strength when you are too weak to stand. In the midst of the storms, He will be your lifeboat.

He has already won the battle. All you have to do is to trust Him. Persevere through the trials for when you have reached the end, mature and complete, He will be standing ready to place a crown upon your head.

sherri

Sherri Woodbridge …from my heart

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