Anytime Dad wanted to make his point he’d always call me Tammy Lynn. Middle names were given by mothers and fathers to make children sit up and pay attention, a sort of call to order when important things were being spoken.

Dad used to say with that, some day you’ll see that I’m right, tone of voice, “what you say is what you’ll get, so be sure to think before you speak, Tammy Lynn.”

I can vividly recall the days when I was thinking about what kind of man I might marry. I was quite certain I had absolute control over that decision and emphatically proclaimed that I’d never marry a drummer, as drummers were entirely too noisy. I’d certainly never marry a man named Jim, because that name was for whatever reason, unattractive to me at the time.

God has a witty sense of humor and never forgets our edicts.  That’s probably in order to prove how little we know.  As irony would have it- I did both.  I married a drummer named Jim.  Go figure.

That was 27 years ago this August, and in all those years I’ve had countless experiences with the power of the spoken word. Not every one believes in the creation story as presented in the book of Genesis, but I do.  I believe that God spoke the universe, the sun, moon and stars, the ocean and all living creatures into existence as an example to us.  We have phenomenal power in the words we speak to either create a life of joy, prosperity and health, or to create hatred, calamity and illness.

If you don’t believe me, take a day and make some careful observations.  Listen to the words that are spoken by those around you–at home, at work, at the grocery store, or any public place.  Pay attention to the dialogue you hear on television.  We are constantly speaking our destiny into our lives. Not only are the words we speak impacting our  direction and future choices, but they have a profound effect over other people on their direction and choices.

I remember when I began toying with the idea of writing a book.  I knew absolutely nothing about the publishing industry, or about the actual process of authoring a book. I believed I could do it, and knew I had something valuable to share with others.  But the naysayers were everywhere!

“It’s impossible to get a book published today.”

“It takes much too much time to write a book, and you will never finish it.”

“Why would you want to do something like that?  You have children to raise!”

And on and on it went…  If I had listened to every negative word spoken about my dream, my first book would still not be in print.  So instead, I surrounded myself with those who shared my vision, and understood my heart.  “That’s a great idea!”   “When will it be finished?”  “You absolutely need to do that.”  “There are so many people who can benefit from your experiences.” See the difference?

Every day I sat down at my computer and told myself I had something valuable to say.  My words could change lives.  And they have and they do.  That’s the power of the word- whether we speak it, or write it- we have incredible authority in the words we choose to use because they are an extension of the spirit within us.

If our spirits are tapped into the Creator of all things, then the way we view our world and the way we express those views is altered by the greatest force the universe has ever known. I love this promise in the book of Isaiah.  “As for me, this is my covenant with them,” says the Lord.  “My Spirit, who is on you, and my words that I have put in your mouth will not depart from your mouth, or from the mouths of your children, or from the mouths of their descendants from this time on and forever,” says the Lord. 59:21( NIV)

What an incredible promise for those who believe and make an attentive choice to speak faith on a daily basis into their own lives and the lives of their families.  We can have what we say, and we can be what we speak. I’m so grateful that my father instilled such truth into my heart, when He said:

“What you say is what you’ll get, so be sure to think before you speak.” My prayer daily is that my words would magnify and glorify God and my speech would edify my own spirit, and the spirits of those within my direct influence.  I think David put it so eloquently when he said this; May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.
(Psalm 19:14 NIV)

©2009, Tamra Nashman

It was a lovely azure blue-sky day in Colorado, with wispy, white clouds creating animal pictures in the sky.  The drive out to Hanging Lake for our hike took about 40 minutes, and the view of the mountains was absolutely breathtaking. Spindly fingers of crystallized ice seemed to weave their way down the sides of the crevices as if to grasp the tops of the mountains. Every tree imaginable grew in proud rows, too numerous to count; a horticulturist’s dream.

As soon as we arrived we began our ascent with gusto.  We had our water bottles, our sneakers and our big smiles.  We were embarking on the adventure of a lifetime.  The hike up to Hanging Lake is about a mile and a half and the terrain is steep, with boulders of all shapes and sizes to navigate.  Occasionally, there are spots less vertical, where you can rest and catch your breath, but overall, this is a serious climb.  I noticed I had to stop more often than I had planned, to rest, drink my water and slow my racing heartbeat.    Of course, when you’re pushing fifty and still pretending to be 35, reality occasionally kicks you in the butt.  After all, I am from Florida, where oxygen is a plentiful commodity!  When you’re thousands of feet above sea level, the air gets a little thin.  Enough with the pathetic excuses; let’s get back to the wonders of nature.

To the right of the path is a beautiful rushing stream that cascades past boulders, rocks and green foliage. Just the voice of the water is relaxing and as many times as I had to stop, I got a lot of opportunities to appreciate it.  Little brown and black chipmunks skittered past my feet as if to welcome me to their habitat.  The trees were so tall, I got a neck ache trying to see the tops and each tree had unique markings and personality. Running my hands over the rough and protruding grain of the trunk told me the story of their years in the mountain’s forest.  If these trees could only talk, I’ve no doubt they’d be singing the praises of their Creator.

About half way up, there was an enormous tree that had fallen to the left of the path, its huge trunk nearly five feet in diameter. The spindly limbs, bereft of leaves and wildlife, his song now silent.  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this fallen warrior, alone and displaced in a world of vibrant life.

Someone kept asking that irritating, but important question, “Are we there yet?”  I realized with a bit of embarrassment that the person making that repetitive inquiry was me.  The higher we climbed, the more difficult the journey. But the orchestrated sound of creation beckoned me on.  Birds were singing little tunes in perfect harmony as if to encourage me to keep going.

The last leg of the journey to Hanging Lake is fraught with sheer drop-offs, jagged rocks and slippery dirt filled with tiny, laughing pebbles.  It almost felt like sabotage to make me slip.  I crawled my way up the last twenty-five feet, not daring to look down, lest  the mountain take me.  My son and husband were behind me encouraging me on as I painstakingly set one hand and knee in front of the other.  People were lined up behind us wondering what in the world that crazy woman was doing, crawling like a baby.  Perhaps it’s not as important how you make it to the top.  It’s just important that you do.

When I finally stood, knees scraped and hands aching, I was rewarded with the most extraordinary sight.  Before me was a lake so clear you could see the bottom, some 25 feet below, the color as green as a priceless emerald, a reflection of the sky above and the surrounding green trees.  The lake’s shore is made of fragile travertine, dissolved limestone that is deposited on the rocks and logs. Layers and layers guard the shores of this remarkable lake.  A tall, skinny tree had fallen in the middle of the water some years ago, and it was the only object marring the perfection of the otherwise perfect picture.

To sit quietly by the shores of this lake is to hear the sounds of praise from creation.  Black Swifts- the only known population of these rare birds- make their home by Hanging Lake.  To see them float by makes one all the more appreciative of the beauty of this rare and secluded place.

Two waterfalls, 30 to 40 feet high pour into Hanging Lake.  The sound of the water cascading off the ragged cliffs and crashing into the green jewel below is mesmerizing.  I found a little bench where I sat to take in the wonder of this tiny slice of heaven.  I also needed desperately to catch my breath, yet again.  I don’t know how long I sat there, but what I heard changed my heart in ways I’ll never forget.

The voice of nature sings loudly the praises of God.  With every new birth of creation we gain understanding as to the power of the regeneration of Christ when he rose from the tomb some 2000 years ago.

During this season our hearts can hear the joy of creation sing of the glory of God with every sunset, every blooming flower, every thunderstorm and every rainbow. The night stars remind us of his glory and the morning sun shouts his praise.

Never have I felt closer to the heart of God than on that day in Colorado, when I observed, first hand the beauty of God’s world and the song of his creation, beckoning me to believe in his death, burial and resurrection and reminding me that all created things know his song and sing it to the listening ear.

Let the sea and everything in it shout his praise!  Let the earth and all living things join in.  Let the rivers clap their hands in glee!  Let the hills sing out their songs of joy before the Lord.  Psalms 98:7-9, NLV

©2009, Tamra Nashman

Don’t worry about anything. Instead pray about everything.  Tell God what you need and thank Him for all He has done.  If you do this, you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand.
–Philipians 4:6 (NLT)

At this time of the year when love is on our minds, I think of my children. Of all the people I’ve treasured in life and all the individuals I’ve cared for, I’ve never known greater love for any living thing than I do for my kids. When my daughter was born I changed so completely, it took me by surprise.  I went from a self-involved workaholic to a doting, over-protective mother. As any parent is aware- that need to safeguard and shield a child never leaves us. Mother was still trying to take care of me at the age of eighty-five! Now I understand the saying, “once a parent, always a parent.”

Meagan has been a particularly stimulating child even from the day she took her first step. Her body clock was wound tightly, and her engine never seemed to need a rest.  She could doze for a fifteen minute nap and hit the floor running for the next four to five hours. A human Energizer Bunny!

When she was five, she decided to hide in the local Target store, and Jim and I were absolutely frantic.  After fifteen minutes, we had the front doors closed and locked and brought in the security guards and numerous personnel to find our wayward daughter. Thoughts of abduction flooded my mind with fear as we searched every nook and cranny in that huge mega facility. After a full thirty minutes, and many hysterical tears, she leaped from one of the overly crowded rounders in the women’s clothing department and gleefully shouted, “Mommy, Mommy, you can’t find me!” This was a precursor of things to come…

Meg’s idea of fun is to push every button and to crash through barriers. She is a dare-devil in every sense of the word, completely fearless about things that would normally frighten ordinary people.  She loves to drive fast and has several speeding tickets to prove it.  Our day in court before the judge was very sobering…at least for me.  I believe Meg thought of it as just another adventure!

Selling her car, taking away the computer and shutting down her cell phone have been necessary disciplinary measures for my adventurous child.  And even then–she seems to find ways around what she views as mere inconveniences. I’ve never met anyone more resourceful. I have every confidence that one day she will somehow channel all that wily ingenuity, and there’s simply no telling what she will accomplish.

During those sleepless nights when I’m tossing and turning, waiting to hear her key in the door- I remind myself of all the amazing things God has done for my audacious and daring child.  Like the time she flipped the new four-wheeler at her Uncle Richard’s farm and it landed full weight on top of her.  She walked away without a scratch.  Or, the time she developed a systemic kidney infection, due to the fact that she pushed herself to the point of exhaustion. She had a temperature that escalated to 107 degrees, and the infection was so wide-spread we thought we might lose her. I sat by her bed in the emergency room for hours, holding her hot and fevered hand until she once again became coherent.  Thankfully, God and some wonderful doctors, intervened on her behalf.  Of course, there were bike crashes and car accidents–all which could have left her seriously impaired. But, God was always there to look out for her, when I couldn’t.

The boyfriends I haven’t been comfortable with, the parties she doesn’t think I know about, and the endless array of other worldly concerns mothers share, keep me on my knees before God as my daughter travels this unhurried road to maturity.

Meagan is my steady lesson in maintaining peace. There have been times that I’ve been absolutely despondent over her choices and I’ve felt it had to be some flaw in me, some shortcoming in my parenting skills that caused her deliberate behavior.  I’ve wanted to go back in time and do things differently–to offer more comfort, more of my time, less of my criticism, more of my compassion. I think parents often blame themselves for the perilous roads their children choose to travel. No doubt, I have made mistakes and I wish I could rectify them, but time is not a gift that can be recaptured.  All we have is this moment.  And in this moment, I choose to be thankful for those beautiful gifts I recognize in my amazing child.

From the time she was talking, she’d stop me from stepping on a tiny ant on the sidewalk–feeling sympathy for its lowly estate and right to life. Her contagious laughter brings a smile to the face of anyone who hears it. Her zest for life makes the dreariest day come alive and sparkle. She can kick a soccer ball with such intensity and drive; it makes me want to shout at the top of my lungs. Her loyalty toward the friends in her life is something truly admirable, and it offers me great peace to know these gifts are resident within her, an endowment from the hand and heart of God.

I know I have trained her up in the reliable and constant ways of the Lord.  So when I hear that little voice in the Target store calling out to my heart, “Mommy, Mommy, you can’t find me!” I have immeasurable peace in the knowledge that God always knows exactly where my beautiful Meagan is, and He will always be there to guide her toward the right path, one step at a time.

©2009, Tamra Nashman 

I had just settled into my new home, at the beginning of a new year, all the furniture in place, the dishes neatly stacked in the kitchen cabinets, my daughter’s bed made—at least for the moment, my husband’s office organized, and my closet put together with every shoe in its own individual cubby (a delightful sight).  I slumped into the rocking chair on the outside patio, proud of myself for the abundance of work accomplished and a sense of ‘ain’t this the life’, welling up in my tired but joyful soul. Finally, everything was absolutely perfect, like Mama always said, “Better than hot sliced bread with a slab of butter on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.”

Something slick, black and fast swooped by my droopy eyelids and caught my undivided attention. Two ebony crows were perched on my lanai, one arrogantly sitting on the head of my brand spanking new dolphin fountain, the other landing on the corner of my roof, and the two of them having quite a conversation about my house.  Now understand, I’m no Dr. Doolittle, but I could see by the look in those beady black eyes, this couple of squawkers were most assuredly sizing my house up for a long, and lengthy stay.

I stole over to the planter and wrapped my fingers around a few of those perfectly round little rocks and gave a determined throw at the nasty bugger on the corner of my roof.  Unfortunately, I’m no St. Louis Cardinals’ pitcher, and my little rocks never made it more than eight feet high, nor three feet forward.  Plunk.  They landed in the pool, dismally missing the mark.  And still those crows stayed exactly where they perched, mocking me.  Nasty crows. 

There are chapters in life when we have to deal with the dark and dreadful things that swoop in and land on our hopes and dreams. I remember one of those incredibly trying times.

My husband and I had been married for five years when my beautiful little baby girl was born.  I took her in my arms and counted those little pink fingers and toes, kissing each one as I counted.  Her thick, black, curly hair and long eyelashes mesmerized me and I couldn’t get enough of her sweet baby smell. The best cologne God ever made.

Just a few days into her young life, the doctor came in with frightening news.  He said there was something wrong with her liver; it wasn’t functioning properly.  Her little body was filling up with toxins, and unless they could help her, she might die, or live with brain damage. The doctors said they hadn’t seen a situation quite like Meagan’s before and she became a case study for liver disorders.

Every few days we made the trek to St. John’s Mercy hospital for the necessary blood work—a needle in Meagan’s heel, to ascertain the toxicity of her blood.  At home, we had a special black-light set up above her crib and she had to wear black eye covers, to protect her vision.  For endless hours she lay under the purple lights to help lower the billirubin in her blood.  Week after week, we’d go for more tests and more needles.  I don’t know who cried the more—me or my baby girl.  Days turned to months while the doctors searched for answers to her malaise.

We were finally sent to Children’s Hospital in St. Louis, where the liver specialists performed more tests and more blood work to see if they could help Meagan.  All the while her prognosis would vacillate from grim to hopeful and the roller coaster ride was excruciating.  It’s difficult to know how to plan a normal life when a child in the family is ill.  Everything comes to a standstill and emotions are placed on a shelf somewhere far out of reach, in order to cope with the fluctuating variables.  You don’t dare take them down and allow your heart to feel, or hope, but rather embrace a simple neutrality based on faith, to help you get through each day. 

I thought I’d never be the person who would question God. I really imagined that if hardship came my way, I would merely accept it with stoic faith and endure whatever valley the Lord chose to take me through. I was surprised one day to find myself asking, “Why me? Why my baby girl?  Why my family?” In the middle of the night, tears my constant companion, I wanted answers from the Almighty. There was, however, no still small voice of reply. This journey was not what I had planned for my lovely baby girl.  Wicked Crows.

I’ve often wondered where God is in all of this.  Was this part of His plan to develop character and integrity?  Was patience the goal?  Perhaps He was running a test as to human endurance and taking notes. All of this sounds far too calculated.  My experience with God is one of great love and benevolence.  

When my daughter was so ill, loving friends and family surrounded me. The best doctors were available to us and after a long and trying battle, my little baby pulled through the worst of her problems.  She just turned 21 this year and is so full of life. We can barely keep up with her.

Just when we think we are finally on the right track, there’s always some nasty dark thing that swoops in and steals our thunder, some trial and tribulation, some unforeseen obstacle… a family problem, a divorce, a child that disappoints, a health issue… something unpredictable… that’s part of the journey.  Nasty crows.

But I’ve decided crows are beneficial to our spiritual walk.  Because of them, we develop the necessary character to face the next assault with maturity and integrity.  We learn to use our experiences to help others dealing with similar issues. And we discover that God is always there in our brightest moments and our darkest hours to strengthen, love, and direct our path to a place of peace. How would we know of God’s grace and benevolence if we were never called up on to endure hardship?  

At this New Year’s time of resolutions and pledges, I realize that I can’t stop those crows from flying over my patio, but I can sure keep them from building a nest there! My pitching arm is improving daily and so is my spiritual walk of patience.

©2009, Tamra Nashman

Today my husband, Jim, and I went to the crafts store to buy Christmas decorations. We purchased one of those 12 foot, pre-lit faux trees that you can erect in 15 minutes, or so the box says. In truth, we still can’t get the bottom three rows of tree branches to light and we’ve been at this for over and hour!  

But, Christmas really is my favorite time of the year. The lights, the sense of anticipation in children’s eyes, and the pleasant demeanor of people make this time of the year special. I think Christmas offers everyone a wonderful sense of hope….. if God could send His most amazing Son into the world to show us the way, the truth, and the life, then what better time than this to hope?

I remember one very special Christmas back a few years ago when my friend Marie sent me a beautiful letter that changed my life. You see, Marie and I had been the closest of friends through high school, then we had a falling out, and our lives went in different directions. We hadn’t seen or spoken to each other for 20 years when her letter found me. 

It was like we had never been apart, and all the transgressions of the past were forgotten. What on earth did we disagree about so long ago? 

Oh the joy of resurrected friendships. While I never lost hope that I’d be in contact with Marie again, I was discouraged at times. Dreams are ethereal things and we often doubt we’ll see our anticipation fulfilled. But that’s what I love about Christmas.

It’s a time when miracles can occur. If a child can be born in a manger and his life impact the world, then we can have confidence in God, that our dreams can become a reality. 

Having Marie come back into my life was a gift from the heart of God. Not only was I able to renew a friendship never forgotten, but I was able to once again share my heart with someone who loved me and cared about the intimate aspects of my journey. Christmas is indeed a time of miracles! Whatever you are hoping for, have confidence that God knows the desires of your heart.

Right now, I’m just hopeful Jim will figure out how to get the bottom three rows of Christmas tree lights to work. Anything’s possible!

©2008, Tamra Nashman

O Lord you have examined my heart and know everything about me.  You know when I sit down or stand up.  You know my every thought when far away.  You chart the path ahead of me and tell me where to stop and rest.  Every moment you know where I am.  Psalms 139:1-3

It was an extremely cold November day in St. Louis, and I was bundled head to toe in a plaid, wooly winter coat, fuzzy gloves, tall black leather boots, and a red woolen cap.  All that was visible was the tip of my frozen nose and my blood-shot eyes weary from hours of studying for final exams.

It was mid-week service night and I was the piano player at church. It was necessary to get out on this cold, snowy evening and make the twenty-five minute trek to the assembly or the poor saints would have to do the hymns accapella. As miserable as I was, I didn’t want the Lord to have to endure such an assault on His divine ears.

I drove through the snowy, winding roads from Webster University, through the little town of Kirkwood, before finally reached highway 44, when I noticed my car was pulling hard to the left. The undeniable struggle of a flat tire was not a welcome problem for me on that cold, dismal evening.

I pulled the car to the side of the road and sat there for a long while, not sure what to do.  Believe me–I had never changed a tire in my life, and was in no mood to learn in the freezing cold, being more given to high heels and frilly blouses, than lug nuts and motor oil. Cell phones were not available in those days and it’s not very often you find a pay phone neatly parked on the side of the interstate.  So, I did what seemed the only logical thing to do–I prayed!  Long and hard, fast and furious, I asked God to help me figure out what in the world to do about the flat tire.

Thoughts of being found frozen and snow-covered in my car shadowed my mind, but I had to push those growing fears aside.  I sat for nearly an hour hoping a police officer would see my hazard blinkers and come to my rescue.  Where’s the knight in shining amour when you really need him? I usually only had the honor of meeting my soldier in blue when I was ignoring a stop sign or exceeding the speed limit, (unfortunately, a common occurrence in those years).

I knew I didn’t deserve to have my prayers answered. I couldn’t blame God if He left me out there on the highway to freeze to death.  Even though I had faith in Him and considered myself a Christian, I’d certainly made some blunders.

In those times of need when we call on God, it’s our sins that run through the mind like a motion picture in living color–reminding us of our unworthiness.  At that moment, all I could think of was what I’d done wrong- the lies I told, my lack of kindness and compassion, the blatant and rebellious choices I knew were against God and His word–they all ran through my mind while I sat in a cold car with a flat tire on a snowy evening.

Another hour passed and I knew the service was over and the hymns sung without me. It’s amazing how insignificant one can feel all alone in the cold. I was beginning to feel pretty sorry for myself when the headlights of a car, pulled up behind me.

My heart began pounding so fast I could hardly catch my breath. I was excited that someone had finally come to my rescue and at the same time, frightened because I didn’t know the identity of my rescuer. I opened the car door and frozen snow and sleet blew into my face as a large man in a heavy brown coat approached me.

“Looks like you have a flat there, M’am.”

“Yes, I do, and I sure hope you can help me,” I replied, the anxiety and the cold causing my voice to shake.

“I saw your car on the side of the road as I was driving east, and felt like I should turn around and come back to help you.  I’m not sure why I did, because I’ve never done this before, but I just felt like I had to.”

Without another word he popped my trunk, pulled out the spare, jacked my car up and in twenty minutes had my tire changed.

I didn’t have a dime in my pocket or a dollar in my wallet to give this wonderful man, but I thanked him profusely and offered my fuzzy-gloved hand to him in appreciation for his kindness.  He just smiled at me, shook my hand and returned to his vehicle.  I watched as he drove away and asked God to give him a special blessing for his amazing compassion on such a miserable night.

As I drove away, all I could think of was God’s mercy and His love for me, in spite of my shortcomings and mistakes.  Why did He value me so much?  I knew it wasn’t justified.  I hadn’t earned His favor, and never could.  And yet, He loved me just the same–as though I was pure and perfect with no fault.

O Lord you have examined my heart and know everything about me. (And evenso, you love me still.) You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my every thought when far away.  You chart the path ahead of me and tell me where to stop and rest. Every moment you know where I am. (Even in a car with a flat tire by the side of the road.)

In those times when I doubt my worth and wonder if my life will ever amount to much, I think back to that snowy night by the roadside. That’s just one more reason to be grateful for God’s boundless love and compassion toward me.  I’m grateful His love is not predicated on my accomplishments or my failures.  But rather, a free and priceless gift from the One who knows everything about me and still calls me His own.

©2008, Tamra Nashman

God is love and all who live in love live in God
and God lives in them…Such love has no fear
because perfect love expels all  fear.
If we are afraid it is for fear of judgment
and this shows that his love
has not been perfected in us.
—First John 4:16&18 NLT

I grew up in a small town in Southern Illinois similar to Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, where there is common familiarity and no strangers wander the streets. When I was five years old my dad gave me a nickel for ice cream and I casually made my way downtown alone; blonde curls bouncing, black patent leather shoes clicking on the concrete sidewalk for seven or eight blocks in search of the cone. The local cab driver picked me up and took me to the police station and there I sat in a huge wooden chair, entertaining the officers with my childish antics until my frantic father arrived to take me home. Children were safe in Herrin, and crime was virtually non-existent. There was a warmth about that town that you don’t very often find today. In truth, small towns have their benefits and their detriments.

My parents attended a house of worship, one where unusual occurrences were commonplace. People often came to the front of the church for prayer for various assortments of ailments and many of them left completely whole, relieved of their pain and suffering. It wasn’t at all unusual to see someone come in a wheelchair and leave without it. Afterwards, the ominous steel chair placed at the front of the house… a constant reminder to those who entered that hallowed place of God’s miracle working power.

I’m sure the music I heard in that church left a lifelong impression on me, and I still remember the words and chords to every old hymn sung there. The choir bellowed fervently with such great enthusiasm that it was hard for the congregation to stay in their seats. We’d all rise, hands clapping, hearts lifted toward heaven, spirits soaring, caught up in the deep and genuine emotion of praise to the Creator.

The minister had a theatrical approach to sermonizing that kept all of us enraptured. He painted a vivid picture of heaven and hell, and I’m quite certain there wasn’t a single soul in that house who hadn’t made a clear cut choice for their eternal home at the completion of the pastor’s message. It seemed all his messages had something to do with living right and behaving in an appropriate manner that would insure our heavenly home.

Expectations and rules of conduct were laid out precisely, most of them directed toward women and girls. The do’s and don’ts of that particular sect of Christianity were severe and when I was a child, I didn’t question them. But, as I became a teenager I struggled with the set of laws I was expected to adhere to. We couldn’t cut or trim our hair, no make-up was allowed, no long pants, or shorts. Therefore, I couldn’t participate in my high school marching band as pants were part of the uniform. No swimming with people of the opposite sex (called “mixed bathing”) in or around public pools, and we couldn’t go to movie theaters or parties, unless the party was thrown by people within our particular church. High School prom was absolutely taboo. Our clothing had to meet specific standards- high necks, long sleeves and dresses to or below the knee.

As long as we met the specifications, we were accepted with warmth and fellowship, but if the rules were broken in the slightest measure, the punishment was swift and sure.

When I was 16, I played the piano for the church and the minister noticed that I had trimmed an inch or two off of my waist length hair. He removed me from the platform, called me into his office and explained my disrespect had cost me my position. He promised to show me scriptural proof of my sin, but as the days and weeks progressed, the only proof of my hell-bound rebellion was his fiery sermons demanding absolute subservience to his interpretation of scripture. Love, grace, tolerance and acceptance were not a part of that denominational code, so as you can well imagine, I had a skewed understanding and interpretation of God and spirituality.  In fact, the only real knowledge I had of God was one of fear, and strict expectation. I lived everyday with the apprehension that I would go to hell for this infraction or that one. I was completely unaware of the true nature of God’s grace and benevolence.

And with that particular belief system shaping my life, I came into adulthood with a driving need for perfection. I had to make myself perfect in order to please God, and to be accepted by those around me. I was a people- pleaser in every sense of the word. Every aspect of my life was impacted by this gripping need for acceptance. I had no concept of my own identity, as it had been so wrapped up and defined by rules and expectations of my church.

This need for perfection and its illusive control over my life battered my self-confidence into the ground. Everything I did, or attempted to do, was from a point of searching for acceptance and love. When you feel that love from God and others is predicated on your ability to earn that love and acceptance by the perfection of your deeds, then you have no idea how to be yourself or find who you really are. Every move and decision is based on the need for approval. I was completely imprisoned by my misinformed beliefs, and unfortunately took some dreadful roads in my quest for love. The truth is, there is no perfection within the human effort, only the effort itself.

I moved to St. Louis to attend university and found a house of worship that intrigued me. The minister stood to deliver his sermon and I braced myself for the expected lashing. But instead, this man spoke of the love of God… of the gift purchased for us by Jesus’ death on the cross, how we are no longer subject to the law, as grace took its place at Calvary. He went on to say we would never be perfect, as there was only one perfect sinless lamb offered up for the mistakes of all mankind and it is in Jesus’ perfection alone that our imperfections are forgiven. He spoke of the holiness of the heart, and explained that this is based on relationship with God, not on strict outward appearances. I listened with an intent ear, never having heard such things before and wondering if somehow this grace was enough for a hopeless sinner like me. God is love and all who live in love live in God and God lives in them…Such love has no fear because perfect love expels all fear.

What a life changing revelation. Could it be true? I would never, could never earn my way into Heaven by the perfection of my deeds. Was it really through Christ alone and my faith in Him that I was forgiven and whole to walk in this new life I’d been given? What a freedom that came to my heart through the understanding of forgiveness. I felt like a one hundred pound weight of fear and needless expectation had been lifted from my soul. I could live, and be, and choose for myself how I would express my life before God. And He would direct my path each day. Such freedom was completely foreign to me, but joyously welcome.

This is how my journey began; it is one I live each day with the intimate understanding of His mercies, His power and His presence, all fresh every morning.  And although I continue to struggle and will likely always have some challenge in the area of overcoming my need to make everything around me perfect, still, I am a child of God, unique, gifted and talented in ways that are meant to bring Him glory and honor. He has taught me the true holiness of the heart and my prayer is that I grow in His grace each day and that my experiences will enrich the lives of those around me. I choose to embrace the freedom to live my life in love, to give and receive that love freely, without the needless imprisonment of perfection and the fear of failure.

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing to you, Lord, my rock and my redeemer. (Psalms 19:13-14 NLT)

My son Jordan had an important Science Fair project to complete over a period of a few weeks.  He was running tests to find out which consumable product was more damaging to the teeth. He put each tooth into a different solution such as Sprite, Coca-Cola, lemon juice and canned Iced Tea, and each week made careful notes about the visible changes in the deterioration. We drove all over town searching for shark’s teeth to be used in the experiment, because they were the most attainable and a good substitute for human teeth.

You’d think shark’s teeth would be readily available in Florida but, most sharks’ teeth are treated with a coating or petrified, and consequently are unable to be used in this type of research. After a long and exhausting hunt, driving to every little shell shop and sea creature boutique we could locate, we finally found the uncompromised, sharp incisors and Jordan went to work on his project.

I want you to picture clear plastic cups set up on the kitchen counter, each with a tooth floating in various colors of liquids. I’d had a full summer of reprieve from school projects and wasn’t particularly happy about starting the assignments again.  Over the days and weeks, the project began to stink, and I was having a hard time making dinner each night with smelly shark’s teeth on my counter. By this time, it was hard to tell what Jordan had poured into those cups!

Each time I inquired of him how the assignment was coming along, he’d say, “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got it all under control.”  Since that was usually true and Jordan wasn’t the kind of kid to be irresponsible, I gave the Science Fair project little thought, doing my best to just ignore the aroma.

The days sped by and before we both knew it, the time was upon us and we had to lug his project board, research logs and the teeth in question to the school. I was confident Jordan would obtain a good grade on his endeavor, because he usually received high marks for his work.  Imagine my surprise when he walked through the door at the end of the day, forlorn and despondent and announced he’d received a ‘C’ on his Science Fair task.

My first reaction, like other mothers reading this story, was to pick up the phone and make some heated inquiries into the reason for his low grade. I was ready to put on my boxing gloves and take someone out in the first round. (And to think, I was forced to smell that odor for weeks—how could he possibly have scored so low?)

Fortunately, I choose the wiser road and sat down with my son to discuss the issue at hand.

“Mr. Taylor didn’t explain what he wanted, Mom.  He wasn’t clear with us on the requirements of the project.  Steve and Alex and Jim needed me to help them, so I really didn’t have the time to work on mine as much as I wanted to. Besides, Mom, you know I haven’t felt so good lately.”

I listened to his explanation and then stood and walked over to his black and red backpack.  After a few moments of searching through broken pencils, wadded up paper and half-used erasers, I pulled out the instruction sheet for the Science Fair Project.  Wouldn’t you know it–everything that was required for an ‘A’ was clearly outlined on the assignment list.

I sat down next to Jordan and handed him the paper.  He looked at it, then looked at me and the expression on his face was priceless–much like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

He was to take pictures each week of the visible changes in the teeth, and record everything in detail in a log.  Also, he was to be prepared to give an informed and educated speech before his instructors about the project, the process and the outcome.  Because he didn’t follow the rules carefully, his grade was lowered.  There wasn’t an excuse in the world that he could offer to make up for his carelessness.

Ever since Adam blamed Eve for eating the apple, lack of responsibility has been a pandemic in our culture. We have all looked for a scapegoat for our bad behavior.  Isn’t it always someone else’s fault when we make a mistake?  It’s incredibly tempting to point the finger in a direction away from us, whenever our actions are brought into question.  I’ve done it.  You’ve done it.  Who hasn’t?

Legitimately, our actions can be the result of someone else’s choice, but nevertheless, we are always responsible for what we choose to say and do, regardless of the deeds of those around us.  We are accountable to those we interact with, to the laws of the land, and most importantly, to God.

I’ve learned over the years, that it’s far better to simply stand up and take the hit for my poor choices than to try to elude reprimand.  I want my son to understand that he is accountable for the path he chooses to walk.  Every choice he makes has a consequence for either good or evil.  Nothing is hidden from God, and I really believe when we admit our mistakes and take the high road instead of the road most traveled, our Father is proud of us. Developing a routine of integrity is a course well chosen.

Jordan never spoke a word of regret or remorse over his actions, but the next time a project was due, I noticed the assignment sheet was right next to the computer, adhered to with careful calculation.  Now, what more could a mother want than to see her child decide to live a life pleasing to both God and family.  This is a routine well chosen!

Jesus told him, “If you want to be perfect, go and sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”(Matthew19:21  NLT)

Wasn’t it that great philosopher, Andy Warhol, who once said, “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes?” The culture we live in flaunts the importance of popularity, fame and money without apology. Everyone, it seems, has a desire for notoriety. In truth, I think it’s an innate yearning to be worshipped. I wouldn’t doubt it’s that same fatal flaw that sent Lucifer careening out of Heaven’s door a millennia ago.

Reality television sends the same deliberate message–you’re nobody unless you’re somebody. As painful as it is for me to admit, I’ve entertained the same dream as a million others–to have my name up in lights, my own television show, to sell a gazillion records and accomplish great things.

Not long ago, my friend, Tommy, stopped me as I was heading out the door after church and said something that made me take pause. “You’ve always wanted your life to count, Tamra, to do something of value, to be someone others could admire. But, let me challenge you with this: live a life of significance rather than importance.”

I actually went home and looked up those two words in my Webster’s dictionary. Significance expresses a life full of value or worth… Importance relates more to having power or authority. I wasn’t sure why Pastor Tommy felt the need to share his thoughts with me. I’ve always thought that my life had been centered on the idea of helping others. I write books, I compose music and sing songs. Somehow this seemed to me the perfect path by which to touch lives for Jesus. Perhaps the motivation of the heart is really the issue in question. I don’t know about you, but sometimes it takes a while for me to find the light switch.

If our goal is the praise and admiration of those around us, then we may find exactly what we’re looking for: importance. But if our intent is to have the heart and character of God revealed in and through our lives, and to have our words and actions reflect the love of God above all else, then we will live a life of significance.

There aren’t many kudos for the prayer warrior who spends hours on his or her knees before God. There’s no mob of screaming fans for the woman who takes dinner to the widow, and yet Jesus said, “As you do this unto one of these, you do this unto me.”

I believe pride is the obstacle that stands in the way of our ability to live that life of significance my friend, Tommy, spoke of. We see ourselves in the light of human understanding and often place values on our lives that are predicated by world views. However, there comes a time in the life of every true seeker of God, when he or she must lay down all that we think we are and all that we hope to be, in order to be transformed into that vessel that God has planned us to be before the foundations of the world.

I remember the moment when I came to the painful realization that I would never accomplish the level of greatness I thought I was entitled to. I would likely never stand on a stage and sing for thousands of people, or have my name in lights on Broadway.

The sense of failure that overwhelmed me was palatable and I experienced a feeling of great loss, almost like a death. The transformation of a dream is often accompanied by a deep sense of bereavement. Yet out of death comes rebirth and an opportunity to explore avenues we never previously considered. The Lord’s definition of our perfection is entirely different than our own, and often requires the relinquishment of our hopes and dreams in order to see His plan unfold.

After months of dealing with my sense of loss, I was prepared to ask the difficult questions. What motivates me? What makes me feel important? What defines me? Why do I have these talents and for what purpose do I use them? In truth, the answers surprised me. I was motivated by the accolades of others. I felt important when I was appreciated for my talents. I realized I was defined not by who I am, but by what I do.

And these acknowledgements brought me to the foot of the cross of Christ. It was there that I laid down my abilities, my talents, my dreams and goals and requested God’s heart in my journey. I wanted Jesus to redefine me, and to make this vessel of human clay into the work of art He desired to look upon. It was a huge step of faith, and not one I took without great thought and consideration.

Once we relinquish our definition of self, and offer it up, then we must be redefined by the One receiving our sacrifice. Since we’re not exactly sure what form that new individual will take, it’s a bit frightening.

Here’s what I know for sure: nothing is wasted with God! He uses every gift and talent He’s given us, perhaps in different venues than we would like or hope, but He utilizes those unique and individual endowments in ways we can’t imagine. It’s much like giving up a cubic zirconium to receive a flawless diamond.

I can say with absolute certainty that I have no disappointment in the path I now walk. When Jesus told the rich, young ruler to sell all his possessions and give all he had to the poor, He was really asking him to trade the life he knew for a far more perfect existence. Today, I find myself grateful to be living this life of significance, rather than importance, and I can’t tell you how satisfying it is to understand the difference.  I’ll always be grateful for the wise words of a friend that set my feet on the right path.

I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection.  But I press on to possess that perfection for which Christ Jesus first possessed me.  Philippians 3:12 NLT

I had been tearing pictures from design magazines for years, and had quite a portfolio of ideas collected in anticipation of building my dream home. There were lovely images of warm, elegant bedrooms, functional, inviting kitchens, efficient, well designed offices and fun-filled family rooms. I even had a bag of stones in the colors I love: red, green, yellow, brown, gold, and copper.

We purchased our home two and a half years ago. I still remember the mixed emotions I had the first time I drove up to, parked my car and gazed at the possibilities. I had no trouble seeing beyond the dreary color of paint and the pitiful shrubbery. When I stepped through the front doors, the immediate potential of the structure was staggering. Without question, the task was monumental- far bigger than I had imagined.  In truth, I felt overwhelmed at the magnitude of the job I had chosen to undertake.  Where to begin?

The bathrooms and kitchen were full of outdated cabinetry, and, were finished with a white, shiny-type coating that didn’t match my decorating plans. The tubs and showers were leaking; the kitchen looked like aliens had designed the cooking area, and the carpeting showed years of cigar-induced burns and other unpleasant mishaps. Some of the doors were warped and in need of replacing, the stairwell carpeting was unraveling in places to the point that you could see the bare, unfinished wood beneath.

The entire house, floor to ceiling was beige—not a speck of color anywhere—and I’m a girl who loves color. The plastic chandeliers had that 80’s disco feel—very groovy. All I needed to complete the scene was a mirrored disco ball hanging from the ceiling in my living room and Andy Gibb piped in on the stereo.

I enjoy a challenge, but I was beginning to think that I had bitten off more than I could chew. The look of absolute delight on the contractor’s face as he took a gander told me the rest of the story—this was going to be expensive. Cha-ching.

With every change we made, a new problem surfaced.  Sometimes it was a plumbing issue, sometimes an electrical glitch…but it didn’t take long to realize we were in over our heads, financially and emotionally.  We wanted this house, but could we afford it? Renovations that we thought would take us four months, ended up taking nearly a year and costing us three times our original budget.

In spite of the fact that the whole project was beyond exhausting, the glad day arrived when we packed up our belongings from the cramped little condo we’d been living in for months, grabbed the dog and cat, and made the exciting trip to our newly renovated dream home.

We were amazed at the finished product. It was all I had ever hoped for and more. Down to the last detail of the artistic touches on the kitchen cabinets and the faux paint on the entry pillars; everything was just as I had imagined, only better.

Jordan’s room is painted with wall murals of trees, grass and lions, and offers the illusion of stepping into a jungle. Meagan’s room is finished in European flair with embellished touches of gold and orange.  The living room has angels painted on the entryway ceiling, an inviting welcome to any guests who enter our home.

As I stood looking at the vast transformation, remembering what the house looked like originally, I marvelled at the majesty of its conversion, and I began to think about our journey with God.

When first we ask Jesus to be the Lord of our lives, He must see the monumental task of all that needs to happen. And yet, we are His dream home, the place where His Sprit desires to abide.

Jesus moves through the rooms of our hearts, one by one, with careful examination. When He’s taken a full inventory, He begins cleaning out the unnecessary burden of false expectation, erroneous beliefs and human imperfections. He sweeps all of our mistakes into a heap and washes them away by the power of His Word. He never remembers those errors in judgment again. He heals the wounds of our hearts and strips all the old wallpaper and paint from our fractured souls.  And only when He’s completed the cleansing of the old, does He begin the development of the new. Jesus knows our potential. He is patient as He changes us bit by bit, knowing it is a life-long journey.

I renovated my dream home in months. Jesus transforms us over a lifetime. He’s in no hurry, because He’s interested in our journey and already sees the finished product before we take even the first step.

Budgets and cost over-runs are no issue for our Savior.  Jesus pre-paid it all. He had the perfect plan for the price of our spiritual renovations. He gave His life, the flawless, sinless sacrifice for all our mistakes. Our reconstruction cost Him everything and He gladly gave it, so that we may become that complete and finished creation He knew we would one day be.

I can agree with the great Apostle Paul as he said, “I don’t mean to say that I have already achieved these things or that I have already reached perfection. But I press on to possess that perfection for which Christ Jesus first possessed me.”

I now understand that the perfection is in the journey.  How grateful I am that the Lord has a vision for me—one He’s painstakingly pursued from the day I invited Him into the rooms of my heart, and will continue to pursue until He’s finished the good work He began in me. I’m glad Jesus doesn’t get exhausted or frustrated with the process, then throw up his hands and quit!  Because of His patient endurance, I’m on my way to becoming His dream house; the perfect work of His hands that continually shapes me into the glorious image of Christ.

©2008, Tamra Nashman