Michele Huey's Blog: God, Me, and a Cup of Tea, page 29
November 30, 2019
The Lesson of the Begats
All Scripture is inspired by God and is useful to teach us what is true and to make us realize what is wrong with our lives. It straightens us out and teaches us to do what is right. It is God’s way of preparing us in every way, fully equipped for every good thing God wants us to do. – 2 Timothy 3:16–17 (NLT)
Are you guilty of skipping the “begats”?
The “begats” to which I refer are found in the first chapter of Matthew—you know, the long list of Jesus’ ancestors. I don’t know about you, but when I read, I like action. History never stuck with me, especially long lists of names I can’t even pronounce, let alone see why they’re important.
I, too, am guilty of passing over the begats. But one time I forced myself to read through them—only because I was following a read-through-the-Bible-in-one-year program and putting a check mark in the “Matthew 1” box without actually reading it was cheating, lying, and being deceitful. I knew it would prey on my conscience, so I plowed through.
And discovered something interesting: Jesus’ ancestors were not a saintly bunch. Up until then, I’d assumed that Jesus, who was sinless and pure, would have had a bloodline that reflected his holiness. Yet “holy” hardly describes some of the characters mentioned. I’d also assumed that his bloodline would be pure as well—all His ancestors would have been Jewish. I was wrong on that account, too.
Jesus’ ancestry includes people who lied, cheated, deceived, stole, and committed adultery and murder. Abraham lied on at least two occasions to save his own skin. Jacob, whose name means “deceitful,” lived up to his name. Judah thought nothing of sleeping with a woman he thought was a prostitute. Bathsheba, Solomon’s mother, committed adultery with King David, who had her husband murdered when he discovered she was pregnant with his child.
Rahab was a prostitute from Jericho and not an Israelite. Neither was Ruth, King David’s great-grandmother. She hailed from Moab—Israel’s one-time enemy, a nation birthed in incest, whose bloodline traced back to Lot, who slept with his own daughters. Then there was the shrewd and persevering Tamar, whose twins were begotten in deceit.
Talk about skeletons in your closet! Jesus sure had plenty in His ancestry.
Another interesting note in the genealogy Matthew recorded is that he included women. It was unusual for women to be listed in Jewish genealogies. Matthew, however, lists five: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary. Only two were Jewish. Three bore moral blots.
Over the next few weeks, we’re going to look at the stories of these five women, the role they played in Jewish history, and what it means for us today.
Everything in God’s Word has a purpose—even the accounts of unsavory characters whom God chose to fill a slot in the ancestry of His own Son.
What’s the message you see in this? That God doesn’t choose only men to fulfill His purposes? That allowing far-from-perfect men—and women—a part in His plan to save sinners is still more evidence of His amazing grace? Nobody’s perfect, but surely there were people with better moral records than these. That God makes good on His promises, even one made 4,000 years before it was fulfilled?
For me, seeing the names of some pretty unsavory characters whose treachery and deceit are chronicled in the archives of man, gave me a sense of relief and freedom.
Relief that I don’t have to be perfect—God can use me warts and all. And freedom from guilt that my past indiscretions will cause me to miss out on God’s purpose for me.
For God, you see, “has saved us and called us to a holy life—not because of anything we have done, but because of his own purpose and grace” (2 Timothy 1:9 NIV).
Skeletons in your closet? Don’t fret about them. It isn’t what’s in your closet that God’s concerned about—it’s what’s in your heart.
Thank you, God, for the lesson of the begats. Amen.
Read and reflect on Matthew 1.
From God, Me, & a Cup of Tea for the Seasons, © 2018 Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
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November 23, 2019
Only Temporary
[image error]Todd, age 4, playing in the snow outside our basement home, winter 1980-81
I have learned to get along happily whether I have much or little. – Philippians 4:11 NLT
Thirty-nine years ago, we moved into an unfinished basement fifteen miles from town, hoping to save rent money as we built our house ourselves. I was a stay-at-home mom, so money was scarce with just my husband’s income—and even that was sometimes only a hundred dollars a week.
The children were still toddlers—Todd was four, and Jaime was 11 months—and boxes, clothes and toys cluttered every square foot as I struggled to make that concrete cubicle a home. The furnace, on loan from my husband’s boss until we could afford a new one (which ended up being 25 years later), needed repair. It was already mid-November, and winter was closing in fast. A constant fire in the woodstove did little to warm up the concrete surrounding us. Insulating the place was still on our to-do list. I wore long underwear, a toboggan hat and layers of clothing indoors.
The plumbing was unfinished, so we hooked up a garden hose to the water tank and fed it through the hole in the wall above the tub meant for the fixtures. Lugging pots of hot water from the kitchen, I’d flooded the floor twice getting the kids’ bath ready.
My back ached from sleeping on an old, lump sofa bed mattress so thin I could feel the support bars. Our comfortable queen-size bed was still in the wagon shed, where we temporarily stored items while we unpacked and organized.
Three days or disorganization, interruptions and things gone wrong left perfectionist me struggling with my emotions. Why can’t I have nice things, the easy way, like everyone else? I wondered. Why am I always a “have not” and never a “have”?
Although I tried not to complain (too much), my husband knew I was struggling and tried to cheer me up. “It’s only temporary,” he’d say when my impatience oozed through the growing cracks in my composure.
“Yeah, right,” I’d answer.
Then an early snowstorm dumped six inches on the countryside overnight. Every two hours I bundled up even more and shoveled swirling drifts away from the only door. Flinging heavy, wet snow over my shoulder, I finally gave in to self-pity.
“Temporary, temporary!” I fumed. “Is everything temporary?”
The answer came immediately. Even if you had everything exactly the way you wanted, it would still be temporary.
I couldn’t argue with that.
Lord, help me to remember that my earthly condition, whether rich, poor, or in-between, is only temporary. Remind me daily what’s really important. Amen.
Read and reflect on 1 Timothy 6:6–8.
From God, Me, & a Cup of Tea for the Seasons, © 2018 by Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
[image error]Our house now (summer 2019)
November 16, 2019
Sifting Season
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Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers. – Luke 22:31–32 NIV
When I first started baking—back in the dark ages of kitchen technology—almost every recipe that called for flour required that it be sifted. So when I furnished my first apartment, I bought a neat little avocado green sifter. And I used it, too.
Nowadays I don’t even own a sifter. Not because I don’t bake—well, I bake sometimes—flour just doesn’t need to be sifted anymore. It’s missing the lumps and the extra protein, a.k.a. bugs, that were once reasons for sifting. Plus the compacting that occurs when flour is handled and stored (in my case, for long periods of time) isn’t the problem it used to be.
Our modern flour caters to our hurry-up lifestyle. Anything that eliminates a step or two and shortens the process is the way to go.
But even with modern flour, sifting can still be beneficial. It separates and aerates the flour particles so they absorb better the liquids called for in the recipe. And sifting gives the flour a silky texture, fluffy and light.
Like flour, we, too, need to be sifted. Modern times have increased, rather than decreased, the need to separate the good stuff from the bad. Life’s rough handling leaves us with lumps of pain and confusion, and the bugs of an increasingly godless culture infect our minds, hearts, and spirits without us being aware of it or wanting it to. Overcrowded schedules press us down, leaving us helplessly wedged under the weight of too many commitments and too little time.
So every now and then we enter what I call the “sifting season”—a season of trouble, of heartache and pain, of problems with no answers and seemingly hopeless situations over which we have no control and which don’t make any sense to us.
Discouragement and doubt settle in for a long, unwelcome stay. We pray, but the ears of Heaven seem closed. We ask, but don’t receive. We seek, but can’t find. We knock, but the door remains shut tight.
Like the psalmist, we weep in despair, “Why have you forgotten me?” (Psalm 42:9).
[image error]But God has not forgotten us. He has allowed this season for a purpose: to sift us like flour, so that our lumps of stubbornness and selfishness are broken up, the bugs that have contaminated our very souls are removed, and we absorb better the truth and wisdom of God’s Word. It is during these times that the wheat is separated from the chaff as we learn what’s really important and what we can do without.
The sifting takes time, for the life of faith is not a hurry-up lifestyle. There are no shortcuts to holiness.
But, like all seasons, the sifting season will come to an end, and we’ll have the texture of a more mature Christian—silky, fluffy, light and free, and much better able to be used in the recipes of God.
Why are you downcast, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God. (Psalm 42:5).
Read and reflect on 1 Peter 1:3–9; Psalm 42
© 2019 Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
November 9, 2019
Sharon’s Hands
She … willingly works with her hands … she extends her hands to the poor, Yes, she reaches out her hands to the needy … give her of the fruit of her hands.–Proverbs 31:13, 20, 31 NKJV
One Saturday several years ago, my friend Sharon treated me to a girls’ day out. The daylong event was a “HeartSpa Getaway” held at a local Christian campground and included activities to nourish, refresh and renew both body and spirit.
In addition to enjoying inspirational music provided by a women’s singing group and searching soul and Scripture, we also pampered our hands, faces and feet.
Our first pampering station was for our hands. First we rubbed them with an exfoliating scrub, then slathered on a soothing lotion. The next step I was a bit hesitant about—dipping my hands in a crock-pot containing liquid paraffin. I was afraid it would be too hot. But it wasn’t, and as soon as I brought my hands out, I was instructed to hold them together in a prayer position. My folded hands were then encased in a plastic bag and wrapped with a hand towel. While we waited for the paraffin, plastic and towel to do their therapeutic work, we were to pray with and for our partners.
Sharon and I clasped our towel-clad hands and began praying. As I prayed for Sharon, whom I’ve known for over 40 years, I envisioned her hands—long and slender, with nails clipped short so they wouldn’t interfere with the work she has to do.
I remembered when these hands brought me homemade chicken soup when I was in bed recovering from my second C-section. She hadn’t known it, but I’d asked God for some homemade chicken soup when I was still in the hospital.
These hands, I realized, have spent a lifetime doing for others—cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening, canning—the million and one things that need done for a family. These hands have written countless notes of encouragement, slipped uncounted dollar bills into scores of needy hands. They could be counted on to do what needs to be done. They’d held sick children, changed messy diapers, cleaned up puke, scrubbed bathrooms, cut hair, washed dogs, wrapped gifts, rubbed backs, blew kisses, prepared Bible lessons.
They’ve been bitten, blistered, burned, calloused and cut, yet still wave a friendly greeting in a grocery store, on the street, in church. As busy as these hands are, they always take time to comfort. They’ve been clasped together in prayer for others, and they’ve grasped the hands of others as she prayed for them.
The hands are the instruments of the heart. Sharon’s hands are giving hands, for her heart overflows with kindness, compassion and love.
I thought of my daughter’s dog, Tess, rescued from an animal shelter. Tess was afraid of hands and slinked away in cowering fear when a hand, however loving, got too close. Who knows what cruelties were inflicted on her by hands that wanted only to dominate or harm?
Hands can hit, pinch, pound, punch, slam and slap. A closed hand is tight and tense. Hands that grasp and cling when it’s time to let go cannot be open to receive.
Sharon’s hands are no longer supple, smooth and nimble. They bear the scars of a lifetime of love. But they are not empty. They overflow with blessings poured out from her heavenly Father, blessings she passes on to others.
I have no choice over how pretty my hands are—whether they’re long and slender or wide and knuckley. But, as Sharon likes to say, pretty is as pretty does.
I choose what these hands do. They can lend a hand, pass on a hand-me-down, give a hand up. They can be the hands of God in a needy world.
Have you taken a good look at your hands lately?
Dear God, thank you for Sharon’s hands and the many hands that have met my needs over the years. Bless them, O Lord. Forgive me for the times my hands have hurt others, and help me to forgive and forget those hands that have hurt me. Show me how to use my hands for Your work. Amen.
Read and reflect on Proverbs 31:10–31
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If Vangie is to have the love she’s waited for so long, she must forget the past and accept Seth as he is now. But can she?
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November 2, 2019
Surprise Party
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. – Matthew 5:7 NIV
When I was in grade school, I always wanted to have a real birthday party – you know, when you invite the whole class at school. Every year when I asked, though, my mother’s answer was always the same: “No.” Maybe the class size of nearly fifty had something to do with it.
“Please, Mom,” I’d plead. “Everyone else has one. Why do I always have to be different?”
No amount of begging, whining, or pouting, however, changed her mind. Her lopsided cakes were for family only.
One year, though, I was determined to have the kind of party I wanted, in spite of my mother’s usual “no.” So I invited all the kids in my third grade class to come to my house on Saturday, November 5, for my birthday party. My mother, of course, knew nothing about it.
I bowled in a youth bowling league on Saturday mornings, and when I left the house that day, I still hadn’t told my mother about the party. The walk home after bowling was the longest walk I ever took in my life! I trudged the eight blocks home in the cold, damp November wind, thinking of how much trouble I was going to be in once the kids started showing up at my door.
Not only was I going to be in the doghouse at home, but I’d be the laughing stock of the whole school once word got out about the party with a lopsided cake, and not enough ice cream and pop. Don’t even mention games. That was not my mother’s forte.
When I stepped into the dining room at few minutes before two – the time I told everyone to come – I gasped in surprise. There in the middle of the table, set for a party, was a big, decorated birthday cake!
“How did you find out?” I blurted to my mother.
“Vivian’s mother called to ask me what time your party started,” she said.
Thank you, Mrs. Bludis, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief.
“We’ll talk about this after the party,” my mother said quietly as someone knocked. “Go answer the door.”
For the next three hours, I tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’d probably be grounded for the rest of my life. When the last guest left, I hurried to help clean up, grateful to my mom for helping me save face and hoping my initiative would lessen my punishment.
“What would you have done if Mrs. Bludis hadn’t called?” my mother asked me after we were done.
I shrugged.
“I didn’t understand how important this was to you. I’m sorry,” Mom said, “but I hope you realize you were wrong to go behind my back.”
I nodded.
As it turned out, my only punishment was three agonizing hours imagining what my just desserts would be when I could have been enjoying my birthday party.
My mother taught me an important lesson in mercy that day. While it isn’t easy to forgive someone who has done something wrong, showing undeserved kindness blesses both the giver and the receiver, and brings healing to broken relationships.
I deserved justice. Instead I received a birthday present I never forgot.
[image error]Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
Thank you, God, that Your mercies are new every morning. I sure need them everyday. Amen.
Read and reflect on Matthew 18:21–35.
October 26, 2019
The Words of My Mouth
[image error]Image by Beverly Buckley from Pixabay
May the words of my mouth . . . be pleasing in your sight, O LORD. – Psalm 19:14 NIV
At our house, Thursday is leftover day, meaning supper is whatever is left over from meals earlier in the week.
One Wednesday a number of years ago, I made enough stewed tomatoes and macaroni, one of my husband’s favorite meals, to fill his still-a-farmboy stomach and a 2 ½-quart casserole dish with leftovers.
Thursday’s supper, I figured, would be easy: pop the casserole in the nuke, shake packaged salad into bowls, and throw a loaf of fresh bread and soft butter on the table. Nice and quick—just what I needed on grocery day.
But when I was in town that Thursday, a “fresh corn” sign caught my eye. I envisioned steaming yellow cobs dripping with melted butter on our supper plates beside the leftover stewed tomatoes and macaroni. And I pictured a delighted look on my husband’s face.
I’ll surprise him, I thought, flicking on my blinker and turning into the parking lot.
When Dean called to say he was on his way home from work, I had the water boiling and the corn husked, ready to drop into the pot. But his reaction wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t rave about the corn—nary a word about it.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when we sat down at the table. After being married to the guy for more than half my life, I’m pretty good at reading his body language.
“Nothing,” he said.
I gave him my best “I know better than that” look.
“The corn is sweet,” he said, “and the macaroni is, too. You know I don’t like something sweet with something else that’s sweet.”
Sure it’s sweet, I wanted to say, with all the sugar you dump on the macaroni. Instead I said, with just a touch of sarcasm, “Thanks, Michele, for thinking of the fresh corn. It hits the spot.”
Now, my husband doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. He’s honest to a fault. He’ll never tell me, for example, that I look nice just to make me feel good. But, gee, can’t he lie just a little once in awhile?
Perhaps I’m too sensitive, but I’m not alone in this longing to be appreciated.
“There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation than for bread,” Mother Teresa once said.
St. Paul instructed the early church to “let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them” (Ephesians 4:29 NLT).
Like oil on squeaky hinges, a few words of appreciation can go a long way—in building up relationships, soothing a battered spirit, refreshing a weary soul, and putting a smile on a sad face. I can get a lot of mileage out of one compliment.
“Pleasant words are a honeycomb,” penned the writer of Proverbs, “sweet to the soul and healing to the bones” (Proverbs 16:24).
Sweet words of appreciation—who in your world can use them today?
Open my eyes, Lord, to the many kindnesses others show to me every day—and remind me to express my appreciation often. Amen.
Read and reflect on Luke 17:11–19
© 2009, 2019 Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
October 19, 2019
Cleaning the Closet
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Put on tender mercies, kindness, humility, meekness, longsuffering; bearing with one another, forgiving one another…. But above all these things put on love. – Colossians 3:12 – 13, 14 (NKJV)
I’ve got closet full of clothes I hesitate to throw away. There are my “fat” clothes and my “skinny” clothes, outdated clothes and classic clothes that never go out of style, casual clothes and dressy clothes, comfy clothes and those that aren’t so comfortable, clothes with missing buttons, broken zippers, and holes in the fabric with some use left in them.
Every spring and fall I go through my closet, sorting and organizing, weeding out those I don’t fit into anymore and will probably never fit into again, those that just aren’t my style any longer and those I’ve grown tired of.
I make four piles: pitch, give away, keep, and I don’t know. Clothes that are threadbare or torn (I don’t sew) go on the pitch pile, destined for the rag bin or garbage. The giveaway pile is for clothes I haven’t worn in a year and probably won’t wear even if I slimmed down enough to fit into them, yet they still have enough wear in them for someone else. The clothes I keep are the ones I wear frequently, the ones I’ll need for special occasions, and the ones that don’t go out of style. Clothes that I can’t decide whether to keep or to toss go on the I-don’t-know-pile.
I confess: More goes back into the closet than out the door, but I figure if I could get rid of at least one item that has lost its usefulness, I’m ahead.
I need to have a regular cleaning session with my spiritual closet, too. But for those items I need only two piles: pitch and keep.
Onto the pitch pile go resentment, anger, gossip, envy, deceit, lies, greed, pride, selfishness—all those things that came with my sinful nature. Like old clothes that no longer fit, we must put off that old nature—a nature we were slaves to before we received Jesus as Savior and Lord—a nature that no longer has power over us because it is no longer in us.
“If anyone is in Christ,” Scripture says, “he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
“Put off the old self, which is corrupted by its deceitful desires,” wrote St. Paul to the Ephesians. “Instead put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness” (Ephesians 4:22–24).
Too often I push those old attitudes and emotions back in the closet where I can’t see them, but still they take up room, crowding and wrinkling the ones I need to put on often.
And what are the clothes I should put on?
Compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience, tolerance, forgiveness, and love. Love is the one item I must not be without. It is the one that, like a jacket, coat, or shawl, covers all the others.
Cleaning out the closet is never a fun thing to do, but when it’s done—and done right—we have all the wardrobe we’ll ever need. A wardrobe that will never wear out or go out of style. A wardrobe that fits better and becomes more comfortable the more we put it on.
Help me, Lord, to clean out my closet regularly. Give me the wisdom to see those items that I must put off and those I must put on. Amen.
Read and reflect on Colossians 3:1–17.
© 2015, 2019 Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
October 12, 2019
Puzzle Pieces
[image error]Image by Mike Sweeney from Pixabay
Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. –John 14:1 NIV
My youngest grandson loves to put together jigsaw puzzles. So I keep several age-appropriate puzzles around for when the he comes for some “Grandma time.”
When he was five, his favorite puzzle was a 100-piece pirate ship puzzle, which he could put together without my assistance. But I still helped, assembling the border. The straight-edge pieces are much easier to figure out than the inside. By the time I had the border in place, he’d already completed quite a bit of the inside. It’s a good thing the puzzle makers put a picture on the front of the box. Without it, I’d get too frustrated.
Ever think that life is like a jigsaw puzzle?
Imagine what the young Jewish girl Hadassah, an orphan raised by her uncle, felt when she was taken to be a part of King Xerxes’ harem.
Hadassah’s dreams for a husband and family were dashed. What were her chances of being chosen to the queen of Persia? Uncle Mordecai, who held a high position in the civil service of the empire, advised her not to reveal her family background or nationality. So she had to do things no nice Jewish girl would have done. So much for her reputation.
But she found favor with the head harem keeper, who pampered her more than the other girls, and put her in the best place in the harem. After twelve months of beauty treatments, the time came for Hadassah, who now went by “Esther,” to go to the king.
“Now the king was attracted to Esther more than to any of the other women, and she won his favor and approval more than any of the other virgins. He set a royal crown upon her head and made her queen” (Esther 2:17).
But things did not remain settled for Queen Esther. You know the story—how she risked her life to uncover a wicked man’s plot to annihilate the Jews.
Sometimes we focus on the risk and courage aspect of this story—and that the bad guy gets caught in the end—and forget that Hadassah didn’t know how her life story would play out. First she’s orphaned, then taken from her adopted home to be a part of something that would only bring shame to a young Jewish girl. Then, when everything seems hunky-dory, she’s asked to lay it all on the line.
I imagine, like us, she wondered how the pieces of her life would fit together. By itself, each puzzle piece seems to make no sense. But as the pieces are patiently fit into the overall pattern, the picture becomes clearer.
Life’s puzzle, however, doesn’t come with a picture on the box, at least one we can see.
Our Maker, though, does—indeed, He has designed it—and patiently directs us, one piece at a time.
When the pieces of my life don’t seem to fit anywhere, Lord, remind me that each piece has a place in the picture You created just for me. Amen.
Read through the Book of Esther in one sitting.
© 2012, 2019 Michele Huey. All rights reserved.
God, Me, and a Cup of Tea
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