It’s no secret that the Martin mailbox can be as erratic as the Alabama weather. We go days and never get the first parcel. It frustrates me when the box is empty. Then the drought ends and our mailbox will be crammed full. It is ironic and almost comical because I love mail. I love junk mail. It’s true, one of the quirky things about me. The junk mail is a little bit like a gleam of sunshine in my day. When I’m expecting a letter, I’ve been known to put something to mail in the mailbox, raise the flag, and watch for it to be lowered just so I know when the outgoing is exchanged for  the incoming. It is an oddity I know, just one of those weird things about myself I’ve learned to embrace rather than change, fight, or feel defeated over.

So the afternoon I opened the mailbox and found a letter addressed to me, I smiled.

I surveyed the envelope. I knew the handwriting, another oddity, I connect people with their penmanship. It’s weird. Years of paper charting and public education aided in honing this craft. Before I’d surveyed the return address I knew the Sender.

The Sender had scratched through and scribbled my address a time or two, clear evidence of the gypsy life Scott Martin and I have lived the last several years. I opened the unexpected card to find a glitter embellished scene of a table. The sort of random card one might find at a DollaStore. I opened to read an assortment of life events and details. The Sender was catching me up as it’d been a while since we had seen each other, an invitation to get together, a recent doctor visit yielding a tragic and debilitating diagnosis.

I reread the words, I paused, standing at the end of my driveway, my heart ached, sentence fragments filled my head. Too young. Why? Help must help. No. Too sad. Tragic. Words filled my brain, silence filled my mouth. Nothingness gave way to a gasp and I continued to read on.

The Sender had asked me to pray. She knows I will, that I do. I continued reading and at the end of it The Sender expressed love and gratitude and a familiar signature followed by

“It is well with My Soul.”

Stunned. I stood there, tears filled my eyes and the fragments hung over me like poorly placed photo booth props.

“Well?”

“How?”

“Sad.”

“Me?”

“Pray?”

As I tucked the card back into its envelope, I was careful not to divulge what I had just read. I thought about the writer of that song, one I’ve known since childhood and how he penned those words after tragic and seemingly senseless loss. I imagined him standing atop an Atlantic crossing ocean liner and how the very waves of sorrow rolled like the waves below. “It is well with my soul.” I’ve pondered on that many times in recent history. When trouble and tragedy seem to be around every corner. The loss of a loved one, A wayward child. Job troubles, financial distress, uncertainty about the future, fear and anxieties abound. That morning, as my heart is heavy, my words inadequate. I knew this, the prayers are many for the broken-hearted, and my words are few. This I know for certain, I can trust that King is near, and in Him alone it is well and Hope abounds.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” Isaiah 43:1-2

Do you have a servant’s heart?

Confession. My family and I are total goofballs. We act the silliest and find humor in the most unusual things. Like, having British accent days or taking on a character role for the day, pranking each other, or making word plays until its ridiculous (think “Facing the Giants” and the whole Hindenburg sketch of misusing words and playing with them). We are so much into silliness that we occasionally make each other annoyed if one is in the mood to play and another is not. I say all that to set up my “Cabana Boy” story. Hopefully your will enjoy a bit of our weirdness and maybe even identify with it.

As I sat on the back deck writing that cloudy Monday morning, I was deep in thought researching an upcoming lesson. Time moved on without my notice, and I was oblivious to the fact that the sun had come out and I was squinting and shielding my computer screen from the glare. Until my goofy husband, in his best Cabana Boy imitation popped outside to my rescue. He came bearing the umbrella, but of course he had to add a dramatic flair.

With a giant smile and the gracious motions of a prime example of Cabana Boy from the best resort you’ve ever been to, he launched into his spiel. “Your Cabana Boy at your service, Ma’am. Which way would you like the umbrella tilted? Is that better, does it cut the glare on your screen? Would you care for a beverage or fruit? No? Then please know that I am at your service today whatever need you may have. We aim to make sure you have a pleasant stay.”

My heart was light as my Cabana Boy retreated back inside to his Covid-office at the kitchen table. How pleasant and joyful he was. What a servant attitude. My mind began to wander. It turned to spiritual things as I pondered this man that so exasperates me some days, but was so joyful today. We are so far from perfect. My husband likes to say we are two warped boards that God has strapped together through marriage to help straighten up the warps. But today, he operated with a servant’s heart of love and it got me to thinking…

How am I as a servant of the Most High? Am I a joyful, kindhearted servant ready to go the extra mile as the Father presents opportunities? Am I looking for ways to serve Him? Ways to serve others and make another’s life a little easier? Do I serve with a great attitude, or grudgingly and dutifully? Do I reflect love and kindness to others as I serve? Am I the five star Cabana Boy who makes life pleasant for those around me? Are you?

In our fleshly nature, we humans are selfish creatures. We do things out of obligation or what’s-in-it-for-me. If we do it because we feel we must, we often reflect that through a bad attitude as we serve. We serve as the Cabana Boy who is just in it for the paycheck, and not as the one who serves from the heart because “It’s my pleasure.”

Spiritual growth is about becoming more than it is about knowing. We sometimes reverse that thought and think the more we know about God and scripture the more mature we are spiritually. But today let’s focus on becoming. Becoming that joyful servant of God. Take a moment today to ask God to make you into His humble, joyful servant.

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Father God, Change me. Make me a joyful servant. Create in my a servant’s heart and a steadfast spirit willing and ready to serve You and those around me as a service to You. Reshape my motives. Remake my heart of stone into a heart of flesh that serves with love and joy and kindness, reflecting You in all I do. Amen.

ENCOURAGEMENT FOR THE WEARY MAMA

“Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.”

Philippians 3:12-14 ESV

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I have a favorite fork.

My favored fork randomly appeared in our cutlery drawer some years ago.

I really have no idea from whence it came but it’s particularly spindly handle fits my unusually spindly fingers quite well and as most know my arms are spindly too. They do not match my not-at-all spindly trunk shaped trunk.

The Martin 3 know my affinity for the favored fork and will often lay it at my place when setting the table for dinner.

At last check my dirty fork went into the sink basin, that was some four days ago when my work stretch began. As far as I knew that fork lay dormant and dirtied in the sink.

Recently on a post work day evening, I happened to open the cutlery drawer, and there lying on its side was my favorite fork. Pristine and put away, waiting and ready for my spindly digits to wrap around it.

The middle Martin Male is the dishwasher in our house and most days he gets it quite right. Tonight as I pulled my fork out of the drawer, an unexpected surprise with which to eat my salad, I thought about life gone by. There was a time when that same boy could not speak, when his only means of communication was to scream, and I mourned the thought of his growing up because I was certain his quality of life would be subpar. There was time when he couldn’t use a fork much less wash one and put it away. I secretly prayed and petitioned and begged, and I was weary and as exhausted as a mama can be. That was then and this is now. And much has happened since then.

Presently he can wash and put away dishes and he does so daily. Despite the weighty, weary, worried person I was I pressed on, and I want to encourage the weary mama having to wash her shower curtain because it has been substituted as bathroom tissue, or the worn out preteen mama on her way home to talk with a ball of hormones and attitude, the mama who thinks she just can’t do it all another day, I challenge you to press on.

Stay strong.

Your day is coming and these challenging children will be alright just keep on keeping on! Press into The King and trust in His hands, you too will one day  have moments of unexpected dividends, pay off on those early days of investments in the form of finding favored forks.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” Galatians 6:9 NIV