My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me. John 10:27

I sat reading in the favorite 2nd Chance Store the Martins like to visit. It was a noisy place but I could make out the all too familiar albeit faint sound of Lego bricks, thousands of them being separated by small fingers. Thousands maybe millions of small building bricks being sorted. A giant plastic container of them being sorted like sand by tiny hands. Roving eyes looking for just the perfect half inch piece. It was a sound I learned to discern over time thanks to a Lego Lover of my own. From the time those building blocks were no longer considered a serious choking hazard prohibited by yours truly, my Boy has been playing with them.

I learned to store them in a plastic container years ago because lying scattered on the floor just was not an option. It would only take one time stepping barefoot on one of those curse-word-inducing-devil-bricks in the middle of the night to compel one to purchase said plastic bins for storage. My Boy has likely spent the equivalent of years sorting said Lego Bricks in the very same manner. Plastic on plastic falling like gold doubloons through the hands of a searching and creative child.

Perhaps it was those hours of listening to the background music of childhood play that had attuned my ears to that sound. Immediately I was able to identify that noise as some unknown-to-me child repeated that same behavior in the giant 2nd Chance store. Despite the other noise of the some 23,000 square foot emporium I could pick out the sound and correctly identify it. I tend to tune things out, I had already tuned out chatter and post Christmas excitement, a PA system requesting specific shoppers to come to a specific location, and overhead classic rock, the kind spun on the retro vinyls like the store sells.

I was reading a good book and found myself in the presence of the Reformation. I had been transported back some 500 years and nothing had yet been successful in bringing me back to current day. That was until the sound of play made its way to my hearing. The voice of Jesus is much the same. John 10 talks of a Good Shepherd whose sheep are so familiar with His voice that they can recognize it and immediately discern it from other voices they hear.

That rainy night in the 2nd Chance Store was like that for me. I knew the sound of filtered plastic building blocks so well that when I heard it in the background, half a football field away, I could discern that noise despite the crowd’s chatter and rock and roll songs playing. I could discern that sound in the midst of chaos. I could pick that sound out because I knew it too well. I had spent years acclimating my ears to it. So much so, that I could hear it best.

When we know Jesus, The Good Shepherd’s voice, we can pick it out when we are being bombarded with the sounds of this world, the voices from all directions, all telling us something conflicting. When we know how He speaks, we can discern that above all else. We don’t learn that voice from an occasional conversation, we learn it from daily communication. I’ve got to be honest, I don’t always spend time getting to know His voice, listening to Him. I spend a lot of time talking but not near enough time listening. May I strive to become so familiar with His voice that I can pick it out of a proverbial 23,000 square foot 2nd Chance Store with the discerning accuracy of those plastic blocks on that rainy night.

Our routine was changed. Sunday morning would have to be altered a bit. An afternoon family outing would require us to be somewhere promptly at a specified time. We would have to be intentional about our worship. We are chronically late and we chronically run behind. I used to never be late, if I were late it actually meant I was on time. That was until I had children and a husband who moves at a slower pace than I.

I used to just leave him in the dust, be about my business and leave him to his own devices. I used to literally sit in the car and honk the horn incessantly until he finally made his way toward me. By the time he arrived I was aggravated at his insensitivity and he was annoyed with my impatience. That was until we both realized that if we were ever going to make this two becoming one marriage deal work we were both going to have to learn to give a little grace.

Now, despite the fact that it still bothers me to be late (aka just be on time), I can compromise, and in doing so I’ve learned to communicate clearly the actual time we need to leave factoring in unexpected traffic issues, potty breaks, and forgotten things. This seems to work, some of the time anyway.

That particular last Sunday of the year I knew we could not revert to our normal plan. We would never make our destination on time. I devised a foolproof plan, Dad would do his thing (a long ago weekly commitment of playing in the worship band) and duck out early. I along with the children would do something altogether different. We would attend a favorite first service, albeit further from home, it is noted not to “run over” as much. We would worship with friends and meet Dad at the coffee shop promptly after our far from home nearer to our destination Church Service. At promptly 10:30, we would depart together, thereby ensuring our scheduled arrival on time.

As we prayed on the drive in, the kids and I thanked our King for different things and things the same as well. I told them that as I had prayed for our word for the year, the King had graciously given, and it was actually a phrase rather than a word. I giggled as I told them that He had imparted it through the Book of Acts. We have been studying it together this school year and the thought of carrying Acts with us into the next must have made me giggle. I wanted them to know I would be praying it and saying often through the coming year.

“Pay attention.”

“Huh?” almost at once the three of them questioned. Irony At its best I mused.

“Pay attention.” That’s our family is word this year.

In our world of perpetual distraction, when days go by I wonder how I’ve even made it to the end of it, time flies by at breakneck speed and it feels I’ve just had breakfast and it’s time to kiss everyone goodnight. I need the daily reminder to pay attention.

“Pay attention.”

As we arrived on campus, pulling in to see the constant, larger than life, picture of Grace, the Cross before us, the drizzle had become more steady and the clouds heavier. I commented on the choosing of a parking place and pulled into a spot I felt certain would guarantee us a ride on the dry bus. I never turn down curbside service even if it means afterward I have to walk a bit extra. Also despite being married to a meteorologist, I rarely know the weather or have a working umbrella. Again, irony at its best.

As I chose my space and pulled in my Martin progeny protested.

“Mom there are so many like way closer!”

“Mama where is everybody? I thought we were late.” I knew we were right on time, (I’ve intentionally set my car clock up a few minutes. They have yet to catch on and I’m not telling them. It aids my getting there on time cause.)

Admittedly I was puzzled though. Usually by this time those front row parking spaces had long ago been captured by the early-in-enough-time-for-two-cups-of-coffee-and-a-doughnut people.

I still hadn’t caught on as we opened the door and I hugged a beloved greeter friend, and she handed us one of the many worship guides she was distributing. Usually by the time we arrive most of those had already been dispensed. I still hadn’t caught on.
It wasn’t until we entered the worship center, few seats were occupied, we had our choice of seats, (that never happens I thought) and the praise band appeared to be practicing that I began to question how on-time-slash-early we actually were.

It was just as we settled into our choice seats that I looked at the long ago and just as forgotten email I received weekly outlining the events of the coming week. I had assumed it said what it should: this week would be good, it would be a great way to end the Old year and step into the next by coming to church, don’t forget year-end tax things. Business per usual.

As I opened my email, the subject line caught my eye. “One 10:00am service this Sunday” I literally laughed out loud.

I broke the news to my children, who for a moment thought I would make them leave. They loved worship here. How could I? I recalculated my painstaking plan and travel times. About that time they all began to contribute just how we might make it work. We were already walking toward the door when their pleas yielded results. I decided we would stay. Cheers reverberated in the mostly empty building. Charlotte leaned over and said, “Mama what was that word?”

“What word?” I said

“Pay attention.” she said softly in my ear.

Had I paid attention I would have known. Had I paid attention I would have known ahead of time that the timing might not work out as well as I had planned. As is customary with the King, He used that reversed tardiness to teach me to yield to Him and to pay attention even in the small things and as is always customary, His plans are better than my best laid ones and for His Word declares it so.

The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps. Proverbs 16:9 ESV

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17

Me: “What was your favorite gift you got for Christmas?”

She said nothing, she just smiled and pulled out of her gifts a folded piece of paper. As she unfolded it she smiled, more like beamed. When she had received it nearly a week prior she had cried. She was speechless, but she wept with joy.

As she turned the paper to face me, I knew what it was, I could see the crease marks beginning to show signs of repeatedly being opened and folded back up again. I wondered how long it would remain in one piece. I marveled at how overjoyed she was and at the simplicity of her gift.

She rubbed her hand across the words and said, “It just makes me so happy.” The favorite gift was a gift to others, strangers across the world whom she has never met and ones who will never know her name. It was the gift of food and nourishment for a Mama and her baby for a month. Starvation halted and salvation offered. It was what she wanted more than anything. All I can say is I am not worthy to have been given such a precious child, yet I have been. For reasons that will forever boggle my mind, the King chose me to be her Mama and I am humbled that He would do it and I am privileged to witness what He is doing with her

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ ” Matthew 25:40 NIV

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own understanding. Proverbs 3:5 CSB

We had planned to have a low-key day, I was scheduled to work so we had not planned on a large family meal or visits with extended family. We had resolved that we would celebrate that Day’s events the following day. When the unexpected surprise came that we could spend our time together we opted for Chinese Cuisine for our family lunch. We dressed casually. I donned my “Go Jesus it’s your Birthday” shirt and jeans, and out the door we went. Our favorite Chinese place is about a 20 minute drive away, we sang together loudly with the radio and saw only a few passing cars. It was obvious it was Christmas.

When we arrived at our favorite eatery the parking lot was already filling with vehicles. We pulled our tired ol’ minivan into a spot and I chuckled at all the surrounding fanciful, luxurious, cars dotting the perimeter. As I am prone to do, I imagined my ol’ minivan attempting to converse with the other transportation vehicles and the awkwardness of it all made me giggle out loud.

“Why you have an actual key for your ignition?” (In my head I imagined the Beamer parked adjacent with a female slightly foreign voice.)

“What do you mean you don’t have a backup camera?”

“You mean your seats are torn and sutured together with duct tape?”

When asked what I was laughing about, I knew I would have to explain, so I just said, “Nothing.”

Our wait time was minimal and as is customary we perused the adjacent oriental market. I said repeatedly to my Martins, “Look with your eyes only! NOT your hands!”

When we were seated we were placed in a large corner booth. We “selfied” and chatted and decided on our lunch cuisine. To each his own. Some simple. Some came with a warning from our waiter, Jack, “It very authentic. You sure you want? Lots of tofu?” My adventurous eaters grinned and nodded in affirmation. Jack relented and wrote it down on his notepad, I figured he might be saying to himself, “That’s not going to end well.”

As we waited for lunch to arrive a family was seated next to us in our big booth. The mama was giving seating directions in English and then would speak in brief segments of what I assumed was Mandarin Chinese. She sounded as most Mamas do, instructing where to sit and ordering drinks. She would answer questions and was as good at deflecting any melt down inducing answers as any experienced fencer might be in warding off blows from an equally skilled opponent. As they sat, the youngest boy was brought a cup with a lid and straw.

“No! I want a big-boy cup like you! I’m not a little kid! I can do it by myself!”

The bilingual Mama shushed him as she ordered something and then clarified in English, “Roasted Snails.” I thought I might fall over. None of our table occupants even flinched except for me.

The smallest in stature again protesting his drink cup.

“No!! I can do It ALL BY MYSELF!”

His wise bilingual Mama continued to busy herself with Mama-at-the-table tasks: Ordering for the non-bilingual people at the table, spreading out napkins, placing silverware out of reach, moving the mid-table carafe of enticing temptations. She looked like I have before, and even like I do now, a universal maternal meal time standard of operating procedures.

As the meal meandered on, ours and theirs, I was replaying the conversations in my head.

The “I can do it all by myself!” mentality spans the world of age and geography.
I’ve said it myself a time, or ten. I say it often actually. I do not like to be dependent, to ask for help. I do not like to need help. Yet by that very mindset I’m in direct contrast with what the King desires for me. He wants me to give my burden to Him, to come to Him. His Word says,

Cast your burden on the Lord, and he will sustain you;
he will never permit the righteous to be moved. Psalm 55:22

As we left our favorite place and I imagined my tired ol’ minivan having made friends with her upper class neighbors (perhaps she vowed to see them soon), her occupants were full and happy having spent time together. This Matriarch occupant was especially grateful for having remembered, in the King’s economy, it takes more resolve and strength to be dependent on Him than it does to do it all by myself, and in doing that, knowing He will sustain me.

In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6

“Mama, why does this box keep moving around your house?”

Over the course of a few days and visits to my Mama’s I had noticed the small wooden box in a couple of different places. A long while ago it was a candy box, one of the very few gifts my Grandmother (known to me as Mam-Maw and I to her as Mamie) had ever received. I knew the box well, its family lore made its way through generations of stories. Once one of my Aunts pitched a regular ol’ hissy fit because she wanted the box. My Mam-maw had very few things that actually belonged to her and while she would literally give away the shirt off her back to someone who needed it, she wouldn’t part with that box for the sake of a whiny child’s demands.

I always giggled at that one, partly because I know all I’d have really wanted was the long ago consumed candy it held more than the actual box. Upon my Mam-Maw’s passing, my Mama inherited the wooden box with a hinged top and fading decoupaged landscape scene. It measures no more than 6 inches wide by 18 inches long. It is no more than 4 inches deep. And it is not what one could refer to as a priceless heirloom. To be honest I hadn’t given it much thought until it started to move around her home.

She lives in a small bungalow type garden home. The first day I noticed it I had made a pit stop in her guest bath. It was sitting on the edge of the counter. I wondered if she were planning to incorporate it into her bath decor, maybe a new container to hold hand towels. I shrugged the thought off and gave it merely a momentary thought as I made my way out of the bathroom. A few days later, I was in the living room and noticed the candy box not-so-family-heirloom sitting on the coffee table. I had nearly forgotten the presumed hand towel holder and deduced she must have decided against that. Again a fleeting thought, again no more than a momentary notice. Its final resting place at the kitchen table was when I asked my Mama that question.

“Mama, why does this box keep moving around your house?”

She was standing at the stove, baking cookies. She does that. Bakes cookies. Her Grandchildren love it when she bakes cookies. They have an arrangement, she bakes the cookies; they eat them

She laughed as she placed the cookies on a rack to cool.

“Look inside it. There are some letters in there that are old. Mama wrote some and her mama too. Some of them are pretty funny.”

I grabbed my reading glasses, a warm cookie, and I settled down at the table to read. Opening that candy box was like opening a treasure trove for this vintage-world-loving, word oriented gal. She was right, some of them were hilarious. Some of then not-so-much. Those letters were a part of my history. As my Great Grandmother, Lillie penned them, I wondered if it ever crossed her mind that her Great Granddaughter would one day be reading them. As I gingerly unfolded and read those letters I was awestruck. Here in faded writing on tattered soft, hundred year old paper were words of mundane and everyday life, a time gone by and hardly remembered today. One of the letters commented on a bad haircut leaving an unfortunate teenage boy with the repercussions of a novice barber, dull scissors, and poor economics.

As I pieced together some long forgotten history I pondered on the art of letter writing and was reminded of one who wrote letters that I had just been studying. Paul wrote letters, many of them. His last letter prior to his execution at the hands of Nero was written to Timothy. I read 2 Timothy with a new perspective. Timothy was Paul’s mentee, protegé, and those words were the last ones Paul would share with Timothy. I suppose if I were writing a letter knowing it were my last one, I would chose the most important things to say to the reader. Paul, inspired by the Holy Spirit would have likely done just that.

My Great Grandmother Lille and my Great-Great Grandmother Bertie may have chosen to write about something else had they known a century later my eyes would be reading the only part of them that I would ever know.

God wants us to know Him and He penned a beautiful letter to us in the form of the Bible. A beautiful work that tells us His character, His will, His Grace and His love for us.
His word, like that little candy box is a treasure trove of words written centuries ago and unlike that candy box of letters, the Writer is just as real and alive as when the words were penned.

We have a standing rule in our house, when it is your birthday you get to choose the activities for the day. This past Birthday for the lone Male child yielded an unusual request, however in the context of Shelton it wasn’t so unusual.

I should probably preface with – prior to the request I had lost my keys, my purse, and was running half an hour behind for church. I hadn’t yet lost my cool but I was indeed perturbed

When the Birthday Boy asked to attend “big church” citing “We can make it there by the second service and we won’t be late.” I said yes. We made our way there and sent a text to Dad letting him know where we were and to our surprise he made it in time to take a saved seat just in time for the first song. As the Worship set progressed with words of reckless love and love unparalleled the song set shifted to an old hymn.

I sang it as if it hadn’t literally been decades since I had sung it. Standing next to my family in the tiny white church that I grew up and was married in, the lyrics came back to me with such clarity that I knew immediately what the next line was. I closed my eyes and immediately realized, deep within me those words resonated with me. I have always wondered why I refer to Jesus as “King.” He is my King and I adore Him but just never quite figured that out about myself. Yet there I was singing:

“Crown Him with many crowns, the lamb upon the throne.”

‘’He has been King to me a long time, and that must have been cemented in me when I was much younger and much shorter.

I realized in that moment with my Birthday Boy on one side and my Husband on the other, that for me, the Word of God which I quote to myself often had come full circle.

Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6 (ESV)

I often quote this verse to myself, to remind me to persevere in the training and raising of my own children. Yet, there in that moment the King let me see that declaration of His Kingship and royalty had never left me even in my old age. If anything, it had only grown deeper and been more solidified with time.

Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over. For by your standard of measure it will be measured to you in return. Luke 6:38

It was dark outside, the upcoming time change evident. It had been an excruciatingly long day. We were headed toward home, yet the to-do list loomed ahead. The questions from the back seat had begun to come with a regularity that accompanies uncertainty and hunger.

“Are we about to eat supper? We haven’t eaten supper yet.”
I decided to engage the source of the questions rather than attempting to dodge them.

“As soon as we get home we are going to have supper. Did you like your lunch today? The Chicken-salad wrap?”

“Yes ma’am! It was SO good!”

“I’m glad, I thought maybe I had added too much salt when I made it. I’m glad you liked it.”

“It was so good I didn’t even share it. I mean I did share part of my lunch but not that part.”

I was a tad concerned, whenever kids are involved, eating allergies are always in the forefront of my mind. “Um, who did you share your lunch with, and what did you share with them?”

“Nolan. We all shared our lunches with him. He only had a bag of chips and I gave him two rice Krispy treats and two goldfish packs – you know those are his favorite next to blue Doritos, Somebody gave him cookies, Oreos..and..I can’t remember what else but he said ‘thank you’ and he was ‘all full.’ ”

I giggled at that one. In my head I responded. “Full. After all that… I bet he was. That sounds like a Carb load for a giant about to run 26.2 miles”

As we meandered down the road another voice from the darkness of the backseat. The deep male voice spoke up.

“Well, Heath gave me one of his tacos. He said I could have it if I wanted. It was JUST like I like it too! A Taco-Bell one with the soft sides and only the meat and cheese! It was SO good! And I have been wanting one of those for a while”

I giggled again. In a completely different lunch room, at the same time one Martin was giving and one was receiving.

I was immediately reminded of the early church, the one in the book of Acts, Chapter 4:

There was not a needy person among them, for as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold, and laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need. (34-35)

Those Lunch Sharers and Receivers are studying the Book of Acts in Bible Study, and as they came together for most of their (admittedly) favorite part of the day, they literally lived it out. I giggled as I thought about the distribution of the gold-fish shaped crackers and a leftover Taco-Bell taco; how the distribution differed from the aforementioned Infant Church one, yet so very similar in genuineness and generosity that there was no one left hungry or wanting, because in the Spirit of the King and in the Spirit of sharing all were taken care of.

Those of us who are Christ Followers are called to “Not grow weary in doing good” (Galatians 6:9), and “To share bread with the hungry” (Isaiah 58:7). I believe that the King blesses us so that we may bless others. (Genesis 12:2)

There is an old adage that says something to the effect that children learn not what we say, but by what we do. I suppose in the instance of the Lunch Room that particular day, those children had learned by what they had seen and by what they had read.

Everyone, after he has been fully trained, will be like his teacher. Luke 6:40