Author: Amy Martin

Lover of my King... An ordinary woman who lives a comical and extraordinary life. Wife of Scott Martin, meteorologist Mama of Charlotte, who is compassionate and kind... Born very sick at 28 weeks, adopted out of foster care... Living proof that God still heals. Mom to Shelton, a unique and complex thinker... Evidence that God is the "Ultimate Promise Keeper." And Mommy to Maggie, who encompasses fragility and strength all at the same time... A daily reminder of God's grace, mercy, and unfailing love.

F.O.G.S.

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Sometimes my minivan looks like a trash dumpster threw up in it. Truly there will be stuff everywhere. My van will be full of random things like an empty drink bottle, one shoe, half of an eaten biscuit. I might find two bobby pins, an extra t-shirt, multiple scratched CDs, or one earring (I wouldn’t dare throw it away in hopes I might locate its long-lost mate that I haven’t seen in 3 months). There might be a candy bar wrapper or two, a partially drawn in notebook, a car phone charger, various specimen of wipes. The possibilities are endless. The times when my van gets this cluttered I’ll open the door and it’s like garbage dump Russian Roulette. Things just fall out, I have to scramble to pick them up before the wind carries them away or I become a self-proclaimed “litter bug.” Typically I toss them right back in, just so they can fall out and I can do the same thing all over again. It is a tiresome and endless cycle that is merely damage control. It never actually fixes the problem. Eventually my tolerance of the situation will expire and I clean the van out. I love riding in a clean van. It feels very much like I am going on vacation. I always clean the van before a road trip. It is an illusion of order I attempt to maintain.

My brain gets this way too. My van is just an illustration of what happens inside my head, full of stuff I’m holding onto or not sure what to do with and then one day,  Bam! it all starts to tumble out of my mouth. Words carelessly spoken, an overflow of what is going on inside my head. My decision and judgment get messed up, and before I know it I find myself in a bit of a predicament. I have to clean my proverbial brain van out.

Time and experience have taught me to work in a particular pattern.
Step 1: Motive
Step 2: Results
Step 3: Prevention

Step 1: Motive
What was my motive? Why did I choose to make the decision I chose to make? Anytime I operate in F.O.G.S. I can guarantee one thing. It ain’t gonna end well. F.O.G.S. is the short way, an acronym of sorts, for Fear, Obligation, Guilt, or Shame. I added the S a while back when I realized that shame is just as powerful and devastating a motive as its counterparts I’ve named. When either of these – fear, obligation, guilt, or shame – is the filter through which I make a decision, the end result is never good. If I can answer “yes” to any of those motives, I can stop right there and proceed to step 3. The end result of decision-making is always negative when I’ve been motivated by fear, obligation, guilt, or shame.

Step 2: Results
Did this pattern of behavior work? If not why? And why am I still doing it? I’ll be honest, when things go well I do not ask myself these questions. I do not evaluate the why behind the positive results, or at least not as often as I do when things go wrong. When things go wrong you can bet the first statement through my head is an interrogative thought. I need to know the rationale behind things. I tend not to be okay with “just because” or “it’s how it’s always been” or “that’s just how we do it” kind of mentality. I need to know why things are they way they are.

The “ham story” has long been one of my favorites. I heard it several years ago and I completely identified with it so it stuck.

cooking-eat-cut-food.jpgA young woman was preparing her first holiday ham when she abruptly lopped off the end of the ham, discarded the piece and placed the remaining ham in her baking pan. As she prepared to place it in the oven her husband said “Why did you just do that?”

She looked at him and said “That’s they way my Mom always does it.” Her husband pressed further and without a reasonable explanation to offer him, she called her mom. “Mom, why do you cut the end off the ham before you cook it?”

Her Mom responded with “Well, That’s they way my Mom always did it, so that is how I do it.” As the young woman and her mother discussed it, they decided to ask the matriarch, Grandmother, why she always cut the end off the ham prior to cooking, to which she matter-of-factly responded, because the pan I put it in was always too small for the whole ham to fit.”

Step 3 Prevention
How do I keep this from happening again? Begin with the filter of motive. Am I making my choice based on fear, obligation, guilt, or shame. I can say with absolute certainty that the dark place where these reside are places where wounds can run deep.

I adopted a filter system many years ago. In my imagination I visualize it like a series of bubbles with arrows, an algorithm that is followed. I first use the Jesus filter – “Is this decision in direct contradiction to God’s word?” If the answer is yes, I stop right there. Go no farther. If it makes it through the Jesus filter, it goes to the husband filter? “How does this impact my husband, what would he or does he have to say about it?” If the husband filter is cleared then it trickles down until I reach a sound decision.

I don’t always get it right, in fact a large majority of the time I get it wrong, or worse, I don’t get it at all. But that is the very thing for which Grace was intended. Jesus came so that the captives can be set free, the naked could be clothed, the sinner forgiven. He came so that we could have life, but not just life. In the day-to-day and the mundane, have a Life abundant, overflowing with joy. He came to contradict and overcome our F.O.G.S.

Being married to a meteorologist has afforded me some insight into the world of weather phenomena. Fog is a result of air being completely saturated with moisture; fog is merely clouds at ground level. When the cloud gets too heavy, weighed down by the burden of the moisture, it sinks thereby creating fog. When fog is exceptionally thick the air is supersaturated. The fog dissipates when the air begins to dry. This happens when the sun comes out and evaporates the moisture. The reduction in the moisture burden causes the cloud to lift and return to upward state it was intended to be in. Likewise, when the Son is present the burden of the fog is lifted and we are free to live in the state for which we were intended.

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When the Son is present the burden of the fog is lifted and we are free to live in the state for which we were intended.

Lessons From The Houdini Wienie

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We have a little wiener dog in our house. I’ve been told her breed name is dachshund but I have a hard time even saying dachshund much less spelling it, so a wiener dog she is. She can sing and say “I love you” but she is inconsistent and has to be in the mood to do so.

Two years ago, on Valentines Day, a give away, Craigslist, less than 5 pound, red satin bow around her neck, skinny red dachshund, became a part of our family. She was a good companion for our ol’ girl Lucy. All of a sudden the elderly, loner Lucy was forced into a daily exercise regimen, which included but wasn’t limited to squirrel chasing, bird harassing, dirt digging, and lizard and frog swatting. She was forced to run and play, her yard and porch no longer her sole possessions. The one time grazer Lucy was forced to complete and defend her daily dog food rations from the rambunctious, young, new comer. She even smiled more often. That little wiener pup added years to her life and life to her years. Two years to be exact.

8732679ce006bf1db00f83ca095d8b52-dachshunds-doggiesWhen the wiener came to the Martins she was named Harley. Such a manly macho biker name didn’t seem to quite fit her tiny, agile, red frame, so by way of blind vote proposed names like “Valentine,” “Miracle,” and “Little Angel” were passed over for “Pepperoni.” She is Pepperoni Sausage Dog. Pepper for short. Pep is short for Pepper and most days she’s just that, Pep.

Soon after she earned the nickname “Houdini Wienie” because she can escape from near anything with lightning speed. If not for her sparkly red cat collar (she would be furious if she knew she sported a mortal enemy cat collar so I dare not say it out loud) with a bell, we’d rarely be able to find her. She has a way of slipping into holes, maneuvering through tight spaces, and wedging herself into impossible situations. Scott Martin says this is typical weenie dog behavior.

It’s this masterful art that yielded me a new appreciation for her this morning and in doing so taught me a beautiful lesson. On Valentine’s Day of this year our beloved old gal Lucy died. Old age and years of good dog living caught up with her. Tears still fill my eyes when I think of that day. When I knew without a doubt that she was dying, I explained it to my children, the Martin 3, and watched them beg and plead for her to stay. How Shelton wept and wailed for his beloved friend who filled nearly every conscious memory he had. With Charlotte, quiet and sensitive, silent tears fell. Her only words were whispered in my ear that Lucy knew all her secrets and was a true and trusted friend. Maggie held Pepper tight. It was Pep’s behavior and whining which served as my confirmation that Lucy did not have long for this world.

My Mama says all the time there are things dogs just know. It was as if Lucy knew her job of training Pep to be a Martin was complete and she could peacefully depart. Despite the desperate pleas of her 13-year-old boy, depart she did, leaving the lone little Wiener to fill the gap. Since her departure I’ve come to some conclusions, loss and heartache seem to be the baseline lately, tears are a frequent occurrence. I’ve found myself thinking how stupid it is to cry over a dog, then the left brain kicks in and concludes the tears aren’t just over a dog. They are tears of grief. Grief over loved ones gone, childhoods morphing into adulthood, grief over circumstances and people not within my reach. Tears of cleansing and release. Tears of sadness and joy all rolled up into one.

This morning Pepper “Houdinied” her way into our bedroom while Scott and I were still in bed. He was sound asleep; me, not so much. The jingle of her cat bell, the only 23133796765_f1c7aa9828_bindicator of her presence. She quickly and carefully made her way up onto our bed and nudged Scott Martin with her cool, wet nose prompting him to roll over and give her the space and warmth she was looking for. I marveled at how something so small and weak could move something so big and strong. She was a mere 3 pounds, he weighs slightly a bit more than that. Scott barely missed a snooze when he yielded to her nudge. He rolled over effortlessly and she took her place beside him. I must admit I was in awe, I’ve tried all manner of techniques to facilitate such a roll over, I’m rarely as successful. Perhaps next time I’ll implement the cold, wet, nose trick.

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Lesson learned: God is big. I am small. I am but a small a part of His big plan, yet despite that, He moves on my behalf. In the days of late I’ve been talking to Him about how He moves. Maybe not how so much as why, or how it would seem at times, not at all. He is bigger and He sees the whole picture. I am but a finite part of that. Once I asked a friend out of desperation “But what if he doesn’t?! What if He doesn’t do what I’m asking Him to and spare her life?!”

I was well beyond the bargaining stage and was convinced that my prayers would go unanswered. My dear friend, calmly and simply said, “Well then you have to trust that He is saving HER from something worse than death.”

I have never doubted that in that moment she was speaking for Jesus directly to my ears. Giving me an answer He knew I’d need to recall time and time again. He knew when I asked Him why or how or why not, that I’d be transported back to that table seated across from my friend in Cracker Barrel.

292200695548_1Even now I am transported to that window facing table, the one under the yellow bathing suit, cola girl advertisement. When my thoughts take me there I am always reminded that He does move. He loves His children, and often when He moves, it is an act of mercy. In His mercy, He sees the end from the beginning and can be trusted to do what is merciful and right and always what is best. Isaiah 55:9 says “For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” His ways aren’t just better, they are best.

 

God’s ways aren’t just better, they are best.

Wheel of Faith

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Supper was finished… The kids had completed their dinner chores and scattered. Our conversation was light, the kind of good natured banter that Husband and Wife often share. We had been discussing the recent bad string of movies I’d chosen and brought home from the library for our date night viewing pleasure.

“That last one was awful Babe.”

He was right, the light-hearted romantic comedy, was in fact none of those things. No light heartedness, not very funny and the acting was subpar. I was quite glad I had not wasted a dollar-seventy-five rental fee; relief that I hadn’t washed over me.

“Yeah I know. It was really bad. I’m glad it was free though.”

I had nearly finished loading the dishwasher when I was forced to make another, more profound acknowledgement. The confession had come secondary to a familiar scenario that had just played out between us. He coughed and cleared his throat. I began to quiz him. Meanwhile, as he spoke I paused the dishes duties to assess him. In a move that resembled “Baymax” from Big Hero 6, I scanned systematically, beginning at the top of his head and making my way down to his tennis shoe covered feet. No overt physical findings detected.

Depending on who you ask I may or may not have begun asking irrational questions. Questions like, “How long have you been coughing?”

His response, “Uh, once.”

The interrogation continued… I wanted to know not only the frequency, but also the quality of the cough in question. As is customary his cooperation eventually gave way to annoyance and he put an end to my line of questioning. His tone of voice changed and he said, “Amy stop. I’m fine, I had to clear my throat. Good Grief.”

I apologized for my irrational behavior, quickness to jump to unmerited conclusions, and relentless interrogation tactics. He quickly offered his forgiveness.

As I placed the last of the forks into the basket, I said “You know I always think the worst.”

He gently, yet matter-of-factly said “Yes, you do. I think that’s partly why you struggle with faith.”

He didn’t have to elaborate, I knew what he meant. We’ve often discussed the fact that I struggle when it comes to matters of faith. Areas where I am to trust God for the seemingly impossible. Believing in faith is by far one of my biggest struggles. I wrestle daily with this one, and I am often left unsettled because I know that without faith, it is impossible to please God (Hebrews 11:6).

My man does not struggle in this area nearly as much as I do. In His infinite wisdom and grace, the King gave me a husband that has a tremendous amount of faith, and lives a life evidenced by it. He is a man that can be described as a “man of faith.”

I’ve often thought that if there were a chapter in his book written about his faith, it could boast all of the following headings… “Faith Big enough to Be on the Wheel of Fortune, Play it, and Win the Exact Amount of Cash Needed to Pay for an Adoption…” or maybe “Faith Lived Out by Throwing Caution to the Wind and Fulfilling The Meteorologist Dream…” or “Slow and Meticulous Ain’t the Same as Big and Dumb…” perhaps “He Can Do Almost Anything…” or maybe this summation “Follows Directions Well”.

It has been said that what you are thinking today will be who you are tomorrow. What my man of few, but profound, words was saying to me as I finished loading the dishwasher was that I tend to think the worst. I brace myself in preparation for the worst, even when the worst is in direct contradiction to God’s word.

God’s Word tells me over and over that He loves me, He is for me, He can be trusted. He gave His very Life for me. There is truly no greater love than that. Faith is simply believing that God will do what He has already promised He will do. Perhaps for me, the secret to faith lies in my thinking. If I believe God… If I trust Him… Then the product of that is the faith I’ve longed for. Perhaps if I change my thinking from the worst to the best, then that is the first step necessary to prepare me for the great things God has in store.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible. And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him. Hebrews 11:1,3,6

They Were Sheep Without A Shepherd

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Scott Martin produces and publishes a daily forecast for a popular weather blog. My favorite part of his forecast is “This Day in Weather History.” I like History, I do not so much like the weather, nor do I prefer a lot of information pertaining to it. I am the odd-woman out in our house. I am the only member sans a radar app or warning type apparatus thingy on my phone. A suspender exposed James Spann does not give me cause for panic. As my husband publishes his “Midday,” he rarely brings to my attention the details of the forecast that are not of interest to me.

So one afternoon when I heard his exclamation of “Oh Wow!” It gave me cause to pause.

Me: “What Wow?”

Scott: “On this day is 1918 there were 504 sheep killed by a single lightning strike in Utah.”

Me: “Weird.”

Scott: “A herd of Sheep gather closely together in a storm and the shock from the single bolt traveled from one to the other.”

SONY DSCThen I began to ponder on that one. If I’m honest I’ll admit I’m still pondering. As a devoted sheep my initial thought, “Where was the shepherd?” Common sense would dictate that the shepherd was likely seeking shelter. Perhaps he had the influenza… After all, 1918 was the year of the terrible influenza outbreak that claimed so many lives. It was known as the Spanish Lady and it ravaged the bodies of the young and healthy. The world had never seen a pandemic of such epic proportions. Maybe the shepherd had been drafted into the First World War. Another pandemic that claimed the lives and ravaged the bodies of the young and healthy. Maybe he was close by and like any other human in his situation, was powerless against the force of nature that still can not be tamed.

I then had the realization that the closeness of the herd is what allowed the electricity to travel from one to another. They were one mass and not several individual sheep standing exposed in the storm. While I’m sad for the Sheep of 1918, their death 99 years ago serves as a lesson for me. My Shepherd will never leave me. His Word dictates His thoughts regarding Sheep with no Shepherd, Matthew 9:36 says, “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”

My life storms, pestilence, even war and death do not drive Him away. In fact, during those times He is right beside me. He is filled with compassion. My Shepherd pulls me close and offers me protection. He does indeed have power over the forces nature, and as my quiet time this morning reminded me, He is not bound by the laws of physics, gravity, space, and time. All are irrelevant when He is involved. Like the long dead sheep of 1918, His herd is to behave as one. The Shepherd likes it when we stay together, huddle close in the storm. When one of us grieves, we all grieve. When one of is struck, we are all struck. Not all this divisiveness and hostility. All the Sheep unified in obedience to the Shepherd.

I wonder how different our world would be if we would act just so.

“Walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to the one hope that belongs to your call — one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all” Ephesians 4:1-6.

His Love is More

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“It’s a fig tree.”

As nonchalantly as “the sky is blue” or “I love Minecraft.”

“It’s a fig tree.”

She was a few steps ahead of me, I watched as she rubbed her hands over the leaf and looked behind her to see if I was paying attention. I recognized the gnarly branches and distinct leaf shape immediately. I quizzed her, “How do you know?”

My oldest daughter, Charlotte looked at me and matter-of-factly said, “I can smell it.”

fig-sliced-plate-wooden-tableThe fig tree makes me always think of two things… cookies and the King. I love a Fig Newton, but I don’t love a fig. In my mind, the fig is the King’s fruit, well, sort of. The first Mom and Dad of this world covered themselves with fig leaves after they felt shame for the first time. A feeling that has been palpable through the ages. Shame compels those who are covered by it to make clouded choices and feel the lowest of lows.

It wasn’t until about 9 years ago that I conjectured that the fruit in the garden was a fig. After all why in the world would such an unruly and itchy choice be what one would choose to cover his or her lady or gentleman parts with? I reasoned simply, it was the closest option. Later the King cursed that same fruitless tree, it withered and died, almost as if He were demonstrating His feelings toward the tree that represented sin and death. The very thing that He was soon going to overcome. Perhaps not. Perhaps it is just an unfortunate specimen of botany and I have a bit too big an imagination to leave it as such.

Regardless, as my daughter stated the undeniable fact of the fig trees presence, I pondered what sin and death meant for my oldest, the first of my children, not born of my body, but of something much stronger, my soul. I pondered how sin and death were the very thing that brought her to me. newborn in incubatorBorn way too early and in poor health, she had to fight for her very life. A death sentence at birth was proclaimed over her before she could even contemplate the significance.

Jesus healed her, and she too overcame death. She understands as much as it is possible for a teenage girl to understand. I’ve often said she has an old soul… She is slow and deliberate. She loves a soup, classic rock, and frowns upon the frivolous. Perhaps it is because in the short years she has lived, she has a better grasp on the fragility of life, the beautiful things of this world, and has experienced the healing power and the love of a Savior that many adults do not.

There was a time when I questioned Jesus regarding His plan for her. I wondered why He had scanned the world over and picked me to be her Mama. He gave me her verse when she was desperately sick, and her future seemed unclear. His Word simply stated, He had plans for her, plans to protect her, plans for good, plans for her future, plans filled with Hope. (Jeremiah 29:11)

He has confirmed time and time again that He trusts me, He has equipped me fully, and that He loves her more than I ever could. That fact right there blows my mind. Thankfully, the truth of that is not contingent on me understanding it. His love is immeasurably more. His love is more than my sin and mess ups. His love is more than my insecurities, inadequacies, and anxieties. His love is more than I was, I am, or I am going to be.

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