love

…because it’s not all about making Merry

/ Dora Hiers

And it’s not about brightly wrapped packages nestled under a beautiful tree, branches brimming with pine cones and ornaments, with twinkling lights and strings of popcorn and cranberries. 

It’s not about that last minute frantic trip to the mall, fighting crowds and snarling traffic, to search for the perfect gift for the family member who has everything. It’s not about the promise of presents for kids who behave, delivered on a sleigh pulled by magical reindeer, by a rotund, jolly old man with a snow white beard and draped in a bright red suit. 

It’s not even about beloved family gathered around a long table packed with hams and turkeys and enough pies that an entire army could eat for a week.

No. 

It’s not all about making Merry.

Christmas…is about a baby born in a musty stable and wrapped in swaddling clothes. It’s about heaven’s best, God-man, coming down to mingle among sin, smelly animals  and poop. To show each of us what love really looks like.

Christmas is about hope. It’s about Jesus. It’s about a perfect love that rights all wrongs, about a love that knows no bounds, a love that gives and never ends.

Christmas…because it’s not all about making Merry.

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. 1 John 4:7-11 NIV

Still wallowing in the past?

/ Dora Hiers / 4 Comments




I was in my early twenties when my previous marriage failed. 

After living by the rules and being a “good girl” my entire life, I rebelled.
Against marriage. Rules. Men.
Life in general.
I drifted far from God, angry with Him for allowing my marriage to fall apart.
It wasn’t until I met my true soul mate five years later that I realized God hadn’t left me.
I’d abandoned Him.


The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.
He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever;

he does not treat us as our sins deserve or repay us according to our iniquities.

For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him;

as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us. (Psalms 103:8-12 NIV)

Aren’t you glad that God doesn’t hold grudges?

That He doesn’t list conditions for forgiveness or withhold His love
until we meet certain requirements?

Even before we ask, He’s removed our sins so far away
that we’ll never meet up with them again.

Forgiveness. Amazing Grace.
It’s unconditional. No strings attached.
You haven’t done anything that He can’t or won’t forgive.

He says He will. Isn’t that enough?

I’ve surrendered my past to God. Have you? 
Where are you in your journey?

Anybody try painting an entire house during allergy season?

/ Dora Hiers

OK. OK. So I know that’s not the smartest thing to do. My sore throat, watery eyes, and coughing attests to that. A visit to the doctor will have to wait.

Before
When my 27-year-old son and his wife bought their first house, a short-sale, and needed help painting, how could I say no?
“You know I love you, John.” My legs dangled from the top of the kitchen pantry. Yeah, that’s right. The top. You can’t see the pantry from this picture, but it’s to the left of the cabinets. And no, you can’t see the ceiling, either. What is it, twenty feet high? And why didn’t my son take a picture of me for posterity? Just in case I fell.
I repositioned the clip holding my long hair. I’d already made one trip to the hairdresser to cut paint out of my hair. I didn’t need to spend money for another haircut so soon. Or endure my hairdresser’s snickers.
“Huh?” The rolling stopped. Wide brown eyes stared at me from ground level. What did he think I was going to say? That I was dying?

“Not everybody could drag me away from my writing to paint a house.” I sneezed. Coughed. Dragged a kleenex out of my pocket to wipe my nose. “Or climb a ladder this high. Only special sons. Keep rolling.”
Those brown eyes softened in a grin. “Yeah?” He picked up the twenty-foot extension roller. Started back on the living room walls.
“That’s right. You’re special. But you’re going to owe me. Big time.” I finished trimming and moved back to the ladder, my legs and arms shaking. 

I had to do this. Nobody else in the family could trim as well as I could. Well, actually, nobody else wanted to trim. Especially the open space above the kitchen cabinets.

“Wait, mom.” John dropped the roller in the tray and took giant steps in my direction.

Wait? For what? I had work to do and not enough time to get it done. I continued climbing down, balancing the almost dry paint pan, a paint brush, and a roller in one hand, the ladder rung with the other. And got as far as the kitchen counter. I lost my balance, and my rump landed on the counter with a thud. But I managed to keep everything in my hand. Except the ladder rung.

After

“Ohh.” I couldn’t begin to tell you everything that hurt.

“Mom, I said to wait.” John stood in front of me, exasperation and concern warring on his face as he took brush, pan, and roller from my hand.
When did my son grow up? Become so mature? So wise? I’d waited so long, I didn’t notice it happened right in front of my face.   
No. Painting in the midst of allergy season is not wise, but I can’t say there’s ever a good time to paint.
Except when your son needs you.