My Healer

I am still kind of in a haze. This weekend at church, we had amazing services focusing on Jehovah Rophe - Jesus is my healer. It's been a while since I was in a service like that - so moving. As we prayed for healing for people at the end of service, because I was standing on stage, I got the rare privilege of seeing their faces as they were being prayed for. I saw people weeping and broken. I saw parents running to get their kids out of the nursery so that they could be prayed for. At that moment, I thought to myself, "This is what Jesus was all about." If you look at his entire ministry - it was reaching out to people at the point of their suffering. Touching those who were vulnerable with pain and loss. I would say that when we are praying for the sick and broken, we are closer to the mission and heart of Jesus than any other time.

All week, Jeff and I had been praying for the services. We both were so expectant and filled with faith that God wanted to do miraculous things in the hearts and bodies of people in our church. Then - as you all know! - Nancy shared so eloquently on the woman with the issue of blood last Tuesday at Bible Study. She talked about how the woman probably had anemia, no energy, and was risking so much by pushing her way through the crowd to touch Jesus. I pondered her story all week long - picturing a frail woman, at the end of hope, years of pain and suffering etched onto her weary face - laying her hand on Jesus, knowing that He was in fact God incarnate.

There weren't many people at that time who believed that Jesus was the Messiah. But she knew. I heard an interesting thing about this story. In the Old Testament, there is a reference to the Messiah - the one that God was going to send to save his people. In that prophecy, found in Malachi 4:2, it says, that "But for you who fear my name, the Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings. And you will go free, leaping with joy like calves let out to pasture."

In those days, the fringe in the bottom of their robes was actually called the "wings" of the robe. In Mark, when this sickly woman was trying to get to Jesus, it says "She had heard about Jesus, so she came up behind him through the crowd and touched the fringe of his robe. For she thought to herself, "If I can just touch his clothing, I will be healed."

She knew that because he was the Messiah, there would be "healing in his wings." Amazing faith! Not only did she have the determination to push through the crowd. This woman believed in Jesus. She knew the scriptures. She knew that He was indeed the promised one.

When Jesus replied to her, he said, "Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace. You have been healed." I think the faith that Jesus was referring to was not only her belief that she could be healed, but the faith she had that HE was the one who could heal her. He was moved by her recognition of who He was.

I realize so often I am scared to pray for the sick. I don't know how and why God choses to heal some and not others. But I am inspired by this story. It wasn't about mustering up enough faith in the healing itself, it was about recognizing who the Healer was and reaching out to him.

This weekend, I was moved that so many people were reaching their hands out to touch the "wings" of Jesus. They were saying, 'I believe that YOU are my healer." "I believe that YOU are all I need to be free and whole."

Beautiful.

Gym Schwym

Yes. I have a membership to Lifetime Fitness. No. I never go there. I WANT to go there. But, alas, I never quite seem to make it happen.

I've tried going early in the morning, but my babe still isn't sleeping through the night, so I'm really not willing to sacrifice any fleeting amount of shut-eye that I might get. I've tried going at night, but I'm so tired by the time I get the kids to bed, that going to the gym is the LAST thing I want to do. In fact, I want to do the exact opposite of going to the gym - sit on the couch, watch TV, and eat potato chips and ice cream.

I've had a bit of guilt about this. Jeff has been working out a lot (until he messed up his foot) and the pressure is on to keep up. He keeps buffing up and pretty soon people are going to be looking at me saying, "Who's the jiggly girl with that ripped guy?" I actually had that thought one day when we were picking Charlie up from school. I was dressed in my out-of-date sweat pants and my hair was nasty and I had on white sneakers and no make up. My handsome hubby, on the other hand, had on cool ripped jeans, hair perfectly messy, and cool "Brad Pitt" aviator sunglasses. I seriously had the thought, "I bet everyone thinks I'm Jeff's mom."

Anyway, back to my original thought. Today, I had an epiphanal moment. I woke up this morning and walked my kids to school - pushing the stroller with about 40 pounds of kid in it and wrasseling my unruly beagle all the way up the HUGE hill to the school. Then I came home and carried four huge baskets of clean laundry that each had to have weighed at least 15 pounds up the stairs followed by carrying down the four baskets of dirty clothes that had accumulated over the weekend. Then I chased Betty around the street in her Barbie Jeep for about 45 minutes after I had ridden my bike down the street to pick her up from a friends house and towed her back in the Burley.

And then I mowed the lawn (because my ripped husband still can't walk.) This literally almost killed me. Half way through the back yard, I just stopped and laid down right in the grass next to the mower. It took me a while to get back up. (My husband doesn't believe in self-propelled mowers - which is his perogative since he always mows the lawn. But today, his stubborn refusal to make life easier for himself just it about did me in.)

Then I ran to the mall to get some flip flops for the girls since my unruly beagle has eaten all the flip flops in the house. I had to carry Betty in one arm all thorough the mall because she was weepy and tired while pushing the baby in the stroller with my other arm.

My point, fine readers, is that my day was enough of a workout - that I am no longer going to feel guilty about not getting to the gym. I'm sure, someday, I will be able to be on the cool elliptical machine with my i pod on and monitor my heart rate and keep track of the amount of calories I'm burning. Or go to the pilates class or work with a personal trainer who can design a custom plan to shrink my child bearing hips. But for now, I'm just going to be ok with my everyday exercise regimen...called MOM.

The Yellow Stool

I have a new favorite breakfast. Not the healthiest breakfast, mind you, but a fun one for the occasional weekend fare. Peanut Butter Pancakes with chocolate chips in them. YUM! I just make regular pancake batter and then heat up about a cup of peanut butter to thin it out a bit and add it and the chocolate chips to the mix. (I do have to set aside a bit of batter to make Jeff regular pancakes. He's not so big on the sweet stuff. He loves to snack on fruit for something sweet. Really.)

So, my girls were helping me out this morning. I'm a big fan of cooking with your kids. Yes, it takes twice as long. Yes, it's twice as messy. And yes, it is twice as stressful and trying on your patience. But it nevertheless is a Kerr family favorite activity.

It's so meaningful for me to cook with my kids, because I learned to cook with both of my grandmothers. I still can't make a pumpkin pie without mixing it by hand in a big plastic bowl just like my Grandma did. It just doesn't seem right to do it any other way. Both my Grandmas had one of those old fashioned vinyl stools that you can fold up the seat and it becomes a stepping stool. I would drag the stool across the kitchen and pull it up to the counter and watch them make homemade bread, or noodles, or cookies or whatever. What great memories!

Not only did they pass on a really handy skill (for I do a bit of cooking for these six hungry mouths in my charge!) but it was a wonderful time of connecting and spending quality time with these incredible women. We would chat about what was going on in my life. They would tell me stories about cooking with their mothers and grandmothers. It was in those sweet moments that their strength and character was woven into my heart and mind. I'm so thankful they took the time to let me cook with them.

So, a couple of years ago I came across a yellow vinyl stool at a flea market just like the ones my Grandmothers had and I snatched it up. Now, my kids drag the stool across the kitchen and pull it up to the counter and we cook and chat. I hope that the lessons I learned from my Grandmas are being infused into my sweet children too.