Posted on by Lois Stephens

The Story

“All of these lines across my face, tell you the story of who I am …”

The song lyrics linger with a reluctance to leave the divine divide between conscious and nonconscious thought.  By now I recognize that this is just one more way that God speaks to me: through music and lyric and poetry and prose.  I ask for understanding and patiently wait.  Selah – a Hebrew word used in the Psalms meaning to stop, pause and reflect. 

It makes no difference to me that the song would never be sung in a religious setting.  Some of my greatest prophetic inspiration has come from music not written for the church. God speaks in a multitude of ways, if we but choose to be open and listen.

Leaving some of the lyrics here … to linger a while. Selah.

The Story
Words and music by Phillip John Hanseroth

All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true, I was made for you ...

You see the smile that's on my mouth
It's hiding the words that don't come out
And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed
They don't know my head is a mess
No, they don't know who I really am
And they don't know what
I've been through like you do
And I was made for you ...

Love & Peace,

My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all are written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.”  Psalm 139:15-16.

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Posted on by Lois Stephens

Table of Trust

The LORD speaks, “I prepare a table before you in the presence of your enemies”.  So, I pull out a chair and take a seat at the table.  I mean, what else can I do?  And I eat.

* * * * * * *

In 1888, the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote, “Out of life’s school of war—what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”  This aphorism has been quoted, paraphrased, and parodied by people throughout the world since.

Yet 2,000 years before, a young shepherd boy and giant killer, who will later become King of Israel, said it this way: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies”, delivered as a poetic praise to G-d.

The symbolic table of trust—an inexpressible mystery that transcends my limited understanding. My enemies become bread at the table of trust. I eat the mystery, no matter how difficult to swallow. And I am stronger because of it.

Love & Peace,

Author’s note: When I refer to “enemies” I am not referring to people, but the enemies of my soul. I understand all too well, that at times, my greatest enemy is myself.


“We Have Met the Enemy and He is Us.”

Walt Kelly

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Holding Hands With Strangers

Driving along the rim of wild, navigating a backcountry road in Maine, I embrace the solitary.  Content in the fellow-less firmament, holding hands with nature, I enjoy an awareness of simply being.  Until …

A stranger walking the road ahead.  Who is she?  Why is she here?  And the biggest question of all … do I stop to ask if she needs help?  Fear would say no, but a greater faith speaks. 

“Hello there. Are you okay? Would you like a ride?”

“A ride would be much appreciated.“

By the rim of the wild, I could not turn away from the tears in her eyes, so I left my fellow-less firmament to hold hands with a stranger that day.

“What’s your name?” (it seems the right thing to ask).

“Amy”, she replies (a name I know means beloved and dearly loved).

She tells me her story:  a broken-down vehicle, miles to hike to her wilderness camp, eight passerby and not one willing to stop.  A sad lament of rejection, loneliness and fallen faith in her fellow man; I cringe. 

I silently entreat the light of God’s love to shine upon The Beloved’s discouraged heart, as we drive the distance to her rustic camp and deliver her safely at tent’s door.

Days later, in a serendipitous moment, we meet once again at the local town store. 

“It’s you!  I was just telling my family about the kindness you showed me.”

Amy the Beloved’s face shines with renewed faith and hope in her fellow man because of one small act of kindness.

Something happened that day in the wild, when I did not turn from the tears of another but made the decision to hold hands with a stranger. 

Could it be that holding hands with nature, in the wrap-around presence of the loving Creator God, brings an awareness of a deeper spiritual connection we have with all of God’s creation? An awareness that empowers me to hold hands with strangers?

Holding hands with strangers is rarely comfortable, especially for an introvert like me. Yet I have to believe that the reward for doing so is exceedingly great.

Love & Peace,

I think we need to do some deep soul searching about what’s important in our lives and renew our spirit and our spiritual thinking, whether it’s through faith-based religion or just through loving nature or helping your fellowman.

Louie Schwartzberg

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

The Holy Bible

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Posted on by Lois Stephens · 7 Comments

A Lonesome Journey of the Heart

Man Siting on Log in Center of Forest Panoramic Photo

A walk in the wood.  A rustic log bench.  An invitation to take a seat upon nature’s pew, so I do. 

The memory comes out of nowhere—and everywhere—at the same time.  I’ve experienced it before, and acquiesce to the process.  

The church pew feels hard and sticky against the back of her bare legs.  The man up front is talking … a lot.  He says that God gets angry when we do bad things. 

The girl squirms.  She wants desperately to pop her thumb into her mouth, to soothe herself from the uncomfortableness of it all, but the shame she’d feel if the others knew she still sucks her thumb keeps her tiny hand balled tightly against her side.  

And besides, she doesn’t want God to get angry with her for doing “the bad thing”.

So instead, she wiggles next to her father and hides her face in the scratchy tweed of his Sunday-best.  In the hidden place, she breathes in and sighs, or maybe it’s a yawn, or maybe a little of both.

Without a word between them, and as nimble-fingered as a stealthy pickpocket, her father quickly reaches into an inside pocket, silently unwraps the lolly and pops it into her mouth. 

The memory lingers softly.  There’s nothing sweeter and more satisfying than the taste of a father’s love. 

My father was far from perfect, but he was kind.  He rarely, if ever, raised his voice and never his hand.  I did not doubt his love for me—ever.  He helped form my view of God as a father in a positive way.  For this I am grateful.

I realize others have a different story.  Raised voices and heavy hands fill their memories.  They weren’t loved in a healthy way.  (I don’t pretend to understand.)  Because of their experience, they may have a difficult time relating to God as father.  For this I am sorry. 

However, the essence of fatherhood springs from God, not man.  The behaviors of our earthly fathers, no matter how good or bad, are not the standards by which God’s love can be measured. 

God’s love transcends the borders of my life experiences into a wild wilderness I am longing to brave.  It takes courage to go at it alone—a lonesome transformative journey of the heart that I’ll be navigating the rest of my life. 

The first step is always the hardest, but the journey will take your breath away.

Love & Peace.

“Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed upon us, that we should be called the children of God!” 1 John 3:1-3 NKJ

Posted on by Lois Stephens · 4 Comments

From Womb to Tomb

Looking up from mopping the floor, I see my first-born at the door.  Innocent child hands pressed close to the heart.  Compassion tears pool at the brim of her lashes.  I wonder what could be wrong.

Brows wrinkle, eyes squint; I look hard at the little brown fluff laying between hands and heart … and gasp.  To my complete and utter horror, the little brown fluff is nothing more than a dead field mouse.

“Oh My God!  Put that thing down—it’s dirty!” I shriek. 

My solemn little girl says not a word (she knows me well by now), but only turns on her heels and out she goes with a bang of the wooden screen door.

I lean hard into the mop.  The spotless floor shines casting dark shadows across my mind.  When out of the shadows Wisdom speaks:

It seems to me of great importance to teach children respect for life.

And wouldn’t respect for life include both honoring its sacred beginning as well as its sacred end?    

I drop the mop and run to the light—to the kitchen window of my soul.  And through the pane, on bended knee with garden hose in hand, she carefully washes the “dirt” away from the little brown fluff she found. 

In the moment, I am led by a child into greater heights of compassion and understanding.

Life — from the very moment it begins to its very last breath — is the pinnacle of God’s creative imagination and power. The sanctity of life, from womb to tomb, transcends all political rhetoric of our day.

Love & Peace,

“… And a little child shall lead them.”  Isaiah 11:6

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Form Follows Function

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Our choicest plans have fallen through, our airiest castles tumbled over, because of lines we neatly drew and later neatly stumbled over.

Piet Hein, poet and scientist

Our daughter has followed the path of her God-formed interior design into a career in interior design.  “Form follows function”, Amanda says, “always.”…“The way a space looks is not as important as how the space functions.”  Her words throw light; I am intrigued, HGTV- binger me.

Form follows function… yet, how often do I do just the opposite—elevating outward form at the cost of diminishing function? Form-chasing.  Neatly drawn lines that look good but later cause me to stumble for lack of the more important heart-function.

Could it be that my function in life is what is most important—not the form it takes?  Form follows function… if true, wouldn’t the God-created interior design of heart-function be what matters most?

In a moment of clarity, mind-eye opens. Forms are designed to change; we are movable designs, fluid, ever-changing with the ever-changing seasons of life.  Function remains constant, foremost; the unique heart-function design within each of us—a design first rendered in the heart of the Master Designer Himself.

We begin living the words, form follows function… elevating our inward heart-function above outward form; the becoming, more important than the doing.  And life’s airiest castles tumble; the lines we neatly drew now gone.  And we find ourselves living, moving and breathing the words, “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom”.

Love & Peace,

“Make mistakes, take chances, be silly, be imperfect, trust yourself and follow your heart.” Anonymous

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No Regrets

Eyes wide open.  A rude, unnatural awakening.  A bad fall, not out of sleep but into wakefulness. 

Mind racing desperately to grab hold of the finely-woven dream threads now quickly unraveling.  Please God, help me remember. 

A thin thread of a man’s voice reading a book, a really good book, a best-seller-kind of book.  A familiar voice, one similar to the voice of my own thoughts, yet not my thoughts, now gone.  Completely forgotten.

I remember only one thing … I am the protagonist of the forgotten book.

**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****

Later, as I ponder this nighttime parable, I’m reminded of Lucy in the Chronicles of Narnia.  Lucy reads a magic book and soon discovers that the right-hand pages, could be turned; the left-hand pages could not.  As much as Lucy tried, she could not remember all the wonderful things she had read, and she could not turn back the pages of the book to read it again.

When Aslan, the great Lion King of Narnia and the son of the great Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea appears, Lucy asks him,

“Shall I ever be able to read that story again; the one I couldn’t remember?  Will you tell it to me, Aslan?  Oh do, do, do,”

“Indeed, yes, I will tell it to you for years and years.”

Like Aslan, the great Lion King (the God-character in the storybook), there is One Above (or should I rather say within) who is the author of my life book.  One who has been telling me my story for years and years. 

As long as I have breath, I live page by page, unable to go back for there is no use in that.  I’m speaking of the regrets, the whys and the what-ifs.  For as Aslan explains, no one is ever told what would have happened.

So, I’m learning to live a life of no regrets. It takes trust, it takes faith, it takes loving myself. And that kind of love comes only from the Author of my book, who will be telling it to me for years and years.

I may never know what a different ending holds, and even if I did, it may not be what I expect, which is why it’s best I get rid of all regret.

Lois Stephens

Love & Peace,

“… looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, …”. Hebrews 12:2

Posted on by Lois Stephens

Nests In Your Hair

My brothers and me, we got trust issues.  Here I am, my 6-year-old gullible self, once more the target of their good-natured, little-sister teasing.

A warm summer evening; the sound of the brothers laughing.  I go outside to investigate.  Big mistake.

The brothers are shooting bats.  Yes, bats—with BB guns.  Saturday night entertainment and I find myself the star of the show.

“Watch out!  Bats love to fly into little girls’ hair!” Brother 1 yells.

“What?!” My heart begins to race.

“Yeah,” Brother 2 joins in, “They’ll fly into your ratty hair and make a dirty old nest!”

“What?!!” My hand instinctively reaches up to my tangled, uncombed head.

“Duck!” screams Brother 3, and I hit the ground hard. 

To this day, I hate bats.  I know they are God’s creatures and all, but I still hate bats.

»»————-　♡　————-««

I re-read the words of Martin Luther,

“You cannot keep birds from flying over your head but you can keep them from building a nest in your hair.” 

I’m reminded of the bats. 

But, it’s not about bats or birds or any such thing.  It’s about negative thoughts. Fearful thoughts.  Lying thoughts that cause me to hit the ground hard.

I can’t always prevent a negative thought from entering my mind, but I don’t have to allow it to build a nest in my hair.  I have the power to choose what I believe and what I allow in my mind.  And that’s a powerful thought.

So when a negative thought flies over head, I count backwards from five.  Five, Four, Three, Two, One … and I shoot. Sometimes more than once, but eventually, the thought hits the ground hard, not me.

Love & Peace,

“… and we take captive every thought …” 2 Corinthians 10:5

Posted on by Lois Stephens · 4 Comments

See No Boundaries

The Pioneer Woman

There stands a statute in Ponca City, Oklahoma, of a Pioneer Woman with a young boy by her side.  Artfully cast in tons of bronze, standing 17 feet tall beneath the Oklahoma sky. 

She wears a bonnet upon her head and hidden within the brim, the words, “I see no boundaries”. A lasting tribute to those courageous women–the women homesteaders of the American West.

Imagination captured. Inspiration ascends. Yes, I am the pioneer woman! Pioneering through wilderness wanderings to crossing and conquering in unchartered lands of promise. 

Yet I am also the young boy, grabbing hold of the Pioneering Spirit. Led hand-in-hand towards my inheritance as a son.

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are the sons of God.

And for a brief moment … no windows or doors, ceilings or floors. I see no boundaries. Only God.

In wide open spaces, in untamed places. It’s where I’m staking my claim.

Love & Peace,

The 1862 Homesteading Act guaranteed free farmland to heads of households with the stipulation that the applicant must stay on the land for five years and make noticeable improvements to the land before the deed was awarded. Women who were single, widowed, or divorced were eligible to apply for land as the head of their household and many headed west into Dakota Territory. 

Homesteading, http://www.ndstudies.org/

Posted on by Lois Stephens · 16 Comments

I Am Not Color Blind

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It’s been years now, but the memory-moment when I first saw her still runs deep.  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, with pink sponge curlers in her hair, she looks up as I enter our college dorm room.  Me, a middle-class white girl from the suburbs; she, a lower-class black girl born and raised in West Philadelphia.  Our eyes meet for a split second and then both our heads drop silent.

I grew up in white privilege; she grew up among the working poor.   We had a lot to discover about each other, and that we did.  A critical juncture; a defining year that gave me a new perspective beyond my own safe little world.

Amazing how God arranges life experiences to add in the missing pieces.  A divine appointment; a God set-up that added something needed, something of value, into the core of my identity.

My world got a whole lot bigger that year.  And I will be forever grateful to my West Philly roomie whom I grew to love, honor and respect.

Fast forward to last weekend…

We enter the retreat center where I am one of three invited speakers.  Seated beside the other speakers—all beautiful, strong and gifted African American women, I am feeling my “white-ness”.  I’ve heard these women speak before, with incredible power and passion.  They can raise the roof with their fiery-Pentecostal preaching.  An expectation to conform and perform begins to emerge from within me.

Conform and perform—I’ve done it before.  Not proud of it, but true.  Caved to my own internal pressure and took on another’s identity to be approved and accepted.  Yet in the process, I lost something invaluable—the gift of myself.

And then it hits me—my college roomie, this is the lesson we learned together.  I can honor and celebrate these African American women without pretending to be one of them.  By staying true to myself, I give room for others to stay true to themselves.

I quietly walk to the podium and begin sharing God’s love from my heart—in the way I do best, in the way I am designed.  People are moved by the gentle power of love—tears flow and healing comes.  I am a cool drink of water in the fiery heat of the day.  Different, yet the same.

I am not color blind.  God gave us color and the ability to distinguish between colors.  It’s a gift that I plan to celebrate more.  When we celebrate our differences by not pretending they do not exist, we celebrate the multi-faceted nature of God in whose image we all were created.  

Different, yet the same.  Hard to explain.  A divine mystery from the heart of God that I one day hope to understand better.