And What is YOUR Name?

"Behold, I have called thee by thy name, thou art Mine."

The surname Atchley is translated from the Old English Ac: meaning "oak", and Leah: "grove". An oak is the emblem of virtue and strength and resiliency. To ancient Christians, it also represented worship. The Atchley crest is the dragon, signifying patience in battle, leading to final victory.

My maiden name, Gilreath, is Scottish in origin. It means, "Servant of the King." Our crest is the dolphin. It is said that those who used the dolphin as a symbol had a fondness for music and that the emblem was one of charity and affection. "Aye, we are a lovin' bunch, the Gilreaths. An' a bunch of singin' fools."

My husband and I attended a Bible class, taught by a precious, learned, older man of God. This man was not at all the "airy fairy" type, yet he admonished us, "Find out what your name means, first name and last. It has prophetic significance." As fate would have it, before we had ever gotten into our car to attend this class, I had made up my mind that whatever I would be taught that day, I was going to put it into practical action. I was going to obey the Word spoken. I was tired of hearing, and not doing. There were other things expounded to us that day, and they too had to be acted upon. Finding out the meaning of our names was, by far, the easy part.

And so began my delight in Heraldry. I traced my husband's surname. I traced my maiden name, and found fresh evidence of my Scottish ancestry. Deeply Scottish ancestry. Whew. That explained alot about me, right there.

The joining of two people in marriage is the joining of two names under one. It isn't the elimination of my original name, but rather a blending of ancestry, DNA, and prophetic destiny under one person's name. With each marriage, as the family tree grows, the significance of both names are meant to come together. Ideally, marriage is to be the "best of both worlds", combined and bequeathed to the future offspring.

But for the Atchley-Gilreath combination, the blending isn't always automatic.

Instead of "rock, paper, scissors", my husband and I should figure out a way to play "Oak, dragon, dolphin" to settle disputes. We just can't figure out for the life of us what the rules would be. I guess dragon trumps everything. But then again, maybe dolphin lures dragon into the depths of the sea, and drowns him there.

On November 8th, 1986, the English boy married the Scottish lass, and both fought to be the boss of the other for several years. If we don't learn from history, it indeed repeats itself. In our case, we called an eventual truce. The English boy has learned not to be so overbearing, and the Scottish girl has learned that authority can be a Good Thing. Today finds us enjoying the "Pax Atchley-ia".

..."and the dolphin shall lay down with the dragon"... much as the lion will the lamb, someday.

I usually let the English win...temporarily...while muttering under my breath:

"longliveScotlandforever."

More Hours In My Day

(Daughter of Mine), forget not my law; but let thine heart keep my commandments: For length of days, and long life, and peace, shall they add to thee. Pr. 3

"Length of days AND long life"....this set me to thinking. Which is always either quite dangerous, or tiresome, or on a really good day, heady and exhilarating.

2008 is already more than half gone. And I have not accomplished, yet, some of what I wanted to accomplish by now. I don't want mere long life, I need length of DAYS. It could be a bit of a stretch, but maybe those two Proverbial phrases are not redundant. I've heard it taught that the Holy Spirit in Scripture is never redundant. Maybe "length of days" and "long life" are two separate but related blessings.

The whole world craves length of days. Everyone is in a hurry, seemingly unable to capture time, or use it to their advantage. To most, the days are not "long enough" to fit it all in. That is no small problem, no insignificant pain. Not being blessed with length of days means that worthy goals are left unrealized, because time runs out. It means that important relationships suffer irretrievably because of the rat race.

To the obedient, God promises not just long life, but length of days. Suddenly....we can breathe again. There is time again. He can accomplish this quiet miracle at any season of life, at any age; but the earlier we learn to simply obey Him without question, the more we can accomplish with our newly discovered, extra kairos time. Opportune time. Heck, He can even lengthen chronological, sweep-of-the-minute-and-hour-hand, clock time. He can hold back the sun for a day or a few moments. He can multiply our minutes. He can supernaturally stretch our resources. He can take our best effort, and create "effort squared". (I stole that notion from a dear friend, who plans to "grow old, squared". In other words, not just 7 X 2, but rather 7 X7. Not just old times two, but old times OLD AGAIN. Sassy old. Wise and eccentric old. I decided to join her "old squared" club. We'll grow old-squared together, I guess. Terrifying but hilarious thought, much like I imagine bungee-jumping to be.)

God can give us "effort squared". The outcome of "effort squared" equals far more than twice the amount of the effort. It equals results piled on results. It equals harvest-time, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. We can accomplish in a season the sort of ingathering that it would take others, less obedient to God, a lifetime to gather.

The sweetest part of this promise is not the long life. Or the length of days. To me, the sweetest part is the peace.

Thank You...Other Daughter??

If only you could smell them.

It had been a hard-but-good, hectic-but-productive weekend. Tim and I were having Sunday lunch with our guest speaker. A small crowd of Harvest Church members took up several tables, in various spots throughout "La Fiesta", the after-church lunch haunt. It is a tiny, thoroughly Mexican restaurant, complete with staff that speak very little English. Tim and I don't go there every Sunday, as we prefer to have people to our home for lunch. That way, no one is offended if we either cannot, or do not, retain a gigantic table, and attempt to sit with them.

After lunch, I wearily walked to my mini-van. I opened the driver's door (Tim and I drive separately on Sundays) and my first indication of a wonderful surprise floated through the air - the spicey sweet, unmistakeable perfume of....ROSES! There, on the passenger seat, were a dozen of the most heavily scented pink roses I had smelled in a long, long time. And a bar of expensive chocolate. Not melted. Someone had just done it!

I looked around everywhere. We were the last (by far) to leave the restaurant. I asked Tim about them. He hadn't done it, and he was just a tiny bit perturbed, for about a minute and a half, over the thought of my getting chocolate and flowers from a mystery person. Which, I must say, seeing one's husband's eyes narrow in momentary lover's jealousy, does spice up a girl's otherwise predictable Sunday.

No one has come forward. To be honest, I almost hope they never will. Whoever blessed me, they were hearing the Lord. I felt the love of the Father in it. There was healing in it. I am guessing it is a "twin thing", maybe. I think my Other Daughter could have done it. She and her sister often find themselves doing the same things, without even realizing it. One daughter got me a bouquet of "glads". The other had no idea, she was spending the night with a dear friend. She might be the one who, less than 24 hours later, also sprinkled my life and my day with fairy-daughter dust, and great joy. And roses and chocolate.

If it was you...Thank You, Daughter. Some mothers talk about being best friends with their daughters - I have consistent, enduring proof. You both bless me continually.

A Love for One's Garden Casts Out the Fear of Bees

I don’t have acres of lovely, planned, planted things. I have about twelve to sixteen feet of shrubs and flowers that I specifically chose, carefully laid out, arranged, and then planted by myself with nothing but a shovel. Then I mulched it all. It is my butterfly garden, and at its widest, it is only about six feet. But it is a twelve-to-sixteen, by six feet, undulating little patch of color and beauty. I designed it. Other than that, I have a strip of daylilies, some berry bushes, a patch of cherry tomatoes, a few tenderly nurtured hydrangea, and pots of “stuff” – an eclectic mix of everything from tomatoes to ferns, all in pots.

Compared to the gardens that belong to the “veryCALM” woman (please do follow her blog link – you’ll find it to your left, and it is top notch!), who tends to her acres of English-like gardens, and her meticulously restored 18th century home in upstate New York….compared to her, I don’t have a garden. Her gardens reflect such skill and artistry, and her writing is refreshing.

But a garden is not an issue of comparison, it is an issue of what you plant, and how hard you work to nurture it. If you have planned and purchased, arranged and planted growing things, even a few, and you tend to them with love and sweat – you have a garden, and you are a gardener.

You can’t know how I savor that concept. I sit and tell it to myself sometimes. “You are a….gardener. You….are….a….gardener.” For some reason, that fills me with wonder. It edifies me and gives me a firm sense that I am on the edge of accomplishing so much more, in this, the second half of my allotted portion of days.

I’ve collected only a few titles in life – all of them based on what I do, every day. All of them based on what others respond most to, in my life. These are the areas in which others will come to me with questions. No title is based on what I want to do, or based on what I wish I could do. I've not earned any titles by being in competition with anyone else, wanting whatever title they have. My various titles flow from who I am, at the core, in secret. And there are only a few of them. Mothers mother. Writers write. Gardeners garden. Bible teachers soak in God's word, and unconsciously "leak" it. Teachers teach. I’m not willing, right now, to call myself a “chef”…but I cook, every day, sometimes several times a day – and I create my own recipes. I’m changing. I’m growing. I am learning new stuff – hands-on, creative stuff. How glorious! Eventually, whatever I do “all the time”, with any reasonable sense of mastery, I can own the title to it.

I noticed something this morning, as I was out pulling weeds. The very thing that makes a butterfly garden attract the butterflies, is the very thing that attracts….the bees. All my life, I have been nervous around bees, and I have studiously avoided them. If one circles me when I am sunbathing, I’ve been known to go inside. But. My shrubs and flowers are covered in dozens of bees of varying species and sizes.

I found myself at ease with the whole lot of 'em. I…was….working…among…them. At peace. I found myself enjoying their sound. They would fly right over my head, in front of my face, and all around me, as they went from place to place. Even a few months ago, I would have suppressed a nervous squeal. Rather, I was inhaling the faint scent of crepe myrtle, pulling weeds around daisies, and thinking about how strong the fragrance of blue salvia is, when you brush by the leaves. (Oh how the bees love blue salvia!) I came to the conclusion that the fragrance comes from the fact that salvia is in that “sage” family of plants. It is a “sagey” smell.

Perfect (mature) love really does cast out fear. I love my butterfly garden, and truthfully, didn’t mind sharing the joy with the bees. I guess we’ll continue to work together out there until first frost.

It doesn’t make me a bee charmer YET, but it does make me (finally) a real gardener.

Summer Breeze - Makes Me Feel Fine

July seems a wonderful month to play Wynton Marsalis CD's nonstop. Languid trumpet-playing and sultry summer evenings are a match made in my version of heaven. July is the perfect month for consuming cool, crisp salads of every description. I can become a salad snob in July. Whereas the rest of the year, I am content with romaine lettuce and ranch dressing, the heat of July and August changes my palate. I begin the elusive search for cold vegetable Nirvana, experimenting with exotic salad sauces like cucumber wasabi or southwest caesar. I will concoct my own dressings of olive oil, a splash of wine, seasoned with just-harvested herbs, coarse salt, and fresh ground pepper. Toss something like that with butter-soft, cool-crunchy lettuces, walnuts, mandarin orange slices, and lots of feta cheese, and all you need is a grilled something-or-other to make a meal. Why am I telling all this? I am not one to be miserly with my bliss. A stunning salad, a July evening at home, and Marsalis' trumpet playing go together...I want the world to know.

Thank You, Daughter...

"I will rejoice, for He hath made me glad(s)!"

Four Little Minutes

"He telleth the number of the stars; He calleth them all by their names..." Ps. 147: 4

By the time you read just a few blog entries, you may be convinced that I spend all my time outside. You'd be nearly absolutely right. For years, I've watched birds, the seasons, and the stars. The summer night sky is different from the night sky of any other season. Typically, this is why I don't take time to find anything but the Big Dipper. Maybe Orion's Belt. Stars never stay in place for long, and I get easily disoriented, from one week to the next, by all that moving-across-the-sky thing. The stars in spring are not in the same position as the stars of winter. Autumn has its own places for all the constellations. Fascinating!

This is all due to four little minutes. Now that the summer solstice has come and gone, the circling of stars around the pole of the earth takes four minutes less than a full 24 hours. Thus, the stars "rise" four minutes earlier every day, all summer long, than they did the day before. In a month's time, those four minutes a day add up to about two full hours. It is simple to memorize this little formula, and join me as a Suburban Stargazer: one month = 2 hours earlier. The whole star schedule is based on that simple equation.

And God calls each twinkling orb "by name". I used to believe those words meant that each star had a number and a name: "This is Theubia, star number 3,786,479, 002."

As far as we can tell, there are an infinite number of stars, and I am still confident that God knows the exact number of each one, in order, and has named each one, too. But that is not what "numbering the stars" means in the deepest sense.

When God numbered a star, He assigned it a particular place in the night sky, and He planned how big it should be and how hot it should burn and for how long. He gave it a name, a job to do, and a story to tell. If you don't believe a star has a story to tell, you must get hold of the writings of EW Bullinger and JA Seiss. They contended that the gospel is spelled out in the stars, and I believe it. Though stars can never tell us detailed, personal messages about our future, they are set in place to declare the glory of God, and have been used since the beginning of time as a gospel-record.

So the Father "numbers" the stars - assigning them a place in time and space, and giving them a message. Psalms 90:12 says this: So teach us to number our days that we may apply our heart to wisdom." In either case, whether stars or your life, the word "number" is the same Hebrew word, mahnah , meaning to ordain, appoint, or assign. As imitators of God, you and I are given the privilege and solemn responsibility to ordain - not stars, but our very own days. God has established a blueprint for our lives, laying out a path much like the path the stars follow. It is our job to discover that path, and assign our days accordingly.

I've heard it said that time is God's gift. It is His way of keeping everything from happening all at once. Ecclesiasties bears this out when it says there is a time for every purpose under heaven. A star has a name and a purpose. I have a name and a purpose. A star has a message to proclaim; my life has a story to tell.

My effectiveness in declaring my message is directly proportionate to my discerning my days properly - assigning a season and a purpose to them. What season of life am I in right now? What choices are appropriate to that season? What is God saying? Those are important questions. The overall message of my life is One Thing: the supremacy of Christ in all of life.

The ways and means I communicate that message will vary with the seasons of my life. Christ in the life of the child, Christ, the source of the joy of the blushing bride, Christ as the gentle support of the new mother, Christ, the giver of peace as the nest empties, Christ, who ordains exciting new exploits for the second half of life, Christ who carries the frail body of old age, and infuses it with a sparkling soul.

I know of a dear, elderly Mimi, who cannot remember her own son's name at times. But if you begin reciting the first few words of a chapter in the Psalms, she will commence to finishing it for you, word for word. Oh, the glory of His message in our lives, in every season! It is the veritable fulfillment of Philippians 2:15 ~ "That ye may be blameless and harmless, the children of God, without rebuke, in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom ye shine as star-lights in the world!"