By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Happy Easter!

For many years I spent Holy Week giving birth (Figuratively!) to an Easter production.  Usually our last performance was on Saturday night and so Easter Sunday was celebrated with Worship, a long, hot bath and an even longer nap.  Don’t get me wrong!  I loved those productions and cherish the memories and the people I worked with; it was just really exhausting.

When I first started working with the Easter week dramas, the final performance was always on Easter Sunday.   It usually hit me when I was laying in bed on that Sunday night, too exhausted to sleep, I had missed Easter!  It had come and gone and I missed it.  I would get so involved in the process of putting on a production that I lost sight of the reason for the production in the first place.

So my first act of rebellion when I was put in charge of the Easter Week dramas was to change the day of the final performance.  Of course, there were a few complaints but mostly people were just grateful.  They could be in the production and yet have freedom to scoot out of town to spend Easter Sunday with family.  Cast members could actually Worship on Easter Sunday rather than being worried about finding their props (Always tricky with lots of kids in the cast!) and getting into costumes and make-up.  And I could slow down and let down and really think about the reason for Easter — which was something that I found it very hard to do when I was the one in charge.

In writing Easter productions, I’ve given the events surrounding the trial, death, and resurrection of Jesus a lot of thought.  One of the things I’ve often thought about was all those people who cheered as Jesus rode into town on that donkey.  I’ve wondered who they were and what their lives were like.  I’ve wondered about their families and their beliefs.  But mostly I’ve wondered how they could be so clueless. 

I’ve also done a lot of wondering about the disciples.  They spent time with Jesus and yet they didn’t know Him.  Jesus repeatedly told them what was about to happen but they didn’t get it.  Jesus revealed His identity to His closest followers.  Yet Peter denied that he even knew Jesus and Judas still chose to betray Him.  How could they be so clueless?

Jesus was right under the collective nose of the world and they didn’t see Him for who or what He was.  It’s pretty easy for me to sit back, with the wisdom and experience of 2000 plus years and say, “I would never do that!  I would listen.  I would know.  I would understand.  I would get it.  I would not be clueless.”

Good in theory but in practice?  Not so much.  If I had been alive back then, I would have ignored Him.  I would have mocked Him and spit on Him.  I would have denied and betrayed Him.  I would have called for Him to be crucified.  I would not have had the slightest clue that the Son of God was in my midst.

The reason that I know these things is simple.  That’s a fair picture of my life right now.   I can’t tell you how often my words, or lack thereof, have betrayed Him.  I can’t even begin to guess the number of times that my actions have denied that I even know Him.   Jesus has been right there and I have missed Him.  I have ignored opportunities to draw closer to Him.  I have disregarded chances to join Him in His work.  Albeit not in the flesh, but Jesus has been in my midst.  And I have been clueless.

Today’s blog is another first because we have a visual aid!  I would like for you to watch a short You-Tube video and be sure to follow the instructions.  Click here to watch and the video will open in a new browser window.  Please do not continue to read until you’ve watched the video.

So how many passes did you count?  I counted 13.  I got it right — or so I thought.  But I completely missed the break-dancing bear.  I even watched the video again to make sure the bear hadn’t been just slipped in at the end.  Yet there he was in all his furry glory and I was clueless.

It’s impossible not to miss Jesus when I concentrate on too many other things.  Even if those things are good, healthy, important things it still takes my attention away from the only thing that really matters.  My relationship with my Savior, Jesus Christ.

And so on this Resurrection Sunday, I leave you with some homework.  (Another first for Kiera’s blog!)

Slow down.  Rest.  Take a deep breath.  Celebrate the miracle of Easter.  Spend some time in private, Holy conversation and communion with Jesus.  He’s right there.  Right under your nose.  Waiting for you to notice Him.  Our Redeemer does indeed live!  Don’t be clueless.

Happy Easter!

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

On any given day, there is a whole lot of hissing and snarling going on at our house.  Once in a while the HissFest has human participants; but usually our cats are the responsible parties.

Our cat story began with Scooter and Kacey.  They were Jeff’s cats for four years before I came on the scene.  When I met them for the first time, I did what any potential step-mother would do.  I attempted to bribe them by bringing gifts of treats and cat-nip infused toys.  Scooter was not impressed.  Kacey wasn’t either — at least that was the vibe she sent out from her hiding place under the bed.

Thankfully, Jeff did not listen to the opinions of his cats and decided to marry me anyway.  Three months before the wedding, I moved to Atlanta.  As we moved furniture and combined our two households, Scooter supervised from a perch in the corner of the dining room.  I am quite certain that the only thing keeping her from toting a picket sign was the fact that she lacks a prehensile thumb.  And Kacey?  She was absolutely terrified of my presence and demonstrated this fear by hiding under large pieces of furniture for weeks at a time. 

During those months before the wedding, I spent a lot of time at Jeff’s unpacking and getting things situated; but, I spent nights at the home of a friend of ours.  Scooter and Kacey eventually got used to having me around during the day and every night they would breathe a collective feline sigh of relief when “that woman” disappeared for several hours.  They had their Daddy and the warm water-bed all to themselves and life was as it should be.

And then it happened.  Daddy disappeared for a week.  Scooter and Kacey hissed and spit at my aunt who stayed at our place while Jeff and I honeymooned.  Although we had tried to prepare the girls for the inevitable, they were still shocked when Daddy returned home with “that woman” in tow.  And when it got dark, I didn’t leave.  And when they went to snuggle with Daddy at night, there was someone in their water-bed.  No wonder they hated me.

And it was about to get worse.  Enter Tucker.  Jeff had promised me that after the wedding we would “get a cat that likes you.”   Tucker not only liked me, Tucker liked everyone.  He was a 12-week old ball of grey and black fuzz when we adopted him.  He had a sore under his nose that the shelter workers didn’t know the origin of.  After we got home, it was apparent.  Tucker was a kamikaze who knew no fear.  We quickly nicknamed him “Deathwish”.  He would hurl himself off of any surface at a high rate of speed.  He ran into walls and other inanimate objects, climbed everywhere, and did it all with speed that would have made the Tasmanian Devil look like a snail.  

Much to their horror, Tuck repeatedly asked his adopted sisters to play with him.  His requests were very vocally denied.  But that didn’t stop Tucker.  He would just wait 5 minutes and then ask again.  And when all else failed, he would simply knock them over.  What he was lacking in gentleness and tact he made up for in persistence.

Time passed and Tucker got bigger and smarter.  Like any little brother, he enjoyed annoying his sisters.  He loved to hear them scream and he would not be denied a good chase, even if he had to spend hours provoking his sisters in preparation.  Needless to say, Tuck spent many an afternoon in time out because he simply would not leave Scooter and Kacey alone and we were tired of listening to them screech.

We didn’t blame Tucker much.  He was bored and frustrated.  He just wanted someone to play with and try as he might, he simply could not convince any one of us to spend hours chasing him down the hall.

Last fall, we went to Colorado to visit my family.  My nephews proudly introduced me to the newest member of their family.  Max was fluffy and cute and so very sweet.  He was also a very playful little kitten.  Although we tried to resist, Jeff and I soon had visions of a playmate for Tucker dancing in our heads.  So after we came home, we ignored the little voices of reason that told us 4 cats in one family was insanity on the paw; and, we adopted Wyatt.

Tucker may have been a failure as a little brother but he was an outstanding big brother.  He was very patient and gentle with Wyatt for the most part and they became fast friends.  Tucker was in heaven.  He had someone to wrestle with and chase.  He had someone who would chase him and who shared his fascination with tin foil balls and ice cubes.   They play together until they’re exhausted and then they snuggle up together and sleep it off.  They truly are best friends.

Meanwhile, we still have Scooter and Kacey too.  Scooter hates her life and everyone in it — with the exception of Jeff.  Sometimes when she sits on his lap, her soulful yellow eyes seem to be saying, “Just you and me, Dad.  That’s all I need!  Let’s get rid of everyone else — especially that ‘mom’ person.”

Kacey has elevated herself to “Daddy’s little girl” status and enjoys all the privileges thereof; but, thankfully she also seems to like me now.   She checks on me when I get up at night.  We also have private brushing sessions and she seems to enjoy sitting with me when I scrapbook.   Her human relationships are pretty well defined.  However, her feline relationships are a confusing mess.

I think she’s honestly hurt that Tucker isn’t asking her to play every 5 minutes.   But the fact is, he doesn’t need Kacey anymore.  He has Wyatt.  Occasionally, I see Kacey watching wistfully as Tucker and Wyatt play tag and wrestle.  I can see her little cat brain saying, “Gee, that looks fun.  I wanna play.”  But her little stunted social skills don’t seem to allow her to ask nicely.  She tends to break into the boys games with a whole lot of hissing and spitting.  And the boys tend to ignore her — which makes Kacey furious.  At least that’s the story she gives us.

However, like any good story, there is another side.  This other side happens after dark.  After Jeff and I close the bedroom door for the night and the house is quiet.   For several months we have suspected that when the lights go off, Kacey plays.  Many times Jeff or I have gotten up unexpectedly in the middle of the night only to catch Kacey, Wyatt and Tucker tearing up and down the hallway together or sharing a toy.  Kacey seems absolutely horrified that she was caught in the act and immediately slinks off, leaving the two boys to wonder what happened.

Last night, I again caught Kacey in the act.  I got up to take some aspirin and noticed a commotion in the office.  Turning on the hall light, I saw Tucker and Wyatt crouched around a cardboard box.  Upon further investigation, I discovered Kacey underneath the box.  I could see one of her paws happily reaching out from under the box as she tempted her brothers to play with her.  It made my little heart very happy to see Kacey playing with abandon.  She was having such fun that she didn’t seem to care that I was watching.

As I went back to bed, I thought of Kacey and her split personality.  And I thought about how much Kacey I have in me.  I know I behave differently in the privacy of my own home than I do when the world is watching.  I know my conversation topics are different at church than they are everywhere else.  I know that I act differently around close friends and family than I do in public.  Does that make me a hypocritical Christian?  Yeah, it probably does.  I don’t think it really matters that I don’t mean to do it.   At least it doesn’t matter to God. 

Nearly four decades into my life and I’m still trying to figure out who I am.  It’s kind of embarrassing, really.  On the other hand, it’s also reassuring to me that I’m still growing.  I’m still wondering and still questioning and still reaching to discover who God made me to be. 

I’m a lot like Kacey.  When things scare me, I want to hide under large pieces of furniture.  I’m very timid at times and that sometimes keeps me from doing things I want to do.  I want to be a part of the close friendships that I observe; but I don’t know how.  But mostly, I just want to work and play and love and laugh and cry and grieve and live with abandon — no matter who is watching. 

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I didn’t go to church this morning.  Instead, I lounged on the couch chain-sucking cough drops while watching re-re-re-re-re-runs of M*A*S*H.  So Jeff went to church by himself; but, not without instructions!  He had a delivery to make to a very sweet young girl.  This girl is the daughter of some friends of ours and a few months ago, she graced our refrigerator with her beautiful drawing of an orange horse.  As a thank you for the horse, I made a colorful poster with her name on it. 

However, Jeff returned home with the poster.  “They weren’t there,” he said.  “I looked in their usual place and asked around.  Nobody had seen them today.”

His statement struck me in an odd way because of the phrase, “Their usual place.”  As an adult, I’ve been a member of exactly three churches.  In all three of them, I had a usual place — a place where I sat every week without fail.  Interestingly, I always sat by the same people every week because everyone else had a usual place too.

This got me to thinking about having a “usual place” in God’s Kingdom.  I’ve lived in Atlanta now for exactly 524 days.  One would think by now that I would be adjusted to my new surroundings.  I am well adjusted to some degree.  I can now go to the mall by myself without living in mortal fear of never finding my way back home.  I’ve learned that if a driver sticks their hand out the window, they intend to merge even if the space available is only slightly bigger than a Matchbox car.  Lizards crawling out from under the Pepsi machine during my workout no longer faze me and Jeff’s church has finally become “our” church.  But I still struggle. 

My struggle has been in finding what God has for me here.  This is the first time in my Christian life that I’ve ever had to work at it.  In the past, God has made my mission abundantly clear to me.  Has it always been easy?  No.  It has not.  I wish you could hear me laughing here because it has been so NOT easy at times. 

For example, a few years ago, I was absolutely certain that I was supposed to be a small group leader for a bunch of girls who were slightly south of being teenagers.   I didn’t feel like I possessed one skill which qualified me for the position.  Sure, I used to be a pre-teen girl; but, I don’t remember any of it.  That particular phase of my life was just so awkward and entirely too painful to waste space in my long term memory so I blocked it all out.  I think.

I had nothing to offer.  Or so I thought.  But along the way, I discovered I did have was a tender heart, a creative mind and the desire to do what God wanted me to do.  I’m not sure, if you asked those girls now, that they would remember any of our lessons.  I’m not sure if I ever showed them even the slightest glimpse of God.  But I do know that I listened to them and I cared about them and I loved them with all my heart.  And I think sometimes that’s everything a pre-teen girl needs — to be respected and loved and valued, unconditionally, by another person.

But since I’ve moved, God hasn’t been as clear about what He wants from me.  I’ve dabbled a bit in the things I used to do but haven’t really felt “plugged in”.  It wasn’t until today when Jeff was talking about our friends and their usual place in the sanctuary, that I had a bit of an epiphany.

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places.  Maybe what God has for me here has nothing to do with writing Christian drama or teaching Sunday school or leading a small group of preteen girls or any of the things I’ve done in the past.  Maybe, in my effort to find my niche, I’ve simply been getting in God’s way.  Why this never occurred to me is startling, to say the least.  It’s extremely humbling to say the most.

On his CD “The Way Home” Wayne Watson sings a song called “Growing”.  At one point in the song, the lyrics are “I’m growing.  I don’t like it.  I’m growing and it hurts.” 

Yes, Godly growth hurts.  It hurts a lot but my mind is whirling with the possibilities.  I still don’t know what God has in store for me but finally I’m excited to find out.  Don’t get me wrong, trying new things with ease will never be part of my nature.  It will always be a struggle and I will never like it.  I don’t like to be pushed out of my usual place.  Even by God.  But, I think maybe I’m finally ready.

And maybe the desire and willingness to vacate my usual place is simply what God has wanted from me all along.