Stop Looking Over the Fence; Look Up!

“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones.” Proverbs 13:40 (NIV)

In a kindergarten class a little boy was eager to tattletale on his classmates for their behavior. His wise teacher confronted him with the words: “Jimmy, just worry about yourself and you’ll be busy all day.”

Right about the time that we think we’ve put jealousy and envy behind us, we realize, even as adults, that we have not lost the capacity to be petty. Our childish ways are still operating as though on the kindergarten playground.

The Bible is in tune with our human frailty. Countless passages encourage us to put on the mind of Christ and to renew our methods of thinking. Look up! Our hope comes from looking in the direction of Heaven where our help comes from. By lowering our eyes to view the pits in the ground, we forget that God cares for us and provides for our needs. When we seek God, the focus turns from our weakness to His provision, to His mercy. He is eager to equip us so that we can do wonderful things to bless others. It is in the reaching out to others—not in the envying of them—that we are at peace.

PRAYER: May I be a cheerful giver, a compassionate listener, a faithful friend. Let me be the one who shows others that I know of your great love for them and for me. Teach me your ways, O Lord. Amen.


Alice J. Wisler is the author of five novels and one devotional on grief and loss, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache. Read all the reviews here.

Swallowed in Grief: What Can You Do To Help Someone?

Life isn't for wimps. Life is one tough ride.

Many ask how they can help those suffering a devastating loss. Of course, I offer them a copy of my new devotional, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning.

When others find it helpful, I am grateful that the message of the book has been embraced. The following is a viewpoint from one reader:

I decided to read this book not because I'm in grief or heartache but because as a pastor's wife I wanted some "inside" information on how to help people going through grief.

I know that sometimes it's hard for us, who have not known devastating grief, how to comfort or help those going through a rough patch in life.

Now, Alice Wisler has known grief and heartache. She writes encouraging words with scripture to help those in their time of need.

These book is more like a "grief" devotional with a Prayer, a Reflections to Ponder . . . a very encouraging read!

I especially liked the "devotional" on page 111, No Perfect Life. Sometimes we see people who seem to have it all . . . "Their marriages are intact; their children are healthy. They've got good teeth, bosses who value them, gardens filled with flowers, loving friends and savings in the bank. Life seems peaceful and easy for them." (p. 111)

We, incorrectly, assume that these types of people have it.all.together! But when we look closer and get to know these people we see that they are going through some very human rough patches in life. Be careful not to look on the outside. Consider that grief hits every human. If you're struggling with getting out of bed every day then you should begin reading this book before you even consider moving your head off the pillow.

This is a wonderful, encouraging read for everyone. And it would make a great gift for that person who is struggling with grief, sickness or loss of a loved one.

~ Review posted at Deeper Shopping.

Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache by Alice J. Wisler

Go to Deeper Shopping to get a copy of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning today!

You'll See Him in Heaven: Why it's a cheap shot

It was not the first time someone told me this and I suspect it won't be the last.

Talk about bittersweet.

I suppose I should explain. I'm talking about when people hear that your child died and immediately----I mean without even pausing to take in a breath----say, "You will see him again in Heaven."

Is that supposed to make it all okay?

Tell me, what exactly do these kind folks mean when they toss out that line?

If I were to watch a mother or father crying over the loss of an infant that only breathed for a few moments or a son or daughter who lived to be forty, I would never say that line.

It's a cheap shot. My opinion. To me, it makes it seem as though there is no reason for tears. Or makes it seem that if I had real faith, I wouldn't be sad.

Don't get all ruffled up now. It's not that I don't believe. You see, I do believe in Heaven. I wish more was written about it in The Bible. On many days I wish for just a glimpse. When I'm at the ocean and the breeze blows and the waves dance against the shore, I feel I'm closer to Heaven. Or when I go for a walk and the scents and sights of spring fill my vision, I think, "Ah, this is heavenly."

I believe when people die they go to Heaven. The criminal on the cross next to Jesus was promised he would be with Jesus in paradise. Love is perfect there because the Creator of love, God the Father, lives in Heaven. There is no sin, no sorrow, no tears and no human frailty in this place of eternity.

Yet sometimes I wonder if those who tell me not to worry, that I'll be with my son again in Heaven, are not using their God-given mind to think, to ponder.

Do you really think I am going to be serving animal crackers and reading bedtime stories to my Daniel in Heaven?

There will be reunions, yes. But I will never be Daniel's mama on earth again. Gone is the dream every mother holds and that is to watch her little baby grow up. That ended for me with Daniel's death at age four. When he died, so did my need to buy Cocoa Puffs for him.

I was thirty-six then. I'm fifty-two now. That's been a lot of time for me to wonder and pray and think, and oh, yes, bite my tongue. Especially when well-meaning folk try to cast off my pain by quipping, "We'll just think, you'll see him again in Heaven."

"If Heaven is going to be just like earth where I have to take out the trash, worry about paying bills, and discipline my kids, I don't want it," a mother said to me.

Some seem to think Heaven is an extension of earth. That Heaven to many will be a repeat, only without mosquitoes and a place where consuming a pound of milk chocolate won't make one fat. Many act like it's going to be where I can see my Daniel again as he was on earth. Folks, that little body that took a beating to cancer is gone. It is no more. The Bible promises we'll get new bodies, and I imagine that they won't age. In fact we probably will all look the same age----young and flawless, like the women in all those Oil of Olay commercials.

So before you tell a mother who is sorrowful over the death of her dreams, who is questioning who she is now without her son or daughter, who dreads Christmas because it means one less stocking to fill, who has seen her family diminish in size, and who has a hard time putting one foot in front of the other on most days---even years later----THINK!

There are so many healthy and nurturing ways in which we can comfort each other. Consider them. Instead of giving a pat, "Well, you'll see your child in Heaven," why not sit down, hold a grieving mother's hand, and listen?

You just might cry when you hear her aching heart. Don't you think Jesus would be weeping if He were seated next to her, too?

She knows she'll see her child again in Heaven. Right now she needs more than that reassurance. She has to learn how to live the rest of her life without him. She has to conquer sleepless nights and inappropriate comments, criticism, and push herself to believe that she will get a day free of tears.

Let her know that she is going through the hardest journey a mother ever goes through.

Let love coupled with understanding be how you bring comfort.

~ Alice is the author of five inspirational novels and the new devotional on grief and loss, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache. Read the reviews and order a copy here.

[This post was first posted at Alice's Patchwork Quilt Blog]

Five easy steps for writing your own psalm

Where are you, God?

How long, O Lord?

O God, why have you rejected us forever?

In this trying season of my life (I am tempted to call it The Year of Nothing Good), I find myself asking God not so much where He is, but what is He doing. I feel like Pi in the movie, The Life of Pi. "What do you want from me?"

When I open my Bible for some comfort and guidance, I turn to the Psalms. I see that many of the psalms are a deep cry to God. There are not at all trite. The psalmist is in clear agony, even danger. He doesn't understand what is happening or why. He fears. He groans. He weeps. His tears are his food day and night. Even so, he looks to God, the creator of heaven and earth. He knows where his help comes from. He knows that God is close to the brokenhearted. He may not "feel" God at all. In fact, often, he doesn't. The psalmist knows he can be honest with his Lord, authentic; he has no time for pretending; he lets his raw guts show.

Writing through pain is healing. That has been proven and that's why support groups and psychiatric hospitals use writing as a way to connect to our feelings. When my son Daniel was in the hospital for cancer treatments, I wrote in a journal about what he was going through and about my feelings. When he died at the age of four, I let my agony gush over the pages. Writing provided therapy. It released the bottled-up fear, sorrow, questions and doubts onto pages that were able to contain them all and hold them safely. A journal is a safe place and when we are in the seas of anguish, it can be just what we need for respite.

I discovered the value of writing my own psalms. I found both freedom and clarity in putting my own heart onto paper in the form of a psalm. Digging into the psalms provides an excellent way to be stirred by language, emotion, imagery, and God's faithfulness and wonder. By using the templates of the psalms from the Bible, you'll discover how composing a psalm can energize your writing, and your life.

Here are five easy and simple steps to get you going.

1. First, read the psalms. If we want to learn to write anything (romance, sci-fi, historical, etc.) we must spend time reading what other authors have written. Read a few psalms silently and then pick a few of your favorites to read aloud.

2. As you read, note the patterns, and emotions. Psalm 74 wonders if God has rejected His people forever. Psalm 77 starts with desolation but ends in remembering the mighty acts of what God has done in the past, while Psalm 150 is complete rejoicing.

3. Allow some of the lines that grab you or speak to you to be memorized. Write these lines on notecards and keep them by your place of work or stick them to the bathroom mirror. Psalm 34 verse 18 might be where you are today and like me, you might have underlined it and let it be your daily mantra: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

4. Get your journal, a notebook, or a sheet of paper and start with a string of words based on your mood. Are most of the words ones of praise, lament, or a little of both? One practice you can try is to borrow a line from a psalm and use it to jumpstart your own. Start your verse with this line from psalm 69: "Answer me, Lord, out of the goodness of your love; in your great mercy turn to me."

5. In my writing classes I have participants write a psalm of woe and one of beauty. Usually the one of woe is easiest to create. There is, after all, much sadness in our world and in our lives. Children had died, relationships have been torn, jobs have been lost, trust betrayed. With each sorrow, we are able to find room for it on the page. A psalm of beauty sometimes pushes us to have to dig deep. Even if you aren't feeling particularly hopeful, push yourself to be observant of the beauty around you. Start by jotting down what you are thankful for.

Although you can use single sheets of paper for your creations, I would suggest that you keep a notebook or journal of your creations. Add to them. The more you pen your own psalms, the more adept you will become.

Read them aloud; edit if needed, by changing a word or phrase. Share as you see fit. Most of all, let your psalms draw you closer to a God who loves you.

~ Alice's next three-week online Writing the Psalms workshop starts August 5. Read more about what this course offers at her website.

Broken Psalms: Expressions of Grief and Loss is a writing workshop held in Forest City, NC (Rutherfordton County) on August 17th. Join the day! Read more here.

Alice's new devotional is filled with the psalms. See what others are saying about Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache (Leafwood Publishers 2013) here.

Broken Psalms: Expressions of Grief and Loss

There are days when we just want to pull the covers over our head and not have to be anywhere. Or do anything. Or think.

We feel as though a sea of sorrow has raged into our lives. We are desperate. Desparing. Sad. Confused.

God, where are you? God, how can I carry on? What do you want from me?

Sometimes we hear Him bring words to mind: I love you. I will never leave you or forsake you. You belong to me. I carry you close to my heart.

Other times we hear nothing. Some days we open our Bible and gain strength. We fight the temptation to believe the lies that God does not care or than He is tired of our tears.

We remember that He has made us and knows us better than we know ourselves. He loves us with a perfect and everlasting love.


Broken Psalms: Expressions of Grief and Loss is a workshop where the psalms are used as a method of dealing with our grief and losses. In this workshop we'll take a fresh look at the psalms and create our own. We'll share from the depths of our hearts and discover how writing our heartache helps us to heal.

For more information on this all-day workshop taught by Alice Wisler, click here.

Where's My Mother of the Year Award?

"God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble." ~ Psalm 46: 1

With orange juice spilled over the kitchen table, Playdough in the cracks of the hardwood floor and a pacifier floating in the toilet, I wanted to scream phrases like, "How much more of this can I take?" and "I am not a maid!" and most of all, as the characters in Peanuts do, the long and profound, "AAUGH!" As I wiped the kitchen table, dug out the Playdough and retrieved the pacifier, I muttered, "Surely I deserve an award for mother of the year."

When I decided to become a mother, I envisioned days of cuddling my newborn and bathing her as serene music filled the air. As she'd grow older, I envisioned playing Ring Around The Rosies with her and a group of her neighborhood friends. I'd be a loving mother, anxious to nurture and praise my child. I'd never raise my voice.

The truth was, as soon as I become pregnant with my firstborn, I realized this was not how I had pictured it at all. I gained an enormous amount of weight, had heartburn and felt the most excruciating pain as I prepared to push my daughter from my body out into the world.

Continually, with each passing day, I am reminded that motherhood, especially when it involves preschoolers, is not a glamorous profession. How could it be when it starts with a growing belly, timing contractions and later waking up to cries at two a.m.? (A mother's cries as well as the baby's.)

"It is the daily routine things that can drive me crazy," a mother I recently talked with expressed. "I get tired of having to make sure my four year old has brushed his teeth, make sure that there are clean clothes that I have laundered for him to wear and I am especially tired of making sure I stock the pantry with nutritious items to pack in his lunch for preschool."

Does anyone care about what we mothers have to go through? Do our seemingly menial tasks mean anything to anybody? Our husbands may come home with a promotion or an award and a paycheck. We don't get any of these to show that what we do is noteworthy and valuable.

I used to expect the Ed McMahon of awards to mothers to come to my door and present me with a plaque that read: "For All Your Remarkable Hard Work." Others in the neighborhood would crowd around my front lawn, beaming at me and applauding my daily, grueling commitment to motherhood.

There was a time in my life when I felt I really needed to be recognized and presented with a motherhood award. It was immediately after my adorable four-year-old son, Daniel, died following cancer treatments. I wished I could have sunk into a hole in the sticky floor and not had any responsibilities. Not only was my grief consuming and agonizing, but I had to care for my surviving children, six-year-old Rachel and fifteen-month old Benjamin. On top of that, I was six months pregnant. If ever I felt I needed support, help, an award, it was then. Losing a child, your own flesh and blood, has to be the most difficult aspect of motherhood. Three months later, adding to the demands of parenting two kids and the suffering over the loss of one, arrived a new-born Elizabeth. Where was that award? Could there be a more appropriate candidate for it?

As time went on and no one called to invite me to tell my story on Oprah or on James Dobson and there was no excited crowd with cameras knocking at my door with the engraved plaque, I began to reconsider this award idea. Would an award given by those who heard my story really be sufficient? Even my closest friends did not know the agony of my situation and if they were to list the detailed reasons as to why I should get this motherhood award, they would come up short. They would leave out the darkest parts I had kept secret, therefore unable to know what was really going on with me.

Those of us who do not have ill children or disabled children to care for would not know what kind of inclusive award to give to the mothers of these children. We don't see the day-to-day struggles that consist of severe behavioral troubles, extensive trips to the doctors', the constant administration of medicines and the fear the child's future may not be bright. We can't know all that goes on when we don't live with these children.

Only God knows our individual pain. The only true award of genuine value could be from Him as He knows all we have been through. Our self-worth lies in knowing who we are in Christ. We are loved and are precious to Him. We have been given a gift, the valuable role of mother, with all its triumphs and trials. We are servants and serving Him through doing the daily grunge-work for our kids. Jesus said that whoever would be greatest in God's kingdom must learn to be servant of all. Within the realm of mere humans, is there any greater example of servanthood than motherhood?

While we may at times, be hopeful the award is coming soon, the reality is no earthly award presented by a human could measure up to what we are really worth. If we truly believe God sees all and knows all, then we can rest assured the award in Heaven will be the best and worth the wait. "Well done, my good and faithful servant," will be glorious music to our ears. And we won't even have to be holding a mop to receive it!

But meanwhile, as you scrub the blue marker off the bedroom wall, know your humbling job as a serving mother is pleasing to God.


Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/34209
Article first written in 2004 by Alice J. Wisler

Why do Christians Avoid Grief?

Ever been given a pile of manure and called it "beautiful" or while holding your nose, said that the colors were "certainly a nice shade of brown"?

That's often the way we handle grief associated with death.

We don't want to look at it too deeply for fear that we might just realize something.

Something like just how crushing and paralyzing it all is. How much it stinks. How devastating having it around can make us feel. How we wish it wasn't near us, around us, in view.

So we push it aside and act like it's something not to be dealt with. We call it all sorts of names, even to the point of making others believe that the death of a loved one isn't sorrowful or often debilitating. We sugarcoat death and the impact it has. Why? So that we can continue on in our illusions of happiness and pain-free existences?

As a Christian, I have heard it all. When my four-year-old son Daniel died after treatments for cancer, there was an outpouring of empathy and sympathy. Cards, flowers and home-cooked meals filled my kitchen and dining room table. Sometimes I tried to give the gift-givers a little token of my heart. I thought it was only fair. They'd given me a vase of yellow roses or a pan of lasagna. So I'd present them with a bit of my honesty.

"I miss Daniel so much."

"I'm not doing so good."

"I feel abandoned by God."

Few let me speak and weep.

Few.

Most felt they needed to tell me a thing or two. They did.

"God doesn't give you more than you can handle."

"Just think, God needed another flower in His garden and He picked Daniel."

"Oh, honey, you aren't angry at God. Disappointed, but don't use the word angry."

"Daniel would want you to be happy."

"Haven't you been sad long enough?"

"Be glad you have other children."

"This too shall pass."

When the visitors left, I was left with a new image of myself. I felt like the ogre you see in horror movies. If I were really a Christian, I should be able to handle this and not feel so engulfed by sorrow. Perhaps if I were closer to God, I would be able to deal with this much better. If I were a strong Christian, I wouldn't ache and cry myself to sleep.

Time passed. I read some books on grief and loss. I listened to other parents who had also buried children. I felt the warmth of those who knew this journey and shared it with me and were not too tired to answer their phone at midnight or 1 AM.

My logic changed. I realized that I was not, nor had I been, shunned or disciplined for being sad. God was not punishing me for my anger or my woe or my helplessness. Experiencing a realm of emotions that were like heavy scribblings bouncing here and there, in fact, was normal. It was normal to miss my Daniel. It was normal to wonder why and ponder and ask the hard questions.

With time, I grew bold.

Now after 16 years, I am equipped. I have learned that most people are uncomfortable with grief. They will react with platitudes and trite phrases that do absolutely no good. I don't let them bother me. For my years have not been empty years of just surviving; I have done my time. I have grown, listened, heard, learned, studied, felt, and lived.

God is no foreigner to sorrow. Jesus suffered. He was shunned. He wept. He had religious leaders toss platitudes at Him. Words weren't all; they had to go for the death sentence.

When I read about His life on earth, words pop out at me, words like "grief" and "sorrow". When I read the psalms, I thank God for letting that book be available to me. What a comfort it has been to read my own fears and longings, my own heartbeat of humanity and frailty in the pages of the Bible.

Yet, many Christians still don't get it. They can't seem to enlarge their hearts to encompass sorrow. They run from it; they hide. They can't walk side by side with the visitor that unexpectedly rams herself into their presence---that uninvited visitor that appears and stays and stays long after any guest should----three days.

If we could view grief as biblical, as spiritual, as a very real and important part of living, then perhaps, we would open our hearts to more of what God has to teach us as His children. If we could realize that grief is not the enemy; rather, avoiding it is what traps us and captures us so that we are prisoners.

Can we?

I was going to end this article here, but I can't. It's because I can't leave the manure alone. Sure, it is putrid and smelly, but if that is all we see, then that is all we'll ever get. There is another way to look at manure. After it has dried, when spread over fields and flower beds, manure does its best to help things grow. From the stench of today come the robust and sweet-smelling flowers of tomorrow.

You really can't avoid that from our despair, beauty happens. That's what God does. But if you avoid the manure, you will never see how it can actually grow your soul.

~ Alice J. Wisler is the author of five novels, three cookbooks, and the new devotional, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache. She teaches writing through grief and loss workshops. Read more here.