Wednesday, February 29, 2012


There is one detail in Joshua 2, in the story about Rahab and the spies, that adds great excitement to an already exciting story. The tiny detail is this:

And she said, According unto your words, so be it. And she sent them away, and THEY DEPARTED: AND SHE BOUND THE SCARLET LINE IN THE WINDOW. (Joshua 2:21 -- Caps mine)

She had to wait approximately two weeks for the promised rescue to come to pass. Yet, she didn't give mental assent to the words of the spies, and planned to put the cord out of the window only when she saw the army approaching. Instead, she did it immediately. As soon as she helped the spies escape, she put the line in the window as a sign of her faith in their words.

With the type of fear that must have been rampant in Jericho at that time, she could have been in big trouble. The soldiers had already been to her house looking for the spies. They were watching the city both from within and from without, since the spies had to hide out in the hills for three days to avoid the searchers.

carlet, as we know, isn't a subdued color. Yet, Rahab had the courage and faith to put the cord out and leave it against the stone wall throughout the whole campaign against Jericho by Joshua and his forces.

She also had to tell her family about the impending attack and the cord, and persuade them to come to her place when the attack started -- trusting that none of them would let the secret slip or turn against her.

The hand of the Lord was over her, I'm sure. That would account for a great deal of the protection she received. However, the fact that she stepped out in faith, recognized God and His men for who they were, and prepared herself and her family from the very beginning, shows what type of person she was on the inside. No matter what kind of life she had been living, her integrity, courage and strength of character surfaced when they were needed.

OH, for the type of faith that Rahab had... to take God
at His word and trust that what He has promised to do He is able to perform. Rom. 4:21

Saturday, February 25, 2012


Ps. 18:1-2 [Amp.]

I love you fervently and devotedly,
O Lord, my Strength.

The Lord is my Rock, my Fortress,
and my Deliverer;
my God, my keen and firm Strength
in Whom I will trust and take refuge,
my Shield, and the Horn of my salvation,
my High Tower.

Friday, February 24, 2012


Ps. 105:18 - His feet they hurt with fetters, he was laid in chains of iron and his soul entered into the iron. [AMP.]

Boy, do I identify with that!! Many tend to think that when Joseph was taken to Egypt as a slave, he moved through his trials and tribulations with a smile -- or, at the very least, quiet patience. The above verse seems to indicate he responded in much the same manner as Job -- except Job had age and experience on his side. It doesn't appear Joseph wailed and screamed his "poor mes" all over the prison...but became depressed and reflective. He probably felt abandoned and experienced a great void in his life...all the while knowing he HAD heard from God and that the promises WOULD come to pass--MUST come to pass.

It's one thing for iron to enter into our soul and another for our soul to enter into the iron. Iron entering our soul indicates external circumstances strangling, or trying to strangle, our "self." We still can maintain a sense of fight against the forces at our door. However, when our soul enters into the iron there is a definite sense of defeat; the inability to fight back. In the vernacular, it's a time to "roll over and play dead."

In most of my life there was always a fight; iron trying to enter into my soul. I was "tough", though; so the iron cut and scraped away the skin and even drew blood -- but the "fight" always was there to make up for the pain and despair. I may not have liked the circumstances that bit and tore, but I was not destroyed.

Then, in September, 1984, my soul entered into the iron. I still waited for the promise to be fulfilled. I still had a dim light on the inside of my heart that told me it would come to pass. Though there was such a large void in my soul, I had little will, little strength, to fight back. I knew the promise would come to pass -- but this time it would come to pass in God's time and without my help, my fighting. The pain wasn't even as intense as it sometimes was when the iron tried to enter my soul -- I was, in fact, largely numb, uncaring of the pain when it existed. But, beyond my normal life-system, my days were spent, hour by hour, at work and at home, in tears. A constant flood:Typing at my desk with tears falling on the papers; leaning on a sill in the Ladies Room, tears spraying onto the glass; hiding in an old stairway by the office, tears hitting the floor; tears falling into dishwater, sinking below the surface, and immediately becoming unrecognizable. The only time I avoided crying was when I was in front of my kids who were walking through this hard stretch with me. I wasn't able to never do it, though, and my son, 11 years old, occasionally saw it and with a compassionate heart, Steve sometimes snuggled up with me on the couch and held me and we cried quietly together, him for me, me for everything.

I didn't give up--so the fight against the iron in the past held me in good stead. I'd never given up before; I wouldn't give up then. I would mother and work and "church" and hang out with dear, caring friends, and do all the normal things as any walking, waking person did...and someday I would want to live again, simply because I WANTED to -- not because I HAD to. Someday my soul would exit the iron -- when God healed me sufficiently, or the promise came to pass. But until then...

I "lived and moved and had my being"

The crying stopped, suddenly, in late April, 1985. A month later, the iron shattered into tiny, dust-sized bits and blew out of me when God dropped Dave -- a loving, caring, giving man -- into my life. The pain no longer had control, healing poured through my body, soul, and spirit.

Joy became the winner then.

Still is.


Wednesday, February 22, 2012


The following is a portion of a post from June 28, 2010. As you will see, this is how I met Curtis and what I learned about him. Afterwards, you will learn more.

On April 10th,
an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, approximately 50 of us First Responders arrived from various parts of town. We stood on the sidewalk directly where the shooting had occurred. Standing next to me, holding my hand, was a worn-out, old-looking Black man. This was his first F.R. time.

When we finished praying, I shook hands with him and asked his name. It is Curtis.
We walked and talked for a couple minutes and I offered him a ride home.

During the 3-minute drive he shared his story with me. Curtis had been on crack and other drugs for most of his life. He is 52, has been in prison
8 times. Curtis has been “clean” for a year and lives at a Christian rehab house. He is thankful he was in prison so often .... he believes if he had not been behind bars, time after time, he would have been dead through murder or O.D. He is one grateful man.

We have become friends. In this short time, his body appears more solid, his face exhumes more light, and,when we meet, he always hugs me and tells me he’s "doin' good."

How many times would any of us say we were grateful for prison, thankful that it was the right place to be at the right time?

Late yesterday afternoon, I went to a murder site. A man, 47 years old, named Anthony, had been chased by a young man and shot and killed while running through a back yard. This was the 6th murder this year, so it's always disappointing to have to take that time, but we do it.

When I parked in a local post office lot, I saw a man who was using a tri-pod walking cane, having a hard time getting through snow stacked next to the sidewalk. Then I thought, "Isn't that Curtis?" I hadn't seen him for several months, and, since life changes, I couldn't be absolutely sure. When I climbed out of the car, I said, "Hi." Then he turned to me and grinned and I knew it truly was him. But over the past nearly-two years that we've known each other, I'd certainly never seen him with a cane and struggling with and shuffling his left leg.

When I reached him, and we started to walk to the murder prayer site, I hooked our arms together so we could walk slowly and solidly, make it easier for him. I asked him what had happened. This is it:

On January 4th, he had been up the street near this site visiting his Mom. When he left, walking down the block heading for a Bible study, a car came by and the guys inside started shooting at a house. When he saw them nearby, and knew the risk he had, he tossed himself under a car. They saw him do this, and as they were driving past the car, they aimed under it. He was shot in the leg, twice. He is in physical therapy and doing better, but it's going to take a while before he can really walk again.

After the prayer time, we walked back to the parking lot. Before he left with his rehab pastor, he said he'd like to go to lunch with me some day, and said, "I'll pay." [I know he doesn't have much money, if any, so B.K. or McD. will be more than sufficient.] That is very nice. My husband approves of my friendships, so that's not an issue. [One of my goals is to have the men meet. I'm sure Dave can bless Curtis, and maybe the other way around, too.]

Other bits:

1) Curtis knew the man, Anthony, who was murdered. Christian seed may well have been planted in Anthony's heart; the results aren't known.

2) a Middle-School boy was brought to the prayer site. Mason is 12 to 14, and is a grandson of Anthony. It was amazing to see people pray over him and speak very clearly to him about how he can serve the Lord and help to turn this evil around in that part of town.

3) Curtis' son was shot not long ago. 9 bullets, 7 in front, 2 in back... and survived. Curtis is hoping his son will realize that the Lord has His hand protecting him.

In spite of the fact that it's connected to murder, First Responders groups always have joy in the mix. We really do care for each other and, in spite of the reason, we welcome our time together, sharing the Word, encouraging the pastors and "servants", pouring forth love.

Yesterday... cold, cloudy, windy, blah!... was even more a blessing for me than usual. I...saw...Curtis! I know he's still struggling at times with all those decades of addiction and years and years in prison, but he has a soft and caring heart. And he's alive when that shooting that so badly wounded his leg could so easily have ended his life.

I feel so blessed to have another "brother" and it's always... ALWAYS...good to see him.

Monday, February 20, 2012


Word Carnival ... "Disappoint"
Until today, I had other "disappoint" focuses: teeth pulled last Thursday after a couple years of fighting my body and fussing about it, putting it off, scared; the yucky flu hitting on Friday; an increasingly reduced energy level that's been kicking my tail since about a year ago and interferes more often from letting me be out and about. Annoying, and, yes, disappointing.

And then yesterday, when I saw my dear Phurba at the baby-dedication event, my heart just faded. It's been sad ever since.

I've known Phurba for 1-1/2 years. He's about 25; has had seizure brain-tumor problems since he was 8. When his parents came from Nepal, a year ago last Fall, it was anticipated that the tumor-issue wo
uld be addressed soon, since we have great hospitals. When I first met him shortly after their arrival, he entered my heart. For some reason, when he saw me, he'd smile. Sometimes he would reach out and grab my hand.

He had the surgery last Spring on Thursday, April 7th. One of my huge blessings was that when he became conscious Saturday morning the first thing he said, in Nepali, w
as, "Where's Joanne?" His brother, Bijay, called me, I hopped into the car and whipped down to the hospital. When I reached ICU, he was "out" again. He was released a few days later. A couple times the doctors seemed to be very pleased, convinced life was going to change for him.

As unde
rstandably as possible, he had left Buddhism and come to the Lord. On May 29th, with a number of his family members, he was baptized. What a joyful day!

Last Summer, Phurba's brother, Sai, asked me to help about 15 family and friends go to our city's great zoo. He asked me to drive my van and lead two other cars across town. We were crammed with kids, parents, and grandparents. What was funny? I was the tallest of the large group, and only non-Asian member. To make sure they could see me when we were moving around, I wore my pink sparkly ball cap.

Phurba spent the whole day with me, holding my hand, him yanking me one direction, me pulling him the other. Both of us laughing. Sai and I took
him with us on the Skyfari chairlift. We were a little concerned about his dizziness and his fear... if he wanted off while flying over trees, we'd be in real trouble. We did it, anyway; we put him between us, tightly. Oh, and he DID have fun. He'd point down at the giraffes, the birds, and monkeys and hippos and laugh. Sai and I laughed, too.

The last event was eating ice cream. It was a mess with a number of them, especially one family that had just arrived from Nepal a couple days earlier, and had not been ice cream eaters. And, for the whole group, eating ice cream cones outside in the heat was not what any of them had previously experienced. Phurba got it all over him. And, again, we all laughed.

Life has changed. He had lost weight by this summer; he has lost much more. He is pale. Dizziness is almost constant. He can't eat much and he vomits frequently. He sleeps a lot. My blessing? When I walk in their front door and he sees me, he often runs staggery across the living room and throws his arms around me... and laughs. When his family has me sit down near their dining room table, he often comes over and sits cross-legged on the floor right in front of me so he can watch me. He speaks almost NO English.. can count a bit, can say "hi", and can say "Love". I know fewer than 10 of their Nepali words. So, Phurba and I can't say any more words than those very few.

But we do love each other. Nothing else counts.

My heart of disappointment is simply what I described about Phurba's present life. Thin, pale, dizzy -- not improving at all; gradually becoming worse.

I had no idea when the Lord began to drop these many Bhutanese people into my life almost 2 years ago that I would be so in love, so filled with joy so often, laughing so much, and rarely...very disappointed.

I must rely on one of my mottoes: God is BIGGER!! I know that the worst that can happen is that when we are both in heaven, Phurba and I will spend time together ... and we'll talk, really TALK... and we will LAUGH!

Saturday, February 18, 2012


There’s a gaping hole in my soul –
Big enough to drive a truck through.

It’s not a fearful emptiness –
No reason for panic

But anticipating, breathless

waiting, waiting, waiting



for God


to enter in

Tuesday, February 14, 2012


This is not spiritually-focused teaching, intensely grabbing hearts and spirits, presenting new poems or stories. Nope. Just a grateful, joyful, smile-oriented moment to share. Here goes.

GOD IS BIGGER!! That has become one of my main mottoes. I would have wanted to know it back in those years. God began then to plant the “BIG” seed. I’m very grateful.

I was married on Christmas Eve,
1968. In April, 1969, my husband and I left Tacoma, WA, and ended up in the San Mateo/Redwood City region of the S.F., CA, Bay area, where he had been born and lived through his teens. He wanted to go back, hoping to restore serious family situations involving him. He wanted to develop a good relationship with his Dad. It had never happened before. It didn't again.

Physically and emotionally the 5 years I was there were pretty scary... in fact, exceptio
nally frightening on nearly every possible facet.

Except One. One BIG one.

I had been a Christian for exactly
3 years when we headed south. During those 5 years in California, God dropped, spiritually, a Mom and Dad, several sisters and brothers, and good friends into my life. He put me in churches and Bible studies and home group get-togethers. These fed my heart, grew my spirit, gave me hope. Protected me.

After all these years, there's one event I always remember and feel so blessed to have been in the "right place at the right time".

In 1972, a friend and I attended a home Bible study in Palo Alto. Went occasionally, but
didn't always like to go; the teacher seemed to always be talking about Leviticus 23, which I thought was boring, and he tended to holler at the 50 of us... YES, 50 in one large living room.

This evening, after I settled in
, I saw 4 hippie-looking guys sitting on the floor, a couple with guitars. Obviously, visitors. After the evening prayer was over, they were introduced. They were a singing group connected to what was called the Jesus Movement. [Keith Green, Barry Maguire, 2nd Chapter of Acts are famous members.] The guys said they'd been very involved with drugs, still had court time and might be in jail, but had come to the Lord and were attending Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa. And, for now, as they could, they were traveling around California to sing.

Then they did. Several songs. An
d I fell in love with them... and, by the way, their group was named "Love Song". The main leader was/is Chuck Girard. I've admired him ever since.

They later came to Redwoo
d City and gave concerts. Always free. Since I had no money, it was a big heart feeder that I could go.

In May, 1974, my 2 kids and I escaped to Omaha. I never heard or saw Love Song again. And always missed that blessed time.

Through it all, my favorite song was Maranatha! I hadn't been able to track it down over these years. Then, yesterday, I suddenly thought of the song and wondered, "What about Youtube? Has it finally shown up there?"

And it had! So, for the first time in 38 years, I listened to it last evening ... over and over and over.

Now, no, it isn't the best lyrical song ever written. And, yes, too repetitious. But, especially then, in our world view and our Christian walk, it focused on the return of our Lord and our need to prepare for that world-wide, eternal event. It was a very important then.

Still is.

Enjoy and rejoice!
on Youtube.

Saturday, February 11, 2012


Let your speech be always
Seasoned with Salt...
[written A.D. 61]
In our present days...
Yes, still our MOUTH...
but also,
our "FINGERS"...
Must be seasoned with salt...
And filled with grace...
Touching hearts and souls and spirits.

Friday, February 10, 2012


He sat on the sidewalk, his back resting against the dirty brick siding of the skid row Mission. He could have been forty or sixty or even eighty years old. His clothes were the Uniform of the Streets: a cast-off brown sport coat with frayed cuffs and holes where the elbows should have been; grimy, too-short khaki pants; gray-white socks, the tops of which had been stretched with wear and bagged in ripples to meet scuffed brown loafers.

Smoke, sweat and dust seemed to hover over him in a smoggy cloud, and even where I was standing, several feet away, the acrid odor reached me. I knew that if I moved closer I’d be able to smell the stale alcohol and tobacco on his breath. So I didn’t.

His gray-blond hair, grown long over his ears, stuck out in uneven clumps. His beard was salted liberally with gray, which somehow managed to match the pallor of his skin. Even his eyes had a dull gray look about them, although they had retained a touch of blue to indicate that, once, that may have held life – and a sparkle or two.

He was toothless, a fact readily apparent by the sunken cheeks and puckered, unsupported mouth. Lips stained with tobacco juice held the stubby remains of a dirty cigarette. Experience told me the cigarette was probably a composite of several butts rescued from the streets and re-rolled in the best of the available paper.

His face had volumes etched in it. If they could have talked, the scars on his face would have told stories that men seem to savor: the barroom brawl; the fight with the town bully; the fight over the woman who, at the time, was so important to his pride. However, those scars could also tell stories he wouldn’t want to hear repeated: the cut under the eye when he stumbled drunkenly into a gutter and hit his face against the curb; the time a young “con” rolled him and left him bleeding in the filth of an alley; the time he blacked out and never did find out what happened, having only the scar as a reminder of a “lost” night.

A rumpled paper sack poked from a torn pocket of his jacket. He had one gnarled, dirty hand protectively covering the area in a vain attempt to camouflage the bulge of a bottle outlined against the fabric. I knew the bottle would contain any watered-down rot-gut he had been able to beg, borrow, or steal, and that he would rather die than let anyone take it from him.

The door of the Mission opened, and from nooks and crannies up and down the street, men of all shapes and sizes emerged and formed a ragged line. The animosities and petty differences, such as age or color of skin, normally a thorn-hedge barrier between them, would be set aside for an hour of chapel and some “daily bread.”

After most of the others had gone into the Mission, the man I had been watching stood on spindly legs and shuffled unsteadily toward the door. He tentatively put out a hand to brace himself. Using the door as a prop, he stepped up the stoop and disappeared inside.

I turned and walked away. I thought of the women in his life – long unseen daughters, a wife, a sorrowing mother. I wondered if anyone else ever looked at a man like that, sitting on a sidewalk or wandering in the cold, and saw, not a derelict, but a too-old child, hurting and afraid and lonely. I hoped he found something in the Mission besides a sermon and soup. And as I walked, I prayed.

This was a result of the years I was helping at a mission in downtown Omaha some years ago. Saw so much; loved so many.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012


Some years back, I was over at Deb's house. One of the things she pointed out to me was the cobwebs inside her clothes closet. And she said, "My house may be dirty everywhere else, but at least I don't have cobwebs on my living room wall."

When Dave got home after I did, having helped them shift their kitchen appliances, he was expressing disgust at the thick layer of muck in the bottom of her refrigerator. She had opened the doo
after he helped push the fridge to the wall. The nasty smell hit him. He must have twitched a bit, and she noticed. Deb shrugged and told him that she would just leave it alone until it was to the point where she couldn't stand it any more. Then she'd clean it. He said she must have a very high tolerance.

Isn't that the way we are with our own sin life? When we notice our cobwebs -- the little surface things hidden behind the "door" -- we think, "At least I don't have cobwebs on my "outer wall". But we sometimes refuse to check the muck in the darkness of our own life.

How quick we are to become object lessons for the Lord’s teaching on the mote and log. And how often are we willing to open kind hearts towards others who aren't quite a "good" as we are? [I "ouch" a lot on that topic.]

. Why do you stare from without at the very small particle that is in your brother's eye but do not become aware of and consider the beam of timber that is in your own eye?

Monday, February 6, 2012


For nearly 27 years, Dave has been in my life. Neither of us had any idea that the Lord would put us together. The night before he came to my duplex, I called my friend, Susie, who many of you now know from the blog-oriented life we all live, and casually told her that this young guy from church was coming to mow my grass the next day. She still laughs a bit when she remembers that within about 10 days, the "young guy" and I were engaged; married in 4 months.

This is what I've shared. Think you'd understand even more.

We still enjoy each other. We bless each other. We
rarely ever focus on Valentine's Day. We don't like the commercial insanity and the way in which romance is faked. The only gift? About 15 years ago, Dave bought me an African violet plant on Valentine's Day... still have it.

So, to me, true romance had rarely occurred in my life until Dave was dropped in. Dave is an amazingly overwhelming treat.

One other blessing with being together. We have different ministries and gift areas. We support and encourage each other to do whatever God calls us to do as partners or individually. Period. So "romance" isn't just lots of kisses and hugs, although those are very nice; "romance" is blessing each other to serve our Lord no matter what the cost.
Word Carnival is "Romance".

Saturday, February 4, 2012


I love you fervently and devotedly, O Lord, my Strength.

The Lord is my Rock, my Fortress, and my Deliverer; my God, my keen and firm Strength in Whom I will trust and take refuge, my Shield, and the Horn of my salvation, my High Tower. [Ps. 18:1,2]

He is the Rock, His work is perfect, for all His ways are law and justice. A God of faithfu
lness without breach or deviation, just and right is He. [Deut. 32:4]

Friday, February 3, 2012


Bhutanese Baby #4. What a JOY. Have known Kharka since shortly after the Lord dropped his family into my life on May 4, '10. He had arrived in the States in March.

I met Usha in May, '11, after my return from the NW. She had arrived on April 28, two days after I left home. Kharka had been waiting for her and had told me a number of times that he wanted his lady to come as soon as possible.

When she arrived -- the DAY she arrived -- his family used their cultural way of having a marriage. She was taken in as their daughter-in-law. It isn't OUR way of doing things, but it was sufficient for them. Both Kharka and Usha left their Hindu religion and came to the Lord in May and were baptized on May 29th. They were married OUR way on July 2nd. In Nepal, they were friends and loved each other for several years; they are very happy.

Now, Pratigya arrived exactly 9 months and 5 days after Usha came from Nepal. WOW! And they both were so happy about this blessing.

I have been involved with them at the O.B. office for several weeks. Didn't need to be there until the ultrasound showed the baby moving along as anticipated and the birth issues might need to be discussed a bit.

Even though the Dr. anticipated that we would be at the hospital after an appointment on Wednesday, she agreed with them that they could wait another 4 days if necessary, but she said, "No longer".

Yesterday morning at 11:30, Kharka called me and yammered so fast I couldn't understand anything except that they needed to head for the hospital soon. I rushed up the street and checked in and found that 2:00 would be the reasonable time. I rushed back home and called the hospital to let them know the needed schedule. Arrived a little later, but the whole "baby" process was begun by 5:00, all the IV meds and fluids in place. The epidural around 10:00. And then:

at 3:30 the nurses started getting everything in place, called the Dr., had Kharka and I moving some of the furnishings and getting everything involving us ready.

The night-nurse and I had the "delivery" leg-holding birth-pushing job. As has occurred before, my leg and arm muscles began to be pretty tired and sore from the intense hard counter-pushing. Usha was one strong young lady! I never would have guessed it; she's so small and thin. But she was absolutely determined to get this done. ASAP!!

Then it did. 4:43 AM. Since I only live 10 minutes away from the hospital, I didn't leave until about an hour later. After the birth, I was able to hold Pratigya for quite a while. Kharka was actually a little nervous about holding this little child for more than a minute or so, and it wasn't possible to let Usha hold her too long with all her personal body repair still taking place.

SO... my blessing was holding Pratigya for about 20 minutes, floating around the room with her, and cuddling her. Right after we prepared
the Mom and Baby time for the breast feeding to begin, I was done with my part of the "job" and I left for home. Reached here at 5:55.
Someday I hope one of my pics during those early times of morning would show me gorgeous, but at least I was there and this proves it.

Have slept off and on from
7AM to 2:15 today. Now staying up and posting and sharing.

Hope I sleep tonight.
Bold Italic
Text Color

Wednesday, February 1, 2012


This verse jumped out at me a couple days ago, and it's been on my mind, heart, ever since. Here it is, Amplified:

Neither shall you bring an
abomination (an idol) into your house, lest you become an accursed thing like it; but you shall utterly detest and abhor it, for it is an accursed thing.

Considering how it is applied to our present world-days, it might not make any sense to most folks. OR by sticking with it now... when to most people it really doesn't make sense and sounds awfully picky or boring.

Loathsome, detestable are the
definitions connecting abominable and accursed. And a god or idol is someone or something considered to be extremely valuable or important.

Often I think of this. Am I placing someone or something ahead of my Heavenly Father? Am I wo
rried about having a nice house, nice furniture, nice yard, good car, and a family-connected sports team player who wins ... because "less than" would put us lower in our society... Christian society, too.

Am I allowing certain DVDs, songs, TV shows, I-Net programs to enter my house, my heart, my mind... ones that will fill me with ungodly thoughts and dreams, hopes and plans for the future?

Will I be on alert at all times to be certain that no one brings th
ose elements into my home?

Could I place my loving husband over my Lord? What a spiritually dangerous move that would be! Dave would cry, loudly, "NO!", and be horribly upset that I would put him first.

Another example: Back in the
'92 stretch, we had two ladies living with us. Both were in their 30s and both solid Christians. One of our house rules we laid before them was that we did not allow anyone in our home to watch any TV programs or videos that were rated "R". Their comment? "But we are adults. We should be allowed to choose what we want to watch." OUR comment: "Not here." [When I think of what "R" rated is today, compared to 20 years ago, that's a real challenge.] And Dave and I still are pressured by some people to be more flexible about what we're willing to watch.

And what about so many other things? It depends on the families, regions, states, nations... their focus on anything, anywhere, anytime-- except for our Heavenly Father and our Dear Lord Jesus

So, here's my question. Where and how do you deal or struggle with this one?