No one really knows how ‘Oreo’ got its name, but over 362 billion of these gems been sold since 1912, the year it was first introduced by Nabisco. It was also the best selling cookie of the last century.

So, if it’s so popular and was the best selling cookie, why is it that I am the one that has introduced so many others to the magic of an Oreo?

There have been times when I crave an Oreo. But, I can’t just eat it 'plain'. I have to have milk with it. That’s just how it’s done in my house. Dip it in milk, eat the Oreo and then wash it down with a few swigs of milk, now with random cookie crumbs interspersed in the milk.

Maybe it’s the outer chocolate cookie that has the ability to wash away the blues. Maybe it’s the cream inside that helps to get you over the hurdles. Maybe it’s both, giving you a two-for-one deal in helping to stay sane.

I went to Tennessee earlier this year to meet Judy, my very good friend and blog partner at Parkinson’s Journey. I introduced her to the Oreo dipping phenomenon. She’s acquired the taste for Oreos now. Last summer, before we moved from Idaho to Oregon, I sat with a dear friend at the park. We shared the magic of the Oreo. It was her first time dunking this popular chocolate, cream-filled cookie.

Several years ago, I read a story about a woman who was getting frustrated with her newly-married husband. When she was growing up and having a tough time in life, her dad would bring her to the kitchen and they’d sit at the table where magical Oreos lay next to a cold glass of milk. They would talk and she always felt better after. Her husband however, didn't know about the magic of an Oreo and try as he might, he couldn't figure out how to help her. One day, she explained to him what her father had done while she was growing up and since that discussion, the poor guy keeps a stash on hand for emergencies. The Oreo talks with her dad was a big part of how she felt loved and secure.

There’s just something about an Oreo. It can help in breaking down barriers. It can be used in starting a conversation. “Hi – Uh, my name is Sherri and uh, well, I’m addicted to Oreos.” You should see all the affirmations given to me by others, by those who truly to understand the healing effects in this small, yet significant, culinary delight.

Today was an Oreo kind of day. However, I don’t believe in magic. I believe in a God who cares and will see me through my tough times. So, like that one woman whose husband keeps a stash of Oreos on hand – while I’m dunking and enjoying my Oreos, I know for certain it is God who does His magic on my heart and mind and not that little, cream-filled cookie. He gives comfort that an Oreo will never give.

So, thanks for the Oreo, Nabisco, but I’ll be getting what I really need from the Lord.

Sherri

It’s October. The season of harvesting. We harvest apples, corn, pumpkins. I once heard someone compare being a Christian with that of being a pumpkin. They said that being a pumpkin is likened to being a Christian because we are, like a pumpkin, carefully lifted up from the pumpkin patch of life. We are snipped from the old life and what happens next, I believe, depends on us. We can crawl up and hide in an oven where no one will see us and we can tend to lose our witness and shrivel up and die, or we can be created into something brand new. Choose a new face, you might say. I’m not sure about you, but the second option sounds much more appealing to me than the first…

My experience with pumpkin patches is that they can tend to be prickly, much like life itself. They can be appealing but if you get too close, it stings. You tend to walk away with scratches from areas you perhaps should not have gotten so close to. What a gift when the Master Gardener reaches down and saves us! It is then that the transformation begins. The cleaning, the gutting, the washing. I am sure some wish they had remained there on the ground. Some wiggle down and actually do roll back over there and stay until they eventually die.

But, if we allow God to do his miraculous work within us, He begins by opening us up. That is often a very vulnerable and frightening place for many of us to be, especially if we come from places where we tend to hide from the rest of the world. After we have been “exposed”, He reaches in and begins to get rid of the “junk” inside. He scrapes and he pulls. It can be quite painful at times, to say the least. The more we resist, the longer it takes, the more it hurts. But then there finally comes a time when we are made clean - made clean by the righteousness of Christ. One day we are sitting in the dirt, basking in the warm sun without a care in the world, and the next day we are being opened up and cleaned out. Cleansed from rubbish in our lives that so easily gets a hold and before we know it, it’s attached itself to our life in such a way so that it actually is very painful to remove.

Sin does that. It looks appealing and it always sounds fun. Takes root and creates quite a mess. But if we let God have His way and love us as only He can, He gives us a brand new look. He cleans us out and puts a light inside for all to see. A light that shines brightly in the darkness through a smile filled with joy.

I have pondered over the pumpkin patch. I have thought how wonderful it is to have been cleaned out by holy hands for a holy purpose by a holy God. It gives me shivers. Who would have thought we could have taken an ordinary pumpkin and seen the very hand of God upon it in such a way? How magnificent the comparison of an ordinary pumpkin with that of the life of a brand new Christian.

A brand new face, eyes that see like His, a mouth that smiles with joy, the light of his Spirit shining through us into a dark world ... Doesn’t it make you just want to be a pumpkin?!

October 12, 2005

Emma lived across the street from me and she was five years old. She was absolutely adorable. Her daddy had to work and so, being it was the Fourth of July, her mommy did fireworks for her. Sparklers, to be exact. And Emma got burned.

Not really bad, but bad enough to cry. And need ice. And extra attention.

I stood there, reflecting on Emma crying. And it made me realize that I do that. I get stung and I cry over the pain that someone has inflicted and even though it wasn't that bad, you better believe that I'm going to soak it up for all it's worth. I'm going to let every one know that I've been hurt.

We are all stung by sharp words, thoughtless comments, and unintentional but hurtful actions. And, we've all been those who have imposed the stings. I'm fairly certain that I'm not the only one who has never hung on to the hurt for whatever reason. Sometimes we don't even realize we're holding on to it.

But, watching Emma, I also realized that when we're focused on our hurt, we miss out on the continuation of life around us. There were other fireworks that started. They were awesome and beautiful and Emma felt better by then, but what if she hadn't? She would have missed out on something spectacular. And I've done that, too.

Life is full of sparklers. Some burn, some hiss and pop and then they're finished. But if, while they hiss and pop, we suddenly get burned, will we allow the incident to cause us to focus on the pain, or will we get some ice, accept the attention and then determine to get on with life, looking for the other fireworks God has in store for us?

Lord, there have been times in my life where I have gotten burned. Help me to come to you for healing and then set me back on the path of life, not focusing on the pain, but on the next spectacular show you have for me. May the sting of life not consume my attention away from You, but lead me running to You for comfort, healing and safety. Just like Emma did with her mommy.

Today I sat on the rocks at the edge of the ocean. I woke up to fog outside my window, but by 10 a.m., it was clear blue skies, clouds intermittently dotting the canopy above me.

I searched the tide pools for treasures and found a large orange starfish; his legs curled at the ends, hiding and hoping no one would find him there and snatch him from his home. Sea crabs crawled here and there as if intent on an important mid-morning mission and appearing to have none, they crawled about as if lost. Sea anemones lazed in the water soaked sand, motionless and with an Eyeore personality.

After gathering several broken yet smoothed and sea-polished shells, I sat on a rock, the waves crashing in front of me, allowing me the pleasure of watching them dance upon the rocks. And as I gazed out at the vastness of the ocean, tears fell from my eyes. I was going to have to leave shortly.

And yet, this is home within my heart. This is where I always meet God in my pain and often in my joy. There are so many memories of conversations that I have had, miles upon miles, my footprints left in the sand on long stretches of foggy beaches or my tennis shoes pounding the pavement above the cliffs. This is where the ocean holds secrets of past storms and the sea winds have witnessed changes in my life. The place I always find comfort, healing, and the arms of God open wide to receive this child in need. The meeting place where I can pour out my innermost thoughts and my God not only listens but also speaks, if only just a word, and I am convicted.

We can both be honest, for we are both loved.

This is the place I adore.

I count on Him to meet me here, amongst the noise of the crashing waves, the vastness of the waters and the raging storms, in the powerful and mighty winds, the warmth of the sun, and the spectacular view.

A tear rolls down my cheek and I tell Him I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with Him, at least for a just little while more. Here on this rock, warmed by the sun, bathed in His majesty.

But I know that I must go, knowing I do not go alone, for He goes with me. And even though He doesn’t seem to mind where we meet, I think on days such as this, He may just prefer His ocean, too. After all, it is one of His greatest masterpieces, so why not meet there, if only once in a while?

The other day I heard a new song by Matt Redman and the only part I recall is one line: “The more I sing, the more I love you.” It made me think about all the dissention there is in the church about what type of music we want to hear and when in the service we want to hear it, why we prefer this kind over that kind, how we want to sing it, and who we’d prefer to lead us.

I felt sad. We become so focused on what, how, when – we have played right into the devil’s scheme in getting us to take our focus off worship and instead think about how we think worship ought to be. However, when we start thinking about how we think and feel it should or shouldn’t be, isn’t that becoming self-focused and not God-focused?

Worship is all about God. Emptying ourselves of the garbage within and focusing on our Savior and Maker. Ironically, Matt Redman got that message right as well, when he wrote, “I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You.”

If we are truly worshiping, we aren’t distracted by the issues that can tend to separate us within the walls of God’s dwelling place. Instead, we are gathered as one body, sharing in the presence of the One who brought us together.

I know the worship wars aren’t over. I still hear comments about how the worship leader was going much too fast, the song was too peppy, the words weren’t God-directed. I think we could make a long list of complaints about our Sunday morning worship services. But you know what that would say? We’re not worshipping. We allow ourselves to become so involved critiquing our services that we become distracted from the purpose of why we came to church in the first place.

As I listened to Redman’s song, I was touched by its simple truth.

The more I sing, the more I love you.

Clearly, if we are God-focused and not self-focused, we will grow to love Him more. In worship, we will focus on the words and what they mean and not who wrote them or why the new drummer keeps bouncing around. We will sing how great is the Lord and realize how small we are. That in itself defines the expression the more I sing, the more I love you.

We will be captured into His presence, singing holy, holy, holy. There will be no pessimistic attitude of picking apart everything that’s wrong with the music in the service, but we will find instead that our love for the Lord is growing. The words have the opportunity to become ingrained in our heart and soul as we sing. When we allow that to happen, we are ushered into His presence and there’s no going back. We can’t help but love Him!

Isn’t that the purpose of worship? Coming to a place where nothing else matters but the One we stand before? As we worship Him, we come to realize just who we are. We are nothing and He is everything.

Sitting in a hotel room, waiting for a conference to start, there were three of us. We were talking about Bible verses and one of the ladies I was with was saying that she was reading how God has a special name for each of us. She was telling of a story about a friend of hers who sought God’s name for her life and that prompted Her to do the same. She was embarrassed to share her name, thinking we would think she was crazy.

Listening to her story, I was intrigued. Intrigued by the boldness with which she approached God for such a favor - to tell her the name He had chosen just for her. There was excitement glowing in her whole being, for knowing her God-given name. She was named after a famous music composer. I suppose, if God knew about us from the start of creation, that famous music composer could be named after her.

I pushed that conversation to the back of my mind and pushed through the weekend. The thought of God having a specific name for me excited me. It’s not something I had thought much about. Until then.

I was in a pondering state of mind one day and that conversation from our hotel room resurfaced. I began wondering just what name God had given to me. I was timid about asking. What if I didn’t like it? What if it was Butterball or Miss Fit or Knuckle Head? Would I stand before the Creator of the universe and ask for a different one?

Lord, would you reconsider? Could I maybe return this name that you’ve given me for, say- that one over there that says Beloved Princess of the King?

I decided to ask the Lord to reveal it to me and if He chose to honor my request, I would be thankful.

A few days passed and then another. On a rather sunny day, with a slight breeze, I sat outside on the porch in my white rocking chair and put my head back and closed my eyes.

Green.

I opened my eyes. No one was there but I was sure I had heard a voice. I looked around a bit and there was no one. The street was dead.

Your name is Green.

It was Him. I knew it was Him. But…

Green? You’ve got to be kidding. I am not telling anyone.

Then God did something amazing, in spite of my ungratefulness. He showed me why.

I love to garden. I have always loved to be out in the yard – to be outside. I remember the pink roses that climbed and twisted their way along the grape stake fence in our front yard of the house when I was eight. The beautiful, mint green leaves that adorned the tall tree, covered with wisteria-like blooms in the spring. The brick border that encircled the truck of that tree where agapanthuses grew, showing off their lavender blooms in a firework display throughout the summers. I even remember the bottlebrush shrub outside my mom and dad’s bedroom window. That, for some reason, I never liked. It’s funny the things you remember.

I still love to garden. Watching seeds grow that were planted weeks ago. Turning over soil in anticipation of a new vegetable garden. Cutting the grass to reveal a lush, thriving lawn. Pruning dead blooms in expectation that the new growth will burst forth with healthy new buds. Everything about it I love. A garden is a mirror of growth, a picture of dying in order to live, of beauty.

When God began to explain why he named me after a color found in a Crayola box, I began to listen. I was on my knees out in the side yard, weeding, moving some flowers around and then I sat still.

It was so beautiful here in the summer. The flowers were all blooming, the colors amazing. There were blue delphiniums and an array of purples in the foxgloves. The coreopsis shouted out, “Look at me” with their bright yellows alongside the Shasta daisies, with their white faces. There were sunflowers smiling up to the skies, nasturtiums crawling along the walkways, yarrow beginning to bloom alongside the Iceland poppies and lavender reaching out, beckoning anyone going by to stop and relish its fragrance.

And here I was, digging up plants. Disturbing the beauty before me. Or was I? I knew that in order for these plants to be as healthy as they were, it took a lot of work. Weeding, pruning, removing the dead so the living would flourish, fertilizing, cultivating and more. They also had endured many storms. Having been stepped on and pulled at, they were not just surviving in their little corner of the world – they were thriving.

I sat there and thought about what I had just observed. God’s put a lot of time and effort into me since before I came into this world. Since then, he has pruned me, weeded out the bad and removed the dead places. He has poured down rain and allowed the storms to come. He has fertilized my life with His word. He has gone with me through many seasons together. I have been stepped on and pulled at. I haven’t merely survived – I am thriving and growing and though I’ve been pruned, I have bloomed in the places He’s planted me.

Hmmm… Guess that makes me somewhat of a garden. One that’s flourishing despite the storms and droughts. Guess that makes me ‘green’. A vibrant, living green. Right out of the Crayola box. And written across my tiara? “Beloved Green Princess of the King”.