Janet's Blog

I'm not a Christian simply because I go to church every Sunday.  I'm not a Christian because I graduated from a Christian college.  I'm not a Christian because I play bass with the worship team, or because I help with children's ministries.  I'm not a Christian just because I've been baptized.  I'm not a Christian because I read and study the Bible.  I'm not a Christian because I can quote numerous verses of Scripture. I'm not a Christian because of what I do; I'm a Christian because of what Christ has done for me and in me. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.   Ephesians 2: 8-9

I am scheduled to have eye surgery on March 6th, to repair a macular hole in the retina of my left eye.  In the meantime, I'm living with greatly reduced vision and a headache by early afternoon, most days.  I'm not looking forward to the out-patient surgery in Denver, but I'm even less excited about the five days after the surgery, when I have to spend 99% of my time face-down, in a motel room, with no reading or computer use allowed.  I can't come home right away because I can't change altitude right after the surgery.  And after all of that, I don't have any guarantee that I will regain vision in that eye, although the surgeon hopes that I will get back at least 50% of the vision I've lost. It's easy to feel discouraged about the prospect of this surgery and the aftermath.  I'm still not feeling 100% after my bout with a sinus infection and bronchitis last month, and I'm certainly not ready to miss even more school days.  However, I'v...

I had just turned nine when we moved to our apartment in the Hotel MaryEtta.  Because we lived on the fourth floor, we were able to use the old Otis elevator--we all built up our biceps opening that heavy glass door and metal gate several times a day, just so we could ride up or down in the elevator. And, we were intrigued to find that our front door had a peephole.  Of course, as a typical nine year old, I wasn't quite tall enough to use it.  Realistically, it wasn't used by anyone very often.  On those rare occasions when someone rang our doorbell during the day, we just opened the door.  But, at night, Mom or Dad usually looked through the tiny peephole before they opened the door, and we were instructed to never open the locked door after dark, unless an adult had checked first to see who was there. As I became older and taller, I used the peephole, too, especially after dark.  Looking through a peephole gives a distorted view of the person on the ot...

It's been forty years since Bill and I spent our first Valentine's Day together.  We had only known each other for a month or so, but it was long enough for both of us to realize that we might be spending a lifetime together. We had met in the middle of January at a Methodist church in Lincoln, where we had both been asked to play guitar and lead singing for a weekend Lay Witness Mission.  It was funny, really, because we knew many of the same people, who assumed that we already knew each other, too. I remember the first time I saw him, as Bill came in the door of the church on that bitter cold Saturday, red-headed, bigger than life, wearing a bulky down jacket and "waffle stompers"--boots that made his feet look even bigger than they were--and carrying his guitar.  For a split second, it was as if God was shining a spotlight on Bill, just for me to see, as if to say "Here he is!"  I remember feeling mildly astonished, and then totally unconvinced tha...