Sundays in Psalms: How to Drown Your Enemies

 

I will be glad and rejoice in you; I will sing the praises of your name, O Most High.  My enemies turn back; they stumble and perish before you.

—Psalm 9:2-3 NIV

 

Without fail, I leave church on Sundays feeling lighter than I felt walking in. Sometimes, it’s due to an uplifting sermon. Sometimes, it’s a conversation with a friend, their encouraging words, and a hug. Other times, it might be because someone took a moment to hear what’s on my heart and pray with me. Most often, it stems from lifting my heart in worship alongside other believers. All of those pull together to make attendance worthwhile, even though I could enjoy the live-streamed service from the comfort of my couch.

In Psalm 9, David goes back and forth from praising and worshipping God to declaring God’s judgment on his enemies—sometimes with brutal, violent language. It might seem like a strange way to arrange a song. I think the modern-day psalmists understood when they wrote the contemporary lyrics stating that “praise is the water my enemies drown in.”*

I can feel weighed down by the enemies of discouragement, guilt, or anxiety—whether stemming from events in the world around me or whatever’s happening in my own heart and body. But when I begin to praise God, my attention is focused on the only One who can defeat all those enemies. Praise and fear cannot co-exist. Praise and bitterness cannot co-exist. Praise and envy cannot co-exist. Worship becomes a God-given weapon we can use to defeat every foe, even—or maybe especially—the ones no one sees. 

Action Step: Next time you’re feeling defeated, pull up some worship music and sing along with all your heart, despite your feelings. See if your enemies don’t flee.

 

*From Praise by Elevation Worship, written by Steven Furtick, Chandler Moore, Brandon Lake, Pat Barrett, Cody Carnes, and Chris Brown.

In Defense of 2020

People treat this year as though it’s the black sheep of the family. The kid on the playground who stinks so bad nobody wants to go near him. A laughingstock. If you spend any time on social media, you’ve seen the variety of memes dedicated to, “If 2020 were a …”

If it were a playground slide, it would be a twelve-foot long vegetable grater in the painful direction.

If 2020 were a beverage, it would be a colonoscopy prep.

If 2020 were a bag of chips, they’d be orange juice and toothpaste flavored.

A hilarious video shows a dozen guys trying to roll out a rain delay tarp over a ball diamond in a deluge. The tarp seems to be folding in on itself, forcing them to roll it all up and try again. It’s labelled, “If 2020 were a tarp.”

 

Someone asked, “At what point can we just start using 2020 as a swear word?” followed by examples of how that might work. “Well, that’s a load of 2020,” or “What the 2020 is that?”

We need to laugh, don’t we? Especially if the only alternative is tears. But I detect an underlying assumption that 2020 is unique. We gleefully anticipate 2021, believing it will somehow, magically, be better.

I don’t want to be a gloomy Gus, but what if it’s not? A few months ago, I wrote about the wonderful reunion we’d enjoy when church services could resume. I imagined the hugging and the laughing. Now that we’re resuming, it’s nothing like I predicted, and we don’t know how long it will be until we’re free to hug or to sing our hearts out without masks—if ever.

Who knows what fallout effects of this year’s tragedies will continue to plague us for decades? Who’s to say another virus won’t surface on the heels of this one, as bad or worse? What if, in 2025, you find yourself longing for the good old days of 2020?

This year is getting a bad rap and bullying it isn’t helping. Good things have happened, too. Babies have been born. Couples have bravely taken the plunge and gotten married this year despite restrictions. At least it will always be easy to calculate their age or anniversary year.

Personally, 2020 is the year I released my first self-published book. It’s also the year I signed a contract on my fourth novel, to be released in 2021. I’m pumped about seeing this book distributed, and why wouldn’t I be? I’m a 61-year-old with a lung condition living through a pandemic. Those factors only increase the sense of urgency.

And when forced to wait for something, you can know God is in the waiting time with you. A song I love says, “We don’t know what tomorrow holds, but we know Who holds tomorrow. Knowing this, we’ll live above the world and all its sorrow.”

The nightly news is grim. It can easily fill our hearts with fear and anxiety. What if instead, you used the news as a daily reminder that—whatever’s going on around you—you are here today, in this moment. You don’t need to wait a minute to do what God put you here to do. If you’re not sure what that is, Philippians 4:4-9 is a great place to begin.

Who knows? 2020 could turn out to be your best year ever.

 

I'd Rather Die

In his book, I’d Rather Die than Give a Speech, Michael M. Klepper tells the story of how he went from “heart failure” to “speeches with heart.” He learned to hurdle what could have been a career handicap and turned it into an asset.

Glossophobia is the fancy name for fear of public speaking and it affects most of us to some degree. Rare is the person who’s immune to any form of nervousness or apprehension at the thought of public speaking and performance. Even famous celebrities deal with it. Many learn to push through their pounding heart, profuse sweating, shaking, and even vomiting. For others, it’s a paralyzing fear they never overcome. Often it begins in childhood.

That’s why we’re so proud of Brad.

At a recent meeting of our Portage Chamber Toastmasters Club, Brad delivered a speech about his greatest fear. As a boy, Brad lived with a stammer which grew worse with nerves. The other kids teased him, and you can imagine how little that helped.

Brad’s an introvert who loves working with numbers. He’s gifted in figuring out investments and how to make money grow. He was a natural candidate to become a financial consultant for other people.

Except for the people part.

Brad admitted he’d always suffered a fear of talking to people, both one-on-one and in groups. Standing in front of a crowd to speak became his most dreaded nightmare. But Brad knew if he was going to prove successful in his career—and in life—he needed to conquer this fear. And the best way to overcome any fear is by doing the thing you fear. Preferably, with people who will cheer you on and help you grow.

Brad enrolled in a twelve-week Dale Carnegie course. The course gave him a new level of confidence and the courage to take the next step. That’s when he joined our club.

Toastmasters is all about giving its members opportunities to speak in a safe, supportive environment. It works! In the brief year we’ve been meeting, I’ve watched people who, at their first meeting, took a pass when called on to say their own name. The next week they were able to stand and introduce themselves. The following week they introduced themselves and answered the question of the day. And so on.

Brad was one of these. The day he commanded the lectern and spoke for six minutes about his journey was not only a triumph for Brad. It was a victory for all of us.

And he didn’t stammer once.

Was it perfect? No speech ever is. And that’s the beauty of it. Even the best speakers have room to improve, and we meet to help one another do exactly that. Brad earned himself the flaming pink flamingo that day, a fun and super-classy award given out at the end of each meeting to honour our “most improved” member.

Your Creator did not intend for you to live in fear (See II Timothy 1:7). He smiles when you conquer your fears and move toward becoming the person he designed you to be. If public speaking is a fear you’d love to conquer—or even if you’d simply like to become more polished in your presentations—I hope you’ll consider joining us at Toastmasters. Regardless where you’re at on your road to better public speaking, you’ll receive helpful evaluations, growth points, and encouragement. You’ll go home having laughed a lot, applauded a lot, and been applauded for. A lot.

Our group is business-focused, which means if your employer or a group to which you belong is a Portage Chamber member, you are welcome to join. We meet every Monday (except holidays) for one fast-paced hour starting at 11:45 a.m. in the board room of Community Futures Heartland – 11 2^nd Street NE in Portage. You’re welcome to bring your lunch.

Falling Down on Escalators

They say nothing bad ever happens to a writer. It’s all material.

So when I fell on an escalator at the world’s busiest airport last month, it took me only minutes to realize I could glean a blog post out of the embarrassing experience. But first, the humiliation.

Thankfully, the escalator was going down and I was nearing the bottom. A small rolling bag balanced on the step behind me, its handle in my right hand. My left hand held a half-full water bottle. A light blanket was draped over my left arm. My backpack hung squarely across my shoulders. Somehow I lost my balance, and when you lose your balance on an escalator there’s no retrieving it. Or perhaps there’s no retrieving it when you’re just days shy of your sixtieth birthday like I was.

In any case, down I went. In one of those surreal, slow-motion moments, I became aware of several voices all asking the same question: “Are you all right?”

“No,” I squeaked. “Can you help me up?”

I put out a hand and a kind man pulled me to my feet, not letting go until I stood on solid ground. Someone else retrieved my bag and blanket. My water bottle had dumped its contents across my hand.

I stood off to the side to assess the damages. One more person asked if I was okay. With a shaky voice, I replied “I will be. Thanks.”

I’d landed on one hip. That’s gonna hurt tomorrow, I thought. My right hand throbbed. No broken bones, just a bruised ego. It’s crazy how shaken I felt. I suppose it came from seeing how frighteningly fast something like that can happen and realizing how much worse it could have been. And how far I was from home.

I carried on, thankful I had lots of time to find my gate. Pretty soon the signs pointed up. I needed to take another escalator. My first instinct was to find an elevator or stairs. I walked past.

Then my mind returned to an event at age seventeen, visiting a ranch belonging to one of my high school teachers, Mr. DeVries.  After a pleasant trail ride, the horse I rode (I’ll call him “Lucifer” to protect the innocent) took off unexpectedly as soon as he came within sight of home. Apparently, his saddle had not been properly cinched. I found myself hanging off the side of Lucifer for hours, or at least a second. I remember the taste of dirt as I hit the ground. Mr. DeVries saw the whole show. He caught the horse and walked it back to me.

“You need to get back on,” he said.

I did, determined to show Lucifer who was boss and Mr. DeVries that I wasn’t a sissy—even if I really wanted to cry.

Lucifer took off again. I landed in the dirt again.

This time, Mr. DeVries made me climb back on the horse but walked the animal to his stall. I slunk into the house for a soothing shower and a little cry.

I don’t recall being on horseback since. It’s never been a priority. But it all floated to the surface that day at the Atlanta airport.

I turned around, walked back to the escalator, and stepped aboard.

Thanks, Mr. DeVries.