Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

Her voice. It stayed with me for years. I would hear it in my dreams — or hear it in my head. It always helped me to not miss her quite as much.

She left for heaven quickly without giving us much time to prepare, but we did have a beautiful moment by her bedside as we sang, “Amazing Grace” and held on to her as tightly as we could.

Losing your mom is hard. She wasn’t with me nearly long enough. So glad I have pictures and memories, my favorite being her sitting in “her chair” reading a Grace Hill novel, Reader’s Digest, or her Bible.

But years later as time has gone by — her voice — slipped out of my mind. I still try to hear it, but it will not come.

I looked up “voice” in my Bible concordance and surprisingly, it was in Psalm 29:3-9 seven times, sandwiched between four of my favorite verses — Psalm 29:1,2,10,11.

I had drawn an arrow pointing from verse 1-2 down to verse 10-11, like the in-between verses were nothing.

Guess I should have learned a lesson from my mother when she used to offer me a “nothing” sandwich every time I could not make up my mind about what kind of sandwich I wanted. You guessed it — I got two slices of bread with nothing in-between.

Those “in-between” verses. I should have known not to skip them all these years.

For those verses are about the voice of the Lord — and they are beautiful.

As I thought about my desire to hear my mother’s voice, my heart began to sense a bit of the magnificence of the voice of our Lord.

The voice is upon the waters. The God of glory thunders. When the waters are deep, we tend to listen to the roar of the waves. But those rushing waves are overpowered by the clap of the God’s thunder as He speaks from above.

The voice of the Lord is powerful and full of majesty. It is a voice of honor, royalty, beauty, and power. Psalm 104:3 says that he makes the clouds his chariot, and walks upon the wings of the wind.

The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon. Thirty feet in circumference and up to 129 feet in height. Only the most powerful voice could split the most powerful cedars — and we can hear that voice.

The voice of the Lord divides the flames of fire. Who could do that? No one. But God’s voice can. The flames listen to the voice and melt the hearts of men.

The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness. A wilderness is neglected, abandoned, uncultivated, or in a position of disfavor. The voice can shake our wilderness.

The voice of the Lord makes the hinds to calve, discovers the forest, and in his temple everyone speaks of his glory. The voice makes the deer give birth, strips forests bare, and everyone says, “Glory!” We will be so overcome by his voice that the word, “Glory!” will spew right out of our mouths.

I can almost hear it, can’t you?

Clap! Crack! Boom! Roar! Snap! Swish! Crackle! Rattle! Glory!

It is like God’s Word is giving us an audible display of his power!

Sounds like the fireworks of the Holy Spirit to me!

Oh, Lord, give us ears to hear it!

Will we know the voice when we hear it? Of course! If I heard my mother’s voice today, even though I have not heard it in 25 years, I know I would recognize it immediately!

Hear the voice — it is all around us.

Contact Ann Farabee at annfarabee@gmail.com

By Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

Poor little fellow. It was a lot to bear for a three-year-old. Fears and tears filled his eyes, as he yelled, “I got a splinter!” Screaming and thrashing about ensued, followed by, “It hurts!” Getting him to let us look at it was the next challenge. Letting us help with removal was going to be an even more difficult task.

We tried reasoning. You don’t want an infection, do you?

We tried to sneak in from behind. The element of surprise did not work.

We tried to force him. That got tricky.

We tried taking a break. Peaceful — but not helpful.

We tried holding him down. Not a success. Perhaps a slight injury. Not to him — to me.

Nothing would work if he would not receive the help. The splinter remained.

A splinter can be a small thing that breaks off from a larger thing and gets stuck. If it does not come out, it can disintegrate, spread, become fully embedded, and infected. It can alter our actions and movements. It can hurt. It can create problems, for it does not need to be there.

Realizing that our personal efforts were not enough, we reached out to a pharmacist who said the words we needed to hear, “There is a balm that helps.”

It was named ichthammol. The black, sticky, tar-looking stuff flowed out like a gift from God onto the splinter — once our little guy was willing to receive it. We covered it with a bandaid, let it seep in, and begin the work it was going to do. Help had come. He became still, relaxed, soothed, and his fears and tears went away. He trusted in what the balm was doing for him. It was just the medicine he needed. Shortly after, the splinter was easily removed.

In God’s Word, balm was highly valuable. It was a specialty item. It was uncommon. It was fragrant. It eased pain. It produced healing. It had soothing powers. It never stopped working.

Some say balm is a metaphor of the healing power of God — pain can be eased and healing produced.

I say that a serious problem needs a serious medicine.

You would buy it if you or a loved one needed healing, wouldn’t you?

Yes, you would go right over to the pharmacy and pick it up.

Well, it is readily available for each of us. No — not ichthammol, but the healing balm God sends that can take a splinter out of our lives — or a boulder out of our heart.

But, just as a three-year-old reached out to accept the balm that would bring his healing, we have to reach our arms out to God to accept the balm that is for our healing.

Need healing? I think we all do.

Let’s pray:

As we stretch our hands to thee, Lord, we accept the balm that you are pouring over us. May it overtake us — body, mind, and spirit. May we believe — and receive — our physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual healing. Thank you for the balm that covers us and sends healing our way. Amen

Let me know how your healing goes.

Let me know how the balm flows.

Contact me at annfarabee@gmail.com

By Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

Another trip to the grocery store. I should be awarded a prize as Food Lion’s best customer.

As always, I was dressed appropriately for swift and effective shopping — stretchy pants, comfy shirt, sneakers.

While loading my groceries into the car, I saw her. The perfectly dressed young mom — perfect makeup, perfect hair, and wearing heels.

There she was — the inspiration for my column.

As she stopped to look both ways prior to crossing the street to the parking lot, her four neatly dressed young children, stopped obediently. Two were on one side of her. Two were on the other side. Each was carrying two grocery bags — one in each hand. They looked both ways and then toward mom before crossing. Once reaching the car, they lined up to put their grocery bags in the trunk.

As I was loading my groceries in my car, I said aloud to myself, “She is perfect. How does she do it?”

I shook my head, thinking about my years as a mom of young children, my years as a mom of older children, my years as a mom of grown children. My years of juggling a work schedule and motherhood. As I watched Perfect Mom, that ugly voice in my head — the one I need to ignore — said to me, “Failure.”

It stung.

As I was pushing my shopping cart a little more forcefully than usual to its proper location, I heard a real voice — not the one in my head — call out my name, “Mrs. Farabee!”

It was her — Perfect Mom — calling out my name. She told me who she was, and then turned to her children and said, “This was my favorite teacher!”

It was one of the nicest introductions I could ever have received.

I confessed to her that I had seen her crossing the street with her children, had not recognized her, and wondered aloud, “How does she do it?”

Perfect Mom smiled and responded perfectly, “Your children were young when you were my teacher. How did you do it?”

I started to remember: School. Church. Baseball. Basketball. Football. Gymnastics. Dance. Homework. Grocery store trips. Taxi service. Well, not officially a taxi service, but it often felt like it.

Some days if everyone got dressed, had food, and brushed their teeth — that was enough.

Some days if our efforts to parent allowed us to see God breaking through to their hearts — it was way better than enough.

Hmm… now that I think about it, I guess I did do it.
Mother of the Year material — I think not.
My weaknesses made strong through Christ? Definitely so.
I did my best — and trusted God to do the rest.
There is no way to be a perfect mom — but a million ways to be a good one.

As I headed back to my car, Perfect Mom called out, “Thank you for everything. You’re the best!” I smiled and thought, “Not failure. Just the opposite. Success.”

Disclaimer: I still have no explanation for the night I took one of my children home after a basketball game and left the other behind. Hey — I said I wasn’t perfect.

But…this has been comforting to know: According to Luke 2:43, Mary and Joseph returned home from the festival, and did not even notice they had left Jesus behind.

By Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

May I just step back for a minute from my writer’s pen and share my heart? I have tried for the last three weeks to write a column about the impact of COVID-19 on our lives. I wanted to reach your hearts with my words during this unique time in history.

I had just spent another afternoon working on it. Working on it. Working on it.

Frustrated, I pushed my chair back from the table, and as I did, I saw a plaque that had been given to me a couple of years ago. But this time — I really saw it. The message spoke clearly to my heart.

The words:

Let us be silent that we may hear the whisper of God.

God was telling me to be silent — and listen. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, allowing my mind and thoughts to go silent. I heard a God whisper from Isaiah 55:8, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts.” That was followed by, “I can do more for you in a second than you can do for yourself in a lifetime.”

I looked up. I knew. I set aside the column I had been working on — and began to write this one — about the whisper of God.

I knew I could never formulate the words needed to express my appreciation for those of you on the frontlines during the virus. I see you stepping up. I see you accepting your mission with grace and mercy. I see that God is whispering encouragement to your hearts. You are heroes.

Nor can I formulate the words to express how my heart hurts for those of you who are suffering during these uncertain times. God will whisper sweet peace to you. And one day, as the clouds begin to lift, the sun — and the Son — will shine again.

Each week, as I write and video my column, I am not only thinking of my story, but I am also thinking of your story. May I never write a column without first hearing the whisper of God — because I write not just for me — but also for you.

In 1 Kings 19, Elijah looked for God in the wind, the earthquake, and the fire — but he heard God in the whisper.

How do we hear God whisper? Be silent. Listen.

The whisper is personal — not for all of us at once — but for each one of us.

The same God who created the universe can also whisper to each of our hearts.

It really is amazing.

God is at work.

Yesterday. Today. Forever.

By Ann Farabee