​The Veterans of foreign wars calendar hanging near the cluttered work bench is turned to April 2004. That's the last month I saw him and two months before he passed from this world. Even after 11 years, his hand crafted denim work apron still hangs nearby on the hook. I grasp at one of the ties and then briefly pull one of the pencils out of the breast pocket, as if by touching them I would see my grandpa walk into the garage again.


As I enter the kitchen I can hear grandma and my husband discuss the project he offered to help with while we're there for a short visit. I try to imagine the last project grandpa might have worked on; he was always generating clever ways to make items more functional. In grandma's words, Grandpa was a "jack of all trades" and I recall that he was also organized with his home and work space; a place for everything and everything in its place.


Since she was 16, her place was beside him and they enjoyed nearly 60 years as husband and wife. Now after eleven long years without him, she’s grown accustomed to projects remaining untouched, and in an effort to “not be burden to her loved ones,” she generally doesn’t ask for help. My husband’s task is simple, alter a standing shelf (that grandpa had built years before) to fit on top of the cart grandma uses to keep her laptop on. She mentions the inconvenience of where the printer sets and wishes it could be different… but she “doesn’t print much anyway, so it’s fine.”


Shortly after the project was commissioned, grandma and I left to go on an “explore” in St. George with my two youngest daughters. Grandma drove, so it was an adventure…. By the time we returned, the task was complete and the sawdust swept. As she enters the spare room where the computer desk is, she remarks how pleased she is at the end result. The altered shelf is now just the right height for her laptop to set on. Then he shows her the bonus and unexpected sliding shelf he created for the printer; she is ecstatic, “oh… oh, you shouldn’t have… it’s just like having grandpa back!”


That comment hit home, and made me realize all the aspects of my grandfather that she misses.  He was a wonderful husband, but he was also a good father, grandpa, brother and friend. The difference he made in the lives of others continues through those he left behind. When I see his work bench sit unused, a sacred space left virtually untouched for over a decade, I miss him more and the void left by his departure feels fresh again for a moment.


Then I recall the truly sacred; the countless fond memories of visiting their home as a child, of holidays spent at their table eating delicious desserts and dry turkey (I discovered the dark meat is your best bet from my grandpa), watching the adults drink a tad too much Seagram’s 7, and lying on the floor of the den watching sit-coms like M*A*S*H or Carol Burnett while a cozy fire flickered happily to my right…. But most vividly I remember there was laughter, always laughter.


Their home was and still is “soft place to land” for me; I never have to knock, I can eat out of the fridge without permission, hugs are freely given and judgment withheld. Every child needs that… every person needs that… a soft place to land. In reflecting, I’m so thankful for that consistency in my life, and I hope that someday, others will look back and see that our home provided a similar refuge. 

As a young girl, I craved time spent with my dad. I had only sisters (“only” sisters… really they’re wonderful and I can’t imagine having brothers instead), but I watched with envy when my dad interacted with my male cousins, going hunting, fishing etc. I know now that those relationships didn’t in any way negate the portion of my dad’s heart filled by my sisters and me, but at the time I was jealous.  So at each opportunity, I would tag along beside or behind him and simply hang out.  

I remember one time in particular; he was feeding the pigs with my uncle Roy and their friend Nile. Men talk as they do, and children absorb as they do and the next thing I know, I’m hiding, shame filled behind the barn door as my dad chuckles and explains why saying “son –of-a- ? 1*#” isn’t an appropriate phrase for a young lady.  

As I grew through my teen years, my fondness toward my dad (and my jealousy toward my male cousins) remained intact. When he would return from hunting or fishing, I would help him clean up the day’s catch or kill. In particular I remember helping him skin sagehens and pheasants.  I recall the coldness of the flesh, the stickiness of the tissue between the body and hide of feathers and how it disgusted me. But I was willing to get my hands dirty so I could have an excuse to spend time with my dad, just talking, just being in his presence – I admired him so.

Dad also instilled in my siblings and I the importance of attending church, praying and spending time in God’s word (he “patiently” waited in the car every Sunday as we girls would linger in our efforts to get ready on time). During my formidable years he led by example and took seriously Proverbs 22:6 which encourages parents to “train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it” and I am so happy he did. He also led by example through his interactions with others, the kindness and grace I watched him extend time and time again has made a forever impact on my attitude towards others.  Through my dad’s modeling, I recognize my heavenly Father who extends grace, mercy and unconditional love, regardless of the worthiness of the recipients; I am compelled to do the same.

Seeing the length my good Father will go... has gone...  to redeem and rescue His kids both humbles and amazes me.
 
Therefore, in the same way that I desire to spend time and hang out with my earthly father, I am willing to get my hands dirty to spend time with my Father God, to be His hands and his feet, working along side Him and serving others right where he has planted me. For it is in such service that I am drawn closer to Him.

My dad was/is by no means perfect, but the relationship and the bond between my dad and I laid the foundation for the relationship I’ve had with my Father in heaven, and I am forever thankful.  Even as I write this I know there are countless others that were not so blessed; they did not see through their dad what mercy looks like when he scolds you less severely than you deserve. They didn’t experience unconditional love, persistent praise, or constant selflessness.  His efforts planted spiritual seeds in my heart that blossomed into fruit that I could pass on to my daughters.

​That is a priceless inheritance worth passing on. 

Last year I purchased a daily calendar published by the History Channel, I thought it would be fun to learn random facts on a daily basis. And indeed it has been fun! For example, on this good day in 2001, in an effort to help prevent future terrorist attacks, President Bush signed the Patriot Act into law.  A little known fact (at least in my world) is that “USA PATRIOT” is a ridiculously long acronym that stands for “Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001” who knew?!  And the best part is that it supersedes all state laws – so depending on how they define “terrorist” (sociologists know it’s all in the definition) virtually anyone can be legitimately investigated. Thrilling I know… but again, I’m off topic…

The fun fact for Saturday the 24th (and the impetus for my entry today) was written about Annie Edson Taylor, otherwise known as the “Queen of the mist”.  In 1901 she became the first person to ride over Niagara Falls.

Listen up…

Annie padded a pickle barrel and voluntarily careened over waterfalls…

she chose to be nailed into…

sealed into…

a barrel that she designed to “protect” her from harm during the stunt, and plummet over the falls!

With her “lucky” heart shaped pillow in tow, she risked life and limb for the chance of monetary rewards.

She actually did survive; shaken up and with a 3 inch gash behind her ear, but she survived to sell her tale. Unfortunately, after only a few photo-ops and speaking engagements, “she was unable to make the fortune she hoped to achieve” and died penniless at the age of 82 and was buried in a donated plot.

Mrs. Taylor was not the first, nor will she be the last to spend a lifetime working crazy angles to get rich, only to die penniless. Perhaps worse still are those that succeed and die wealthy but find upon death that it was futile. In reflecting on his life, King Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes 5:10, “Whoever loves money never has money enough; whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with his income. This too is meaningless.”  

Keep in mind, Solomon was LOADED with wealth:  livestock, precious jewels/metals, property and even wives and concubines… he quite literally, by today’s definition, had it “all.” Yet despite this, in the end… he sees that his accumulation of “stuff” was meaningless. He had spent his life “chasing” happiness and contentment through pleasure of all kinds, only to realize this endless pursuit was a futile attempt to capture the wind. “Naked a man comes from his mother’s womb, and as he comes, so he departs. He takes nothing from his labor that he can carry in his hand.” (Ecclesiastes 5:15).

If we’re honest with ourselves, we all are guilty of chasing after happiness through “wealth” of some kind and the status that accompanies it. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with money (or status, or whatever we are obsessed with obtaining en mass), it is rather the love of money (status, relationships, etc) that trips us up in our pursuit of a life worth living.

It’s tricky business living in the world without becoming entrapped with worldly pursuits; and I often fail (I’ve not padded a pickle barrel lately but still*).  I am reminded that where my treasure is there my heart will be also, thank goodness God is merciful.

​My prayer tonight is that increasingly, I will seek my treasure within the four walls and loving faces of family and friends that God has so richly blessed me, with the joy I glean from serving others, with the job I get to do working with developmentally delayed kiddos and their families, and most importantly in the shed blood of my Savior that has purchased my salvation. I pray that when I graduate from this world, I leave rich in relationships that honored God and expanded His kingdom… and I pray the same for you.
 
*for example, I feel obsessed to complete this blog entry… today… within this 24 hour period. For no real reason actually. I mean there are only like two, maybe three people, outside of my direct bloodline that take the 5 minutes to read my blogs. So why am I insistent on ignoring my husband and children, snap at them for the noise they make, about the extreme volume on the TV and the fact that I must stop my pursuits to feed these people (must they eat EVERY night??). It’s as if I’m chasing the wind… yes I see the irony... this struggle.., in me... is real.
 
 

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My first career was cosmetology. It was a decent gig, and a person willing to commit the time and effort can make a decent living. I naively thought that having a salon in my home would be an excellent plan. The first time some random dude showed up on my doorstep asking for a haircut, I realized I was wrong… “huh?! No you can’t come into my home with my sweet children!” Walk-ins not accepted. Then I switched gears and only people I knew personally were welcome, unless they were referred by someone I trusted; it was a high class joint.

Actually, it wasn’t high class at all, it was (and still is) a room in our basement that we converted into a salon. I joke that it doubles as a Saloon because when I had the chance to inherit my great aunt Geri’s piano I pounced…. I digress. The point of this story isn’t my salon/saloon, but rather my experiences as a hairdresser. 

I was blessed to meet and visit with many interesting people. I had one older gal that came in only once (shampoo set please); she tried very hard to get me to gossip about the local community members – but I had nothing to offer, she didn’t return. It was a common occurrence for clients to fall asleep in my chair, it was also just as likely that they would open up and share… share their triumphs, their latest craft project, little Billie’s troubles in school, parenting/marital woes, how their family vacation went, and what their plans were for the holidays.

One individual in particular, shared something so profound; it was a dream* she had several years prior…. It changed the way I view personal tragedies and trials.

Like countless others, she had been repeatedly victimized as a child; even worse, it was by someone she trusted (familiarity lends bitterness to the wound compounded by that betrayal). Self-destructive tendencies followed (as they often do), and decades later she found herself suffering from severe depression, & suicidal ideation. Distraught & emotionally defeated, she had this dream:

She entered heaven and approached the altar, incense drifting up- the prayers of the saints. As she stood there, Jesus came near and beckoned her to give to Him all her hurts, shame, regrets and sorrows. She was reluctant at first, to give them over; for sorrow, though it weighs one down, provides a type of companionship that brings a familiar comfort just the same. Recognizing the release that was within her grasp, at last she relented.

Slowly at first, she pulled what looked like wispy black strands from her chest. The release brought tears, and with the tears, she began to pull at the strands faster and faster until finally the bowl in which they were placed on the altar was full. Through tear stained eyes, she watched His nail pierced hands circle over the bowl; gradually, the contents faded until at last they were translucent and glimmering. She felt cleansed, relieved.

And then He did the unexpected; picking up the bowl He came towards her and asked her to take them back.

“No Lord, no she cried… I don’t want those back.. I can’t, can’t take them back”

As she sobbed, He gently spoke, “As painful as these experiences were, and still are, they are part of who you are, who I created you to be, I have made them holy… I can make you whole again”

I cried openly when she shared this with me. Such a heart wrenching account of the resilient human spirit and the God whose love is relentless. Isaiah 61:3 encourages us, he gives a “…crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair…”  

As I write this and reflect on that day in my salon/saloon turned into sanctuary, I see this truth; for God to give her, to give us.. beauty for ashes, we must first relinquish our hurts. We are spiritually unable to accept His gifts (of beauty, of joy and praise) if our hands and hearts are filled to the brim with past hurts. With that transaction, that redemption, comes an awareness and peace in the knowledge that though others meant to harm us (intentionally or unintentionally), God intended it to accomplish good (Genesis 50:20).

 
 
*the finite details of this story have been deliberately altered, I choose to share only the gist of it, for it is not my story to tell in brilliant precision – it is hers – and I am so very honored she shared it with me. 

As a busy mother of 4, I would often respond with, “I can’t help right this second, look how busy my hands are?” when my kids would request my immediate assistance.

(Imagine flour covered hands, hands dripping with chicken slim, or holding a nursing child in one hand and stirring dinner with the other… you get the idea)

Sometimes, stay at home moms are pretty freaking busy and the ability to multi-task and delegate is a skill that must be quickly honed.  Incorporating extra hands into the mix is an efficient way to occasionally alleviate the busyness of my hands. Therefore, it was common for me to recruit my older kids to assist with the easier tasks. My request were simple like, “pick up your toys” and “put your plate in the kitchen” and occasionally, “grab me a diaper for your sister” or “could you toss me that burp cloth?”  Really I was doing us all a favor. After all, cleaning up after ones-self and serving others are God honoring concepts to grasp (1 Samuel 12:24, John 12:26 for example).  In general, they were great kids and good listeners, and would quickly lend a hand when compelled, but still, they were just kids.

On one particular warm summer afternoon, I was outside pushing Emma on the kiddie-swing, while my youngest Addy-bug was napping in the house and my older two (Kels and Hanni) played in the yard, flying plastic bag kites and cheerleading with pom-poms (serious – few feet of string tied to a plastic grocery bag… good times, good times).  It wasn’t long before the napper woke up and I needed to start dinner. Before going in I unbuckled Emma to bring her in with me; she adamantly protested however, and I soon realized preparing dinner without her would be much more enjoyable. So, after re-securing her in the swing, I assigned my oldest daughters to come over periodically to take turns pushing Emma until I had dinner started. They regretfully agreed. 

After I had Addy changed and settled, I started prepping dinner; it was chicken of course and my hands were soon covered in bacteria laden slim. So imagine my discouragement when I heard Emma crying. Peering out the kitchen window, I could see the swing set and Emma sitting motionless, not a doting older sibling in sight. 

“Kelsey!” I yelled out the window (no reply… but I could hear the plastic bags, plastic pom-poms and laughter crackling in the slight breeze).

“Kels!  I need your help!”  

Third time… still no reply… Finally I washed my hands and went outside.

“Girls! Where are you?”  

“Here mom” Kelsey resigned a reply now that I was there and she could no longer deny hearing me. She came around the corner of the house and stood just out from the deck where I could see her, pom-pom in hand.

“What are you doing?  I asked you girls to push Emma on the swing?!  Please go get her out and bring her up to the house so I can finish dinner.”

To which Kelsey quickly replied as she held up her hand, “I can’t mom; I have a pom-pom taped to my hand.”  Sure enough, it was taped around her hand, suspended beneath her wriggling fingers to verify her excuse.

Oh – my… I chuckled to myself as I descended the steps into the yard and retrieved Emma myself; of course she couldn’t help, with a pom-pom taped to her hand and all. I felt so silly even asking….

Over the years, when asked or compelled to assist others, I often wonder if my excuses for not helping come across as ridiculous as the now infamous “pom-pom rationale.”

• Single mom needs childcare so she can have a 2 hour break….. I’m busy with my four kids (even though my 4 kids would enjoy a play-date)
• Local congregation is taking donations for garage sale fundraiser to send kids to camp…. But I need the tax write-off so I’d rather take them to local non-profit thrift store.
• Elderly lady needs ride to church on Sunday mornings…. But I have enough trouble getting my kids ready and to church on time (even though my kids would enjoy visiting with her during the drive).
• Homeless veteran standing outside of Walmart asking for help of any kind…. I’m in hurry, so I choose to drive out of the other exit.

Historically, I have responded and helped just enough to know what I’ve missed when I delay and avoid action with my excuses. In 2 Corinthians 9:8-11, the apostle Paul reiterates God’s promises to those that are obedient; when we respond with action and not excuses, we too are blessed.  So I am humbled and sorrowful when I think about how many times I have felt prompted to do… or to say something… anything…  but I was too busy mentally rambling off my convenient list of excuses; my “pom-pom rationale”…  I delayed until the opportunity passed.

Delay almost always results in disobedience…. Disobedience results in unmet needs.  

How many times I have missed the opportunity to serve, to be Jesus to those who desperately need a dose of grace, to help and heal hearts worn down by the harsh reality that is life, to be His hands… His feet…

You know, I always wanted to be cheerleader. In fact the pom-pom that my sweet Kelsey taped to her hand that day was a remnant from my childhood aspirations. Now that I am older (much older), more and more I am coming to realize that God's calling me off the sidelines. He's calling you too, so put down your pom-poms and join in the game. 
 

I am a recovering swear bear; otherwise known as a potty mouth. I can let expletives fly with the best of them, like a “sailor” my husband would say (no offense to all the sailors out there, it’s just at saying you know?).  I’m not bragging here, it’s more of a confession really: 

My name is Kim, I swear sometimes and I have historically enjoyed the emotional release it brings me.

Through the years I have gained (off and on) some measure of control; earning my college degrees required a certain level of professionalism. Before that, raising my littles really applied the pressure to be a better example.  I still remember poking my eyeball with the mascara stick … insert swear word… and then talking fast to convince my oldest child that I had actually said “frog and eggs” so when she repeated the exclamation at grandma’s house no one would die of shock). 

In an attempt to curb my vice, I recently began to employ a few swear word stunt doubles such as:

Shizamm, shiz, fudge, and fiddle sticks…

but people still know, you know? They know and more importantly, I KNOW that in my heart, I’m still cursing.  

That’s the key I think, it is a heart issue, and I’m working through that. I’m working on allowing Him to change my heart; more of Him and less of me. What’s that song? Jesus take the wheel…. Yes, please do, in this and all the other areas of my life.

I was raised as a Christian, but I’m still only human.  My sister once told me I’d make a great pastor’s wife except I swear too much. (Whatever that means?!  Any “pastor” wives out there want to chime in?) Lucky for me, I’m not married to a pastor. I am however serious about my faith, my relationship with God, and my witness for Him.

Ephesians 4:29 instructs us to “not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen”  Yikes! That’s pretty straight forward. Honestly though, I’ve never felt edified when I hear others swear (even if it seems they really enjoyed the emotional release that accompanied it), in fact I generally feel repulsion.  

So the fact that swearing has historically been my “go-to” when life gets rough (raw sewage coming up in the basement, pasta boiling over on stove, or hitting my head as I rush hastily into my car, just to name a few) being a swear-bear isn’t really working out too well for me;  it tarnishes my witness.  

Being born into a Christian faith has been a blessing, but I don’t have a dramatic salvation story, only my story, my life.   I often hear that once people are “saved” they are transformed, and this transformation is dramatic, people can't help but notice the difference. Druggies stop drugging, alcoholics stop drinking, and theoretically, swear-bears stop swearing.  I have craved that sort of radical transformation and I’ve spent many years trying to reconcile my sinful self with who I am as a child of God.  More and more though I am so thankful that my ongoing and never-ending transformation is more subtle; I am a saint who knows she’s a still a big fat sinner, but I was “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Ps 139:14), and He is and will remain faithful to “fulfill His purpose for me” (Ps 138:8). 

I keep reminding myself (and you should too!) that I’m a work in progress, and as long as He sees fit to grant me a new day, dog-gone-it, He’s not finished with me yet.
 

​​Growing up, I was surrounded by music. I was blessed to hear my aunts and uncles harmonize at family reunions and holiday gatherings while grandma played on the organ, or simply watching my uncles “jam” in the garage.  My uncle Rudy strummed out the melody, and Roy, he would just finger pick in with his unique harmonies. Both were self taught, learning the chords through tabs, they played by ear; the results seemed natural and effortless. They were all so talented, their collective gift of music was soothing to my soul and I cherished the idea that I was dipped from that gene pool.  I honestly felt that somehow, by some yet undiscovered genetic-osmosis, I too would be a “natural” at playing guitar. 
​​For my 30th birthday, my husband gave me a Taylor big baby guitar (appropriate name for MY guitar, I can be such a brat).  I was thrilled; it was the best gift!  He had given me my chance to shine.  Along with the guitar, my husband had arranged for me to have private lessons with an accomplished female musician. 

 She played several instruments and took the process of teaching guitar seriously. Appropriate no doubt, she insisted I learn to play by the book; reading sheet music was paramount, strum patterns and playing actual songs was secondary and would come later.  For 3 months (three. entire. months. mind you..) I squeezed in bits of time to practice songs, like “old McDonald”, and “happy birthday” around my routine mommy tasks of tending kids, cleaning and cooking. It was all so arduous, so juvenile. Didn’t she know I had a “natural talent” that simply needed to be tapped and then honed into perfection?!  I tried to be a good student; memorizing how to read notes, and correlating finger placements, but I went to each lesson feeling as though I would forever be a rookie. This process of "learning" to play guitar was insulting, my teacher was holding me back.
So I quit lessons and purchased a book on tabs for classical music. Each night after the kids were sleeping I would sit in the dining room and practice.  After a few weeks, I could actually play a couple of songs; a simplified version of Bach’s “Jesus, joy of man desiring” was my favorite.  However, my playing didn’t come easily, it was not effortless and much to my chagrin, I was not genetically disposed to be a guitar prodigy.  Soon after this realization had settled in, I zipped that guitar into its case and gently placed the “big baby” behind my bedroom door. 
While I pursued more daunting challenges, big baby stayed silently behind that door until…. one by one, in order of birth*, my daughters tried their hand at playing. Kels tried, but I was still too overprotective of my guitar and I greedily clung to the notion that someday I’d pick it up again, so she wasn’t allowed the privilege of easy access for practice. Then Hanni gave it a whirl, and after watching a few you-tube tutorial videos, she could strum out a few songs herself; but still I held on, loosely yes, but enough that she too would eventually concede her interest.  As the guitar rested, untouched and silent, I was regretful of my selfishness; what a waste, an instrument is created to be played, to be heard and enjoyed.  
Then came my Early Girl (Emma), she picked up the guitar her sophomore year. We would rent one for her to take to class and big baby would stay safe at home, but I had learned my lessons (I'm a slow learner, and not a parenting prodigy either), she had free access for practice any time at home. After a trimester of guitar class at school, and months of practice, I dare say the “gift” of playing guitar (by "gift" I mean natural propensity coupled with HOURS of devoted practice) has skipped a generation (namely ME) and landed squarely on her calloused covered finger tips. She has learned to play by tablature and it sounds beautiful.  Big baby now resides on a stand in Emma’s room and she plays almost daily. 
By relinquishing both my selfish desire to excel at playing guitar and hoarding access to big baby, I can now realize the real value in the gift my husband gave so many years ago.  Hearing Emma play guitar and sing, seeing her blossom using her God-given talent, is truly the best gift; I’m so thankful I got out of the way.  Often I can be found standing outside her bedroom door, listening with joy-filled eyes.  It is such a blessing to hear guitar music again; so natural and effortless.
​
*our youngest didn’t get her turn at guitar yet, and may never desire to do so as she is mastering the violin beautifully.

A few months back, while on break at work, I regaled to my coworker a story about a goat named Wheeler. My husband and I had been bamboozled into taking Wheeler, and then after a brief stint roped to our 5 acres, we precipitously gave the goat to my brother and sister-in-law (apparently my husband initially just asked his brother to take it for "awhile", and then secretly, without them knowing about it, gave them the goat). I ended the tale by exclaiming, “Get rid of the goat!”  It was sort of the moral of the story, and really, at the time of my re-telling, it served as the punch line as well.

Wheeler was treacherous! After his relocation to the in-laws; he would eat absolutely every-freaking-thing, he escaped ALL THE TIME, and could generally be found on the hood of their neighbor’s new car eating leafs off the higher branches of said neighbor’s tree.  To make matters worse (or better, depending on my mood… kidding), when my poor sister in-law would attempt to herd Wheeler back to their reluctant home; he would lift up his front hooves and then drop them fast trying to hit her with his head. To say the least, all affected parties (in-laws and their neighbors) were unimpressed, and I (having owned the goat for 5 seconds previous to his new found popularity) found myself in the precarious position of wicked goat giver. I was under the constant barrage of verbal assaults (unrelenting complaints) every blessed time we shared air space.  It’s not that I didn’t empathize, her complaints were valid, that goat was a pain in the rear; but quite simply, the solution was straightforward, do what all Wheeler’s previous owners had done… get rid of the goat!

This story makes me wonder; how often do we metaphorically drag home, complain, and blame others about our goats, including the ones we unwittingly inherit. Forgiving and forgetting is easier said than done, even more so when we try and apply the concept and actually forgive ourselves.  The Old Testament law provided a solution for removing the sin and getting right with God, the Day of Atonement.  This ritual can be found in Leviticus 16, so I won’t go into too much detail (crack your Bible and read it yourself  ;o). In short, the ritual played out like this; after making atonement for himself and his family, the high priest (Aaron at that time) took two choice goats from the community, these would both serve as the “sin-offering”. Lots would be cast and one goat would be literally sacrificed and the other would serve as a figurative sacrifice as the high priest would “lay both hands on the head of the living goat, confess over it all the wrongs of the Israelites, all their transgressions, that is all their sins and so put them on the goat’s head and have a man, standing ready take him into the wilderness. The goat will carry on him all their wrongs and take them away to a deserted place as the man lets the goat go into the wilderness” (Leviticus 16: 21 – 22).  This was a bloody business; there could after all be no remission of sin without the shedding of blood (Hebrews 9:22). That goat, that half of the sin-offering, with its blood stained head, served as a visual representation of their sins heading  out of town, in the opposite and permanent direction, away from God’s presence.  Once a year they were allowed to approach God and find absolution from their guilt and their sin. Once a year receive a temporary atonement; I suspect if that were still the case, many of us (myself included, I mean come on  I took pleasure just now in thinking about my sweet sister in law dodging that wretched goat) would go to bed the evening of that same day with fresh guilt on my mind. I am so grateful on this good day that His mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23), He came to save sinners (1 Timothy 1:15), and lastly He desires mercy not sacrifice & acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings (Hosea 6:6), because honey, I am entirely incapable of saving myself.
* No goats were harmed in the writing of this post. However, a bit over 2000 years ago “the Lamb” was slain for you and for me, and He’s all about forgiving and forgetting. In short, your proverbial goat is packed and ready, Let. It. Go....