Uncategorized

Psalm 91.1

April 17, 2021

I remember clinging to Psalm 91 while our family lived in China back in 1995 as if it was oxygen giving me my next breath. Our youngest daughter Kelly, just three at the time, battled many strange illnesses while we lived in Beijing, and I was often consumed with fear for her safety. I read and prayed Psalm 91 over her so often that I ended up memorizing it without even trying. Years later we learned that Kelly’s in-laws prayed the same psalm over our son-in-law Cal when he was a newborn with viral meningitis. What a gift to know that Kelly’s future husband was being prayed over with the same promises from Psalm 91 when he was just a baby. I see Psalm 91:1 as our 911 promise of rescue: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High, will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Some call Psalm 91 the soldier’s song, as many have prayed it over their loved ones in the armed forces when they’re deployed. Others see it as a warfare psalm, teaching us how to fight the good fight against the enemy of our souls. Though no author is mentioned in the Hebrew text of this psalm, Jewish tradition ascribes it to Moses as he wrote Psalm 90, while others say David wrote it—a mighty warrior himself. Regardless of who wrote it, I know it was inspired by our Most High, Almighty God. It’s a psalm filled with the wonder of the different names of God, and it declares His protection over us again and again. If you’re a Baby Boomer like I am, memorize this psalm while you can still remember things, and pray it over your grandchildren. Or if you’re a young mom, pray it when fear grips your heart for your little ones. Just in the first two verses we see four majestic names of our God: Most High (El Elyon in Hebrew, which means the Highest of the high),Almighty (El Shaddai, which means God of the Mountains in Hebrew),LORD (Yahweh, built on the word for “I am” in Hebrew),God (Elohim, most commonly used word for God in Hebrew). How beautiful to know that “Whoever dwells in the shelter of El Elyon, will rest in the shadow of El Shaddai. I will say of Yahweh, he is my refuge and fortress, my Elohim in whom I trust” (vv. 1–2).…

Sunday Drive

September 13, 2020

I just discovered the song “Sunday Drive” by Brett Eldredge and played it for Rick as we drove through our mountains yesterday on Grandparents’ Day. Tears filled our eyes as we realized the song described the legacy of his parents. When Rick was a little boy, his parents loved to take Sunday drives after church—seemingly drives to nowhere that were a bit boring for four rambunctious little boys piled into a car in the 60’s with no seatbelts or AC. But like the lyrics of “Sunday Drive”—those were some of the best of times for their young family as Roselan and Dee taught their boys life lessons without words. A recent widow, Roselan is our daughters’ only living grandparent and they adore her. It’s been months since we’ve seen her due to Covid and I miss her. Thankfully, Roselan is still thriving and healthy at 87-years-old. Born on a farm in Albion, Nebraska, I love that Mom Dunagan drove a Model A on country roads in snowstorms to teach at a one-room schoolhouse before she was married to her beloved Dee. She raised four little boys—the second being my favorite—who all grew up to be hard-working and loving husbands and fathers. Roselan is a cancer survivor who bravely fought stage 4 lymphoma fifteen years ago. I remember being in tears back then, wondering if she would survive long enough to be at our daughters’ weddings one day. She not only survived, she thrived. A favorite memory with Mom is when she met me and my girls in New York City to celebrate their high school graduations—three generations of Dunagan women running through pouring rain after a Broadway show to get ice cream at midnight at the famous Serendipity restaurant. Our granddaughter is Roselan’s namesake. Baby Quinn Roselan just turned one and she is beautiful like her great grandmother and seems to have her sweet spirit and sense of humor. I pray she grows up to be a lot like her Great Grandma Roselan, including carrying on the Norwegian tradition of making Lefse and Lutefisk on Christmas Eve. The older I get, the more I appreciate this remarkable woman and her legacy. Her greatest gift has been a lifetime of prayers over our family, and her unconditional love for each of us—never judging, only loving. The end of the song “Sunday Drive: reminds us of the last time we were…

When I Am Afraid

April 4, 2020

The raging fires jumped over our mountain toward our home within seconds. We were watching the news updates about pending evacuations as we hurriedly packed our bags, and suddenly the news anchor seemed to panic and almost shouted, “Everyone . . . EVACUATE NOW!” Our two college-aged daughters and I ran to our three cars and started to head down the mountain. A drive that normally would take five minutes to make it off the mountain took us 20 minutes, while we’d learn later that our neighbors who left just a few minutes after us had to wait in gridlock on that mountain for hours. As a mom, I longed to have my daughters in my car with me and wished we hadn’t worried about saving our cars from the fire. Like a mother hen protecting her chicks in a prairie fire, I wanted my “babies” with me. There was a moment on the mountain where I thought I might get separated from them as a police officer directed the chaotic traffic. I was terrified, remembering a fire when I lived in California where stranded motorists were killed in their cars trying to evacuate. We finally made it down the mountain safely, and sheltered in a friend’s home outside the evacuation zone. Sadly, over 350 homes were destroyed and two lives were lost on that summer day in Colorado Springs. In the midst of this pandemic—in the dawn of spring 2020—I’ve thought of that fire evacuation often. Our daughters now live far from us with their own babies. Separated by several states with the order to “stay at home” our girls now have their own families to guard and protect. I’ve so longed to be near them and hold my grandbabies. There have been nights when I can’t sleep as I worry for my daughter who is a doctor having to still work at her hospital and come home to her little ones in the midst of Covid-19. Or worrying about my grandchildren (three under three years old) as Covid begins to hit little ones as well. This pandemic is a lot like a raging fire, filled with fear of the unknown. Perhaps, like me, you are separated from loved ones you wish you could shelter with and protect. Or perhaps you sense fear and worry threatening to overtake you as the news gets more dire every day. I know…

Turning Decades

December 26, 2019

I am turning 60 (SIXTY) today. I think all Baby Boomers can relate to being shocked at how quickly the years have gone by. Yesterday our “babies” were toddlers, and today they are having babies of their own. I recently joked with a friend that “it was just yesterday that I was turning forty so it will be just like tomorrow that I turn eighty.” It’s a heartbeat. Truly! All of you 20- and 30-somethings don’t get it. But one day you will! I promise. When I was nearing forty, I was bemoaning that milestone while visiting my mother, who had just turned seventy. She was battling cancer and said I should embrace those new decade birthdays because we’re blessed to have just one more birthday. Though she is no longer with us, I can still hear her beautiful voice tenderly speaking those words of wisdom over me. The thing is, these are the best years of my six decades of life. Rick and I can testify that we’ve never been closer. What we thought might end our marriage almost twenty years ago, is now what we hold most dear. We fought the good fight and now have an Ephesians 3:20 “beyond all we asked or imagined” life together. This is a season of life where joy is often mingled with sorrow. In just two years we’ve welcomed three new grandbabies—two boys and a baby girl—and we’ve said goodbye to their great-grandfathers this side of heaven. I often write about leaving a legacy, especially a legacy of prayer that will cover future generations to come. That is still the cry of my heart on this first day of my 60th year. Will you join me in that prayer? O God, from my youth you have taught me, and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds.So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me,until I proclaim your might to another generation, your power to all those to come.Psalm 71:17–18 What about you? I’d love to hear how you navigate (and embrace) your turning of days.

Lamenting Praise

November 24, 2019

For this Thanksgiving week, I am reposting what I wrote on lamenting praise two years ago. I have many friends who have had sudden loss in their lives and pray that this encourages their hearts and yours this Thanksgiving. I watched as hundreds of birds flew from behind a sun-tipped cloud. It was as though they had been waiting backstage behind the curtain, and came out to perform. They first seemed to be scrambling to find their places—like tiny ballerinas in the Nutcracker escaping from under the massive skirt. They quickly fell in line and formed a magnificent ribbon that spanned the sky as far as I could see—with their “stage” lit up by the brilliant orange and purple paint strokes of the sunrise. I threw back my head like a five-year-old watching them dance over me until they were tiny pinpoints in the distant sky. That early morning scene seemed to shout, “Judy, I see you!” as I began my weekend getaway with God in the Colorado mountains. My life had been hit with storms that included serious health issues for some of my loved ones and broken relationship issues with others. I was reeling, and knew I needed to seek His face like never before. My original plan was to get some answers about suffering as I sought His voice and heart through the Scriptures. I was wrestling with some deep questions and hoped to gain a better understanding about the “why” behind the pain. But God had different plans that weekend. While dwelling in the songs of lament that David wrote, I noticed that he often turned to praise, even in the midst of his anguish and suffering. This sacrifice of praise is beautifully displayed in Psalm 13:1–2, 5–6 where David first cries out with heart-wrenching “How long, Lord?” questions, and then ends in worship and praise: “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.” Through that psalm, God whispered to my heart, “Judy, can you thank Me even in the midst of your deep sorrow right now?…

Praying God’s Word

October 12, 2019

While speaking at a women’s retreat last weekend on prayer, I was struck yet again that I do a lot of teaching on prayer and not enough actual praying! Perhaps you can relate? The leaders of the retreat asked me to share a photo of my grandkids on Saturday morning before I began my teaching on the Wonder of Prayer. I thought it was going to just be a fun opening to my message, but while reviewing my notes earlier that morning, I realized that request was more for me . . . to help turn my heart to my grandbabies and pray over them yet again. As I gathered some of my favorite photos of our three grands to share in my talk, I prayed for each one: Liam who is 2 ½, all boy, and looks just like his PapaRick, Wim who is five months old with dimples and sky blue eyes like his daddy, and beautiful Quinn Roselan, just seven weeks old and already showing us she has a tender heart. Gazing at their darling baby faces (see below), I realized yet again that the greatest gift I can ever give them is to be a prayer warrior grandma over their lives. Part of the message I planned to share at the retreat that morning was how to pray Scripture over our loved ones. We were going to dwell in John 17, the High Priestly Prayer of our Lord Jesus over His disciples, just hours before He died for them . . . for me . . . for my grandbabies. As I read through the prayer in John 17 before heading to the auditorium, I prayed this prayer over Liam, Wim, and Quinn: Holy Father, protect them by the power of Your name. (v. 11b)May they have the full measure of Your joy. (v. 13b)Protect them from the evil one. (v. 15)Sanctify them by the truth, Your Word is truth! (v. 17) Tucked away in verse 20 we see that the prayer Jesus was praying over His beloved disciples extends to us (and our grandchildren) who would come thousands of years after the disciples . . . “I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one, just as you, Father are in me, and I in you, that they also…

A Writing Legacy

July 31, 2019

Just two years before my father Mark Bubeck died, I had the privilege of working with him to update his second book, now titled Warfare Praying. By then, he could no longer use the computer, so I asked him to write out a note to the reader to include in the front of the refreshed book. Within a few days, he called me to read the note he wrote over the phone. I put him on speaker, and I typed as he read the powerful words in his deep voice. He began . . . “Holy. Infinite. Eternal. Omnipotent. Almighty. These are ‘God’ words. They belong to Him alone and express truth about Him that will stand forever.” Tears fell as I typed; I knew I’d never forget that moment. A year later, when we had to move my dad into hospice care, I found the letter on a clipboard in his home. It was written in his beautiful handwriting—the same handwriting that penned lyrical poems for our birthdays, encouraging letters when we lived overseas, and powerful books that he wrote by hand. I never dreamed I’d find that handwritten note, especially just a few weeks before he died. God is so kind. I told that story at a workshop I taught at a writers’ conference just last weekend. The room was filled with women wanting to learn more about discipling their readers through the words that they write. My hope was to encourage them that their words matter, and that they may never know the full impact of their written words this side of heaven. I ended the workshop by reading a poignant story from my dad’s book that beautifully illustrates how he used his gift of writing to teach deep spiritual truths from God’s Word in creative ways. I am so grateful for my job as an acquiring editor at Moody Publishers. The door for this new career was partly opened because I worked with my dad on the editing—and wrote the new preface—for the updated version of his first book The Adversary. After joining Moody five years ago this week, our vice president said that he hopes the books we’re publishing today will still be impacting lives 100 years from now. I am confident that my father’s books will be on that list. (You can find Mark Bubeck’s books on warfare, prayer, and revival at moodypublishers.com by…

Anita, Nessa & Eliza

June 23, 2019

I am revisiting this post as our first granddaughter is now 18 months old. May this be her legacy story one day . . . Now in their sixties and me almost there, my two older sisters and I felt like we were little girls again as we huddled together looking at old slides, projected on the wall of our parents’ room. The Kodachrome slides from the ‘50s and ‘60s still held their vibrant colors, making it seem like our parents were back in their twenties and still living among us. We oohed and aahed as the wonder of old memories—long forgotten—seemed to fill up the whole room with the click of each new slide. First, we looked through the slides from the ‘40s, when our parents met and fell in love. Then came the photos of us three little girls, all born in Denver in the fifties, and blondies like our daddy. We’d all forgotten the time we wore new pastel dresses and our auntie curled our hair when we were reunited with our parents after their long ministry trip overseas. Mama had brought us dolls from Paris, and we each held them up proudly as we smiled our crooked teeth grins of little girls. But the photo that made us gasp was the one filled with the images of our mother in her thirties and both of our grandmothers, just in their sixties back in 1964. Two trusted mentors are also there. Nestled among our mama, grandmas, and mentors are us three little girls, just 11, 9 and 4 at the time. The photo looks like it should be in a magazine, filled with splashes of different hues of blue—the mountain range behind us, the light blue ’63 Buick Roadmaster, Grandma’s flowered dark blue dress and scarf, Rhonda’s sweater, and Donna’s teal blue dress. Our other grandma rocked matching white shoes with her white purse. Donna, the middle sister, is huddled by Mama on the far left while Rhonda, the oldest, is to the far right by our Grandma Nessa, a farmer’s wife, and Grandma Eliza Christine, from Chicago whose parents were immigrants from Denmark. I love that four-year-old me is lost in her own little world, oblivious to the love, protection, joy, and beauty that hovers over her. Even my big sisters were my protectors at this stage in my little-girl life. This photo is even more treasured because just…

Not About Us

May 15, 2019

What if it’s not all about us? For years I have read blogs, articles, books and Bible studies that are all about us . . . about our identity, calling, purpose . . . about how God defines us, names us, sees us, love us. All important and needed messages for our searching hearts. But it can also be too much. Too much us. While visiting my daughter and son-in-law last week—the week of my new grandson’s birth—I started reading a book from the teachings of Nee T’o-sheng, known as Watchman Nee. Between rocking and cuddling our newborn boy, I’ve been reading Nee’s The Breaking of the Outer Man. The book is from his teaching in 1948 to coworkers in China, just a year before the Cultural Revolution. In 1952 he was imprisoned for his faith and remained in a Communist labor camp until his death in 1972. Nee languished in prison for twenty years. His beloved wife was the only one who could visit him during those years and she died a year before his death. Twenty years in a labor camp—then dying alone there—just for being a follower of Jesus Christ. We are told that when he died there was no announcement. No funeral. No eulogy. No pomp and circumstance . . . at least not here on earth. His body was cremated in prison before two of his relatives could even get there to view his body. Nee’s grandniece recounted the time when she received the news of his death: “In June 1972, we got a notice from the labor farm that my granduncle had passed away. My eldest grandaunt and I rushed to the labor farm. But when we got there, we learned that he had already been cremated. We could only see his ashes. . . . Before his departure, he left a piece of paper under his pillow, which had several lines of big words written in a shaking hand. He wanted to testify to the truth which he had even until his death, with his lifelong experience. That truth is—‘Christ is the Son of God who died for the redemption of sinners and resurrected after three days. This is the greatest truth in the universe. I die because of my belief in Christ. Watchman Nee.’ When the officer of the labor farm showed us this paper, I prayed that the Lord would let…

Resolute Protector

May 2, 2019

Baby William (Wim) was born just two days ago on April 30 at 12:51 a.m. Apparently he was determined to wait until his exact due date to arrive—all 9 lbs. 7 oz. of him—making his mama labor for over 24 hours. Our daughter and son-in-law, Kelly and Cal are parents for the first time, and now we have our second grandson in our midst. Such GLORY and WONDER! On his first day I looked up the meaning of his name and discovered—resolute protector. Oh, how that describes the heart of God over Kelly and Wim as mother and son bravely labored together to get him safely here! I think resolute is my new favorite word. It means admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering. Synonyms include resolved, decided, adamant, firm, fixed, single-minded, unswerving, undaunted, set, intent. All of those words make me think of God’s resolute love and protection over us. He is determined, unwavering, unswerving in His pursuit of our whole hearts. His love is purposeful, adamant, firm, and fixed. His guarding protection over us is resolute . . . undaunted . . . adamant. Our God is truly our Resolute Protector . . . . . . Over Wim’s new life. . . . Over the grieving heart of my beloved friend Sylvette, whose baby girl was stillborn. . . . Over dear Gail who is battling stage-3 breast cancer and Beth with stage-4 lung cancer. . . . Over my friend and author Kim as she bravely writes a book for grieving mothers. And, He was the Resolute Protector over this grandma’s anxious heart as I awaited the safe arrival of my new and glorious grandbaby. On Wim’s first day of life outside his mother’s womb, a full rainbow arched high above their home at dusk. What a sweet and not-so-subtle reminder of His guarding, resolute protection over all of us. He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young. Isaiah 40:11 What about you? I’d love to hear how God has been your Resolute Protector. Or if you’re a grandma, feel free to just brag about your grandkids! And yes, I’m including just a few pictures of Wim . . .

1
2
3
4
Older