Lightweight

It’s come to my attention that I’m a lightweight. Not where the scale’s concerned, heaven forbid. But in matters requiring self-improvement, and the steps needed to get there – well, that’s another matter.

Specifically, I’m engaged in the Beta reading process for my manuscript. This means fellow writers and non-writers whose opinions I respect are graciously giving of their time to read and critique the novel I’ve been laboring over for three years. This process, in theory, will give me the tools I need to perfect the book before finally foisting it on the agents who expressed interest at the conference I attended last April. I should add, my Beta readers are reviewing draft number three, which means drafts one and two have gone by the wayside and been replaced by this “new and improved” version.

But “new and improved” are two little words which are, I’m learning with chagrin, most assuredly a matter of interpretation.

Here’s a sampling of what I expected my critics to say upon laying down the final page:

“Perfect as is!”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world!”

This last one is so obvious, I’m embarrassed to even mention it: “How has society survived this long without the pearls of wisdom in your book?”

Oddly enough, my critics found room for improvement.

The advice I received is research based and makes good sense (my author friend has taken classes and is a veteran of the very same conferences I attended). More dialogue and action, less rumination. Distinguish characters by giving them habits or mannerisms that set them apart from each other. Don’t break the momentum of the scene by having the narrator wax philosophical or having too many “in the head” moments. In short, propel the plot forward at all times to keep readers engaged.

But here’s where the lightweight label comes into play. While my ears absorbed the wisdom in these astute suggestions, my mind’s eye saw a billboard flashing bold, neon letters: “This means a fourth draft, Lightweight!”

As much as I hate to admit it, my ego isn’t the sturdiest piece of my makeup, and those gently delivered truths toppled it a bit. Not completely, though, I’m happy to say. Like Weebles© which “wobble but they don’t fall down” (remember those bottom-heavy toys we used to play with? An apt comparison for yours truly, in more ways than one), I lurched a little, struggling to find balance and steady my bruised psyche, even while realizing the criticisms were for my own good.

For authors, rewrites are the name of the game. In the half hour or so I’ve been working on this piece, I’ve hit “backspace” probably 50 times or more. Revisions are the nitty-gritty, brass tacks, meat and potatoes – pick your cliché – of the writing process. I sat in a workshop in which agents perused writers’ opening pages to decide whether to read on or do their version of The Gong Show, and those professionals weren’t kind. The material either grabbed them right away or it didn’t, and they didn’t concern themselves with little things like the author’s self-esteem. That said, much as I would relish sweet, syrupy words of admiration from my critique readers, disingenuous praise won’t get me past the publishing world’s gatekeepers.

So here I sit, pondering my fourth draft, and gagging at the prospect.

On a related note, I recently had to do a little “surgery” on the American flag mounted by my front porch. When the wind would catch it a certain way, one corner became snagged in the bracket securing the pole and, well, it got in its own way. My flag was quickly coming to resemble the one that inspired Francis Scott Key to pen our National Anthem – tattered, but intact.

Independence Day was fast approaching and I realized that, by the time I took the trouble to replace my ailing banner, the Fourth would be a distant memory. Expediency won out over veneration, and I decided a slightly frayed flag would be better than no flag at all to honor the land of the free and home of the brave.

With that in mind, I excised the ripped portion, hoping no patriotism police were lurking about, waiting to charge me with desecration (if flag burning comes under the category of free speech, surely flag snipping must fall under the same protection). The end result was an emblem with imperfect but smoother edges, and one that won’t keep getting caught up in itself.

I need to submit to the same process to which I subjected this symbol of our nation’s freedom. Vicissitudes, be they viewpoints, winds of fancy or emotions, aren’t going to let up just because I want them to. But I don’t have to let them keep unsettling me. Rather, I must allow wiser Hands than mine to shape my ragged ends and cut out what isn’t right.

Still, I try to tell God His business: “Every day that I ‘waste’ rewriting this manuscript is another day the abortion industry goes unchecked and unchallenged, capturing young minds and hearts! Every day that goes by is another day society brainwashes our youth, telling them aborted children feel no pain while their limbs are being wrenched off, and that post-abortive parents feel nothing but relief after believing that lie and destroying their offspring!”

He calmly reminds me He’s in charge of the timetable, and my ranting isn’t going to change that. Perhaps He’s using this time to strengthen my resolve and make me better able to withstand even harsher criticism when the book finds its way into print. Certainly, He knows which words are needed to change people’s thought processes, which is what I’m endeavoring to do; apparently, getting those words right takes multiple tries.

Whatever His reasons may be, I’m choosing to – relax isn’t the right word – but simply take the gun away from my head and rest in His timing. And that’s a huge relief.

 "My times are in Your hand." Psalm 31:15

Out of the Comfort Zone, Into the Conference (AKA, Deliverance 3)

With apologies (and explanation) to my patient readers, to whom I haven't written since January 1, I offer the following:

The Conference

“This is gonna make a great blog article,” I told my friend Mary by way of apology, after keeping her waiting for the second time the morning we were both set to pitch manuscripts to agents at The Philadelphia Writing Workshop. The first offense was when I took too long in the shower and found her patiently playing with her phone as I combed the tangles out of my hair. The second infraction was when I couldn't locate my car in the motel parking garage (panic button notwithstanding) and had to beg the attendant to help me cruise the lot to find my misplaced vehicle. After a harrowing 20 minutes, I emerged from the depths to find Mary had given up waiting at our designated meeting spot and enlisted a motel attendant to help locate her MIA friend.

Mary and I had taken a room together the night before to avoid doing the last-minute rush thing into the city. A darn good idea, too, as I had more than a little agita just getting into Rittenhouse Square Friday night. I’m not a city girl – never have been – and after my thrill-laced adventure into town, I’m convinced, never will be. Combining two and a half hours of rush hour traffic, pedestrian peccadillos, detours, and GPS systems that disregard one-way streets, let's just say the trip was torturous. 

But I'm starting at the end. In the words of Good Witch Glinda, “It’s always best to begin at the beginning,” so, without further ado…

The Idea

Mary Dolan Flaherty emailed me a “Rah Rah, Let’s Write!” article several months ago, after the two of us had engaged in a complaint fest about the pitfalls most writers encounter while honing their craft. At the bottom of the piece was a link to the aforementioned conference, which we both decided to attend. Hence, the room and giggle sharing Friday night.

Alas, if I thought writing had roadblocks, I quickly determined that preparing for a conference to pitch one’s writing signals the starting gun for the mother of all roadblocks.

The Washer

Taking it chronologically, the delays started with the breakdown of my washing machine shortly after New Years. My son beckoned me urgently one evening after starting up said machine, explaining the thing had harrumphed, danced a few inches across the basement floor, then unceremoniously shut off. This necessitated several calls to the manufacturer to troubleshoot and verify what I already knew – the warranty had expired – but they thought they could fix it. Three hundred plus dollars and a missed day of work later, the deed was done, and Mom’s Laundromat was back in business.

The Computer

Next, my computer started misbehaving. You know the drill – sluggishness, refusal to summon the Internet (I think the newest protocol insists we not capitalize the “i” in that all-important, can’t-live-with-it, can’t-live-without-it technological wonder), etc., etc., etc. Don’t get me wrong: the device was upwards of ten years old, had patiently accepted the keying in of three manuscript overhauls –
in short, didn’t owe me anything. But why now!

Despite my objections, and not a few consults and troubleshooting visits from my long-suffering, computer savvy friend, Eileen, the diagnosis proved fatal, necessitating research, complaining, shopping trips, more complaining, and finally, a brand-spanking-new computer. I bragged proudly to Eileen after successfully transferring all my files from the old machine onto an external hard drive, which took a couple of hours away from my writing endeavors, but all to the good, right? Wrong. Turned out the external drive had gone the way of the old computer, and none of my files was retrievable. Cue Eileen, who made yet another emergency trip to my doorstep, only to deliver the unwelcome news that a second file transfer was in order. I grumbled my way through, but at last witnessed the lights of glory in the form of a usable new computer with usable, stored files. Only problem was a new operating system that demanded I learn its machinations before getting any appreciable work done.

The Water Heater… and the Flu

In the midst of all this frolicking, my water heater decided to malfunction. Delightful, hot showers began to wax frigid in the middle of my second chorus of “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” – all this in the middle of winter. What to do? The plumber – who had already dropped by to tighten a loose radiator valve (I believe “phlange” is the actual term he spouted after taking two minutes to fix a problem that cost me a whole day of work) – declared a new appliance was probably in order.

All was set for February 20, a holiday from school so I wouldn’t have to inconvenience my employer yet again – but the best laid plans… Nobody told my lungs I had an appointment that day, so instead of welcoming the plumber, I greeted a bad case of flu, which landed me in the emergency room secondary to breathing problems. My bed and I became besties that week, during which time tissues and inhalers got up close and personal with my airways.

Oh, and the water heater installation? Rescheduled, of course.

The Festive and the Not So Festive

The month of March arrived and, with it, new resolve on my part to hunker down with writing and conference prep. There were, however, two or twenty items yet on my to-do list, not least, the birthday celebrations of both my sons and newly adopted, “labor-less daughter” Elise – all within a week of each other! Happy diversions, to be sure, bookended between less pleasant plot twists like satisfying Uncle Sam’s yearly demand for tax computation, completing school financial aid forms, and tending to a nuisance insurance claim. ¡Ay caramba!

I persevered, promising myself that productivity lay just around the corner. What I hadn’t figured on, though, was a ramp up of work stress, including but not limited to an after-school assignment that went from 45 minutes one day a week to three hour sessions three days a week.

Can you see, neglected readers, why I haven't blogged since the first of the year?

The Deliverance

Somewhere amidst all these amusements, the story of Gideon leapt to mind. 

Gideon, the unlikely war hero, whom kept God waiting while he attempted to verify almighty instructions. Gideon, who carried out divine directions under cover of darkness, lest he receive repercussions from flesh and blood, only to find his covert action was anything but. Gideon, who gathered his nerve while enemies gathered around him.

Gideon, who subjected Omnipotence to terrestrial tests. Gideon, whose army God whittled down to 300 trembling men, to whom He assigned the unenviable task of opposing the mighty Midianites and their Amalekite allies.

Gideon, whose woefully inadequate army God likened to a banal loaf of bread. Gideon, who carried off the bluff of the century with trumpets and torches, resulting in the overthrow of aforementioned enemies.

Gideon, whose victory with ragtag resources gave this author hope of success despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

The Outcome

Turned out many of the setbacks I experienced over this past season were actually gifts. Waiting for repairmen and for illness to subside afforded huge blocks of largely uninterrupted time. Time to tweak my manuscript and assemble materials for agent review (never mind that none of said materials ended up being examined by said agents). In addition, I found I work better under pressure than I once thought, managing to pack three months of preparation into three weekends. 

The surprise ending? I didn't hate the process! Rather, I found myself enjoying my characters and story arc, reveling in newfound enthusiasm in the midst of a third rewrite! 

The best part? Two of the three agents I pitched requested a book synopsis and sample chapters! 

Deliverance. Seemed Easter was a fitting day to expound on that theme.

[Jesus] said, "The things which are impossible with men 

are possible with God!" Luke 18:27

For more like this, check out: Reflections by Thea: Deliverance

Reflections by Thea: Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

Reflections by Thea: God Rather Than Men

Anything But Old Maids

Some may consider Corrie ten Boom and her sister, Betsie, old maids.

The traditional meaning of this derogatory term is a woman no one saw fit to marry. The phrase is rarely employed these days, as many now embrace the single life by choice. However, such was not the case in the Ten Booms’ era. The ideal for most women in the early part of the 20th century involved marriage and motherhood. That was not to be for Cornelia and Elizabeth ten Boom.

Corrie endured a broken heart in her youth when a man she had every reason to believe intended marriage chose another for his wife. Corrie turned to her father, Casper, for solace. He offered her the option of transforming her thwarted romantic love into love for God. Fortunately, she heeded his wise counsel, and humanity is richer for that.

Corrie and Betsie were denied success as the world defined it. Rather than becoming bitter, they found contentment and happiness in caring for their family of origin, pursuing careers in the family watchmaking business, and studying the word of God. When opportunity met necessity, they built a secret room in their house and conducted speed drills with the Jews they took in to see how quickly hunted humans could cluster behind a fake wall.

I submit that these women were anything but old maids. Had they married, their attentions might well have remained on the care and nurturing of their families, rather than saving God's chosen people from the evil inflicted on them by Hitler's henchmen. They likely would have been safely tending their own hearths when Nazis raided their childhood home, the Beje, in Haarlem, Holland. They undoubtedly would have remained ensconced in household duties, rather than ministering to broken people behind barbed wire fences.

And Corrie might never have learned the message she delivered to untold numbers of thirsty souls in a post-war world shattered by violence and grief: “There is no pit so deep, that God is not deeper still.” 

Jumping In

My physical therapist touts water exercise as a boon to everything from arthritis to - well, you name it. Being the obedient patient that I am, I've been grabbing every chance this summer to jump in with both feet and show those hips and knees who's boss.

On September 10, the worthy recipient of my aquatic attention was my friend Tina's lovely private pool. Tucked away in her well-groomed backyard amidst a circle of trees with leaves dropping haphazardly into the water, the scene nudged me to loosen my grip on summer and transition with the trees into autumn.

Our carefree paddling was interrupted suddenly by an unexpected guest, causing this girl to emit shrieks which I'm pretty sure were heard by the population of Jakarta. Here's a hint:

I have it on good authority that this creepy slitherer was a mere garter snake, harmless and in fact helpful in controlling pest populations, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.

I beg to differ.

To me, this scaly creature was Hitler incarnate, daring me to swim alongside him even as he invaded my calm space, uninvited and most assuredly unwelcome!

Unlike Hitler, this guy wanted to high tail it out of there almost as much as I wanted him to. He took every opportunity to try to scale and exit the slippery tiled walls of my friend's pool. Had he boned up on his snake literature as I did after coming face to face with him, he would've known his efforts would be futile. Indeed, it was only with the aid of a long-handled pool filter (and much shuddering on both our parts) that he eventually vacated the premises.

Tina's 70-something mother did most of the deed. Her tiny stature and white hair belie a wily hunter who knows what to do and when. She vamoosed the vermin with nothing more than the aforementioned filter and the type of intestinal fortitude that powered a foolhardy teenage shepherd to go up against a giant.

All this excitement left yours truly a quivering mass of insecurity and lost faith.

I knew, without a doubt, that would be the last time I'd set foot in Tina's pool. After all, its harmony had been shattered by an ignoble intruder. The carefree, idyllic setting I cherished had turned out to be nothing more than a harbor for wayward reptiles.

In a curious juxtaposition, I'm privileged to collaborate this year with a simply inspired social studies teacher. Her discourse Friday on the September 11 tragedy kept me riveted to my classroom seat in lieu of the 15-minute coffee break the district's obliged to give me. While I missed my caffeine, I was far more concerned with missing her lesson of triumph over the damage four planes did to man-made structures and human hearts.  

Let me recap some of the wonders that demonstrate divine providence in the midst of 9/11's carnage. Two days after the attacks, a construction worker spied two intersecting steel crossbeams mimicking the draped crosses many churches display on Easter. In a sad commentary on the times we live in, this symbol of rebirth amid wreckage had to fight for its right to be displayed at the September 11 Memorial Museum. The monument came under fire, just as faith in general must withstand assault in our "enlightened," post-modern age. Three wise judges ruled in favor of the Ground Zero Cross, just as one omniscient Judge ruled in ours 2,000 years ago.


The "Survivor Tree" is another marvel that withstood the attack on the World Trade Center. Workers noticed the tree, its crown hacked off by the crashing towers, sprouting leaves in October, when its uninjured counterparts were shedding them. Clearly yearning to live, this wounded pear tree was nursed back to health at a local nursery, where a dove created a nest in its branches. The tree has since been returned to its original location, signifying that evil may uproot but can never permanently banish the will to survive.

"The little chapel that stood," - AKA, St. Paul's Chapel - stands across the street from the World Trade Center. Firefighters traded shoes for boots, hanging the former on the chapel's iron fence before racing in to face peril at the World Trade Center. These brave souls never returned to claim their shoes, for the actions of terrorists claimed their lives. But the 250-year-old house of worship where Alexander Hamilton lies buried and George Washington bowed his head centuries before stood untouched by the havoc rocking its massive neighbors. The tiny structure sustained no damage, but instead served as a relief center and a symbol of endurance in the wake of destruction. 

A section of the Bible, fittingly melded to a heart-shaped piece of steel, is another 9/11 artifact that overwhelms me. A firefighter retrieved it from the rubble and gave it to a photographer, who donated this "act of God" to the memorial museum. There it serves as the ultimate testament to the ability of His enduring love to overcome atrocity. Amazingly, the book is open to Matthew 5:38-39: "Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

What does all this have to do with the snake in Tina's pool? Perhaps the best way to illustrate the connection is to reflect on the little-known 9/11 boat lift. In nine short hours, hundreds of commercial vessels, summoned by a single plea from the Coast Guard, converged to evacuate 500,000 stranded Manhattanites via New York Harbor. Clearly, this was the time for thinking people to jump ship, not go aboard (especially operators of the huge Staten Island Ferry, which one captain described as "a big orange target in the middle of that harbor"). Nonetheless, eschewing danger, these mariners rushed in to rescue their fellow man in what would become the largest sea evacuation in history, Dunkirk notwithstanding. 

I like to think, in a small way, the same power source that rescued thousands and rebuilt ruins after September 2001 forced me out of my comfort zone in September 2016. Despite my resolution to play it safe after evicting a scaly interloper, some God-given spirit of chutzpah kicked my hindquarters back into the pool. Granted, I kept my head above water and my eyes wide open because I knew full well that, though we had banished one invader, others live to slither another day. Even so, despite whatever evils may lurk in the depths, the rewards of participation in this danger-filled dance of life outweigh the risks every time. 

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me  to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn,  and provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them 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. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord  for the display of his splendor."

 Isaiah 61:1-3

Pedigree of a Savior 2

A friend recently challenged me to read through the Book of Matthew, an account of Jesus' life with which I thought I was very familiar. Interestingly, there's always something new to be learned when one revisits previously studied material. As I'm delving into this gospel, I'm seeing old truths that for me are new.

Scandals

God placed the Messianic line in the wombs of many less than reputable women. Chapter one of Matthew lists Jesus' genealogy. Scattered throughout the long list of His progenitors are five women whose accomplishments included prostitution, adultery and foreign birth (Ruth hailed from Moab, a nation which descended from incest following the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and carried on generations of strife with Israel). How amazing that, of all the "nice" women God could have listed in Jesus' birth record, the ones He saw fit to mention by name were scandal-ridden. Eight times as many men are listed in this chapter as are women, and the one thing that small female fraction had in common was an undesirable background. Yet God used these women with checkered pasts to be vessels of salvation. 

Dreams

God used dreams to accomplish His purposes and warn His people five times in the first two chapters. Five times! I read these pages just about every Christmas, yet I never noticed this glaring fact. The dreams fall into categories of: 

a) guidance superintending the family into which Jesus would be born, and b) life and death warnings which direct the hearers either to do or not do something which will ensure the Son of God's earthly survival.

Obedience

In order for divine guidance to make a difference in the recipient's life, obedience is crucial. In the aforementioned dreams, Joseph and the Magi acted on the information God delivered to them. The Lord roused these men in order to impart instructions, and they lost no time (but they did lose sleep) to follow His leading. 

What Sin Disgraces, Grace Displaces

I find hope and a call to action in these texts. What sin disgraces, grace displaces. Simply put, God loves to use underdogs and transgressors to carry out His plans, and He may use supernatural means to reveal them. Most importantly, if we are willing to be used, we must stand willing to obey.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Pedigree of a Savior

They Just Want a Bow

For those who don't know, I work in the educational realm, assisting students of varying ages and walks of life. An interesting incident happened one Christmas, which confirmed a fascinating phenomenon I first observed years ago. In the spirit of peace on earth and good will toward men, I revisit the story now.

I had received a gift from a grateful teacher, which she had

adorned with an attractive but ordinary holiday bow. Taking notice of
the decoration, one of my students pleaded with me to give it to her. This particular young lady was something of a challenge, trying the patience of both peers and professionals through negative, attention-seeking behaviors. Thinking quickly, I outlined some behavioral expectations she would have to meet for the duration of class in order to win the desired prize. At the end of the period, having risen to the occasion, she proudly displayed her trinket.

Another student, whose disruptive behaviors belied a mass of insecurity manifesting alternately in tears and bravado, begged for a holiday bauble that he, too, could show off. I had to regretfully tell him I had no other. He assumed his "I don't care" stance and swaggered out into the hall and his holidays.

These happenings took me back almost 10 years ago, when I was assigned to a class of seniors reminiscent of the "sweathogs" of Welcome Back, Kotter fame. Many of these kids were troubled and unruly. One student was perpetually absent, so I struck a deal with him: come to school every day for an entire week, and receive a reward. To my surprised delight, this tattooed, biker-bearded teen met the challenge one week, and looked to me for his winnings. Unprepared, I searched around in my bag of tricks (similar to Mary Poppins' carpetbag, my over-the-shoulder tote houses everything from school supplies to first aid items, and quite a bit in-between). I could come up with nothing but a rumpled sheet of stickers of a cartoon character popular with the nursery school crowd. To my utter amazement, this 250-pound truant broke into a Grand Canyon-sized grin. He snatched up the stickers and with them, all the stock I had put in his "tough guy" braggadocio.

Like most kids I've met, this guy just wanted a "bow." Not a Christmas bow, but a token of self-worth. The burly bruiser he passed himself off as gave way to the little boy inside, who needed to be accepted and loved as well as held accountable.

I've been handing out stickers ever since (and silly pencils and themed erasers and whatever odds and ends are hiding in the bottom of my bag). The occasional wise guy who scoffs at my goodies frequently melts when he sees his peers lapping them up. The gifts are incidental; the value affixed to them is the attraction. The smallest bit of recognition gives an excellent student a well-deserved accolade and an underachiever something to shoot for.

Seems like a no-brainer to me.

For more like this, check out:

Dusty and Chewy: They Just Want a Bow Part 2

The Thick of It

Today I visited a church I attended for many years. How wonderful to see so many familiar faces and growing families! One group in particular struck me. Their four beautiful kids were sprawled all over the pew in various stages of activity. Two sat alongside Grandpa, clutching both of his hands. One sang with Mom, both of them smiling and swaying to the music. The littlest planted herself firmly in Dad's arms, resting her head on his shoulder as he alternately sat and rose according to convention. Downstairs, their newborn lay cradled in someone else's arms.

Afterwards in the parking lot, I caught up with this gang as they piled into their minivan. I complimented Mom on how happy they all seemed together. She replied wryly, "Sometimes it comes across that way!"

My own experience as a parent is much further along; my sons are nearly 22 and 17, while the eldest in the above-mentioned family is under ten. I couldn't help but wonder what trials they are in for. Raising children in this country at this point in history is challenging at best and hair-raising at worst. I'm in the thick of it, and so are many of my contemporaries. Worry and fear can get the best of us, unless we combat them with faith and prayer.

The good news is, God isn't going away.

"Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear." Isaiah 65:24

Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

I like the way my sons are turning out. They've always been supportive of me, no matter what I'm going through. They tend to be non-judgmental of their flawed but trying mother (for example, I doubt either would bat an eye over the fact that I just ended two sentences with prepositions). Although we differ in our approaches to organized religion and our ways of expressing our faith, I see God making headway in both their lives, and it humbles me.

Lately I've been feeling a fair amount of angst about some decisions that are before me. I've been praying about them, staying in God's word, seeking Godly counsel ... still, I haven't quite made it to the peace that passes all understanding stage. I've been walking around at times deflated, discouraged, even despondent, wondering if God's sure what He's doing in my life.

In despair, I called my older son the other day for comfort. He's almost 21 and has a pretty good head on his shoulders. More to the point, he loves me, and I needed to feel loved just then. His counsel was short, sweet and sound. First, he said he trusted my judgment about whatever challenges I was facing, and indicated that he believed in me. Second, he promised to help with an upcoming party we were planning, which was making me feel even more overwhelmed (and he kept his word). As if this psychological and practical support were not enough, he wondered aloud if I had counted my blessings lately.

No need to reread that last sentence; you got it right the first time. I admit, though, I did a double take after he said it. This is a principle I've been trying to instill in my kids since they were little, but like the first time they crossed the street without holding my hand, I felt terrified they'd get it wrong and kill themselves before the lesson sank in.

It blew me away when he began ticking off a gratitude list on my behalf, as easily if he were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance for the billionth time. It sounded like he'd been noticing silver linings his whole life, and right then the clouds began to part for this (at the moment) visually challenged mother.

I went home later and hung out with my younger son. He caught a clue it had been a rough day when I announced we were getting take out for dinner. When it was time to go pick up the food, he offered to stroll up with me and get it. Since walking is one of the few exercises I don't "hate, loathe, despise and abominate,"  but one of the few he dislikes, this was an act of love. Alas, the credit card I brought to pay for our feast was the only one the restaurant didn't accept! Since I hadn't brought cash, this little error necessitated a second round trip in 20 degree winds. Ethan retraced his steps in the cold with nary a murmur (even offering to make the return trip solo so I could relax). When we finally sat down to eat, he generously suggested I pick out a show to watch while we grazed (and shared his dinner with me, 'cause let's face it, if one egg roll is good, two's gotta be better). In typical Ethan form, he even tried to chip in for the tab.

Makes it easier to count your blessings when two of them are living under your roof.

                                                       Aaron and Ethan Williams

For more like this, check out:

 Morsels for Meditation...: Baby's Breath, Maturing Marvels

Morsels for Meditation...: My Ethan                                                        

Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

After rereading my entry from April 20 and hearing my pastor preach on 2 Chronicles 20 since then, I need to amend one of the conclusions I drew before. I previously stated that God appointed unidentified attackers to fight the battle that faced His people in this chapter. I now realize the ambushes that defeated Judah's enemies were the enemies themselves! There were three armies threatening Judah, all of whom  turned on each other, leaving God's people to just show up for the "door prizes" (see v. 25).

This reminded me of the first time I watched the classic film, Jurassic Park. My sister Jo Ann, who had seen the movie before, tried to build suspense by telling me just enough without giving anything away. As we viewed the culminating scene, she promised with a sly smile, "Help comes from an unexpected source." If you haven't seen the movie, here's where you may want to stop reading, as I'm about to spill the beans.Who could have predicted the T-rex would show up at crunch time to devour the velociraptors that had cornered our heroes?

In similar fashion, the Almighty bailed me out of my recent protracted trial. When He was ready to move, His actions were sudden, stunning, and unmistakable. I had no clue what curve-throwing means He would use to spring me. I had braced myself for the long haul, so was delighted at this heavenly change-up.

Ephesians 1:13 claims that we as God's children demonstrate "the praise of His glorious grace." It really is all about the glory. His glory. He's entitled to it when He acts miraculously on our behalf, but is no less deserving when He leaves us in the trenches. If anything, the tougher the ordeal, the harder He works to get us through it.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Deliverance

Morsels for Meditation...: Sleep on It

Morsels for Meditation...: God Rather Than Men

Deliverance

I'm excited to report that God has removed a very tough faith challenge from my life. I had been struggling for many months with a difficult, uncomfortable trial that has given me, the queen of afternoon naps, agita and insomnia. In grappling with the situation, I had imagined numerous ways in which the Lord might intervene, if He chose to change my circumstances at all. At last I resigned myself to accepting things as they were, and prayed for strength to hang on until deliverance came. In less than a week, He moved creatively, definitively, and beyond the narrow scope of my imaginings. Not only was I removed from the furnace, but God granted me a lovely new situation to replace the old hair-raising one. The kicker: I did nothing but show up for the miracle.

In my efforts to cope with the turmoil I felt during those trying months, I had availed myself of much Scripture in which God's people stood up under the divine refining process. Perhaps my favorite story is 2 Chronicles 20, in which King Jehoshophat learns just how inventive God can be in helping His people overcome adversity. I love how God's spokesman tells the worried king, "Listen, King Jehoshaphat and all who live in Judah and Jerusalem! This is what the LORD says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s. Tomorrow march down against them... You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the LORD will give you, Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the LORD will be with you." (vv. 15-17). In the end, God appoints unidentified attackers to crush Israel's enemies, while His people stand watching from the sidelines! I didn't dare hope for such a marvel in our post-modern, theologically barren society. Still, I wondered if He could possibly be giving me a hint of things to come. Little did I realize, I was only hours away from just such a stunner in my own 21st century life.

When I recently confided my seemingly insurmountable problem to a concerned party, she asked how I was holding up. At the time, my heart was thumping and stress hormones raced around my body like flies at a picnic. While I couldn't honestly deny feeling anxious, I heard myself say, "I have everything I need." And suddenly I knew that was true. It was then that I realized what the prophet Habakkuk meant when he recorded these words: "Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior." (vv. 17-18).

Rejoicing, I'm finding out, is a state of mind that comes with the doing, not the other way around.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Sleep on It

Morsels for Meditation...: Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

Morsels for Meditation...: God Rather Than Men

Tools for the Task at Hand

Been thinking about King David lately. He had no business defeating Goliath, especially with only a slingshot and a few rocks from a stream. Likewise, Queen Esther had no reason to expect she wouldn't receive a death sentence for speaking out of turn to her husband, the king, let alone confronting him at a banquet.

While I'm at it, I'm pondering the colonists' gutsy stand during the American Revolution, which they didn't have a prayer (well, clearly, they had a prayer) of winning. And let's not forget the Abolitionists who harbored slaves during the Civil War era, and brave souls like Corrie ten Boom and Irena Sendler, who put their lives on the line to rescue Jews during WWII.

I've often wondered how I'd cope with such life and death choices. Would I put myself in harm's way for the greater good, or wimp out like I've done so many times before?

The conclusion I've come to is, I'll never know. I wasn't asked to slay a Philistine giant or rescue God's chosen people from annihilation. I haven't been called upon to shepherd runaway slaves through the Underground Railroad. But God has seen fit lately to send certain challenges my way. I feel small and shaky, as I suspect the aforementioned activists did when they considered their options. I don't have a pebble shooter or a hidden compartment in my house, but I do have a voice and a pen. More than that, I have God Almighty walking beside me and living within me.

I have everything I need for the task at hand.

Through

Last Friday I had the opportunity to attend our school's Save a Heart event. This is a fundraiser to support heart disease research, and it's very popular with the kids. They get to have a whole afternoon off after a long week of standardized testing, and participate in a plethora of relay games requiring teamwork and not a little strategizing. They love it.

I found several of the activities intriguing. Stonehenge, for example, requires each student to select a tall wooden block and build a sort of pi-shaped (yes, I do mean pi, as in the Greek letter) sculpture, one piece at a time, based on their recollection of a model they viewed briefly before beginning the exercise. One misplaced block can topple the whole structure, so they have to correct each other's mistakes before placing their piece. If the unthinkable happens and it gets knocked down, they have to begin the process from scratch, thus putting them in last place.

As you can imagine, the larger the sculpture becomes, the greater the pressure on the individual block layer not to upset the proverbial apple cart. I watched in fascination at the kids' concentration as they worked out problems and tried not to be the "fall guy." I imagined how stressful it must be for them to have all their peers and teachers watching their progress, and to realize that their teammates were relying on them for the win. I thought of how tempting it would be to turn tail and run rather than stick it out; how disheartening it was to be the reason for the team's failure. And yet, these little sixth graders plugged away till the last block was laid, for better or for worse, and not one dissolved into tears when things didn't go as planned.

Another activity that caught my attention was Thread the Needle. This title is deceptively simple. The goal here is to build a free-standing hula hoop sculpture as a team, after which each student must pass through without tumbling it. Success is iffy at best, but the beauty of the process is that, when one student has the misfortune of ruining the structure, the others immediately rally to his aid and quickly rebuild, enabling their teammate to take another stab at the prize. I was agog at the cooperation and perseverance shown by these pre-teens.

River Raft Relay is another team challenge. Here there are two "rafts," AKA gym mats, laid out next to each other. The object is for half a dozen or so kids to tiptoe one at a time off one and onto the other, after which the last "passenger" passes the rear raft to his teammates till it becomes the one in front. They have to repeat this process until the whole team makes it across the gym, gingerly squeezing too many 12-year-olds onto a mat the size of a pavement slab. The game requires stealth and patience, two things we don't normally equate with pre-adolescents.

Happy Gilmore is perhaps the most remarkable, as it more or less combines all the aforementioned skills into one activity. Each student receives a half piece of PVC pipe, onto which a golf ball is set. The aim is for one student to pass the ball to the next, via the pipe, without letting it drop. The trick is to make the swap quickly but cautiously, so the sender can run back and hand off the pipe to his waiting teammate, who then relieves the current holder of the golf ball. Too fast leads to disaster; the ball drops and they have to start over. Too slow leaves the holder hanging out to dry, as he struggles to balance the tipping ball with no one to pass off to. It is a game of precision and skill, camraderie and self-control. It's also an exercise in tenacity, as too often the swaying ball wins out over the tottering sixth grader, and the team is forced to start all over again.


What all these relay games have in common is, there are no shortcuts. The players' only hope of victory is to follow directions to the letter, staying the course despite frustration and setbacks. Defeat is only one misstep away.

Sometimes the only way to go is through.