Rainy Days Ahead: Getting Through versus Going Through

Rainy Days Ahead

That’s the message the bottom right hand corner of my desktop is trumpeting today, complete with a tiny picture of an umbrella.

Rainy days right now.

I would append this statement to the former because my life has been somewhat showery for a while now, with no signs of letting up.

I’m not talking about weather, of course. I’m talking about the pulse of the country and my own personal pulse, so to speak.

When I demonstrated an interest in writing as a young girl, my parents gifted me a little book called The Writer’s Eye. I never read the thing, being ever resistant to learning about the writing craft and much preferring to just do it. That said, I may have finally internalized the idea that, to a writer, everything is grist for the mill.

Such is the case with the notification on my desktop this morning. Those little weather alerts are probably there every day, but I don’t usually take notice. This one for some reason jumped out at me, perfectly characterizing, in my humble opinion, the state of the nation and my particular state at the moment.

Choosing Sun

Before we start tuning our violins, let me qualify my comments. Lest my words seem like a plea for sympathy, I want it known that I’m not feeling sorry for myself.

Well, not too much. It’s a tough habit to break, after all, and at one time in my life, I was a master self-pitier. But in recent years, I’ve come to realize the truth of Viktor Frankl’s statement (emphasis mine): “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

In searching for Frankl’s attitude quote, I found a mountain of inspiration from this remarkable psychotherapist, including the little gem quoted below (emphasis mine). Little did this Holocaust survivor know how ahead of his time he was, given today’s rampant support for physician assisted suicide. I suspect this brilliant man, who survived horrors that stagger the imagination, would be appalled at the prevalence of so-called “death with dignity”:

“But today’s society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness. If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual’s value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler’s program, that is to say, ‘mercy’ killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. Confounding the dignity of man with mere usefulness arises from conceptual confusion that in turn may be traced back to the contemporary nihilism transmitted on many an academic campus and many an analytical couch.”

These are the kinds of things we need to read to drag ourselves out of the quagmire that sometimes characterizes life.

While I have grave concerns for the shape our country is in and, secondarily, find myself in a set of somewhat dreary circumstances, for once in my life – and maybe this is the definition of maturity – I’m seeing things with a sort of objectivity that encourages me.

For years I’ve been advising fellow believers to try to view things through God’s eyes. “I wonder what God’s trying to teach you” is a frequent refrain from my lexicon. I think this phrase is finally becoming less a platitude and more a reality for me.

What a blessing!

Fifty Per Cent

How on earth did we get from weather reports to percentages?

Trust the process.

A ways back I jotted down notes for a possible blog article – this blog article. I had been noticing silly things that were in the 50 per cent range, satisfaction-wise. For example, I had just replaced one framed piece of art – I’m looking at it now – with another. My desk sits in a sort of alcove that offers a convenient wall which invites decoration. A friend was collecting secondhand items to be sold for a worthy cause, and I saw this as an opportunity to swap one picture for another that I preferred. My friend collected the cash for my discard, and my workspace picked up something more pleasing to my eye.

Except for one thing.

Remember I mentioned that I work in an alcove? Well, my desk is heavy, right down to its glass top, and the computer tower and monitor that sit atop it don’t easily lend themselves to rearrangement.

You can see where this is going.

I didn’t want to do anything silly like ask for help, so I scaled a ladder and hoped for the best.

The best, as it turned out, meant: a) the glass top didn’t break; b) computer components weren’t knocked off; c) picture was successfully mounted; but d) it wasn’t centered.

See what I mean? The angle makes it look crooked; it really isn't. But it is definitely off center.

And you know what?

I’m living with it.

This is actually the second such mounting job I’ve done in recent months which has turned out less than perfectly. Things like this used to really bother me. I would remove nails and readjust (who sees a few extra holes once the art is hung?) until I got it just right.

Such precision no longer holds a place on my priority list.

I don’t want to say I’m too old for that, but, well, you know.

So, I got 50 per cent of what I was looking for. Actually, I got 75 per cent, if you consider that points a, b, and c worked out well, and d was the only defector.

I’ll take it.

I could share other examples where I’m looking to make lemonade out of sour lemons.

Case in point: like many women of my vintage, I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.

That said, I have a few besetting ailments, but in the big scheme of things, they’re pretty manageable. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, I’m grateful that when one condition flares up, the others – for the moment, anyway – have been remarkably well behaved. So, instead of dealing with arthritic aches along with asthma adventures, nine times out of ten, one is under control while the other is making its presence known.

Again, attitude is going to be key in how I view these things. I can either lament, “Oh, man, this cold is going into my chest, so now I’m going to have to break out the nebulizer machine and pull out all the stops again!” OR I can consider the flip side. To illustrate, I'll refer to a guidance counselor I once knew who encouraged students to take the “at least” perspective when they were feeling upset. For example, “My activities may be curtailed because of this respiratory infection, but AT LEAST I’m walking without a cane for the moment!”

Getting Through versus Going Through

There’s always a valley lurking at the base of every peak. Will we focus on the valley instead of enjoying the peak?

One of my family members has had plenty of adversity. Life-threatening health issues, financial setbacks, devastating family problems. This individual has consistently modeled a “bounce back” response to every challenge. I have watched with admiration the steadiness and resilience which have characterized this person’s response to surgeries, business misadventures, even death (and near death) of loved ones.  

That’s how I want to be when I grow up.

I want to learn to go through life’s obstacles with grace and faith.

I don’t want to just get through things that feel like suffering. I want to go through life’s vicissitudes knowing, as God’s child, I’m right smack in the center of His will, despite appearances to the contrary.

When I searched my blog for an article written back in 2012, entitled Through (which, incidentally, was written during a time of severe testing in my life), I stumbled onto a whole slew of my writings on the same subject. I offer them here in the hope that one or all may lighten the burdens others are carrying.

Because that’s the point, really, when you get right down to it. Like Christian in John Bunyan’s classic Pilgrim’s Progress, we can expect trouble. It’s going to come whether we like it or not. Bunyan knew of what he spoke; he wrote the book during his 12-year imprisonment, during which time he supported his family by making shoelaces.

Bunyan understood the truth of Hebrews 10:36-39:

“For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised. For, ‘Yet a little while, and the coming one will come and will not delay; but my righteous one shall live by faith, and if he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.’

“But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.”

Bunyan’s faith enabled him to live out the truth of Psalm 112:6-7:

“For the righteous will never be moved; he will be remembered forever. He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord.”

Rejoice, in Spite of…

Rainy days may lie ahead, but so does our hope of heaven. I’m looking for the kind of faith that sustains the pastoral staff at my church. These folks have an uncanny knack for balancing pain and joy, even to the point of advising their sheep to “thank God for everything!”

And they mean everything. This collective group and their wives have experienced plenty of hardships since I've known them. Their resolve never changes. They truly do thank God for everything, ever seeking whatever growth is to be had within their changing circumstances.

Anyone who has been part of a Christian community knows, unfortunately, that the church is a breeding ground for love but can also include betrayal. It’s been said the church is the only army that shoots its own soldiers.

I wish I could prove this sentiment wrong, but I’ve been around too long to deny the truth of its caustic commentary.

I would ask my pastoral team to reveal the secret behind their smiles, but they would simply refer me back to the Book of all books.

They’ve learned not to make their happiness contingent on things going their way. They’ve weighed Jesus’s words and example, put them to the test, and found them more than adequate to catch every tear that accompanies the ministry.

Tears are the stuff of rainstorms, minus the salt, I suppose. They are also evidence of God’s hand in our lives, but He doesn’t leave us to dissolve into them. Rather, in His providence, He allows clouds to break over our lives only insomuch as they are necessary for our growth.

What a savior.

Old Things, Old People

Generally speaking, I keep things till they die.

Take my electric stove, for instance. It's over 25 years old and looks every day of it. Scratches, chips

that have been repainted and don't quite match (OK, they're eyesores), replaced drip pans which need to be re-replaced - these and many other "beauty marks" adorn this oldie but goodie... but she's still kicking.

Then there's my dryer, which is close to 20 years old, and has outlived several of its neighbors in my basement. Neither the washer nor the water heater can boast such endurance, and I sometimes wonder if the racket Sir Dryer makes in carrying out his duties is his way of touting his longevity.

My treasure of a brother-in-law (OK, he's more like a brother) has breathed new life into that old appliance a number of times. With each load I throw in for a spin dry, I also toss up a prayer of thanksgiving for Tom's expertise and his willingness to invest his skills and talents in my direction.

The guy's one in a million.

I prefer to call my aging array of household equipment unpretentious rather than homely. If connotation is king, I'd like to give my workhorses the benefit of the doubt.

Why do I hang onto old things when I can afford to replace them? The practice has caused me inconvenience at times, when gadgetry bites the dust and I have to scramble to bring in the reinforcements. Still, there's this part of me that enjoys seeing restoration rather than retirement.

After all, they don't make 'em like they used to.

The same can be said of older people. With age comes experience, an invaluable component of wisdom (the fact that I'm rocketing towards my golden years, of course, has nothing whatsoever to do with my assessment of the topic at hand). Age doesn't guarantee maturity, obviously, but it does afford the opportunity to "grow up" in ways that matter: self-esteem and humility, for example, which may seem like opposites but are really just two riders on the seesaw of life which, when balanced, make for quite a stable ride.

When I hold onto rickety but still functional appliances, perhaps that's my way of nodding to a world view in which the elderly used to be cherished and respected, as opposed to being chided and rebuked, for their less than modern perspectives. 

I felt this philosophy being underscored yesterday when I caught a Zoomed reunion featuring several key actors from the 1970's TV series, "The Waltons." The cast reminisced about a story line in which the senior Mrs. Walton returned home after suffering a stroke, only to find her former duties being stripped away from her. She cried piteously to her daughter-in-law about her need to be needed. Interestingly, the actress playing the role, Ellen Corby, was herself fighting this same battle in real life. Having survived a stroke, Corby was determined to return to the show minus the ability to speak, upon which her sharp-tongued character relied heavily. Corby proved to the audience and to herself that she had new and different things to offer, even as some of her abilities waned.

My own parents also exemplifed this truth. Both gave richly to their families, even towards the end of their lives. Mom became an encouraging audience for grandson Tommy to practice his fourth grade reading skills, even as she lay helpless and dying. Dad could still make a mean cup of coffee to see his adult daughter through her workday. I can still remember him calling proudly up the stairs, "Your coffee is ready!" before settling onto the couch to watch TV with tiny Ethan (who was the only six-year-old on our block to be conversant in national news and Civil War history, both of which Granddad imparted to his absorbent little mind). When Dad could no longer do those things, his suffering stirred compassion in my older son's heart; Aaron, undoubtedly inspired by the sacrifices he had seen both his grandparents make on our family's behalf, chose to stay by Granddad's bedside rather than collect candy one Halloween.

Who says kids don't copy what they see?

I guess I'm in a sentimental mood, or maybe it's the overabundance of folks I see populating nursing homes, but I just feel the need to speak on behalf of old things and old people. Given the growing public support for assisted suicide, combined with high rates of suicide among the elderly, it seems more urgent than ever to proclaim the worth of a segment of the population whose heyday may be long gone, but for whom vast purpose still remains.

Funny note to build on the point I've been trying to make in this article. I wanted to finish it up and post it last night, but my "getting on in years" computer was slowing down and fizzling out, as was this author. Woke up this morning, and voila, both technology and human have it all back together (well, mostly). Perhaps our older folks (and older things) need a bit more in the rest department to keep going, but at the end of the day, they can still pull things off.

Thanking our great God for all the seasoned stuff and geriatric gems in our midst.

"Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God.                 

They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing..."

~ Psalm 92:13-14~

For more like this, check out The Great Reset, AKA, Growing Pains 2

The Great Reset, AKA, Growing Pains 2

The Great Reset

I've been starting to hear about "The Great Reset," a concept that seems to set many hearts aflutter with hope while inducing some seasoned pundits to bite their perfectly manicured nails. As I said, I'm only just learning about this idea, so am not going to comment one way or the other. I am, however, going to shamelessly coopt the phrase for the purposes of this article.

The To Do List

This aspiring author woke up yesterday with a to do list longer than the flowing scarves magicians coax out of otherwise unexceptional sleeves. Much of it was very mundane, things like cooking and correspondence, but nonetheless, important to me and the people who matter to me. Other things were "bigger ticket items" that mandate more time and attention (financial planning, tech issues, etc.).

True confessions: I just had to pause my ruminations upon remembering that I was late paying a bill. The creditor very politely emailed me two days ago, and it's been on my to do list, but, well, refer back to paragraph two. 

See what kind of a week it's been?

The Letdown

I think what's really getting to me has been brewing since Christmas Eve. It's my favorite day of the year, what with the anticipation and beauty and hopefulness that seems to pervade all 24 hours of it.

But that's just the point. It's only 24 hours. No matter how hard I try to savor each moment, Christmas Eve always turns into Christmas morning - also a wonderful day, but one which carries with it the knowledge that that's it for another year. Come December 26, decorations will start to look old and haggard, and huge trash bags will go out to the curb, full of dead evergreens and the remnants of what was and will not be again for another 364 days. 

The Growing Pains

There's a sweet scene in the pilot movie that kicked off The Waltons TV series in which the youngest child confides to her brother that she intends to "stay little" and never grow up. She even has a plan to thwart the efforts of time. By compressing between both tiny hands whatever body part seems to be expanding, she hopes to outsmart the growing pains and stay forever a child.

I get where she's coming from. But, like copper-haired Elizabeth Walton, I fail every year at trying to make time stand still where Christmas Eve is concerned.

Time, after all, will always have its way with us.

And growing pains will always hurt, and they will always be worth every iota of pain they cost us.

What Elizabeth doesn't realize is that, unless she grows up, she'll never know the joys that await the adult world. Parenting, perhaps, but maturity for sure, unless she stymies time's work in shaping her life by making infantile, unwise choices. The satisfaction of tackling hard tasks and experiencing both success and failure in the doing. The wisdom that accompanies whitening of the hair (one of the reasons I stopped dyeing mine - why try to hide the evidence of God's maturing process?). The diminishing concern for pleasing a fickle world, and heightening interest in honoring an unchanging God. Most of these accomplishments are mysteries to the young, as they should be. No one arrives on this earth all grown up, and half the satisfaction of living is achieving a form of wisdom that can only come through bumps and bruises.

The Longevity of the Cross

An insightful (if I do say so myself) sentiment came to me the other day, unbidden. I posted it on Facebook, but apparently I need to remind myself: 

Christmas Day doesn't last, but what Christ did at Christmas lasts forever!

I mean, didn't we see that in spades this year? As the wealth and hedonism of our nation has had to step aside due to the ravages of coronavirus, didn't we gain an inkling of all that we could do without this Christmas? And, folks, not to be a crepehanger, but this isn't even as bad as it can get. Not by a long shot. Political tides being what they are, and with society's fear factor edging off the charts, we could be in for anything.

But, as Corrie ten Boom and her sister discovered in the concentration camp that rewarded them for protecting their fellow man, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." Little did they know that deliverance would come for them as the new year dawned, and joy would take on a dimension far beyond anything found under a pine-needled tree. 

When all the tinsel and glitter of the holiday were stripped away, there lay Christ, still in that manger. Right where He's always been, at the heart of Christmas. 

But our great God didn't stop there; Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.

So, yes, time will march on, and some of its passage will be accompanied by anxiety and even dread. Anxiety about carefree times ending and the hard work of day to day living starting up again. Dread of happiness giving way to trouble. We mortals are prone to these emotions, and I daresay Christ expressed the same just before accomplishing His magnum opus: "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will" (Mark 14:36).

Take a good look at what follows the semicolon, for therein lies the key. Our Savior knew God's will superseded His human one, which was largely operating in Gethsemane. He was setting an example for us that any Golgotha which may loom ahead can be handled through close fellowship with the Father.

The Greatest Reset

Likewise, this author can attack the unknown with faith, even as holidays yield to workaday life and new powers that be replace familiar ones. And whatever "great reset" those powers may wish to impose, a far greater reset awaits all who place their hope in the ultimate reset that took place at Calvary: divinity obliterating the barriers between itself and blemished humanity.

So, finally returning to my to do list, who am I to think I'm going to finish everything before returning to work in a few days? It took Christ 33 years to accomplish His earthly ministry; yet, this girl wants to complete all her self-appointed goals for the vacation within the next 24 hours. 

Not gonna happen.

But what sometimes does happen is what occurred yesterday morning. The MINUTE my prayer partner and I hung up the phone, having studied Scripture and lifted praise and requests to God, I received a call which held counsel I badly need to move forward in 2021. 

Funny how putting first things first has a way of calming panic and frenzy and pointing us to the one who holds answers to both.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Check out: Panic? The Wrong God! (Note: sermon starts at 21:50, in case anyone wants to get right to the best part; believe me, it's worth the time).

For more like this, check out Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

My Ethan

Check out David Crowder's How He Loves. 

I don't usually start out posts by referencing a song, but this time I have no choice.

We sang this in church today, and I found myself tearing up. Not because of the lyrics, because the world is brimming with phrases that send chills down my spine. Not because of the artist, who wears his disheveled look like an old satchel and croaks out words with the vocal finesse of a bullfrog. Surely not because I was overcome by some temporary emotional rush, for if that were the case, the overwhelming sense of gratitude would have dissipated rather than grown stronger, as it has, over the course of two decades.

I wept because I have lived the truth behind the words.

Eighteen years ago, I was facing single parenthood and dreading it. I had no clue how my little family would survive, and less than the requisite mustard seed of faith needed to believe God had a clue.

And yet, all these years later, I stand amazed (no, let me amend that, I need to sit down for this revelation) that my heavenly father did just what He said He would do in verses like: 

"I have been young, and now am old; yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his descendants

begging bread." ~ Psalm 37:25

and

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy habitation." ~ Psalm 68:5

Perhaps the most daunting piece of my situation was the fact that I was raising not only a preschooler, but also a newborn. Five-year-olds can go off to kindergarten, so at least Mom can count on half a day to accomplish little tasks like earning a living. Five-year-olds can feed themselves and put on their jackets and dial 911 if Mom succumbs to exhaustion. 

Infants can't do any of those things. My Ethan hadn't even been born yet when I realized something was way wrong with our family picture, and he was only six months old when my nightmare became reality. On top of these difficult beginnings, he wasn't the easiest child to raise. One of his earliest full sentences was uttered in reply to my request that he perform some Herculean feat like taking his plate out to the kitchen. In wide-eyed wonder, he unashamedly declared, "I wouldn't wanna have to work!"

Things got worse before they got better. It quickly became apparent that my bright child (who, because of his superior intellect, I had high hopes of advancing right from pre-school to first grade – yeah, right) was neither gifted nor interested in becoming gifted in the wide world of social interaction. Not only did he not fly under the radar, but I have voluminous email files from teachers and principals who didn't know what to do with a student whose bluntness was exceeded only by academic laziness. We darkened many a counselor and therapist’s doorstep. I sought out role models among family and friends to point him in the right direction. All these people and programs helped immensely, but at the core was a heart issue.

My Ethan has a stubborn streak, honestly come by, which informs and drives and makes him hard to reach at times.

That stubborn streak is also the very thing which will make him a fantastic teacher or lawyer or street cleaner, for all I care, as long as he aims it in the right direction.

Anyway, as I was reveling in Crowder’s music this morning, it struck me that one of the biggest ways God has shown his love for me was in giving me this second son, when it was all I could do to manage the first, and providing the family and resources (I still shake my head in wonder at the unexpected ways He provided resources, but that’s another article) and sheer, white-knuckle perseverance needed to move this little pain in the butt from point A to point B.

And let me tell you, this guy has most definitely landed on point B. I could regale you with stories of his accomplishments, but I don’t want to be one of those moms. Suffice it to say, he’s not the same kid – er, make that, young man – he was even a year ago. He’s someone I look forward to spending time with. Someone I can rely on. Someone who knows all my flaws (heck, he put some of ‘em there!), and loves me anyway.

Someone I’m proud to call much more than my child – rather, a very dear friend, and the greatest evidence I have to date that not only is there a God looking out for me, but also that He loves me enough to sometimes give me more than I think I can handle.

                                       Ethan Zechariah Williams, 2014

For more like this, check out: 

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

Morsels for Meditation...: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

Between, AKA, They Never Said "I Told You So"

"Let no one despise your youth..." 1 Timothy 4:12

I know a young woman who is actively putting her life back together after years of anger and addiction tried to snuff it out. As the parent to two young men, and an educator who works with youth, I often have the unenviable privilege of watching the younger generation learn from its mistakes. In the all-too-frequent moments when I find myself clutching a catcher's mitt, ready to meet the pitches these youngsters lob my way, I smile while recalling how my own parents approached the challenge of sending new, green players out onto the field of life.


Though long gone from this earth, David and Barbara Parrish live vibrantly in my heart and mind. How gratefully I remember those two dear souls welcoming home their prodigal offspring after hours of cautioning and arguing failed to produce the U-turns they implored me to consider. I'm especially indebted to them for the homecoming they extended to their bedraggled daughter, who appeared on their doorstep with annihilated self-esteem, two preschool children, and no visible means of support. They spoon-fed me, literally and emotionally, nurturing my body with nutrients and my soul with encouragement. They shored up my foundation and, in so doing, that of my boys. Their love and support knew no bounds; their peaceful, retired lifestyle morphed overnight into a diaper-changing, bed-wetting, order-disrupting, wonderful sort of pandemonium, which they embraced unhesitatingly. Remarkably, they rarely complained, and even made adaptations as I got stronger and asked them to step back so I could resume more parenting responsibilities.

Never, ever, did either one say, "I told you so."

As the years passed, so did their health, and both in their turn were confined to bed. They wondered sorrowfully about their purpose, now that so many of their activities of daily living had to be done by others. I hope they believed my reassurances - just as heartfelt as the ones they offered me when I came home shattered and debilitated - that there was precious meaning in simple things they could still do, like squeeze a grandchild's hand. I reminded them that, while pushing the kids on swings was no longer an option, that was no substitute for storytelling by Granddad to toddlers camped out on his bedroom rug. That 10-year-old Tommy would never forget Grandma's rapt attention to his faltering reading of fourth grade material, so his beloved grandma could still enjoy books even though her eyes were failing. Not to mention the priceless gift they gave our family by allowing all of us to give back to them in their weakness, demonstrating grace and unfailing love as they drew their last breaths in the room that held so many happy memories.

Now, in reflecting back on my parents' graceful sacrifices in the wake of their children's missteps, it seems fitting for me to beseech heaven for the same lack of self-righteousness. This came into clear focus while I enjoyed lunch recently with the recovering young woman mentioned earlier in this post. I noted with interest the seating at our table. She sat sandwiched between three mid-life women and three boisterous teens. She didn't seem to feel entirely comfortable with either group; indeed, much like me when I returned home 15 years ago, she's in a stage of transition between dependence and self-sufficiency. She, too, needs space to grow and encouragement to thrive. She needs room to make even more mistakes as she ventures forth on her journey into well-being.

Most of all, she doesn't need to hear, "I told you so."

                           
                                   David and Barbara Parrish, who never said 
                                   "I told you so" to any of their offspring 
                     (I am in the center, graduating from Villanova University in 1989)  

Check out Steven Curtis Chapman's Fingerprints of God

Check out Newsboys' Miracle Child