Scars and Stripes: Thoughts on the American Revolution and its Relevance Today

Scars.

They come in all shapes and sizes and emerge for different reasons. A fall from a bike. Chickenpox. Poison ivy. An abuser’s hand.

Those are physical scars. But what of emotional scars? Bullying. Rejection. Betrayal. An abuser’s hand or tongue.

Some can be seen. Some we cover up with makeup, smiles, lies. How do we treat them? How do we learn to live with and even embrace them?

I’m working through a period of scars. Physically, poison ivy has been raging through my body for nearly two weeks, laughing at my attempts to ward it off. Midway through a second course of steroids which, if not administered carefully can leave their own set of scars, I’m still scratching. Lotions and potions and baths and busyness have all helped but not eradicated the roaring rash.

Emotionally, I’m experiencing a bit of a jolt. I applied quite a bit of effort to a writing project and its attendant requirements, which included not a few hours of classwork and out-of-the-box thinking, all of which have been rejected by the powers that be. I feel badly for myself and the folks who partnered with me in prayer and devoted time to helping me perfect the piece I submitted for publication. I’ve written about this sort of thing before when it took the wind out of my sails, deflated my balloon – pick your metaphor.

Yesterday, though, when I absorbed the news that my work had not made the cut, disappointment rather than dejection entered my soul. This may be less than rising above, but it certainly beats going under.

In my book, that’s progress.

Today I’m going to a holiday gathering to celebrate our nation’s 250th birthday. I’m going red, white, and blotchy. Our nation deserves to be celebrated, even though a citizen born nearly 200 years after its inception has a rash. The founding fathers don’t care that I look less than beautiful today. On my best day I can only manage attractive, but I try not to let that stand in my way.

It’s not about that. Physical beauty comes and goes. It’s about the beauty of an idea born 25 decades ago and why that still matters today.

It’s also not about an editor’s dismissal of my attempt to contribute to the national dialogue. If victory had been Lincoln’s criterion for participation, he would have stepped aside after the first of many personal and professional losses.

A side note here: in the preceding paragraph, I chose the word victory over its synonym, success, believing that success encompasses much more than material victory. In fact, failure has a funny way of spurring humanity onto future success.

Let that sink in.

So, I’m choosing to let the scars form and be what they are. Scars represent trying. No one who sits home growing roots on the couch sports many scars. I remember years back in my educational career, I was assisting students in a gym class. PE has never been my forte. In fact, in my younger years, it was more like my nemesis. That said, I tried to rally the kids I was working with by joining into the day’s activity, which happened to be running the track. Ludicrous is too kind a word for a middle-aged, out of shape, uncoordinated woman trying to run laps. But I egged on the kids using my defects as leverage.

“I’m an old lady! “I bellowed. “If I can do it, you can at least try to do it!”

The gym teacher followed my challenge with his own words of wisdom.

“You know what, kids? Mrs. Williams showed up today. She’s not home watching TV. She’s getting out there and participating. Let’s all join her.”

I wish I could say everyone jumped on the bandwagon then and there, but we still had some slackers. I’d like to think, though, that a few kids who otherwise might have settled for less than their best instead gave it a shot.

Giving it a shot. What a concept.

So, instead of wearing red, white and blue today, I’ll throw on the most comfortable thing I can find, color notwithstanding, and rejoice with family and friends. The rosy bumps and areas I’ve scratched black and blue over lily-white skin can serve as patriotic colors.

Instead of my article showing up in a national forum, I’ll be posting it on my blog. I’m forever thankful for the faithful readers whose interest and encouragement has kept that platform alive for over 15 years.

Showing up. What a concept.

The American Revolution left scars, scars, and more scars. No one comes through war or any kind of overhaul, for that matter, without scars. It’s the nature of the beast. Breakage often precedes building. We break ground before erecting buildings and planting crops. We break the skin to perform surgery. And we break chains before exercising the freedom those chains denied.

I’m including a list of Scriptures that celebrate the perseverance upon which the United States of America was founded. Our country was built on strength, sustenance, and solutions, all of which came from unseen hands which are no less present today than they were 250 years ago. God bless America, and God bless the spirit of pluck that can’t be extinguished by setbacks. God bless us, everyone.

In the Spirit of Jefferson… and Tina

There’s an easily overlooked detail leading into the climax of the epic movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Jefferson Smith – our hero, probably so dubbed because his first name channels the great statesman who penned the Declaration of Independence, and his surname depicts everyman – is ready to turn tail and run. He’s at his lowest point, “licked” as he describes it, by the political machine that runs Washington, DC and by extension, the whole country Smith was called from his useful but limited life to serve. Then Clarissa – the girl of the dreams he never knew he’d have the chance to fight for – comes through in the clutch, talks sense into him, and convinces him to fight another day.

Then she picks up one of his suitcases and together they walk out of the Lincoln Memorial and back
into the lions’ den. 

My dearest friend, Tina, is always calling for community in the body of Christ. She knows of what she speaks, having left all to follow Jesus. The details aren’t important; what does matter is that she’s the closest living example I have of martyrdom (in the proper sense – dying to self for the sake of the cross – as opposed to the modern-day idea of a hangdog pushover who seems to enjoy taking blows everyone else delivers for no sensible reason). Tina realizes her life is limited by physical factors beyond her control, and that the Lord who endowed her with said limitations also devised a plan to circumvent them. She relies on fellow believers to be the hands and feet of that almighty plan every time she makes an appointment or goes shopping or almost any other mundane activity that most of us can accomplish unaided.

In short, Tina is following in the footsteps of Jefferson Smith when it comes to allowing others to share her burden. In 1939, when this iconic film was produced, it made no sense for a woman to assist a capable man with his luggage. Early in the picture, Smith even had the audacity to remark that his leading lady had “done well for a woman” – thus encapsulating the prevailing view of women’s capabilities (and lack thereof) in the early 20^th century. In 2024, when women like Tina have been crashing through glass ceilings for decades, this phrase sounds absurd at best and sexist at worst. But in pre-World War II America, women had yet to take up the reins left by men absent from their posts due to military service. Clarissa Saunders – capable though she was, and far more knowledgeable about the inner workings of the behemoth called Washington – simply had no business helping Jefferson Smith heft a heavy valise through the streets surrounding the Capitol.

Our fictitious hero, Smith, used his gifts and talents to make a dent in government corruption; my friend, Tina, uses her abilities to serve the Lord constantly in ways great and small. The common thread I see in both their stories is a willingness to humble themselves and ask for help to accomplish the mission their Creator has set before them.

What Herculean task am I being called to? What lost cause that everyone else has given up on am I supposed to champion? What windmill am I fearful of tilting at?

More importantly, am I even in the game? Will I show up today to do battle in whatever arena God has placed me? Or will I hide under the covers, comfortable and complacent, unwilling to wrest myself from the familiar to venture into the great unknown?

Jefferson Smith opined that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. God forbid I be found under the covers when there’s a lost cause to be won.

“Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to think of anything as [being] from ourselves, but our sufficiency is from God.” – 2 Corinthians 3:5

“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” – Psalm 37:5

“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm; but how can one be warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

For more like this, check out:

Called Off the Bench

Under the Covers or Under His Wings? Going Deep Without Getting Buried, AKA, Metaphor Overload 

Primrose Path

Hey readers! I'm back in the blogging business after a long hiatus working with my tech guru to iron out some bugs. As you will note, some bugs - such as formatting - are still present and accounted for (not the fault of my tech person, but glitches in the program). What I find most annoying is that the whole piece looks wonderful when I preview it, but upon publication, things go awry.

It's interesting, though, that one of the lines of text that refuses to stay "inside the lines" is the incredible promise from Scripture, "Death is swallowed up in victory!" Upon noticing that, I decided to stop fighting with the format and let the Lord emphasize and, indeed, shout this amazing news.

As always, to Him be the glory.

Welcome to my garden, such as it is!

My neighbor, Anita, AKA, “the little old lady down the street”, AKA, my fairy godmother, planted this colorful primrose several seasons ago. No special soil, no complex instructions. Just a mild suggestion to keep the ground hydrated and fingers crossed. It hasn’t always bloomed “on schedule” – spring, summer, on a good year maybe even fall. Matter of fact, I thought it was dead last summer when its pretty purple petals did a noticeable no show.

 Fast forward. Here we are, several years and not a few weather misfortunes later. Our little slice of the country has endured strong winds, drenching rains, and most recently abundant snow in the many moons since Anita inserted that tiny plant into my Pennsylvania clay. It’s the end of February, folks (well, it was when I started writing this piece)! Winter is definitely not part of the primrose bloom cycle. When I took the photo below, the thermostat read 25 degrees with snow on the ground.

Some contend that climate change is responsible for such erratic behavior. I’m not a science expert, so I’ll sidestep that one. That being said, I am well acquainted with the Fellow who holds sway over climate, weather, and all things seasonal. The Entity that created my pretty primrose wields dominion over its blooming or lack thereof.

Consider the following passage from 1 Corinthians 15:

But someone will ask, “How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?” You foolish person! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. For not all flesh is the same, but there is one kind for humans, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.

So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, “The first man Adam became a living being”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first but the natural, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so also are those who are of the dust, and as is the man of heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.

 I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.”  “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

I know this is a mouthful, so let’s clarify a bit. The apostle, Paul, is writing in the parts highlighted in yellow about what occurs when believers are resurrected. After their physical bodies die, they receive new, resurrected bodies. The teal references to first Adam/man, last or second Adam/man, man of dust vs. man of heaven describe the difference between humans, who are flesh and blood like their earliest ancestor, Adam, and Christ, who was both human and God. Just as mankind differs enormously from the perfect Man, so our resurrected bodies will differ from our earthly ones.

Now that we’ve got those ideas nailed down, let’s dig into the big picture. Since I’m the farthest thing from a gardener (I appreciate those who grow flowers and veggies more than I can say – just as I am humbly grateful to those who transform cows into burgers – but please don’t ask me to do the dirty work to make those things happen), I looked up the idea behind Paul’s assertion that a seed dies before becoming a plant. As far as I can discern from the various sources I consulted, this is more metaphorical than literal. The idea is that the seed takes on a whole new form and physicality when placed into the ground. It morphs into something totally different from the way it started out. In essence the seed “dies” to its old being and transforms into a new and different entity, i.e., the plant.

The key point here is the process. The seed doesn’t transform immediately into lush, magnificent, rain forest-quality greenery. These things take time.

Phew! What a relief.

Like my fickle primrose, I frequently “bloom” at all the wrong moments and fail to do so at the appointed times. When I’m reading Scripture or praying at church or at home, it’s easy to delineate between right and wrong and postulate about the right course of action in moral dilemmas. But when push comes to shove and it’s time to actually stand on what I say I believe – sadly, I sometimes wilt.

My walk with Christ is unnervingly sporadic, complete with fits and starts and all the inconsistency that goes with them – but like this enduring plant, I keep poking my head up into heavenly sunshine (Sonshine). Oh, there's debris in my life, much like the dried up leaves that are trying to obscure the beauty of this plucky primrose. But amazingly, my Lord stays patient and keeps nourishing me with heavenly nutrients, all the while seeing in His halting servant the potential to thrive.

What a Savior. 

For more like this, check out: Weeds  Weeds 2  Tenacity

Reach Up!

Many Christmases ago, I posted a piece called Low Branches about how our great God bridges the gap between our feeble efforts and His perfection. As I was praying recently, that concept reemerged into my mind, but in greater detail.

I thought of Moses climbing Mount Sinai to obtain the ten commandments, those two stone tablets which provide God's instructions for holy living. I recollected how this paragon of faith, in a fit of righteous indignation, smashed the words written by God Himself.

But our God is a God of second chances. He gave Moses and the people (not least Moses’s brother, Aaron, whose actions provoked Moses’s rashness in the first place, and who blamed his foolishness on the very people he led into idolatry) a second set of commandments after Moses destroyed the first.

What a patient, forgiving deity. 

This same divine being sent His Son to earth to wash away the sins of believers and grant His children unlimited access to His presence, even though our sin warrants the very opposite.

I'm going through a time of frailty (aren't we always, when we get right down to it? but some seasons of living just feel more fragile than others). As is so often the case, this period of fragility is finding me wakeful, watchful, and wistful. I'm reaching up with extra gusto to seek God’s hands, using the vehicle of prayer that never fails to get me to the right destination. I’m counting extra hard on the Lord’s cleansing nature and open door policy for believers, subjects about which I wrote quite confidently years ago. 

Did I mean it then? Do I believe it now?

Reaching up is the only way I know to find out. Vulnerability can be a companion to desperation or determination. By God's grace, I'm leaning towards the latter.

To quote Tiny Tim, whose words still ring true nearly two centuries after Dickens penned them, “God bless us, every one.”

Dad's Dream

My dad had an upsetting dream while recovering from open heart surgery. By some stroke of a heavenly pen, poor Dad was required to go through the recovery process for multiple patients. His own arduous road to wellness would be multiplied by two, maybe three times. Every therapy session and each needle puncture would be doubled or tripled.

I'm sure he awoke in a cold sweat.

Thirty plus years later, while reflecting on Dad's nightmare, I believe this was his mind's way of playing out what was just too much for him. He undoubtedly felt unable to handle his own recovery, let alone anyone else's. Perhaps his subconscious was contemplating the idea of further surgeries and interventions down the line, the thought of which terrified his overtaxed mind. 

At times I feel something akin to what Dad's dream indicated he was going through. At the beginning of a grueling week or the outset of a major challenge, the mountain ahead appears insurmountable. The forward-thinking part of me overtakes the "keep your mind where your feet are" wisdom I've gained over the years. I want to tackle the whole thing and be done with it, instead of nibbling one bite at a time; I choke on the idea of gobbling up the whole problem, and rebel at the idea of taking even the smallest step to begin. A cycle of fear and panic grips my troubled heart, and if I don’t let God talk me down off the ledge, paralysis can overwhelm action.

Dad eschewed his dream and got on with the taxing business of recovery. He showed up at cardiac rehab and followed doctors’ orders. He let himself be weak until he gained a bit of strength, and endured the inevitable setbacks.

In short, he had good days and bad days.

What he didn’t have to do was recover for anyone besides himself.

That part of the dream was fallacious, and he knew it.

I’m sure he had moments when it all seemed like too much. When hiding at home seemed preferable to trying to make his uncooperative, post-stroke fingers button a shirt so he could go out and fight another day.

That’s right. Future recoveries did await him, as a post-operative stroke further limited his capabilities. But he continued putting one foot in front of the other, living out the truth of Matthew 6:34: “Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

He didn’t have to fight all his battles at once, and neither do I.

What a relief.

                                                                       Dad and I, circa 2004. I miss him.

One Step Forward...

The Pity of It All

My sister, Jane, and I have been in competition this holiday season to see who is the most pitiful.

Not really, but it kind of feels that way. I’ve been trying to shake off a virus – not COVID, so don’t feel too sorry for me – but it did evolve into a bacterial infection. Jane’s been fighting her own good fight not to catch it from me. We’ve both been wiping down surfaces to an extent that would put the OCD detective Adrian Monk to shame.

Below is a photograph of me (cue the canned laughter) wearing a mashed potato poultice. Note the festive tea towel girding my neck. I know it looks silly, but the internet claims it reverses laryngitis – hey, if it’s on the internet… Listen, you scoffers, it worked for the Brady Bunch mom 50 odd years ago! Remember how Mrs. Brady was able to trill “O Come All Ye Faithful” at church on Christmas morning after being voiceless the week before? If it’s good enough for Carol Brady…

My sister, for her part, has been having adventures of her own. That’s her code word for annoying problems of varying degrees. Jane’s adventures have included issues with a rental car (the management, of course, is nowhere to be found); tearing the house apart to locate misplaced items (a problem solved by divine intervention which I’ll relate below); and most recently, being beset by phone problems. Tell me something. If smart phones are so smart, how come they can’t untangle the messes they seem so bent on falling into?

Here’s a snippet of some of our escapades over the holidays:

Thea: Laryngitis starts to abate; cough picks up where froggy throat left off.

Jane: Missing keys are located; cell phone service goes on vacation.

Hence, the title of this article – one step forward, two steps back.

I think it’s fair to say all this drama has left us both a little depressed. Jane’s idea of a Norman Rockwell Christmas probably didn’t include quarantining while her sister took YET ANOTHER COVID test (I’m about ready to make home test kits a budget item). My holiday wish list didn’t feature YET ANOTHER round of masks, gloves and, oh, of course, tension taming tea.

What’s most difficult for me is being out of step with my normal routine and unable to fulfill responsibilities. I missed work, opportunities to be with friends and family (those who are fortunate enough not to be sharing quarters with me, that is – Jane and I had ample time to bond over my vaporizer), and even holiday preparation. Every Christmas I threaten not to send cards, and every year I send a ton of them. This is the first time it’s ever really not happened. I make it a point not to infect recipients just in time for the new year.

Discouragement, too, has been dogging my heels. Doctor visits, after all, were never meant to be a source of entertainment, any more than antibiotics were intended to be soups du jour. My problem has gotten to be a predictable one, something I can count on at least once a year, and that fact alone is disheartening. Like a gentle breeze that gives way to a hurricane, it starts out tickling my throat and can end up in a hospital visit if I don’t get right on it.

Which reminds me – I wrote about this same subject a few years ago. A work injury necessitated a trip to the ER, causing me to feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. I traced the source of my discomfort to the “P” word – good old pride. I guess some things never change.

And, Yet…

Sitting in my doctor’s office for the second time in one week, I realized it was time to get back to basics. Stationing myself in a remote corner to avoid alarming patients who were only there to get allergy shots, I took out a scrap of paper and began scribbling a gratitude list. Here’s some of the good stuff I came up with:

1)     My doctor and I have a plan to further diagnose and treat the underlying cause of the regular parties the germ brigade seems to be throwing in my respiratory system. I’ll be seeing another specialist and hopefully getting some answers. How many end stage cancer patients would kill for such glimmers of hope!

2)      I have the best family and friends anyone could wish for. My little fairy godmother down the street, about whom I’ve written before, offers me homemade applesauce just when I’ve run out of the one thing my ailing throat doesn’t complain about. Family members do favors, run errands, make meals, and generally pamper me. My best friend and prayer partner steps into the gap, leading our prayer group and teaching Bible study in my stead.

3)      My employer, too, is among my blessings, coming through with paid sick leave and allowing me to leave early to manage my sick, sorry self.

4)      I’ve found ways to be of service even while down and out. A disabled friend of mine taught me that it’s important to serve in whatever ways one can. Everyone has something to offer, and our great God expects His children to make use of whatever He has given them. Let us remember, “For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required; and to whom much has been committed, of him they will ask the more” (Luke 12:48). No one is without something to give, even if it is just time or a listening ear. If even those things are impossible, the greatest gift we can give to one another is prayer.

 Not least, these niggling troubles have actually been growth opportunities in disguise. Take, for instance, Jane’s missing key ring, to which I alluded above. Among them was one that powers her rental car. The loss left her housebound and on the hook with the rental company.

Jane and I (mostly Jane) scoured the house, praying as we did so. Not being ones who pray to saints, we skipped over Saint Anthony and took our concerns right to the Lord God Almighty. After going to bed (and between coughing jags), I decided to get up and hunt through our dirty laundry pile. I plunged right into the germy mess and rummaged around. I could have saved myself the trouble, as I later learned Jane had donned gloves (clever girl) and done the same thing.

We both came up empty.

By this time, we had turned over couch cushions (what a crumby mess lay underneath that floral upholstery), rifled through coat pockets, upended trash receptacles – you name it.

I, for one, was out of ideas. Desperate to help the sister who had been tenderly tending me all week, I resumed my conversation with God.

“Lord,” I whined, “neither one of us knows where those keys are. You know they represent mobility and freedom to Jane. She needs them. Could you please show one of us where to look?”

Like a flash, it came to me. The day before, my neighbor had posted on our neighborhood Facebook page a picture of a set of keys she had found. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

We darted across the street and retrieved the errant keys, giving glory to the One who patiently waits for us to exhaust our own resources and throw the whole matter into His lap. Second Corinthians 12:9 comes to mind:

“And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

Vulnerability and Humility: Archenemies of Pride

I recently took a continuing ed class in which the speaker asserted that courage demands vulnerability. This gave me a lot to ponder, and I decided she was right, as courageous acts leave one vulnerable to defeat and all that goes with it. I would add that vulnerability is also required when one finds oneself dependent on others for that which one is used to doing for oneself. The dependence which arises from being ill or needing help of any kind vastly increases humility on the part of the recipient.

That, my faithful readers, is why I so dislike being sick. I much prefer to do for others and take care of myself. Oh, I don’t mind asking my sons to move a heavy piece of furniture or help me unravel a technology snafu – things like that exceed my capabilities, and I know it. But part of my self-esteem rests on being able to take care of my daily needs and follow through on commitments.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize God wants me to work on that.

One thing that helps is recalling the vulnerability with which the Son of God came into the world. He put Himself into the most helpless position imaginable, stepping down from deity and into humanity, with all the diaper changing and nose wiping the human condition entails.

I’ve noticed there seems to be a giving and receiving continuum. Some only want to give, refusing help of any kind; others are happy to simply take, without ever giving back. Both states are unbalanced, like a seesaw weighed down on one end. Finding a middle ground seems the most spiritual way. If God incarnate allowed Himself to be needy, even as He came to serve, it seems the height of arrogance for His creatures to err on one side or the other.

Bottom line: we are going to go through periods in which we seem to be stagnating. Illness, tangled business matters, sticky family relationships – all are things which require time and careful attention, and may, in fact, never fully resolve. No amount of whining or petulance will change the fact that some sloughs just have to be slogged through. Shortcuts are lovely when available, but our wise God sometimes allows roadblocks into our lives for a reason.

Sometimes the only way to go is through.

“Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” – Philippians 4:11-13

Check out part 2 of this piece, "Two Steps Back"!

 

Look to History

"I will remember the deeds of the Lord; 

yes, I will remember Your wonders of old." 

~Psalm 77:11~

If the past few months have taught me nothing else, they have indelibly impressed on my mind the need to have a working knowledge of history - both one's own, but also on the grand scale.

When the COVID nightmare began, I hurried and scurried to do my part. I threw my hat into a lot of rings, some of which worked out excellently, and others which turned out to not be my calling. The only thing I knew was that many were suffering with the disease, and still others were doing double duty to keep the world afloat. It seemed the most sensible things I could do were a) pray without ceasing and b) offer anything in my power to support those who were doing all the "heavy lifting." 

Little did I know what lay lurking around my own corner.

As my daughter-in-law posted on her Facebook page, our family has had to beat back an ugly cadre of characters in the last 30 days or so. I don't mind telling you, I could have used the help of a stud like Hercules to fend off, sever and (please, God!) cauterize the ever-springing heads of misfortune which seemed bent on destroying us. As one of my friends put it, I felt trapped at every turn.

I think what has been hardest for me personally has been fighting COVID. First of all, there's a stigma to this illness, and don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Let's face it, corona is the modern day version of the plague, and nobody wants to be hobnobbing with that interloper.

The illness itself has been frightening and unpleasant, but I've survived worse. What makes this beast so brutal is the isolation he imposes. For the past three weeks, while my son and I took turns with the virus, I felt alone - but not quite. We basically each had to segregate in our own sections of the house, while scrupulously cleaning common areas after every use (not something one feels like doing when one's most fervent desire is to sleep away all the symptoms and fears that come with this nasty invader). In short, when one most needs people as a buffer against terror and uncertainty, one must settle for aide from a distance, phone communication, and the wonders of modern technology.

Let me assert, though, that, while such devices may be poor substitutes for flesh and blood, they become most welcome when one considers the possibility of making due without them!

Let me also hasten to add, assistance has been in great supply for us! Countless offers of shopping, errands, and "anything I can do to help" have flown in from unexpected quarters. These have stood us in good stead, as even post-virus, one does not dare set foot back into the community until one hears from a medical person those marvelous words, "All clear!"

So, why do I link all this with an historical perspective? Because it's critical! Throughout everything our family has endured this last month (seems like a decade), my mind has continuously cycled back through the pages of history. For instance, pondering infant mortality rates under the best of circumstances before vaccines and medical advances made their arrival has shifted my gloomy perspective about our twins' lonely NICU stay into sheer thanksgiving that such help is available in this day and age. What Colonial mother wouldn't have cheered at the chance to entrust her newborn into the care of strangers if that meant her cradle would one day be filled?

The past has lent clarity to economic concerns as well. We all have times of financial struggle, and COVID has dealt a huge blow to many a household cookie jar. Study of the life of George Mueller has helped me banish self-pity and concerns for worldly security. Wandering through the pages of this Godly man's life, studying his secrets for success and prayerful provision for all the destitute children who relied on him, has given me pause and new lenses through which to view my own life's uncertainties. Simply put, if Mueller could do it, I can do it.

I could add more, but my body is telling me it's time to rest. I really just wanted to share that, when depression has reared its diabolical head in recent days, I have found solace and assurance through the lives of my forefathers, whose perseverance took the phrase, "stiff upper lip," to extraordinary lengths. I have also found it useful to review my own overcomings, especially over circumstances which "threatened to undo [me]." Somehow, the recollection of past "Hydras" being slain on the altar of faith has made today's bogeymen no less scary, perhaps, but infinitely more slayable. 

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, 'For your sake we are being killed all the day long;  we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."

~ Romans 8:35-39~

All or Nothing... or Something

There was a time in my life when, if I couldn’t do it perfectly, I wouldn’t do it all.

I can’t afford that luxury anymore.

Over the last few years, my life has gotten significantly more complicated. Complication, in the sense I mean, is a mixed bag. One of my sons is now married to a delightful woman, and they have become parents to my beloved grandson. My other son is seriously involved with a precious girlfriend, whom I hand-picked for him (that’s a whole ’nother story – just take my word for it).

I strive to spend individual time with all four of my children, be they related by blood or simply a bond of love. And it goes without saying, I snap up any chance to cuddle my grandbaby. All these things take time, every second of which is cherished and well spent.

Complication of the most delicious kind.

I'm much less enamored of the time I need to spend caring for my less than perfect body. Mind you, my earthly vessel has never even approached perfection, but as each year passes, fewer and fewer functions, ahem, function  perfectly. This corporeal lack of cooperation has resulted in a resentment-worthy number of hours being given over to doctoring of one sort or another.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m healthier than many of my peers and take almost no medication. I haven’t been diagnosed with any untreatable illnesses or conditions. It’s just that the mileage on this body is racking up, and the wear and tear on certain rebellious parts has mandated things like exercise regimes that are supposed to be done on a daily basis.

Yeah, right.

Complication I could do without.

And then there are helpful and interesting complications like a Bible-based financial class some caring folks invested in for me. Really, they invested in me, realizing I’m not the worst money manager who ever walked the earth, but believing I could benefit from some time-proven strategies to shore up my future. The class requires a time commitment of one evening a week, as well as homework that promises to change my life.

Complication of the most thoughtful kind.

True confessions: I started this article several weeks, maybe even a month ago, and life has gotten in the way of my finishing it. More true confessions: my all or nothing tendencies have also interrupted its flow. For instance, the aforementioned financial class suggests a variety of time-tested strategies to clean up one’s money messes. Since (thankfully) I don’t have too many such messes to address, I’ve been focusing more on the wealth-building suggestions, such as making money wherever possible and investing heavily. Oh, and keeping and sticking to a budget (something I’ve tried unsuccessfully to tackle over the years, but would love to get the hang of).

I have to admit, I’ve had to step back and remember that, while this class may be gifting me with tools to improve my fiduciary life, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I will never be able to “do” this money thing perfectly, but I can glean ideas that make sense, and put applicable ones into practice over time. Christ took three years to complete His earthly ministry, and His Father has taken 56 years to bring me to where I am today – which is struggling but striving on a daily basis to be more like Him.

So, why do I expect myself to nail this whole course in a few weeks?

Similarly, my exercise routine has had to be curtailed. I simply can’t keep up with each and every suggested remedy for ailing limbs each and every day. I admit it. Twenty-four hours just isn’t enough time to accomplish perfection in this area. Nevertheless, I try to do some exercises regularly. Well, perhaps frequently is more accurate. 

Sometimes not giving up, not tossing the baby out with the bath water, just has to be good enough.

Something is better than nothing.

One other note: if this post seems less “polished” than others I’ve written, that’s because I’m feeling led this morning – Thanksgiving morning – to finish it and put it out there for you, my readers. I’ll have a houseful of family expecting to chow down in a few hours, so perfection of every word and phrase is out of the question. Dinner, I hasten to add, will not be served in a perfectly clean house (far from it), nor will it be displayed on a perfectly arranged table. And I guarantee you, the fare will be a far cry from perfect. My hope, though, is that we will all eat in a serene setting with a (relatively) sane hostess.

That will have to be good enough.

But a faithful friend asked this morning about my writing, and I had to admit it’s been stagnant lately. Not for want of ideas or interest, but for lack of time and energy. Meanwhile, this half-finished piece has been sitting on a flash drive, patiently waiting for its author to practice what she preaches.

Herein lies my imperfect but heartfelt attempt to do just that.

In closing, I invite you to check out the Thanksgiving Proclamations issued by our forefathers, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, both of whom understood the concept of perseverance in the face of opposition and imperfection, and Who it is that enables flawed humanity to keep on trying.

God bless us, everyone!

Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

In my last post, I discussed allowing myself to be thrown off kilter by a "Scrooge" after having an otherwise very balanced day. Subsequent to that post, "Scrooge" apologized for being grouchy, and I, likewise, took ownership of my grumpy reaction.

All was very copacetic with the person in question for awhile, but things took a turn for the worse again last night.

I wasn't expecting this, it being Christmas and all.

What happened to "Silent Night" with all being calm and bright?

My evening was more like "strident night, all is wild, all's a blight."

Ho, ho ho.

The thing is, I'm getting tired of the vicissitudes. The rolling back and forth with the waves of other people's dispositions and moods.

I crave equanimity in my own spirit.

And I claim it.

But how? 

After many years in a 12-step program, and even more years in God's boot camp, I'm coming to the realization that, if things are to going to change, the change must begin with me. 

If I'm to break the cycle of reacting and overreacting, grousing and apologizing, expecting and being disappointed - well, then, it's up to me to step off the hamster wheel. To "let the dervishes whirl," as it were. 

I guess I'm a slow learner.

There's a nice little reading in one of the Al-Anon pieces of literature that describes the process of letting go. Of allowing the other person in a relationship to choose his own attitudes and responses and decisions, and not holding him responsible for mine.

I'm thinking this makes a lot of sense.

Long before Al-Anon came along, a smart guy named James, inspired by the Holy Spirit, offered some similar advice:

2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 

3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. 4 But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him. 6 But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind. 7 For let not that man suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; 8 he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways...

19 So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; 

20 for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God...

26 If anyone among you thinks he is religious, and does not bridle his tongue but deceives his own heart, this one’s religion is useless...

7 Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. 8 Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded.

The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much. 

~ excerpts from The Book of James, found in The Bible, 

which consistently tops bestseller lists, despite efforts to eradicate its impact

So, I guess I’ve got some work to do.

But at least I’m in excellent company.

Shadowing the Master

Yesterday was another fine day.

All but the ending, that is.

My priorities were solid. Spent time with the Lord and the body of Christ in prayer and worship. Did what needed to be done, but in the right order. Put Jesus and family first.

But I allowed a "Scrooge" to shake my serenity at the end of the day.

Why does there always have to be a Scrooge stomping around and making everybody miserable?

Maybe for the same reason Caesar and Herod threw their weight around during the first Christmas celebration.

The former did his best to keep Christ's homeland under oppression and taxation that could have ruined day to day life for His parents, had they allowed it. But instead they continued with their lives, preparing for the business of marriage and family building, with the understanding that a sovereign God was in control and in charge of their futures, present circumstances notwithstanding.

The latter took things a step further, using all the resources at his disposal in an effort to make sure the Savior never got a chance to do what He came to earth to do.

Both thugs used their respective power in such a way that kept Jesus's family on the go and even on the run.

Talk about "Bah, Humbug."

Think donkey travel (or foot travel, as some suggest would have been faster because of the ass's reputation for stubbornness) in the final months of pregnancy.

Yours truly spent a few hours on a train and a plane in my ninth month, which gave new meaning to the word "misery." I can only imagine the fun expectant Mary enjoyed on the back of a brute beast (or trekking on pregnancy-swollen feet) for days on end.

Think midnight flight to another country with a toddler, on pain of death.

True, He was the Son of God, but still.

The Bible says a servant is no greater than his master. So why should I expect my Christmas to be all glittery and magical when His was full of disadvantage and death threats?

Kind of puts things in a different perspective.

"Most assuredly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master; nor is he who is sent greater than he who sent him."  

-  John: 13:16