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

Sometimes You Can Fight City Hall

That got your attention, didn't it?

I use the phrase metaphorically, but also in total seriousness. About 30 years ago, I went head-to-head with the Philadelphia Parking Authority when they refused to acknowledge my timely payment of a small parking ticket. Copies of bank statements proving my assertion left them yawning. My requests to speak to management were ignored. In desperation, I contacted my big sister, Jo Ann, who is known far and wide (at least to disinterested bureaucrats) as someone you don't want to tangle with (her favorite slogan to get around gatekeepers is "You don't get paid enough to talk to someone as angry as I am!"). 

Jo literally took my problem to City Hall and, voilá, somehow my missing payment was found and the thugs got off my back.

Some time later, I received a parking violation which was totally fraudulent. I had never even been to the location of my supposed infraction; to add insult to injury, I had been tending my ailing father on his deathbed at the time I was allegedly incurring said ticket.

I saw red. 

This time I sought help from local legislators to fight the spurious charges. One correspondence with legal letterhead settled the matter in my favor.

If we examine these two instances, each is somewhat unique. In one case, I deserved the ticket, but had done my part to rectify it; in the other, I truly was guiltless, but needed help to extricate myself. In the first situation, someone who had more time and a more "I mean business" demeanor than I managed to solve the problem; in the latter, I needed professional assistance.

But what do they have in common?

The odds of my winning either one of these battles were astronomically against me. My father used to complain that city parking authorities are often notoriously corrupt, so one would do well to mind one's P's and Q's when one ventures into their territory. In scenario #1, I had fallen afoul of said authorities, and they were making it impossible to establish my debt had been paid. Scenario #2 was even trickier, because a crooked ticket had been issued, and I had no way to prove I hadn't earned it. I had argued and fussed, even provided physical proof of my innocence, yet the consequences still loomed and were, in fact, growing; every day I didn't pay up, surcharges were accruing. In short, my own resources failed to solve the problem.

The deciding factor in both matters was the help I had in resolving them. 

If I wanted to brag, I could mention other matters in which I "beat the bad guys" by involving bodies like the state attorney general's office and other agencies with more clout than I have. But then I would also need to admit that for every tussle I've won, there have been plenty that I lost. What often makes the difference is who is on my team plugging for me. In many cases, the powers that be won't budge until someone in a high position rattles their cages; then and only then will they back down.

Jesus stood in the gap for believers in much the same way the aforementioned advocates did for me. This won't be a perfect analogy, so I hope readers won't pick it apart till it bleeds (but our Savior did bleed - buckets full - and what a gift His sacrifice gave to hurting humanity). One of my seminary professors used to say, "Don't try to make it walk on all fours." In other words, don't expect every analogy to perfectly align the two entities being compared. An illustration is only that - a reasonable facsimile of the object it represents. 

That said, the least analogous part of the advocate comparison I'm making is the culpability of the two parties involved. In the examples I mentioned, I was being wrongfully accused, whereas Christ wasn't (on the cross) and isn't (in His resurrected state) defending a wronged party against a corrupt one. On the contrary, His death reconciled guilty sinners to a sinless God. He advocated for sinners on the cross (past tense), and continues to advocate for us before God's throne (present tense). In that sense, Christ actually flips my analogy by pleading for the guilty party, rather than the guiltless one.

Two Bible verses put this whole topic in a nutshell:

My little children, these things I write to you, so that you may not sin. And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. - 1 John 2:1

Therefore He is also able to save to the uttermost those who come to God through Him, since He always lives to make intercession for them. - Hebrews 7:25

There may be times when we need the intercession of human defenders, and by the grace of God, lawyers and consumer protection agencies exist for just such occasions. But when it comes to spiritual advocacy, there's no one better than Jesus Christ.

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"!

 

Weeds 2

To date, I have well over 100 pages and close to 50,000 words strung together for my novel, Belabored, which I hope to pitch to hungry agents and editors at this summer's Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference.

That is my plan.

It may or may not be God's plan.

It most certainly is not Satan's plan.

While some may protest there's no such thing as evil incarnate, I would posit that it stands to reason if there's a God, there has to be His opposite.

I mean, didn't Newton prove that?

Satan is not someone I spend a lot of time dwelling on, because I consider my time more productively spent focusing on the one who bested him at Calvary, and promises to best him again at the end of time as we know it.

Still, he's a force to be reckoned with, and not someone I'd care to go toe to toe with in my own strength.

Yet, that's exactly what I've been doing for the last month or so.

While my novel is most certainly progressing, it's also stalled in many areas. The writer's curse, I suppose, is an ugly conglomerate of waiting, procrastination, discouragement, and bad self-talk ("You, the next Harper Lee? Come on! Really? Your book's nowhere near finished, and you think you're gonna pitch it this summer?").

As I huffed and puffed behind our old-fashioned push mower recently (yup, we're one of those families), I marveled at how my sons manage to get a nice, clean cut out of those overtaxed blades. They seemed no match for the stubborn dandelion weeds that simply refused to bow to my wishes. Furthermore, I couldn't help but notice that the ones I did manage to sever were back in full force a mere 24 hours later (either that or they had some pretty fast growing relatives who showed up to mourn the loss of their kinfolk).

Now, that is just wrong.

I mean, when someone spends upwards of an hour cutting the grass on a hot, sticky day, she expects the lawn to look mowed for at least the better part of the next day.

Not happening.

So I got out there with my clippers and tried to tidy things up.

Then the rains came and, well, you know how that goes.

No matter how hard I try, those tenacious weeds aren't going away.

In the midst of those pesky interlopers, though, stand some pretty stalwart little flowers. I'm not a gardener (my idea of planting is throwing some perennials in where I have an opening and hoping for the best), but even I know the difference between a bloom and a weed. This is some sort of wild flower robed in virginal white and adorned with tiny little blossoms, none of which would bend their elegant necks to the blades of my mower.

Did you catch that? They hung in there, despite the cutter's best efforts.

The thing about mowers is, they don't distinguish between organisms. They hack up both beauty and beast in one fell swoop of their mangling teeth. So it really comes down to the plant's tenacity as to whether or not it's going to survive.

I'm thinking I have to choose whether to pattern myself after the flower or the weed. Either way, Satan's gonna come after me. But being allied with the master gardener gives me a distinct advantage over the weeds.

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

Morsels for Meditation...: Tenacity

Tenacity

Keith Green's Easter Song

It's been a winter for the books. Ten days off from school due to storms. Snow all the way up through last week, and more promised for this coming one. Record amounts of precipitation and ice. March is certainly refusing to go out like a lamb.

In spite of all this weather-related insanity, tiny shoots of color are starting to spring up on lawns. I'm seeing ground cover for the first time since our last mowing. Today the beginnings of a crocus peeped up at me as I made my way to church. I smiled in admiration of the little flower that knew enough to stay hidden during the cruelty of Mother Nature's wrath, yet refused to remain dormant forever. It completed its work underground and is now rising triumphantly, in imitation of its maker, for whom death was merely a hibernation while eternal purposes were being wrought.

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

Morsels for Meditation...: Weeds 2