Curveballs, AKA, I Think God Can...

“I think I can, I think I can…”¹

We all know that mantra. Goodness, I just read the story to my little grandson last week. Twice! Little did I know when he begged for a second reading how badly I needed to hear and rehear that timeless tale.

Life – no, God – has tossed a few curveballs my way lately. I’m sure when I describe them, many in my audience will be tempted to roll their eyes and wonder what all the fuss was about. But consider this: curveballs don’t look the same for everyone. As an educator, I watched students who floundered in the classroom excel on the basketball court. And vice versa. We all have our strengths and weaknesses – that’s one of the things that makes us a body in Christ. If everyone had pastoral credentials and could knock sermons out of the park, who would organize baby showers and meal trains? If finances were everyone’s game, we’d have picture perfect budgets but no one to shepherd the flock through triumphs and tragedies.

See what I mean?

With that disclaimer, let me describe a few of the happenings that semi-unraveled me over the past month.

The Trip

The first, coincidentally enough (it’s been said there are no coincidences on God’s watch), involved a train trip. I felt strongly that I wanted to support a friend whose only child had just passed away at a young age. To do so, I would have to attend the funeral out of state. This was no time for qualms. I began making plans.

I’m a nervous traveler. I like to get in my car and go places that are familiar. Take me more than 50 miles out of my comfort zone and I start looking for a companion and a Valium. In this case, though, I had no choice. I could’ve driven from my home in Pennsylvania to my New York destination; I’ve done it before. But I was much younger then, and my judgment and reflexes were sharper. In short, the driving option was out.

Therefore, I planned to go by plane. I have travel miles racked up from credit card usage, but it turns out the 20,000 plus miles I had accrued only translated to less than half the one-way fare. Who knew? I wasn’t terribly disappointed, because plane travel appeals to me about as much as, oh, I don’t know, bamboo under my fingernails. (I’ve never endured the latter, but I’d wager – if I were a betting woman –that would suit me better than boarding a jumbo jet.)

My resourceful sister, Jo Ann, came to the rescue. She lives only miles from a major transit station that traverses up and down the Northeast Corridor. All I had to do was pack my bags, camp out at her house for the night, and allow her the privilege of chauffeuring me to the train.

Seeing how nervous I was (not sure if it was my silence or the fact that I kept checking and rechecking my belongings that gave me away), my indulgent sister offered to escort me into the station and pretty much put me on the train. It took every ounce of courage and pride I had to turn down that desirable option!

There were a few wrinkles. I had to take two trains each way, as it turned out. And the railway stations aren’t exactly laid out for, shall we say, novices. I had to make quite a few phone calls to organize the trip (one of them was after disembarking from train one while sitting forlornly on a cold, empty platform wondering where my connecting train was). Then there was the matter of asking strangers for help. I can do strangers in uniform pretty well, but when it comes to fellow travelers, all bets are off. Eschewing thoughts of who might be lurking in deserted train stations and for what purpose, I screwed up my courage, tried to look confident, and babbled my questions. And you know what? Without exception, all my inquiries were met with smiles and helpfulness. The Lord – whose idea it was to foist this unasked for trip on me in the first place – even saw to it that I sat right across from a seasoned traveler on train one (who, incidentally, used a walker to get around, thus giving me the sense that if she could do it, so could I), and just next to the conductor on train two!

My next big hurdle came the following morning. Oh, there were mini-bumps in the meantime, such as an eardrum-shattering fire alarm sounding in the hotel for 20 minutes just when I was starting to get my bearings. Turned out there was nothing to worry about, but try telling that to a trembling tourist whose biggest thrill consists of not having any more thrills! In a related God-incident, while paring down my luggage and toiletries bag just before starting out, He nudged me not to remove a pair of earplugs. It was silly, really. I was the sole occupant of the room, so in theory, no one else’s snoring or loud TV or what-have-you was going to trouble me. In His omnipotence, though, the great I AM foresaw the fire alarm and knew those earplugs would mean the difference between calmness and chaos during an already nerve-racking experience.

We got that sorted out, but the morning of the funeral brought new adventures. Don’t misunderstand: what I’m about to share doesn’t in any way compare with the agony of what my friend was going through; her loss was and is unfathomable. That said, I’m sharing the stressors I encountered while feebly trying to support her.

She and I had agreed to go to the service together. A friend of her son’s would meet us in the lobby at 9:15 and drive us to the church. I had set my phone alarm and requested a wakeup call from the front desk.

I didn’t hear either one.

This is not like me. It may have had something to do with the Motrin PM I took to fend off the arthritis pain I anticipated after trekking through convoluted train stations. Or perhaps I should’ve watched one or six less episodes of my favorite sitcom before retiring to bed after a stressful day. Whatever the cause, I awoke with 15 minutes to ready myself and get my keister downstairs or figure out how to take my first ever Uber ride on a day when do-overs simply weren’t an option.

Not only did the Lord rouse me at 9 AM (why didn’t I wake at 9:15, when I was due in the lobby, or even later, so that I would’ve let everyone down?); He also put more time in my morning. I mean this sincerely. I had at least a five-minute walk to get to the elevator before hitting the lobby, and yet, I made it downstairs at 9:16 with time enough to check my thrown together look in the restroom before we took off.

It’s been said that God is never late but rarely early. That day, He was just in the nick of time.

I could go on and on. We had a snowstorm the day I traveled home, adding frigidity and fear of falling to my overzealous imagination. It wasn’t that cold and my boots did their job; neither fear came to fruition. Patient friends prayed me through, responding to my boku travelogue texts with words of encouragement. My daughter-in-law coached me through the Uber and Lyft mazes so I could get to the train station for the return trip. (I later found out she interrupted a conversation she was having at church to take my call and shore up her nervous mother-in-law.)  

Bottom line: I came home fried and frazzled but also assured that God had held my hand every step of the way.

The Truck

I went into a lot of detail about that last experience because it really stretched me. A simple train trip likely wouldn’t have derailed (OK, bad pun) other people the way it did me but, again, hard looks different for every one of us. I’m going to try to relate these next two anecdotes with more brevity because I think we’re all getting the point: God comes through in the clutch. Always has, always will.

I thought my survival badge was all sewn up (alright, I’ll try to make that the last one), but apparently not. A month after shepherding me through the great train caper, the Lord saw fit to test my mettle again. My next field test involved the mundane act of buying second-hand furniture and having it moved from point A to point B. I developed a somewhat complex plan involving the muscle of my two adult sons and beloved nephews; a pickup truck belonging to my sister and her husband; and the gracious indulgence of everyone involved in the move (and a few who weren’t) as every part of the original plan fell apart and had to be reworked at the eleventh hour.

The short version is, we had to switch transport vehicles not once but twice. My son and his cousins had the foresight to realize that the pickup we originally planned on using was simply not big enough to accommodate the items. Now, friends, believe me when I tell you I measured the furnishings and the rooms they were bound for up, down and sideways. It just never occurred to me to size up the vehicle versus the cargo it was being asked to carry.

Another case of two (or, in this case, three) heads being better than one.

Plan B materialized at the last minute. My son, who was slated for heavy lifting in the morning, did some preliminary heavy lifting (in the form of research) the night before. He suggested – no, he urged me – to rent a truck.

Let me backtrack for a minute. The contorted arrangements I had made involved me babysitting my four grandchildren, all under 10, Friday evening; spending the night at their house; then watching them again Saturday morning while others presided over the move.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hearing the stress in his mother’s voice, Ethan sized up the situation – literally – and realized that logistically this wasn’t going to work. He further realized his mother’s bearings were at that point bare (maybe it was my shrieking at the squalling kids in the background that tipped him off), and he graciously phoned the rental place to get the deets for his semi-deranged mother. All I had to do was reserve the truck and show up in the morning.

Um, not so much.

Let’s just say nothing went as planned. The thing was only a 10-footer but looked monstrously large to a woman whose idea of hauling heavy loads involves hoisting a two-year-old with a blowout diaper onto the changing table.

Enter other son, the one with the four kids, who patiently fashioned plans with me over the phone while I was at the rental place. Being a tradesman, Aaron’s not afraid to man a rig. He dutifully texted pictures of his drivers’ license to the powers-that-be and shifted his day’s plans to execute the task at hand. This was all well and good until Plan B, like Plan A, began to unravel.

The first truck they assigned me was situated in a corner of the lot perpendicular to two other vehicles with very little space to maneuver it out of its position. Aaron’s a good driver, but I wasn’t sure this was the day to test his contortionist abilities with a box truck. The salesperson very accommodatingly swapped that one out for another more favorably positioned truck; however, when I started its engine, big blue letters flashed on the dashboard indicating the tires needed servicing.

Needless to say, my confidence was shot.

I don’t (always) need to be hit over the head with a billy club to get the point God’s trying to teach me. In this case, it was obvious I wasn’t meant to rent this rig. When too many doors slam shut, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re gonna end up with a smashed finger if you keep trying to wedge them open. I canceled the contract and hoped God would come through.

Blessedly, my other brother-in-law was going to be in the area that day. He and his pickup truck – which was also not quite big enough, but tie-down straps and ingenuity made up for that – did the deed, and I’m now the proud owner of a beautiful new sofa and rug.

I’m leaving out little things like having to locate my misplaced debit card when it came time to feed the troops; the ATM not working after I found said card; needing my daughter-in-law to calculate how much pizza I should order for the heavy haulers (and having to make three calls to order same because my brain cells were shot because of, well, everything); and probably some other mishaps which my mind has blocked out. The point is, I had to be willing to relinquish the furniture if the stars didn’t line up. They did in the end, but that was by no means a foregone conclusion, and I had to be ready to let go of what I thought I had to have if God didn’t make it happen.

The Tech

If my readers will bear with me, I’ll share one more bit of mishigas (that’s Yiddish for “craziness” – this one’s for you, Dad) with the idea of showing God’s hand in everything.

This past week I started an online course hosted by a ministry which seems to be seeking new writers for

its forum. The long and the short of it is, I wanted to make sure before the fact that my technology – which is old but not ancient – would be adequate for the job. The email instructions sent to students suggested we upload the latest Zoom app. This proved a bit daunting, what with needing to uninstall an earlier version but OK, I nailed that down. In the process, I located a wireless mouse I had stashed in a drawer which made right clicking a lot easier than using the trackpad. Again, a bit of setup required, but moving right along…

Next, I needed to make sure my Chromebook, which has been known to act up during virtual meetings, wouldn’t slur my voice or drag its feet or otherwise misbehave when I needed its cooperation. To this end, my faithful friend, Tina, who holds joint titles as ministry partner and keeper of all things technological, initiated a Zoom meeting to test things out.

Check!

Still, yours truly wasn’t satisfied that the Chromebook wouldn’t crash and burn during the lesson. Voila! Big sister Jane came through when I spotted the iPad she had given me last summer. I don’t like iPads, never have, but any port, as they say…

Jane’s login pattern was mercifully simple, and my memory mercifully resurrected it. But the darn thing took forever to charge! I wanted to have it on standby in case my preferred device, well, y’know.

While I was waiting – endlessly – for iPad to do its thing, somehow, for some reason, I got the idea that if I unplugged and reconnected the router, everything would go more smoothly. This was all a few days ago, so my memory’s a little fuzzy as to the why (wait till you get into your 60’s – you’ll see). I dutifully did the deed, only to find out I now had no internet on any of my devices.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

I did what anyone would’ve done – asked my non-techie friends if they could help me. The best advice I got was, “Call your internet provider.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

Jennifer at Verizon was an actual gem. So patient, so pleasant, so down-to-earth with her instructions. As a bonus, she got to “meet” Tina, who graciously initiated yet another Zoom meeting to test things out via three-way calling (love that feature). In the end, we asked Jennifer how we could pray for her. I know, people don’t do that sort of thing during a business call, but if, as Dickens opined, “mankind [is] my business,”² and if, as Scripture says, the Lord needs to be in every business transaction a believer undertakes, well, the rest becomes obvious.

Bottom line: tech got fixed; class went off without a hitch; Jennifer got prayed for; God got/gets all the glory.

The Thrust and the Trust

Why share all this?

Well, hopefully, my lack of self-confidence and subsequent mess-ups make for good stories.

But there’s more. So much more.

During each of these misadventures, I ran into the same brick wall: fear.

What if I get on the wrong train? Or miss it altogether? Or make my dear friend late for her own son’s life celebration?

What if I can’t find a way to transport the furniture? Or keep everyone waiting while I scramble to make this thing work? What if I left my debit card on the counter of the U-Haul place while I was trying to sort out this mess? Heaven forbid, what if there isn’t enough pizza?

What if I can’t get my internet reconnected and have to miss the class? What if my technology screws up and the course instructors decide I’m a screwup? What if I make a bad impression and the people I’m trying to wow with my writing abilities decide I’m not worth taking a chance on?

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. My struggles look different than your struggles. What may seem silly or miniscule in your world was anything but in mine. What I did notice, though, as God kept throwing curveballs over the past month, was slightly less agitation each time.

Slightly.

My sons and siblings may beg to differ on that point, as they were the ones talking me down off the ledge with the furniture fiasco. Still, I did hear myself say to my sisters, who dropped what they were doing to enter into my predicament, “If too many doors are slamming shut, I have to wonder if I’m meant to have this furniture.”

This was huge because you need to understand, I wanted this stuff. I had everything all figured out – until it wasn’t. As plan after plan succumbed to setback, I needed to be willing to let go.

While sitting in the cab of that truck, I told Jane, “There’s only one thing I know, and that’s that I’m supposed to cancel this contract. This isn’t meant to be.”

Maybe the rental place would give me my money back without a fight. Maybe my brother-in-law would be able to haul the stuff with his pickup, but we couldn’t reach him to find out. Maybe this would all come together in the arranged timeframe without completely undoing everyone’s day. Maybe…

The maybes didn’t matter. The obedience did.

It’s been said that life is a great teacher and experience a wonderful coach. The part that’s left out of that adage is that fear often (perhaps even usually) accompanies the learning process.

It helps me to remember that Jesus’s disciples were once huddled in their rooms, depressed and anxious and fearful for their lives. Their leader had been brutally killed and their worlds rocked. They couldn’t comprehend the events of the crucifixion, let alone the resurrection.

It was all too much.

As one writer put it, “The disciples’ faith wasn’t instantly strong. It grew gradually as they processed their experiences and Jesus’ teachings. Their fear diminished as their faith deepened.”³

I find encouragement in both their cowering and their courage-finding. I picture a continuum of these two states of being that gives me hope that my frail vessel can navigate its own rocky journeys. That my trust is neither misplaced nor outmatched by any opponent. And that the great I AM trumps my “I know I can't” thinking with almighty “can do’s” anytime He chooses. 

What a Savior.

“God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” – 2 Timothy 1:7

¹ Piper, Watty. The Little Engine That Could. G P Putnam’s Sons, 2001.

² Dickens, Charles. Christmas Carol, A. Tyndale House, 1999.

³ Jamil, Monica. “Why Were the Disciples Still Afraid? OUR DAILY BREAD.” OUR DAILY BREAD | Jesus is the way of The truth, & the life, 20 June 2024, ourdailybread.pro/why-were-the-disciples-still-afraid.

 

And Yet... Thoughts on Holiday Pain

I remember hearing a missionary give a talk years ago. Addressing the matter of God’s provision, this seasoned servant quipped that, in his experience, God is never late but He’s rarely early.

Also embedded in my memory is this observation from a minister whose church I attended when I was very young in my faith. This gentleman, whose name was David, commented that he often noticed the Almighty “singling him out,” as it were – in a good way. He would come across a passage of Scripture or hear something from the pulpit that seemed to be a “Dear David” message. A piece of wisdom or advice that zeroed right in on whatever he was struggling with or working on in his life.

I’m finding the insights of these two leaders quite relevant during what has turned out to be a very bittersweet holiday season. Don’t misunderstand – I’ve lived through downright depressing, even miserable Christmases. Other people’s choices and acts of God find their harsh way into our lives, despite what our culture tells us to expect during a given time frame:

“Christmas means lights and laughter! Valentine’s Day means hearts and happiness! There’s something really wrong with you if you’re not loving life at this moment!”

As though death, demons, and destruction are any respecters of calendars.

Christmas 2025 finds me straddling the line between joy and pain as I grieve with a dear friend who is presently suffering an unimaginable loss. Others around me are coping with similar sorrows. And, folks, have you looked at the news lately? It’s enough to send the jolliest elf right into a full-blown tailspin.

And yet…

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!” – Psalm 46:10

“He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?” – Romans 8:32

Why these verses?

They’re my “Dear Thea” messages from a Mind and Heart which know exactly what my mind and heart are wrestling with. All three of these Scripture gems showed up in my own personal world MORE THAN ONCE in the past week.

Psalm 45:1:

Write, Thea. I’ve given you a voice and the tools to get it out there. Use them when and how I tell you to.

Psalm 46:10:

Thea, I’ve GOT you and everyone and everything around you, despite how things may look. Trust me, like the song says, and rest in my plan, even when it seems ridiculous to do so.

Romans 8:32:

Thea, if I gave up that which was most precious to me for your benefit, I’m certainly not going to skimp on anything else.

I want and need to be held this Christmas, because I’m trying to hold up my fellow man. I know I’m no Atlas, and I’m not trying to be. But how can a person not offer a hand when one of her companions is in danger of sinking?

And yet…

The Lord makes certain promises about how much reign He will let grief have in our lives.

I’m holding Him to those promises.

So, I’m doing each next right thing I know to do. Since tomorrow is the arbitrary deadline we silly humans have set for ourselves to celebrate the immortal becoming mortal for a few decades, I’m going to take care of some ritual essentials. I’ll finish wrapping my packages. I’ll whip up some holiday recipes. Etc., etc., etc.

But I REFUSE to let said rituals destroy my communion with the One we’re supposed to be celebrating. And I REFUSE to endlessly seek some heartwarming feeling that always eludes and always promises more than it can deliver.

Because the Delivery has been made. It arrived 2,000 years ago in a stable. And it mattered – and matters – more than any Hallmark memory or Amazon drop-off ever could.

Our Savior foresaw the ambivalence we would feel at the holidays and all throughout our lives. He knew expectations would go unmet and joy would be tempered with pain. He felt that tension in His own heart while preparing to give His life for our traitorous race.

And yet…

If the trials I’m facing – and those I’m walking through with people I love – are the chisels that render me more like the Savior I strive to emulate, then I will try to yield to the pain without numbing myself. I’ll keep looking for “Dear Thea” love notes wherever He chooses to drop them. And I’ll keep reminding myself that His mercies will always be right on time.

God bless us, everyone.

 

Holiday Bows, Holiday Knots

Anyone who’s ever wrapped a present knows how easy it is to mess up a bow. The ribbon frays. There isn’t enough of it to make a decent bow. The whole thing winds up becoming one big, tangled up knot.

Bows, though, are often worth the trouble, knotty possibilities notwithstanding.

Bows are pretty. They’re festive. They’re neat and tidy (when they cooperate). They’re reusable, for heaven’s sake!

Perhaps these are some of the reasons a couple of my mischief-making students vied for a bow during a Christmas season years ago. I recounted the story in a blog post at the time, thinking how remarkable it was that kids whose sole mission in life seemed to be portraying themselves as the toughest, least governable ruffians in the bunch – that these characters were getting their collective panties all in a bunch over a simple holiday decoration.

These high schoolers already knew they were on Santa’s naughty list. No two ways about it. Still, they
longed for some form of recognition that they weren’t irredeemable. That someone saw through their façade and recognized the frightened, insecure youngsters they really were.

It brings to mind a well-timed sentence my older son once uttered to our neighbor’s dog. She was a little thing with, I suppose, a bit of a Napoleon complex. She at times would try to come off as intimidating, which was totally laughable.

My son saw this bravado for what it was and responded to her antics one day by remarking, “Oh, you’re so not scary!”

I can hear my readers wondering if I’m not assigning too much meaning to an adolescent competition over a simple Christmas bow. My answer is an unequivocal no. Again hearkening back to parts one and two of my “bow” blog articles, I discovered no matter how rough and tough some of my students came off, almost all of them had a soft spot for a sticker, a carefully crafted piece of motherly advice, or the tiniest morsel of praise.

Who’d have thought such guarded hearts were so easily penetrable?

Well, there are bows and there are knots.

My life has been somewhat knotty lately. In trying to support others, I’ve unwittingly been tying myself up into knots. My prayer partner, Tina, pointed this out to me yesterday as I was agonizing about some plans that were far from definite. My end of the conversation went something like this:

“If I do x, what about y? Will z become an issue? I’m pretty worried about a, b, and c also. Do you think d, e, or f might present a problem?”

Tina cut through all this nonsense gently but firmly, pointing out that I was fretting over plans and possibilities that might not ever transpire. And, knowing me as she does, she recognized that such gyrations on my part could easily lead me into a state of resentment, a foible I constantly try to work on.

Too often I’ve contorted myself in efforts to please someone else – now, pay attention here, because this is the crux of the matter – on matters about which I’ve never even asked the other person how they feel! This has happened with celebrations I’ve put together for other people’s milestones, for example. I once concocted a party for someone I later found out detested being in the limelight. Needless to say, my hopes were disappointed, as were those of the guest of honor.

This past week, I was biting my nails over a holiday gathering. It’s something my family and I have done for years for a dear friend. We keep it relatively low key – except when I start overthinking it.

This year my altruistic but overzealous desire to include others took over. I decided that this family tradition (the person with whom we celebrate this annual tradition is not technically family, but she might as well be) needed to be expanded to include another friend who expressed interest in the festivities. In trying to fit a million square pegs into round holes to make this thing come off, I caused myself needless agita.

All this hoop jumping went on only in my mind. For various reasons, I never even consulted any of the other parties. In the end, I realized it simply wasn’t going to work and bagged the whole idea. We will do it eventually, Lord willing, but there was no way to make it work last week. I had to scrap the idea (and all my mental machinations), let go, and let God be God.

What a concept.

Here’s the kicker: it turned out the person I was trying to add into the mix became ill and wouldn’t have been able to participate anyway.

Talk about your wasted worries.

Sometimes these types of gyrations inconvenience others. I jump through all kinds of hoops trying to put everyone’s schedules together, and it becomes a knotty mess. Other times, like the scenario I just mentioned, all my stress is internal and no one else even knows about it. I may have decided it’s in someone else’s best interest to be part of a certain “fill in the blank” activity. Or, in my fevered imagination, someone may be waiting with bated breath to hear from me via text, call, or what have you. While this dear one may well welcome hearing from me, I misstep when I assume the role of be-all and end-all in another person’s life.

As my sister says, I overestimate my own nuisance value!

There’s one other area I want to touch on before wrapping this up so I can go do some wrapping.

I found myself fighting temptation – yet again – the other day. December is a rough month for any food worshipper, a label I guiltily admit to. I know how God feels about gluttony, so this is an ongoing battle for me. Anyway, after stringing together a bevy of days involving poor food choices, I was feeling “in knots” about it, powerless to detangle the rat’s nest my eating life had become. While Christmas shopping, I picked up a certain something that was affordable, yummy and promised to drive my weight higher and my walk further from the Lord.

At the moment of truth, here’s what I heard coming out of my mouth:

“Gotta start being obedient sometime.”

Just like that, I put the forbidden fruit back on its shelf and went on my merry way.

And my way did feel merrier. The best part is, my youngest grandchild was by my side. Little does this little one know that Mom Mom fights spiritual battles which often manifest as physical battles over food and a few other needful things (sleep, R&R) that don’t serve me well when I abuse them.

Maybe – just maybe – my one good choice in a sea of lousy ones can put me closer to the woman God intends for me to be, thereby serving as a better example for the next generation(s).

God bless us, everyone.

 

Rust, AKA, Destructive Distractions

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

The Goal

Psalm 45:1 is certainly a lofty goal, and one I aspire to – in theory.

Friends and supporters have asked if I’m working on a new book. It’s been a year and a half since Belabored hit the “shelves” of Amazon, and my cheering squad (without whose encouragement and prayers this novel would still be languishing on my computer) is understandably curious about my next project.

My answer is always the same.

Not yet.

Or, more accurately, I haven’t felt led to take on another major writing commitment at this moment.

To put it another way, I’m rusty in the writing department.

I did, however, recently add an item to my authorial resumé: my piece, “Jesus Christ, the Same Yesterday, Today, and December 26^th,” appears in ’Tis the Season, a compilation of Christmas essays benefiting Samaritan’s Purse. And I have taken several steps to expand my social media output and presence. Discourse, after all, isn’t found only between the covers of books or relegated to print media in these times of virtual productivity.

It never was, actually. That’s why journals and speeches and correspondence hold such great interest for biographers and readers.

So, in what way, exactly, am I deeming myself rusty?

The Problem

Well, folks, it’s the age-old problem of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. To put it bluntly, I’m exceptionally good at distracting myself right out of the writing game.

Oh, I haven’t just been stringing dandelions into necklaces (with no disrespect intended to physical crafters, whose dexterity and fine motor skills far outweigh mine). For sure I’m accomplishing some valuable things. It’s just that, to paraphrase someone wise, the good can often be enemy of the best.

I will credit myself with one thing, though. I've been ingesting huge amounts of other people’s writing, which is often touted by those who know as a vital step to improving one’s own. That being said, after studying others’ styles, at some point one needs to pick up one’s pen, sit down at one’s keyboard, or at the very least, dictate into one of the myriad text receptacles available these days.

But, truth be told, it’s a bit painful to reengage with the writing craft once one has interrupted the habit. That’s actually been my lifelong problem – staying engaged in written pursuits. I scribble in spurts, journaling or blogging with ferocity when I’m going through some sort of life challenge, then going dormant for months on end. That’s why it was so hard for me to complete a novel.

In contrast, one of my authorial heroes, Louisa May Alcott, used to fall into what she called a vortex when creating. She would hole up for hours/days on end, frantically inking (and I mean inking by hand) pages and pages until her manuscripts met with her satisfaction. Then, off to the publisher and back to the outside world she would trot, until the next bolt of inspiration chained her to her desk again. Between bestselling novels, though, Alcott constantly journaled and wrote short stories, effectively honing her skills for the next blockbuster.

The Eye Opener

Despite human frailties, God has ways of forcing an issue.

Last night He saw fit to visit me with a terrible dream. The particulars aren’t important; the message is. In this nightmare, I was UTTERLY DISTRACTED. I had one paramount goal, but it kept getting sidelined by details that were irrelevant. In addition, I was trying to meet some other people’s needs – demands that cropped up along the way to accomplishing my agenda – but in my futile attempts to assist others, neither their needs nor mine were getting met.

Don’t misunderstand me. Some of the urgencies trumpeting in my ear were PRETTY DARN BIG. A dying woman. The safe transport of children. Treating other people’s property respectfully. But – and here is a major BUT – in trying to tend to everyone’s needs (all at once, I might add), I was tripping all over myself and MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE.

Here’s the really important part (well, the whole dream seemed important, but this piece is especially noteworthy). Several well-meaning friends stepped in, suggesting solutions that held potential to yield smidgens of success. Even as those kind souls were offering time and energy to steady the course of my floundering vessel, the captain of that sinking ship took matters back into her own bumbling, distracted hands and capsized the boat once and for all.

As I reread that last sentence, I identify a huge part of the problem. I am not the captain. There is only one Captain, and His name is Immanuel.

I take orders from Him and would do well to remember that.

Even as I type this article, which has been patiently hanging around on my hard drive for a week, another diversion sirens me. Friends, I’ve been awake since the wee hours of the morning after having that disturbing dream, knowing FOR SURE God is giving me yet another opportunity to Sit. Down. And. Write.

Wouldn’t you know it? Life throws yet another monkey wrench into my plans and offers to distract me – at 5:45 AM!

An important disruption, mind you. Important enough that I could persuade myself that this latest urgency warrants interrupting my work.

But that would mean losing momentum.

Momentum which badly needs to be maintained after so many fits and starts.

The Need for Discernment

As I’m arguing with myself about pausing versus proceeding, the Lord uses Denzel Washington, of all people, to set me straight. I recall a movie he starred in years ago in which his character, Eli, had received a vital commission. Along the way, numerous troubling distractions threatened the fulfillment of that crucial task. At those fork-in-the-road moments, he audibly reminded himself, “Stay on the path. It’s not your concern.”

A case could be made that Eli should have taken a break from his calling to address some life and death situations affecting others. Perhaps that is so. But consider the following.

Corrie ten Boom told a story of being present while a fellow inmate in the concentration camp was suffering cruelly at the hands of an SS guard. Knowing she was powerless to help, Corrie allowed herself to look away and focus on the beauty of a skylark instead of the violence around her.

Was it cowardice that kept Corrie from trying to intervene? Or was it pragmatism? Had she said or done anything, she would almost certainly have been tortured and possibly killed along with the prisoner she was vainly trying to help.

Then who would have told her story to millions, giving a firsthand report of the carnage inflicted by power-driven Nazis, and offering the world hope even in the deepest of pits?

Corrie knew the horror she was witnessing that day – and it WAS HORRIBLE – was not her (immediate) concern.

The Greatest Man of Business

If that sounds callous, let us remember two things. First of all, just because something isn’t on our to do list today doesn’t mean God won’t put it there tomorrow. In the case of the beaten prisoner, the Lord guided Corrie to focus her thoughts on the glorious skylark He had provided so she could endure the unendurable in that moment. Later, after she was released, she would write about witnessing this monstrous act while performing the work God kept her alive to do.

Which brings me to my second point.

That which is not our concern is God’s concern.

Jacob Marley uttered these famous words in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol: “Mankind was my business!”

But there’s a caveat, isn’t there?

Not ALL mankind is MY business.

We know that because Jesus modeled it. He healed some, but not all. He knew when it was time to get alone with the Father and recharge His batteries. He avoided distraction so it wouldn’t destroy His overarching mission.

Getting Back to Rust

What does all this have to do with rust?

Been thinking about Matthew 6:19-20:

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.”

During this season of overwhelming busyness, I’m realizing that distraction is often a precursor to destruction. For example, being overly distracted this past week with holiday doings wreaked havoc with my eating habits. Attempting too many projects in too little time resulted in too many bad food choices. My overeating and overconsumption of Christmas goodies made me annoyed with myself, as well as sleepy and less able to produce good results with my tasks.

What are the moths and rust in each of our lives that threaten to destroy (or at least undermine) our relationship with God? What thieves are stealing our time with Him?

They say that realization is key to change, that recognizing the problem is half the battle. I’m challenging myself and others to search for the underlying causes why we drift from the Lord during a season which is supposed to be devoted to Him, and adjust accordingly.

The Remedy for Rust

It’s a simple one. A compound sold in any hardware store.

Naval jelly.

When applied correctly, this miracle mix eats away that which is eating away our valuables.

I find it fascinating that this stuff is called naval jelly. There must be a reason why, but I’m going to resist the urge to look it up because that would be, um, a distraction.

What’s interesting about the name of this wondrous substance is that it points to a navigator. Navies rely on navigators, and navigators rely on true north. Any old salt worth his salt (couldn’t resist) knows he must consciously seek true north. He can’t rely fully on his compass, because forces beyond his control
will throw that thing – and his whole vessel – off course.

It's been said that Jesus is our true north. But, like the old seaman, we must realize the limitations of our own devices and seek that which is true.

Make that, the One who is true.

God bless us, everyone!

 

Inscribed

Belated Sentiments

There’s nothing like being a few days (or months) late and more than a few dollars short.

At the rate I’m going, this article about the Jewish New Year will be ready just about when our country sings Auld Lang Syne.

All kidding aside, I’m trying to finish a piece that’s been lingering on my hard drive since September.

The part of me that's Jewish (50 per cent) recently celebrated the Jewish High Holy Days. Rosh Hashanah, as it’s known, is a time for reflection and renewal, leading into Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Although I’m WAAAY behind the curve, I want to connect these holidays to my current quest for equilibrium. I’ve been writing about this a lot in articles such as Old Age Isn’t a Deal Breaker, Problems, and most recently, Rainy Days Ahead.

As I’ve noted, the Hebrew holidays have now come and gone. But to wait another whole year to publish on the subject seems silly (not to mention the fact that reflection and renewal are never out of season).

So, without further ado or apologies for tardiness, my take on the most sacred days of the Jewish calendar.

God’s Books

I guess what’s been on my mind most is the idea of having one’s name inscribed in God’s book. Turns out there are two such books. Here I would encourage my readers to buckle up because we’re not going to shy away from talking about eternity – what God’s word says about it, as opposed to the subjective notions many hold based on “feel good” theology and/or their own conjurings (in this case I mean cogitations, but in a world increasingly drawn to darkness and the occult, it seems regrettably reasonable to expand the definition of “conjure” to include mystical arts).

Quick rationale for the ground I’m standing on with regard to this whole topic. I’ve argued previously for the credibility of the Bible based on the research of well reputed scholars (see section 2, “The Basis,” in Reclaiming the Rainbow). That said, I’m linking to a few articles from Answers Magazine, which delve into archaeological, scientific, and prophetic reasons why the Scriptures can be trusted. On that solid foundation I rest my case regarding the two books of life described in God’s word.

The idea of being inscribed in God’s book seems to have dual meanings. Perhaps the best way to delineate the two is that to be inscribed as it is represented in the Tanakh (Scriptures Christians refer to as the Old Testament) means to reside among the living, i.e., not be physically dead. In contrast, having one’s name inscribed in the Lamb’s book of life (a New Testament concept) refers to enjoying eternal life in heaven after physical death has occurred. The other option would be to face God without Christ’s sacrifice having been applied to one’s spiritual account, and therefore, not meet the criteria for eternal life. This condition, tragically, results in one’s soul – a person’s spiritual essence which remains after physical death – being eternally separated from God.

Remember, I cautioned my audience that we were going to delve into heavy spiritual stuff.

For further information to distinguish between the two books of life, see What is the Book of Life? and Is there a difference between the book of life and the Lamb’s book of life?

Biblical Inscription

Now, let’s investigate the idea of being inscribed in God’s book.

We must first realize that “inscribe” and “engrave” are often used interchangeably in the Bible to express permanently writing a message. However, the two words in English have different connotations. The former often means simply writing words on paper, such as an author inscribing his book for a reader; the latter carries the idea of carving with a tool, such as engraving a wedding ring. This confused me a bit, so I wandered around on the internet and my research took me to language scholar Skip Moen’s website. His investigation into Isaiah 49:14-16, in which God vowed to inscribe Israel on the palms of His hands, yielded the following heart stopping conclusion: “It is worth noting that God’s son also had each of us inscribed on the palms of his hands when he allowed himself to be crucified for our redemption… Our names are engraved on his hands so that he will never forget us.”

I checked out these verses in three reliable versions of Scripture using the Blue Letter Bible.* The King James Version states, “Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.” The New King James Version renders it thusly: “See, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands.” And the English Standard Version says, “Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”

Bottom line: engraving seems so much more permanent than inscribing. Ink fades and washes away, but carvings tend to have much greater longevity.

Perhaps that’s why God chose to engrave his commandments on stone tablets rather than inking them on parchment or papyrus. These statutes were so important to our creator that he issued them twice. The first time, the Lord etched the laws himself; after Moses impulsively destroyed this set in response to the Israelites’ idolatry, God commanded him to fashion new tablets and chisel the laws onto them while God dictated.

Inscription in Daily Life

I think of my life as having many parts. These include worship and ministry, tending to my health, nurturing family, caring for my home, managing finances and resources, and writing. These facets all must be prioritized and balanced, but at times one category will overtake the others in importance. For example, if I need to purchase a vehicle or change my residence, those pieces may dominate my life’s tapestry until I get them sorted out.

All these moving parts, though, are held together by my walk with the Lord, which is a function of my private spiritual life and how well I maintain it. In other words, I dare not let activities of daily living usurp the first order of business, which is time in God’s presence. This takes the form of private and corporate prayer and Bible study.

As I’m pondering this section of the article, I’m visualizing some activities as etched in stone, so to speak, while others can be treated with more flexibility. The reason people engrave/inscribe items is to showcase their importance and lend a sense of permanence. It would be profligate and meaningless to engrave every object one owns. What then would set apart the cherished from the trivial?

Viewed in this light, it becomes obvious which aspects of life should be treated with that level of respect and reverence, versus those to be held more loosely.

So, as I conclude (finally!) my discussion of the High Holy Days, perhaps my new year’s resolution should be to continue mining my life for the inscribable instead of getting caught up in the perishable.

L’shanah tova!

 

*To compare Biblical translations, the Blue Letter Bible (https://www.blueletterbible.org/) is an excellent resource.

 

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.