Enough Already: A Response to the Clancy Case, Part 2

Standing Alone

Travel back with me nearly 20 years ago. I’m working in education and have been asked to serve on a panel whose sole purpose is to hear and evaluate a twelfth grader’s senior project. The task is designed to be the culmination of this student’s educational experience. She must pass this hurdle in order to graduate.

She’s supposed to showcase her knowledge of a particular topic of her choosing. She’s expected to conduct herself professionally and demonstrate in depth familiarity with the topic at hand.

The young lady does none of those things.

It becomes obvious within the first few minutes that this presenter doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Sure, she’s nervous; who wouldn’t be? But there are criteria for her to meet, and she doesn’t hit any of them.

It comes time to make an assessment. The student’s instructors have provided guidelines for us to follow. I render my judgment accordingly and deliver a failing grade.

I immediately come under pressure from the other members.

“She has special needs! She has a tough home life! She was terrified to speak publicly!”

On and on the excuses go.

Granted, the student in question does have an IEP (individualized education plan), but the panel has not been instructed to offer any special accommodation due to this fact. If we had been, I would have taken that into consideration.

I hold my ground politely but firmly. I refer back to the written rubric in front of us. I reiterate time and again the ways in which the student didn’t measure up.

The pressure continues. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to change my opinion, everyone decides to break and resume discussion after lunch.

Except it turns out my services are no longer needed after the break. Another educator has been found to fill my position. This staff member rubber stamps the kid’s project so she can satisfy the course requirements.

It’s important to note that the student would almost certainly have graduated with or without my passing her. The only result of failing her first attempt would have been a redo. Much like when I failed my first driver’s test and had to try again.

Yes, I cried when the instructor flunked me. Yes, I had excuses why I screwed up the three-point-turn and didn’t stop all the way at the stop sign. Bottom line: the guy assessing me wasn’t concerned with the reasons for my mistakes. He was charged with delivering a safe driver onto the highway, and I didn’t make the cut.

You’d better believe I nailed those two things next time, and nobody rejoiced more than I did when I got my license on the second try.

I keep flashing back to these memories as I watch the aftermath of the Lindsay Clancy trial. Eleven jurors vote to acquit her; one man stands alone, holding her accountable for her lethal actions. The judge declares a mistrial. The defense attorney plays every card he has: he requests dismissal of the dissenting juror; files an emergency petition with the Supreme Judicial Court; suggests a retrial would constitute double jeopardy; even begs the President of the United States to try to influence the prosecuting attorneys.

Simultaneously, a little thing called juror privacy is on the chopping block. The dissenter’s personal information has been leaked, his reputation called into question, and his family harassed, in what his attorney is calling “a full-frontal attack on the U.S. Constitution.” The man has gone into hiding.

If such strongarm tactics aren’t squashed, we’ll have even more trouble populating juries than we do already, and the trial system as we know it will collapse.

Enough already.

Big Picture

Clearly, there are larger issues at stake than the fate of a confessed triple murderer.

To illustrate, remember the ending of Casablanca? Spoiler alert: Bogie doesn’t get the girl. He sends her packing, literally, back into the arms of her husband. Why? Not because he doesn’t love her. Not because he believes in the sanctity of marriage. His sole reason for sacrificing his great passion is because bigger forces are at play, and they’ll be tipped in the wrong direction if he thinks only of himself.

We could use a bit of that philosophy right about now.

I’ve tried hard to remain objective during the Lindsay Clancy trial. I detailed in part one of this series the difficulty I encountered in trying to formulate my opinion about this horrendous case. Like so many situations, this one is multifaceted and extremely complex.

It’s also heart wrenching.

After studying the facts and the footage pretty meticulously, I’ve finally arrived at the verdict I would have rendered if I were sitting on that jury:

Clancy should be found guilty and held responsible for murdering her children.

The reasons ought to be obvious. Three preschoolers were slaughtered by their mother, who claims a previously non-existent voice told her to do it and then went silent, never to be heard from again.

Misplaced Sympathy

Several jurors who served in the trial gave interviews after the judge declared a mistrial. Their primary goals seem to be a) excusing Lindsay and b) attacking the one juror who refused to vote for acquittal. One actually whined that the lone holdout “had the hardest time getting off the fact that Lindsay viciously killed her children.”

Um, yeah. Details like that used to matter in murder trials. Call me crazy, but justice for victims used to carry as much weight as murderers’ mental health. Go figure.

The aforementioned juror bemoaned the fact that the holdout stood his ground and insisted Lindsay be convicted. She railed that he should “forgetting [sic] about Lindsay killing her kids. Everybody knows it. The world knows it. But look at the doubt. That’s all we need to do to get this woman the help she deserves.” Her final word was, “I will support Lindsay to the end here.”

Apparently, we’ve evolved as a society. We no longer dwell on minutiae like children’s brains swelling and blood vessels bursting while their mothers strangle the life out of them. In fact, the jurors who wanted to acquit Clancy complained that the prosecutors spent an overabundance of time on the grotesque details of the children’s deaths.

There’s empathy in action. Let’s not dwell on minor points like an eight-month-old’s “brain [swelling] to the point that it had ‘overwhelmed the capacity of the skull’ and was herniating through its base.” Or blood vessels rupturing from the pressure of those exercise bands, causing pain along with asphyxiation. Or the agony baby Callan likely felt while emergency staff taped needles and tubes and catheters onto his fragile skin to try to save him. His siblings had already mercifully died when doctors inserted intraosseous catheters into the bones of their little legs, but Lindsay’s youngest was still alive when that needle or drill pierced his tiny tibia. The medical examiner testified that doctors “attempted” this painful procedure on Callan. Maybe they tried more than once without success. Maybe it wasn’t having the desired effect, so they removed it. Who knows? What we do know is his little body was poked and prodded and punctured ad nauseam, to no avail.

But why pore over incidentals like the anguish an infant suffers when heroes fight to save the life his mom tried to extinguish? Those particulars should be glossed over so jurors can more quickly attend to the pressing need to acquit.

Remember, we’re here to support Lindsay.

I could have stomached watching the jurors opine about Clancy’s troubled state of mind if they’d given equal time to her dead children. That, apparently, was too much to ask. The overarching concern was and is the wellbeing of a woman who murdered her own babies.  

Societal Rot

Why do I get the feeling we’re entering into Hunger Games territory if we don’t watch our step? Seriously. Are we all that far from there? We have now reached a lower point in our collective thinking than I would have thought possible. We seem willing to throw children to the wolves even – maybe especially –   when those wolves are dressed in their mothers’ clothing.

Take, for example, the hundreds of women who supported Clancy throughout the trial. Go a step further and consider the moms who recorded themselves saying and doing outrageous things to vent their frustration at having to care for young children. My usual M.O. is to insert copious links to verify facts and assertions I make in articles, as I’ve done above. I’m deliberately not doing so here. Those videos are best relegated to the dustbin, unless attorneys retrieve them to prosecute women who make terrible choices.

Age-Old Problems

We’re acting as if mothering were something new. As if legions of women haven’t been doing it since time immemorial. I can get behind the viewpoint that women’s lives have become exponentially harder since society started demanding they be supermoms who bring home the bacon while raising children. I did it and can attest to how hard it is. I can agree that maybe we’ve so skewed the differences between men and women that neither sex has any idea how to behave, and that this blurring of role distinctions can cause confusion and even chaos, both of which may be exacerbated in the aftermath of childbirth.

However, I refuse to dismiss the murder of innocent children as a mere facet of mental illness and call it a day.

Zooming Out

Again, I’m having a bear of a time being objective here. The more I learn about the case, the harder it is not to feel tremendous rage for Cora, Dawson and Callan, while simultaneously experiencing great sadness for their tortured mother. But my own mother’s words echo in my ears. She used to say people who sit on the fence never really take a position; it’s better to pick a side and live with it. Reminds me of the rebuke Jesus gave the Laodicean church in Revelation 3:15: “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot!  So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

I must choose a position, and that must be justice for Lindsay Clancy’s children. Because this case matters so much more than what happens to one woman. Whether the 11 jurors who voted for acquittal realize it or not, they’re wielding a wrecking ball – and rather recklessly, in my opinion – against generations of maternal love and protection. Why? Because ultimately, acquitting Clancy will lead to the defensibility of women murdering their children based on hormonal imbalance. 

For example, another juror essentially declared the majority of the panel had an agenda. She then conflated justice for the children with an overhaul of the mental health system serving postpartum women.

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

I’ve spent a grueling amount of hours dissecting the testimony from this sordid case, and one thing that keeps showing up is the expectations and responsibilities placed on jurors, whose job description DOES NOT INCLUDE impacting institutional change. Once the jury veers off into trying to effect outcome for a certain issue, trying to make its mark, as it were – that body has corrupted its one and only function: to consider evidence and make a ruling based on facts.

Besides which, there really is substance to the argument that women can’t have it both ways. Either they can power through hormonal fluctuations or they can’t. It’s one thing to feel lousy, physically and/or mentally, during the hormonal instability associated with PMS, pregnancy, the postpartum window; it’s another thing to act out those feelings in homicidal ways.

I’m not saying anything new here. Many pundits are raising these same alarms because we must wrestle with the repercussions. There’s no getting around them. Either women can be trusted in consequential positions – such as raising the next generation – or they can’t. But it doesn’t make sense to demand equality in the public square, with all the attendant privileges, and then turn around and excuse horrific behavior because hormones are acting up.

More than Enough

I once heard a convicted sex offender state that porn addiction requires constantly new and different stimuli to feed itself. Perhaps we can apply that concept here. Somewhere along the line, people began overemphasizing milestones and celebrating them way out of proportion. Think of the lavish bridal and baby showers we throw these days. Bar and bat mitzvahs that rival weddings, complete with DJ’s, photo booths, chocolate fountains. “Push presents” moms expect in return for giving birth (call me old fashioned, but we used to think the baby itself was the gift). And don’t get me started on kids’ birthday parties, which have gotten staggeringly excessive and expensive.

Enough already.

When we become conditioned to constantly expect bigger and better adventures, it becomes difficult to live in the day-to-day, blasé happenings of life. Not to mention living with the demand to constantly outdo ourselves for every life event.

Perhaps this is part of what happened to Lindsay. She had reached a point where many of her goals had been met. Successful career – check. Marriage to an upwardly mobile guy – check. Three healthy children - check. But when one is always looking for the next captivating experience, it becomes hard to count blessings and realize that this is all there is, and that all there is, is very good.

I know that’s an awkward sentence, so let me illustrate. When my first child was born, my dreams came true. I’ve shared elsewhere that my pregnancy journey wasn’t a cake walk, so giving birth to that little guy with the conehead and scrunched-up face was the culmination of all my hopes. So, guess what I asked when all was said and done?

“Is this all there is?”

The reality didn’t live up to the dream I’d conceived. Besides that, my marriage was teetering on disaster when we became parents. Those disappointments had to be managed before I could appreciate that life could still be very, very good, despite its not meeting my unrealistic expectations.

Things started coming into focus the night I brought my newborn into a support group meeting. I’m sure I was crying over the state of my life and marriage. A wise lady in the room wasn’t having it. She pointed to my little chickee-head (that’s what I called him because, after a bath, his hair stood up like a baby chick’s fur), smiled, and said, “But look what you got.”

So, I did. I looked at that funny little face and realized what I had was very, very good and more than enough. Hard times were ahead, without a doubt, but good times and hard times can and often do coexist.

Another pivotal moment occurred when my kids were much older. My neighbor, Anita, and I were cleaning up after dinner one night. Anita had prepared a feast for us in her tomato-red kitchen, and she and I were scrubbing dishes while the boys tossed a ball around in her backyard. Something about the homespun image of two young guys playing catch while the womenfolk chatted over dishwashing (OK, that’s not politically correct – so sue me) brought a tear to my eye. All I could think of was a song that has come to epitomize my view of life: I Could Not Ask for More. I later danced to that sappy tune at both my sons’ weddings, and it will be played at my funeral.

The Bible expressed this concept long before songwriter Diane Warren did. Listen to the apostle Paul wax eloquent about contentment:

^“But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.” (1 Timothy 6:6-8)

My pastor preached on these verses last week and this week, emphasizing the importance of finding contentment in the content of our lives. He showed the connection between being content (satisfied) with the content (stuff) that makes up our lives. I think this message should be trumpeted from pulpits far and wide. This simple principle has the potential to save so many from falling prey to the materialism and overdoing that characterizes our age.

Blame Shifting

I can think of one other reason to make our greatest goal to intentionally live in a state of contentment. It goes hand in hand with responsibility.

We’ve seen a cascade of blame shifting in the Clancy case. It’s Patrick’s fault. It’s the doctors’ fault. It’s the psych hospitals’ fault. Everyone but Lindsay is to blame for her actions.

Let’s agree on some indisputable facts. First, the poor woman clearly was having a breakdown. Her medical team certainly dropped the ball in inexcusable ways. I recall similar treatment – or lack thereof – when a family member went through a mental health crisis. I could tell by the hurried and harried approach of the caseworkers – who really did care – that the scope of their job went far beyond the hours they had in a day. Disappointed and disenchanted people are glutting the system (this brings us back to the error of overdoing milestones and coinciding ill-preparedness for life on life’s terms), which makes it dangerously hard for practitioners to keep up.

Sadly, this is the system in which we find ourselves; sometimes we have to find ways to get the most out of the least.

Also, Lindsay’s husband was imperfect (whose isn’t?); maybe he was even unfaithful. Again, I can relate to the trauma of a troubled marriage. I can even relate to terrifying thoughts and the Herculean effort it took to do minor tasks like loading the dishwasher and bathing my kids. Because when the brain goes into overload, nothing is easy.

But, when push came to shove, I held it together enough to keep both myself and my children alive, by God’s grace. I leaned hard on the Lord, my family of origin, and professional help (which, by the way, had definite shortcomings).

I also considered the potential consequences that could occur if I didn’t move heaven and earth to fight looming madness.

In other words, I shouldered as much responsibility as I could, while simultaneously sucking every bit of support out of every avenue available.

Bygone Responsibility

But herein lies another problem. We train people not to accept responsibility for their own actions, and when they mess up, sometimes lethally, they claim victimhood. Bear with me as I relate yet another aha moment.

Towards the end of my career, I worked with a student who was pretty much surgically attached to his laptop computer. The district wanted to harness the utility of the internet while also saving a few trees, so it issued devices to all students and staff. This particular kid had a dickens of a time putting the thing away when the lesson didn’t require its use. One day I lost patience and called him out into the hall for a lecture.

“Listen, friend, why don’t you close your computer when the teacher tells you to? Why do I have to repeat her instructions five or six times, and you still don’t close the darn thing?”

Noting that my frustration was falling on deaf ears, I decided to switch gears.

“OK, how ’bout this? Let’s talk about why it’s important to do the right thing when you’re told to do it. You know not to cross the street when a car’s coming, right?”

Of course he did.

“OK, so what happens if a car’s coming and you’re strolling out into the street, and you don’t see it? The car honks its horn, but you ignore that warning. What would happen if you did that?”

And here, dear readers, is one of the most chilling statements I’ve ever heard.

Without giving it a thought, the child answered, “The car would stop.”

No, my precious middle schooler! That’s the whole point. The car wouldn’t stop. You would become part of the pavement.

That’s where this kind of thinking takes us.

When people aren’t taught to sift through actions and consequences, we have a real problem. When lack of contentment meets lack of responsibility, a painful collision with reality ensues.

So, let’s return again to the throes of daily life. The house needs work. The car’s on the fritz. The kids are being kids. Illness strikes.

Where’s the confetti?

We’re used to parties and over-the-top festivities at every turn. We’re used to participation awards just for showing up and spelling our names right.

We need to start celebrating the mundane instead of chasing the electric.

Final Thoughts

Now, back to the topic at hand: Lindsay Clancy.

I don’t normally ask this, but if any of my points are resonating with you, please share this article. We NEED to get this one right. We can’t afford to misjudge this case because the stakes are nothing less than our survival as a nation. We must halt the death train here, at the doorstep of Clancy’s confinement. And that confinement must include prison, not just a mental health facility, where she may convince doctors she’s well enough to return to society.

The Clancy jurors described defense lawyer Reddington’s approach as “funny, entertaining, arrogant, but compassionate.” Perhaps they’d have made similar observations about the attorney who defended Constance Fisher, whose kids might beg to differ with physicians who deemed her sane enough to walk free after spending a few years in a mental institution. Fisher had been committed there after drowning her three children. Upon her release, she proceeded to murder the three other children she subsequently produced with the husband who stood by her.

Folks, let’s learn from history. And let’s look where we’re headed.

If a model mother, as everyone describes Lindsay (and I don’t doubt she was), can brutally slay her own children, who’s above suspicion? We begin to suspect everyone. Someone’s having a bad day with her kids in the grocery store, and we wonder if we should call 911. As a society, we’ve been on the alert for years, what with school shootings and killings in the public square. But the Clancy case is bringing distrust of one’s neighbor to a whole new level.

If we’re going to talk about Lindsay’s sanity, let’s talk about the insanity of a society that doesn’t lock the door and throw away the key on mothers – and fathers, for we’ve been down that road far too many times as well – who kill their offspring.

We must view parent killers’ actions as the anomaly they are – the antithesis of filial love – and resist the urge to paint them as excusable catastrophes resulting from malpractice. Why not separate the two? Why not hold psychiatric teams culpable alongside the killers who claim the establishment failed them? If malpractice can be proven, those practitioners will have to pay their dues as well.

But we must not bow to the wishes of Lindsay’s cheerleaders, who want her excused due to medical negligence. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Again, what this all comes down to is having reasonable expectations for life as it truly is. Dirty diapers have always been smelly. Spouses have always been imperfect in the light of day, once the rose-colored glasses are removed.

People used to understand this. They understood that beauty is fleeting, but love can last if true commitment is present. They realized that life is hard, even unfair, and that spouses aren’t there to change this reality, but to simply support one another.

Overblown expectations and unattainable dreams are always going to lead to devastation. A realistic view of life, including what it can’t deliver, needs to be drummed into our children from the moment they can talk.

In part one of this series, I noted that the Lord will sort out truth in the Clancy case; I stand by that. That said, I would add that God expects humans to use the brains he gave them. As I once heard in a women’s conference, if we try and fail, at least we know we tried. If we do nothing, we have only ourselves to blame.

As always, God gets the last word:

“Keep yourself far from a false matter; do not kill the innocent and righteous. 

For I will not justify the wicked.” 

– Exodus 23:7

Intrusive Thoughts: A Response to the Lindsay Clancy Case

C.S. Lewis in the preface to The Screwtape Letters, his fictitious correspondence between a senior devil and his protégé regarding the best ways to lead humans into sin and away from heaven, described the book thusly: “Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment… Though it was easy to twist one’s mind into the diabolical attitude, it was not fun, or not for long. The strain produced a sort of spiritual cramp. The work into which I had to project myself while I spoke through Screwtape was all dust, grit, thirst, and itch. Every trace of beauty, freshness, and geniality had to be excluded. It almost smothered me before I was done.”

Chilling Case

I know what Lewis means. In researching this article, I’ve logged way too many hours watching the Lindsay Clancy murder trial. More time than necessary, and certainly more than was good for my well-being. Since mental health is the crux of this case, keeping mine intact is paramount.

But, like gapers who find it impossible to turn away from a gruesome accident scene, I’ve found myself sucked into a vortex of both horror and fascination while viewing the footage. My mind alternates between sympathy for a suffering mother and dismay at the outpouring of support for a confessed killer. Clancy allies frequently argue that two things can be true at the same time, suggesting it’s possible to be both victim and victimizer. Ultimately, though, responsibility must be assessed and accountability determined.

Bottom line: three preschoolers were killed. By their mother. In their own home.

There must be a reckoning for this evil act.

Tragically, we’ve seen other cases like this, the most recent one just last month. Moms who, for whatever reason, crack under pressure and do the unthinkable. My purpose is not to pass judgment on these women, their families, or the societal system(s) that may have failed them. Truth be told, I’m not entirely clear what my purpose is, as it’s been evolving ever since I first felt led to write about this.

Glorifying Death

I initially intended to discuss how maternal murders highlight the inherent evil that is abortion, and why Clancy supporters are adding fuel to a fire that can’t afford to be stoked.

It’s unnatural for mothers to kill their children. That said, our society has gone beyond normalizing feticide and into the realm of celebrating it, up to and including the point of birth (ten states and the District of Columbia now allow unrestricted access to abortion throughout all nine months of pregnancy).

The related phenomenon of physician assisted suicide, currently legal in 13 states and Washington, D.C., demonstrates the progression of this fatal mindset. There’s something really wrong with incentivizing doctors to kill patients, whether pre-born or born. It flies in the face of the Hippocratic Oath and the reasons people go into medicine in the first place. Everyone acknowledges the barbarity of Dr. Josef Mengele, who conducted “experiments” and even murdered people in the name of Nazi ideology; yet, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, physicians legally snuff out lives with the abandon of kids swapping baseball cards.

And why not? Once life becomes a commodity to be created in a lab, passed around from womb to womb, and measured in dollars and cents, its wonder becomes obscured by its price tag.

As dollar signs mount up, they cheapen the very thing they’re selling.

In such a climate, is it any wonder that post-birth killing would become justifiable in the eyes of many?

While studying the Clancy case, though, I realized others were already making many of these connections.

Monstrous Depression

Not one to revisit well-trodden ground, I shifted gears and decided to relate my struggles with the pregnancy/postpartum spectrum. Before my first child was born, I experienced a miscarriage which left me devastated. I needed surgery to empty my womb. I lost a good amount of blood. My soul felt shredded.

After becoming a mom, I developed postpartum and situational depression – uncontrollable sadness and downward spiraling which my kids and I survived by God’s grace via family, friends and therapists. Proper medication – an issue being hotly debated in Clancy’s trial – played a huge role in my recovery.

The procreation continuum is complex. Conception has its own timetable and very often frustrates or surprises prospective parents. Loss of a longed-for child is heart-wrenching. Birth of a longed-for child is wondrous, scary, delightful, daunting, confusing, challenging, sleepless, and stimulating. “Normal” needs to be redefined repeatedly during this ever-changing process.

In the vast majority of situations, people adapt and life stabilizes. Sadly, though, sometimes things go wrong, and what expectant parents hope for is shattered by emotions beyond the reach of intervention.

That’s my point.

Sometimes things go very wrong.

Altruistic Filicide

The more I read, though, the more I realized emotions surrounding pregnancy and birth are also well documented in connection with the Clancy case. 

I then stumbled onto “altruistic filicide” – the phenomenon of parents murdering their children out of a twisted love for them. Psychiatrists have offered this defense in Clancy’s case, since she claims a voice told her to kill the kids before killing herself so they wouldn’t have to live without her.

But it’s unnatural to murder one’s own children. Murder itself is unnatural. A quick internet search yields words like “unjustifiable” and “unlawful” to describe murder. We’re talking about something outside the scope of rational behavior.

If we can agree on that point, it’s obvious why the altruism claim is so disturbing.

Others may advance this argument, but that’s all I have to say about it in Clancy’s case or any other.

Which still leaves me with, why do I feel compelled to weigh in on this heinous crime?

Morbid Curiosity

I realized my purpose one night when an unhealthy preoccupation with the Clancy murders usurped my sleep and peace of mind. Hour after hour I scrolled through testimony, transfixed by Lindsay’s progression from depression into psychosis and ultimately homicide.

Anytime we plumb the depths of evil, we won’t escape unscathed. Nietzsche understood this when he wrote “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

Corrie ten Boom, a concentration camp survivor, learned this when she witnessed the whipping of a fellow prisoner during morning roll call, the worst time of day. A warbling skylark suddenly “[soared] over the crematorium” while the merciless beating occurred. That same skylark trilled joyful notes the same time each day for the next three weeks, a tangible reminder that beauty can coexist with wickedness.

As Corrie observed, we must “turn [our] eyes away from the cruelty of men to the ocean of God’s love.” We cannot look full on into darkness any more than we can gaze directly into the sun. It’s too intense. Studies have shown that improper balance of light and darkness is detrimental to human functioning.

Nevertheless, brutality is compelling. That’s why horrific stories make headlines. Furthermore, avoiding atrocity won’t bring justice for the Clancy kids or any other victims. It won’t right wrongs and it won’t change cruelty.

But it may enable ordinary people to fight another day.

We’re limited in our ability to battle villainy. That’s because spiritual forces power wickedness, but humans are just flesh and blood. God’s word gives us instructions about combating evil, and they don’t include ingesting a steady diet of the stuff. Ultimately, it’s up to God to defeat the powers of darkness; we are simply agents in an otherworldly campaign that’s bigger than we are.

Lightly Stepping

That’s why the Bible tells us to walk in the light. This means prayer and Bible study, but it can also include simple changes in daily life.

First and foremost, I can’t let technology hold me hostage. I’ve begun taking charge of my devices - for example, silencing my phone at bedtime.

I take time off to let delight counterbalance distress. After one troubling internet session, I took my granddaughter swimming in sparkling blue water and hugged her close while bobbing.

I divert my mind from hefty subjects. Crosswords, comic strips – anything to shake the weight of the world off my shoulders.

And I live by Philippians 4:8.

Folks, this isn’t denial; we’re talking survival. Jesus said the poor will be with us always. Without taking too many liberties, I think it’s fair to say, so will depravity. There’s nothing unspiritual about letting light shine in the darkness.

It’s a God thing.

And the same God who created light and darkness will separate those entities in Clancy’s case, either now or in the hereafter. If the jury gets it wrong, a weightier courtroom awaits in eternity.

“For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known. Therefore whatever you have spoken in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have spoken in the ear in inner rooms will proclaimed on the house tops.” - Luke 12:2-3

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.

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 Trust and the Thrust

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 felt! 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.