The Faces of Recovery

"Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

That's the opening admonition of every 12-step meeting I've ever attended, and I have no intention of violating that vital rule. That said, I am going to relate an incident which greatly encouraged me and I hope will put smiles on many a worrying face.

Last night I dragged myself out of my comfort zone and went to an Al Anon meeting. That's a bit of an overstatement, as I've gratefully attended many a recovery meeting on and off for nearly 40 years. It's OK to out myself, as I have very few secrets where my recovery past is concerned, so for the record, I'm a veteran of several such programs, and have found them to be literally lifesaving in the mental health department. But by "comfort zone" in this instance, I simply mean I was nice and comfy, relaxing in my room after a busy day, but decided at the last minute to un-comfort my cozy self and take care of my head (which tends to take on a life of its own when I'm worried about someone or something, as I was yesterday).

As happens often when I divest myself of "snuggy-ness" and do the right thing, I found myself richly rewarded.

This particular meeting is always well attended, and last night was no exception. Arriving a few minutes late (my usual MO), I found there was nary a chair to be had. Lots of cushion-y furniture is arranged in a circle in the main part of the room, and there are always a few folding chairs set up around the perimeter. Latecomers like me end up in those less desirable seats, but there wasn't even one of those to be found.

 I did, however, notice one chair in the outer circle with a bunch of junk on it - nothing like a coat or purse, which would have indicated someone was sitting there, or of course, I wouldn't have moved it. This meeting, like most 12-step meetings I'm aware of, took place in a room rented from a church. The items I'm referring to were "office-y" things from the church that had somehow ended up on the seat of this chair.

Here's where the miracle started to happen. A young man a few seats down, not realizing I had found a place to sit, stood up and offered me his chair! I quickly indicated that I had solved my dilemma, but thanked him profusely in whispered tones for his kindness.

Then miracle number two kicked in. Another young fellow had snagged himself a primo seat on the couch in the inner circle. I don't even know how he realized what I was struggling with, since theoretically, his eyes would have been on the speaker as opposed to something going on behind him. Nevertheless, he gallantly stood up and insisted I take his seat.

Let me insert here that I've been so conditioned by the supposed equalization of women (which, admittedly, has resulted in a much greater leveling of the playing field vocationally and economically, but has also yielded the unfortunate side effect of many niceties "gentlemen" used to perform for "ladies" going by the wayside) that both these acts of chivalry somewhat threw me. In the first case, the young man didn't need to follow through on his offer, as I had located a chair. In the second instance, I was being offered a more comfortable spot in the inner circle. This meant, because of the way the meeting typically runs, I would get a chance to "share" (i.e., say a few words about how I related to the topic of the meeting) before he would, and if time ran out, he might not have the chance to speak at all. Sharing is an important part of recovery, as it forces attendees out of their comfort zones and hopefully steers them towards healthier thinking.

So, you see, this guy wasn't just giving up a soft seat; he was potentially forfeiting his chance to grow a little bit in his recovery.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I accept this young man's act of chivalry, or simply indicate that I would be fine in the austere chair I had cleared? I must admit, vanity played a small part in all this mental wrestling. Was he making the offer to a woman, or to an older woman? In other words, was his gallantry due to my sex or my age? The former, I found lovely. The latter, although still chivalrous, might suggest I was over the hill!

Laying those concerns aside, I accepted his gracious offer. I later reciprocated when, as I had predicted, the opportunity arose for me to share. I relinquished the privilege, offering it instead to my Sir Galahad, and publicly acknowledged both young men, who had truly proven themselves gentlemen.

I find this anecdote encouraging on many levels. Apparently, our society isn't as far-gone as many believe. There may be hope for us yet.

But wait. It gets better.

It turns out both the gentlemen to whom I've referred are in recovery for substance abuse. In fact, they were part of a group of recovering addicts who attended the Al Anon meeting for reasons of their own. Without divulging any of their stories, let me just say that all expressed gratitude for the warm welcome they received from a group they knew was formed in response to the antics of addicts.

In a time when so many are losing their lives to the opioid crisis and other forms of behavioral enslavement, it touched my heart deeply to witness such tender concern and humility on the part of those struggling with addiction. In short, it gives me great hope.

It also reinforces my resolve to pray for folks who are fighting a monkey on their backs. Statistically, the guys I saw last night run a high risk of relapsing. It behooves me to intercede for them and their loved ones, just as I appeal to the Almighty for those in my own life for whom this is a mortal battle.

There but for the grace of God go I.

"Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed

 through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." 

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

Heavenly Surgery Part 2

Yesterday I posted that a splinter in the palm of my right hand was cramping my style. Today I have an update to offer.

Last evening, I decided enough was enough. If Dad's procedure worked as well as I made it sound, overcoming the trembling fears of his little girls, maybe it could come through for his now 50-something daughter, using her non-dominant hand to do the deed.

Findings: Dad's methods still hold up, a decade and a half after he passed on to eternity!

Conclusions: The David Parrish Approach to Splinter Removal can be applied single-handedly on oneself. The only prerequisites are: a) knowledge of the procedure, obtained via word of mouth (since, sadly, no textbook providers ever saw fit to release this wisdom in published form); and b) faith that, pain notwithstanding, the method is virtually foolproof (as evidenced by the fool who got it to work last night). Limited trials have shown hand dominance to be irrelevant to the independent removal process.

Final Notes: Parrish's Splinter Removal Approach has traditionally assumed a two-person procedure, i.e., a "remover" and a "removee". Recent studies have determined that the methodology can be applied without the direct aid of a remover. However, the removee must be familiar with the remover's instructions, even informally, and able to follow said directions accurately. In other words, the removee must remain under the tutelage of the remover and the two must have some connection, albeit distant. To further clarify, the removal cannot occur in a vacuum. There must be some link between remover and removee in order for the latter to achieve success unilaterally.

Spiritual Ramifications:

"Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; 
for without Me you can do nothing." - John 15:4-5

Heavenly Surgery

My dad was a surgeon.

Well, not really. I mean, he didn't have a sheepskin from Harvard Medical School or anything, but he sure knew how to remove splinters.

He used a simple technique involving matches, a safety pin, and tweezers. First, he sterilized the pin with a lit match, then probed around gently with its point to bring the offending sliver close to the skin's surface (all the while comforting and cajoling his frightened daughters, who weren't convinced the cure wasn't worse than the affliction). Finally, once his target was sighted, the tweezers finished the job.

I've been thinking of Dad today, having obtained a splinter in my right palm. The invasion occurred in the line of duty. I've been battling a cold for the past week, sanitizing everything in sight on a regular basis to a) avoid reinfecting myself once the germs are on their way out, and b) hopefully spare my son the snotty war his mom has been waging. In this valiant effort, I was running a disinfectant wipe along the basement banister and, well, you can figure out the rest.

If the culprit had landed in my left hand, I likely could tackle it myself, but being right-handed makes the required steps more than a bit difficult. So, instead of employing Dad's tried and true regimen, I've been pinching and poking around awkwardly with a fingernail, with little to show but the head of the thing protruding a millimeter or so above the surface, daring me to come after it with the big guns.

In the moments when I haven't been arguing with non-compliant wood shavings, I've been studying John 15 in preparation for my Bible study next week. Well, "studying" may be too strong a word, as I haven't gotten much beyond the first few verses. OK, truth be told, I'm stuck on the first two, in which Jesus compares Himself to a vine and God to a vinedresser, or pruner:

"I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit." 

I kept getting stuck on the idea of the branches being connected to the vine. That made no sense when I thought about it, since to me, vines are something like ivy, that wind their way up walls or around fences, whereas branches are found on a tree. Turns out Jesus was referring to a grapevine, which sprouts "branches" that produce those yummy morsels we all enjoy so much. I learned all this from John MacArthur, whose article, "The Vine and the Branches," makes the whole thing crystal clear.

The upshot of the metaphor is that believers, AKA, "branches," need to remain connected to the "true vine," AKA, Jesus, in order to "bear fruit," AKA, do His will. Branches that don't bear fruit show themselves to be useless and can expect to be excised by the Pruner's meticulous hand. They aren't the real deal in the sense that they parade themselves as fruit bearers, but in the end, only take up space and rob nutrients from their productive cohorts.

 MacArthur adds that another kind of pruning involves removing useless shoots that steal life-giving sap from the actual branches. This corresponds to God's pruning of  the lives and activities of His children, so that only essential pursuits are allowed to thrive. It's an ongoing process, tedious, I'm sure, for the Pruner, and often unpleasant for the branch. In the end, though, it's life-giving, and the branch would do well to yield to the Pruner's tender touch.

My splinter deal seems somehow related to all this vinedressing I'm reading about. This foreign body, miniscule though it may be, is annoying, a tad painful, and keeps getting in my way. It really requires a set of loving hands to dig around and pull the thing out. And what better hands than those of a dedicated dad, who knows just the right tools to perform the minor surgery needed to make everything come out right?

Birthdays and Beyond

My Natal Birthday

Birthdays.

I've had two of them.

Well, technically, I've had 57, since I was born in 1963 and, well, you can do the math.

I celebrated my natal birthday recently. According to my parents, I came home from the hospital with a cold, due to the frigid weather in which I made my arrival. The Lord saw fit to have me recover, so that I could live to see my spiritual birthday.

My Spiritual Birthday

This latter event occurred during my early years, somewhere between ages 10 and 12, as best I can recall. The story is simple. My mother had to have minor surgery that summer, and my aunt graciously took me off Mom's hands while she recovered. A local church in my aunt's neighborhood was offering a vacation Bible school for kids to attend, so my cousin and I were sent there for a few hours each morning, likely to keep us busy while Aunt Harriet tended to chores around the house.

One day during a craft activity, an adult leader casually asked if any of her rambunctious students needed to ask Jesus into their hearts. I had never heard of the idea, so raised my hand. She took me aside and presented the gospel in a way I could understand. She used a tool called the Wordless Book, which is something I have used many times in my own ministry with kids over the years. The leaflet is comprised of nothing but five colors: black, symbolizing the darkness of the sinner's heart; red, showing the blood of Christ which, when applied to that sinful heart, renders it w h i t e as snow; gold, depicting the streets of gold the transformed sinner can look forward to in heaven; and green, representing the growth the new believer can achieve through Bible study and prayer.

I believed the book's message of salvation, and kept the tiny felt pamphlet she gave me as a memento of my spiritual birthday.

My Spiritual Journey

Although I wasn't raised in a Christian home, the Lord planted a number of Godly influences in my life to help me along. My Aunt Edith took me to a Bible-believing church as a youngster. Somehow, I found my way to other church and para-church offerings, which taught me many basics (the names of books of the Bible in order, the Christmas and Easter stories, Psalm 23, and important church doctrines).

As years passed, I went through periods of spiritual stagnation and even rebellion, I'm sorry to say. However, time and maturity have kicked in (not completely - do any of us ever totally grow up?), and I feel hopeful about the spiritual course my life is on.

I've been blessed to sit under some exceptional teaching over the years. When my husband attended Dallas Theological Seminary's extension program at a local Bible college, the staff granted me the unparalleled privilege (well, except for God's gift of salvation!) of being able to audit his courses at no charge. I will always be thankful for that time of rich learning, even though my wise husband often had to practically drag his shortsighted wife to our weekend classes. I wanted to kick back on Friday nights and sleep in on Saturdays, both of which seemed more important at the time than studying the Scriptures. The foolishness of youth!

Various local churches have also added to my understanding of God's word. As a young teen, I attended a sound Presbyterian church and its youth group, which gave me the basic underpinnings of what it means to follow Christ. After my marriage, Rev. Dr. William Maurice Fain of Rockland Baptist Church in New York kept pestering a pair of newlyweds who had stopped in to visit his tiny church one day. Every Thursday following our visit, without fail, Pastor Fain showed up at our apartment to see how we were getting along. Finally, I asked why he kept stopping by when he could see we weren't coming back to his church! That quiet, sincere man donned a sly grin and replied that, when we told him we had found a solid church to call home, he would stop "bothering" us! Needless to say, we became regulars at his church until we moved to Pennsylvania two years later.

Over the next few years, I benefited greatly from the teachings at Spruce Street Baptist Church, Faith Reformed Baptist Church and Bethany Evangelical Presbyterian Church, all in southeastern Pennsylvania. In these fine institutions, I received instruction in the word and learned how to present the message of salvation to others.

Currently, I attend Bible Baptist Church in Upper Darby, PA, which is led by Rev. Steve Lyon, as humble and knowledgeable a shepherd as I've ever been blessed to know. I would be remiss not to mention the ministry of Rev. David Frampton and his wife, Sharon, whose loving example and outreach helped nurture my faith through some very difficult years. Finally, I owe a great deal to Jean Glatfelter, my spiritual mentor, whose "sola Scriptura" approach to the Bible has rubbed off on me and continues to inform my ministry to this day.

Musings: My Hope, My Goals and My Boast

Many wished me well on my special day, for which I'm most thankful. It's always nice to be remembered on one's birthday, and made to feel special.

However, no one ever celebrates my spiritual birthday. For one thing, as I've indicated, I can't be certain of the date, or even how old I was when my "second birth" occurred. But I suspect it's been recorded in heavenly annals, and when I enter the Lord's throne room, there will be celebrating beyond anything I can imagine.

As I take stock of my life thus far, I ponder what I have to show: a) for the 57 years I've been drawing breath on this planet; and b) for the nearly 50 years I've been following Christ.

My life has been enriched by two sons and their darling companions, and a beautiful grandson who will soon become a big brother to twin siblings! These folks and my family of origin are, without a doubt, my most cherished earthly resources.

Regarding professional accomplishments, I wandered many years trying to find a vocational home. The Lord's hand finally landed me in the field of education, which both challenges and fulfills me in many ways. My outside calling, writing, has produced a handful of works that have been published in print, but the vast majority have found their home online or reside on my hard drive. My magnum opus, Belabored, remains unread by most of the world.

On the subject of authorship, I've outlived my writing inspiration, Louisa May Alcott, who died at 56. She, however, had made a name for herself as a prestigious author before turning 40. While I can't boast of such a renowned career, neither could Alcott avail herself of social media to peddle her wares. She scurried hither and yon, seeking outlets for her work. I feel blessed that, while my readership may not be large, each and every person who checks out my blog gets the best I have to offer, and is part of the audience God has assigned me. I take that charge seriously, remembering that He does not despise small things.

I wonder how Alcott would have tackled the immense obstacles of modern-day publishing, with its mega-proposals and ad nauseam rewrites that serve as rites of initiation. Would she have continued to play the game, hounding agents and publishers, shelling out hard-earned dollars to attend conferences that often lead nowhere? Would she have scraped up the money to self-publish?

I ask myself these things only because Alcott's tenacity and pluck inspire me as much as her books did when I read them as a young girl. The real question is, what would God have me do with the novel that took four years to write? And what does He plan for some of my pieces for which a blog isn't the ideal forum?

I'm wrestling with these issues, realizing their resolution will come only through prayer and commensurate effort. Thankfully, my spiritual life is in reasonably good order, and I feel blessed to have a team of like-minded believers interceding for God's future plans for me.

So, in the wake of another birthday, while pondering the possibilities for this new year of life, I find peace in the fact that following the Lord is my most important calling, and sharing His gospel the best accomplishment I can boast.

"But God forbid that I should boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, 

by whom the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world." 

~ Galatians 6:14