Enough

I haven't written one word since October 20. Oh, I've jotted notes and scribbled things I needed to remember, but these fingers haven't produced anything of importance since the day I just referenced. 

That's the day I received the latest rejection of my novel. 

I wrote about this possibility cryptically a few months ago, cautioning myself not to let hopes soar too high or be dashed too low, should the manuscript be rejected again. It was, and I’m still standing.

Here’s the quote I use in the opening of my novel:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other.

Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

My pastor’s been discussing this idea in his sermons on the book of Jeremiah. That guy wasn’t called the weeping prophet for nothing – his countrymen steadfastly rejected his message, yet he faithfully executed the marching orders the Lord gave him (after some initial whining, which makes me feel better about my frequent reluctance to pick up the gauntlets He hurls my way). Similarly, I may have to keep tilting at windmills till the day He calls me home. If one of those windmills happens to lead to a publication deal, great. If not, at least I’ll have gone down fighting.

Let me backtrack for a moment, and then change gears altogether, because this post really isn’t about rejection or disappointment. It’s about finding the Lord to be enough, no matter what circumstances we find ourselves in. I stated at the outset that I hadn’t written anything significant since October 20, but that’s misleading. True, I haven’t tweaked my novel, sent any new book proposals, or even blogged for a couple of months. From that standpoint, I’ve been stagnant. But a small group of women attend a Bible study taught by yours truly, and I have upheld that responsibility. Right now we’re delving deep into the Scripture-packed hymn, O Come, O Come Emmanuel, and finding ourselves blessed by the wealth of encouragement those lyrics have to offer.

There is more than one way to write for the Lord.

For all I know, He considers my humble efforts at educating a handful of faithful ladies to have far greater impact than if my book were to top the bestseller list.

So, it comes down to enough.

What is enough for this arrogant clay pot? John D. Rockefeller, one of the richest men who ever lived, once defined “enough money” as “just a little bit more.”

We can condemn him as a malcontent and roll our eyes at the dissatisfaction of a man who arguably had all the world had to offer, yet wanted more. But he’s only expressing the spirit of the age – the same thing King Solomon found out: that whenever we put our hopes in what the world has to offer, we’re going to feel shortchanged.

My grandchildren provided a good illustration of this principle last week when they helped decorate my Christmas tree. They eagerly grasped ornaments with their tiny fingers, clasping and clutching with the fervor Jacob must have exhibited when he wrestled with God. Note how they piled ornament atop ornament on single branches, clumping everything together. They’re youthful decorators, and haven’t figured out that less is more when it comes to the fine art of tree trimming. To their wonder-filled eyes, if one bauble enhanced a naked tree branch, surely three or four could only make it better. But in the layering on, something that can only be seen in simplicity gets lost, and the whole thing becomes lopsided and overdone. 

At my grandson’s birthday party last month, there was a laser tag game of sorts. Being an old fogey, I had never experienced this recreational activity, so I took my granddaughter into the tent and together we chased the fleeting lights. I found it somewhat symbolic that, as soon as we laid hold of a given beam, it disappeared into nothingness.

I wrote about this phenomenon years ago, pining about my inability to lay hold of the laser beam that is the holiday feeling. It was the Christmas season, as it is now, and I was struggling then, as I do now, to let enough be enough. I was overeating and overfeeding my holiday joy meter with endless Christmas songs and Hallmark movies. I can only report partial success in the ten years that have elapsed since; something inside still yearns for an elusive something that won’t fade away on December 26. Something that will continue feeding my spirit and keep it aglow even after the curtain (or fork) drops.

But that brings up another point. The only curtain with eternal significance was ripped in two by heavenly hands when Christ breathed His last, thus shouting down through the ages that His sacrifice was enough. That the dividing line between deity and humanity was forever removed, leaving only the need for each pilgrim to make his wholly inadequate way into the presence of glory.

As I’m rereading these ramblings, it seems I’ve overdone it again with metaphors and analogies. Oh, well. So be it. It should come as no surprise that someone who binges on food and Christmas movies would tend to go overboard in the figurative language department. Better that than cookies.

I hope, though, that in the midst of my metaphor madness, one point stands out in brilliant relief. At the top of my Christmas tree rests neither angel nor star. Those things heralded the light that pierced darkness 2,000 years ago, but the cross finished the work of redemption. As I posted on social media many Christmases ago, “Lord, turn bad into good, wrong into right, sin into redemption. Come to think of it, You did that at the cross. Thank You, Lord, that Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.”

And that, my dear readers, is more than enough.

Plumbing

My sister and I are plumbers.

Not.

But we did feel more than a little victorious when our interventions this afternoon resulted in our tub draining normally and showers that no longer leave us prone to Trench foot.

It took maybe an hour, between watching YouTube videos, reading how-to blogs, and actually doing the deed. The job called for a few simple tools (one of them a cool little gadget called Zip-It, which my sweet neighbor, Anita, gave me years ago; it's been stowed away waiting for just such a scummy occasion), a bit of WD-40 (what won't that stuff loosen?), and - you guessed it - some pointed prayer.

Jane took the helm in that department, directing our petition to the "Great Master Plumber" and asking Him to bless our efforts. I silently inquired if He would be kind enough to allow His humble vessel to arise out of the tub after finishing, as this simple task is no longer simple for yours truly.

He answered yes to both requests.

It occurred to me, as I was fiddling with screws that didn't want to line up with holes that I couldn't see without a flashlight and Jane's hands directing said flashlight, that there was no way to do this job alone.

Jane disagrees. She contends that it could have been done solo, but I maintain that it would have taken twice as long (since she did the fetching and carrying and served, as she likes to say, as my able assistant), and I'm really not sure I could have maneuvered the light at the same time I was trying to secure the dang-blasted screws, which gave me no end of trouble. Also, her cheerleading from the sidelines helped keep the proverbial ball rolling (or perhaps I should say the screwdriver driving). 

Anita, by the way, happened to call while we were breaking in her tool. Isn't it funny how God arranges little coincidences like that?

At one point, I turned to Jane and expressed my opinion that there's a reason plumbers get paid so much money. Like that of trash collectors, their work is smelly, dirty, and requires muscles not possessed by many of us in the general population (hence my gratitude for WD-40).

Not to over-spiritualize (you know that means I'm about to, right?), but both the aforementioned professions remind me of the ministry. Over the last four or five years, my friend, Tina, and I have jumped into that arena, and it can get pretty mucky. It's messy because you're dealing with people, and people's lives have a way of getting, you know, messy. It's laborious, because you don't just toss off a Bible study - that calls for preparation and study. It's heavy work (I know, that's a stretch, but there's more than one way for something to be heavy).

All of which points to just one means of making it happen.

You guessed it: prayer.

And prayer takes discipline. And time. And commitment. And staying power. And... And... And...

Take it from this year's newest plumbing expert. Even small jobs come out better when you pray over them. And big jobs? Well, don't leave home without it.

"Pray without ceasing." ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:17

Training Wheels

My grandson stayed overnight recently, and my sister and I gave him bike riding lessons. He has a Spiderman two-wheeler with training wheels that list to one side and a drive to learn that won't quit.

He quickly discovered that going downhill beats an uphill climb every time.

But during those cascading moments of unbridled freedom, I hope he noticed smooth sailing is not without its dangers. 

Luca's bike doesn't have brakes. That means he had to quickly figure out (with a bit of instruction from Mom Mom and Aunt Jane) how to be his own braking system. Sure, it's fun soaring downhill at umpteen miles per hour, but who wants to go careening into a thorny rosebush at the bottom of the street - or worse, the street itself? Luca had to slow his descent with good old-fashioned foot power. The same feet that pedaled him up powered him down when he started getting into trouble.

Then there are the flat surfaces. Our neighborhood has a nice assortment of hills and valleys, as it were, and Luca settled into a steady rhythm on the even places. Those weren't nearly as exciting as downward plummeting, but he could sort of chill and give his peddlers a bit of a break.

Which brings me to the hills. Now, these required some man power. Call me sadistic, but I didn't help him right away. Experience suggested he was going to need assistance, but I wanted him to realize that for himself. After some heavy breathing and not a little grunting and groaning, he cried "Uncle," and we came to his aid -  but not without imparting a life lesson: some tasks require teamwork, and Mom Mom and Aunt Jane will ALWAYS be on his team.

Afterwards, we talked about his experiences. Downhill was tons of fun but it didn't take much effort and wasn't always as carefree as it seemed. The flat parts required less umph than going uphill, but they weren't terribly exciting. He had to ask the most of himself (and his fellow man) on the upward climbs, and sometimes even get out and push - but, oh, the satisfaction when that hill was behind him.

Next time I'm going to teach him about the importance of the helmet. The best biker in the world has to keep his headspace healthy, or God help him when he hits the road bumps:

"Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God." - Ephesians 6:17

And speaking of our Creator, the best advice I can give all my grandbabies is, wherever you pedal, never forget who gave you the power to do so. Drop in and see Him whenever you can.

Life's little instructions show up in interesting settings.

Rejection... Before the Fact... Again

It's happening. Again.

I've been trying to steel myself, but to no avail.

I've never been any good at keeping hopes high and expectations low at the same time.

Remember that feeling when a relationship is new? Too new, even, to call it a relationship? That feeling of wanting something so bad you can taste it, but dreading even to take that first bite, lest it not live up to the expectations you've assigned it?

I'm talking about fresh love. Infatuation, really, because love has to be cultivated, but infatuation only has to be stoked.

I'm finding out that this phenomenon isn't limited to the highs and lows of romance. No, it can rear its leery head in things as mundane as a new job or a long anticipated vacation or the prospect of anything you really want that may not come to pass.

Don't get your hopes up.

Something this good can never last.

Better to aim low than to be disappointed. Again.

I thought I was going to be open enough to tell you, lovely readers, what I'm hoping for that may not happen, but I'm finding out that my courage is in short supply. Again. 

Perhaps it's best to just leave it to the imagination, since we all know the sensation I'm talking about.

 The "what if" syndrome. 

What if this doesn't work out after all?

What if I invest in this (name the prize you're trying to grasp), and it eludes me?

What if I expend a lot of energy and not a few sleepless nights, and nothing comes of it?

What if I get hurt? Again.

I'm not one to listen to a lot of melancholy music these days - the kind that nurtures angst and pining. Oh, I used to do a lot of that. Certain songs can still tug on my heartstrings and bring me right back to my teen years when everything mattered and all possibilities seemed available and out of reach at the same time.

But I did stumble across an old tune that touches a chord right now. I'm not going to supply the lyrics here, because the songwriter and I have totally different world views and probably couldn't even hold a four-minute conversation without disagreeing on the weather forecast for that day. That said, he got it right when he penned words about lost love and the need to let things go and move on.

He's talking about a broken relationship, but I'm talking about life.

The things that don't come our way, despite our best efforts and deepest longings. The things we clawed at, ached over, yearned for. The things we trusted in that came up wanting.

The Bible says King Belshazzar found this out the hard way:

"This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." (Daniel 5:26-28)

Verse 30 tells us "that very night" Belshazzar was killed and his empire taken over by another. But before he died, the proud Babylonian ruler honored Daniel, who had just foretold the king's doom, and elevated the prophet to a position of prominence in the kingdom (v.29).

Good for him. Way to not kill the messenger. Way to respect the message even if you're terrified of its contents.

So it goes.

One man rises as another man falls. 

The ashes of one regime fuel the ignition of another.

My takeaway is that life is circular. Always has been, always will be. One day you're up, the next, you're down. But if you wait long enough, many times you'll make it to the top of the ferris wheel again - if only for a few minutes.

Unless, of course, your ticket's punched. As Belshazzar found out.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I'd rather consider these words of wisdom born from experience. Since I'm learning it late in life, it's a bit arrogant to call it my philosophy. Perhaps life lesson is more to the point.

What goes around comes around, but not always in this lifetime.

So, what does matter? 

Well, for me, what matters today is testing negative for COVID after a week of wondering if, like the friends I vacationed with, I will start developing symptoms. Assuming the virus has passed me by this time, what matters today is visiting my aunt who's recovering from heart surgery. Making progress on a writing project that's taking a lot of time and may not pan out the way I hope. Spending time with my beloved sisters. Following my Lord and trusting Him to show me how to do each next right/write thing. And inching a tiny bit closer to the goals He's set before me, regardless of how they turn out.

Rejection may well come my way. Again. If so, my God will be there to pick me up. Again.

I don't need to mourn before the fact. Maybe I don't even need to mourn after the fact - if, indeed, things don't go my way. 

Because His way trumps my way, even when it doesn't seem so this side of heaven.

"A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs His steps." - Proverbs 16:9

 

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

Hey, faithful readers! I jotted down notes for this article a couple of weeks ago when anxiety was running high and strength was running low. After a few hours of prayer, Bible study and “doing the next right thing,” (a tool I learned in Al Anon many years ago), the feelings subsided and I laid my jottings aside. But worries and fretting have lately been crowding out that which I know (the Lord will never leave me nor forsake me). Therefore, I’m placing fingers to keyboard and hoping to create some sense from my scribblings. I trust the following thoughts will comfort both my readers and myself (not necessarily in that order)!

Treading Deep Water

I made a careless driving mistake recently, and as soon as it happened, I knew why. My mind was only partially on the road. A good 80% of my mental machinations concerned current events and personal issues which, while of great importance, are completely out of my power to control.

There’s no point in enumerating the cares which distracted me that morning; we all have them. Whatever one’s point of view, anyone who’s at all awake can see that the USA is fast becoming the “DSA” (Divided States of America – I thought I made this term up, but a quick internet search revealed that many have beaten me to the proverbial punch). This and other “fret-ables” of my own (I think I coined this one – it means things to fret over) managed to remove my attention from the road, causing a close call.

The other driver responded with grace. Yes, she honked (only as much as was necessary to alert me – she resisted the urge to lean on the horn), but there was no tongue-lashing or middle-fingering. I was so thankful for God’s protection and my fellow traveler’s kind reaction that, when we ended up side by side at a light, I rolled down my window, thanked her for her reasonable response, and apologized profusely.

“You’re fine!” she laughed. “We all make mistakes!”

What I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry for my stupid blunder, but, you see, I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. You see, there’s this, this and this that are bothering me, and it’s just too much.”

 But that’s just the point, isn’t it? To quote a MercyMe song, “[we] were never meant to carry this beyond the cross.”

Look at it? Yes. Comfort the brokenhearted? Absolutely. Attack problems? You bet. But carry it? Not on your life.

Let’s face it – there are challenges and messes everywhere. Christ acknowledged this when He reminded Martha that it was more important to commune with Him than to make a perfect party. Later, He counseled Judas, “You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me” (Matthew 26:11).

Did He mean we should abandon our responsibilities and spend 24/7 with Bibles open and heads in the sand?

God forbid.

I believe He was calling His followers to counter one of two urges to which many of us fall prey. One is to try to singlehandedly clean up all the muck that humanity in its sinfulness has created. The other is to hide under the covers – sometimes literally – and hope it will all go away.

Metaphor Madness: Deep Breathing

To illustrate the process of letting go a la Thea, let’s revisit a morning two weeks ago when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Here I’m going to switch to present tense, so my audience  will hopefully catch the immediacy of the moments which led to this article. Imagery alert: my readers should beware if they’re metaphor intolerant, because my mind wandered to a bunch of those literary devices on the morning in question. While it may fly in the face of freshman English, I’m just going to roll with the disparate thoughts God gave me at the time.

It’s a cool day. Windows are open, causing the curtains to sway lazily with the gentle breeze. As is my habit, I tuck my head underneath the sheets, cocooning myself in the
perceived safety of cotton and polyester.

Metaphor #1: Without warning, the familiar feeling rises in my chest. That feeling of being sucked under with nowhere to go and no way to breathe. I somehow manage to claw my way to the surface and, once there, I inhale greedily, letting out all the bad stuff that’s been building up, replacing it with oxygen-saturated air that refreshes and rejuvenates and is worth more than the Crown Jewels.

I’m reminded of my doctor’s instructions on how to properly use my asthma inhaler. After prescribing medication to combat shortness of breath, he taught me steps to maximize intake of this life-sustaining product. I first exhale deeply, then depress the mechanism on the inhaler, which releases particles into a middleman tube called the spacer. Then and only then can I take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds. Most of the time, when I stick to the method and timetable he taught me, I can stay out of breathing trouble.

That’s how I tend to my lungs pharmaceutically; since I know they don’t function optimally on their own, it would be foolish to reject a preventative strategy that can keep them working at fullest capacity. Therefore, I let the physician call the shots (pun intended and metaphor #2, for those who are keeping track). This is his specialty and it’s my life he’s trying to protect.

Interestingly, this process in a way mirrors the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. According to Pastor David Guzik of Calvary Chapel in Santa Barbara, “in both the Hebrew and Greek languages, the word for spirit (as in Holy Spirit) is the same word for breath or wind (this also happens to be true in Latin) … In Genesis 1:1-2, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing over the waters of the newly created earth. In Genesis 2:7, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing life into newly created man. In Ezekiel 37:9-10, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, moving over the dry bones of Israel bringing them life and strength” (https://enduringword.com/bible-commentary/acts-2/). How wise of our Lord to associate the lifesaving work of the Holy Spirit to the life-preserving work of an ordinary medical procedure.

Similarly, I can nourish my spirit according to the Great Physician’s orders. To paraphrase Rev. Dr. Charles Stanley, when God tells me to do something, the wisest thing is for me to do it when He says, how He says, for as long as He says to do it. On a day-to-day basis, this means making regular deposits into my spiritual bank account (metaphor #3) through Bible reading, prayer, and fellowshipping with other believers. It’s simple, really, but simple things are not always easy.

This is all well and good, but I still can’t shake the feeling of wanting to hide under the covers and opt out of the things on my plate today.

Metaphor Madness: Digging Deep

That being the case, I may as well go deep (metaphor #4). If my head’s going to hide, let it be hidden in the ultimate Hiding Place (metaphor #5). If I’m going to bury myself beneath common cloth, let me simultaneously burrow deep underneath heavenly wings (metaphor #6) that never tire or give out.

I allow my troubled self to take refuge under the covers and in the Lord’s arms. I shut out the world physically and, as best I can, go deep. Only He and I inhabit this sheltered place. I will have to come out some time, but not yet. Right now, it’s all too much. Right now, the best I can do is hide away from the rack and ruin of this world that God never intended for me to shoulder, let alone fix.

Quite simply, I pray. I remind myself of His promises. I plumb the depths of His steadfastness. I let myself go deep.

From my “hidey hole” (the name my son gave to cubbies and crevices he tucked into as a child) I hear neighbors starting up lawnmowers and shouting across fences while pulling weeds from their gardens. I think of my sad looking garden which, truth be told, doesn’t even deserve to be called a garden. It’s really just a lot of what my neighbor calls “volunteer plants” that have spread elsewhere from things I planted optimistically in the past. In all honesty, there are more weeds than intentional foliage; I can’t keep up with them, nor do I want to.

I think of all that and it makes me cringe. But then I think, well, that’s why I’m paying someone to cut my grass and trim back the overgrowth when it gets out of control. It’s why I’m forking over cash for my handyman to tackle the poison ivy; I’m highly sensitive and the allergic reaction I get from even standing near the stuff isn’t worth the price I’ll pay later in itching. That’s how I do my garden, such as it is, and that’s how I do life, more often than not.

Some things I can tackle myself; other things require linking up with someone more intrepid than I. Again, I can apply this idea spiritually, as in Psalm 55:22: “Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never permit the righteous to be moved.”

This whole gardening business is too much for me, and I know it. Others love it and say they commune with God while playing around in the dirt, and that’s fine for them. For me, it’s hot, filthy agony, and I’d rather chew glass (metaphor #7 – this is getting ridiculous).

Nestled under my covers, I ponder that there are different ways to garden. Trigger alert: metaphor on the horizon (oops, that’s another one – don’t say I didn’t warn you). I emerge from the inner sanctum of my covers when God inspires me to send a few texts to loved ones, which I know will buoy their spirits.

Isn’t that a form of gardening? My grass may be too high and weeds may overshadow the flowers in my physical garden, but hopefully when I die there will be lots of people whose spiritual gardens I tended with love, and that investment will shine forth as much or more than tulips and daisies which are (idiom alert, just to break up the monotony) here today but gone tomorrow.

From my blanketed nook, I recall rescuing several plants recently. Literally. They had actually been put out with someone’s trash. These were beautiful, color-soaked Gerber daisies – healthy and vital – that somebody tossed out. It was as if the owner wanted to give them a fighting chance and thus placed them prominently, if ironically, atop a dilapidated trashcan, rather than just chucking them inside the receptacle.

Despite my aforementioned aversion to all things landscaping, I brought the poor things home. Perhaps this was how Christians in ancient Rome felt when they adopted unwanted babies left outside to die. Like me, they surely had better things to do than dirty their hands with other people’s castoffs; then again, one man’s trash – well, you know.

My sweet neighbor, Anita, helped me plant the daisies with my grandson. It was still torture – after all, it was gardening – but with Anita cheering me on and Luca wielding a pint-sized spade, at least we got a few smiles out of the deal.

And the daisies remain alive – for the moment.

When I complimented Anita on her green thumb, she replied, “Oh, no – I just keep trying.”

Maybe that’s the secret. Green thumb or no, it’s the trying that brings out the blooms.

Metaphor Madness: The Deep Dive (Last Metaphor – I promise)

My takeaway from all this metaphorical (and personal) madness is nothing new or magical. It’s the same advice I’ve been giving myself and anyone who will listen for years: deep diving into our Creator’s mind and heart always has been and always will be the best treatment for internal distress.

There will be tedium at times, as occurs with any discipline. Puffing away on inhalers doesn’t make for an interesting Saturday night, but it sure beats a weekend in the ER. A breathtaking garden requires, in the words of my late friend, Cynthia (whose yard was truly a showplace), “hours and hours of backbreaking work.”

This author hasn’t found any shortcuts to communing with the Lord. Like any relationship, time must be committed in order for thriving to occur. Diving into God’s word and dialoguing with Him demand something of us. This will look different for every believer. Parents of young children will have to work around their kids’ active hours to nurture their own spiritual lives. Busy professionals may have to pray through lunch breaks.

One thing, though, is for certain. When we work in tandem with the Lord, it’s like riding a bicycle built for two or paddling a canoe with two people (I didn’t break my promise and squeeze in more metaphors – the bike and canoe analogies are similes, so they don’t count 😊). The work is halved because two are sharing it. Most importantly, one is steering and the other following.

Guess which role we’re supposed to have?

Pro-Insert-Name-Here: Two Sides to Every Abortion Story

I recently saw a post on social media in which the author disavowed being "pro-murdering babies," claiming rather to be "pro-insert-name-here," followed by a litany of heartrending stories of women who apparently chose abortion for what many would consider very valid reasons.

Here is my loving response to the writer of that poignant post, with which I respectfully disagree:

The Stories

I am pro-Melissa Ohden, who survived an attempted abortion and went on to become, in her words, “a woman that brings life and restoration to others.”

I am pro-Jenni Maas, whose mother, Cindy Speltz, graciously allowed me to interview her for my novel, which has a pro-life theme. Cindy was raped when she was young but chose life against all odds and advice. She and her daughter (who now parents children of her own, who will presumably all contribute to the tax base and hopefully the betterment of our country) now spread the word that choosing life is most certainly possible, even in “impossible” situations.

I am pro-Andrea Bocelli, whose mother chose not to abort her son against medical advice. He grew up to become one of the most gifted operatic voices of our time, despite having a disability many would have felt rendered his life not worth living.

I am pro-infant and adult victims of Dr. Kermit Gosnell who, along with his unqualified staff, performed illegal abortions on desperate women (at least one of whom died), and then murdered those babies tenacious enough to survive the procedure.

I am pro-the 63 MILLION aborted children who perished in the last 49 years following the legalization of abortion in the United States. Children whose potential this country will never know. Children whose only contribution to our nation’s floundering economy went into the pockets of those who snuffed out their pre-born lives.

Shall I go on?

Or can we just agree that there are two sides to every abortion story?

Not to mention two lives.

The Counterargument

To those who dismiss the viewpoints of pro-lifers who are unable to adopt or foster “unwanted” children, let me assert as firmly as I know how that one does not need to be able to single-handedly solve a problem of Herculean proportions in order to hold an opinion about it. I’m referring to the many abortion supporters who contend that, unless one is prepared to “put one’s money where one’s mouth is,” one ought to keep said mouth shut when it comes to the subject of abortion. The argument usually goes something like this: because so many children live in abusive situations or become mired in our nation’s overburdened foster care system, the pro-life camp should either take those kids into their homes or remain silent. The underlying premise is that children would be better off dying at the hands of an abortionist than running the risk of growing up in less-than-optimal circumstances.

That argument, besides espousing an all-or-nothing barbarity, exposes seriously flawed logic. If everyone who voiced an opinion about an issue were required to personally handle that issue, no one would have the right to speak out on anything other than what was in their immediate purview to act upon.

Take capital punishment, for example. Interestingly, many who argue against capital consequences for egregious offenders defend rigorously the right to abort defenseless children – but let’s leave that inconsistency to the side for the moment. When was the last time you heard someone who believes in capital punishment demand that non-believers be tasked with the housing and rehabilitation of hardened criminals to relieve the overcrowded prison system?

While many are in no position to adopt or foster even one of the undervalued children in this world, that in no way negates the opportunities they can and do avail themselves of to assist in that process. Many, like myself, operate in other ways, such as staffing church nurseries and children’s programs; nurturing at risk youth while working in the education field; sharing time and resources with struggling parents of typical and special needs kids; contributing to crisis pregnancy centers and adoption-minded parents who are short of funds; writing articles and books; and, most importantly, offering fervent prayers to the only Power who can fully fix the brokenness that got us into this mess in the first place.

Not every citizen is called to the front lines when his country comes under attack, but each can and should participate behind the scenes through conservation efforts, rallying others to the cause, and lending support in myriad other ways. How is the war on life any different? As General George Patton once said, “All of the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters either. Every single man in this Army plays a vital role. Don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. Every man has a job to do and he must do it. Every man is a vital link in the great chain.”

The Bottom Line

I don’t have answers to all the sticky, tangled problems and situations that may lead potential parents to consider abortion. I don’t know how to fix the albatross that is our overtaxed foster care system. Nor do I attempt in my novel to answer any and every question about the misnomer deemed “a woman’s right to choose.” Rather, I respectfully invite readers to question the values they may have osmosed over the past 49 years since Roe v. Wade was enacted, with the prayer that the next half century may render abortion only a sad footnote in our nation’s history – one that was corrected once minds and hearts reconsidered this tragic waste of humanity.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but as an informed citizen, I have every right and even an obligation to ask the questions.

The Stakes

In the wake of an unprecedented breach of ethics, the highest court in the land is preparing to release a decision that will have consequences as far-reaching as the deplorable one rendered almost 50 years ago. This author will continue to pray and urge those men and women, who are being hounded, harassed and even threatened into dismissing their Constitutionally-bestowed responsibility to render upright decisions, as follows:

Members of the Supreme Court of the United States, please do what’s right. I realize I’m asking you to put yourselves and our country in harm’s way by standing by your convictions. I realize too well the chaos that will likely be unleashed in your lives and in the life of our bitterly polarized nation if you overturn Roe v. Wade. But let me ask you this:

How will history remember you if you fail to do what’s right because you choose to do what’s convenient? And how will our nation survive, let alone thrive, if it continues to choose death for its most vulnerable citizens?

Perhaps most importantly, how will you be able to live with yourselves if you allow violence in one sphere to continue so as to avert violence in another?

Emotions on both sides are running high, but the stakes are even higher. If history has taught us one overarching lesson, that is the importance of valuing human life. Regimes which hold life cheaply eventually crumble.

Does the United States really want to be on the list of superpowers that burned brightly for a time, then succumbed to their own depravity?

The Heart of the Matter

Finally, I wish to thank the writer whose Facebook post sparked this whole discussion. Her heartbreaking vignettes of women whose dire circumstances led them to choose abortion touched my heart.

But there’s the rub, isn’t it? The bumper sticker, “Abortion stops a beating heart,” really says it best. There are at least two hearts involved in every abortion, but only one of them survives the procedure. And for every woman who celebrates her abortion, there are scores whose emotional hearts will always regret that choice.

We owe it to those women and their absent children to tell both sides of the story.

 

Ask the Lord Part 2, AKA, Gratitude

Back in February, I posted about a precious saint named Peggy who, while confused about many things, remains doggedly single-minded in her devotion to the Lord. On a recent visit to her home, I caught sight of the following scrap of paper:

Peggy had scrawled this message in huge letters, as she does all her notes to the Almighty. As is also her custom, she emphasized its contents by over-writing each letter numerous times. 

Most of my readers would wonder what this impoverished woman has to be so grateful for. Her funds are negligible, and her health is as one would expect for an 80-something year old with very few resources. While Peggy manages to zip around rather spryly with her walker, she is hindered by a substantial hump on her back which alters both appearance and balance.

And yet this lady is praising the Lord.

One reason Peggy has to be thankful can be attributed to the assistance she receives from Attentive Home Care, a division of Multicultural Community Family Services, a community-based-not-for-profit-tax-exempt organization in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. I attend church with the co-founders of this organization, Portia and Gore Kamara, and they are as committed to the well-being of their clients as they are to their own family.

My visits to Peggy are always unannounced, yet both she and her surroundings are always spotless. Her caregivers are consistently kind and, as the organization's name proclaims, attentive. They tenderly meet Peggy's needs, always with a smile, despite the fact that her mental confusion can render her behavior very erratic.

Somewhere along the line, the Kamaras have instilled in their staff the meaning of the following Scripture from Matthew 25: 

 “When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He will sit on the throne of His glory. All the nations will be gathered before Him, and He will separate them one from another, as a shepherd divides his sheep from the goats. And He will set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on His right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.’ Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’" (vv. 31-40)

My friend, Peggy, is the fortunate recipient of Attentive Home Care's loving ministrations, and as such, she has every reason to thank the Lord. She would attribute her happiness to her status as a daughter of Christ; Portia, Gore and their staff serve as His willing vessels.

 

Intentional vs. Chaotic Living

Intentional vs. chaotic living.

I am not an expert on this topic, and yet, in a real way, many of us are experts on this matter because we are living examples of this very thing.

Here are some signs that we are living chaotically vs. intentionally:

1.     We are constantly buying food (either fast food, restaurant food, or at the grocery store), yet we also constantly find ourselves throwing away forgotten food from our refrigerators.

2.     We are careless with things, such that we are constantly throwing away broken items and/or having to replace them.

3.     We always feel we are running behind. When we have blocks of time, such as vacation or days off from work, we fritter the time away more than is necessary to recharge our batteries. Then, when we return to everyday living, we kick ourselves because we could have accomplished some of the nagging items on our list while we had the time, but instead, we wasted it.

4.      We seem to be making good money, yet we never have any to spare. When emergencies or unanticipated expenses arise, we have trouble meeting those needs.

These are but a few examples that I have witnessed in my life and the lives of others.

I recently invested a whopping 25 cents on a book that is helping me identify some of these weaknesses in my own life. I purchased it at a yard sale, and it sat on my shelf for a few months. I picked up this small book the other day because lately my life has been feeling chaotic. The text ties 12-step recovery programs to their Biblical roots by incorporating readings on each step throughout relevant passages from Scripture.

A quick disclaimer: as a 30-year veteran of Al Anon, I have watched these programs adapt to the culture over time. Identifying as “spiritual” rather than religious programs, a sort of “one size fits all” approach has usurped the Christian underpinnings which many believe formed the core of Alcoholics Anonymous (which in turn formed the template for all 12-step programs). It follows that most such groups place no emphasis on Christ’s atoning death on the cross as the ONLY way to have ultimate peace with God. The focus is on a “higher power,” which can be as specific as God or as vague as the group or meetings themselves, to which the struggling addict yields control of his life. Therefore, it is essential that Christians like myself, who avail ourselves of the tried and true help to be had in 12-step programs, realize their limitations and not use these groups and their materials as a substitute for corporate worship and Scripture study.

With that being said, I have posted notes below from a talk I gave on step 11, which reads “[We] sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His Will for us and the power to carry that out.” Rereading these today is helping me ground and center myself, which will hopefully instigate a domino effect whereby some of the pitfalls mentioned above will be minimized, and my life will flow in better order. I don’t claim to offer a panacea – but I have learned over the years that only to the extent that I intentionally take time with the Lord, offering up my problems and failings to Him and seeking His guidance to sort out schedules and priorities, will I find a measure of peace in this chaotic world.

My prayer is that these scribblings (and I haven’t edited them for readability; these are rough notes I used while giving a talk) will be useful to my readers as well.

This is one of the hardest talks I’ve ever had to do. Been in al anon 26 years, sat in tons of meetings, given talks and sharings, but never been asked to speak on step 11. A bit scary for me b/c I’m a Christian, and Christianity and Jesus aren’t very popular these days in this post-modern, secular world we live in.at first I thought I would wow you with my faith – this was my chance. There is a large emphasis in the Bible on sharing one’s faith, and I do believe in evangelism. But I have respect for you and for the fact that this has become a spiritual program, not a religious one, even though the 12 step program was based on Christian principles. I once asked a friend of mine who was a mentor to me spiritually why 12 step programs work even though they’ve gotten away from their Christian roots. She said because the 12 steps are rooted in Biblical principles and God knows what He’s talking about.

But this is a program of attraction rather than promotion, so I’m just gonna say up front that I am a Christian and I’d be happy to talk to anyone privately about my faith after the meeting, but for the focus of my talk I’m going to share how God has been with me throughout my life, sought me, strengthened me, and spared me in my darkest times, and proven to me the usefulness of step 11. Where I was, how I got here, and what it’s like now. Strength, hope and experience.

Best way to tell it for me is in milestones. People who have dealt w/others’ addictions have long, tattered stories, not easily lending themselves to 10-minute talks. So I’m boiling it down.

I started to grow up at age 29. The year I gave up trying to hide my husband’s alcoholism. The year he entered treatment through his first rehab.

Calling an Al Anon friend when I couldn’t reach husband while he was on a business trip – didn’t suspect foul play, just deeply worried and felt very out of control – called her while I was bathing my son. Her advice: bathe your little boy. Be present in that activity. Basically, let the dervishes whirl, you can’t control what husband is or isn’t doing, but you can participate in getting your child clean.

When I realized the extent of my husband’s alcoholic behavior, I was already pregnant with second child. Could barely eat. Had to choke down half an apple. Yet this child weighed 10 lbs. 3.5 oz. and had to be induced b/c so big. God knew my older son needed a sibling and I needed this child, although I literally cried out to God why did You allow this pregnancy. It took some doing to have my 1^st son, but I decided to have a 2^nd, and rolled over in bed, so to speak, and voila, I was pregnant. If I had known what was going on, wouldn’t have tried for #2, but God did know, and sent me #2 anyway. Debating skills honed with this kid. He has become such a dear young man, so personable, everything he struggled with as a kid. I have learned the value of perseverance and prayer thru this kid, and I told him recently he’s one of my best friends, and I meant it.

When second son came along, things got crazier. There was a moment of truth when husband did something outrageous; I asked him to leave. He moved out temporarily. I felt empowered for about 30 seconds until reality sank in. I had no job. Living in a house that belonged to my mother-in-law. Felt solely responsible for 2 young lives. Remember calling parents and saying I can’t raise my kids today. They dropped everything and came and cared for us.

Had to use every mental faculty to load and unload the dishwasher – prayed for clear thinking to accomplish that Herculean chore

I put sticky notes around the house reminding me to bathe myself and my kids. The basics. Went food shopping with my sister because too much to handle by myself. Going to the grocery store felt like climbing Mt. Everest. Cried in the store. My sister was there for me, and if she was embarrassed she didn’t show it. Son knew something was wrong but didn’t know how to fix, so when we got home, he gave me a play dough sheep he had made. As I look back, that was pretty profound because as a Christian, I believe that Jesus was the sacrificial lamb who took my sins away. I don’t even remember making that connection then, but as I look back, I see God carrying me, and using the kindness of my child’s heart to do so.

Thought of murder and suicide. Murdering the alcoholic or killing myself. Could see no end in sight. Who will help me raise my kids? Didn’t know God had oodles of people He was preparing to help me financially, emotionally and physically. He was truly, as the Bible says, a father to the fatherless and a defender of widows (Psalm 68:5). I became functionally a widow, as my husband was taking himself out of the picture through his addiction, and later geographically.

The day I stopped trying to get help for husband and started trying to get it for me (my therapist, the prayer that led to her – Lord, I don’t have time or money to waste – I need the right person the first time)

Micah 6:8: what does the lord require of you but to do justice love mercy and walk humbly with your God? I had all these expectations of myself that I was always falling short of. Often at church I would realize how much time I had wasted during the week, and during the sermon, I would make lists of things to do. Took years to figure out that getting up earlier and seeking God first thing in the AM through prayer and meditation and Scripture reading would put order in my day. 1^st things 1^st. but that was a long time in coming, and Micah 6:8 (He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?) gave me an anchor. I could do those 3 things. Justice - try to be fair. Mercy - try to be kind. Walk humbly with God let Him steer the ship.

Romantic inventory, how this gave me freedom from rejection. Always took these things to heart. Believed whatever was said of me as long as it was negative. Got good grades, good evals at work, but always thought I was fooling those who thought well of me, and the naysayers had it right.

Had to realize the difference b/w faith in the program/any program vs. faith in God. I always thought this rehab or if I could get him out the door to an AA meeting, everything would be OK. Now I have a legal matter that I’m dealing with and I’m not real happy with the legal support I’m receiving. Step 11 tells me it isn’t any law firm or individual who I’m to put my trust in. If God is the great physician, He is also the great attorney, and will do His part and show me what steps I’m to take when I need to take them.

For me step 11 is very tied into serenity prayer. The complete one.

 God, grant me the Serenity
To accept the things I cannot change...
Courage to change the things I can,
And Wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His will.
That I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with Him forever in the next.
Amen.        

Realizing what is my part and what isn’t. I add “people” to things I can and can’t change. This clearly delineates others’ behavior from mine. I can change mine, not others’. Am still trying to exercise this with my two adult sons and their wives – figuring out what is their business vs. what is mine.

One of my biggest fears has always been loss. I remember worrying one night when husband got home late, thinking my world would end if something happened to him. He was my functional savior. I saw him as the thing that kept me afloat. Something did happen to him. He became lost in alcoholism and I left him and then he left our family geographically and I was left with the kids. But my parents stepped in to fill the void, and I couldn’t imagine life without my parents. What would happen to me if something happened to them? Who would go buy the mayonnaise if there were a mayo emergency? I told that to my counselor once and she said “you would do it.” Something did happen to my parents, they got sick and died, but God and my sisters and friends were still there. So now, in my 50’s, I worry what would happen to me if something happened to my sons? I can’t imagine life without either of them. I have terrific fears when I allow myself to give in to them, BUT…

Step 11 tells me it will be OK because my circumstances may change, but the God I serve is the same yesterday, today and forever (Hebrews 13:8).