Digging Out

 

Red alert! My bedroom is more of a disaster than usual lately.

I’d love to tell you that this place is a safe haven, Hollywood-esque, complete with matching furniture and all things beautifully arranged in picturesque simplicity. Conducive to relaxation and contemplation.

When I first had it painted a number of years ago, it more or less matched that description. Freshly ironed curtains, crisp new bedding, everything warm and pristine. But the room quickly took on other functions. Office. Writing space. A place to hold long conversations with my children. In recent years, squirmy grandchildren have nestled with me for not-so-sleepy sleepovers.

And now we’re into the Christmas season. Added to which, yours truly is beginning a new life phase at the end of January. I’ll be closing the door on my career and venturing into new horizons, some of which are as yet poorly defined. My bedroom is taking the brunt of all this activity, serving as gift wrapping station and depot for all things retirement. As I write, my desk and surrounding area are cluttered with correspondence from Social Security and insurance estimates, while the bulk of the space hosts holiday cards, winter themed paper, and good wishes for friends far and near.

Did someone say overload?

My “fairy godmother”, Anita, understands. She, too, is constantly in motion, sorting through this pile, straightening that corner, bringing a meal to this loved one, sculpting a pot for that newborn. Her house, at any given time, can be topsy turvy, too, and it’s because she’s alive and cares about the living. She’s let me in on her secret: little by little, progress is made. And sometimes – most of the time, really – disorder is a prerequisite to progress.

A present here and a present there, shuffled from upstairs to downstairs, equates to a bit more breathing room.

I miss the years when Dad handled the wrapping. Not only did he handle it, he thrived on the whole process! All I had to do was collect the stash, label with sticky notes who got what, and set him in motion. Voila! A room full of gifts was transformed into Santa’s workshop and all I had to do was commission the chief elf.

I’m also tackling ongoing projects – the type that never seem to be completely finished. One is reading/sorting through old mail. Some can go right into the recycle bin, but other correspondence is from groups I pray for and support. These missives contain valuable updates and information that are worth the effort to glean through.

Also, I’ve taken on the monumental task of scribbling on the backs of old photographs for posterity. Gang, this is important – so much more important than wrapping Christmas gifts that may end up with a ho hum reaction (not trying to be cynical, but we all know how this works). I can’t tell you how many photos I wish I’d had my parents label before they died so I’d know the identities of nameless faces staring out at me from sepia tones.

Oh, and did I mention I’m having some health problems? So a cane and medical notes are adding to the confusion.

My car, too, is behaving more like a receptacle than a vehicle. When I apologized for the mess while picking up my granddaughters from school, an understanding employee dubbed it a “Mom Mom’s car” – and it certainly is. Two car seats, a “project box” with things to do on a rainy day, and my own personal stash of necessities – Bible and notebooks, extra pair of gloves and shawl because, well, you never know –  and whatever portables I have in there at any given time (giveaways for charity, bags for the store, party goods for a grandchild’s special day, you name it).

Oy vey!

With so many items coming and going, this feels more like a storage unit than a place of repose.

Breathe.

I’ve written about Christmas craziness before – Grinch Pinch and Woe is Me… or Who is Me? come to mind – but for the reasons I’ve outlined above, this is more than the normal holiday rigamarole. I’m striving to find sanity in an insane situation, knowing these current circumstances are temporary and  believing they will grow me – if I get out of their way and let them be as they are.

My mother-in-law was a wonderful example of living sanely amid insanity. Whenever there was a messy house project going on or holiday havoc, she had this way of keeping whatever she could organized, blocking off the chaos, as it were, and keeping things arranged as tidily as possible around the madness. As a result, I can’t ever remember her losing her serenity in such situations. She never articulated her strategy, but she modeled for me how to try to stay organized when organization was elusive, and that lesson stuck… mostly.

But this is life, folks. I wouldn’t want to live like this permanently, and I don’t intend to. Hence, my efforts to dig out of the chaos, bring things in while getting other things out. Like my brother-in-law (who dubs household overload “Shack-itis”) says, if one thing comes into the house, something else better go out to keep disaster at bay.

A dear woman who was only in my life for a brief season once described her life thusly:

“I love order, but I’ve learned to function in chaos.”

This precious saint and her husband, who were not people of means, were raising their own four children as well as two born to drug-addicted relatives. These people were doing God’s work, no doubt about it, and I’m sure their house didn’t look like a page from Better Homes and Gardens.

But, oh, the love that must have permeated those four walls.

So, I guess my prayer during this season of rush and readiness is for patience while digging out, and joy in the journey.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men,  knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ.”

~ Colossians 3:23-24 ~

 

 

Giving Birth

“I'm scared!” I told my husband in the delivery room. It was go time. We were awaiting the arrival of our first son over 30 years ago. I had longed for this moment, prayed, like Hannah, for God to favor me with motherhood, yet there I lay, unable to corral my fears of the moment and beyond.

“I'm scared of the whole thing!” I whimpered. “Scared of having the baby. Scared of raising the baby. I don't think I can do this.”

Shortly thereafter, the nurse came in with pain medication, which calmed both body and nerves. I turned to my husband with full sincerity and wondered, “What was I so afraid of?”

All these years later it's just a whimsical story that every expectant mother can probably relate to. But back then, in the heat of the moment, at the finishing line, those fears were very real and loomed impossibly large in the face of what was to come.

I'll be giving birth in just a few days. It's a planned delivery, one that's well overdue. Pregnant women, when their gestation time waxes long and perhaps goes into overtime, become cranky and uncomfortable. Quite bluntly, they want that child out! Having endured sleepless nights, a contorted body shape, and too much time to think about the what ifs, they want to see their baby, hold him, hear his tiny cries. At the same time, there's a panic button that sounds at the moment of truth, and the whole thing just seems impossible.

Like I said, I'm at that point in my maternity journey. Exhausted from labor and uncertain of the outcome. I want this baby dearly. I've longed for her, prayed for her, spent grueling hours planning for her arrival. Still, now that the moment has arrived, I feel a hesitancy that's hard to put into words. 

Maybe it's because this birthing process has been hugely different than my other two. For one thing, it's been 10 years in the making. There were many false starts and false hopes. I endured plenty of losses along the way, disappointments that made me despair of ever trying again, yet somehow, I lived to fight another day for what I felt sure was God's will for me.

Enough suspense. I suspect my astute readers have surmised that I'm not talking about welcoming a rosy infant; rather, at the end of this month my novel, Belabored, will hit the proverbial shelves via Amazon in both eBook and paperback forms. There have been innumerable fits and starts in this arduous process, but the big moment has finally arrived. The eBook is currently in pre-order status, meaning it can be ordered in advance of its actualization, which will be June 28. The paperback is slated to be available on June 30.

Woo hoo!

So, why am I so nervous?

Could it be because I've never done anything like this before? Because the anticipation may not live up to the reality? Because the pre-birth process is only the beginning of a lifetime commitment?

Let's face it – some things in life don't lend themselves well to do-overs. I've worked and reworked this book, to the point where I'm almost sick of it. But there's something terrifying about knowing this is it. My finished product will be in readers' hands; any sentences phrased awkwardly, or concepts delivered poorly, will be permanently etched in black and white. I get that authors update their publications, but realistically, how many readers can be expected to revisit a botched first effort for further consumption?

Belabored is being brought to bear via “indie publishing”. In short, I am self-publishing through Amazon's Kindle Direct platform. The pro side of this process is that it: a) costs nothing; b) removes the pressure traditionally published authors face to maintain a high-volume social media presence; and c) eliminates the marketing commitments traditional publishers expect of their authors. On the cons list is the fact that their publishing software is proprietary and therefore, doesn't readily interface with the word processing program I used to create my book. I wrongly assumed that, after making my final edits (famous last words) to the Kindle Direct document, I could download the same into an easily retrievable Word document, then with minimal effort transfer the manuscript into a print version.

Um, not so much.

I was prepared for this wrinkle, though, because I have at my disposal a wonderfully talented web developer/designer who is affordable, personable, and has a positive knack for being able to untangle my most daunting computer problems. This dear girl had no prior experience with Kindle Direct, but she has oodles of programming know-how. After first digging my blog out of the technical abyss which had swallowed it, she turned her attention to helping me navigate the ins and outs of Amazon publishing.

If we're following the birth analogy, the Lord conceived this “baby”, I carried it to term, and my tech guru “midwife” helped Belabored emerge from my hard drive into the light of day.

A true labor of love all the way around. I pray my audience finds the book worth the wait and worth their time. To God be the glory.

“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

In the Spirit of Jefferson… and Tina

There’s an easily overlooked detail leading into the climax of the epic movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Jefferson Smith – our hero, probably so dubbed because his first name channels the great statesman who penned the Declaration of Independence, and his surname depicts everyman – is ready to turn tail and run. He’s at his lowest point, “licked” as he describes it, by the political machine that runs Washington, DC and by extension, the whole country Smith was called from his useful but limited life to serve. Then Clarissa – the girl of the dreams he never knew he’d have the chance to fight for – comes through in the clutch, talks sense into him, and convinces him to fight another day.

Then she picks up one of his suitcases and together they walk out of the Lincoln Memorial and back
into the lions’ den. 

My dearest friend, Tina, is always calling for community in the body of Christ. She knows of what she speaks, having left all to follow Jesus. The details aren’t important; what does matter is that she’s the closest living example I have of martyrdom (in the proper sense – dying to self for the sake of the cross – as opposed to the modern-day idea of a hangdog pushover who seems to enjoy taking blows everyone else delivers for no sensible reason). Tina realizes her life is limited by physical factors beyond her control, and that the Lord who endowed her with said limitations also devised a plan to circumvent them. She relies on fellow believers to be the hands and feet of that almighty plan every time she makes an appointment or goes shopping or almost any other mundane activity that most of us can accomplish unaided.

In short, Tina is following in the footsteps of Jefferson Smith when it comes to allowing others to share her burden. In 1939, when this iconic film was produced, it made no sense for a woman to assist a capable man with his luggage. Early in the picture, Smith even had the audacity to remark that his leading lady had “done well for a woman” – thus encapsulating the prevailing view of women’s capabilities (and lack thereof) in the early 20^th century. In 2024, when women like Tina have been crashing through glass ceilings for decades, this phrase sounds absurd at best and sexist at worst. But in pre-World War II America, women had yet to take up the reins left by men absent from their posts due to military service. Clarissa Saunders – capable though she was, and far more knowledgeable about the inner workings of the behemoth called Washington – simply had no business helping Jefferson Smith heft a heavy valise through the streets surrounding the Capitol.

Our fictitious hero, Smith, used his gifts and talents to make a dent in government corruption; my friend, Tina, uses her abilities to serve the Lord constantly in ways great and small. The common thread I see in both their stories is a willingness to humble themselves and ask for help to accomplish the mission their Creator has set before them.

What Herculean task am I being called to? What lost cause that everyone else has given up on am I supposed to champion? What windmill am I fearful of tilting at?

More importantly, am I even in the game? Will I show up today to do battle in whatever arena God has placed me? Or will I hide under the covers, comfortable and complacent, unwilling to wrest myself from the familiar to venture into the great unknown?

Jefferson Smith opined that lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for. God forbid I be found under the covers when there’s a lost cause to be won.

“Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to think of anything as [being] from ourselves, but our sufficiency is from God.” – 2 Corinthians 3:5

“Commit your way to the Lord, trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” – Psalm 37:5

“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he has no one to help him up. Again, if two lie down together, they will keep warm; but how can one be warm alone?  Though one may be overpowered by another, two can withstand him. And a threefold cord is not quickly broken.” – Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

For more like this, check out:

Called Off the Bench

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

Thornless

I attended a funeral recently. The casket was cream and gold, and the tone of the service in keeping with those joyous colors. The whole program was chock full of hope and expectation of meeting dear Rosie in the life to come.

I noticed something interesting during the proceedings. The family provided glorious white roses for everyone to lay on our dear friend's casket. I handled mine gingerly, trying to avoid thorns, then suddenly realized there weren't any!

The prickly things had been whittled off my otherwise perfect, intact rose – as if to protect the vulnerable fingers of one already grieving. When I commented on this phenomenon to a neighboring mourner, she lamented, “Well, mine has thorns!”

There I stood, alongside another for whom pain was a distinct possibility, something to be aware of and guarded against. I, on the other hand, felt safe and secure within my thornless situation.

Famous last words...

The rest of my day was thorn-filled! Admittedly, the majority were First World problems, but thorny, nonetheless. Rosie’s life, too, was beset by troubles within and without; one of her children confessed at the close of the memorial service that much of her path had been strewn with sorrow and poor choices. She thanked her faithful sister for standing in the gap while she pursued regrettable aims. She even referred to herself as “the prodigal daughter” while begging forgiveness. Her sister kept whispering, “You’re loved” while literally extending open arms. Rosie herself never spoke anything but love for her wayward child, only ever praying for her safety and well-being.

Thorns removed. Nothing but beauty remains.

Just like Jesus, who took our thorny, life-ending problem of sin and replaced it with His glittering, spotless grace. He even took the crown of thorns on His own head, as if to underscore that the ones who really deserved that agonizing headgear would never have to wear it.

In Luke 4 Jesus quoted from the following passage, stating that He was the fulfillment of those wondrous promises. What a Savior!

The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,

    because the Lord has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor;

    he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

    and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;

2 

to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor,

    and the day of vengeance of our God;

    to comfort all who mourn;

3 

to grant to those who mourn in Zion—

    to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning,

    the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;

that they may be called oaks of righteousness,

    the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.

4 

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

    they shall raise up the former devastations;

they shall repair the ruined cities,

    the devastations of many generations.

~ Isaiah 61:1-4 ~

Rosie’s favorite song: Testify to Love

        The other two songs played at the service:

The Only Name (Yours Will Be)    I Can Only Imagine

Primrose Path

Hey readers! I'm back in the blogging business after a long hiatus working with my tech guru to iron out some bugs. As you will note, some bugs - such as formatting - are still present and accounted for (not the fault of my tech person, but glitches in the program). What I find most annoying is that the whole piece looks wonderful when I preview it, but upon publication, things go awry.

It's interesting, though, that one of the lines of text that refuses to stay "inside the lines" is the incredible promise from Scripture, "Death is swallowed up in victory!" Upon noticing that, I decided to stop fighting with the format and let the Lord emphasize and, indeed, shout this amazing news.

As always, to Him be the glory.

Welcome to my garden, such as it is!

My neighbor, Anita, AKA, “the little old lady down the street”, AKA, my fairy godmother, planted this colorful primrose several seasons ago. No special soil, no complex instructions. Just a mild suggestion to keep the ground hydrated and fingers crossed. It hasn’t always bloomed “on schedule” – spring, summer, on a good year maybe even fall. Matter of fact, I thought it was dead last summer when its pretty purple petals did a noticeable no show.

 Fast forward. Here we are, several years and not a few weather misfortunes later. Our little slice of the country has endured strong winds, drenching rains, and most recently abundant snow in the many moons since Anita inserted that tiny plant into my Pennsylvania clay. It’s the end of February, folks (well, it was when I started writing this piece)! Winter is definitely not part of the primrose bloom cycle. When I took the photo below, the thermostat read 25 degrees with snow on the ground.

Some contend that climate change is responsible for such erratic behavior. I’m not a science expert, so I’ll sidestep that one. That being said, I am well acquainted with the Fellow who holds sway over climate, weather, and all things seasonal. The Entity that created my pretty primrose wields dominion over its blooming or lack thereof.

Consider the following passage from 1 Corinthians 15:

But someone will ask, “How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?” You foolish person! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. For not all flesh is the same, but there is one kind for humans, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.

So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, “The first man Adam became a living being”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first but the natural, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so also are those who are of the dust, and as is the man of heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven.

 I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: “Death is swallowed up in victory.”  “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

I know this is a mouthful, so let’s clarify a bit. The apostle, Paul, is writing in the parts highlighted in yellow about what occurs when believers are resurrected. After their physical bodies die, they receive new, resurrected bodies. The teal references to first Adam/man, last or second Adam/man, man of dust vs. man of heaven describe the difference between humans, who are flesh and blood like their earliest ancestor, Adam, and Christ, who was both human and God. Just as mankind differs enormously from the perfect Man, so our resurrected bodies will differ from our earthly ones.

Now that we’ve got those ideas nailed down, let’s dig into the big picture. Since I’m the farthest thing from a gardener (I appreciate those who grow flowers and veggies more than I can say – just as I am humbly grateful to those who transform cows into burgers – but please don’t ask me to do the dirty work to make those things happen), I looked up the idea behind Paul’s assertion that a seed dies before becoming a plant. As far as I can discern from the various sources I consulted, this is more metaphorical than literal. The idea is that the seed takes on a whole new form and physicality when placed into the ground. It morphs into something totally different from the way it started out. In essence the seed “dies” to its old being and transforms into a new and different entity, i.e., the plant.

The key point here is the process. The seed doesn’t transform immediately into lush, magnificent, rain forest-quality greenery. These things take time.

Phew! What a relief.

Like my fickle primrose, I frequently “bloom” at all the wrong moments and fail to do so at the appointed times. When I’m reading Scripture or praying at church or at home, it’s easy to delineate between right and wrong and postulate about the right course of action in moral dilemmas. But when push comes to shove and it’s time to actually stand on what I say I believe – sadly, I sometimes wilt.

My walk with Christ is unnervingly sporadic, complete with fits and starts and all the inconsistency that goes with them – but like this enduring plant, I keep poking my head up into heavenly sunshine (Sonshine). Oh, there's debris in my life, much like the dried up leaves that are trying to obscure the beauty of this plucky primrose. But amazingly, my Lord stays patient and keeps nourishing me with heavenly nutrients, all the while seeing in His halting servant the potential to thrive.

What a Savior. 

For more like this, check out: Weeds  Weeds 2  Tenacity