A Matter of Conscience

Dear readers, sadly Blogger has again made decisions for me with regard to font and format! The text as I have it in my Word document is uniform, but somehow got rearranged once I exported it to my blog. Thanks for putting up with the inconsistencies; Blogger has been a good platform for me over the years, pretty user friendly, but does have this one glitch. But, hey, it's free!

Thankfulness

Thankfulness has no meaning without an object.

I realized this simple fact years ago when I worked at a day care center. It was Thanksgiving season, and the staff had organized crafts and projects on the themes of gratitude and giving thanks. I saw a lot of blank stares from little ones whose faces reflected the fact that they had never been taught to thank their parents, let alone a Creator God, for Whom the holiday was declared.

It saddened me then, even as it does now.

Entitlement

Thanklessness and its evil twin, entitlement, have become commonplace in our youth, as the postmodern, post-Christian generation is raising children who have no idea why they should give thanks, or to Whom it is due. Nor should it come as a surprise when individuals who have never received instruction in a moral code based on absolute values struggle with concepts like respect and concern for others, both of which are outgrowths of morality.

Conscience

It naturally follows that a thankless society has little reason to develop a conscience.

Reliable old Merriam Webster offers this explanation of what the word conscience actually means:

“Conscience… derives from… Latin roots—the prefix com- (‘with,’ ‘together,’ ‘jointly’) and the verb scire (‘to know’), and the combination, conscire, means 'to be aware of guilt’—and… relates to… a state of… moral awareness.”

It seems clear that internalization of a basic moral code is a needful prerequisite to the operation of conscience. Just as thankfulness requires an object, conscience needs a reason to exist. In other words, development of that internal voice goes hand in hand with the inculcation of moral principles in daily life.

This brings to mind an incident I recall with bewilderment. Years ago in my day care career, one of our students was misbehaving. The staff was instructed to try to curb the behavior without causing the child to feel any remorse. Since then, I have raised my own family, and noted an interesting phenomenon in school evaluations. When behavioral interventions became necessary, documents often contained the following kind of language:

Johnny struggles to control his impulses. Susie struggles to stay focused. Benny struggles to (fill in the blank).

I humbly suggest that the child in question is doing the very opposite of struggling, as he or she has likely been deprived of the very impetus which would bring about inner conflict in the first place – a feeling of remorse based on a rudimentary moral understanding.

Disclaimer: I am NOT recommending instilling pathologic guilt or shame in our youngsters. I, myself, am a recovering shame addict (not brought on by my parents, just residing in my brain for as long as I can remember), and it’s no fun. Rather, what’s needed is a sensible, balanced message of morality and awareness of other people’s rights. Basic religious underpinnings are helpful, as they provide the rationale for following a moral code. Our country was built on this foundation, and requires nothing less to continue.

The Three C’s – Confirmation, Conviction and Causation

One of my church leaders recently preached on the subject of conscience. He broke down the Bible’s teaching on this topic into the following “three “C’s,” stating that conscience:

·         confirms the existence of God (Romans 1:20-22 and 2:14-16)

·         convicts of sin (John 8:4-11)

·         causes or enables people to take hold of salvation (Hebrews 9:7-14 and 10:22; Titus 1:15; 1 Timothy 1).

The Fourth C – a Clear Conscience

This same gentleman followed up with a second sermon explaining how one can enjoy a clear conscience. Rather than summarizing these two excellent sets of teaching, I have linked them as resources for my readers, especially those who may be experiencing guilt about choices they have made. It is worth noting that one of the points he emphasized is the fact that the conscience can become defiled or “seared” when not cultivated or, even worse, once it has been squelched. That still, small voice can be snuffed out rather easily and, once stifled, can be surprisingly resistant to reawakening.

The Shaping of Conscience

There are many ways to categorize humanity, some of which have been called into serious question by an unbelieving world in a frighteningly brief period of time. The very idea of categorizing has come under fire in recent years! Nevertheless, along with basic groupings such as ethnicity and religion, let us consider the less obvious distinction between conscience driven versus conscience deprived individuals.

It seems to me that most meaningful activity is governed by the absence or presence of conscience, which, in turn, is often shaped by consequences. Inborn curiosity is bridled or unbridled by consequences – do consequences matter enough to check the behavior? Who is issuing the consequences, and is that person a solid role model, someone whose behavior is worth emulating?

One caveat: I am an enthusiastic proponent of positive training of children, i.e., linking positive feedback and rewards to desired behavior. I am fully on board with using this technique in conjunction with consequences – but therein lies the key. It is the combination of two vital ingredients that makes for success.

Soup without salt is flavorless. Salt without a medium to disperse it is overpowering. Likewise, consequences without praise may lead to devastation and hopelessness; praise without consequences can result in egocentrism and entitlement.

Balance is essential.

Takeaways

As the United States has ousted God from such basic institutions as education, family planning and most recently, marriage, our country seems to have lapsed into ever more dangerous behavior. If we want to stem the tide of rebellion and destructiveness that we are seeing in our youth, we must start with the end in mind with our children.

Instilling the sister virtues of thankfulness and conscience isn’t a guarantee that all will be well. Sadly, the numbers of religiously trained kids caught up in the world’s system closely mirror those of the unchurched. That’s because the human heart remains just that – human – and we live in a fallen world in which temptation and instant gratification are the desirables du jour.

Furthermore, we can’t, nor should we attempt to remove the Pandora’s box of technology from the public square. The tools it offers are vast and beneficial. However, knowing most of our kids have the equivalent of an adult bookstore at their fingertips before they’re old enough to cross the street independently ought to give us great reason to instill the counteragents of conscience and accountability from the moment they can mouth syllables. Realizing the daunting array of choices available to their little minds, we must at least give them a fighting chance to combat the impulses of entitlement and self-gratification.

A Happy and Hopeful Ending

I love the old Dick Van Dyke show. This classic sitcom is a product of its time and, therefore, assumes some sex roles that have become outdated, but it sure found a way to combine humor and principles without ever uttering a four-letter word or even taking the Lord’s name in vain.

One episode in particular illustrates the point I’ve been trying to make in this article. Rob has the opportunity to work for Drew Patton, the equivalent of Hugh Hefner, and the job will come with all the fringe benefits of Playboy Mansion. Laura is understandably fearful that her morally upright husband will “crumble” under the pressure. Her relief is palpable when she overhears Rob opine to his would-be employer that “marriage, like a lot of other things, has boundaries, and to some guys, those boundaries represent walls, and that makes marriage a prison to them. But to other guys, those boundaries hold everything that’s good and fun in life.” Our hero turns down the job.

This is the kind of thinking that conscience begets – the idea that boundaries, be they in marriage or any avenue of life, need not be viewed as prisons. They are, rather, safeguards that offer security and protection, so that those who abide by them may proclaim with the psalmist, “The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.” – Psalm 16:6

For more like this, check out: Entertainment-itis Series 

and 

Thoughts on the Suicide/Addiction Epidemic Among our Youth

Thoughts on the Suicide/Addiction Epidemic Among our Youth

"Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.

And in Your book they all were written,

The days fashioned for me,

When as yet there were none of them."

~ Psalm 139:16 ~

Forget the pandemic for a second (I know, I know). Let's focus on the epidemic of young people in the United States killing themselves with drugs and other forms of addiction, or just plain killing themselves, despite the "enlightened," postmodern, post-Christian, post-truth society we have created for them. 

In 1973, we legalized the killing of unborn children. In 1997, Oregon became the first state to legalize "death with dignity," AKA, physician assisted suicide. Eight states and the District of Columbia have since followed suit, disdaining Hippocrates' long revered prescript that doctors do no harm. Odd juxtaposition: abortion kills before birth; assisted suicide kills before death.

Oh, wait. That same oath declares that would-be physicians should refuse to end life in the womb. My bad.

A lot seems to ride on the definition of health care, which over the last two generations has expanded to include provision of death services. The National Institute of Health admits as much in its 2017 bioethics position paper, "Doctors Have no Right to Refuse Medical Assistance in Dying, Abortion or Contraception." Ponder its concluding statement, which concedes medical professionals' right to their own moral compass, while subsequently denying them the freedom to exercise that right in the most fundamental of their duties - the preservation of life:

"Reasons and values are essential to medicine. Doctors like others should have values that reasonably track what is right. Individual values ought not to govern delivery of health care at the bedside. Doctors can campaign for policy or legal reform. They can also provide advice with reasons, based on their values. But they have no claim to special moral status that would permit them to deny patients medical care that these patients are entitled to."

After that somewhat longwinded but necessary rabbit trail, let's return to the main point - why are young people today ending their lives in droves? It staggers the imagination, in an era where self-esteem is elevated to the point of self-worship, and self-identity is touted as the antidote to all manner of youthful confusion, that our youth are not seeing their intrinsic worth and acting accordingly.

Could it possibly be that we're sending mixed messages? On one hand, we proclaim the value of children to the extent that everyone wins a prize just for showing up (that's another article right there); on the other, we insist upon and legally sanction the right to murder the unborn and to commit suicide. While we're at it, we attempt to silence the consciences of medical professionals who opt not to participate in these death rituals.

I don't see how our kids can fail to form one of two troubling conclusions. One, they and only they matter; the unborn don't, and those who find their lives not worth living should be taken at their word and granted medical help to put an end to it all (as opposed to being offered hope and opportunities to serve in whatever capacity they can, which is the basis for self-respect). Two, the adults around them are simply blowing smoke when they proclaim the value of each and every individual, since laws and trends indicate otherwise. 

At the risk of self-promoting, I'm going to give my protagonist, Tanya, from my yet to be published novel, Belabored, the last word. The following excerpt describes a young girl's experience in caring for her dying grandparents, and how they still managed to give back, even from their death beds. The scene and storytelling are drawn from my family's own memory banks, and still bring a tear to my eye.

While it may be unrealistic to expect heroic exceptionalism of all who face pain and difficulty, is it so unreasonable to encourage sufferers not to hasten the end of their lives because things are tough? Wouldn't the truly heroic course of action be to persevere and seek ways to serve until one's life comes to its natural end?

I pray Tanya's anecdote will prompt thought and soul searching about what it really means to be alive, even when spirits sag and bodies betray us.

Chapter 18 Tanya

“Blessed is the servant who loves his brother as much when he is sick and useless as when he is well and can be of service to him.” – Francis of Assisi

            As if I’m not upset enough after my own debate debacle, I have a feeling this next one’s gonna give me nightmares. Carl Zeppo and Zara Patel are presenting on physician assisted suicide, and oh man, is it bringing stuff up for me. Literally.

            As Zara speaks, I find myself back with my grandparents in their room – the one at the top of the stairs that’s been mine ever since they died. When they were alive, I used to squeeze into their double bed between them, and Granddad would tell me bedtime stories. When I got too big for that, they invited me to set up my sleeping bag and camp out on their rug whenever I wanted. Mom was fine with it as long as I got to sleep on time, and Grandma and Granddad always turned off the TV the minute I crept into their room. I remember thinking that I wouldn’t want to turn off a show in the middle, but if it bothered them, they never showed it.

            While Zara’s making the case for physician assisted suicide, my mind switches gears and I can smell the disinfectant that permeated Grandma and Granddad’s room in their final years. I can hear the tiny “pppft” sounds coming from the oxygen machine, and see the long cord snaking across the bedroom floor, tethering their elderly, ailing bodies to what was left of their lives.

            They both got pretty sick, ending up on hospice with visiting nurses, that kind of thing. Both were unconscious at the end, which was really sad, except Mom said they could probably still hear us, so we whispered in their ears about seeing them in heaven, and prayed they had accepted Jesus into their hearts so that would actually be the case. At the time, I bought everything Mom said about such things, but now I’m not so sure.

            I guess Zara’s argument reminds me of all this because her main selling point hinges on physician assisted suicide being a “humane” alternative for the sick and elderly. “Death with dignity,” they call it, as opposed to the messiness and inconvenience (not to mention expense) of having to be taken care of. According to Zara, quite a few states have legalized patients’ rights to choose the time of their own death, and doctors are supposed to help by supplying some sort of lethal injection. So much for the Hippocratic Oath.

            The way Carl tells it, though, from the con side, sometimes there’s a big push from family members and society in general for such people to hurry up and die so everybody else can get on with their lives.

            When he says that, I feel the breakfast burrito I consumed two hours ago rise up in my throat. I will myself to keep it down by recalling the last time I saw Grandma alive.

            “Read to me, Tiny Tanya,” she urged. That was her affectionate name for me as long as I could remember, and she’d no doubt disregard my protruding gut and still call me that today. Her cancer-ridden body had made it impossible for her to get out of bed. Macular degeneration and cataracts had done their worst, and she could barely see.

            “OK, Grandma,” my younger self replied while settling into the chair by her bed. I opened my backpack and pulled out the novel my fourth grade class was reading. “This is great! I can get my homework done and still hang out with you!”     

            Looking back, I remember the plot bored even me and probably sent Grandma more quickly into her pre-death coma. But if the book made her yawn, she never let on.

            “Oh, Sweetheart, you are just what the doctor ordered!” she beamed, squeezing my hand. “How did you get to be such a good reader?”

            Evidently, she hadn’t picked up on the mispronunciations and skipped sentences my teacher was always calling me on. To her, I was Meryl Streep doing Shakespeare.

            I shift in my seat, trying to focus on the here and now. Zara and Carl have caught a break. Sickles the Interrogator is absent today. With any luck, he’s caught something non-contagious but terminal. I’ll be the first to send flowers to his funeral.

            Despite my best efforts, my mind wanders again. This time it’s two years after Grandma left us, and pretty much a bad rerun: Granddad in his final days, and Mom again muddling through with the help of hospice nurses and home health aides. But everyone on the medical team was home sleeping when Mom could’ve used help that November night at 2 AM.

            I woke to hear Granddad sounding agitated, insisting on going to the bathroom by himself. He wasn’t strong enough to get out of bed on his own, but what he lacked in physical strength he made up for in sheer will.

            “Shhh, Dad, you’ll wake Tanya,” I heard Mom saying as I made my way to the doorway of his room. By that point, she was fumbling to get his 200-pound frame onto the bedside commode. Even at age 12, I realized this wouldn’t end well. I instinctively stepped in to take some of the load. Mom flashed me a smile that warmed the dark room like sunshine, and said she’d never been prouder of me.

            After that, I kind of became her right arm. I mean, I still went to school and everything, but when I came home, I would ask Mom what I could do to help. She showed me how to change his adult diapers when he got too weak for the commode, and together we would roll him back and forth so we could fasten the strips of tape on the sides. I won’t say it was pleasant, and I know it made Granddad feel weird, but in a strange way, I think he felt good that we cared enough to do something like that for him.

            One day when I got home, Mom was in a state trying to get somebody to hang out with Granddad so she could do some errands. She looked older that day than I had ever seen her, and I could tell she’d been crying.

            “Don’t worry, Mom,” I reassured her. “I’ll stay with Granddad. Everything’ll be fine.”

            Two lines formed between her eyebrows while she considered this.

            “I don’t know, Tanya. It’s a huge responsibility.”

            I kind of pushed the issue, reminding her how much I had already done for Granddad, and that I’d been staying alone for short periods for quite a while. I could tell she was still undecided, so I rested my case with, “Besides, Granddad’s not going anywhere, is he?”

            That did it. She smiled indulgently, grabbed her purse, barked a few orders, and flew out the door.

            Granddad was still pretty alert at this point, unlike how he was at the end when the drugs controlled both his pain and his mind.

            “Hey, TT Pot,” he began, using his pet name for me. I didn’t like it, but never had the heart to tell him.

            “How’d you like to hear a story? Just like when you were a little girl. It’s been too long, don’t you think?”

            “Sure, why not?” I answered, not knowing that would be the last time he’d ever tell me one. I knew I couldn’t relax like I used to as a kid, when his bedtime stories would put both him and me to sleep. Still, I lowered the side bar of his hospital bed and cozied up to him as best I could without disturbing the cord from the oxygen tank, which wound their way across the floor and ended in two prongs that had an annoying habit of slipping out of his nose.

            “Oh, Tanya, don’t ever make the mistake Washer did!” he cautioned me, referring to the title character in the story, an overly curious raccoon who wandered out too far in the river near his home and ended up going over the falls. “Mother Raccoon couldn’t reach her little Washer because he went just a little too far.”

            A coughing spell interrupted him. I gave him a few sips of water and waited for him to continue.

            “Well, you know what happened next. Sneaky the Wolf captured him and took him by the scruff of the neck back to his den! He planned to serve little Washer to Mother Wolf and the cubs. But Mother Wolf ruled the roost,” he chuckled, “so you know that never happened.

            “In fact, she took a liking to little Washer, and so did the cubs. They became playmates, and Mother Wolf decided to adopt Washer and raise him with her other children.

            “There was just one problem, and you know what his name was!” Granddad laughed and waited for me to answer, as I had done every one of the thousand times he’d told me this story.

            “His name was Sneaky!” I cried with the gusto Granddad expected.

            “That’s right, TT, his name was Sneaky. Sneaky threatened to eat Washer one day, until Mother Wolf pounced on him and caught his flesh with her massive jaws.”

            Here, Granddad assumed an ominous, yet feminine, voice. His speech was weak and somewhat breathless, but he carried off the inflection the way he always had.

            “‘What are you doing with my cub, Sneaky?’ Mother Wolf growled through her sharp teeth.”

            Granddad then took on a sniveling tone for Sneaky. 

            “‘What do you mean, your cub?’ Sneaky replied. ‘That’s not one of our cubs! That’s going to be our dinner one of these nights!’

            “‘Oh, no, he’s not, Sneaky!’ said Mother Wolf. ‘I’ve decided to raise him and teach him

to hunt with the others. He can teach our little wolves things they could never learn otherwise.

It’s been decided!’

            “Well, you know what happened, TT Pot. They argued for a while, but Mother Wolf won

out, as usual.”

            Granddad was beginning to sound hoarse, so I gave him more water.

            “Thanks, T,” he said gratefully. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Mother Wolf brought Washer to the big pack meeting to meet Black Wolf. He was the pack leader, and a fearsome sight to behold. Mother Wolf pleaded with him to let Washer into the pack, but, uh, but, lemme see –”

            “It’s OK, Granddad, you need to rest,” I said, seeing he was fading.

            “No, no, it’s OK, T,” he protested. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, and he started rambling like he used to when he got too tired. I guess the dark room and warmth of the covers made him sleepy, and he always ended up nodding off and mixing bits of his dreams into the story.

            “Well, you see, Mother Wolf went to the White House and the Obamas were all there, too, of course –”

            I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh. It was just like old times, but with painkillers added in.

            I let him drift off, silently filling in the details he had left out. Sneaky’s visit to Black Wolf before the pack meeting, where he got the senior wolf to promise that Washer would be dead meat if he showed up. Black Wolf’s surprise defense of Mother Wolf when the rest of the pack descended on her, trying to get to Washer. And how Mother Wolf finally realized if she truly loved her adopted cub, she had to let him return to his own family of raccoons, where he would be safe.

           Granddad slept for about half an hour, but then I began to detect an odor I knew only too well. I considered my options. There was a good chance Mom would get home soon, so maybe it could wait. But then Granddad started squirming, trying to get comfortable, and I knew only one thing would accomplish that. I wrestled an adult diaper out of the full package and went to work. At first, he resisted, saying he could wait till Mom got home, but from the smell of things, I knew sooner would be better than later.

            I patted his arm and tried to sound confident.

            “It’s OK, Granddad. We’ll get this on in no time.”

            With a weak smile, he relented, and 20 messy minutes later, the deed was done. It wasn’t on straight, and shortly after I finished, a yellow trickle made its way down his left leg via the gap where his hip met his thigh. But my pride was unconquerable. When Mom walked in the door, she burst into tears, saying I was the best daughter anyone could ever have, and she wished she could do something to reward me.

            She didn’t realize she just had.

            So, listening to Zara’s case for assisted suicide, all I can think of is these are the moments I’d have missed out on if that had been law of the land when my grandparents were dying. Sure, my life might’ve been easier if I hadn’t gone through all that stuff, but no one can tell me those two old people didn’t have something rich to contribute even from their death beds. I count those last days with them among the sweetest in my life, and if I could have them back, I’d gladly tuck in next to them in those God-awful hospital beds and be just as content as I was camping out on their rug when I was a kid.

            Suddenly, my throat feels like it’s got a huge glob of peanut butter stuck in it, and I catch a tear escaping from my eye. I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, and swallow hard. It’s no use. The lump is there to stay.

            I force myself to listen to the Q and A. Let me tell you, Dr. Chase doesn’t grill Carl and Zara the way he did Sophia and me. He just makes them clarify a couple of points, then everybody asks their stupid questions, and we move on to the next pair of debaters.

            I slam the door on other memories that threaten to unleash themselves at this inopportune time. There’s one thought I can’t chase away, though – I wish Dolly could’ve gotten to meet those two wonderful people before they died.

***

Author’s note: The story Tanya’s grandfather tells her is adapted with appreciation from: Walsh, George Ethelbert. Twilight Animal Series: Washer the Raccoon. Philadelphia: John C. Winston Co., 1922. Print. 

Scorpion Among Us

Hello Readers! I originally posted this piece last month, then took it down temporarily while it was being considered for newspaper publication.  In the interim, "the Donald" has caught flak for his lawsuit-embroiled Trump University, endorsement by the KKK, failure to provide tax returns because of constant IRS auditing, and favorable quoting of fascist Mussolini. If Trump - perish the thought - were to be elected, the question becomes, with so many financial and legal entanglements, when would the former reality show star have time to run the country?

                                                        

There’s an old folk tale about a scorpion thumbing a ride across a river. I’ve heard several versions of this story with slightly different endings, but the one point all agree on is that, halfway across, the scorpion stings its trusting transporter. The shocked conveyor asks why its passenger would do something so foolish, since now both will drown, and here the varying punch lines come in. The one I like best has the scorpion reply essentially, “Who knows? It’s just my nature, and you knew what I was when you said ‘yes’ to me.”

We have a blonde-haired, combed over scorpion in our midst. Oh, he’s dressed in fine clothes and makes an enticing appeal, but he’s a stinger nonetheless.

Just ask the investors he defrauded when he availed himself of a tax loophole allowing him to declare bankruptcy, not once, not twice, but four times. Ask the campaign investors whose money he is using, despite his constant boasting that he’s self-funded. 

Self-funded, my Aunt Fanny! Trump's fortune cost untold numbers of gamblers  their families’ security, and his claims of self-funding show a distinct lack of gratitude to donors, who have outspent him on his presidential campaign.

Ask the ex-wives he's accumulated, and his sister, Maryanne Trump Barry, whom he claims would be an excellent Supreme Court choice, but from whom he's now distancing himself. That he would even consider her for such a high rank belies his supposed commitment to life, itself a turnabout from his previous ardent pro-choice position. Think how blindsided Republicans would feel after blocking Obama’s end-of-term SCOTUS choice, only to find themselves saddled for God knows how long with Trump's sibling, who rigorously supports partial birth abortion.

Ask Vera Coking, the widowed senior citizen whose home he tried to seize so he could build a limousine parking lot for his casino.Trump tried unsuccessfully to force Coking to vacate under the legal principle of eminent domain, which has historically displaced homeowners for purposes such as national park development and national security needs. Never has this tool been used for such mercenary exploits as Trump had in mind. Talk about the greed of big business.

Ask Carly Fiorina, whose appearance he publicly ridiculed, then back pedaled on. When called on his denigrating statements, he reverted to the adolescent defense that he was just joking. I didn't buy that when it came out of my seventh grader's mouth, and Trump's use of such a lame explanation makes it hard for any parent to hold up adults as role models. Let's not forget, this insult was leveled at someone with whom he supposedly agrees on major principles. Think how far such communication skills will take him when he sits down to hammer out deals with leaders with whom he dramatically differs, and who have access to weapons of mass destruction. Even our cousins across the pond, with whom we often see eye to eye, are a hair's breadth away from refusing to deal with him.

Ask the rest of the Republican party, with whom he has cast his lot, but savages at every turn and is now waffling on a written pledge he made publicly to forego a third party run so as not to undercut the ideals he claims to identify with.

Let's even ask members of the opposing party, whose campaigns he has funded handsomely over the span of his long career, before defecting in recent years. Even ask the Clintons, whom he hosted at his most recent wedding but has now turned on in his grab for the Oval Office. 

In short, Donald Trump has shown himself time and again to be self-interested to the point of unethical legal maneuvering and campaign bullying. Shame on the American public if we allow him to become a nominee for the highest office in the land. 

"The Lord detests dishonest scales, but accurate 

weights find favor with him."

Proverbs 11:1

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to

 keep oneself from being polluted by the world."

James 1:27

"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.

    And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

    and to walk humbly with your God."

Micah 6:8

Run or Ruin?

We've all probably heard the adage, "There is no 'I' in the word 'team.'"

That may be true, but there is a big capital "I" standing between the words "run" and "ruin."  That "I" belongs to each individual who has the choice of either running or ruining his life. No mother, father, sister or brother can abscond with that "I" and save a person who is bound and determined to ruin his life. Believe me, I've tried. I've watched others try. The best course of action I've found is to ...

Let Go and Let God

Reinforcements

"Satan is gathering his forces," a prayerful mother warned her military son, Lt. Gen. William (Jerry) Boykin, who was preparing to serve in the Army's Delta Force. Alarmed, Boykin cried out to God in prayer, wondering if he had mistaken the call he was sure he had heard from the Lord to serve his country in that capacity. Penetrating his anxiety, an unmistakably almighty voice reassured him, "I know, Son, but so am I."

Like Elijah fleeing from Ahab and Jezebel, I was ready to give up the other day. Daily stresses (which were so fleeting I'm having trouble remembering them already), compounded by the unholy choices of people I care about, were dragging me under the waves and choking the life out of me. I could barely get out of bed, and when I did out of necessity, I had to slog through hours of desperate, disheartened thinking sent by the enemy to discourage me. Like quicksand, despair sucked me down, every movement worsening the state in which I found myself.

Then the Lord sent in His reinforcements.

Just as God promised Elijah He had plenty of people rallied to help with his mission (1 Kings 19:18), nearly 3,000 years later, He conveyed that same message to me.

Last night I received a call from the troubled child of God to whom I referred earlier in this post. He informed me his situation is improving because a believer he barely knows has taken an interest in him and is putting his money where his mouth is. Seems this fellow is allowing himself to be the hands and feet of God in a stranger's life. Remarkably, my floundering friend is willing to accept the help, even under the strict conditions laid out by his benefactor. This, after I had personally exhausted my own resources in trying to bring about change, and finally felt a heavenly nudge to "let go and let God." As soon as I obeyed, cringing at the consequences conjured up by my imagination, He brought in the next phase of the artillery. Jerry Powell, a missionary I once knew, put it this way: "God is never late, but rarely early." I can't get over how He is always right on time.

The outcome isn't certain, and the miracle is far from finished. But help is on the way. Stunned and humbled, I can only rejoice.

Check out Newsboys' Miracle Child

Between, AKA, They Never Said "I Told You So"

"Let no one despise your youth..." 1 Timothy 4:12

I know a young woman who is actively putting her life back together after years of anger and addiction tried to snuff it out. As the parent to two young men, and an educator who works with youth, I often have the unenviable privilege of watching the younger generation learn from its mistakes. In the all-too-frequent moments when I find myself clutching a catcher's mitt, ready to meet the pitches these youngsters lob my way, I smile while recalling how my own parents approached the challenge of sending new, green players out onto the field of life.


Though long gone from this earth, David and Barbara Parrish live vibrantly in my heart and mind. How gratefully I remember those two dear souls welcoming home their prodigal offspring after hours of cautioning and arguing failed to produce the U-turns they implored me to consider. I'm especially indebted to them for the homecoming they extended to their bedraggled daughter, who appeared on their doorstep with annihilated self-esteem, two preschool children, and no visible means of support. They spoon-fed me, literally and emotionally, nurturing my body with nutrients and my soul with encouragement. They shored up my foundation and, in so doing, that of my boys. Their love and support knew no bounds; their peaceful, retired lifestyle morphed overnight into a diaper-changing, bed-wetting, order-disrupting, wonderful sort of pandemonium, which they embraced unhesitatingly. Remarkably, they rarely complained, and even made adaptations as I got stronger and asked them to step back so I could resume more parenting responsibilities.

Never, ever, did either one say, "I told you so."

As the years passed, so did their health, and both in their turn were confined to bed. They wondered sorrowfully about their purpose, now that so many of their activities of daily living had to be done by others. I hope they believed my reassurances - just as heartfelt as the ones they offered me when I came home shattered and debilitated - that there was precious meaning in simple things they could still do, like squeeze a grandchild's hand. I reminded them that, while pushing the kids on swings was no longer an option, that was no substitute for storytelling by Granddad to toddlers camped out on his bedroom rug. That 10-year-old Tommy would never forget Grandma's rapt attention to his faltering reading of fourth grade material, so his beloved grandma could still enjoy books even though her eyes were failing. Not to mention the priceless gift they gave our family by allowing all of us to give back to them in their weakness, demonstrating grace and unfailing love as they drew their last breaths in the room that held so many happy memories.

Now, in reflecting back on my parents' graceful sacrifices in the wake of their children's missteps, it seems fitting for me to beseech heaven for the same lack of self-righteousness. This came into clear focus while I enjoyed lunch recently with the recovering young woman mentioned earlier in this post. I noted with interest the seating at our table. She sat sandwiched between three mid-life women and three boisterous teens. She didn't seem to feel entirely comfortable with either group; indeed, much like me when I returned home 15 years ago, she's in a stage of transition between dependence and self-sufficiency. She, too, needs space to grow and encouragement to thrive. She needs room to make even more mistakes as she ventures forth on her journey into well-being.

Most of all, she doesn't need to hear, "I told you so."

                           
                                   David and Barbara Parrish, who never said 
                                   "I told you so" to any of their offspring 
                     (I am in the center, graduating from Villanova University in 1989)  

Check out Steven Curtis Chapman's Fingerprints of God

Check out Newsboys' Miracle Child

Third Time's Not the Charm

I've figured out why I keep eating, even after I've decided the food isn't worth it. It's the same reason I keep listening to B101's Christmas music, regardless of the fact that their station managers seem to have decided there are maybe 12 holiday songs worth playing - that's their story, they're sticking with it - so no need to bore their audience with anything inspirational or - yee gads - original.

Don't misunderstand. I'm really not knocking the DJ's for playing what their audience wants to hear. Actually, I'm kicking myself for falling into the same trap time and again. I keep tuning in, hoping to hear something different, and it always surprises me just a bit when I get the same old thing, ad nauseam. In like foolish manner, I'll go back to the table repeatedly, even though, as my friend Randi says, the food really isn't that great. I know I can have leftovers tomorrow. I know it's not going to be any more delicious the second time around than it was the first. Foods that were ho hum with the first bite are not going to wow me any more with second helpings, so WHY do I go back for more?

The plain fact is, I'm chasing a high.

I don't want the experience to end. I want my heart to be warmer, the sensations I'm feeling to last longer or be amplified. Something irrational inside me subscribes to the notion that whatever is going on around or within me simply isn't enough. I have to supplement it with some sort of sensory pleasure that is always elusive and always fleeting.

Just for today, I'm going to try to let God have the last word.

"So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God."

I Corinthians 10:31

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Jesus Christ, the Same Yesterday, Today, and December 26th

Fear

Someone dear to me is battling addiction, a nasty, vicious harmer of body and soul. And I don't just mean the addict's. I find myself raging at the compulsion that has reduced a once robust individual to a far frailer version of himself. I succumb to the vengeful act of setting unreasonable boundaries at times, causing shame and humiliation, where calm detachment would better serve. I rant rather than reserve comment, offering ultimatums instead of understanding.

The basis for this worthless haranguing? None other than cold, terrifying fear. Fear of losing the fight, i.e., losing the fighter. Fear that all my efforts were in vain. Fear that, in the end, I really am powerless over another person’s choices.

Yesterday it was suggested to me that a better tack would be to buoy up the struggler, really get behind him, assuring him of my faith in his ultimate conquest of the monster within. Oh, and by the way, it would help if I actually meant those cheerleading words. I rolled my eyes mentally. How many times could I be expected to come alongside this person, knowing he had relapsed time and again? After all, everyone knows “seventy times seven” is just hyperbole, right?

But desperation breeds willingness. Willingness to hope when hope is ridiculous. When all sane measures have been exhausted - when every reasonable door has been tapped on, banged on, busted down, and still another lock prevents entry to freedom – hope in its simplest form is disguised as perseverance.

So I instructed my tongue to form words of encouragement. It was merely a rote exercise, like forcing myself to get out of bed despite my body’s demands for R&R. I started small, murmuring comforting words, more to myself than to the sufferer. I worked up gradually to specific instances of overcoming, any victories I could hearken back to, reminding us both that success in past endeavors might well suggest hope for the future.

Ever so slightly, like the sun cracking open the curtains of night, my prattle took on meaning. At some point I noticed I meant what I was saying. Before I knew it, I no longer had to reach for examples of victory; they were there for the taking. Because this person really is a wondrous, accomplished individual, made in God’s image; why shouldn’t he experience deliverance?

Sometimes you’ve just got to shake your fist – I mean, Fist - at fear, and show it who’s Boss.