Rainy Days Ahead: Getting Through versus Going Through

Rainy Days Ahead

That’s the message the bottom right hand corner of my desktop is trumpeting today, complete with a tiny picture of an umbrella.

Rainy days right now.

I would append this statement to the former because my life has been somewhat showery for a while now, with no signs of letting up.

I’m not talking about weather, of course. I’m talking about the pulse of the country and my own personal pulse, so to speak.

When I demonstrated an interest in writing as a young girl, my parents gifted me a little book called The Writer’s Eye. I never read the thing, being ever resistant to learning about the writing craft and much preferring to just do it. That said, I may have finally internalized the idea that, to a writer, everything is grist for the mill.

Such is the case with the notification on my desktop this morning. Those little weather alerts are probably there every day, but I don’t usually take notice. This one for some reason jumped out at me, perfectly characterizing, in my humble opinion, the state of the nation and my particular state at the moment.

Choosing Sun

Before we start tuning our violins, let me qualify my comments. Lest my words seem like a plea for sympathy, I want it known that I’m not feeling sorry for myself.

Well, not too much. It’s a tough habit to break, after all, and at one time in my life, I was a master self-pitier. But in recent years, I’ve come to realize the truth of Viktor Frankl’s statement (emphasis mine): “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

In searching for Frankl’s attitude quote, I found a mountain of inspiration from this remarkable psychotherapist, including the little gem quoted below (emphasis mine). Little did this Holocaust survivor know how ahead of his time he was, given today’s rampant support for physician assisted suicide. I suspect this brilliant man, who survived horrors that stagger the imagination, would be appalled at the prevalence of so-called “death with dignity”:

“But today’s society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness. If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual’s value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler’s program, that is to say, ‘mercy’ killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. Confounding the dignity of man with mere usefulness arises from conceptual confusion that in turn may be traced back to the contemporary nihilism transmitted on many an academic campus and many an analytical couch.”

These are the kinds of things we need to read to drag ourselves out of the quagmire that sometimes characterizes life.

While I have grave concerns for the shape our country is in and, secondarily, find myself in a set of somewhat dreary circumstances, for once in my life – and maybe this is the definition of maturity – I’m seeing things with a sort of objectivity that encourages me.

For years I’ve been advising fellow believers to try to view things through God’s eyes. “I wonder what God’s trying to teach you” is a frequent refrain from my lexicon. I think this phrase is finally becoming less a platitude and more a reality for me.

What a blessing!

Fifty Per Cent

How on earth did we get from weather reports to percentages?

Trust the process.

A ways back I jotted down notes for a possible blog article – this blog article. I had been noticing silly things that were in the 50 per cent range, satisfaction-wise. For example, I had just replaced one framed piece of art – I’m looking at it now – with another. My desk sits in a sort of alcove that offers a convenient wall which invites decoration. A friend was collecting secondhand items to be sold for a worthy cause, and I saw this as an opportunity to swap one picture for another that I preferred. My friend collected the cash for my discard, and my workspace picked up something more pleasing to my eye.

Except for one thing.

Remember I mentioned that I work in an alcove? Well, my desk is heavy, right down to its glass top, and the computer tower and monitor that sit atop it don’t easily lend themselves to rearrangement.

You can see where this is going.

I didn’t want to do anything silly like ask for help, so I scaled a ladder and hoped for the best.

The best, as it turned out, meant: a) the glass top didn’t break; b) computer components weren’t knocked off; c) picture was successfully mounted; but d) it wasn’t centered.

See what I mean? The angle makes it look crooked; it really isn't. But it is definitely off center.

And you know what?

I’m living with it.

This is actually the second such mounting job I’ve done in recent months which has turned out less than perfectly. Things like this used to really bother me. I would remove nails and readjust (who sees a few extra holes once the art is hung?) until I got it just right.

Such precision no longer holds a place on my priority list.

I don’t want to say I’m too old for that, but, well, you know.

So, I got 50 per cent of what I was looking for. Actually, I got 75 per cent, if you consider that points a, b, and c worked out well, and d was the only defector.

I’ll take it.

I could share other examples where I’m looking to make lemonade out of sour lemons.

Case in point: like many women of my vintage, I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.

That said, I have a few besetting ailments, but in the big scheme of things, they’re pretty manageable. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, I’m grateful that when one condition flares up, the others – for the moment, anyway – have been remarkably well behaved. So, instead of dealing with arthritic aches along with asthma adventures, nine times out of ten, one is under control while the other is making its presence known.

Again, attitude is going to be key in how I view these things. I can either lament, “Oh, man, this cold is going into my chest, so now I’m going to have to break out the nebulizer machine and pull out all the stops again!” OR I can consider the flip side. To illustrate, I'll refer to a guidance counselor I once knew who encouraged students to take the “at least” perspective when they were feeling upset. For example, “My activities may be curtailed because of this respiratory infection, but AT LEAST I’m walking without a cane for the moment!”

Getting Through versus Going Through

There’s always a valley lurking at the base of every peak. Will we focus on the valley instead of enjoying the peak?

One of my family members has had plenty of adversity. Life-threatening health issues, financial setbacks, devastating family problems. This individual has consistently modeled a “bounce back” response to every challenge. I have watched with admiration the steadiness and resilience which have characterized this person’s response to surgeries, business misadventures, even death (and near death) of loved ones.  

That’s how I want to be when I grow up.

I want to learn to go through life’s obstacles with grace and faith.

I don’t want to just get through things that feel like suffering. I want to go through life’s vicissitudes knowing, as God’s child, I’m right smack in the center of His will, despite appearances to the contrary.

When I searched my blog for an article written back in 2012, entitled Through (which, incidentally, was written during a time of severe testing in my life), I stumbled onto a whole slew of my writings on the same subject. I offer them here in the hope that one or all may lighten the burdens others are carrying.

Because that’s the point, really, when you get right down to it. Like Christian in John Bunyan’s classic Pilgrim’s Progress, we can expect trouble. It’s going to come whether we like it or not. Bunyan knew of what he spoke; he wrote the book during his 12-year imprisonment, during which time he supported his family by making shoelaces.

Bunyan understood the truth of Hebrews 10:36-39:

“For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised. For, ‘Yet a little while, and the coming one will come and will not delay; but my righteous one shall live by faith, and if he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.’

“But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.”

Bunyan’s faith enabled him to live out the truth of Psalm 112:6-7:

“For the righteous will never be moved; he will be remembered forever. He is not afraid of bad news; his heart is firm, trusting in the Lord.”

Rejoice, in Spite of…

Rainy days may lie ahead, but so does our hope of heaven. I’m looking for the kind of faith that sustains the pastoral staff at my church. These folks have an uncanny knack for balancing pain and joy, even to the point of advising their sheep to “thank God for everything!”

And they mean everything. This collective group and their wives have experienced plenty of hardships since I've known them. Their resolve never changes. They truly do thank God for everything, ever seeking whatever growth is to be had within their changing circumstances.

Anyone who has been part of a Christian community knows, unfortunately, that the church is a breeding ground for love but can also include betrayal. It’s been said the church is the only army that shoots its own soldiers.

I wish I could prove this sentiment wrong, but I’ve been around too long to deny the truth of its caustic commentary.

I would ask my pastoral team to reveal the secret behind their smiles, but they would simply refer me back to the Book of all books.

They’ve learned not to make their happiness contingent on things going their way. They’ve weighed Jesus’s words and example, put them to the test, and found them more than adequate to catch every tear that accompanies the ministry.

Tears are the stuff of rainstorms, minus the salt, I suppose. They are also evidence of God’s hand in our lives, but He doesn’t leave us to dissolve into them. Rather, in His providence, He allows clouds to break over our lives only insomuch as they are necessary for our growth.

What a savior.

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

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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.

Paternalism ... or Protection?

The men in my church take a protective attitude towards women. One way this shows up is in the way we "do" prayer meeting. In sad contrast to the prayer gatherings of other churches I've attended, a large percentage of men from my church can and do come out on a regular basis.

Prayer, if you haven't noticed, is not specified by the Bible as an activity exclusive to women. Yet, to see the way many men avoid this weekly, one hour gathering, you'd think perhaps it was a baby shower rather than a meeting with the God of the universe.

No, wait. Recent baby showers I've attended have included men, and were better populated by Y chromosome bearers than a lot of prayer meetings I've been involved with.

If I sound angry, I am. As a single mom who raised two sons, I resent the failure of some men to step up when it comes to prayer. Now, I know resentment is a character flaw, one cautioned against in the Bible, and yes, I'm working on it. Perhaps this piece is one way for me to exorcise some of the negative feelings I carry surrounding this issue.

Don't misunderstand. I had boku help with raising my boys. Many men of the church I attended at the time (not to mention the males in my family) showed great interest and offered much insight and assistance - I mean, concrete assistance - in the formation of my sons' characters. These were God-fearing fellows who took seriously their responsibility to assist widows and orphans - which we were essentially, if not technically. I, however, had not yet realized the importance of weekly prayer, so couldn't tell you how many of those blessed men showed up when the doors were open on Wednesday nights.

But I'll bet it was more than a few.

Sadly, I personally have more or less begged a number of men - including pastors, on whose watches prayer meetings were regularly taking place, but who could not find time to attend - to bless us and God with their presence. I even played the "L" card, citing how much it would mean to have our leaders actually lead us in this essential activity. Responses ranged from excuses about scheduling conflicts (isn't there something in the Bible about if you're too busy to pray, you're too busy? Oh, and here's a novel concept - how about not scheduling other activities on the same night as prayer meeting), to excuses about not being "gifted" in this area (since when is appealing to the Almighty a gift given only to a select few?), to - I shudder to recall this one - cold stares.

But I digress.

The purpose of this post, which seems to have taken a muddy turn into a scathing rebuke of male refusal to step up in this crucial area, is to commend the church I currently attend for the way men run our prayer meeting.

No church gets it right in every area. That's why Christ had to die for the church in general, and all of us flawed humans in particular. Sure, there are issues on which my church and I differ, but the one matter on which we find full agreement is the necessity of prayer in the life of a congregation.

And I do mean life.

Without prayer, a church can fall prey to languishing at best and descending into deep sin at worst.

And it should not be up to the women of the church to carry this heavy, discipline-demanding ball single-handedly.

That's why God didn't let Adam get away with passing the buck to Eve about gobbling up that forbidden fruit. Oh, he tried, but God hadn't forgotten the order He established, naming Adam the leader and Eve the "help meet."

My church understands this, and that's why a bunch of men show up on a regular basis to run prayer meeting.

I can hear some of my feminist friends screaming that this practice is paternalistic, that women should have as much right to lead church gatherings as men. I'm going to steer clear of this issue, not because I feel the need to dodge it, but because it's secondary to the point I'm trying to make. While Scripture clearly asserts that men are charged with taking the helm in the church setting, many would debate the relevance of this directive to a culture vastly different from that of the first century in which those words were penned. My purpose is not to argue whether this was a cultural admonition that has since lost its validity, or whether it can stand the test of time (as if a time-defining God needed to defend His Word against such things as passage of time or cultural shifts).

Rather, my point is simply to thank the few men who clear their schedules and their throats in order to lead the church they love in the very vital activity of prayer.

When I was married, I used to love enfolding myself in my husband's arms while we slept. There was something about that posture that bespoke protection, or at least a willingness to protect. I'm not sure how much better my spouse would have fared against lethal danger than I would have - he was, after all, only flesh and blood, and battlefields have been strewn since time immemorial with the guts of men whose brave spirits were bested by bodies that gave way to bullets.

But I felt my husband's willingness to care for me and for our children in that simple gesture. Most couples today are chore-sharing, bread-winning partnerships; family life has evolved, and I doubt the structure of this institution will ever return to the pre-feminism patterns of the 50's - and maybe it shouldn't. As so many marriages fell short of the guidelines established in Ephesians for success, it became necessary for women to demand a level playing field in the workplace so they and their children could survive.

But even as women have donned military uniforms and hardhats, I daresay many of us still appreciate strong arms of support from loving men after a hard day on that tough playing field.

So, when the men of my church take the lead role in our weekly prayer gatherings, I, for one, want to thank them. For taking the time. For taking the initiative. And for taking care.

Our society could use more of those things.

Corrie ten Boom and Spaghetti Pie ...

... have nothing in common, I suspect you're thinking.

Oh, but you're wrong.

A friend and I are having a friendly difference of opinion. We spoke recently about the relevance and applicability of the Scriptures to everyday life. My friend has been finding it difficult to apply what she hears in church on Sunday mornings to what goes on with her the rest of the week. I hold the position that God and His word are the height of practicality, and suggested she consider checking out other places of worship is hers isn't giving her tools to apply to her day to day life.

Jesus walked the earth for 30 plus years, experiencing all that humans go through. We know He came as a baby, so He probably got slapped into His first breath (I doubt the ancient world realized that flicking the feet will arouse infant lungs without such a rude awakening). He learned the carpentry trade from His stepfather, Joseph, so He undoubtedly encountered more than a few splinters. If I were a betting woman, I'd lay odds He bumped up against diaper rash, constipation, and everything in between.

You can't get much more practical than that.

I've shared ad nauseam about how God has met me in my ditches and dark nights of the soul. He's been husband and dad to my family when we had a shortage of both. He's gone into meetings with me that I never thought I'd emerge from alive, and shored me up to fight another day. He's provided prayer partners to walk me through barren places and brushes with danger that I'd rather forget. 

When my father was taken ill once in the middle of the night, my mother thought it was the end. After we left him in the hospital, she cried out to me, "Where do I go to accept this?" We quickly realized the same truth that the apostle Peter arrived at two millennia ago:

"Simon Peter answered him, 'Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.'”

John 6:68

Peter was affirming that no one else could give him what Jesus could, so why would he ever seek help elsewhere? 

If I'm going to commit to assembling weekly and bi-weekly with believers, which cuts drastically into my beloved spare time, I most certainly expect to glean takeaways when I depart the building. As Dickens put it in A Christmas Carol, "I don't mind going, but I must be fed."

Which brings me to the most compelling reason I see the Lord as the pinnacle of practicality.I recently experienced a tragedy involving my gastrointestinal tract (anything involving my gullet gets my immediate attention). A nearly unforgivable event sent me into a short-lived but vivid tailspin when my leftovers from a weekend getaway were inadvertently left in my sister's refrigerator an hour from home. My sister - a vegetarian - could not be counted on to consume half a tuna hoagie and a delectable piece of chicken spaghetti pie that must have been created with me in mind. The idea of these treasures going to waste or being scarfed down by my niece - who's a delightful carnivore, but still, these were MINE - was well nigh unbearable.

A nasty thought crossed my mind. My other sister, who had been charged with bringing home these dainties, had been the victim of a similar mishap the week before. Two soups had been brought home in doggy bags. I offered mine to my 19-year-old son, but failed to mention that the other was earmarked for his aunt. Alas, he ate the wrong one, and poor Jane was out of luck. 

"Paybacks!"I stewed bitterly, ascribing all kinds of vengeful motives to my honest, guileless sister.

I was full of something, but it sure wasn't spaghetti pie.

Corrie ten Boom came to the rescue. I recalled her encountering one of the Nazi guards who had been particularly brutal to her family. To make matters worse, he had just attended Corrie's lecture on God's forgiveness, and was thanking her for proving he was absolved of all his sins.

Corrie froze when he reached out to shake her hand. She had no tools within herself to receive a gesture of friendship from this avowed enemy. She found herself in the untenable position of being between a rock and a hard place. She couldn't forgive this man, but she couldn't NOT forgive him if everything she had just said about God was true.

She did the only thing possible: she prayed for God to help her forgive her wretched captor. In short order, He enabled her to extend her hand and the grace to overcome the loathing she felt for this man and his wicked deeds.


In the moments after my spaghetti pie debacle, I realized that if Corrie could forgive the Nazis for contributing to the deaths of her closest family members, perhaps I had it within me to forgive my beloved sister for depriving my hips of a few extra pounds. It sounds dramatic, but I know I died a little bit to self that night, and grew a tiny bit in Christ.

Lest my reader should think I'm trivializing a momentous event in the life of one of the world's true heroines, let me assure you I'm simply striving to reinforce the concept of God's day to day applicability. In no way can a few missing calories stack up against years of abuse, but the principle is the same. Rage and even misplaced anger can be dealt with by Scriptural principles. That's all I'm trying to say.

I have yet to come across a situation that is not made better by applying Biblical truth, or worse by failing to do so.

Husbands and Wives in the Image of Christ and the Church

I've been reading Tim Keller's The Prodigal God, a fine book with some excellent points about the well-known prodigal son parable. In today's reading, I was struck with a lightning bolt about a section of Scripture I've read dozens of times, Ephesians 5. Keller introduced the passage by explaining that marriage at the time Paul wrote the epistle to Ephesus was often about the money and position a wife could bring to her husband. Sex outside of marriage was apparently commonplace, so wives couldn't necessarily count on being the only recipients of their husbands' affections.

At times, I have found myself justifying the sticking point about wifely submission that many get hung up on. I always explain patiently that Paul charges the husband with loving his wife in a Christ-like fashion, commensurate with the care he takes of his own body, thus making submission a joyful and non-threatening thing for wives to do.

Two things never dawned on me. One, Paul promises husbands a reward for their tender care of their wives. He has the confidence to assert that wifely beauty will result from husbands' sacrificial love. I'm not convinced an ugly duckling would be magically transformed into a glorious swan, but I suspect he means love and adoration have the capacity to bestow attractiveness on the object of admiration. These insights put the whole chapter into a revelatory new light for me.

Secondly, 30 out of the 33 verses in chapter 5 of Ephesians admonish husbands on how to behave in marriage. Verses 3-15 contain directives about pure living in general, and sexual morality in particular. Verse 18 urges them not to get drunk; verse 21 tells spouses to submit to one another. Paul's last verse clinches his point, driving home the message of men loving their wives in the same way they love themselves (lest any arrogant Ephesians should interpret his words as license to lord it over submissive wives). In short, he seems to spend an inordinate amount of time advising husbands to earn their wives' trust. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reminds wives to respect their husbands.

I came away agape at the intensity with which Paul argues his case for defenseless women who, at that point in history, were essentially the property of their husbands. His instructions to wives seem sensible and reasonable, when considered in the context of Paul's weighty advice to their husbands.

Just thought I'd share the wealth.

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