Holiday Bows, Holiday Knots

Anyone who’s ever wrapped a present knows how easy it is to mess up a bow. The ribbon frays. There isn’t enough of it to make a decent bow. The whole thing winds up becoming one big, tangled up knot.

Bows, though, are often worth the trouble, knotty possibilities notwithstanding.

Bows are pretty. They’re festive. They’re neat and tidy (when they cooperate). They’re reusable, for heaven’s sake!

Perhaps these are some of the reasons a couple of my mischief-making students vied for a bow during a Christmas season years ago. I recounted the story in a blog post at the time, thinking how remarkable it was that kids whose sole mission in life seemed to be portraying themselves as the toughest, least governable ruffians in the bunch – that these characters were getting their collective panties all in a bunch over a simple holiday decoration.

These high schoolers already knew they were on Santa’s naughty list. No two ways about it. Still, they
longed for some form of recognition that they weren’t irredeemable. That someone saw through their façade and recognized the frightened, insecure youngsters they really were.

It brings to mind a well-timed sentence my older son once uttered to our neighbor’s dog. She was a little thing with, I suppose, a bit of a Napoleon complex. She at times would try to come off as intimidating, which was totally laughable.

My son saw this bravado for what it was and responded to her antics one day by remarking, “Oh, you’re so not scary!”

I can hear my readers wondering if I’m not assigning too much meaning to an adolescent competition over a simple Christmas bow. My answer is an unequivocal no. Again hearkening back to parts one and two of my “bow” blog articles, I discovered no matter how rough and tough some of my students came off, almost all of them had a soft spot for a sticker, a carefully crafted piece of motherly advice, or the tiniest morsel of praise.

Who’d have thought such guarded hearts were so easily penetrable?

Well, there are bows and there are knots.

My life has been somewhat knotty lately. In trying to support others, I’ve unwittingly been tying myself up into knots. My prayer partner, Tina, pointed this out to me yesterday as I was agonizing about some plans that were far from definite. My end of the conversation went something like this:

“If I do x, what about y? Will z become an issue? I’m pretty worried about a, b, and c also. Do you think d, e, or f might present a problem?”

Tina cut through all this nonsense gently but firmly, pointing out that I was fretting over plans and possibilities that might not ever transpire. And, knowing me as she does, she recognized that such gyrations on my part could easily lead me into a state of resentment, a foible I constantly try to work on.

Too often I’ve contorted myself in efforts to please someone else – now, pay attention here, because this is the crux of the matter – on matters about which I’ve never even asked the other person how they felt! This has happened with celebrations I’ve put together for other people’s milestones, for example. I once concocted a party for someone I later found out detested being in the limelight. Needless to say, my hopes were disappointed, as were those of the guest of honor.

This past week, I was biting my nails over a holiday gathering. It’s something my family and I have done for years for a dear friend. We keep it relatively low key – except when I start overthinking it.

This year my altruistic but overzealous desire to include others took over. I decided that this family tradition (the person with whom we celebrate this annual tradition is not technically family, but she might as well be) needed to be expanded to include another friend who expressed interest in the festivities. In trying to fit a million square pegs into round holes to make this thing come off, I caused myself needless agita.

All this hoop jumping went on only in my mind. For various reasons, I never even consulted any of the other parties. In the end, I realized it simply wasn’t going to work and bagged the whole idea. We will do it eventually, Lord willing, but there was no way to make it work last week. I had to scrap the idea (and all my mental machinations), let go, and let God be God.

What a concept.

Here’s the kicker: it turned out the person I was trying to add into the mix became ill and wouldn’t have been able to participate anyway.

Talk about your wasted worries.

Sometimes these types of gyrations inconvenience others. I jump through all kinds of hoops trying to put everyone’s schedules together, and it becomes a knotty mess. Other times, like the scenario I just mentioned, all my stress is internal and no one else even knows about it. I may have decided it’s in someone else’s best interest to be part of a certain “fill in the blank” activity. Or, in my fevered imagination, someone may be waiting with bated breath to hear from me via text, call, or what have you. While this dear one may well welcome hearing from me, I misstep when I assume the role of be-all and end-all in another person’s life.

As my sister says, I overestimate my own nuisance value!

There’s one other area I want to touch on before wrapping this up so I can go do some wrapping.

I found myself fighting temptation – yet again – the other day. December is a rough month for any food worshipper, a label I guiltily admit to. I know how God feels about gluttony, so this is an ongoing battle for me. Anyway, after stringing together a bevy of days involving poor food choices, I was feeling “in knots” about it, powerless to detangle the rat’s nest my eating life had become. While Christmas shopping, I picked up a certain something that was affordable, yummy and promised to drive my weight higher and my walk further from the Lord.

At the moment of truth, here’s what I heard coming out of my mouth:

“Gotta start being obedient sometime.”

Just like that, I put the forbidden fruit back on its shelf and went on my merry way.

And my way did feel merrier. The best part is, my youngest grandchild was by my side. Little does this little one know that Mom Mom fights spiritual battles which often manifest as physical battles over food and a few other needful things (sleep, R&R) that don’t serve me well when I abuse them.

Maybe – just maybe – my one good choice in a sea of lousy ones can put me closer to the woman God intends for me to be, thereby serving as a better example for the next generation(s).

God bless us, everyone.

 

Plumbing

My sister and I are plumbers.

Not.

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

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

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

He answered yes to both requests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You guessed it: prayer.

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

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

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

Training Wheels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life's little instructions show up in interesting settings.

One Step Forward...

The Pity of It All

My sister, Jane, and I have been in competition this holiday season to see who is the most pitiful.

Not really, but it kind of feels that way. I’ve been trying to shake off a virus – not COVID, so don’t feel too sorry for me – but it did evolve into a bacterial infection. Jane’s been fighting her own good fight not to catch it from me. We’ve both been wiping down surfaces to an extent that would put the OCD detective Adrian Monk to shame.

Below is a photograph of me (cue the canned laughter) wearing a mashed potato poultice. Note the festive tea towel girding my neck. I know it looks silly, but the internet claims it reverses laryngitis – hey, if it’s on the internet… Listen, you scoffers, it worked for the Brady Bunch mom 50 odd years ago! Remember how Mrs. Brady was able to trill “O Come All Ye Faithful” at church on Christmas morning after being voiceless the week before? If it’s good enough for Carol Brady…

My sister, for her part, has been having adventures of her own. That’s her code word for annoying problems of varying degrees. Jane’s adventures have included issues with a rental car (the management, of course, is nowhere to be found); tearing the house apart to locate misplaced items (a problem solved by divine intervention which I’ll relate below); and most recently, being beset by phone problems. Tell me something. If smart phones are so smart, how come they can’t untangle the messes they seem so bent on falling into?

Here’s a snippet of some of our escapades over the holidays:

Thea: Laryngitis starts to abate; cough picks up where froggy throat left off.

Jane: Missing keys are located; cell phone service goes on vacation.

Hence, the title of this article – one step forward, two steps back.

I think it’s fair to say all this drama has left us both a little depressed. Jane’s idea of a Norman Rockwell Christmas probably didn’t include quarantining while her sister took YET ANOTHER COVID test (I’m about ready to make home test kits a budget item). My holiday wish list didn’t feature YET ANOTHER round of masks, gloves and, oh, of course, tension taming tea.

What’s most difficult for me is being out of step with my normal routine and unable to fulfill responsibilities. I missed work, opportunities to be with friends and family (those who are fortunate enough not to be sharing quarters with me, that is – Jane and I had ample time to bond over my vaporizer), and even holiday preparation. Every Christmas I threaten not to send cards, and every year I send a ton of them. This is the first time it’s ever really not happened. I make it a point not to infect recipients just in time for the new year.

Discouragement, too, has been dogging my heels. Doctor visits, after all, were never meant to be a source of entertainment, any more than antibiotics were intended to be soups du jour. My problem has gotten to be a predictable one, something I can count on at least once a year, and that fact alone is disheartening. Like a gentle breeze that gives way to a hurricane, it starts out tickling my throat and can end up in a hospital visit if I don’t get right on it.

Which reminds me – I wrote about this same subject a few years ago. A work injury necessitated a trip to the ER, causing me to feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. I traced the source of my discomfort to the “P” word – good old pride. I guess some things never change.

And, Yet…

Sitting in my doctor’s office for the second time in one week, I realized it was time to get back to basics. Stationing myself in a remote corner to avoid alarming patients who were only there to get allergy shots, I took out a scrap of paper and began scribbling a gratitude list. Here’s some of the good stuff I came up with:

1)     My doctor and I have a plan to further diagnose and treat the underlying cause of the regular parties the germ brigade seems to be throwing in my respiratory system. I’ll be seeing another specialist and hopefully getting some answers. How many end stage cancer patients would kill for such glimmers of hope!

2)      I have the best family and friends anyone could wish for. My little fairy godmother down the street, about whom I’ve written before, offers me homemade applesauce just when I’ve run out of the one thing my ailing throat doesn’t complain about. Family members do favors, run errands, make meals, and generally pamper me. My best friend and prayer partner steps into the gap, leading our prayer group and teaching Bible study in my stead.

3)      My employer, too, is among my blessings, coming through with paid sick leave and allowing me to leave early to manage my sick, sorry self.

4)      I’ve found ways to be of service even while down and out. A disabled friend of mine taught me that it’s important to serve in whatever ways one can. Everyone has something to offer, and our great God expects His children to make use of whatever He has given them. Let us remember, “For everyone to whom much is given, from him much will be required; and to whom much has been committed, of him they will ask the more” (Luke 12:48). No one is without something to give, even if it is just time or a listening ear. If even those things are impossible, the greatest gift we can give to one another is prayer.

 Not least, these niggling troubles have actually been growth opportunities in disguise. Take, for instance, Jane’s missing key ring, to which I alluded above. Among them was one that powers her rental car. The loss left her housebound and on the hook with the rental company.

Jane and I (mostly Jane) scoured the house, praying as we did so. Not being ones who pray to saints, we skipped over Saint Anthony and took our concerns right to the Lord God Almighty. After going to bed (and between coughing jags), I decided to get up and hunt through our dirty laundry pile. I plunged right into the germy mess and rummaged around. I could have saved myself the trouble, as I later learned Jane had donned gloves (clever girl) and done the same thing.

We both came up empty.

By this time, we had turned over couch cushions (what a crumby mess lay underneath that floral upholstery), rifled through coat pockets, upended trash receptacles – you name it.

I, for one, was out of ideas. Desperate to help the sister who had been tenderly tending me all week, I resumed my conversation with God.

“Lord,” I whined, “neither one of us knows where those keys are. You know they represent mobility and freedom to Jane. She needs them. Could you please show one of us where to look?”

Like a flash, it came to me. The day before, my neighbor had posted on our neighborhood Facebook page a picture of a set of keys she had found. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

We darted across the street and retrieved the errant keys, giving glory to the One who patiently waits for us to exhaust our own resources and throw the whole matter into His lap. Second Corinthians 12:9 comes to mind:

“And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

Vulnerability and Humility: Archenemies of Pride

I recently took a continuing ed class in which the speaker asserted that courage demands vulnerability. This gave me a lot to ponder, and I decided she was right, as courageous acts leave one vulnerable to defeat and all that goes with it. I would add that vulnerability is also required when one finds oneself dependent on others for that which one is used to doing for oneself. The dependence which arises from being ill or needing help of any kind vastly increases humility on the part of the recipient.

That, my faithful readers, is why I so dislike being sick. I much prefer to do for others and take care of myself. Oh, I don’t mind asking my sons to move a heavy piece of furniture or help me unravel a technology snafu – things like that exceed my capabilities, and I know it. But part of my self-esteem rests on being able to take care of my daily needs and follow through on commitments.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize God wants me to work on that.

One thing that helps is recalling the vulnerability with which the Son of God came into the world. He put Himself into the most helpless position imaginable, stepping down from deity and into humanity, with all the diaper changing and nose wiping the human condition entails.

I’ve noticed there seems to be a giving and receiving continuum. Some only want to give, refusing help of any kind; others are happy to simply take, without ever giving back. Both states are unbalanced, like a seesaw weighed down on one end. Finding a middle ground seems the most spiritual way. If God incarnate allowed Himself to be needy, even as He came to serve, it seems the height of arrogance for His creatures to err on one side or the other.

Bottom line: we are going to go through periods in which we seem to be stagnating. Illness, tangled business matters, sticky family relationships – all are things which require time and careful attention, and may, in fact, never fully resolve. No amount of whining or petulance will change the fact that some sloughs just have to be slogged through. Shortcuts are lovely when available, but our wise God sometimes allows roadblocks into our lives for a reason.

Sometimes the only way to go is through.

“Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” – Philippians 4:11-13

Check out part 2 of this piece, "Two Steps Back"!

 

Rescued

It hasn't happened in many years, but today was the day. The last time this occurred I had a young baby and a kindergartner along for the ride - well, maybe I should say, for the wait.

And wait we did, for upwards of an hour. Although the police promised they would come quickly, by the time they showed up, little Ethan's diaper was soaked and his lungs were raw from yelling. 

Today's escapade had a much quicker and more satisfactory outcome.

The moment my keys went missing, I knew I was in trouble. It had literally only been a two minute stop to drop off some belated birthday gifts to a friend's children. The road to hell...

When I peered into the car and saw them resting tauntingly on the front passenger seat next to my purse (which naturally contained my only spare car key), I was sure what was coming. Before trying the door handle, I pleaded futilely for the thing to unlatch.

No such luck.

My first call was to AAA to help me break into the car. They were happy to oblige, but estimated a 90-minute wait. Since temperatures today were pushing 100 degrees, I thought it best to give the police a chance to beat the auto club's clock. 

I must admit to being a bit leery of calling the cops for help. I understand why these days the police force, which has come under such intense fire of late, is naturally reluctant to take any action which could earn them anything but A pluses in the conduct department. Breaking into people's cars, even at owners' urging, doesn't exactly carry with it the image these war-weary public servants are trying to convey. Moreover, it seems some vehicles sustain damage as a result of the jimmying process - again, not good for PR.

Spurning any risk to the the organization's battered reputation, the police dispatcher promised help in much shorter order than AAA. I heaved a sweaty sigh of relief while glancing at an incoming text. Apparently, my begging had paid off; the auto club's ETA had jumped to 20 minutes, which seemed to this fretful waiter much more bearable than the hour and a half they had previously postulated.

I called off the cops and leaned up against old Alex.

"Buddy, things are looking up," I murmured to my 10-year-old Mazda before answering a call from the AAA technician, Liz, who further lowered my wait time to five minutes.

I'm home typing this on my desktop, so the rest is history.

Here are my takeaways from this silly anecdote:

The best laid plans are no match for life's unpredictability (not to mention human error). Theoretically, I was prepared for this problem. I had my purse and a spare set of keys. Unfortunately, both were frustratingly out of reach and could do me no good without the outside intervention of someone who had tools I didn't possess.

Which brings me to my second life lesson: preparation is no substitute for prayer. I honestly can't remember if I prayed during this ordeal (that seems like an activity which should be reserved for things like cancer treatment or torture - that said, being stranded in the heat felt pretty harrowing at the time) - BUT I do keep a constant dialogue running with the Lord. When the going gets tough, turning to God is for me like flipping on a switch in a dark room. I don't think twice. The bill has been paid and I can count on good service every time.

Thirdly, figure on waiting. Sometimes the wait seems endless, like my lockout all those years ago. Other times, our needs somehow make it to the top of God's list. Either way, we know He's on our side and deliverance will come in some form eventually. 

Finally, never pass up a chance to pass on the gospel. Before my break-in expert departed, I made sure she had a hug and a tract in her hand. Who knows when or if our paths will ever cross again? 

My visiting sister likes to characterize problems as adventures. I tend to think of them as opportunities. One thing's for sure - they're here to stay, so we might as well make                                                      the most of them.

"And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, 

for those who are called according to His purpose." 

~ Romans 8:28~

God Gets It Right... Again

The Lord decided to take my friend Sarah home to His kingdom just minutes after I finished my last post.

I find that remarkable. To explain why, let me give you an abbreviated timeline of events for last week leading up to Wednesday, the day Sarah succumbed to the beastly disease of cancer.

The  previous Friday I worked, then went to my second job, followed by dinner and shopping with an old friend. The weekend was filled with cooking and fun family gatherings, along with church activities. Monday I returned to work, had dinner with a friend, and went to my financial class in the evening. Tuesday, work again, then allergy shots and a prayer gathering.

By Wednesday, I was ready for a break. However, my own church has a weekly prayer meeting, which I often neglect (cue embarrassment emoji). No good reason. I guess, like most of us, I'm lazy at heart. I had an extra reason to want to beg off this particular week, as our pastor had announced Sunday morning that we would be setting up for our Christmas luncheon after - you guessed it - prayer meeting.

What to do? The spirit truly was willing, but, oh, that weak flesh!

My mind settled on a compromise that my conscience could live with. I had only visited Sarah once since having learned her battle with cancer was coming to an end. December is a loaded month, but how often does one have the honor of sharing in another person's eternal homegoing? I decided to contact Sarah and see if she was up for a visit, in lieu of going to prayer meeting. I knew we would pray and read Scripture together, and maybe I could serve her in some small way. Surely the Lord would understand.

When I received no reply to a text sent that morning, I called Sarah's phone in the afternoon; got voice mail. Shortly after, my pastor's wife texted the following: "I'm with Sarah now and she's not up for a visit."

Now things start to get a bit confusing, so I'll quote the text conversation that ensued.

Me: OK please hug her for me

Pastor's wife: I will!!! Keep her in prayer

Me: For sure

That last text went out at 3:20 PM. At 4:23, my son's girlfriend, Brielle, who happens to be the daughter of our pastor and his wife, texted me, "Please keep Sarah in your prayers a little extra. We don't think she'll make it to the weekend (heartbreak emoji).

I thought such news required a phone call, but Brielle didn't pick up, so I texted, "I love her. My heart is aching too."

Again, in the interest of clarity, I'm going to revert to the text conversation.

Brielle: I can't talk right now because she's asked me and my dad and my mom to be with her for a bit but she is really declining. She can't really talk right now either.

Me: I understand. Tell her I love her and will remember her and her kids and grandkids in my prayers.

Brielle: I did tell her and she got a smile on her face.

That last text was at 4:52 PM. I knew at that point my place was not with Sarah, because she had  already called for all the people she needed by her side. A private person, Sarah didn't want a crowd; she just needed her family and closest friends.

My mind turned to Anita, our cherished family friend and stand-in grandma for my kids and baby grandson. She's been there for my sons since they lost their last biological grandparent 14 years ago, coming to school events and graduations and everything in-between. Anita, who served as "Grandma" at my son's wedding, and forced her uncooperative body to the hospital to see my newborn grandson, who now calls her "Nana" and sits on her lap.

Sarah was on her way to glory, surrounded by the people she loved most. Anita was and still is with us, and I was meant to be with her at that moment.

I found a providential parking space outside Anita's house, and her car in the driveway. Approaching her steps, I could hear the kiln humming through the basement window.

She was home, doing what she loves best - making pottery to beautify the world and put smiles on faces. She welcomed me with open arms, as she always does.

After awhile, my sister joined us, and we began talking about going to prayer meeting. We knew our pastor would leave Sarah's side only to care for the rest of his flock that evening, and we wanted to support him and all our brethren, who would soon be diminished by one.

Reality reared its ugly head. What to do about helping with the Christmas lunch setup? I had just enough energy to pray with fellow believers, but after such an emotional day and busy week, I would be useless at work the next day if I tried to do it all. If you read my previous post, you know the rest. Jane served in my stead, and I went home to get some sleep.

But first, I posted my blog article, which God practically dictated on the way home from prayer meeting. Unlike most of my writing, it went out to the public largely unedited, as I felt its message was simple yet profound and needed little tweaking from my humble fingers. I wrote it in less than an hour, and it hit my readers around 9:15 PM.

I received this message from Brielle at 10:03: "Sarah has passed on to be with the Lord"

Me: Thank you. I treasure what u guys did for her. God saw and won't forget

Brielle: I love you (heart emoji) my mom gave her a hug for you.

I later learned Sarah actually entered into heaven about 9:30, mere minutes after I finished the last task God assigned to me for the day. I wasn't at her bedside, but she received hugs and assurances on my behalf by those who were assigned to be with her. Moreover, it was only by divine intervention that I heeded the call to contact her at all on the very day she died. If I hadn't been trying to evade a task I wasn't assigned to (luncheon setup), I likely wouldn't have contacted Sarah that day. With gift buying and all the other insanity that Christmas isn't about, I would have continued busying myself with holiday mayhem, and missed my final opportunity to communicate with a friend I loved.

"Remarkable" really doesn't cover it.

"A God thing" comes a little bit closer.

As usual, the word of God says it best:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; 

in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths." 

~ Proverbs 3:5-6 ~

Substitution - the Antidote to Pride

A friend of mine is dying of cancer. Our friendship has been short but sweet. We've had exactly two visits and a handful of phone chats, but the bulk of our relationship has consisted of text conversations. Still, there's a closeness I feel towards this dear soul which is hard for me to explain. Perhaps it's our sisterhood in Christ and some similarities in our circumstances. Perhaps it's just a bond of peace from the Holy Spirit.

Whatever it is, I'll miss her until we meet again in heavenly splendor.

When I learned today that her earthly end is near, I asked if I could visit. The answer came back via my pastor and his family, who have been at her side today and through this whole ordeal. They are ministering to her, and that's all the fellowship she can handle.

Having kept vigil at the death beds of both my parents and several beloved friends, I know what it is that I'm missing. Death's approach isn't pretty, but somehow it's a privilege to participate in the final hours of someone you love.

Yet, God has closed the door on this particular mission for me. I'm not called to this watch. The Lord, evidently, has assigned it to my pastor's family, and they are tending to our friend lovingly. He will reward them in due time, and all is as it should be.

How wonderful that God in His wisdom doesn't assign every task to me! That's what the Body of Christ is all about. Sometimes I forget that and try to take on more than I'm called to do, which usually ends in disaster. For tonight, thankfully, that isn't the case.

It seems my life lately has been replete with gracious substitution. In an unrelated matter, my cherished sister stepped forward tonight to spare me a chore for which I had no energy. Truth be told, she's a constant source of fruitful endeavor, from which I frequently benefit.

As I left church tonight, leaving my kind-spirited sister with the brethren to set up for a  holiday luncheon this weekend, it occurred to me that here is another case of substitution on my behalf.

Help had been requested. My conscience wanted to answer the call. The spirit was willing, but the flesh has been tired and is trying to learn to stop taking on more than it can handle! So I pushed pride to the side (isn't it really pride that makes us think everything depends on us?) and let Jane do my share of the work.

When you get right down to it, isn't substitution what the cross was all about?

Substitution - the heart of the gospel.

"He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, 

that we might become the righteousness of God in Him." 

~ 2 Corinthians 5:21~

Heel Heal

I limped my way into church tonight after asking my son to drop me off at the entrance. Normally, I love to walk, but over the past few weeks, that simple activity has become agonizing for me.

An X-ray two days ago revealed what I suspected - an annoying, uncomplicated heel spur. But, oh, how those calcium deposits make their presence known! Anyone who's had one knows they can make even small acts like stair climbing and getting out of chairs difficult. Thoughts become concentrated on finding the least painful way to accomplish the most basic of tasks.

A literal thorn in the flesh.

Despite the pain, I had every reason to feel joyful tonight. I pulled off a surprise for a very dear friend who spent years discipling me in the Word of God. She and I sat together to enjoy the concert, and were treated to special music from the SMS Men's Quartet. I did enjoy their singing, which was heartfelt and glorifying to God, but I must confess my mind was on my foot.

For one thing, I was having trouble keeping it pain-free, even while sitting. In addition, my eyes kept veering from the men onstage to the attractive, open footwear on many ladies' feet (mine were sporting the most cushiony sneakers I own - hardly a complement to my church outfit, but desperate situations call for desperate measures). While the singers trilled praises to God, I mentally made plans to purge my closets of anything my toes could peek out of, and trade them all in for sensible shoes.

I'm sure my mindset had nothing to do with the fact that I spent the afternoon looking up videos of podiatrists using long needles to inject cortisone shots into the heels of anxious patients.

Sometimes I like to know what I'm in for.

When the concert was over, my friend and I went back to meet her husband, who was picking her up from the service. I haven't seen Ed for many years, and we spent some time catching up.

I should mention that Ed is certain he has the spiritual gift of healing. He absolutely loves the Lord, and he believes with all his heart that our God is still in the healing business.

I put that belief to the test almost 20 years ago when I was dealing with - you guessed it - a different heel spur. I had gotten to the point of consulting a podiatrist and having orthotic shoe inserts made. If those didn't work, I was ready to have surgery.

Like I said, these buggers really hurt.

I happened to be at a barbecue at Ed and Jean's house while all this was going on, and casually mentioned to Ed that I could really use my heel to be, you know, healed.

The brand of Christianity to which I've been most exposed believes that the gift of healing has largely ceased. We seek out doctors and medicine, but don't typically call on the Almighty to miraculously heal our ailments. This is one theological area (among many) to which I can claim no expertise, so I can't really comment one way or the other, but it's not been my experience that these things actually happen in our day.

So, you could say I was a bit skeptical.

But, again, desperate situations...

So, I asked Ed to pray for my foot. I remember being a bit aggravated, and not a little suspicious, when he tossed the ball back into my court and suggested I do the praying. He said he would pray, too, but implied that I had the primary responsibility.

Whatever.

I prayed, he prayed, we all prayed.

And the darnedest thing happened. The pain went away.

Not immediately, as I recall, but somewhere between our conversation at that picnic and, oh, I don't know, the next few weeks or so, I stopped hobbling and started walking like a normal person again.

That heel sure seemed healed.

Later that summer, I was having fun with my kids and jumped into a pool, coming down hard on the "spurious" foot (sorry, bad pun). That little stunt landed me in the ER, where I was given an X-ray. I was sure the film would reveal a "spur-less" heel. On the contrary, the spur still showed up, alive and well - but it never hurt me again.

As far as I'm concerned, spur or no spur, the pain went away, and that's a healing in my book.

So, I couldn't resist asking Ed if he'd like to take a crack at praying over the latest albatross plaguing my foot.

This time, he whipped out an item he'd anointed with oil, laid it atop the sweater I was carrying, and murmured a brief prayer. I don't know why he didn't address his ministrations to the ailing body part, but I've gotta tell you, within minutes, I started feeling relief.

In the time that ensued, I tested out different foot positions which hitherto had resulted in wincing and whining.

Nary a whimper.

When it was time to leave, I didn't even consider asking my son to pull the car up to the entrance. Instead, I walked down the steps and across the parking lot, and triumphantly announced that he could drop me off at the top of our street if he wanted to.

Now, here's the mark of a Godly man. When I started sharing with others what had happened, Ed continuously and vigorously insisted on giving all glory to God.

And rightly so. Healing is a spiritual gift which, like all such divine bestowals, only becomes activated when one comes to faith. It isn't an entitlement or a super power or even an innate skill. Only God can grant such a gift, and only He should receive praise for its manifestation.

I'm still planning to go through my shoe racks and dispose of the worst offenders. Just because the Lord chose to correct one physiological problem doesn't mean I ought to go looking for another. That would be stupid at best and cavalier at worst.

The last thing I want to be with this miracle is cavalier.

In fact, in keeping with my "what if" personality, I'm finding myself fending off worry.

Will it hurts when I get up tomorrow? Will that first step when I get out of bed be the deal breaker? What if it only lasts for tonight? 

I almost didn't want to write this post, for fear of looking foolish if it turns out to be only temporary.

But I'm choosing instead to take my cue from the man Jesus healed in John 9, "[who] answered and said, 'Whether He is a sinner or not I do not know. One thing I know: that though I was blind, now I see'" (verse 25).

No matter what the future holds, nothing and no one can take away the fact that I'm walking on two good feet tonight after limping for weeks.

In my book, that's a miracle.

And I am so grateful.

Unstoppable

Yesterday as I drove to work on my usual route, something unusual stopped me in my tracks.

Literally.

I pulled the car over to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

Sure enough, it was one of those Christmas inflatables - the kind my sister can't stand and is always threatening to take out with a BB gun.

If you knew my sister, you'd know she'd never take out a squirrel, let alone a harmless Christmas decoration. She just likes pretending to be tough.

But someone or something did destroy this humble lawn ornament, which lay crumpled in someone's trash.

Now, this wasn't just any inflatable. I had never seen one like it, and it held particular meaning for me each morning as I passed by because it stood out in the sea of commercialism and secularism that has overtaken the greatest miracle ever known to man - divinity stooping down to earth to save humanity from itself.

I speak, of course, of the birth of Christ. The inflatable that made me catch my breath each morning, reminding me of the true meaning of Christmas, depicted the Nativity scene.

It was pretty simple - just parents and Baby in their humble surroundings - but Amazon prices it at over $100.

As if one could put a price on the Incarnation.

Now, it's entirely likely that the thing was old and weather-beaten and couldn't withstand another Christmas out in the cold. It's also possible, in our increasingly hostile world which is increasingly hostile to all things sacred, that some piteous person took out his or her aggression on this symbol of redemption.

Either way, as the Grinch found out, it won't keep Christmas from coming.

Puncturing plastic won't halt the impact of what happened 2,000 years ago any more than the removal of tinsel and trees and toys could thwart what the Who's down in Whoville were singing about in Dr. Seuss's classic tale.

Christ came. He lives even after unenlightened hearts tried to stop His unstoppable one. He reigns, despite much evidence to the contrary, even as our fallen world slips ever further into madness and mayhem.

He asks only that we do our part to remind others of these facts, and that we remain faithful to His call on our lives.

After many months of allowing my pen to sit idle, herein lies my attempt to do just that.

A Lesson Learned

“Hey everyone, I want to apologize for being overbearing yesterday. I was trying too hard to make a perfect memory for Aunt Jane. I forgot that nothing is ever perfect and it would’ve been better if I had just let things unfold naturally. The important thing was you all made the time and effort to be there for her special day. I love you all and am so glad and thankful to be part of this amazing family!”

This was the text I sent out to my loved ones after being a control freak the day before. My two sisters and I had planned a special birthday gathering at a restaurant for our eldest sister, Jane, who usually isn’t in town to celebrate on or around the appointed day. Last weekend, however, she had flown in to witness the graduation of our dear nephew from college, so we hatched this party plan for the following Saturday.

Only trouble was, I forgot to get the Lord’s take on our project.

I overbooked myself the day before, then stayed up later than was good for me. Consequently, I woke up late the morning of the event, which kept me from my usual routine of spending time with the Lord before jumping into the day. The stage was set for emotional disquiet and unmet expectations.

I over-organized everyone’s activities, buzzed around snapping pictures people didn’t want taken, then waxed surly when others didn’t dance to my tune. Hence, the need to apologize later for behavior which, while not outrageous, certainly did not constitute my finest hour. I let the god of hostessing make me forget that the sweetest thing I could do to honor my sister’s birth would simply be relax and keep faith at the center of the festivities. Like Martha, I lost sight of the fact that Christ’s presence makes every occasion just right, with or without the trappings.

Fortunately, I have a loving family, and all was forgiven.

^“But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.” 
~ Matthew 6:33

For more like this, check out: Reflections by Thea: The Eating of the Crow

Reflections by Thea: The Shame Game

Reflections by Thea: Household Gods

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.

Grief

"Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable; if there is anything excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things." Philippians 4:8

I'm writing this post for my beloved sister Jane, who doesn't know it, but kept me from hiding under the covers today.

I've been in a bad place for a few days now. It started when I learned of the untimely death of a friend's young husband just two days before her birthday. The day before, a woman at church lost her husband suddenly. To top it all off, another friend just buried his sister after a murder-suicide. This is the THIRD family I know personally who have lost loved ones to violent crime - all within two years.

I'm beginning to think I'm a lightning rod for foul play.

In addition, my precious nephew Josh is on his way to Fort Benning to begin a three-year hitch in the military. It's essentially the beginning of his adulthood, the fulfillment of a dream he's had since he could talk. I'm not even his mother, but having a hard time of it. Feeling the empty nest syndrome, just as I did many years ago when his oldest sister left for college. When my son and visiting sister both went out last night, I could hardly stand the emptiness in the house (something I often cherish). 

So I tried to remove my mind from sorrowful thoughts through entertainment. I viewed two fact-based movies, both of which contained bittersweet elements. In my current state of mind, I'm dwelling on the heartbreak the characters experienced, rather than their joys. 

There is a healthy middle ground between empathizing with others' losses and wallowing in their misery. As a young girl, I found myself almost going through grief when friends did. When the mother of a high school friend died suddenly, I felt very bereft for some time. This might have been understandable if I had enjoyed a deep relationship with the woman, but I only knew her peripherally. My friendship was with her daughter, whose pain should not have overwhelmed me as it did. To counter this tendency, I learned to steel myself against heartbreak that was not my own; I could almost turn off the sadness of others, go beyond it back into my own life. Perhaps it's a positive sign that I'm returning to a more compassionate state of being, but I dare not let the sufferings of others engulf me as they once did. That is neither healthy nor productive.

I recall years ago when my own life was in a shambles and I had been trying in vain to find comfort. I made phone call after phone call, seeking consolation from every strong shoulder that came to mind. Exhausted, I wondered why my hours of yammering hadn't netted the relief I had prayed for. A voice spoke to me in my anguish, suggesting I call someone whose weak shoulders I might be able to shore up. As I obeyed, some of my own heartache began - ever so slightly - to ease.

All of which leads me back to my dear sister's entrance into my room this morning. I was frankly using the covers like a bomb shelter, trying vainly to deflect agony and pretending I would feel better if I allowed my mind to dissolve into unneeded sleep (which experience has taught me usually has quite the opposite effect). Jane interrupted my contemplated cop-out to ask me to pray for something that's been troubling her, and as we raised our worries to heaven, Philippians 4:8 began to take shape. We surely can't avoid pain, our own or others'. It finds us, as evidenced by my fruitless attempts yesterday to escape it. Yet, we can do something with the pain, rather than running from it.

Sure enough, as I was typing that last paragraph, the phone rang with a call from another dear soul who's also hurting on behalf of others. Together we laid our burdens before the great healer, who alone can bring solace both to those who grieve, and to those whose task is to help others grieve.

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Grief 2