The Faces of Recovery

"Whom you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here."

That's the opening admonition of every 12-step meeting I've ever attended, and I have no intention of violating that vital rule. That said, I am going to relate an incident which greatly encouraged me and I hope will put smiles on many a worrying face.

Last night I dragged myself out of my comfort zone and went to an Al Anon meeting. That's a bit of an overstatement, as I've gratefully attended many a recovery meeting on and off for nearly 40 years. It's OK to out myself, as I have very few secrets where my recovery past is concerned, so for the record, I'm a veteran of several such programs, and have found them to be literally lifesaving in the mental health department. But by "comfort zone" in this instance, I simply mean I was nice and comfy, relaxing in my room after a busy day, but decided at the last minute to un-comfort my cozy self and take care of my head (which tends to take on a life of its own when I'm worried about someone or something, as I was yesterday).

As happens often when I divest myself of "snuggy-ness" and do the right thing, I found myself richly rewarded.

This particular meeting is always well attended, and last night was no exception. Arriving a few minutes late (my usual MO), I found there was nary a chair to be had. Lots of cushion-y furniture is arranged in a circle in the main part of the room, and there are always a few folding chairs set up around the perimeter. Latecomers like me end up in those less desirable seats, but there wasn't even one of those to be found.

 I did, however, notice one chair in the outer circle with a bunch of junk on it - nothing like a coat or purse, which would have indicated someone was sitting there, or of course, I wouldn't have moved it. This meeting, like most 12-step meetings I'm aware of, took place in a room rented from a church. The items I'm referring to were "office-y" things from the church that had somehow ended up on the seat of this chair.

Here's where the miracle started to happen. A young man a few seats down, not realizing I had found a place to sit, stood up and offered me his chair! I quickly indicated that I had solved my dilemma, but thanked him profusely in whispered tones for his kindness.

Then miracle number two kicked in. Another young fellow had snagged himself a primo seat on the couch in the inner circle. I don't even know how he realized what I was struggling with, since theoretically, his eyes would have been on the speaker as opposed to something going on behind him. Nevertheless, he gallantly stood up and insisted I take his seat.

Let me insert here that I've been so conditioned by the supposed equalization of women (which, admittedly, has resulted in a much greater leveling of the playing field vocationally and economically, but has also yielded the unfortunate side effect of many niceties "gentlemen" used to perform for "ladies" going by the wayside) that both these acts of chivalry somewhat threw me. In the first case, the young man didn't need to follow through on his offer, as I had located a chair. In the second instance, I was being offered a more comfortable spot in the inner circle. This meant, because of the way the meeting typically runs, I would get a chance to "share" (i.e., say a few words about how I related to the topic of the meeting) before he would, and if time ran out, he might not have the chance to speak at all. Sharing is an important part of recovery, as it forces attendees out of their comfort zones and hopefully steers them towards healthier thinking.

So, you see, this guy wasn't just giving up a soft seat; he was potentially forfeiting his chance to grow a little bit in his recovery.

I had to make a split-second decision. Would I accept this young man's act of chivalry, or simply indicate that I would be fine in the austere chair I had cleared? I must admit, vanity played a small part in all this mental wrestling. Was he making the offer to a woman, or to an older woman? In other words, was his gallantry due to my sex or my age? The former, I found lovely. The latter, although still chivalrous, might suggest I was over the hill!

Laying those concerns aside, I accepted his gracious offer. I later reciprocated when, as I had predicted, the opportunity arose for me to share. I relinquished the privilege, offering it instead to my Sir Galahad, and publicly acknowledged both young men, who had truly proven themselves gentlemen.

I find this anecdote encouraging on many levels. Apparently, our society isn't as far-gone as many believe. There may be hope for us yet.

But wait. It gets better.

It turns out both the gentlemen to whom I've referred are in recovery for substance abuse. In fact, they were part of a group of recovering addicts who attended the Al Anon meeting for reasons of their own. Without divulging any of their stories, let me just say that all expressed gratitude for the warm welcome they received from a group they knew was formed in response to the antics of addicts.

In a time when so many are losing their lives to the opioid crisis and other forms of behavioral enslavement, it touched my heart deeply to witness such tender concern and humility on the part of those struggling with addiction. In short, it gives me great hope.

It also reinforces my resolve to pray for folks who are fighting a monkey on their backs. Statistically, the guys I saw last night run a high risk of relapsing. It behooves me to intercede for them and their loved ones, just as I appeal to the Almighty for those in my own life for whom this is a mortal battle.

There but for the grace of God go I.

"Seeing then that we have a great High Priest who has passed

 through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." 

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

Heel Heal Part 2

Beloved readers, I wanted to add an addendum secondary to receiving some feedback on this post. 

Apparently, I left the impression that I actually believe what my head sometimes tells me about "staying on God's good side" so as to avoid heavenly punishment. Let me state for the record that the God I serve does love me unequivocally, regardless of my missteps. While He does chasten His children, He does so lovingly and for our good. His goal is to train and mature us, as opposed to getting a kick out of punishing us.

In addition, we need only consider great martyrs of the faith and the persecuted church to realize that, quite often, bad things do happen to good people - people who, to our finite minds, surely deserve better.

Sadly, sometimes I allow flawed thinking to interfere with what I know to be true.

Thank goodness I can turn to the Scriptures to clarify bad-think when it rears its ugly head!

Now, back to the original article:


My wise father once told me it isn't up to me to defend God's reputation.

That said, I must report with mixed emotions that the pain relief I experienced two nights ago has been short-lived.

It occurred to me to take down my gleeful post from the other night. After all, doesn't it make both God and me look ridiculous (and perhaps show cruelty on the part of the Former) to have declared a healing which turned out to be less than 24 hours of respite?

No. And I'll tell you why.

First off, I'm no worse off than I was before this all happened. In fact, God graciously gave me an evening and night's sleep unhindered by foot pain - something I haven't been able to enjoy for some time.

Second, a question that was plaguing me can be shelved for another day. I couldn't help but wonder, in the midst of my rejoicing, why me?

People typically ask that question when they've been on the receiving end of bad circumstances, like a cancer diagnosis or the death of a loved one. In my case, despite singing God's praises for my apparent healing, I couldn't help but wonder why a relatively minor (albeit quite unpleasant) problem like mine was singled out for healing, while I can list countless friends suffering from debilitating pain, disability and life-threatening illness.

Where's their healing?

Indeed, if anyone's going to claim unfairness, it ought to be cancer patients who experience remission, only to have the disease come roaring back and oftentimes take their lives after years of valiant combat. In searching for meaning in what I've experienced, I must admit that now, at least I have an inkling of what such heroic folks go through.

And another thing. My mind leans toward cause and effect, actions and consequences. If something goes wrong in my world, I wonder what sins God is punishing me for, or what lesson He can only teach me through trouble. Conversely, when something goes well - especially something major like a perceived healing - I tick off reasons for my good fortune. When I thought my foot was healed, I struggled against wanting to take partial credit.

My thinking went something like this: "Instead of getting wrapped up in self-pity over the limitations my pain was inflicting, I nobly served from home last weekend. Instead of focusing on what I couldn't do, I found things like letter writing and phone calling that would bless others without causing my foot any fuss. Oh, and let's not forget that I went to church Sunday night, instead of yielding to laziness, and if I hadn't gone to church, I wouldn't have reconnected with Ed, and he wouldn't have prayed over my foot, and..."

You get the picture.

The only problem was, for every right choice I found, I came up with half a dozen wrong ones that should, if blessings result from good decisions balancing out bad, have knocked me completely out of the running.

I know. I think too much.

Then, there's the manipulative part of my makeup that wanted to make sure I didn't do anything to put the kibosh on this wonderful miracle. In other words, what heavenly bar would I have to uphold in order for God not to withdraw His benevolence in this area of my life?

For instance, if I'm supposed to get a handle on gluttony, well, that's been a lifelong battle with varying levels of success (mostly failure, truth be told). But maybe if I took off weight again, and kept it off this time, and never pigged out again, and kept up with all my exercises more religiously, and... and... and...

Like I said, I overthink things.

I must confess deep disappointment. For one thing, cortisone treatment, here I come. I'm not looking forward to that, or to the waiting I'll have to do (the docs can't see me till June) for an appointment that may or may not yield the desired result.

But the God I serve is bigger than any temporary or even lingering disappointment.

The God I serve can't be manipulated any more than He can be reached by human achievement, as the builders in Babel found out.

The God I serve doesn't take my pain lightly. While it may seem trivial when stacked up against terminal diagnoses and crippling disabilities, it's still very real to me. If it weren't so real, the relief wouldn't have been so welcome.

Yes, the pain is real - but so was the temporary reprieve, and so is the Redeemer.

And, by the way, it's still all about His glory.

As Ed so correctly observed, it's about the Healer, not the healing. The band, MercyMe, poignantly points this out in their crowning composition, The Hurt and the Healer:

So here I am

What's left of me

When glory meets my suffering

I'm alive

Even though a part of me has died

You take my heart and breathe it back to life

I fall into Your arms open wide

When the hurt and the Healer collide*

So, where does all this leave me? As I struggle to understand the events of the last few days, two passages resonate, calling this disappointed but still faith-filled daughter back to the altar. I'll let the prophet Habakkuk and the apostle Paul have the last words:

Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls—

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;

He will make my feet like deer’s feet,

And He will make me walk on my high hills.

~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

And lest I should be exalted above measure by the abundance of the revelations, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I be exalted above measure. Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. 

 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.

 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. 

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10        

*Bryson, J., Cochran, N., Graul, B., Millard, B., Scheuchzer, M., and Robby Shaffer. (2012). 
       The Hurt & the Healer [Lyrics]. Retrieved from    
       https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mercyme/thehurtthehealer.html

For more like this, check out: Disappointment

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.

Out of the Comfort Zone, Into the Conference (AKA, Deliverance 3)

With apologies (and explanation) to my patient readers, to whom I haven't written since January 1, I offer the following:

The Conference

“This is gonna make a great blog article,” I told my friend Mary by way of apology, after keeping her waiting for the second time the morning we were both set to pitch manuscripts to agents at The Philadelphia Writing Workshop. The first offense was when I took too long in the shower and found her patiently playing with her phone as I combed the tangles out of my hair. The second infraction was when I couldn't locate my car in the motel parking garage (panic button notwithstanding) and had to beg the attendant to help me cruise the lot to find my misplaced vehicle. After a harrowing 20 minutes, I emerged from the depths to find Mary had given up waiting at our designated meeting spot and enlisted a motel attendant to help locate her MIA friend.

Mary and I had taken a room together the night before to avoid doing the last-minute rush thing into the city. A darn good idea, too, as I had more than a little agita just getting into Rittenhouse Square Friday night. I’m not a city girl – never have been – and after my thrill-laced adventure into town, I’m convinced, never will be. Combining two and a half hours of rush hour traffic, pedestrian peccadillos, detours, and GPS systems that disregard one-way streets, let's just say the trip was torturous. 

But I'm starting at the end. In the words of Good Witch Glinda, “It’s always best to begin at the beginning,” so, without further ado…

The Idea

Mary Dolan Flaherty emailed me a “Rah Rah, Let’s Write!” article several months ago, after the two of us had engaged in a complaint fest about the pitfalls most writers encounter while honing their craft. At the bottom of the piece was a link to the aforementioned conference, which we both decided to attend. Hence, the room and giggle sharing Friday night.

Alas, if I thought writing had roadblocks, I quickly determined that preparing for a conference to pitch one’s writing signals the starting gun for the mother of all roadblocks.

The Washer

Taking it chronologically, the delays started with the breakdown of my washing machine shortly after New Years. My son beckoned me urgently one evening after starting up said machine, explaining the thing had harrumphed, danced a few inches across the basement floor, then unceremoniously shut off. This necessitated several calls to the manufacturer to troubleshoot and verify what I already knew – the warranty had expired – but they thought they could fix it. Three hundred plus dollars and a missed day of work later, the deed was done, and Mom’s Laundromat was back in business.

The Computer

Next, my computer started misbehaving. You know the drill – sluggishness, refusal to summon the Internet (I think the newest protocol insists we not capitalize the “i” in that all-important, can’t-live-with-it, can’t-live-without-it technological wonder), etc., etc., etc. Don’t get me wrong: the device was upwards of ten years old, had patiently accepted the keying in of three manuscript overhauls –
in short, didn’t owe me anything. But why now!

Despite my objections, and not a few consults and troubleshooting visits from my long-suffering, computer savvy friend, Eileen, the diagnosis proved fatal, necessitating research, complaining, shopping trips, more complaining, and finally, a brand-spanking-new computer. I bragged proudly to Eileen after successfully transferring all my files from the old machine onto an external hard drive, which took a couple of hours away from my writing endeavors, but all to the good, right? Wrong. Turned out the external drive had gone the way of the old computer, and none of my files was retrievable. Cue Eileen, who made yet another emergency trip to my doorstep, only to deliver the unwelcome news that a second file transfer was in order. I grumbled my way through, but at last witnessed the lights of glory in the form of a usable new computer with usable, stored files. Only problem was a new operating system that demanded I learn its machinations before getting any appreciable work done.

The Water Heater… and the Flu

In the midst of all this frolicking, my water heater decided to malfunction. Delightful, hot showers began to wax frigid in the middle of my second chorus of “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” – all this in the middle of winter. What to do? The plumber – who had already dropped by to tighten a loose radiator valve (I believe “phlange” is the actual term he spouted after taking two minutes to fix a problem that cost me a whole day of work) – declared a new appliance was probably in order.

All was set for February 20, a holiday from school so I wouldn’t have to inconvenience my employer yet again – but the best laid plans… Nobody told my lungs I had an appointment that day, so instead of welcoming the plumber, I greeted a bad case of flu, which landed me in the emergency room secondary to breathing problems. My bed and I became besties that week, during which time tissues and inhalers got up close and personal with my airways.

Oh, and the water heater installation? Rescheduled, of course.

The Festive and the Not So Festive

The month of March arrived and, with it, new resolve on my part to hunker down with writing and conference prep. There were, however, two or twenty items yet on my to-do list, not least, the birthday celebrations of both my sons and newly adopted, “labor-less daughter” Elise – all within a week of each other! Happy diversions, to be sure, bookended between less pleasant plot twists like satisfying Uncle Sam’s yearly demand for tax computation, completing school financial aid forms, and tending to a nuisance insurance claim. ¡Ay caramba!

I persevered, promising myself that productivity lay just around the corner. What I hadn’t figured on, though, was a ramp up of work stress, including but not limited to an after-school assignment that went from 45 minutes one day a week to three hour sessions three days a week.

Can you see, neglected readers, why I haven't blogged since the first of the year?

The Deliverance

Somewhere amidst all these amusements, the story of Gideon leapt to mind. 

Gideon, the unlikely war hero, whom kept God waiting while he attempted to verify almighty instructions. Gideon, who carried out divine directions under cover of darkness, lest he receive repercussions from flesh and blood, only to find his covert action was anything but. Gideon, who gathered his nerve while enemies gathered around him.

Gideon, who subjected Omnipotence to terrestrial tests. Gideon, whose army God whittled down to 300 trembling men, to whom He assigned the unenviable task of opposing the mighty Midianites and their Amalekite allies.

Gideon, whose woefully inadequate army God likened to a banal loaf of bread. Gideon, who carried off the bluff of the century with trumpets and torches, resulting in the overthrow of aforementioned enemies.

Gideon, whose victory with ragtag resources gave this author hope of success despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

The Outcome

Turned out many of the setbacks I experienced over this past season were actually gifts. Waiting for repairmen and for illness to subside afforded huge blocks of largely uninterrupted time. Time to tweak my manuscript and assemble materials for agent review (never mind that none of said materials ended up being examined by said agents). In addition, I found I work better under pressure than I once thought, managing to pack three months of preparation into three weekends. 

The surprise ending? I didn't hate the process! Rather, I found myself enjoying my characters and story arc, reveling in newfound enthusiasm in the midst of a third rewrite! 

The best part? Two of the three agents I pitched requested a book synopsis and sample chapters! 

Deliverance. Seemed Easter was a fitting day to expound on that theme.

[Jesus] said, "The things which are impossible with men 

are possible with God!" Luke 18:27

For more like this, check out: Reflections by Thea: Deliverance

Reflections by Thea: Deliverance Part 2, AKA, Jurassic Park Revisited

Reflections by Thea: God Rather Than Men

Miracle Child

My friend is very concerned about a family member, whose actions have resulted in the breakup of a marriage and the lives of several school aged children being turned upside down. I pray for this household when I remember, but recently something occurred to bring the whole matter much closer to my heart.

I was visiting my friend’s new baby, whose little body was sweetly wrapped in handmade clothing – gifts, I learned, from the family member who went astray. Before giving way to temptation and sin, this person had lovingly crafted the items for a not-yet-born niece or nephew.

Somehow, seeing these tiny wearables made the situation more real for me. Before, it had been someone else’s problem, someone else’s “family secret,” about which I was concerned from a polite distance. But here lay a child, wearing evidence of the love in this troubled person’s heart for an unknown infant, before darker impulses took over.

It brought me to my knees.

It also brought to mind the following verse, which more or less includes every misdeed of which mankind is capable. Some are explicitly stated; others, included by extension, for what offense isn’t motivated by desire and envy when you get right down to it?

“Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals. nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God. And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.”  ~   1 Corinthians 6:9-11

I intend to stamp the image of those grace-filled garments onto my brain, as a reminder to pray for both wearer and bearer.

The following song by the Newsboys is my prayer for this misguided soul:

Miracle Child

For more like this, check out: Between

Unshackled

Today, January 16, 2016, Pastor Saeed Abedini and several other American detainees were released from Iranian captivity. A deal was cut between our country and Iran – a prisoner exchange – which is not the way I would have done it if I were making decisions, but I’m not and so be it.

Regardless of how it was accomplished, this is a direct answer to prayer. My friend, Tina, and I have been praying and fasting over this matter for months now. Others have been praying just as hard, and organizations like the American Center for Law and Justice have been petitioning and demanding his release for years.

A friend’s son slipped into eternity last night. He must have felt imprisoned in his own skin, and chose to end a life of pain and agony. I empathize with this young man because the cold fingers of despair have gripped my heart at various low points in my life, luring me to yield to the same unthinkable temptation. But for the grace of God, my loved ones might still be mourning a desperate decision based on circumstances that got oh so much better just because someone convinced me to hang in there.

Shackles. That’s what held both these sufferers captive. Visible or not, tangible or not, these fetters eat into the skin and infect the victim’s insides with rot and disease. In Saeed’s case, physical confinement held an American citizen hostage for over three years; in the latter situation, a despondent teen succumbed to whatever mental torture drove him to a desperate, irreversible act.

My soul wants to rejoice with Saeed, even as it mourns with my friend. More importantly, my spirit wants to cry out to others who are in captivity not to give up before the miracle. The miracle may be a dramatic, life changing improvement - an unshackling, if you will. It may show up as clouds that shape themselves into an angel or a cross. It may be nothing more than a sunrise breaking over a new day, providing opportunity to better one’s circumstances.

Or it may be something a Jewish carpenter did two millennia ago that people are still talking about today.

No matter what form the unshackling takes, it’s worth waiting for.

“God found Gideon in a hole. He found Joseph in a prison. 

He found Daniel in a lion’s den.

He has a curious habit of showing up in the midst of trouble, 
not the absence. 

Where the world sees failure, God sees future.

Next time you feel unqualified to be used by God remember this,

he tends to recruit from the pit, not the pedestal.”   -  Jon Acuff

 Check out Matthew West's Hello, My Name Is 

A postscript: I know a young person who was upset over his grandmother's passing. He was so distraught that it occurred to him to take his own life so he could go and join her. A wise counselor advised him, since he was still young and had barely begun his life, a better plan would be to honor her by "living a little extra for Grandma." 

Grade School Heroes Part 2

Around this time last year, I blogged about several brave schoolgirls who took risks to befriend me in my youth. As I organize my backpack for a new year, I find myself reminiscing once again about these dear ones. God has brought to mind another young angel who stood up for me during that crucial time in my life; in addition to recounting her efforts, I want to update my musings on Joy, Jean and Lisa, based on their names. What appears in quotation marks is reprinted from Grade School Heroes Part 1. I have highlighted in red the pieces of their names which connect to their good works:

"Joy Waters, a minister's daughter, reached out and refused to join in with the others' harassment of me. She wasn't brave enough, as a second grader, to launch a campaign or anything, but she quietly made it known that she didn't share in the prevailing opinion. She was, quite simply, a Godsend."

Joy, living up to her name, definitely delivered fruit of the Spirit to me during some otherwise joyless years. Through her kindness, she gave my parched spirit a foretaste of Christ's living water.

"Towards the end of those lonely years, God sent Jean News into my life. I later learned she stood up for me one day while I was absent and the kids decided to hold a Thea-bashing session. Jean was socially everything I was not - involved, outgoing, and most importantly, well-liked. Her voice held sway. If I didn't gain in popularity, at least the bullies began to leave me alone."

I'm not sure if Jean understood the good news of the Gospel, but hearing about her defense of me was the best news I had had all year. If I met her today, the first thing I'd do would be to share the good news of salvation so she could be assured of heaven, of which her faithfulness gave me an earthly taste.

"God provided yet another angel, Lisa Sanborn, who candidly admitted she liked me, but simply couldn't take the risk of letting it be known, lest she become the next victim. I grasped her invisible help like a man in quicksand grabs hold of a life preserver... Lisa's whispered words comforted and strengthened my flickering self-esteem. I held on for dear life."

I don't know if Lisa was born again, but her encouragement renewed my flagging spirits and helped me carry on.

In last year's post I neglected to acknowledge another saint whose contribution to my self-worth was immeasurable. Iris Reason spoke up for me when I was being tormented after gym class one day. In one small act of loyalty, she refused to cower before bullies and made me feel protected. Interestingly, the iris provides the color in the eye and prevents the pupil, AKA, the "apple of the eye," from being endangered by too much light. Iris "colored my world with hope" and tried to keep me safe. Her bravery put some sanity into my existence in which I was hated without reason. I'll never forget her.

"So on the eve of a new school year, I offer thanks to these dear souls. Their varying levels of courage did not in any way diminish the gift that each gave me in my darkest hours: the gift of a hand outstretched, however trembling, to one that needed to be held."

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Grade School Heroes

Morsels for Meditation...: School Bells and Ink Quills

Morsels for Meditation...: Lockers and Notebooks...

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

Bereft or Blessed?

Those are the emotions I'm swinging between now.

Our canine house guest, Tripp, just departed. Gone are the comfy pillows he snuggled on while I typed and he napped. Gone is the baby gate that was supposed to keep him out of the construction area of my house (it worked 75% of the time, but that story will have to wait for another post). Gone are his food bowls and the pleading look that materialized whenever they were empty.

I know I need to count my blessings when I get into a funk like this, and there are plenty of them. Opening a prayer guide packet this morning, I came upon Luke 6:38: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you." Ephesians 3:20, one of my all-time favorites, followed: "Now [God] is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us..." Finally, Philippians 4:19 leaped out at me: "And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of His glory in Christ Jesus."

Still, I feel bereft.

I gave a talk at my Al Anon meeting last night about the ways God has provided for me over the years. I recalled the anonymous monetary gifts my husband and I received when he was in medical school. I described taking a blind leap of faith by leaving a job without having a new one lined up. My then-toddler son was accompanying me to my part-time job at a day care center, which helped with expenses while Mike was earning his medical degree. My little boy began acting out in order to divert my attention from the other dozen kids I had to manage. When my request for him to be placed in a separate class was denied, I regretfully left the position. A week later, the director begged me to return in a substitute capacity, where I was given more hours and, lo and behold, a separate class for my son!

Next, I recounted the financial terror I felt when leaving my husband, then finding just enough money in our joint savings account to pay my son's school tuition in advance. I looked back on my first job after becoming a single parent: how God used my sister to find the perfect work-at-home position that would allow me to care for my children; how I really shouldn't have gotten it because, in despair over my marital situation, I had to cancel the interview, thinking I'd never hear from the employer again. Miraculously, he still wanted to hire me, and we worked together for five years, just long enough for me to get my younger son into school so I could begin a full-time position with benefits. I recalled having a flexible weekend job drop into my lap, providing just enough money for the orthodontia my older son badly needed. I related God's most recent resourcefulness in having me stumble across a cache of jewelry and coins left over from my parents' estate, which has brought in much needed funds for an essential home renovation project.

And these are just the highlights! I've shared in the past how my parents and sisters have been an incredible source of blessing and support to my children and me. I might not even have a decent place to live or the wherewithal to fix it up, were it not for the exorbitant generosity of my family of origin.

Yet, somehow my mind keeps getting trapped in anxiety. As the bills for the kitchen project come due, my savings are taking a hit (the second major one after I had to replace my car two years ago). I'm questioning some past monetary decisions which I hoped would please the Lord, yet seem to have come back to bite me.

I don't want to go backwards. When I opened my talk last night, I remembered being driven by great financial worry as a young adult. For example, I used to buy huge quantities of sale items at the grocery store. Only later did I realize my behavior was rooted in the irrational fear that those things might never be on sale again. I didn't want to miss out or be caught short! I fretted over recreational spending in the same way I fretted over recreation itself when I was in college; somehow I must have thought every dime and every minute needed to be reserved for life's necessities, as opposed to its niceties. Balance lost out to business every time.

I don't want to go backwards. If I'm to avoid it, I must focus on the fact that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, and (as evidenced by the steaks in my refrigerator), He's only too happy to share them with me.

"Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God." ~ Psalm 42:11

Boxes

At the risk of over-spiritualizing the mundane, I have to state that I'm happily flabbergasted at the way God has simplified a potentially overwhelming task.

My family is in the throes of a major house renovation, and boxes of all shapes and sizes were needed to pack up two rooms. Normally, I would have had to prowl around in super markets and liquor stores to avoid tossing my belongings into trash bags at the last minute. This time, though, I felt the Almighty smiling on my predicament, as He strategically steered me to hallways, grocery store aisles and even trash sites to stumble across a veritable cornucopia of cardboard. My newly employed son even called from work with an offer to stash rather than trash a large array of cartons.

God, not the Devil, really is in the details.

Moses Revisited

It's been way too long since I blogged. Then I get out of the habit and it feels like a burden... when really, it's a privilege.

What's been on my mind is how like Moses I am. When he was asked - commanded, actually - to put the squeeze on Pharaoh to let God's people go, he resisted. His first objection was basically, "Why me? What have I got to offer?" (Exodus 3:11). When God assured His servant that He would be with him every step of the way, Moses worried that he wouldn't have answers to the questions he might be asked. Again, God patiently addressed Moses' concern. Still not satisfied, the shepherd who had miraculously been rescued by none other than Pharaoh's daughter (during a blood bath her father had launched against male Hebrew babies) fretted that his audience might not believe him. The Lord, doubtless weary of His servant's unbelief and unwillingness to take on what He had equipped him to do, let loose a couple of miracles to remind Moses with Whom he was allied.

Incredibly, Moses was not through arguing! He next protested that he wasn't eloquent enough to persuade Pharaoh (Exodus 4:10). Here is where I get the chills, as the God of the universe takes responsibility for the full gamut of human capability, ranging from the deficient to the extraordinary:
 
"So the Lord said to him, 'Who has made man’s mouth? Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, the Lord?  Now therefore, go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you shall say.'" (4:11)

I'm astonished that this patriarch, born of God's chosen race and adopted into Egyptian royalty, still continued to doubt he had the credentials to do this job. Had he realized how much courage it took to contend with almighty God, surely he would have seen the ludicrousness of fearing an earthly king.

Yet, after all God's reassurances, underscored by physical signs of just what He was capable of, Moses begged God to send someone else, anyone else (4:13).

I was recently called by God to plead a cause of my own to a human authority. At first I tried to worm my way out by denying evidence that was right before my eyes to avoid getting involved. The Lord was relentless, and refused to remove the commission. I then sought to ally myself with others so I wouldn't have to face the situation alone. When it became obvious I needed to accept the challenge with only God (did I just say only God?) to accompany me, I spent hours preparing and rehearsing what I would say.


At the heart of my behavior was cold fear. The situation had triggered the memory of a similar experience in which I had been belittled, mistreated and outnumbered. I didn't want that to happen again. In addition, I've always considered myself a poor verbal debater; I'm exponentially more comfortable trying to persuade unknown readers out there than real live hearers right here. I pretty much relived Moses' conversation with God, with about as much success. In the end I limped into the meeting with nothing but heavenly armor covering my knocking knees, and emerged to sing praises to the Lord who did exceedingly abundantly, above all I could ask or think, according to His power (Ephesians 3:20), that did indeed work through this quivering clay vessel.

How dare I be amazed.

Check out Chris Tomlin's Our God