Primrose Path

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

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

As always, to Him be the glory.

Welcome to my garden, such as it is!

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

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

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

Consider the following passage from 1 Corinthians 15:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew! What a relief.

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

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

What a Savior. 

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

Reach Up!

Many Christmases ago, I posted a piece called Low Branches about how our great God bridges the gap between our feeble efforts and His perfection. As I was praying recently, that concept reemerged into my mind, but in greater detail.

I thought of Moses climbing Mount Sinai to obtain the ten commandments, those two stone tablets which provide God's instructions for holy living. I recollected how this paragon of faith, in a fit of righteous indignation, smashed the words written by God Himself.

But our God is a God of second chances. He gave Moses and the people (not least Moses’s brother, Aaron, whose actions provoked Moses’s rashness in the first place, and who blamed his foolishness on the very people he led into idolatry) a second set of commandments after Moses destroyed the first.

What a patient, forgiving deity. 

This same divine being sent His Son to earth to wash away the sins of believers and grant His children unlimited access to His presence, even though our sin warrants the very opposite.

I'm going through a time of frailty (aren't we always, when we get right down to it? but some seasons of living just feel more fragile than others). As is so often the case, this period of fragility is finding me wakeful, watchful, and wistful. I'm reaching up with extra gusto to seek God’s hands, using the vehicle of prayer that never fails to get me to the right destination. I’m counting extra hard on the Lord’s cleansing nature and open door policy for believers, subjects about which I wrote quite confidently years ago. 

Did I mean it then? Do I believe it now?

Reaching up is the only way I know to find out. Vulnerability can be a companion to desperation or determination. By God's grace, I'm leaning towards the latter.

To quote Tiny Tim, whose words still ring true nearly two centuries after Dickens penned them, “God bless us, every one.”

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~

Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

In my last post, I discussed allowing myself to be thrown off kilter by a "Scrooge" after having an otherwise very balanced day. Subsequent to that post, "Scrooge" apologized for being grouchy, and I, likewise, took ownership of my grumpy reaction.

All was very copacetic with the person in question for awhile, but things took a turn for the worse again last night.

I wasn't expecting this, it being Christmas and all.

What happened to "Silent Night" with all being calm and bright?

My evening was more like "strident night, all is wild, all's a blight."

Ho, ho ho.

The thing is, I'm getting tired of the vicissitudes. The rolling back and forth with the waves of other people's dispositions and moods.

I crave equanimity in my own spirit.

And I claim it.

But how? 

After many years in a 12-step program, and even more years in God's boot camp, I'm coming to the realization that, if things are to going to change, the change must begin with me. 

If I'm to break the cycle of reacting and overreacting, grousing and apologizing, expecting and being disappointed - well, then, it's up to me to step off the hamster wheel. To "let the dervishes whirl," as it were. 

I guess I'm a slow learner.

There's a nice little reading in one of the Al-Anon pieces of literature that describes the process of letting go. Of allowing the other person in a relationship to choose his own attitudes and responses and decisions, and not holding him responsible for mine.

I'm thinking this makes a lot of sense.

Long before Al-Anon came along, a smart guy named James, inspired by the Holy Spirit, offered some similar advice:

2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, 

3 knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. 4 But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him. 6 But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea driven and tossed by the wind. 7 For let not that man suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; 8 he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways...

19 So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; 

20 for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God...

26 If anyone among you thinks he is religious, and does not bridle his tongue but deceives his own heart, this one’s religion is useless...

7 Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. 8 Draw near to God and He will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners; and purify your hearts, you double-minded.

The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much. 

~ excerpts from The Book of James, found in The Bible, 

which consistently tops bestseller lists, despite efforts to eradicate its impact

So, I guess I’ve got some work to do.

But at least I’m in excellent company.

Lightweight

It’s come to my attention that I’m a lightweight. Not where the scale’s concerned, heaven forbid. But in matters requiring self-improvement, and the steps needed to get there – well, that’s another matter.

Specifically, I’m engaged in the Beta reading process for my manuscript. This means fellow writers and non-writers whose opinions I respect are graciously giving of their time to read and critique the novel I’ve been laboring over for three years. This process, in theory, will give me the tools I need to perfect the book before finally foisting it on the agents who expressed interest at the conference I attended last April. I should add, my Beta readers are reviewing draft number three, which means drafts one and two have gone by the wayside and been replaced by this “new and improved” version.

But “new and improved” are two little words which are, I’m learning with chagrin, most assuredly a matter of interpretation.

Here’s a sampling of what I expected my critics to say upon laying down the final page:

“Perfect as is!”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world!”

This last one is so obvious, I’m embarrassed to even mention it: “How has society survived this long without the pearls of wisdom in your book?”

Oddly enough, my critics found room for improvement.

The advice I received is research based and makes good sense (my author friend has taken classes and is a veteran of the very same conferences I attended). More dialogue and action, less rumination. Distinguish characters by giving them habits or mannerisms that set them apart from each other. Don’t break the momentum of the scene by having the narrator wax philosophical or having too many “in the head” moments. In short, propel the plot forward at all times to keep readers engaged.

But here’s where the lightweight label comes into play. While my ears absorbed the wisdom in these astute suggestions, my mind’s eye saw a billboard flashing bold, neon letters: “This means a fourth draft, Lightweight!”

As much as I hate to admit it, my ego isn’t the sturdiest piece of my makeup, and those gently delivered truths toppled it a bit. Not completely, though, I’m happy to say. Like Weebles© which “wobble but they don’t fall down” (remember those bottom-heavy toys we used to play with? An apt comparison for yours truly, in more ways than one), I lurched a little, struggling to find balance and steady my bruised psyche, even while realizing the criticisms were for my own good.

For authors, rewrites are the name of the game. In the half hour or so I’ve been working on this piece, I’ve hit “backspace” probably 50 times or more. Revisions are the nitty-gritty, brass tacks, meat and potatoes – pick your cliché – of the writing process. I sat in a workshop in which agents perused writers’ opening pages to decide whether to read on or do their version of The Gong Show, and those professionals weren’t kind. The material either grabbed them right away or it didn’t, and they didn’t concern themselves with little things like the author’s self-esteem. That said, much as I would relish sweet, syrupy words of admiration from my critique readers, disingenuous praise won’t get me past the publishing world’s gatekeepers.

So here I sit, pondering my fourth draft, and gagging at the prospect.

On a related note, I recently had to do a little “surgery” on the American flag mounted by my front porch. When the wind would catch it a certain way, one corner became snagged in the bracket securing the pole and, well, it got in its own way. My flag was quickly coming to resemble the one that inspired Francis Scott Key to pen our National Anthem – tattered, but intact.

Independence Day was fast approaching and I realized that, by the time I took the trouble to replace my ailing banner, the Fourth would be a distant memory. Expediency won out over veneration, and I decided a slightly frayed flag would be better than no flag at all to honor the land of the free and home of the brave.

With that in mind, I excised the ripped portion, hoping no patriotism police were lurking about, waiting to charge me with desecration (if flag burning comes under the category of free speech, surely flag snipping must fall under the same protection). The end result was an emblem with imperfect but smoother edges, and one that won’t keep getting caught up in itself.

I need to submit to the same process to which I subjected this symbol of our nation’s freedom. Vicissitudes, be they viewpoints, winds of fancy or emotions, aren’t going to let up just because I want them to. But I don’t have to let them keep unsettling me. Rather, I must allow wiser Hands than mine to shape my ragged ends and cut out what isn’t right.

Still, I try to tell God His business: “Every day that I ‘waste’ rewriting this manuscript is another day the abortion industry goes unchecked and unchallenged, capturing young minds and hearts! Every day that goes by is another day society brainwashes our youth, telling them aborted children feel no pain while their limbs are being wrenched off, and that post-abortive parents feel nothing but relief after believing that lie and destroying their offspring!”

He calmly reminds me He’s in charge of the timetable, and my ranting isn’t going to change that. Perhaps He’s using this time to strengthen my resolve and make me better able to withstand even harsher criticism when the book finds its way into print. Certainly, He knows which words are needed to change people’s thought processes, which is what I’m endeavoring to do; apparently, getting those words right takes multiple tries.

Whatever His reasons may be, I’m choosing to – relax isn’t the right word – but simply take the gun away from my head and rest in His timing. And that’s a huge relief.

 "My times are in Your hand." Psalm 31:15

Hurry Up and Wait!

This has been my theme for the summer and really the past few months. I blogged last spring about some physical challenges I was having, which have subsided almost completely, thanks be to God! But they required time, patience and no small amount of delays, as I trekked to doctors' offices and PT appointments, waiting for meds and therapies to get on board.

In exchange for some much needed hedge trimming, the Lord has seen fit to zap me with a not-as-bad-as-it-could-be case of poison ivy, for which I'm taking steroids and trying not to scratch. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I try to envision my face free of blotches and the angry, red rash - mentally rushing to the end of this annoying waiting game.

One step forward and two steps back. That's another piece of the phase I'm in. Towards the end of the school year, a clog in my bathroom sink turned into a leak in the dining room and basement, which turned into a protracted series of conversations with plumbers, vendors and insurance agents. After all has been said and done, I find myself with a beautiful new bathroom floor, under which is nestled an expensive new set of pipes which will hopefully prevent this sort of thing in the future. There's a sequel to this drama, though. Having made all the arrangements to paint so the floor will have pretty new walls to dance with, I find I need to completely strip off all the current paint first. After my sister scrubbed walls and my son dutifully took sand paper to the old stuff, instead of politely accepting the touch up, the remaining paint decided to peel and flake. Sure can't put on a new coat till that's seen to.

Hurry up and wait.

A dear friend, Angela Schans, whom I met at the Greater Philadelphia Christian Writers Conference, has been donating gobs of time to help me set up a YouTube channel so I can promote myself a little better. Specifically, I want to post the video of my public reading last May of my short story, "Phoenix," which was published in 50 Over Fifty: A Celebration of Established and Emerging Women Writers. 

Sounds simple, right? Not so much. A combination of my lack of expertise with technology and a generally uncooperative computer setup are making this seemingly small task difficult and time-consuming. Angela has brought new meaning to the words "patience" and "tenacity," and I am so fortunate to have her in my life.

Enough already! I'm waiting for the waiting to end!

As I deal with all this nonsense, I'm reminded of something important. Years ago - it seems like eons, really - before the terms "Netflix" and "binge-watching" had been coined, there was a certain delightful agony in awaiting the conclusion of a multi-part series. For instance, in the early '90's I traveled to Washington, D.C. with my husband and parents. We were all engrossed at the time in a multi-part television mystery, biting our respective nails as we waited for each weekly installment. I fondly recall the long car ride, and how we each presented our arguments as to who the killer might be.

It was such fun to wonder, even though it was torture to wait. 

These days, we live in the era of instant oatmeal and binge-watching (both of which I enjoy as much as the next guy). But I submit that when we curl up with our popcorn and clicker for marathon viewing, we take time to realize that we're giving up something precious: the gift of anticipation.

When my son was a preschooler, he stumbled onto a gift I had hidden for his birthday. It was a kid's tool set (little did I know then that he'd turn out to be my "hands on" guy and grow up to be a tradesman). Boy, he couldn't wait to get his hands on that thing! The easy thing would've been to give it to him then and pick up something else for his big day. Lord knows, he wheedled! But even as a young mom, I somehow knew he needed to learn the joyous pain of waiting. Somehow he survived till March 16, and I truly believe the hours of longing he endured made the toy that much more precious to him.

As I ponder my current circumstances, I have to admit there's an up side. The guys who beautified my bathroom (Dave McGoldrick and associate Dan and Philip Congialdi and associates John, Gary and Mick) were reliable, thorough, neat, and all-around good sports as they broke up cement flooring in 90 degree heat. My plumbers proved themselves once again to be crackerjack in their profession. They even threw in a freebie - a new shower head to replace my old one that was clinging to life. I ended up receiving discounts from both contractors, because that's the kind of men they are. They actually built potential costs into their proposals, so I got a nice surprise at the end when I owed less than was quoted. A great way to run a business, in my view.

I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I could uncover blessings hidden amidst my peeling paint and itchy forehead. For now, I'm going to content myself with letting God do what He does best: work behind the scenes, knowing I'll get the full picture when He thinks I'm ready for it.

"Wait on the Lord; Be of good courage, And He shall strengthen your heart;
Wait, I say, on the Lord!"

Psalm 27:14

They Just Want a Bow

For those who don't know, I work in the educational realm, assisting students of varying ages and walks of life. An interesting incident happened one Christmas, which confirmed a fascinating phenomenon I first observed years ago. In the spirit of peace on earth and good will toward men, I revisit the story now.

I had received a gift from a grateful teacher, which she had

adorned with an attractive but ordinary holiday bow. Taking notice of
the decoration, one of my students pleaded with me to give it to her. This particular young lady was something of a challenge, trying the patience of both peers and professionals through negative, attention-seeking behaviors. Thinking quickly, I outlined some behavioral expectations she would have to meet for the duration of class in order to win the desired prize. At the end of the period, having risen to the occasion, she proudly displayed her trinket.

Another student, whose disruptive behaviors belied a mass of insecurity manifesting alternately in tears and bravado, begged for a holiday bauble that he, too, could show off. I had to regretfully tell him I had no other. He assumed his "I don't care" stance and swaggered out into the hall and his holidays.

These happenings took me back almost 10 years ago, when I was assigned to a class of seniors reminiscent of the "sweathogs" of Welcome Back, Kotter fame. Many of these kids were troubled and unruly. One student was perpetually absent, so I struck a deal with him: come to school every day for an entire week, and receive a reward. To my surprised delight, this tattooed, biker-bearded teen met the challenge one week, and looked to me for his winnings. Unprepared, I searched around in my bag of tricks (similar to Mary Poppins' carpetbag, my over-the-shoulder tote houses everything from school supplies to first aid items, and quite a bit in-between). I could come up with nothing but a rumpled sheet of stickers of a cartoon character popular with the nursery school crowd. To my utter amazement, this 250-pound truant broke into a Grand Canyon-sized grin. He snatched up the stickers and with them, all the stock I had put in his "tough guy" braggadocio.

Like most kids I've met, this guy just wanted a "bow." Not a Christmas bow, but a token of self-worth. The burly bruiser he passed himself off as gave way to the little boy inside, who needed to be accepted and loved as well as held accountable.

I've been handing out stickers ever since (and silly pencils and themed erasers and whatever odds and ends are hiding in the bottom of my bag). The occasional wise guy who scoffs at my goodies frequently melts when he sees his peers lapping them up. The gifts are incidental; the value affixed to them is the attraction. The smallest bit of recognition gives an excellent student a well-deserved accolade and an underachiever something to shoot for.

Seems like a no-brainer to me.

For more like this, check out:

Dusty and Chewy: They Just Want a Bow Part 2

Annoying Body Parts

Yup, you read that right. A silly title, I'll admit, but it gets the point across.

What I'm pondering here is those body parts that, for one reason or another, trouble us. I, for example, have robust thighs (that's a nice way of saying they shake like jello when not confined by a pair of jeans). Also, my eyebrows are too thin, non-existent almost, from years of over-plucking; trying to get them to grow in at this point would require patience and probably Rogaine. These are but a few of the less-than-perfect aspects of my earthly temple (I'm not telling you the rest).

In addition, there is the problem of, well, problem parts. These are the ones that simply don't work as expected. Deviated septum, obstructed bowels, undescended testicles (I hear tell) - these types of conditions upset the body's proper functioning, causing pain and discomfort, not to mention embarrassment!

At times we have to take matters in hand, even seek expert help, when the behavior of one part begins to adversely affect the rest of the body. A broken or injured right foot, for example, could cause us to rely more heavily on the left to compensate. Before long, we notice a new pain as a result of overtaxing the uninjured limb. Wisdom and guidance from skilled practitioners are necessary to protect us from such consequences.

The Body of Christ has annoying parts too. We've all seen them: they may present as grumblers (like gassy stomachs), whiners (like overactive tear glands), manipulators (like itchy fingers). Some are unkempt and even offend the senses. Others fail to behave as propriety dictates due to ignorance or disability. Sometimes we choose to avoid them because they don't fit the mold we envision for our church body.

While a valid argument could be made that not everyone who sits in the pew is an actual believer (which would provide a convenient loophole to justify ignoring distasteful churchgoers), I'm not sure yours truly is qualified to make that judgment. Unless a person is spouting outright heresy or behaving criminally, it's a tall order to try to read the fine print inside another person's heart (believe me, I've tried). That said, it is important not to let needier parts of the body take unfair advantage of the brethren. I don't think we're called upon to wear a "Kick Me" sign or subject ourselves to exploitation. There's a fine line, it seems to me, between befriending and allowing oneself to be used.

I once read an article by a woman who had decided to view her unsightly thighs (now you know why this piece spoke to me) in the same way she would view maiden aunts who were a bit unfashionable. She said henceforth she would treat them with affection and care, and even show them off in public, rather than continue hiding them away out of embarrassment. This concept blends well with Paul's description of how we are to behave towards less attractive members of the church body:

"Those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. 
And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, 
while our presentable parts need no special treatment. 
But God has put the body together, 
giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it."
1 Corinthians 12:22-24

One last thought: if I ever make the time, I hope to write a book or short story about a diverse group of Christians caught in a life and death situation (TBD). The background of the piece would emphasize the differences in personalities and opinions that create ripples in their corporate relationship. Ultimately they would realize that only through interdependence on each other's respective gifts and abilities could they hope to escape their dire situation. This idea has arisen from years of observing and interacting with believers whose temperaments frankly irritated me. I'm ashamed to admit that I've struggled with being somewhat intolerant of my brothers and sisters whose makeup tends towards coolness or lack of emotion (being wired with intense feelings myself). I labeled their temperaments underwhelmed at best and uncaring at worst. It took me years to realize that these believers are made in the image of God just as I am, but their particular style of ministry reflects His analytical and discernment skills, while mine more closely resembles His emotive side. Both sets of qualities are essential for a healthy church. For example, those who find it awkward to visit the sick may be better suited to objectively sort out a sticky situation of church discipline. Bottom line: neither can thrive without the other.

Crankiness...

I am - ahem - full of it. No comments from the peanut gallery, please. While these snow days are lovely, I find myself having more time to take others' inventory (after I finish sleeping in, of course). 

                                                    

This person ignored my correspondence. That person can't be pleased, wants everything her own way, showing no gratitude for all my efforts. This one over here is (gulp) constantly critical of others; no wonder she's lonely. Someone else is high maintenance (now how is it I can so easily recognize that failing, hmmm?).

 All this grumbling, even as I'm reminding my son to overlook          others' faults and keep his side of the street (well, driveway at    least) clean.


Why can't I suffer in silence? Why do I have to rail against things    I can't control? Why do I look at others' faults, yet find my own        so easy to tolerate?

  A little bit of patience would go a long way.

"What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through 
Jesus Christ our Lord!"

Romans 7:24-25

The Road from Damascus

My father-in-law, Harry Williams, was a strong man of faith. He loved the Lord with all his heart, soul and strength. A good day for him included hours of paging through Scripture and marking up phrases that really spoke to him.


One of his unfulfilled bucket dreams was to write a book titled The Road from Damascus. He always thought too much emphasis was placed on the road to Damascus, which hosted the apostle Saul/Paul's conversion, rather than the events which sprang from it. I am neither a Bible scholar nor a great thinker. Nevertheless, the following is my clumsy attempt to highlight some of Saul/Paul's post-conversion activities as a posthumous gift to Pop, and perhaps bring a smile (and maybe a tear) to the faces of his progeny, who remember him as a man whose dearest possession was his salvation.

One of the things I find most interesting about Saul/Paul is that, after he became a believer, he spent three years getting to know God. My assumption is he realized he would have less than a warm reception by the early Christians, whom he had spent huge amounts of time persecuting prior to his conversion. This thinking is validated by the reaction of the Jews he preached to immediately after receiving the Holy Spirit: "'Is this not he who destroyed those who called on this name in Jerusalem, and has come here for that purpose, so that he might bring them bound to the chief priests?'" (Acts 9:21). They were quite understandably afraid and suspicious of Saul/Paul's motives. During this time of "lone wolfing" evangelism, God must have enhanced his early education as a Pharisee, and spoken His truth to him in prayer. Only after three years did he dare approach the core church in Jerusalem, and even then it took the sponsorship of Barnabas to gain him an audience with the disciples.

Another thing that resonates with me about Paul (I'll refer to him henceforth by the name he adopted after his encounter with Christ, thus distancing himself from his former life as the murderous Saul) is that he had a temper. Acts 15 records that he and Barnabas had a falling out over whether or not to take the latter's cousin, John Mark, with them on a missionary journey after being previously deserted by him. Paul chose to proceed instead with Silas, while Barnabas remained loyal to his cousin. Interestingly, Paul reconsidered his hasty decision later, as shown by his statement in 2 Timothy 4:11: "Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is useful to me for ministry." Perhaps the older Paul realized he was not so very different from Mark, in that both had to prove themselves to their brethren after committing some arguably unforgivable actions.

In Galatians 2:11, Paul recounts another heated confrontation, this time with the apostle Peter. Clearly, Paul struggled in the area of patience, especially as it concerned the gospel. Ironically, though, he labels himself "the chief sinner" in 1 Timothy 1:15. In Acts 22, he holds nothing back in describing his pre-conversion activities: "I persecuted this Way to the death, binding and delivering into prisons both men and women,  as also the high priest bears me witness, and all the council of the elders, from whom I also received letters to the brethren, and went to Damascus to bring in chains even those who were there to Jerusalem to be punished... So I said, 'Lord, they know that in every synagogue I imprisoned and beat those who believe on You. And when the blood of Your martyr Stephen was shed, I also was standing by consenting to his death, and guarding the clothes of those who were killing him.'" (Acts 22:4-5, 19-20; see also Acts 26: 9-11). Paul's personality seemed to contain a hearty dose of self-assurance, tempered by a large helping of remorse. This combination could benefit many modern-day believers, whose recollections of their unregenerate sinfulness too often seem overshadowed by post-conversion self-righteousness.

The aspect of Paul's ministry with which I most identify is his way of witnessing. Rather than tracing Biblical history and quoting heavily from Scripture as Stephen and Peter did in their notable sermons, Paul often relied on his personal testimony to sway his audience. This method is encouraging to timid witnesses like me, who sometimes fear we have to be seminary graduates before we can adequately deliver the gospel. Paul, who was well-trained in Biblical studies, chose rather to personalize what God had done in his life, not only when training young believers like the Corinthians, but also when going up against "big guns" like Roman Governor Felix and Jewish King Agrippa.  While Paul's vast knowledge of Scripture comes through loud and clear in his epistles, he also understood the power of simple, heartfelt declaration of God's work in his life.

I think Pop was right. In researching these few brief points about Paul's life and ministry, I see how easy it would be to fill tomes on this apostle's contributions following his encounter with Christ. Thank you, Harry Williams, for providing the inspiration for this article.

 

Harry Williams holding his oldest grandchild, Kendra, with his wife, Betty, by his side.