Digging Out

 

Red alert! My bedroom is more of a disaster than usual lately.

I’d love to tell you that this place is a safe haven, Hollywood-esque, complete with matching furniture and all things beautifully arranged in picturesque simplicity. Conducive to relaxation and contemplation.

When I first had it painted a number of years ago, it more or less matched that description. Freshly ironed curtains, crisp new bedding, everything warm and pristine. But the room quickly took on other functions. Office. Writing space. A place to hold long conversations with my children. In recent years, squirmy grandchildren have nestled with me for not-so-sleepy sleepovers.

And now we’re into the Christmas season. Added to which, yours truly is beginning a new life phase at the end of January. I’ll be closing the door on my career and venturing into new horizons, some of which are as yet poorly defined. My bedroom is taking the brunt of all this activity, serving as gift wrapping station and depot for all things retirement. As I write, my desk and surrounding area are cluttered with correspondence from Social Security and insurance estimates, while the bulk of the space hosts holiday cards, winter themed paper, and good wishes for friends far and near.

Did someone say overload?

My “fairy godmother”, Anita, understands. She, too, is constantly in motion, sorting through this pile, straightening that corner, bringing a meal to this loved one, sculpting a pot for that newborn. Her house, at any given time, can be topsy turvy, too, and it’s because she’s alive and cares about the living. She’s let me in on her secret: little by little, progress is made. And sometimes – most of the time, really – disorder is a prerequisite to progress.

A present here and a present there, shuffled from upstairs to downstairs, equates to a bit more breathing room.

I miss the years when Dad handled the wrapping. Not only did he handle it, he thrived on the whole process! All I had to do was collect the stash, label with sticky notes who got what, and set him in motion. Voila! A room full of gifts was transformed into Santa’s workshop and all I had to do was commission the chief elf.

I’m also tackling ongoing projects – the type that never seem to be completely finished. One is reading/sorting through old mail. Some can go right into the recycle bin, but other correspondence is from groups I pray for and support. These missives contain valuable updates and information that are worth the effort to glean through.

Also, I’ve taken on the monumental task of scribbling on the backs of old photographs for posterity. Gang, this is important – so much more important than wrapping Christmas gifts that may end up with a ho hum reaction (not trying to be cynical, but we all know how this works). I can’t tell you how many photos I wish I’d had my parents label before they died so I’d know the identities of nameless faces staring out at me from sepia tones.

Oh, and did I mention I’m having some health problems? So a cane and medical notes are adding to the confusion.

My car, too, is behaving more like a receptacle than a vehicle. When I apologized for the mess while picking up my granddaughters from school, an understanding employee dubbed it a “Mom Mom’s car” – and it certainly is. Two car seats, a “project box” with things to do on a rainy day, and my own personal stash of necessities – Bible and notebooks, extra pair of gloves and shawl because, well, you never know –  and whatever portables I have in there at any given time (giveaways for charity, bags for the store, party goods for a grandchild’s special day, you name it).

Oy vey!

With so many items coming and going, this feels more like a storage unit than a place of repose.

Breathe.

I’ve written about Christmas craziness before – Grinch Pinch and Woe is Me… or Who is Me? come to mind – but for the reasons I’ve outlined above, this is more than the normal holiday rigamarole. I’m striving to find sanity in an insane situation, knowing these current circumstances are temporary and  believing they will grow me – if I get out of their way and let them be as they are.

My mother-in-law was a wonderful example of living sanely amid insanity. Whenever there was a messy house project going on or holiday havoc, she had this way of keeping whatever she could organized, blocking off the chaos, as it were, and keeping things arranged as tidily as possible around the madness. As a result, I can’t ever remember her losing her serenity in such situations. She never articulated her strategy, but she modeled for me how to try to stay organized when organization was elusive, and that lesson stuck… mostly.

But this is life, folks. I wouldn’t want to live like this permanently, and I don’t intend to. Hence, my efforts to dig out of the chaos, bring things in while getting other things out. Like my brother-in-law (who dubs household overload “Shack-itis”) says, if one thing comes into the house, something else better go out to keep disaster at bay.

A dear woman who was only in my life for a brief season once described her life thusly:

“I love order, but I’ve learned to function in chaos.”

This precious saint and her husband, who were not people of means, were raising their own four children as well as two born to drug-addicted relatives. These people were doing God’s work, no doubt about it, and I’m sure their house didn’t look like a page from Better Homes and Gardens.

But, oh, the love that must have permeated those four walls.

So, I guess my prayer during this season of rush and readiness is for patience while digging out, and joy in the journey.

“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men,  knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ.”

~ Colossians 3:23-24 ~

 

 

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

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

Under the Covers or Under His Wings? Going Deep Without Getting Buried, AKA, Metaphor Overload

Hey, faithful readers! I jotted down notes for this article a couple of weeks ago when anxiety was running high and strength was running low. After a few hours of prayer, Bible study and “doing the next right thing,” (a tool I learned in Al Anon many years ago), the feelings subsided and I laid my jottings aside. But worries and fretting have lately been crowding out that which I know (the Lord will never leave me nor forsake me). Therefore, I’m placing fingers to keyboard and hoping to create some sense from my scribblings. I trust the following thoughts will comfort both my readers and myself (not necessarily in that order)!

Treading Deep Water

I made a careless driving mistake recently, and as soon as it happened, I knew why. My mind was only partially on the road. A good 80% of my mental machinations concerned current events and personal issues which, while of great importance, are completely out of my power to control.

There’s no point in enumerating the cares which distracted me that morning; we all have them. Whatever one’s point of view, anyone who’s at all awake can see that the USA is fast becoming the “DSA” (Divided States of America – I thought I made this term up, but a quick internet search revealed that many have beaten me to the proverbial punch). This and other “fret-ables” of my own (I think I coined this one – it means things to fret over) managed to remove my attention from the road, causing a close call.

The other driver responded with grace. Yes, she honked (only as much as was necessary to alert me – she resisted the urge to lean on the horn), but there was no tongue-lashing or middle-fingering. I was so thankful for God’s protection and my fellow traveler’s kind reaction that, when we ended up side by side at a light, I rolled down my window, thanked her for her reasonable response, and apologized profusely.

“You’re fine!” she laughed. “We all make mistakes!”

What I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry for my stupid blunder, but, you see, I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. You see, there’s this, this and this that are bothering me, and it’s just too much.”

 But that’s just the point, isn’t it? To quote a MercyMe song, “[we] were never meant to carry this beyond the cross.”

Look at it? Yes. Comfort the brokenhearted? Absolutely. Attack problems? You bet. But carry it? Not on your life.

Let’s face it – there are challenges and messes everywhere. Christ acknowledged this when He reminded Martha that it was more important to commune with Him than to make a perfect party. Later, He counseled Judas, “You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me” (Matthew 26:11).

Did He mean we should abandon our responsibilities and spend 24/7 with Bibles open and heads in the sand?

God forbid.

I believe He was calling His followers to counter one of two urges to which many of us fall prey. One is to try to singlehandedly clean up all the muck that humanity in its sinfulness has created. The other is to hide under the covers – sometimes literally – and hope it will all go away.

Metaphor Madness: Deep Breathing

To illustrate the process of letting go a la Thea, let’s revisit a morning two weeks ago when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Here I’m going to switch to present tense, so my audience  will hopefully catch the immediacy of the moments which led to this article. Imagery alert: my readers should beware if they’re metaphor intolerant, because my mind wandered to a bunch of those literary devices on the morning in question. While it may fly in the face of freshman English, I’m just going to roll with the disparate thoughts God gave me at the time.

It’s a cool day. Windows are open, causing the curtains to sway lazily with the gentle breeze. As is my habit, I tuck my head underneath the sheets, cocooning myself in the
perceived safety of cotton and polyester.

Metaphor #1: Without warning, the familiar feeling rises in my chest. That feeling of being sucked under with nowhere to go and no way to breathe. I somehow manage to claw my way to the surface and, once there, I inhale greedily, letting out all the bad stuff that’s been building up, replacing it with oxygen-saturated air that refreshes and rejuvenates and is worth more than the Crown Jewels.

I’m reminded of my doctor’s instructions on how to properly use my asthma inhaler. After prescribing medication to combat shortness of breath, he taught me steps to maximize intake of this life-sustaining product. I first exhale deeply, then depress the mechanism on the inhaler, which releases particles into a middleman tube called the spacer. Then and only then can I take a deep breath and hold it for ten seconds. Most of the time, when I stick to the method and timetable he taught me, I can stay out of breathing trouble.

That’s how I tend to my lungs pharmaceutically; since I know they don’t function optimally on their own, it would be foolish to reject a preventative strategy that can keep them working at fullest capacity. Therefore, I let the physician call the shots (pun intended and metaphor #2, for those who are keeping track). This is his specialty and it’s my life he’s trying to protect.

Interestingly, this process in a way mirrors the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. According to Pastor David Guzik of Calvary Chapel in Santa Barbara, “in both the Hebrew and Greek languages, the word for spirit (as in Holy Spirit) is the same word for breath or wind (this also happens to be true in Latin) … In Genesis 1:1-2, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing over the waters of the newly created earth. In Genesis 2:7, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, blowing life into newly created man. In Ezekiel 37:9-10, it is the Spirit of God as the breath/wind of God, moving over the dry bones of Israel bringing them life and strength” (https://enduringword.com/bible-commentary/acts-2/). How wise of our Lord to associate the lifesaving work of the Holy Spirit to the life-preserving work of an ordinary medical procedure.

Similarly, I can nourish my spirit according to the Great Physician’s orders. To paraphrase Rev. Dr. Charles Stanley, when God tells me to do something, the wisest thing is for me to do it when He says, how He says, for as long as He says to do it. On a day-to-day basis, this means making regular deposits into my spiritual bank account (metaphor #3) through Bible reading, prayer, and fellowshipping with other believers. It’s simple, really, but simple things are not always easy.

This is all well and good, but I still can’t shake the feeling of wanting to hide under the covers and opt out of the things on my plate today.

Metaphor Madness: Digging Deep

That being the case, I may as well go deep (metaphor #4). If my head’s going to hide, let it be hidden in the ultimate Hiding Place (metaphor #5). If I’m going to bury myself beneath common cloth, let me simultaneously burrow deep underneath heavenly wings (metaphor #6) that never tire or give out.

I allow my troubled self to take refuge under the covers and in the Lord’s arms. I shut out the world physically and, as best I can, go deep. Only He and I inhabit this sheltered place. I will have to come out some time, but not yet. Right now, it’s all too much. Right now, the best I can do is hide away from the rack and ruin of this world that God never intended for me to shoulder, let alone fix.

Quite simply, I pray. I remind myself of His promises. I plumb the depths of His steadfastness. I let myself go deep.

From my “hidey hole” (the name my son gave to cubbies and crevices he tucked into as a child) I hear neighbors starting up lawnmowers and shouting across fences while pulling weeds from their gardens. I think of my sad looking garden which, truth be told, doesn’t even deserve to be called a garden. It’s really just a lot of what my neighbor calls “volunteer plants” that have spread elsewhere from things I planted optimistically in the past. In all honesty, there are more weeds than intentional foliage; I can’t keep up with them, nor do I want to.

I think of all that and it makes me cringe. But then I think, well, that’s why I’m paying someone to cut my grass and trim back the overgrowth when it gets out of control. It’s why I’m forking over cash for my handyman to tackle the poison ivy; I’m highly sensitive and the allergic reaction I get from even standing near the stuff isn’t worth the price I’ll pay later in itching. That’s how I do my garden, such as it is, and that’s how I do life, more often than not.

Some things I can tackle myself; other things require linking up with someone more intrepid than I. Again, I can apply this idea spiritually, as in Psalm 55:22: “Cast your burden on the Lord, and He will sustain you; He will never permit the righteous to be moved.”

This whole gardening business is too much for me, and I know it. Others love it and say they commune with God while playing around in the dirt, and that’s fine for them. For me, it’s hot, filthy agony, and I’d rather chew glass (metaphor #7 – this is getting ridiculous).

Nestled under my covers, I ponder that there are different ways to garden. Trigger alert: metaphor on the horizon (oops, that’s another one – don’t say I didn’t warn you). I emerge from the inner sanctum of my covers when God inspires me to send a few texts to loved ones, which I know will buoy their spirits.

Isn’t that a form of gardening? My grass may be too high and weeds may overshadow the flowers in my physical garden, but hopefully when I die there will be lots of people whose spiritual gardens I tended with love, and that investment will shine forth as much or more than tulips and daisies which are (idiom alert, just to break up the monotony) here today but gone tomorrow.

From my blanketed nook, I recall rescuing several plants recently. Literally. They had actually been put out with someone’s trash. These were beautiful, color-soaked Gerber daisies – healthy and vital – that somebody tossed out. It was as if the owner wanted to give them a fighting chance and thus placed them prominently, if ironically, atop a dilapidated trashcan, rather than just chucking them inside the receptacle.

Despite my aforementioned aversion to all things landscaping, I brought the poor things home. Perhaps this was how Christians in ancient Rome felt when they adopted unwanted babies left outside to die. Like me, they surely had better things to do than dirty their hands with other people’s castoffs; then again, one man’s trash – well, you know.

My sweet neighbor, Anita, helped me plant the daisies with my grandson. It was still torture – after all, it was gardening – but with Anita cheering me on and Luca wielding a pint-sized spade, at least we got a few smiles out of the deal.

And the daisies remain alive – for the moment.

When I complimented Anita on her green thumb, she replied, “Oh, no – I just keep trying.”

Maybe that’s the secret. Green thumb or no, it’s the trying that brings out the blooms.

Metaphor Madness: The Deep Dive (Last Metaphor – I promise)

My takeaway from all this metaphorical (and personal) madness is nothing new or magical. It’s the same advice I’ve been giving myself and anyone who will listen for years: deep diving into our Creator’s mind and heart always has been and always will be the best treatment for internal distress.

There will be tedium at times, as occurs with any discipline. Puffing away on inhalers doesn’t make for an interesting Saturday night, but it sure beats a weekend in the ER. A breathtaking garden requires, in the words of my late friend, Cynthia (whose yard was truly a showplace), “hours and hours of backbreaking work.”

This author hasn’t found any shortcuts to communing with the Lord. Like any relationship, time must be committed in order for thriving to occur. Diving into God’s word and dialoguing with Him demand something of us. This will look different for every believer. Parents of young children will have to work around their kids’ active hours to nurture their own spiritual lives. Busy professionals may have to pray through lunch breaks.

One thing, though, is for certain. When we work in tandem with the Lord, it’s like riding a bicycle built for two or paddling a canoe with two people (I didn’t break my promise and squeeze in more metaphors – the bike and canoe analogies are similes, so they don’t count 😊). The work is halved because two are sharing it. Most importantly, one is steering and the other following.

Guess which role we’re supposed to have?

Kicking Chaos to the Curb

Years ago, I had an acquaintance named Alice who made a big impression on me with one sentence. After explaining that she and her husband were parents to four kids of their own, plus raising the children of their drug-addicted siblings, all in a saltine-sized house, she stated calmly, "I love order, but I've learned to function in chaos."

This past week has felt like quicksand in a lot of ways. I'm having to deal with many things that are out of my control and, despite nearly 40 plus years in self-help groups, lack of control still makes me feel irritable and edgy. Oh, I'm wonderful if you're the one going through chaos; then I can be all sunshine and light, encouragement and reason. But, in the immortal words of Marcia Brady when reminded of her own philosophy about sucking up defeat and trying again, "This is different; this happened to me!"

Like Alice, my "fairy godmother," Anita, who lives down the street and bakes yummy things and utters delicious phrases of warmth and reassurance, is good for what ails me. Tonight, while chatting on the phone with her, I accomplished the mind-numbing job of adding phone numbers for several letters of the alphabet into my new cell phone. Yes, I know, this is a first world problem, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating. Did I mention I HATE having to redo things, especially after spending hours on the phone with the vendor, who promised it would be a cinch to import everything into the new device? That's one reason I hate the job of dusting (you're never actually finished, it always has to be done again) - but I digress.

Anyway, though she didn't realize I was multi-tasking, I know Anita would have heaped praise on me, had she known. She probably would have beamed and crowed something like the following: "My, that's wonderful! You're making progress! Little by little! Oh, and look at that drawer you cleaned out yesterday. That's one less thing you have to do. By the way, did you notice this corner of the table I cleared today? See, I'm making progress, too!"

That little lady sure knows what's what.

Another friend, Rosemary, upon hearing complaints about how Satan has been upsetting a lot of my plans lately, listened sympathetically before announcing, "That's enough about Satan. Let's talk about what God's doing!" After that loving reminder, she and the rest of our prayer group proceeded to spend the rest of our time reminding ourselves about the power we have as children of God, as opposed to the shenanigans of that wily serpent, who gets what's coming to him in the end anyway.

It's the serenity prayer all over again. We work with what we have, instead of whining about what we don't have.

While my prayer buddies and I were commiserating tonight, the Lord brought to mind another dear friend, Kass, who suffered with multiple sclerosis for decades. I watched her decline, but I also marveled at how she continually used whatever function she had left after each new setback to do for herself and others. For years, she clipped coupons out of the weekly ads and passed them along to me to save both of us money. She hadn't driven for years, but still remembered her way around better than any GPS; she used to delight in suggesting the simplest route I could take for unfamiliar sojourns. She refused to let others do for her what she was still capable of doing for herself.

I am humbled and enriched by having such undaunted people in my life. Gives me courage to take the next few steps on my own bumpy path.

"And in this matter I give my judgment: this benefits you, who a year ago started not only to do this work but also to desire to do it. 

So now finish doing it as well, so that your readiness in desiring it may be matched by your completing it out of what you have. 

For if the readiness is there, it is acceptable according to what a person has, 

not according to what he does not have." 

~ 2 Corinthians 8:10-12 ~

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 ~

Thea, Thea

“Are You kidding me, Lord?”

The words form in my head before I can edit them. Even in the midst of holiday hoopla, I know I’m conversing with omnipotence; there’s a certain decorum to such encounters. I smile, realizing I'm also communing with omniscience. Why sweat it? 

This is, after all, Christmas Eve, and I know the Almighty realizes it's a hugely busy day for those He came to die for.

I’ve already obeyed Him several times this morning. I woke early, then spent quality time with Him and a few dear friends He laid on my heart. Isn't it about time to get to my chores?

“No, you heard me right, Thea,” He whispers back. “You can choose to ignore Me … but is that really how you want to commemorate My birth?”

I reluctantly seat myself at the keyboard, shooing away fragments of to do lists that are cluttering my brain. The food and presents will have to wait.

The reason I must sit down and write is because the message He’s giving me really concerns all the mania of this time of year. I’ve been mentally checked out most of the week at work (I’ve come to refer to this phenomenon as “Christmas brain”). Task piles upon task as I strive to “get Christmas right,” and I almost resent having to show up at the place that not only represents my livelihood, but also a strong sense of purpose for my existence.

More thoughts arrive unbidden.

“You’ve got another hour, Lord. Then Elise and Aaron arrive, then her father, and he's never been to the house before, and the bathroom's not clean yet, and then we go to Anita’s, and then … “

Breathe.

I had a divine encounter at the super market yesterday. I met up with my son and daughter-in-law to grab the cholesterol and sugar, er, ingredients, needed for today’s festivities. It was the most peace I’ve had all week. Despite the crowds and shortage of parking (we had three vehicles between us), my heart surged with joy to be sharing such madness with two of the dearest people on earth to me. We divvied up the list and finished in short order. I told them I enjoyed every moment of our trip, and I meant it.

I’m ashamed to admit, though, one thing marred my happiness. While scrambling to hunt down my share of the goodies, I bumped into a friend. I haven’t known her long, but there’s a certain depth to our acquaintance that comes from shared struggles. She had been a frequent texting correspondent some months ago, but had fallen off the radar of late and not responded when I contacted her. That’s never a good sign.

She followed along as I shuffled through the peanut butter aisle. At first we chatted about trivialities, but all of a sudden she shared something from the heart. I’m an experienced selective listener (most multi-taskers are), but the down side of only paying partial attention is you can miss important tidbits when you’re in deep speculation about weighty matters like which jar of honey has the best unit price.

I did a mental double take, forced my gaze away from the food fest that had been consuming my attention, and looked her in the eye.

In all honesty, I really didn’t have time for an in-depth conversation in that setting and with that company. BUT it behooved me to MAKE time to share my love and concern for her wellbeing, and to let her know I was praying for her. That was all I had to give in that instant, and it had to be enough.

A young boy once had a small lunch which he was asked to share with a great multitude. It wasn’t nearly enough, of course – a couple of fish and a paltry amount of bread. Still, what he had he shared willingly, and at day’s end, thousands left satisfied.

Do I dare offer any less?

The phone rings as I type that last sentence. When my son's number appears on caller ID, I know it means he and his wife are on their way and my time to write is slipping away. 

And I haven't wrapped one present yet.

I think of a long ago party such as the one I'm helping to host today. An important Guest was expected, one who had never graced that home before and maybe never would again. When the Visitor arrived, one hostess served with gusto, growing more and more resentful of her sister, who chose instead to soak in the presence of their prestigious company. It’s worth examining Luke 10:38-42, where Jesus rebukes Martha, the complainer, and commends Mary, the listener:

“Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus’ feet and heard His word. But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, ‘Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me.’

 And Jesus answered and said to her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.’”

Check out Jonny Diaz's "Just Breathe"                    

It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This

We're having dinner at Anita's, celebrating the birthdays of all three of my kids - the two I gave birth to, as well as my "labor-less" daughter, Elise, who in a few short months will assume that role legally when she weds my firstborn. Elise and I rinse dishes while Anita - that great roaster of all things fowl, not least of which is the incredible Peking duck she just served us, complete with homemade pancakes - recuperates from all her effort.

That's when it happens.

I glance out the window to catch a glimpse of Aaron, who went outside to catch a smoke.

Except he's not alone. And he's not smoking.

He's playing catch with Ethan, barely 19, who used to drive Aaron to distraction and even goad him to violence. Once Aaron got over the thrill of finally having someone cute and cuddly to play with, he realized Ethan was here to stay and did annoying things like leaking through his diaper while they sat cheek to cheek watching cartoons.

Five years behind his brother, Ethan quickly figured out how to aggravate Aaron to the nth degree by making up in mouth what he lacked in stature. I ruefully recall the feeling of being a human barrier between two warring kids. Of delivering lectures on the importance of brotherhood and being each other's best friend, those "you and me against the world" speeches Paul Williams himself couldn't have pulled off convincingly.

It wasn't always like that, I remind myself. There was that time I left the two of them at football practice while I ran a quick errand. I can still see the picture of love incarnate that greeted me when I returned 45 minutes later - Aaron carrying injured Ethan across the field and into my arms.

I sneak another peek out the window. They're cracking up at some comment I'd probably disapprove of, then chucking the ball around some more.

Tomorrow, unbeknownst to us all, we will say goodbye to Anita's dear Dusty. My boys, no, men, will take a leading part in her sendoff. She was our "rent-a-dog," coming for visits and even sleepovers. The dog they walked and never cleaned up after, despite Mother's regular reminders. Dusty supplied a vital ingredient in their lives, and in return, they will gently escort her to her final resting place, cradling her lifeless body wrapped up in a special sheet. They will crumble handfuls of dirt into her grave and wish her well.

A week later, Ethan will leave a night of fun with his friends to come home and help his brother grieve over the loss of a second beloved pet. The irritating little brother has become a lifelong friend, available when the chips are down.

But tonight they play ball without a care in the world.

I find myself humming Diane Warren's timeless tune:

These are the moments I thank God that I'm alive

These are the moments I'll remember all my life

I've found all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

These are the moments I know heaven must exist

These are the moments I know all I need is this

I have all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

I could not ask for more than this time together

I could not ask for more than this time with you

Every prayer has been answered

Every dream I have's come true

Right here in this moment

Is right where I'm meant to be

Here with you here with me

I smile through tears at Elise and say, "It doesn't get any better than this."

Check out the full version of I Could Not Ask for More

Other Dogs' Droppings: Grace in Disguise

Hi Readers!

I felt led of the Lord to share a chapter today from my book of essays, Unleashed: Reflections of a Dog Walker.  It seems to me there are two responses we can have when we come in contact with a person who is paying the price for someone else's actions. We can turn a blind eye ("It's not my problem"), or we can step in and help ("I didn't make this mess, but neither did the innocent victims being affected by someone else's actions, so how can I bless those victims?"). 

Also, we have to decide how to respond when we meet someone who is paying a steep price for his own misdeeds. Lately, I'm having occasion to minister to various people whose choices have gotten them into more trouble than seems warranted. In these instances, I have the option to be judgmental ("You made your bed, now lie in it!"), or impart grace "(How sad that you find yourself in this position. I'll pray for you and the people you love, who are going through these consequences with you"). 

I love Matthew West's song, Grace Wins, because it captures the heart of what I'm getting it. Now, without further ado, enjoy "Other Dogs' Droppings"!

Sometimes when I’m out walking my beloved surrogate dog, Dusty Miller, I have occasion to scoop up what I have affectionately termed ODD (other dogs’ droppings).Why do I do this? 

          

For one thing, I have a bit of a compulsive personality. By that I mean I am a self-diagnosed attention deficit-type character who, for instance, in the middle of checking email, suddenly notices some chipped paint in the corner of the room, and feels compelled to immediately grab scraper and brush to tend to the “emergency” that became urgent the moment I caught sight of it.

In other words, it’s hard for me to ignore little things that could maybe wait till later.

When I see litter in the halls of the school where I work, I often pick it up. When I come across smelly “packages” left by less considerate dog walkers, I feel it my civic duty to clean them up.

Sound silly? Consider this: my mother often bragged that she could ward off a rainy vacation simply by bringing an umbrella. Likewise, I must subconsciously believe I can stave off poop-decorated footwear by retrieving any messes I come across (although this  notion was disproved just the other day when I detected that unmistakable aroma emanating from my shoes - cleated, of course - upon arriving home after a stroll with Dusty).

Another reason I stoop to freshen up the neighborhood is because I’m fairly (make that “quite”) certain that some of the leavings I come across are (horrors!) from Dusty herself.  My sons, who alternately walk our adopted pooch, are wonderful in most ways, but do not share my cleanliness fetish in this area. My suspicions have been confirmed by the fact that they regularly depart without scooping bag in hand. Therefore, it seems only reasonable that some of this muck really belongs to me. I feel responsible to do my part.

Much of this process reminds me of the Christian walk. So many messes come my way that I had nothing to do with, yet must either confront or avoid. When I encounter a neglected child or a homeless person or a battered wife, what business really is that of mine? Yet, there I am, plopped right in the middle of some uncomfortable situation, facing the choice of running in the opposite direction or staying put. Remember the gripping scene in Jurassic Park where the kids are left stranded by the cowardly lawyer? Picture the stricken face of the little girl when she piteously whimpers, “He left us! He left us!” Now recall the response of Dr. Alan Grant, self-proclaimed kid hater: “But that’s NOT what I’m gonna do.”

And he goes on to prove it, shepherding them through the whole saga of tyrannosaurus tag and raptor hide and seek. In the end they rest their heads on his shoulder, just because he chose to offer it to them. 

I want to be that shoulder. I should say, I need to be that shoulder, because it’s been given so many times to me and mine. Many good men from my church and other venues have stepped in to fill the void of my boys not living with their dad. Our neighbor Anita comes to their special events, as their own grandparents lovingly did when they were living, and provides that “Nana” perspective on life issues.

Note that I am not recommending doing for others that which they can and should do for themselves. In making this suggestion, I’m referring to aiding innocent victims, as opposed to enabling irresponsibility. Some situations require a judgment call which the almighty judge is only too happy to help us make if we will only ask Him.

           

There are plenty of times I want to hotfoot it in the opposite direction, much like the prophet Jonah did when God told him to do the impossible - preach to the Ninevites. He didn’t want the task because it meant being uprooted and inconvenienced and, worst of all, disloyal to his countrymen. God’s “executive order” forced him to essentially rescue Israel’s bitterest enemies from divine wrath. This would be comparable to asking your child to buddy up to the kid who’s been terrorizing him at school all year.  

“Invite him to your birthday party,” you plead.

            

 “Not on your life!” your son rejoins.   

   

 Your child didn’t cause the bullying, he did nothing to bring it on, yet you’re asking him to overlook and essentially overcome hurt feelings and bruised body with forgiveness followed by fellowship. It would be humorous if it weren’t completely insane.

 Yet Jonah came around to God’s way of thinking (with a bit of friendly persuasion from a gale and a giant fish), and so must we if we are to serve our King optimally. God tells us bluntly in Isaiah 55 that His ways are not our ways and His thoughts are not our thoughts (vv. 8-9). We should be neither surprised nor undone when God asks us to “tidy up” a situation not of our making.

After all, isn’t that exactly what He asked His Son to do?