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

Corrie ten Boom and Spaghetti Pie ...

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

Oh, but you're wrong.

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

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

You can't get much more practical than that.

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

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

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

John 6:68

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Agony and Torture

These are the nicknames my nephews dreamed up for two kids their mother babysat when they were young. She ran a day care of sorts out of her home, which enabled her to earn a pay check while raising her own children.

The boys called the little ones "Agony and Torture" because they whined and argued and disrupted, which is pretty much the definition of preschoolers. Had my nephews possessed a bit more higher order thinking, they might have applied these same labels to themselves, as they were only slightly farther along the maturity continuum than were their mother's charges. Ah, but it's always easier to point the finger at someone else.

Which is what I'm tempted to do lately. I've been feeling a lot of angst over issues I can't control, and as a result, I'm butting into other people's business. I admit it - I'm a control freak, right up there with the title character of the old comic strip, Momma, and it frustrates me when things don't go as planned. That's created a bit of a problem over the past few weeks, as many things, personal and physical, have cropped up to rock my equilibrium.

Literally, as a matter of fact. One of the issues I'm referring to is a nasty case of arthritis and its cousin, bursitis, both of which are making me feel like a little old lady who only drives on Sundays. Several doctor visits and X-rays later, with painkillers on board and physical therapy looming on the horizon, I'm still treading carefully but much improved.

My body, that is.

My head could still use the mental equivalent of chicken soup and Rolaids.

I'm learning something very unpleasant about myself through all this. I'm a vain person.

I always knew I was a little vain. I carefully construct my hair and face in the morning (it takes more time than it used to, and seems to bring fewer results). I choose outfits that enhance what Mom used to call my "blonde coloring" (the blonde has long since given way to Preference by L'Oreal, "because I'm worth it," but the grays keep finding their way through the highlights). I make all this effort in hopes that it will keep acquaintances from noticing my lower body's resemblance to a pear. 

But these strategies fall apart when one's limping forces one to wear sneakers and sensible shoes with formal outfits, thus making one look like the aforementioned Sunday driver.

I was in just enough pain at the pharmacy, when picking up my medicinal Godsend, that I was pricing canes. They have some very pretty ones, and reasonable, too. Except I don't think I could afford the price it would exact on my psyche. Besides, I have a perfectly good "plain Jane" cane that my father used in the last days of his life. I can picture myself now, hobbling along the halls of  the school where I work, clinging for dear life to that silver stick, and praying no seventh grade track hopeful disrupts my gimpy gait.

I'm not feeling it.

I sought solace from my friend, Tina, who has been dealing with similar issues for years. In contrast to my prideful preening, Tina is eminently pragmatic and willingly tossed aside sandals for Oxfords long ago. She also thought nothing of clutching a four-footed cane for a couple of months when her legs were misbehaving.

How does she do it?

I mentioned earlier some personal matters which also have me on my knees (well, they would if I could get down on my knees, but at this point that's just a nice memory). Again, things I didn't ask for and could just as soon do without, thank you very much. Funny thing is, God never asks my permission when He sends trials. He doesn't give me a checklist or a drop down box, either. He sends or allows what He deems right for my character building, and I have very little to say about it.

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is, things may get worse before they get better. I'm not expecting joy and sunshine as the PT teaches my muscles how to, well, muscle through. Neither am I looking forward to an earlier wake up time to fit in exercises I don't want to do (did I mention I don't want to wake up early in the first place?). And fear grips my heart when I think of the unknowns I'm facing, issues I'll leave unspoken for the purposes of blogging, but trust me, they're there. 


So I'm back to counting blessings. I make gratitude lists on scraps of paper when my head starts taking me into dark, dangerous neighborhoods where I ought not go alone. I catch myself riding my one son who still lives at home, and to some extent the one who's off on his own, trying to control what I can instead of accepting things I can't change. I pack up bags of stuff for Purple Heart in an attempt to de-clutter my environment, when what I really want to do is de-clutter my mind. 


It occurs to me that perhaps the old devil, that wily serpent, could be trying to distract me with messes just when I'm on the brink of finishing my novel. In all honesty, he's done a pretty fair job of discouraging me in the midst of what should be a happy and exciting time. Tomorrow I'll be publicly reading a short story I had published in a women's anthology in March. Family and friends are coming to cheer me on, and I have so much to be hopeful about and grateful for. Yet, what I call the "Eeyore Syndrome," AKA, the "Puddleglum Doldrums" --that "Things may be great, but they're not as great as they could be" feeling -- has me in its grip. With the apostle Paul, I lament, "O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?" He instantly answers his own question: "I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Romans 7:24)

If God could use Paul, despite his former life as a bigot and murderer, I guess he can use me, too.

"In EVERYTHING give THANKS, for this is the will of God 
in Christ Jesus concerning you!" 
1 Thessalonians 5:18

"Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with THANKSGIVING let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:6-7

For more like this, check out:

Reflections by Thea: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

Reflections by Thea: "Yeah, But..."

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?             

Dusty and Chewy: They Just Want a Bow Part 2

It’s been a rough couple of weeks. In the space of seven days, our family laid to rest an ancient, adopted puppy (whose tiny stature and feather weight belied her 17 years) and a scaly, bug-eyed bearded dragon, whose winsome personality proved that beauty – and lack thereof – is only skin deep.

The aging canine was our neighbor’s elderly Shih Tzu, Dusty Miller, who spent many a night warming our beds and hearts. She lay with my father as he suffered from heart disease and diabetes that ultimately claimed him. Dusty came as a set with her human mom, Anita, whom my kids call Grandma and I call my fairy godmother, because she stepped into our lives after my own mom died and stuck around to help raise my kids and spirits after Dad succumbed to his final illness.

In her later years, Dusty was blind, deaf, and unsteady on her feet. Despite these deficiencies – or maybe because of them – it was that much harder for us to part with her. Her limitations tempered some of the wanderlust she had as a puppy, making her more amenable to shoulder snuggling and lap lounging.                                                            

Yes, Dusty was much more than a dog to us.

The following Friday, my son, Aaron, and soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Elise, called with heavy hearts. On their way out of town to meet up with the bridal party, they had to pause long enough to deal with the death of their pet lizard, whom they spent many dollars and hours trying to make well. Elise had bought Chewy (short for Chewbacca, like in the movie) to keep company with her irascible bearded dragon, Bacon. Chewy bore with equanimity, and perhaps even egged on, Bacon’s head bobbing challenges from his tank across the room.

While I never knew Chewy to take a stand on social issues, she did seem to experience some significant gender confusion. Since it’s hard to tell a lizard’s sex, we relied on behavior cues, but Chewy seemed to buy into the social police’s assertions that there is no typical male or female behavior; thus, to be politically correct, we changed up our pronouns on a regular basis.

We all found his/her clinginess touching. No, maybe I should make that touchy – her M.O. when retrieved from the tank was to hang on for dear life to shoulder, leg, head, or whatever body part he was perched on. In short, her rough, bumpy exterior disguised a cuddly heart underneath. Elise summed it up best when, through tears, she explained, “People don’t understand why we’re so upset about Chewy. They’re right that he was only a lizard. But he was ours.”

This morning, while listening to Max Lucado's 3:16: The Numbers of Hope on audio, I marveled at the wisdom of the following story: the author hearkened back to a trend that was popular when my kids were small – tethering young children to their parental unit when out in public places where it would be easy to lose track of scampering feet. I well remember the shocked looks and gasps of disbelief when other shoppers observed the, let’s face it, leash I painstakingly Velcro-ed to mischievous wrists to keep them from disappearing into pre-holiday crowds. Lucado rightly characterized the thinking behind the action as both protective and possessive, as though the tie-er were claiming ownership of the tie-ee, regardless of how preferable it might have seemed at times to cut the wanderer loose and let him fend for himself. Loving parents don’t do that, despite all the yanking and cranking they endure from wayward children. They resist the urge because love for their little delinquent overcomes the memories of how easy life was before Junior came along.

That’s what it all comes down to. We love our children and pets not because of how they act or look, but despite those things. In my work as a special educator, I’m quite aware that every kid I come in contact with is somebody’s child. These little imps can make it a real scavenger hunt to find something likable or even tolerable to recommend them, but because others took time to uncover the nuggets of gold buried deep underneath my own kids’ annoyances, I try to pay that kindness forward. I have yet to find a student whose armor couldn’t be breached by a kind word, a reward for getting it right, or a well-applied disciplinary measure when all else failed.

As Elise observed, we do it because they're ours. I would add, God did it because we're His.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” ~  Romans 5:8

“What is mankind that you are mindful of them, human beings that you care for them?”
 ~ Psalm 8:4

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: They Just Want a Bow

Scorpion Among Us

Hello Readers! I originally posted this piece last month, then took it down temporarily while it was being considered for newspaper publication.  In the interim, "the Donald" has caught flak for his lawsuit-embroiled Trump University, endorsement by the KKK, failure to provide tax returns because of constant IRS auditing, and favorable quoting of fascist Mussolini. If Trump - perish the thought - were to be elected, the question becomes, with so many financial and legal entanglements, when would the former reality show star have time to run the country?

                                                        

There’s an old folk tale about a scorpion thumbing a ride across a river. I’ve heard several versions of this story with slightly different endings, but the one point all agree on is that, halfway across, the scorpion stings its trusting transporter. The shocked conveyor asks why its passenger would do something so foolish, since now both will drown, and here the varying punch lines come in. The one I like best has the scorpion reply essentially, “Who knows? It’s just my nature, and you knew what I was when you said ‘yes’ to me.”

We have a blonde-haired, combed over scorpion in our midst. Oh, he’s dressed in fine clothes and makes an enticing appeal, but he’s a stinger nonetheless.

Just ask the investors he defrauded when he availed himself of a tax loophole allowing him to declare bankruptcy, not once, not twice, but four times. Ask the campaign investors whose money he is using, despite his constant boasting that he’s self-funded. 

Self-funded, my Aunt Fanny! Trump's fortune cost untold numbers of gamblers  their families’ security, and his claims of self-funding show a distinct lack of gratitude to donors, who have outspent him on his presidential campaign.

Ask the ex-wives he's accumulated, and his sister, Maryanne Trump Barry, whom he claims would be an excellent Supreme Court choice, but from whom he's now distancing himself. That he would even consider her for such a high rank belies his supposed commitment to life, itself a turnabout from his previous ardent pro-choice position. Think how blindsided Republicans would feel after blocking Obama’s end-of-term SCOTUS choice, only to find themselves saddled for God knows how long with Trump's sibling, who rigorously supports partial birth abortion.

Ask Vera Coking, the widowed senior citizen whose home he tried to seize so he could build a limousine parking lot for his casino.Trump tried unsuccessfully to force Coking to vacate under the legal principle of eminent domain, which has historically displaced homeowners for purposes such as national park development and national security needs. Never has this tool been used for such mercenary exploits as Trump had in mind. Talk about the greed of big business.

Ask Carly Fiorina, whose appearance he publicly ridiculed, then back pedaled on. When called on his denigrating statements, he reverted to the adolescent defense that he was just joking. I didn't buy that when it came out of my seventh grader's mouth, and Trump's use of such a lame explanation makes it hard for any parent to hold up adults as role models. Let's not forget, this insult was leveled at someone with whom he supposedly agrees on major principles. Think how far such communication skills will take him when he sits down to hammer out deals with leaders with whom he dramatically differs, and who have access to weapons of mass destruction. Even our cousins across the pond, with whom we often see eye to eye, are a hair's breadth away from refusing to deal with him.

Ask the rest of the Republican party, with whom he has cast his lot, but savages at every turn and is now waffling on a written pledge he made publicly to forego a third party run so as not to undercut the ideals he claims to identify with.

Let's even ask members of the opposing party, whose campaigns he has funded handsomely over the span of his long career, before defecting in recent years. Even ask the Clintons, whom he hosted at his most recent wedding but has now turned on in his grab for the Oval Office. 

In short, Donald Trump has shown himself time and again to be self-interested to the point of unethical legal maneuvering and campaign bullying. Shame on the American public if we allow him to become a nominee for the highest office in the land. 

"The Lord detests dishonest scales, but accurate 

weights find favor with him."

Proverbs 11:1

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to

 keep oneself from being polluted by the world."

James 1:27

"He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.

    And what does the Lord require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

    and to walk humbly with your God."

Micah 6:8

On Sacrifice

Absurdity

Something very precious is being lost in our country. The loss began happening with the advent of the women’s movement and has continued steadily over the past few decades. The notion that women are entitled to equal earning capacity due to their innate equality in brain power and inherent value has morphed into the idea that they are equal in every respect, including physical strength and protectorate capacity.

I recently viewed the latest Republican debate and was more than a little distressed that several key players ardently supported the mandatory conscription of women, should we revert to a draft. One candidate subsequently voiced his opinion that men should not expect women to protect them. Call me old-fashioned (and I’m sure some will call me worse than that), but I believe a woman’s willingness to nurture life from womb to adulthood should more than satisfy her protectorate requirements. Then again, many women these days are rejecting the former and haphazardly performing the latter, which perhaps has contributed to men’s lack of willingness to sacrifice for them.

Nevertheless, it used to be an insult to be accused of hiding behind a woman’s skirt or tied to her apron strings. Now this bearer of two X chromosomes fears that too many XY owners not only allow themselves to be carried by the women in their lives, but have come to expect it.

Masculinity

My dear friend, Cynthia, died several years ago. She was, in a word, brilliant. Her talents in drawing, music, writing, gardening and cooking were second to none.  Her wit was unparalleled. She could find wry humor in the mundane and, as a result, was a sparkling conversationalist. Perhaps Cynthia’s most remarkable feat was her evolution from an introverted, almost reclusive person into someone who forced herself out of her shell to the point where she came to know and love neighbors, perform at a music recital, and find love with an exceptional man named Bob.

Bob respected Cynthia’s independence and fought for it. When Cynthia’s boss mistreated her, Bob supported her decision to leave the position, even though she had no other employment prospects. He gallantly assumed the financial cares of the household, while she happily oversaw home projects. One of my most treasured possessions is a hutch he built for her. I assumed custody of this cherished piece after her passing, and found Bob had inscribed on the back the date of its completion, along with the date Cynthia approved its specifications – a tandem effort if ever there was one.

Possibly the quality which endeared Bob to me the most was his defense of Cynthia's honor. Among other things, my relationship with Cynthia was comprised of mutual barb-throwing. There was no truth behind the insults; it was all part of a complex relationship that spanned my entire lifetime and was based on raw humor and meaningless jibes. However, Bob let me know in no uncertain terms that assaults on Cynthia's character, even in jest, were not funny to him. He lived out his love for her, taking every opportunity to compliment her publicly and show his adoration for her.

When his wife received a cancer diagnosis, Bob joyfully cared for her body, soul and spirit, even in the midst of unrelated personal tragedy and his own health concerns. Although my friend had no health insurance when she fell ill, Bob drove her to appointments and assured his beloved they would find the money for her care. To this day, I suspect he’s still making payments on medical bills she incurred before they were even married.

To me, Bob is the epitome of what it means to be a man.

Maternity

The notion that women can and should gain as much education and career experience as their talents and pocketbooks allow is not only reasonable but essential in today’s society. The days when a woman’s primary concerns were the care of home and family are long past and, as a one who has had the privilege of being both a stay-at-home mom and a breadwinner, I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to spread my occupational wings a far greater distance than my mother did. HOWEVER, ability has brought with it a steep price tag. Many men have come to EXPECT their children’s mothers to give birth, fly right home from the hospital with barely a day or two to recover (sometimes less), and six weeks later be back on the job site pumping milk and rigorously performing  in their profession.

Since when did maternity become less a profession than teaching, ministering to the sick, or running a company? Last time I checked, motherhood required skills in all those areas, and many more. My parenting role has demanded more of me physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually than any paid position I’ve ever held, and the monetary compensation was zilch. No, make that negative numbers. The hours were longer and the stakes higher than any job I’ve ever worked (including waitressing, which is saying something), but the rewards have been commensurately exorbitant. My children’s successes have given me greater joy than any raise I’ve ever gotten, and lasted far longer than any paycheck I ever received.

Some mothers are horrors. I get that. I’ve seen it. Some are mediocre at best and abusive at worst. Should the lack of responsibility of a few denigrate the entire calling, any more than Kermit Gosnell should besmirch the whole medical profession? Should we not still do all in our power to heighten the prestige and purpose of so great a calling, even as we call to account the few bad apples in every bunch?

Sagacity

At the risk of incurring my younger son's ire, let me state unequivocally that my Christian faith informs and undergirds my views on this and every subject. About this, I am unapologetic. Indeed, the founders of this country, while not all practicing Christians, injected Biblical principles into the infrastructure of our democracy. Those same founders, not incidentally, fought for independence on behalf of their wives and sweethearts, who supported in ancillary roles. 

Women today, unlike their ancestors, have the choice to serve directly on the battlefield. Nevertheless, the difficulties of military service, horrors of war, blurring of lines between the sexes and blurring of gender in general all make the military an occupation that should be chosen by women rather than imposed upon them.

Profundity

"Nevertheless, in the Lord woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman. For as woman came from man, so also man is born of woman. But everything comes from God." 1 Corinthians 11:11-12

"So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise." Galatians 3:26-29

" Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her... In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated their own body, but they feed and care for their body, just as Christ does the church..." Ephesians 5:25, 28-29

Unshackled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He found Daniel in a lion’s den.

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

Where the world sees failure, God sees future.

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

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

 Check out Matthew West's Hello, My Name Is 

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

Daddy's Arms

His saucer-shaped brown eyes are full of wonder and curiosity. At 18 months, he's capable of awkward maneuvering, but vulnerable enough to need his parent's watchful eye. His roving spirit is tempered by a homing signal which sends him back to his father's arms between excursions. 

He's an absolute delight, and we all adore his toddler wanderings at Tuesday night prayer meeting.

The other night, he engaged in his usual rambling around the room. He never seems to tire of the over-sized windows and stacked banquet tables, nor the ring of chairs which make up our small group. He weaves in and out of our circle, sometimes allowing his hand to rest on an unfamiliar lap, but ultimately making his way back to Daddy. His tiny footsteps tap the uncarpeted floor, on which his sneakers squeak when he occasionally drops down on all fours.

After a while, he returned to Daddy's seat. Tired of roaming but not content to sit, he made it known he needed to sway. Dad dutifully scooped him up and rocked his child until his arms begged for mercy, at which point he slung the boy around like a backpack ~ the difference being, he would've let the backpack hang. 

He did no such thing with his son. 

Gripping the child under his seat (the one nature gave him, that is), he piggybacked him back and forth for the next 20 minutes. The young explorer rested one hand on Dad's shoulder and let the other dangle. 

Why? Because he had utter confidence in his father's protection. He didn't have to cling tightly because he knew his father had him, and that no ill fortune would befall him in that secure position. 

“The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

~ Deuteronomy 33:27

Check out:  Leaning on the Everlasting Arms