The Faces of Recovery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But wait. It gets better.

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

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

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

There but for the grace of God go I.

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

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

~ Hebrews 4:14-16 ~

Heavenly Surgery Part 2

Yesterday I posted that a splinter in the palm of my right hand was cramping my style. Today I have an update to offer.

Last evening, I decided enough was enough. If Dad's procedure worked as well as I made it sound, overcoming the trembling fears of his little girls, maybe it could come through for his now 50-something daughter, using her non-dominant hand to do the deed.

Findings: Dad's methods still hold up, a decade and a half after he passed on to eternity!

Conclusions: The David Parrish Approach to Splinter Removal can be applied single-handedly on oneself. The only prerequisites are: a) knowledge of the procedure, obtained via word of mouth (since, sadly, no textbook providers ever saw fit to release this wisdom in published form); and b) faith that, pain notwithstanding, the method is virtually foolproof (as evidenced by the fool who got it to work last night). Limited trials have shown hand dominance to be irrelevant to the independent removal process.

Final Notes: Parrish's Splinter Removal Approach has traditionally assumed a two-person procedure, i.e., a "remover" and a "removee". Recent studies have determined that the methodology can be applied without the direct aid of a remover. However, the removee must be familiar with the remover's instructions, even informally, and able to follow said directions accurately. In other words, the removee must remain under the tutelage of the remover and the two must have some connection, albeit distant. To further clarify, the removal cannot occur in a vacuum. There must be some link between remover and removee in order for the latter to achieve success unilaterally.

Spiritual Ramifications:

"Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me. I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; 
for without Me you can do nothing." - John 15:4-5

Heavenly Surgery

My dad was a surgeon.

Well, not really. I mean, he didn't have a sheepskin from Harvard Medical School or anything, but he sure knew how to remove splinters.

He used a simple technique involving matches, a safety pin, and tweezers. First, he sterilized the pin with a lit match, then probed around gently with its point to bring the offending sliver close to the skin's surface (all the while comforting and cajoling his frightened daughters, who weren't convinced the cure wasn't worse than the affliction). Finally, once his target was sighted, the tweezers finished the job.

I've been thinking of Dad today, having obtained a splinter in my right palm. The invasion occurred in the line of duty. I've been battling a cold for the past week, sanitizing everything in sight on a regular basis to a) avoid reinfecting myself once the germs are on their way out, and b) hopefully spare my son the snotty war his mom has been waging. In this valiant effort, I was running a disinfectant wipe along the basement banister and, well, you can figure out the rest.

If the culprit had landed in my left hand, I likely could tackle it myself, but being right-handed makes the required steps more than a bit difficult. So, instead of employing Dad's tried and true regimen, I've been pinching and poking around awkwardly with a fingernail, with little to show but the head of the thing protruding a millimeter or so above the surface, daring me to come after it with the big guns.

In the moments when I haven't been arguing with non-compliant wood shavings, I've been studying John 15 in preparation for my Bible study next week. Well, "studying" may be too strong a word, as I haven't gotten much beyond the first few verses. OK, truth be told, I'm stuck on the first two, in which Jesus compares Himself to a vine and God to a vinedresser, or pruner:

"I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit." 

I kept getting stuck on the idea of the branches being connected to the vine. That made no sense when I thought about it, since to me, vines are something like ivy, that wind their way up walls or around fences, whereas branches are found on a tree. Turns out Jesus was referring to a grapevine, which sprouts "branches" that produce those yummy morsels we all enjoy so much. I learned all this from John MacArthur, whose article, "The Vine and the Branches," makes the whole thing crystal clear.

The upshot of the metaphor is that believers, AKA, "branches," need to remain connected to the "true vine," AKA, Jesus, in order to "bear fruit," AKA, do His will. Branches that don't bear fruit show themselves to be useless and can expect to be excised by the Pruner's meticulous hand. They aren't the real deal in the sense that they parade themselves as fruit bearers, but in the end, only take up space and rob nutrients from their productive cohorts.

 MacArthur adds that another kind of pruning involves removing useless shoots that steal life-giving sap from the actual branches. This corresponds to God's pruning of  the lives and activities of His children, so that only essential pursuits are allowed to thrive. It's an ongoing process, tedious, I'm sure, for the Pruner, and often unpleasant for the branch. In the end, though, it's life-giving, and the branch would do well to yield to the Pruner's tender touch.

My splinter deal seems somehow related to all this vinedressing I'm reading about. This foreign body, miniscule though it may be, is annoying, a tad painful, and keeps getting in my way. It really requires a set of loving hands to dig around and pull the thing out. And what better hands than those of a dedicated dad, who knows just the right tools to perform the minor surgery needed to make everything come out right?

Birthdays and Beyond

My Natal Birthday

Birthdays.

I've had two of them.

Well, technically, I've had 57, since I was born in 1963 and, well, you can do the math.

I celebrated my natal birthday recently. According to my parents, I came home from the hospital with a cold, due to the frigid weather in which I made my arrival. The Lord saw fit to have me recover, so that I could live to see my spiritual birthday.

My Spiritual Birthday

This latter event occurred during my early years, somewhere between ages 10 and 12, as best I can recall. The story is simple. My mother had to have minor surgery that summer, and my aunt graciously took me off Mom's hands while she recovered. A local church in my aunt's neighborhood was offering a vacation Bible school for kids to attend, so my cousin and I were sent there for a few hours each morning, likely to keep us busy while Aunt Harriet tended to chores around the house.

One day during a craft activity, an adult leader casually asked if any of her rambunctious students needed to ask Jesus into their hearts. I had never heard of the idea, so raised my hand. She took me aside and presented the gospel in a way I could understand. She used a tool called the Wordless Book, which is something I have used many times in my own ministry with kids over the years. The leaflet is comprised of nothing but five colors: black, symbolizing the darkness of the sinner's heart; red, showing the blood of Christ which, when applied to that sinful heart, renders it w h i t e as snow; gold, depicting the streets of gold the transformed sinner can look forward to in heaven; and green, representing the growth the new believer can achieve through Bible study and prayer.

I believed the book's message of salvation, and kept the tiny felt pamphlet she gave me as a memento of my spiritual birthday.

My Spiritual Journey

Although I wasn't raised in a Christian home, the Lord planted a number of Godly influences in my life to help me along. My Aunt Edith took me to a Bible-believing church as a youngster. Somehow, I found my way to other church and para-church offerings, which taught me many basics (the names of books of the Bible in order, the Christmas and Easter stories, Psalm 23, and important church doctrines).

As years passed, I went through periods of spiritual stagnation and even rebellion, I'm sorry to say. However, time and maturity have kicked in (not completely - do any of us ever totally grow up?), and I feel hopeful about the spiritual course my life is on.

I've been blessed to sit under some exceptional teaching over the years. When my husband attended Dallas Theological Seminary's extension program at a local Bible college, the staff granted me the unparalleled privilege (well, except for God's gift of salvation!) of being able to audit his courses at no charge. I will always be thankful for that time of rich learning, even though my wise husband often had to practically drag his shortsighted wife to our weekend classes. I wanted to kick back on Friday nights and sleep in on Saturdays, both of which seemed more important at the time than studying the Scriptures. The foolishness of youth!

Various local churches have also added to my understanding of God's word. As a young teen, I attended a sound Presbyterian church and its youth group, which gave me the basic underpinnings of what it means to follow Christ. After my marriage, Rev. Dr. William Maurice Fain of Rockland Baptist Church in New York kept pestering a pair of newlyweds who had stopped in to visit his tiny church one day. Every Thursday following our visit, without fail, Pastor Fain showed up at our apartment to see how we were getting along. Finally, I asked why he kept stopping by when he could see we weren't coming back to his church! That quiet, sincere man donned a sly grin and replied that, when we told him we had found a solid church to call home, he would stop "bothering" us! Needless to say, we became regulars at his church until we moved to Pennsylvania two years later.

Over the next few years, I benefited greatly from the teachings at Spruce Street Baptist Church, Faith Reformed Baptist Church and Bethany Evangelical Presbyterian Church, all in southeastern Pennsylvania. In these fine institutions, I received instruction in the word and learned how to present the message of salvation to others.

Currently, I attend Bible Baptist Church in Upper Darby, PA, which is led by Rev. Steve Lyon, as humble and knowledgeable a shepherd as I've ever been blessed to know. I would be remiss not to mention the ministry of Rev. David Frampton and his wife, Sharon, whose loving example and outreach helped nurture my faith through some very difficult years. Finally, I owe a great deal to Jean Glatfelter, my spiritual mentor, whose "sola Scriptura" approach to the Bible has rubbed off on me and continues to inform my ministry to this day.

Musings: My Hope, My Goals and My Boast

Many wished me well on my special day, for which I'm most thankful. It's always nice to be remembered on one's birthday, and made to feel special.

However, no one ever celebrates my spiritual birthday. For one thing, as I've indicated, I can't be certain of the date, or even how old I was when my "second birth" occurred. But I suspect it's been recorded in heavenly annals, and when I enter the Lord's throne room, there will be celebrating beyond anything I can imagine.

As I take stock of my life thus far, I ponder what I have to show: a) for the 57 years I've been drawing breath on this planet; and b) for the nearly 50 years I've been following Christ.

My life has been enriched by two sons and their darling companions, and a beautiful grandson who will soon become a big brother to twin siblings! These folks and my family of origin are, without a doubt, my most cherished earthly resources.

Regarding professional accomplishments, I wandered many years trying to find a vocational home. The Lord's hand finally landed me in the field of education, which both challenges and fulfills me in many ways. My outside calling, writing, has produced a handful of works that have been published in print, but the vast majority have found their home online or reside on my hard drive. My magnum opus, Belabored, remains unread by most of the world.

On the subject of authorship, I've outlived my writing inspiration, Louisa May Alcott, who died at 56. She, however, had made a name for herself as a prestigious author before turning 40. While I can't boast of such a renowned career, neither could Alcott avail herself of social media to peddle her wares. She scurried hither and yon, seeking outlets for her work. I feel blessed that, while my readership may not be large, each and every person who checks out my blog gets the best I have to offer, and is part of the audience God has assigned me. I take that charge seriously, remembering that He does not despise small things.

I wonder how Alcott would have tackled the immense obstacles of modern-day publishing, with its mega-proposals and ad nauseam rewrites that serve as rites of initiation. Would she have continued to play the game, hounding agents and publishers, shelling out hard-earned dollars to attend conferences that often lead nowhere? Would she have scraped up the money to self-publish?

I ask myself these things only because Alcott's tenacity and pluck inspire me as much as her books did when I read them as a young girl. The real question is, what would God have me do with the novel that took four years to write? And what does He plan for some of my pieces for which a blog isn't the ideal forum?

I'm wrestling with these issues, realizing their resolution will come only through prayer and commensurate effort. Thankfully, my spiritual life is in reasonably good order, and I feel blessed to have a team of like-minded believers interceding for God's future plans for me.

So, in the wake of another birthday, while pondering the possibilities for this new year of life, I find peace in the fact that following the Lord is my most important calling, and sharing His gospel the best accomplishment I can boast.

"But God forbid that I should boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, 

by whom the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world." 

~ Galatians 6:14

Alcott's Sage Advice

Note to my readers: as has happened in the past, the brevity of this post seems to confound Blogger, which then insists on inserting huge gaps between paragraphs. I hope this doesn't detract in any way from the value of the article.

I just finished reading Louisa May Alcott: A Personal Biography by Susan Cheever. As a writer, the following struck me:

"[Louisa] would think about the stories for a while, let them grow in her mind, and then write them quite quickly with no revision or restructuring. Oddly she was finding that the material on which she spent the least time was the most successful. She still allowed herself to be sucked into a kind of writing vortex, but the process was much less agonizing, and when she had finished writing the story, she was done. She was beginning to feel her way into a fresher version of the style that had taken over when she wrote Hospital Sketches. Her prose simplified and gained power. She stopped Writing and began to write" (pp. 197-198).

I find this advice refreshing, and I'm indebted to Cheever for bringing it to my attention. We are taught in writers' conferences to rewrite and revise over and over again; it's not unheard of to produce up to half a dozen drafts of a full-length manuscript. I personally made four drafts of my novel, Belabored, and each one took the better part of a year! Not only is this wearying and time-consuming, but it can be very discouraging to feel that a piece is never quite right.

As a blogger, I've been forced to employ Alcott's findings quite a bit lately, since time has not permitted me the luxury of overthinking my work. And guess what? I've been pleased with the results.

I suspect, as with anything, balance is required when it comes to writing. Revision is a given, but beating a piece to death until it no longer resembles the author's original idea is ridiculous.

"My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King;

My tongue is the pen of a ready writer." ~ Psalm 45:1

God Gets It Right... Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: OK please hug her for me

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

Me: For sure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Remarkable" really doesn't cover it.

"A God thing" comes a little bit closer.

As usual, the word of God says it best:

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

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

~ Proverbs 3:5-6 ~

Substitution - the Antidote to Pride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Substitution - the heart of the gospel.

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

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

~ 2 Corinthians 5:21~

All or Nothing... or Something

There was a time in my life when, if I couldn’t do it perfectly, I wouldn’t do it all.

I can’t afford that luxury anymore.

Over the last few years, my life has gotten significantly more complicated. Complication, in the sense I mean, is a mixed bag. One of my sons is now married to a delightful woman, and they have become parents to my beloved grandson. My other son is seriously involved with a precious girlfriend, whom I hand-picked for him (that’s a whole ’nother story – just take my word for it).

I strive to spend individual time with all four of my children, be they related by blood or simply a bond of love. And it goes without saying, I snap up any chance to cuddle my grandbaby. All these things take time, every second of which is cherished and well spent.

Complication of the most delicious kind.

I'm much less enamored of the time I need to spend caring for my less than perfect body. Mind you, my earthly vessel has never even approached perfection, but as each year passes, fewer and fewer functions, ahem, function  perfectly. This corporeal lack of cooperation has resulted in a resentment-worthy number of hours being given over to doctoring of one sort or another.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m healthier than many of my peers and take almost no medication. I haven’t been diagnosed with any untreatable illnesses or conditions. It’s just that the mileage on this body is racking up, and the wear and tear on certain rebellious parts has mandated things like exercise regimes that are supposed to be done on a daily basis.

Yeah, right.

Complication I could do without.

And then there are helpful and interesting complications like a Bible-based financial class some caring folks invested in for me. Really, they invested in me, realizing I’m not the worst money manager who ever walked the earth, but believing I could benefit from some time-proven strategies to shore up my future. The class requires a time commitment of one evening a week, as well as homework that promises to change my life.

Complication of the most thoughtful kind.

True confessions: I started this article several weeks, maybe even a month ago, and life has gotten in the way of my finishing it. More true confessions: my all or nothing tendencies have also interrupted its flow. For instance, the aforementioned financial class suggests a variety of time-tested strategies to clean up one’s money messes. Since (thankfully) I don’t have too many such messes to address, I’ve been focusing more on the wealth-building suggestions, such as making money wherever possible and investing heavily. Oh, and keeping and sticking to a budget (something I’ve tried unsuccessfully to tackle over the years, but would love to get the hang of).

I have to admit, I’ve had to step back and remember that, while this class may be gifting me with tools to improve my fiduciary life, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I will never be able to “do” this money thing perfectly, but I can glean ideas that make sense, and put applicable ones into practice over time. Christ took three years to complete His earthly ministry, and His Father has taken 56 years to bring me to where I am today – which is struggling but striving on a daily basis to be more like Him.

So, why do I expect myself to nail this whole course in a few weeks?

Similarly, my exercise routine has had to be curtailed. I simply can’t keep up with each and every suggested remedy for ailing limbs each and every day. I admit it. Twenty-four hours just isn’t enough time to accomplish perfection in this area. Nevertheless, I try to do some exercises regularly. Well, perhaps frequently is more accurate. 

Sometimes not giving up, not tossing the baby out with the bath water, just has to be good enough.

Something is better than nothing.

One other note: if this post seems less “polished” than others I’ve written, that’s because I’m feeling led this morning – Thanksgiving morning – to finish it and put it out there for you, my readers. I’ll have a houseful of family expecting to chow down in a few hours, so perfection of every word and phrase is out of the question. Dinner, I hasten to add, will not be served in a perfectly clean house (far from it), nor will it be displayed on a perfectly arranged table. And I guarantee you, the fare will be a far cry from perfect. My hope, though, is that we will all eat in a serene setting with a (relatively) sane hostess.

That will have to be good enough.

But a faithful friend asked this morning about my writing, and I had to admit it’s been stagnant lately. Not for want of ideas or interest, but for lack of time and energy. Meanwhile, this half-finished piece has been sitting on a flash drive, patiently waiting for its author to practice what she preaches.

Herein lies my imperfect but heartfelt attempt to do just that.

In closing, I invite you to check out the Thanksgiving Proclamations issued by our forefathers, George Washington and Abraham Lincoln, both of whom understood the concept of perseverance in the face of opposition and imperfection, and Who it is that enables flawed humanity to keep on trying.

God bless us, everyone!

Wreckage Restored, AKA, Rebirth

This may be a somewhat strange observation, but so be it. New neighbors recently purchased a long-neglected house, and began rehabbing it. At the top of their list was remodeling the bathroom; thus, one day a dumpster bag appeared on their front lawn, filled with all the tile, fixtures and debris of their old bathroom.

Out with the old, in with the new.

Upon seeing the wreckage, my quirky mind went to 2 Corinthians 5:17: "Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new."

How wonderful to realize our God can reshape and remodel our lives - and it doesn't cost one cent!

Heel Heal Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

Now, back to the original article:


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

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

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

No. And I'll tell you why.

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

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

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

Where's their healing?

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

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

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

You get the picture.

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

I know. I think too much.

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

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

Like I said, I overthink things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So here I am

What's left of me

When glory meets my suffering

I'm alive

Even though a part of me has died

You take my heart and breathe it back to life

I fall into Your arms open wide

When the hurt and the Healer collide*

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

Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls—

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;

He will make my feet like deer’s feet,

And He will make me walk on my high hills.

~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

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

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

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

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10        

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

For more like this, check out: Disappointment