Everything is a Big Project

Defining the Problem

We all know how it is. A tiny paint job turns into a wash, spackle and sand ordeal before the bristles even make contact with the wall. Job interviews become major undertakings involving multiple interviews, background checks, and lots of nail biting. Even small weddings demand countless phone calls, emails, visits and beaucoup bucks. Buying a house is an expensive, involved process that can fall through at the last minute.

And then there’s the vital work of raising children. Between car seats that look like lounging chairs for royalty and cribs resembling four poster beds, it's all parents can do to put food on the table, let alone save for college. And these “have to's” for kids require know-how; gone are the days when we could pop kids into and out of car seats and transfer said seats between vehicles with minimal time and effort. Five-point harnesses are showing up on things like highchairs these days, making mealtime more of a challenge than it already is with young eaters.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for well-being. Home inspections and child safety make all the sense in the world. But I do wonder at times whether we're preparing ourselves right out of starting anything in the first place.

There's no way around it. Life is a big project. Where, oh where, has simplicity gone?

Drilling Down

Other things can be big projects, too. Things that aren't as tangible, but just as real and challenging as the more mundane aspects of life. Yours truly has been dealing with some such projects recently. Anger, resentment and fear, to be precise. 

No need to call in the suicide squad. The Lord has provided ample resources to cope with these difficulties, which I'll elaborate on shortly. In the meantime, I invite my readers to take a moment to reflect on the “big projects” - material, financial, emotional, spiritual - which are confounding them lately. 

I'm going to make the assumption that ALL our big projects are spiritual, for the simple reason that when anything stretches our limits, divine intervention is not only useful but often essential. Even the least spiritually inclined person must concede supernatural assistance at times. “Coincidence” allows us to cross paths with someone who can solve our problem in one way or another. “Fate” arranges events in an advantageous way. Some deem such happenings miraculous or lucky; whatever we call it, the plain fact is that impossible seeming solutions are orchestrated outside of our resources, by some unseen hand.

The Resentment Factor

When something’s bothering me, I pick at it. That’s why my hangnails turn into bloody fingers and scabs take a long time to heal. It’s not a behavior that I’m proud of, and I’m better than I used to be – but old habits die hard.

I do the same thing with perceived injustices. I’ve had some unhappy experiences recently, situations calling for forgiveness, which I felt loathe to give.

After all, I was right.

Can I get an “amen”? Don’t we all always feel like we’re in the right when righteous indignance comes to call?

The circumstances don’t matter; suffice it to say, I felt shortchanged and grieved by the actions or inactions of others on numerous occasions, and each encounter got progressively more painful in terms of who did the offending and the magnitude of the perceived wrong. Sadly, several of the hurts came from other believers.

Before anyone calls me thin-skinned, can’t we all point to seasons in our lives when it seems like the universe and everyone in it is out to get us? We can’t dwell in that attitude, or life wouldn’t be worth living; but it does seem there are times when everything’s going wrong.

Satan loves a good rodeo, and finds lots of clever ways to throw God’s children off the proverbial bull
just when they think they’ve got a firm grip on the reins. The fourth chapter of James describes some of the ways our enemy creates division among believers. Jesus Himself provides a clear example of how Satan can use our brothers and sisters in Christ to make us fall.

So, what’s a believer to do?

The Tools at Hand

First, use all the tools at hand. For me, one tool is journaling. A therapist told me long ago that “writing moves things” – it takes us from point A to point B with our emotions. One important caveat: these scribblings ought never show up in the offender’s inbox, at least not in their raw form. It’s much too easy to hit “send” on an unedited diatribe that will only make things worse.

Which brings me to a second point. I prefer verbally discussing a problem to letter writing. Written communication can be read and reread, picked and poked at (remember the hangnail and scab?). In addition, there’s always the possibility that the recipient will ignore the message and act like nothing ever happened. Personally, I find that more painful and uncomfortable than just getting it over with and hashing things out once tempers cool. This also happens to be the Biblical approach, although it will need to be adapted when dealing with people who aren’t on the same spiritual page.

While going through this period, I also revisited a book called Thank You for Being Such a Pain: Spiritual Guidance for Dealing with Difficult People, in which the author offers a roadmap for transforming irritation with people who “push our buttons” into spiritual growth. These practical strategies, combined with staying in God’s word, praying over the situations, and confiding in a spiritual mentor, helped defuse some of the anger, which was real and frightening.

Each New Problem Usurped the Previous One

I noticed something interesting as this period progressed. As each new kidney punch reared its ugly fist, the previous one seemed a bit less daunting. Thank heavens (literally), because if these things had compounded without any of them lessening in impact, I really think I might have checked out available beds in the nearest psych ward. God mercifully tamped out the flames of each current struggle as a new one entered the picture. Oh, a few embers remain, but they’re more reminders to exercise caution with certain people than flames waiting to be fanned.

Although, truth be told, embers can really go either way. If we tend to them properly, they’ll eventually become harmless. However, we can also nurse them back into a hearty fire if we choose.

That’s really the point. The choice is ours.

There’s a pithy saying about learning how to dance in the rain instead of waiting for non-stop sunny skies. I think that’s key. In this season of my life, where it seems I’m only a cloudburst away from each next downpour, I’m seeking God’s purpose for the storms. Having spent decades using ineffective strategies – running from difficulties, seeking escape, blaming others, or whipping myself with shame – I think it’s time for a change.

Weekend at Aaron’s

Shortly before Easter, I was feeling emotionally “hungover” by the trials in my life. Most had been semi-resolved, meaning while there was no active warring going on, neither was there an actual meeting of the minds. In short, truces had been declared, but we were a long way from civility.

I couldn’t imagine how God could turn these difficulties around. One came right on top of the other, each somehow worse than the last. My mind, often so forgetful about things that matter, was having no trouble at all revisiting each minor infraction over and Over and OVER again.

In the midst of all this, my son called begging for help. His wife, in her third trimester of pregnancy with an already much-loved baby boy, needed urgent medical care; could I please come stay with the other kids while he tended to her needs?

What mom could resist such a plea? Who would even want to? I was just starting my spring break from school, so the timing was perfect. I ended up spending the weekend, helping out and gathering gobs of joy from the little ones.

I collected a few other things, too, during my stay – an ugly stomach bug, which turned out to be the cause of my daughter-in-law’s symptoms, but more importantly, precious time with my son. His schedule is jam-packed with work and responsibilities, but we enjoyed a very low-key weekend while Elise and two of the kids recuperated from the virus. I got to know Aaron all over again, in a deeper way, while we chatted over the mundane but also the extraordinary.

And cradling my granddaughter while she was crying and her little body was heaving brought back sweet memories of mothering my own children when they were young. I don’t think it was any coincidence that I happened to be wearing my “Best Grandma Hands Down” t-shirt (which carries my first grandchild’s tiny handprints) while little Kira was throwing up on my shoulder.

Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

We must never discount the creativity of the Lord when it comes to dealing with human frailty. I had been crying out to Him all week, powering up all the tools in my arsenal, but at best the fury was merely ebbing. It never completely subsided. The interruption caused by Aaron’s family emergency, combined with the sweet communion with my son and grandbabies (and my own subsequent illness), provided the break I needed from my own thought processes which were keeping me chained to bitterness.

I wish I could say all my resentments flowed away into an ocean of Godly forgiveness. That wouldn’t be honest. But I can attest to the fact that caring for my son’s family provided a welcome diversion from my angry thoughts and disappointed expectations. The abundant love in my heart for my family served to crowd out the ugliness that had been pervading my soul.

What a great God we serve! “How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out!” (Romans 11:33)

The Evolution Piece

At age 60, I’m unwilling to give up this fight. If life is going to be a big, complicated ordeal on most levels, then so be it – but may I be found wrestling against attitudes that don’t please God when it’s my turn to stand before Him. While I have problems with Darwinism, it does make Biblical sense that humans can and should evolve behaviorally and spiritually:

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)

“But you have not so learned Christ, if indeed you have heard Him and have been taught by Him, as the truth is in Jesus: that you put off, concerning your former conduct, the old man which grows corrupt according to the deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your mind, and that you put on the new man which was created according to God, in true righteousness and holiness.” (Ephesians 4:20-24, emphasis mine)

So, in addition to using the aforementioned strategies to combat resentment and feeling bogged down with problems, I’m trying out some new ones. Here are a few:

1.      Divert my focus away from the problem and onto God’s goodness (for example, instead of focusing on the latest worry or hurt feelings, I mentally shift gears to consider something positive and hopeful that God is doing in my life).

2.     Pray as much or more for those doing well in the Lord than for those in constant crisis. This redirects my attention from floundering ships and onto destination-bound vessels! This is not to suggest I give up on or mentally cast off troubled people; far from it! Rather, it affords me the opportunity to uphold believers who are growing and thriving in the Lord at least as much as I do for those who are struggling. The mental difference this makes is palpable.

3.      Realize God is using the circumstance, person, infraction to GROW ME! This amounts to taking the focus off the tool and placing it onto the One who is holding the tool!

4.      Notice the big picture, i.e., what I’m going through in the context of a greater plan. I’m currently teaching a Bible study called “To Whom Shall We Go?” which is derived from Peter’s answer to Jesus’s question about whether the disciples would ultimately stand by Him. Peter’s cavalier response and subsequent denial of our Lord should give all believers pause. It’s worth noting that we call our Bible study group the “Cord of Three Strands” to remind each other of the vital bond to which God calls the body of Christ. Within that framework, it behooves believers to buckle up! Where God’s people are communing together and striving to please Him, Satan will surely try to work his mischief. If Satan can take out the teacher, the students will surely suffer. Also, as a wise Bible mentor once explained to me, after God teaches His children a lesson, a test is sure to follow.

To sum up, I’m practicing making a conscious decision between nursing grudges or nurturing my relationship with the Lord, and noticing all He’s doing in the midst of (not the absence of) struggles – that’s the key! It's not feasible to keep getting all jumbled up inside. Too much emotional drama is draining; I simply can’t spend exorbitant amounts of time on every little rainstorm. It makes more sense to prayerfully commit each challenge to Him, then try not to overthink it. Sometimes this involves having to detach from people or situations that are more than I can handle. I may need to step back and minimize involvement for awhile to give God time to make my behavior more Christ-like.

Sweet Irony

Ironically, it seems this article itself has become a big project. I started it about a month ago, and it’s been weighing on my mind ever since. The whole thing has been written piecemeal, drawing from notes I’ve jotted hither and yon, and needing much revision to bring about a sensible product (I hope). Not all that different from giving birth, really (if the process by which God transforms the union of a seed and an egg into a full human isn’t a big project, I don’t know what is).

Which just goes to show our marvelous God knows how to tackle big projects one bit at a time.

Sometimes You Can Fight City Hall

That got your attention, didn't it?

I use the phrase metaphorically, but also in total seriousness. About 30 years ago, I went head-to-head with the Philadelphia Parking Authority when they refused to acknowledge my timely payment of a small parking ticket. Copies of bank statements proving my assertion left them yawning. My requests to speak to management were ignored. In desperation, I contacted my big sister, Jo Ann, who is known far and wide (at least to disinterested bureaucrats) as someone you don't want to tangle with (her favorite slogan to get around gatekeepers is "You don't get paid enough to talk to someone as angry as I am!"). 

Jo literally took my problem to City Hall and, voilá, somehow my missing payment was found and the thugs got off my back.

Some time later, I received a parking violation which was totally fraudulent. I had never even been to the location of my supposed infraction; to add insult to injury, I had been tending my ailing father on his deathbed at the time I was allegedly incurring said ticket.

I saw red. 

This time I sought help from local legislators to fight the spurious charges. One correspondence with legal letterhead settled the matter in my favor.

If we examine these two instances, each is somewhat unique. In one case, I deserved the ticket, but had done my part to rectify it; in the other, I truly was guiltless, but needed help to extricate myself. In the first situation, someone who had more time and a more "I mean business" demeanor than I managed to solve the problem; in the latter, I needed professional assistance.

But what do they have in common?

The odds of my winning either one of these battles were astronomically against me. My father used to complain that city parking authorities are often notoriously corrupt, so one would do well to mind one's P's and Q's when one ventures into their territory. In scenario #1, I had fallen afoul of said authorities, and they were making it impossible to establish my debt had been paid. Scenario #2 was even trickier, because a crooked ticket had been issued, and I had no way to prove I hadn't earned it. I had argued and fussed, even provided physical proof of my innocence, yet the consequences still loomed and were, in fact, growing; every day I didn't pay up, surcharges were accruing. In short, my own resources failed to solve the problem.

The deciding factor in both matters was the help I had in resolving them. 

If I wanted to brag, I could mention other matters in which I "beat the bad guys" by involving bodies like the state attorney general's office and other agencies with more clout than I have. But then I would also need to admit that for every tussle I've won, there have been plenty that I lost. What often makes the difference is who is on my team plugging for me. In many cases, the powers that be won't budge until someone in a high position rattles their cages; then and only then will they back down.

Jesus stood in the gap for believers in much the same way the aforementioned advocates did for me. This won't be a perfect analogy, so I hope readers won't pick it apart till it bleeds (but our Savior did bleed - buckets full - and what a gift His sacrifice gave to hurting humanity). One of my seminary professors used to say, "Don't try to make it walk on all fours." In other words, don't expect every analogy to perfectly align the two entities being compared. An illustration is only that - a reasonable facsimile of the object it represents. 

That said, the least analogous part of the advocate comparison I'm making is the culpability of the two parties involved. In the examples I mentioned, I was being wrongfully accused, whereas Christ wasn't (on the cross) and isn't (in His resurrected state) defending a wronged party against a corrupt one. On the contrary, His death reconciled guilty sinners to a sinless God. He advocated for sinners on the cross (past tense), and continues to advocate for us before God's throne (present tense). In that sense, Christ actually flips my analogy by pleading for the guilty party, rather than the guiltless one.

Two Bible verses put this whole topic in a nutshell:

My little children, these things I write to you, so that you may not sin. And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. - 1 John 2:1

Therefore He is also able to save to the uttermost those who come to God through Him, since He always lives to make intercession for them. - Hebrews 7:25

There may be times when we need the intercession of human defenders, and by the grace of God, lawyers and consumer protection agencies exist for just such occasions. But when it comes to spiritual advocacy, there's no one better than Jesus Christ.

Dad's Dream

My dad had an upsetting dream while recovering from open heart surgery. By some stroke of a heavenly pen, poor Dad was required to go through the recovery process for multiple patients. His own arduous road to wellness would be multiplied by two, maybe three times. Every therapy session and each needle puncture would be doubled or tripled.

I'm sure he awoke in a cold sweat.

Thirty plus years later, while reflecting on Dad's nightmare, I believe this was his mind's way of playing out what was just too much for him. He undoubtedly felt unable to handle his own recovery, let alone anyone else's. Perhaps his subconscious was contemplating the idea of further surgeries and interventions down the line, the thought of which terrified his overtaxed mind. 

At times I feel something akin to what Dad's dream indicated he was going through. At the beginning of a grueling week or the outset of a major challenge, the mountain ahead appears insurmountable. The forward-thinking part of me overtakes the "keep your mind where your feet are" wisdom I've gained over the years. I want to tackle the whole thing and be done with it, instead of nibbling one bite at a time; I choke on the idea of gobbling up the whole problem, and rebel at the idea of taking even the smallest step to begin. A cycle of fear and panic grips my troubled heart, and if I don’t let God talk me down off the ledge, paralysis can overwhelm action.

Dad eschewed his dream and got on with the taxing business of recovery. He showed up at cardiac rehab and followed doctors’ orders. He let himself be weak until he gained a bit of strength, and endured the inevitable setbacks.

In short, he had good days and bad days.

What he didn’t have to do was recover for anyone besides himself.

That part of the dream was fallacious, and he knew it.

I’m sure he had moments when it all seemed like too much. When hiding at home seemed preferable to trying to make his uncooperative, post-stroke fingers button a shirt so he could go out and fight another day.

That’s right. Future recoveries did await him, as a post-operative stroke further limited his capabilities. But he continued putting one foot in front of the other, living out the truth of Matthew 6:34: “Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

He didn’t have to fight all his battles at once, and neither do I.

What a relief.

                                                                       Dad and I, circa 2004. I miss him.

Enlivened by Light

I saw a creepy lawn display today. A full-size skeleton stood sentinel outside a suburban house. A red Santa cap adorned the head (well, skull) and a strand of colored lights rested in flesh-less hands. My gut reaction (I know, bad pun) was, "Eeew!" 

But then again, maybe the decorator is onto something – grossness notwithstanding.

While the intention may have been simply to shock or even offend traditionalists (whose idea of Christmas decor typically includes things like manger scenes, elves and snow globes), the more I think about it, a definite gospel theme emerges out of this macabre design. 

Christ came to bring light to a dark world:

"Then Jesus spoke to them again, saying, “I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life" (John 8:12).

He came to enliven the dead:

"But God, who is rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up together, and made us sit together in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, that in the ages to come He might show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness toward us in Christ Jesus." (Ephesians 2:4-7). 

I'm sure if I worked at it, I could find an application for the Santa hat, but that might be a stretch. 

The point is, eerie or not, the skeletal scene makes a Scripturally accurate statement; illumination of lifeless beings was at the heart of Christ's mission.

Happy New Year, and "thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!"(2 Corinthians 9:15).

Enough

I haven't written one word since October 20. Oh, I've jotted notes and scribbled things I needed to remember, but these fingers haven't produced anything of importance since the day I just referenced. 

That's the day I received the latest rejection of my novel. 

I wrote about this possibility cryptically a few months ago, cautioning myself not to let hopes soar too high or be dashed too low, should the manuscript be rejected again. It was, and I’m still standing.

Here’s the quote I use in the opening of my novel:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other.

Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

My pastor’s been discussing this idea in his sermons on the book of Jeremiah. That guy wasn’t called the weeping prophet for nothing – his countrymen steadfastly rejected his message, yet he faithfully executed the marching orders the Lord gave him (after some initial whining, which makes me feel better about my frequent reluctance to pick up the gauntlets He hurls my way). Similarly, I may have to keep tilting at windmills till the day He calls me home. If one of those windmills happens to lead to a publication deal, great. If not, at least I’ll have gone down fighting.

Let me backtrack for a moment, and then change gears altogether, because this post really isn’t about rejection or disappointment. It’s about finding the Lord to be enough, no matter what circumstances we find ourselves in. I stated at the outset that I hadn’t written anything significant since October 20, but that’s misleading. True, I haven’t tweaked my novel, sent any new book proposals, or even blogged for a couple of months. From that standpoint, I’ve been stagnant. But a small group of women attend a Bible study taught by yours truly, and I have upheld that responsibility. Right now we’re delving deep into the Scripture-packed hymn, O Come, O Come Emmanuel, and finding ourselves blessed by the wealth of encouragement those lyrics have to offer.

There is more than one way to write for the Lord.

For all I know, He considers my humble efforts at educating a handful of faithful ladies to have far greater impact than if my book were to top the bestseller list.

So, it comes down to enough.

What is enough for this arrogant clay pot? John D. Rockefeller, one of the richest men who ever lived, once defined “enough money” as “just a little bit more.”

We can condemn him as a malcontent and roll our eyes at the dissatisfaction of a man who arguably had all the world had to offer, yet wanted more. But he’s only expressing the spirit of the age – the same thing King Solomon found out: that whenever we put our hopes in what the world has to offer, we’re going to feel shortchanged.

My grandchildren provided a good illustration of this principle last week when they helped decorate my Christmas tree. They eagerly grasped ornaments with their tiny fingers, clasping and clutching with the fervor Jacob must have exhibited when he wrestled with God. Note how they piled ornament atop ornament on single branches, clumping everything together. They’re youthful decorators, and haven’t figured out that less is more when it comes to the fine art of tree trimming. To their wonder-filled eyes, if one bauble enhanced a naked tree branch, surely three or four could only make it better. But in the layering on, something that can only be seen in simplicity gets lost, and the whole thing becomes lopsided and overdone. 

At my grandson’s birthday party last month, there was a laser tag game of sorts. Being an old fogey, I had never experienced this recreational activity, so I took my granddaughter into the tent and together we chased the fleeting lights. I found it somewhat symbolic that, as soon as we laid hold of a given beam, it disappeared into nothingness.

I wrote about this phenomenon years ago, pining about my inability to lay hold of the laser beam that is the holiday feeling. It was the Christmas season, as it is now, and I was struggling then, as I do now, to let enough be enough. I was overeating and overfeeding my holiday joy meter with endless Christmas songs and Hallmark movies. I can only report partial success in the ten years that have elapsed since; something inside still yearns for an elusive something that won’t fade away on December 26. Something that will continue feeding my spirit and keep it aglow even after the curtain (or fork) drops.

But that brings up another point. The only curtain with eternal significance was ripped in two by heavenly hands when Christ breathed His last, thus shouting down through the ages that His sacrifice was enough. That the dividing line between deity and humanity was forever removed, leaving only the need for each pilgrim to make his wholly inadequate way into the presence of glory.

As I’m rereading these ramblings, it seems I’ve overdone it again with metaphors and analogies. Oh, well. So be it. It should come as no surprise that someone who binges on food and Christmas movies would tend to go overboard in the figurative language department. Better that than cookies.

I hope, though, that in the midst of my metaphor madness, one point stands out in brilliant relief. At the top of my Christmas tree rests neither angel nor star. Those things heralded the light that pierced darkness 2,000 years ago, but the cross finished the work of redemption. As I posted on social media many Christmases ago, “Lord, turn bad into good, wrong into right, sin into redemption. Come to think of it, You did that at the cross. Thank You, Lord, that Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.”

And that, my dear readers, is more than enough.

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

Training Wheels

My grandson stayed overnight recently, and my sister and I gave him bike riding lessons. He has a Spiderman two-wheeler with training wheels that list to one side and a drive to learn that won't quit.

He quickly discovered that going downhill beats an uphill climb every time.

But during those cascading moments of unbridled freedom, I hope he noticed smooth sailing is not without its dangers. 

Luca's bike doesn't have brakes. That means he had to quickly figure out (with a bit of instruction from Mom Mom and Aunt Jane) how to be his own braking system. Sure, it's fun soaring downhill at umpteen miles per hour, but who wants to go careening into a thorny rosebush at the bottom of the street - or worse, the street itself? Luca had to slow his descent with good old-fashioned foot power. The same feet that pedaled him up powered him down when he started getting into trouble.

Then there are the flat surfaces. Our neighborhood has a nice assortment of hills and valleys, as it were, and Luca settled into a steady rhythm on the even places. Those weren't nearly as exciting as downward plummeting, but he could sort of chill and give his peddlers a bit of a break.

Which brings me to the hills. Now, these required some man power. Call me sadistic, but I didn't help him right away. Experience suggested he was going to need assistance, but I wanted him to realize that for himself. After some heavy breathing and not a little grunting and groaning, he cried "Uncle," and we came to his aid -  but not without imparting a life lesson: some tasks require teamwork, and Mom Mom and Aunt Jane will ALWAYS be on his team.

Afterwards, we talked about his experiences. Downhill was tons of fun but it didn't take much effort and wasn't always as carefree as it seemed. The flat parts required less umph than going uphill, but they weren't terribly exciting. He had to ask the most of himself (and his fellow man) on the upward climbs, and sometimes even get out and push - but, oh, the satisfaction when that hill was behind him.

Next time I'm going to teach him about the importance of the helmet. The best biker in the world has to keep his headspace healthy, or God help him when he hits the road bumps:

"Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God." - Ephesians 6:17

And speaking of our Creator, the best advice I can give all my grandbabies is, wherever you pedal, never forget who gave you the power to do so. Drop in and see Him whenever you can.

Life's little instructions show up in interesting settings.

Rejection... Before the Fact... Again

It's happening. Again.

I've been trying to steel myself, but to no avail.

I've never been any good at keeping hopes high and expectations low at the same time.

Remember that feeling when a relationship is new? Too new, even, to call it a relationship? That feeling of wanting something so bad you can taste it, but dreading even to take that first bite, lest it not live up to the expectations you've assigned it?

I'm talking about fresh love. Infatuation, really, because love has to be cultivated, but infatuation only has to be stoked.

I'm finding out that this phenomenon isn't limited to the highs and lows of romance. No, it can rear its leery head in things as mundane as a new job or a long anticipated vacation or the prospect of anything you really want that may not come to pass.

Don't get your hopes up.

Something this good can never last.

Better to aim low than to be disappointed. Again.

I thought I was going to be open enough to tell you, lovely readers, what I'm hoping for that may not happen, but I'm finding out that my courage is in short supply. Again. 

Perhaps it's best to just leave it to the imagination, since we all know the sensation I'm talking about.

 The "what if" syndrome. 

What if this doesn't work out after all?

What if I invest in this (name the prize you're trying to grasp), and it eludes me?

What if I expend a lot of energy and not a few sleepless nights, and nothing comes of it?

What if I get hurt? Again.

I'm not one to listen to a lot of melancholy music these days - the kind that nurtures angst and pining. Oh, I used to do a lot of that. Certain songs can still tug on my heartstrings and bring me right back to my teen years when everything mattered and all possibilities seemed available and out of reach at the same time.

But I did stumble across an old tune that touches a chord right now. I'm not going to supply the lyrics here, because the songwriter and I have totally different world views and probably couldn't even hold a four-minute conversation without disagreeing on the weather forecast for that day. That said, he got it right when he penned words about lost love and the need to let things go and move on.

He's talking about a broken relationship, but I'm talking about life.

The things that don't come our way, despite our best efforts and deepest longings. The things we clawed at, ached over, yearned for. The things we trusted in that came up wanting.

The Bible says King Belshazzar found this out the hard way:

"This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." (Daniel 5:26-28)

Verse 30 tells us "that very night" Belshazzar was killed and his empire taken over by another. But before he died, the proud Babylonian ruler honored Daniel, who had just foretold the king's doom, and elevated the prophet to a position of prominence in the kingdom (v.29).

Good for him. Way to not kill the messenger. Way to respect the message even if you're terrified of its contents.

So it goes.

One man rises as another man falls. 

The ashes of one regime fuel the ignition of another.

My takeaway is that life is circular. Always has been, always will be. One day you're up, the next, you're down. But if you wait long enough, many times you'll make it to the top of the ferris wheel again - if only for a few minutes.

Unless, of course, your ticket's punched. As Belshazzar found out.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I'd rather consider these words of wisdom born from experience. Since I'm learning it late in life, it's a bit arrogant to call it my philosophy. Perhaps life lesson is more to the point.

What goes around comes around, but not always in this lifetime.

So, what does matter? 

Well, for me, what matters today is testing negative for COVID after a week of wondering if, like the friends I vacationed with, I will start developing symptoms. Assuming the virus has passed me by this time, what matters today is visiting my aunt who's recovering from heart surgery. Making progress on a writing project that's taking a lot of time and may not pan out the way I hope. Spending time with my beloved sisters. Following my Lord and trusting Him to show me how to do each next right/write thing. And inching a tiny bit closer to the goals He's set before me, regardless of how they turn out.

Rejection may well come my way. Again. If so, my God will be there to pick me up. Again.

I don't need to mourn before the fact. Maybe I don't even need to mourn after the fact - if, indeed, things don't go my way. 

Because His way trumps my way, even when it doesn't seem so this side of heaven.

"A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs His steps." - Proverbs 16:9

 

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?