Love and Latkes (with thanks to Malka Drucker, whose book "Grandma's Latkes" and the recipe therein, were the basis of our feast)

Today our neighbor Anita, who holds a special place in our hearts, gave us the most wonderful gift.

She let us cook for her.

She said - and I believe her - that she adored every bite.

Anita truly is a gourmet cook, and our family has had more than its share of incredible meals at her table. We have feasted on Peking duck wrapped in homemade crepe pancakes, shrimp in cream sauce, hot out of the oven cakes and pastries (from scratch, naturally) with frosting that's to die for...

Let me stop before I open the fridge and expand my waistline even more than it's already grown during this holiday season.

The problem with cooking for someone with such expertise is obvious. How can one with minimal talent in the kitchen hope to please the palate of a connoisseur?

Still, for Anita's holiday gift, my boys set out to make potato latkes for her. My son's dear friend, whom I affectionately refer to as "third son," joined in with gusto, and before we knew it, we had an assembly line of grating and mincing and mixing and frying that blended the aromas of onions, oil and, of course, potatoes into what I'm convinced love smells like.

The best part was how Anita gobbled them up. My culinary friend has a veritable cornucopia of tactful ways to decline seconds, ranging from "it's delicious, but I just ate," to "thank you, but I just can't afford the calories." None of these polite refusals was uttered or even hinted at today. Anita ventured forth calorically, eschewing common sense, and for once joined in our family's habitual piggery. She declared our little pancakes the best ever and, along with the rest of us, indulged freely (sans utensils - commonplace for me and my tribe but, under ordinary circumstances, unthinkable for her), standing up, clutching steamy, starchy cakes with oil-fingered abandon.

It was a gluttonous love fest.

I told Anita that her genuine enthusiasm for the boys' labor of love (she would have choked one down for the kids' sake, because that's the way she is, even if they had emerged gummy and inedible) was a true gift to all of us. Every one of us felt sheer delight at her sheer delight.

I can't think of a better way to start out the new year.

"Pretty Much My Grandma," AKA, Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

Anita Rae Gross Etskovitz Miller almost didn't get born.

Seventy-three years ago, her mother, Ruth Gross, faced a decision of momentous proportions. At age 31 or thereabouts (she was a Russian immigrant to the United States, and birth certificates at that time were not part of the status quo in her country of origin), she had already given birth to four children. The oldest was 13, the youngest, almost nine. She and her husband worked hard to support their brood in their adopted country. They hosted relatives for weeks at a time, helping to pay for little things like the birth of a niece, and setting up family members in business so they, too, could grab hold of a corner of the American Dream. To top things off, Mrs. Gross suffered from severe asthma, and feared her unborn baby might "catch it."

A fifth child was unthinkable, and yet she was expecting.

In desperation, she sought out Dr. Teitelbaum, her trusted physician, and asked him for an abortion. The good doctor promised Anita's mother that her little one would not be asthmatic, and urged her to reconsider aborting. He and his childless wife offered to adopt the infant if Ruth felt she couldn't raise another child.

Anita's life was spared, and she grew up to become a gifted social worker who helped scores of families navigate the difficulties of dialysis (a medical intervention that could have saved the life of her father, had he lived in a different era; instead, he was taken by renal failure when Anita was 12); a master potter who commands hundreds of dollars for customized bowls and crockery, yet, with child-like earnestness, asks questions like, "It looks like corn, doesn't it?" when seeking an opinion on her artwork (Anita on her drawing ability: "I can make the clay work better than I can make a brush work. I could probably throw 50 pots if I had to, but that's easier than drawing one ear of corn!"); a gourmet cook whose table regularly hosts satiated family and friends; a seamstress whose skills range from repairing zippers to mending cane chairs; a homemaker who "wallpapered [her] house with tears" after being left alone to raise three youngsters; and a steadfast friend to my family when she joined our neighborhood four months after my mom died and became, in the words of my young son, "pretty much my grandma."

She earned this title by doing things like cradling and reassuring my boy till her lap fell asleep when he cried for his granddad, who was the only grandparent he had left and had just been admitted to the hospital; sitting in a camp chair for two hours on a freezing night to watch my son play football; and refusing to paint over the doorjamb where she has faithfully tracked my kids' growth since the day she moved in.

What if Ruth's doctor had said yes to her desperate request to abort this wonderful soul?

Thank You, Lord, that You prevailed and allowed this wonderful woman access to so many lives, which she enriched by her very presence!

"Then the word of the Lord came to me, saying: 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you...'" (Jeremiah 1:4-5)

"For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother's womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Marvelous are Your works... My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they were all written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them." (Psalm 139:13-16)

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 ~

It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This

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

That's when it happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I find myself humming Diane Warren's timeless tune:

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

These are the moments I'll remember all my life

I've found all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

These are the moments I know heaven must exist

These are the moments I know all I need is this

I have all I've waited for

And I could not ask for more

I could not ask for more than this time together

I could not ask for more than this time with you

Every prayer has been answered

Every dream I have's come true

Right here in this moment

Is right where I'm meant to be

Here with you here with me

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

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

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

Ask Good Questions

"Ask good questions."

That's my friend Anita's recipe for relationship success. Posing thought-provoking questions, rather than making blanket statements, declarations and imperatives, leads to better communication, Anita swears, especially when parents are conversing with adult or nearly adult children.

I put this theory to the test recently, when my 20-year-old son opened up to me about his life. We startedout sharing a cup of coffee and, before I knew it, were deeply ensconced in the type of discussion parents dream of, once their too loquacious grade schoolers turn into reticent teens. I gnawed my tongue mercilessly, gulping more decaf when advice threatened to tumble out unbidden. I used every trick taught to first year psych students, including reflecting, affirming, and non-judgmental listening. I used phrases like, "It sounds like" and "So you're saying," rather than my well-worn "Don't you think?" and "If I were in your shoes..." In short, I hogtied my maternity, and took the stance of an objective, non-partisan automaton.

And I asked good questions. I wondered aloud what his feelings were about the issues on the table, and what options he saw for himself and others in his sphere of influence. Those questions gave way to more questions and, surprisingly, more unleashed confidences.

Just when I thought I would asphyxiate if I had to hold in any more life-saving counsel, my adult son asked me a good question:

"So... what do you think?"

"The purposes of a person’s heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out." Proverbs 20:5

Better Things

Today I am puppy sitting for my neighbor, Anita, who is the "guardian angel" that God sent four months after my mom died to "mother" me and "grandparent" my boys. Dusty Miller, her 10-year-old Shih Tzu, is our family's adopted dog.

Borrowed pets, like grandchildren, share the love while saving the borrower the expense and care of being an honest-to-goodness pet owner. Anita has been loaning Dusty to us, at times to help her out, but often just to meet our family's unfilled furry friend needs. On this particular day, Dusty migrated right away to the water bowl we keep around for her and began lapping away. I quickly realized this was old water, having been here since her last visit nearly a week ago. Apologetically, I nudged her questioning little face away so I could refresh her dish with fresh water.

This 30-second exchange reminded me of how God often deals with me. Countless times He has refused to give me what I asked for, only to follow up with something much healthier and safer. Like Dusty, I often feel deprived, as if He is withholding something which seems, in my limited perspective, in my best interest.

I must resort to the words of Isaiah 55 if I am to relinquish my flawed will to His supreme one: "'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the Lord. 'As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts'" (vv.8-9). Still, when that attractive but stagnant water beckons me, it's hard to renounce it for the Living Water. So worth it, though.  
                
For more like this, check out: Better Things Part 2, AKA, Puddleglum's Save

        

                                               Better Things Part 3, AKA, Juggling

Kicking Chaos to the Curb

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

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

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

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

That little lady sure knows what's what.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not according to what he does not have." 

~ 2 Corinthians 8:10-12 ~

Primrose Path

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

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

As always, to Him be the glory.

Welcome to my garden, such as it is!

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

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

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

Consider the following passage from 1 Corinthians 15:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew! What a relief.

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

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

What a Savior. 

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

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?

Senseless

My neighbor's dog is deaf and blind. She used to have hearing and vision, but age has taken its toll on this "short person in a fur coat."

We've known this beige, wide-eyed shih tzu for 12 years. Her name is Dusty Miller, and she's comforted everyone in our family at one time or another. When my father lay weak and helpless on what would become his death bed, Dusty curled up at his feet. When my sons had a bad day at school, they went down the street and scooped up Dusty. 

Now Dusty finds the most enjoyment being in familiar surroundings because she's minus two of her senses. We carry her up and down stairs and guide her in safe directions when walking. 

Tonight I took Dusty out to "do her business" so her "mommy," Anita, could do some business of her own. As usual, I steered her around obstacles and out of harm's way, nudging her onto grassy surfaces so she could do her thing. I watched with great interest as Dusty circled and sniffed and even poked her whole face into the earth beneath her. 

She was compensating for what she didn't have, calling on her senses of touch and smell to make up for those she lacked. 

As I've mentioned before, I'll be attending the Greater Philly Christian Writers Conference at the end of this month. I'm working hard on the second draft of my novel, Belabored, but to be honest, it's not coming together as I would like. I've requested information from expert sources to make the book ring true, but it's a waiting game. Other people have lives and to do lists also, and my priorities aren't necessarily at the top of those lists. Oddly enough, the world doesn't owe me anything, and it certainly doesn't have to spin on my timetable. 

So what's a girl to do? Here I am, trying to serve the Lord, using my talents to shed light on a very important subject (abortion), and I'm running into stop signs. But we don't sit at stop signs endlessly, do we? We pause, evaluate our surroundings, and use our best judgment to move ahead when an appropriate amount of time has passed. 

That's just what God's been guiding me to do. Instead of waiting for material I don't yet and may never have, I sense He's instructing me to move forward with what I do have. I have a manuscript which needs revision. So I'm revising. I have a conference for which I can prepare. So I'm preparing.

Like Dusty, I'm figuring out how to work around my deficiencies, and not let them render me senseless.

"If there is first a willing mind, it is accepted according to what one has, and not according to what he does not have." 

2 Corinthians 8:12

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Weeds 2

Morsels for Meditation...: Circles

Seasons

We're in the middle of a "Nor'easter" here in Havertown. The wintry mix has turned our autumn-colored foliage frosty white. Yesterday's crisp, dry leaves, heaped high atop the curbs awaiting collection, have morphed into soggy, limp piles of refuse.

In the midst of this terrible weather, our dear friend Anita has traveled north to watch her elder son marry. Several years ago, the cold winds of November howled as his beloved wife lost her fight with cancer. Tomorrow he will crush a wine glass as his new bride looks on from under the chuppah. They will begin life together as husband and wife, and the tears of yesterday will make tomorrow's rejoicing that much sweeter.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart..." Ecclesiastes 3:1-11

                                           MAZEL TOV, NEWLYWEDS!

For more like this, check out: 

Morsels for Meditation...: Husbands and Wives in the Image of Christ and the Church

Morsels for Meditation...: Babies, Big and Small

Brothers

I just got off the phone with my brother-in-law, Scott. No, let me rephrase that. I just got off the phone with my brother.

All my life, I wished I had an older brother. Someone to guide me about men, so I could be more comfortable with the opposite sex. God in His wisdom blessed me with three marvelous, incredible sisters instead. I had a wonderful, good father, but somehow we just didn't talk about those things. Little did I know that a prayer I had never articulated, even to God, would be answered years later when two of my sisters said, "I do."

I shared some good news with Scott during our phone conversation, and also a major prayer concern. Scott, a loving man of few words, uncharacteristically launched into prayer over the phone lines from 3,000 miles away in a hotel room. In the spirit of Steven Curtis Chapman's Let Us Pray, he took the opportunity then and there, rather than promising to intercede later. His gentle, heartfelt words, born from bitter experience of his own, touched and soothed my fearful heart.

My other brother-in-law - no, brother - Tom, has been just as much of a Godsend at different times. Both he and Scott sat alongside me during an excruciating school meeting years ago, lending moral support and testosterone to a situation that needed both. Tom has also shown wisdom and good judgment during a variety of family issues.

My friend Anita would say they are mensches. And she would be right.

"Before they call I will answer; while they are still speaking I will hear." Isaiah 65:24

Jesus Christ, the Same Yesterday, Today, and December 26th

My father-in-law used to say the heaviest thing for him to pick up was a pen. That was back in the days when people used such outdated implements to correspond with each other. Nowadays, we might say the hardest things to un-stick are the keyboard letters. Either way, we're talking about writer's block, and mine has been  noticeable these last few months.

I must acknowledge and dedicate this post to my dear friend René, who has been gently nudging me for several weeks now to get back on the proverbial horse and ride. A faithful reader of my blog, she has been dutifully checking for the latest posts, only to find there were NONE! I've been blaming my reticence on the old standby, Christmas busy-ness, but René was having none of it.

"It's been well over a month! It is time!" was her last admonition to me; so René, this one's for you.

We do make Christmas ridiculously busy in our culture. Not surprisingly, we become tired and cranky, and turn what should be a joyous celebration of imperial birth into a time of stress and often emptiness. My own cycle goes something like this:

I begin to get the Christmas spirit before Thanksgiving. I wait anxiously for B101 and oldies 98 to start playing round the clock Christmas music, and wade through my disorganized collection of CD's to supplement the radio's somewhat limited offerings. I gradually decorate the house until one day I walk downstairs and realize my vinyl Christmas tablecloth is just too much, and secretly look forward to stashing it away till next year. When my children were younger, I read Christmas stories and the Christmas story to them at bedtime; now that they're more or less grown, I read heartwarming yule tales to myself, without telling anyone (till now). Our family lights scented candles that make our artificial tree seem more piney, while watching Nick at Night's Christmas marathon, circa 1994, for the thousandth time, and munching cheater's Pillsbury cookies out of the freezer (they don't necessarily have to be baked; we don't believe in wasting time).

As our family is of mixed lineage, we celebrate Hanukkah as well as Christmas. This is one of my favorite parts of the holiday celebration, as it reminds me of my dear father, whose menorah (wax-encrusted and in dire need of polishing, but nevertheless quite functional) almost makes it seem like he's still with us. I send out holiday cards in batches, wending my way through two dilapidated personal address books and several church directories. Throughout the month I package up homemade goodies (often "ghost-baked" by my fairy godmother, Anita, whose banana bread is listed right next to nectar and ambrosia on the official menu for the gods), and deliver said treats to deserving service providers, whose good will I hope to maintain in the new year.

Somewhere around the 20th I start to panic, realizing I haven't wrapped a thing, let alone finished shopping. I make one last trip to the mall and begin wrapping with abandon. Towards the end of the Scotch Tape (and my patience), I switch over to bagging, which is more sensible anyway, since my boys have zero appreciation for ribbons, bows, or Thomas Kinkade-themed paper.

December 24th is probably my favorite day of the year, and I try to enjoy it to the fullest. I finish whatever is left to do in the way of gifting or cooking, often visit with family and friends, and generally savor the expectancy of the day. I treasure going to church on Christmas Eve, feeling the warmth in my heart glow brighter with the singing of each cherished hymn. After circling the tree with gifts, I settle down to watch Scrooge or George Bailey evolve into the men God intends them to be, while offering up silent thanks for the many blessings in my life.

 

Before I know it, Christmas day has arrived, with all its wonderful chaos. Some expectations are met, while other longings remain. One thing I can always count on: it goes too fast. While I'm always relieved that the mad rush is over, I usually also feel a sense of loss of excitement and forward-looking. The realization that winter is upon us, with all its dark, dreary days, that financial aid forms and tax season loom, and no amount of twinkling lights can make those realities go away. In short, a sense that the fun is over, and it's time to get back to work.

No matter how old I get, I can't seem to make the after-Christmas doldrums go away. I count the days till it's time to go back to work, and bite my nails the night before vacation ends. I usually try to stretch out the last day as much as possible, pretending the dawn won't come, and with it, the inevitable jolt back to ordinary life.

Through it all, I try to stick close to God, remembering it is He whose Son we are celebrating. Still, I wake up the day after New Years tired, over-stuffed with food and frolicking, till one thing catches me up short.

Jesus is right where I left Him.

    "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever."  Hebrews 13:8

For more like this, check out: Morsels for Meditation...: Third Time's Not the Charm