I Am His (Based on Psalm 18)
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I Am His
The world
marches on oblivious to her sorrow. She covers her face in her hands and weeps. Her heart is broken; her dreams lie
shattered. For Ronda all hope is gone unless the Father comes.
It’s business as usual
in the courts of Heaven. Melodious songs of adoration fill the air, exalting the ever-faithful Lover of the universe. “Hosanna,
Hosanna, Hosanna! Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might be unto God for ever and
ever.”
Messengers, intent upon their assignments scurry, eager to do the
Father’s business. Constant motion; blessed peace. A smile, glorious, wondrous, and warm radiates from the Father’s
face, and He whispers, “This is good, very, very good.”
Then just as quickly, the smile is gone. Heaven
senses the urgency of the moment, and stills. All eyes are upon the Father as He leans intently forward, and with quiet authority speaks:
“Listen, Ronda, is crying.”
He bends his ear, intent upon her cry. He knows her. He loves her.
She is His own. And, she is in trouble.
The cords of death entangle her; the torrents of destruction
overwhelm her. In her distress, she calls to Him for the Lord is her rock, her fortress, her deliverer. He is her refuge, her shield, her
strength. At once, before she finishes her plea, He leaps into action. The earth trembles and quakes. The foundations of the mountains shake
and tremble. Her God, her rock, her strength- the very God of the universe is angry.
Smoke rises from His nostrils; a consuming fire, and blazing coals come from His mouth. With
a sudden fierceness, He parts the heavens, and He comes down. Dark clouds are under His feet. He mounts the cherubim, and begins to fly. He
soars on the wings of the wind. Darkness is His covering; the canopy about Him, the dark rain clouds of the sky. Out of the brightness of
His presence, clouds advance, with hailstones and bolts of lightening.
Ronda, feels so alone. The storm frightens her.
She does not know that He is in the storm.
Suddenly her Lord thunders from heaven; His voice- the voice of the
Most High- the voice of herFather- reverberates through the darkness. He shoots His arrows, and her enemies scatter.
With great bolts of lightning, He throws them into great tumult. At His rebuke, at the blast of breath from His nostrils, the valleys of the
sea are exposed, and the foundations of the earth are laid bare.
Then He reaches down for her.
He
takes hold of her. He draws her out of deep waters. He folds her to His bosom, and she warms with the nearness of His embrace. He rescues
her from her powerful enemy, from her foes who were too strong for her. Her enemy, brazen and cold, confronted her in the day of her
disaster, but the Lord was her support.
He brought her out into a spacious
place; He rescued her because He delights in her. Did you hear that? The God of the universe, moved heaven and earth for Ronda today,
because He delights in her.
Her spirit calms, she
dries her tears, and whispers to her God, “You, O Lord, will keep my lamp burning; you my God will turn my darkness into light.
With Your help, I can advance against a troop; with You, I can scale a wall. You arm me with strength and make my way perfect. You stoop
down to make me great. You arm me with strength for the battle."
Fresh hope stirs within her and she shouts with joy to her God, “The Lord lives!
Praise be to my Rock! Exalted be God my Savior! I will praise You among the nations, O Lord; I will sing praises to Your name. I am Your
anointed, and You show kindness to me.”
He makes her enemies to bow at her feet. He makes them turn their backs in flight, and she
will destroy them. They cry for help, even to the Lord, but He does not answer them. They do not know Him. They are not His own.
You must be more
careful, I scold myself through the tears, you almost missed that one. Pieces of the whole will
never do; if He’s to put it back together again, He will need it all.
Bending low, I wrap trembling
fingers around the missing sliver and swath it in an old, worn rag, then I tuck the tattered bundle carefully beneath my robe. This is for
His eyes only. No one else must see. I worry,
perhaps He will not see me; will not care. If He does not restore my brokenness, all hope is gone.
On bended knee I
slip inside, and gingerly ease toward the light. It’s a busy place. There’s perfect order and calm, though couriers
hustle and bustle careful to do His bidding. I know He will be busy; He’s always on call- Please do this . . . Will You help me
here? . . . What should I do now? . . . Do You think that You could . . .? What if He doesn’t have time for
me?I cautiously peek my head around the corner. Oh, how I love Him. What would my life be
without Him?
For just a moment I catch a glimpse, then the crowd closes and I lose sight of Him. I sigh and quietly
bow my head. He IS too busy; I should have known. A circle of greats surround him - a beloved president, an esteemed evangelist, a renowned
speaker. They are movers and shakers, consulting Him on important business. They touch lives for eternity every day.
I am so aware as I stand there that I am not them. I’m just me. My face burns with shame. I shouldn’t have come.
I’ve never saved a life, written a book, buried a martyred husband. Most days I’m just car-pooling to games, vacuuming
carpets, doing the laundry. I reach beneath my garment, and touch the old, worn rag. I have nothing to offer but my broken pieces.
Perhaps another day I’ll try. Swiping at the hot tears trickling down my cheeks, I
stifle a sob as I turn to leave.
That’s when I hear it. His voice caressing my name. I turn, and He is
there. All of Heaven senses the urgency of the moment, and stills. He leans intently forward, and with quiet authority speaks,
“Come to me, My child.” I take first one step and then another. As I near, I feel the weight of His presence. He speaks,
“Don’t be afraid,” and I bow in humble submission before Him. “Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna, my Lord!
Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might be unto You, my God, for ever and ever.”
He
whispers my name once more, and I lift my eyes to His. I read His love for me, holy and pure. He holds out His arms, and I run into His
embrace. He folds me close, so close that I hear the cadence of the beating of His heart. It is beating for me. “I have called
your name,” He whispers, “You are mine.” He knows me, and He loves me still.
I weep deep sobs of sorrow and
surrender. He pats my shaking shoulders, and gently rubs my back. Not once does He does scold or hurry me along. He does not blow out my
flickering flame. He simply understands. I could stay there forever safe in His embrace. He is my refuge, and His everlasting arms my
support.
My weeping spent, He holds my face in His hands and gently wipes my tears with
His thumb. “Tell me, daughter, why do you weep?” He knows, I know He knows, but He bids me tell Him still. I need to
speak my pain.
Then He inclines His ear toward me.
“My heart is broken, Father.”
I reach
beneath my robe and give to Him the worn-out rag. He takes it from me with great care. "What have we here?" Slowly He
folds back the corners exposing the contents I’ve hidden there. I know that I can trust Him, still I tremble at the thought, What
will He do now? Will it hurt for Him to heal? I know that He can do anything, but for just a moment I doubt, Maybe this one He
can’t fix.
I feel vulnerable in His presence; unworthy of His care. I stutter an apology, "Perhaps I should not have bothered
you with something so small."
“Small? Why if it matters to you, it matters to Me.”
I hold my breath, waiting for His words. “You
trusted me with your pain. You could have carried this and walked on alone, but you brought it instead to Me. You’ve given Me your
heart. Thank you. What is it that you would you have Me do?”
“Lord.” I whisper, “I want to be whole.”
So, He lovingly wraps His fingers around the
broken pieces of my heart, and tenderly fits them together. “Here,” He says, “Good as new. Better actually-
for once your heart’s been broken it’s much better than before. Now it beats with compassion for those who hurt. It
beats with confidence because it’s known My touch. It beats with courage because it knows it never walks alone. It beats with
assurance knowing that even if it shatters, I can fix it again.” Then He puts it back in place.
I whisper my thanks, and rise from my knees. I can face my day. He’s quieted me
with His love. I am His, and He rejoices over me with singing.
I’ve been with the Father
and I'll never be the same again.
The
children were in bed, and I sat alone in front of the fireplace in the family room of my parent's home. It had only been
a few short months since Eddie's arrest, and though we were now safe, our world still spun out of control. I watched as
the flames reduced the logs to ash, and I wept. "My life is just like that log, Lord. It's been destroyed and I
have nothing left to offer You but ugly ashes." I read a beautiful passage in my Bible from Isaiah 61, then
picking up my pen and journal, I poured out my heart to God in the following prayer:
Here, Lord, Ugly ashes, In an ugly bucket That's all I have left. I haven't known what
to do with them, So I tossed it about in my mind And decided to bring them to You. They're not very pretty. I'm sorry. So very, very sorry.
I started out
meaning well, Wanting so much for You to be proud, But look at the Mess I've made. I wanted to bury them
So no one
would know what had happened, But I couldn't. So here they are. I've heard that for them, You will give me
beauty. If You
will grant me Your beauty For these dirty ashes, I'll give them back to You Through my life. And this time, Lord,
this time I'll
be a planting for You That You might be glorified.
I hurt.
You told me
that you care. "What can I do?" you asked. Let me tell you. Listen. Link action with your words. Hug my neck, hold me tight. Call me, come and see me. Let me share,
look me in the eye. I need to talk, and
cry, and hurt. I need to do those things. Let me.
Don't look at me with shock, And condemnation.
I feel those
things already. Remember that healing takes time. If you can't see immediate results, Don't
assume that I love my grief, Or that I'm just feeling sorry for myself.
Affirm me I need you, I need to believe in
me. Tell me that I have worth. Tell me again and again!
Tell me that
the sun will shine once more. Encourage me to hope. Let me be human. When I fall, don't walk on me.
Pick me up, carry me if you must.
Little things mean a lot- A fresh baked cookie, a bottle of bath oil, A hug, a card,
a call. Anything. Anything to
let me know that you know I exist.
Don't pretend
that I can handle it alone. It's okay that you don't know what to say or do, Neither do I. I have never walked this way before.
Just don't stop trying, please.
Help me to walk again; To be whole once
more, And when I am, I will touch another with that same love.
Perhaps someday you will need me - And I
will come to you, As you came to me.
It's Not Easy Being a Mom
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Dear
Paul, Diana, Andy and Ben,
It’s not always easy being a mom. First, you birth them,
then you bathe them, then you teach them right from wrong. No matter how hard you try, with
all that you do right, you're bound to do some things wrong. You gently guide, praying
that your mistakes will be minimal, and their understanding large.
Yours is a sacred charge to keep: share wisely, nurture
gently, discipline carefully, mentor gracefully. Sometimes the living out is filled with joy, sometimes with pain, often it is a
knotting of the two. As long as you are mother, you carry the call in your heart.
Mothering is a noble, sometimes thankless task, worthy of nothing
less than the best. Constant motion, diligent care, eyes in the back of your head. There are no vacations or extended
sabbaticals, it’s twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five, winter, spring, summer and fall, ‘til death do us part.
You labor long and hard working in the mulch of
experience, the muck of pain, constantly sifting the loam of their lives. Mothers sow seed with care, the future in mind. Tiny
sprouts peek their heads through the soil, and you find yourself stepping carefully lest you trample them
underfoot. You pluck with vengeance, not always certain if what you holds is an auspicious flower or a stubborn
weed. Still, you have to try. If permitted to remain, the weeds of discontent, bitterness, rebellion, and hate
will choke out the life you have cultivated with care. Even after the garden is tidied, you remain with heedful
eye, hoe in hand, daring any weeds to return.
Nurturing and plucking are only part of your
mothering duties. Protecting your small garden is necessary as well. Day after day, you build first
one mile and then another of solid boundaries - keeping out the bad, protecting the good. “You may watch that. “
“No, you cannot go there. “ “Yes, that's a good idea, go for it.” It is a never-ending act of
balance.
A nursing breast, dry bottom, a lullaby are gentle rays of sunlight
at the dawn of her babies days. The sun rises and she warms their lives in myriad ways: a fresh-baked cookie, an
out-loud giggle, a tight “you matter” hug, a whispered, “I believe in you.“Happy memories blend with the bad, and write the story of their lives. If left up to you, there would only be
sunshine. You want that there will only be blue skies, and gentle winds. But, it will not always be
so.
The dark clouds will come, reducing your sunshine to a
distant journal entry written on the pages of their hearts. The lightening will crash, the thunder will clap and your
precious plantings will bend in the ferocious wind. They will cover their heads from the pounding rain and
cry. You will be at their side, absorbing the storm with them, trying your best to
shield. Deep in your heart you will sorrow.
Yes, you
want to protect, yet you must not always do so. The question is how and when. The elements, though fierce, can build strong, hardy
roots; they can also destroy. The dilemma of motherhood becomes, “What if I protect when I should expose; expose when I
should protect?” You will not always choose what is right, but you will try. You
know it is best that they face the storm while under your loving care. They hurt; you hurt. Sometimes
you are strong, sometimes weary and confused.
The water from the storm adds moisture to their
soil, and when the sun shines again there will be new growth, maturity, and stability. The rain is not the only source of wetness.
There are times, in the dark night hours, when you will gently water with the tears of your soul, and most times they
won‘t even know.
No, it is not always easy being a mom. You hope
that their feet will stay on the right path. You have stood at the ’Y’ in the road,
and you know that it is not always easy to discern the right way. One path leads to pain and sorrow, the other to life
and fulfillment. You have not always chosen the right way; you do not want that for them. Voices clamor for
their attention, and you pray their ears will be deaf to the bad, keenly tuned to the good. Still, there are those who
wander, and you pray that soon, God please let it be soon, they will turn their hearts toward home.
With the passing of the years, you gain added
perspective. No matter how well you have parented you will discover that it has been less than perfect. With
the realization will come gut-wrenching pain and the sorrow of regrets. There will be tears for angry words, foolish
misunderstandings, missed opportunities, choices that proved wrong. You never wish for a time when yourr
children will take a stand against you. You want that always they will stand together
against the world. To be caught in the middle between those you love is a lonely place to be.
Some of the principles you hold dear will be tossed
carelessly to the wind. You will sorrow that they do not, cannot, understand. There will be conflict
and sorrow when heart-beliefs collide, and you will be left wondering and unsure, “Was I really
wrong?” You will remember a time when they just wanted to be understood, and you will find yourself
wishing for the same.
A mom cannot always explain the trepidations of her heart, or the
ache when one of hers exclaims, “You’re out of touch!” when really you are not.
“You don’t understand!" when really you do. You know things with your mother heart
you cannot find words to express. They may interpret your silence as uncaring. It is not. It is
sorrow, frustration, sometimes shame.
Even if they weather the storm, pruning is just
around the corner. More often than not you hold the sharpened shears. To allow them to grow
at will, requires no effort at all. It is the pruning that shapes and prepares them for tomorrow. Knowing
thus, you tenderly wound, anxious for a harvest of bountiful fruit, apples of gold, framed against the backdrop of your
devotion.
First steps, skinned knees, junior high, broken romances, job, college, marriage, babies . .
. on and on it goes. In the beginning your words are plenty, tender, tough. With the passing of time, they are
fewer; you've said all that you can say and life becomes the primary teacher.
“Momma-knowing” comes with experience; it is not part of the start-up
package. When you were a young mother, you had energy but not always wisdom. And, when are iold, your vigor will lessen,
but your understanding will be large. You learn to pick and choose your battles knowing that some things matter very little,
others very much.
One day they will think you old and silly, probably long before you
actually are. They talk, you know they do, and you wonder, when you are weighed in the balance, if the scales
will tip toward gracious, good, and kind. If it does not, you hope they will be merciful.
Sometimes
they understand the beating of your mother heart; most times, they do not. Your trepidations they call needless
worry; your concern, meddling; tears, manipulation; ideology, idiocy. When you curb their independence and they
say, “But, I am grown!” only youe will understand the aching in your breast.
How do I know these things? I know them because I am your
mom.
I have lived my life with my arms stretched toward tomorrow, and I have lived my life wanting
to hold my children in today. I have not always done well in giving you wings. I wish that I
could have you as you are now, and yet as you were then. It was easy when you
were babies, you did not question or struggle, you simply rested in my love. And, when you
were toddlers, I was you hero, and the sunshine of your lives. As children you reached for
independence, still you wanted me when you skinned a knee, or life did not make sense. Your
teenage-years were, well . . . teenage-years. Sometimes we did them well; sometimes we did not. But never, ever, even
once, did I sorrow that you were mine.
Your need for me will lessen in the days to come, yet I
will continue to be needed. It is a bittersweet time in life. I have gotten rather used to the selfless investing of me
into you. Each act of kindness, each tender tear, each silent vigil, each restless night has been the dropping of a golden coin into the
treasure chest of your years. You will not know for a very long time that it is full because I have loved you.
I remember when I carried each of you as babes, snuggled safely in my womb. I
swayed with the music of my heart, wrapped my arms around my swollen tummy, and sang you my silly songs.
Each moment of each birth was remarkable, miraculous, painful, worth it. I
would do it all over again for the joy of holding a soft, innocent body close to mine. I counted fingers and
toes, touched silken tufts of hair, and smelled deeply of baby sweetness. Who knows the number of sleepless
nights, colicky walks, tummy aches, and diapers by the dozen? You were too tiny to know, and I too full of love to
care. I gladly danced the mother dance, shaping the character of your lives with my ardent love, and passionate prayers.
Answers to questions were easy when you were very young,
unless of course you count, “Why do we have fingernails on our toes?” and “How do bosquito’s say
goodnight?” Your questions became more difficult with the passing of time, and I wished I knew
everything.
With the coming of your own babies, there will be fresh
understanding. You will whisper, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “Now I
understand.“
Some things I wish they understood
today. Like why I want them close, just because I love them so.
No,
it’s not always easy being a mom, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.
And, I would do it all over again just for the joy of having,
knowing, loving you.
A
blustery north wind crooned a haunting melody as it blew relentlessly across the open field. Shivering, Ruth pulled her coarse woolen cloak
tautly about her slight frame in an effort to ward off the chill. She wished she’d been blessed with an ample body like her
mother; the cold never seemed to trouble her. Dark ominous clouds threatened on the horizon obliterating the light from the harvest moon and
casting a pall over the desolate countryside. It was the perfect backdrop for the drama playing itself out on the stage of her broken heart.
In the distance she could hear the pitiful bleating of the small lamb and knew the deed had been done. “Oh, God,” she
wept wiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks, “Will you also break the leg of my wayward
son?”
She would forever remember the day last spring when the wee lamb
had come to join their burgeoning flock. Life was hard, and the entrance of this tiny ball of fluff into her life brought unexpected joy to
her days. She pressed his playful antics to her heart, delighting in each one. In one short week the lamb had transformed the normally
docile chief shepherd into a veritable bundle of nerves. After only three days he had dutifully dubbed his new charge, Mischief.
That one needs a shepherd of her own he had complained to Josiah, Ruth’s husband.
The memory brought a gentle smile to her lips. She’d
heard the expression “dumb as a wooly lamb” many times - had seen it evidenced repeatedly in their own herd. Chief
Shepherd was especially diligent with the flock knowing that if a lamb wandered away, it would never find its way back home on its own. He
made certain to lead them beside still waters for they would surely drown in a swiftly moving stream.
Mischief was the exception. rather than being daft, she seemed
endowed with genius. Such a clever one she was, often waiting until the shepherd’s back was turned, before quietly disappearing.
Now you see her, now you don’t, Chief Shepherd could be heard to mumble before turning on his heel in search of
the wayward lamb. The other sheep came when he called, this one feigned deafness.
Last week Mischief had
coyly waited until the shepherd stopped to tend a wounded ewe. The moment his back was turned, she vanished. When he found her hours later,
her foot was firmly lodged in a crevice between two rocks. She was shivering with cold and desperately hungry from her impromptu fast. Chief
Shepherd had chastised himself severely for his carelessness. Tired and angry, he’d flung her firmly over his shoulder, and pled
for a truce all the way to the fold, C’mon, Mischief, give me a break. You’re not the only lamb in my
care.
Yesterday she’d narrowly escaped a
ravenous lioness scavenging victuals for her hungry, young brood. He didn’t want to lose Mischief. If his plan worked, she would
increase the value of the masters flock seven-fold with her own young one day. They had paid a premium price for her, all of which meant
nothing if he could not keep her from an untimely death.
Ruth had
inadvertently overheard Chief Shepherd’s conversation with Josiah, “I hate to trouble you, sir, knowing the stress
you’ve been under what with your boy leaving and all. But, we’ve got a serious problem.” Josiah had listened
with customary patience, and then had instructed the kindly shepherd, “You’ll have to break Mischief’s leg,
and then while she heals, carry her under your robe where it is warm. Carry her where she can hear the beating of your heart. Tenderly nurse
her, and when the leg has healed, she will have learned to love you. She will never wander again.“
Later,
when confronting her husband, Ruth had been furious. Josiah had defended his decision with a gentle reminder, better pain at the
hands of a loving shepherd, then pain in the jaws of a hungry predator. She guessed, as she stood looking out into the darkness,
that her grief for the little lamb was intensified because Mischief reminded her of her own son - restless, cunning, rebellious. Did her own
dear lamb lie, even now, alone, broken and bruised? Anxious lest she wake her sleeping husband, Ruth stifled the sob in her soul.
“Come home, my son. Marcus, please come home.”
Why does it hurt so much to love? I birthed this child. I rocked him, and sang to him, fed
him, and bathed him. I will never forget him; I will never let him go! If she had asked once, she had asked a hundred times, “God, have you forgotten me?
Why are you taking so long?“ She’d prayed, faithfully beseeching the Almighty on behalf of her youngest son,
"Answer me, O Lord, answer me so that Marcus will know that you are God, and that you are turning his heart back again!"
She wept for the lamb. She wept for her son. She wept for herself
and for Josiah. Her face burned with shame at the memory of her angry words spoken only moments before. Something had died inside her when
Marcus left. Not even the presence of her other son, Samuel, brought comfort to her heart. He was faithful, compliant, caring, and she
appreciated the good he brought to her life. But, her love for him could never erase her love for her Marcus. She hardly knew herself
anymore. Her gentle spirit had been consumed by a seething rage. Once she relished the closeness of Josiah, snuggling readily with him
beneath the covers on cold nights like this one. Now, she preferred distant coolness to intimacy with her beloved. With a decided act of her
will, she had closed him out of her life. They‘d spoken little, and had not touched until tonight.
Earlier in the evening, thinking her to be asleep, Josiah had
pulled her gently to him seeking the warmth and comfort of her body. In moments, he was fast asleep. His touch had ignited the smoldering
flame of anger within her. “How dare you?” she’d flung at him, springing from the bed, and pulling her robe
firmly against her trembling body. “Don‘t touch me! You seek me for comfort after sending our son away? Every morning
you leave before the sun comes up, and I don’t see you again until it’s going down. Maybe life just goes on for you like
it always has, but for me nothing is the same. You go about your business as though nothing has happened! You could have told him no. You
could have made him wait. But, no, you just handed him his share of the inheritance, and bid him farewell. What kind of a father are
you?”
She’d been unfair, and hadn’t cared. In truth,
Marcus had chosen to leave. In the weeks since, she had fueled her seething emotions, resolutely blaming Josiah until they had become a
bubbling caldron. She wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. Where was the wisdom in allowing Marcus to leave home in search of fame
and fortune?
Their youngest son had become increasingly restless with the
passing weeks - constantly quizzing them about the world out there. He had been so brazen as to ask what his share of the
inheritance would be when his father died. She’d hoped it a passing whim, but knew in her mother-heart that a tempest was brewing.
She had braced herself for an all out assault; instead, it had come as the eye of a tornado, quiet and deadly. With resolute calm, Marcus,
had requested a private meeting, “Can we speak, Father? Alone.”
Father and son had walked to the far end of the pasture, and when
they returned she knew from the look in his eye that Marcus had won. He had done the unthinkable, bringing shame upon his father by
demanding, “Give me my share of the estate now before you die.” Josiah had relented, and within days, their son was
gone.
Finding his room empty, and his belongings gone she’d
felt as if her heart had been ripped out of her breast, and shattered on the floor. “God, let me die," she'd pled.
“I cannot bear it. “ Her sorrow had quickly turned to anger - she was furious with Marcus for dishonoring his father,
enraged at Josiah for allowing him to do so. She had refused to be comforted. Josiah, unable to penetrate the wall she had built around her
heart, had retreated, leaving her to grieve alone. She inwardly seethed as he left home each morning.
Her anger spent, she had waited for Josiah’s own angry
words, bracing herself for the onslaught sure to come. He allowed her to vent, but he would have his say. Every man had his limit, and she
had pushed him to it. The silence between them was pungent with meaning. When he made no attempt to speak, she had turned toward him. As if
seeing him for the first time, she was shocked at the intense sorrow in his eyes, accentuated by deep lines of exhaustion etched on his
dark, handsome face.
“Is that what you think, Ruth?” Josiah had
softly asked, “That I don‘t care?“
Her stony
heart had melted within her at the tone of his voice. He began to weep, with deep wrenching sobs. “Each day I wake wondering,
where is he today? Is he well? Is he cold? Has he eaten? Did I make the right decision? Going about my business? Ruth, my business is my
son! I rise in the morning before the sun, and walk to the hilltop beyond the bend in the road. Until the sun sets once more, I watch for my
son to come home.
I watch and I pray. I pray that one day he will come to his senses,
and he will remember that here he is loved. But, until he does, I will continue my daily journey. When he comes, I will be the first to see
him. I will run to him. I will welcome him. I will say to my servants, ‘bring forth the best robe, and put it on him. Put a ring
on his hand and shoes on his feet. Bring forth the fatted calf, kill it, eat and be merry: For this my son was dead and is alive again; he
was lost and is found.”
She’d gone to him then, and wrapped in
the safety of his embrace they had wept - for each other, and for their son. Their sorrow spent, Josiah had asked, a tender smile upon his
lips, “Now, may I go to sleep?”
In moments, he was deep in slumber, but sleep
had not come easily for her. She had slipped from beneath the covers, and now stood leaning her head against the coolness of the stone wall.
The tears began to fall once more as she lifted her heart in petition to Father God. This one who was flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone
had walked away from all she held dear, “Oh, Father, only you know where my boy is. Please bring him to me once more. As long as
there is breath in his body, I know that he is reachable. Be as gentle with him as you can, but as hard as you need to be to get his
attention. If you must, God, break his leg as the shepherd broke the leg of Mischief. Then hold him close until he
heals.”
Her anger spent, her tears of rebellion replaced by tears of
surrender she gave her beloved son to the Almighty, “I prayed for this child, and You granted me what I asked of You, now I give
him back to you. You have seen his ways. I ask that You heal him, guide him and restore comfort to
him.”
Crawling once more beneath the covers, she curled her body next to
Josiah’s reassured by his warmth and steady breathing. She would claim a promise from the books of the law for her wandering son,
"But if from there you seek the Lord your God, you will find him if you look for him with all your heart and with all your soul.
When you are in distress and all these things have happened to you, then in later days you will return to the Lord your God and obey him.
For the Lord your God is a merciful God; he will not abandon or destroy you or forget the covenant with your forefathers, which he confirmed
to them by oath.” (Deuteronomy 4:29, 30)
She didn’t know what tomorrow would
bring, but she had peace. The good shepherd would care for her lamb, and when He was ready, He would bring him home
again.
We
don't go there as often as we used to. When we were young, my brothers and I hurried through Saturday morning chores knowing that when our
work was done, more often than not, we'd get to go to Taco House.
Tacos,
burritos, chalupas, guacamole . . . but "voted family favorite" were the cheese enchiladas. My official transition from
childhood to independent womanhood came the day I chose to eat my first bowl of green chili.
When I married and moved to Texas I craved that green chili so much
that my folks brought me some on dry ice when they came for a visit. On an extended visit from our home in Norfolk, Virginia, I gave up
nursing Diana so I could have green chili without upsetting her tummy. Yup, I took to Green Chili like a duck to
water.
Andy lost a pacifier once between the window and a stationary booth
at Taco House, and howled in protest when we had to leave it behind. Every one of my children graced a high chair there, then a booster,
before being big enough to sit unassisted in a booth. Now I'm working on that process with the grandkids.
Three of my four children honed their work skills waiting tables
and washing dishes at Taco House. Their familiarity with the menu and the fact that we were practically family virtually assured them of a
position. Ah, yes. I have a mental portfolio chock full of memories from that little restaurant. I go there now as much for the memories as
for the food.
One of my favorite memories took place a couple of winters ago,
just before Christmas. The temperatures outside were brisk, typical of a Colorado winter. Taco House was decked out in its holiday best -
twinkling lights, seasonal greetings on the windows, and the same o'le massive holly wreath on the wall that has hung there since time
immemorial.
The restaurant was packed that day. So were our schedules, which
explains why Andy and Ben came in one vehicle and I in another. We maneuvered our way through the crowd to an orange booth in the rear and
slipped into seats that had long ago stopped cushioning derrieres.
The guys
ordered cheese enchiladas without onions and the parts to a number four dinner. I ordered - what else - green chili. While we waited for our
meal we caught up on one another's day and sipped iced cold Coca-Cola. Once our food arrived, we devoured it between ongoing chit-chat over
what-not. Finally full Andy and Ben readied to go.
"You sure you'll be all right, Mom, if
we go ahead and leave?"
"Oh, yea. I'll just pay the bill and
make a stop by the bathroom. You go on ahead. See you later!"
I paid the
bill then coat and purse in hand meandered through the tables to the ladies room. Brrrr it was cold in there. They don't heat that little
cubby hole. The only light comes from a bare bulb overhead, and a very tiny window near the single commode. I locked the door and took care
to finish my business in record time.
I washed and dried my hands, gathered my purse
and coat, and turned to leave. I pulled on the knob and the door held fast. I checked to be sure it was unlocked. It was. Laying my
belongings on the sink, I used both hands and pulled a little harder - nothing. Remembering the restaurant burgeoning with patrons, I gently
tapped on the door, "Hello??? Anybody there??" Nothing.
I knocked
a little louder. "Helllllooooo????? Can you hear me?" Nothing.
Shivering as much from cold as escalating panic, I wracked my brain
for face-saving measures. I would not make a scene. I WOULD NOT.
Just before launching into full blown alarm, I remembered my cell
phone. Be still my heart, help is on the way.
I dialed
Rob all the while begging, "Please pick up the phone, please pick up the phone."
Soon the ringing was interrupted by his deep, bass voice,
"Hello. This is Rob. How may I help you?"
"Hi, honey. It's me! I'm Fine. Just fine."
"Well. I do have one little problem . . . I'm stuck in the
bathroom at Taco House."
He chuckled and I relaxed. Being a typical male
he launched into fix-it mode.
"I tired that, Rob. They can't hear me
over the noise. . . NO, I'm NOT gonna do that, everybody will hear me. Tried that too. It won't budge. Look, would you mind just calling and
asking them to let me out?"
I pushed the off button on the phone, slipped it
back into my purse and pressed my ear against the icy door. I waited. He'd have to look up the phone number so this might take awhile.
Man, it's getting cold in here. Finally, through the din of voices I heard the phone,
ring-ring-ring-ring.
"Hello, Taco
House." Pause. "You're
kidding!" I distinctly heard laughing.
In a minute, Brian the cook knocked on the door. Being a typical male he launched into fix-it mode. "Pull on
it again." I did. Nothing. "Try turning the knob while you pull on
it." I did. The doorknob came off in my hand. By now everyone in the place knows someone's stuck in the bathroom.
Pause. "Okay, look there's a window in there, open it up and I'll bring you a
screwdriver."
Soon there was a rat-a-tat-tat at the window. I
turned the crank, slowly, slowly opening the stubborn old window until my rescuer and I were face-to-face. "Oh, it's you!"
he said, "I should just leave you in there." Funny. Very funny.
He pressed the screwdriver into my hand, then instructed me to take
the screws out of what was left of the mechanism on the door. I unscrewed them one by one until there was nothing left in the door but a
small, round opening. Anchoring my finger firmly in the hole I gave it a tug and the door swung open wide.
Every waitress in the place was outside the door waiting for my
timely release. So much for anonymity. Brian was laughing. They were laughing. I gathered my purse, coat and remaining dignity, said my
thank-yous and walked red-faced through the horde of curious patrons and out the door.
Thanks to Taco House I've come full
circle from a dependent child, to an independent woman, to a dependent woman. I don't even remember the last time I got
to go to Taco House by myself. Ronda Knuth
Five Important Lessons
<< Click here to read story
Dear
Friends and Family:
Next to Colorado, Kentucky must be the closest place to heaven on earth. What a beautiful
state! If my family and friends would go with me, I'd move there in a heartbeat.
Asbury
College in Wilmore, Kentucky is lovely and quaint. The town is no bigger than a minute. There's a Subway Sandwich shop, a convenience store
(with nickel ice-cream bars and pizza) and a country market across from the school. We saw a tiny police station and son Andy wondered if
Barney Fife was on duty.
The people were friendly and warm which made it easier for me to leave my middle-son
behind. He'll do fine once he gets past the first few days of homesickness. We missed orientation which made it a little hard to
"learn the ropes" but others jumped in to help which was a real blessing. We arrived in a downpour without an umbrella.
Did I mention downpour? Much to my delight (you know how I love the rain) we experienced
several. The first storm I remember with clarity. We were just outside WaKeeney, Kansas. One second we were flying down the interstate, the
next there was a terrible racket and I looked to see Andy's bicycle peeking in the rear window. It only took a few minutes to get it back on
top . . . just enough time for Grandpa and Andy to get thoroughly soaked.
It was a normal trip, except for certain
moments which could be defined as distinctive. I mean on a scale of 1-10, with ten being normal and one being
not, we hovered somewhere around 3.5. We did the typical travel stuff - took naps, drank soda, and talked about a lot of things
like our childhood, girls, deceased family members, theology, "bachelor laundry," . . . you get the picture. And, we asked
status-quo questions: "Are we there yet? When are we going to eat? Okay who had the keys last? Can we find a bathroom
soon?"
Unique to this trip was the frequent repetition which made for many moments of
mirth. We took turns between driving (a coveted position), sitting in the front and sitting in the back. We talked a LOT even
though it was hard to hear what the other was saying. Grandma quipped, "Just call us Pete and Re-Pete."
My folks weren't the only ones with questionable hearing. Andy and I (okay
mostly me) found it necessary - on a recurrent basis - to ask, "What did you say?"
There was one time when I was really glad Andy asked. He looked
momentarily befuddled then queried, "What did you just say Grandma?"
"I asked Grandpa if his legs hurt after riding all
day."
Andy started laughing and said, "Oh, I thought you asked him if he was a eunuch
after riding all day."
On the way back to Colorado, somewhere between Russell and Limon,
Grandma accused Grandpa, "You're not listening!!" It was time to activate "The Emergency Finger System."
Using the pointer finger only: Up and down meant yes; side-to-side meant no. Mom would ask a question. Dad couldn't hear. I would listen,
then wiggle the finger and dad would shake his head accordingly. We had some very creative conversations.
I've been
thinking you might be interested to hear that I learned five important lessons on our trip.
1.
Time means little on a journey. Time zones mean less. Who can remember if it's Colorado, Kansas or Kentucky
time when your bone-dead tired? The clock is a fuzz, if you can see it at all. There is a better, more reliable indicator to know when to
call it a night: when you see Golden Arches where there are none, and trucks which do not exist, it's time.
And, if
someone sincerely asks (as they did on OUR trip) why you didn't stop at the Denny's Restaurant we'd just gone by to book a room, it's PAST
time. Don't laugh at them. Don't let them behind the wheel either unless you really don't mind sleeping in a booth.
2. In the beginning fatigue will occur primarily in the evening. However,
by day four it will be your constant companion. When the waitress looks at you oddly because you just ordered a burger over medium, don't
take it personally.
3. Culture shock is inevitable as you venture further south. Knowing that
is half the battle. When the waitress says she's going to get you fresh Ketchup, don't anticipate a tasty,
homemade concoction. She simply means that she will be returning with a bottle which has not been opened.
Don't
expect the ladies to tag along if you ask, "You guys want to go to Applebee's?" In the south He + She= Y'all.
"You guys" refers only to the guys. Need a suntan? Ask a local. Who needs sand and surf when you've got the back of a pickup
truck in a Wal-Mart parking lot? Andy just shook his head and laughed, "I just saw the most red-necked thing. . ." His
determination not to poke good-natured fun at southerners lasted until day three, then he threw caution to the wind, "This is too
good to pass up!"
4. Expand your horizons. You're going to meet a
lot of people; take time to get acquainted. There are many fine folk in the world. Missouri Granny was not one of them.
I met her at a Rest Area. Think of Granny from the famed
"Beverly Hillbillies" television show. Got it? Except for a few minor differences, they could have been sisters.
She may have been a smidgen younger though it was hard to tell. She had a strong southern accent, a booming voice, and the strength of a
truck-driver in her good arm. She dressed her petite frame in high tops, a fou-fou skirt (I don't know what else to call it) and a
non-descript blouse. A drab little hat perched on top her head.
Granny'd had a stroke somewhere along the line.
Her right arm hung loosely at her side and she shuffled as she walked. It didn't take a logistician to figure out we were going to reach the
Travel Center door at the same time. Her husband, a grumpy old fellow, was helping her. Until they made it I inside, I moseyed on
over to oooh and ahhh over some dead flowers by the entrance. I made my entrance soon after and promptly wished I never had.
You know, sometimes it's best to just leave well enough alone. My mercy gift kicked in and I
was anxious to help. I waited close by while Grumpy turned to the right and into the men's room. Missouri Granny headed for the door in the
middle. With her left arm she gave that door a mighty pull. WHAM. It slammed back against the wall.
Seeing no
usable commodes in the storage closet she backed out and headed for the door marked "Women." I reached for the handle to
open the door for her, then just as quickly backed away.
"Aah kin do it!" she barked.
"Aah've had me three strokes, but this erm and this lag STILL work."
She went
in just as Grumpy came out. "Whatsa goin' on?" He glared and I swallowed.
"Ummm, she's fine. Just went in the wrong door."
Missouri
Granny gave new meaning to the word familiarity. As soon as I stepped inside the large bathroom, she started
talking. Having already discerned that her flag didn't reach the top of the pole, I went to the stall furthest from hers. In the space of
three minutes I knew her itinerary, and most of her life history. So did anybody else within hearing
distance.
"We're on our way to Shee-KA-go. My sister-in-law done got herself avicted. Found a notice on her door
tole' her to be out by 7:00. She seys, 'Ahh'll jus take the bus,' but I seys, '˜No, we're comin' for yooou.'
"She's comin' but she's goin' to learn to live like we live! She's green behind the ears (She DID TO
say that!), and ahh've done me a lot of livin'. Ahh've been all over everywhere 'cept for Calyforn-I-A and Montannna. Ah know
what aah'm a doin'. Ahh've had me a man. (I kid you not!! Those were her EXACT
words.)"
It was downhill from there. She told me about her divorce,
and never even heard me say, "Oh, I'm so sorry. That must have been difficult!"
I took care
of business in record time, washed my hands, and when a sweet little lady came in, I slipped out. Missouri Granny, still in her stall, never
even knew I left. When the door closed behind me, she was still going strong.
I've wondered a few times if
they made it to Shee-KA-go. And, I've whispered a prayer of thanks that she didn't join us on our journey home to Kolo-ra-dee.
5. If you learn nothing else from my journey, remember this:
It doesn't matter how hard it is raining when it's time to off-load your son in front of the college dormitory
. . .
It doesn't matter how many able-bodied young men lend a helping hand . .
.
Under NO circumstance do you allow that activity to go unsupervised.
Trust me on
this one. If you don't, I'm telling you, you're going to get a phone call on down the road like the one I got from Andy.
"Hi, mom!"
"Hi, honey. How are
you?"
"I'm doing okay. You know when we were unloading?
I guess we got some of your things."
"Oh? Really? What did you
get?"
"Your jean skirt, your orange blouse and (pause)YOUR NYLONS and YOUR
BRA!"
Yup, we made us some memories and learned us some
lessons.
You
may call it what you wish - progesterone depletion, brain fog, carnality. All I know is that I got myself in a heap of trouble
this weekend all because of attitude. The first time I handled it all right . . . I guess. As long as the lady doesn't
come to the support group I facilitate in January.
The second time? It was a
washout.
Let me set the scene for you. It's Saturday night,
sevenish, snowing, and I'm very tired. Hoping to beat the six to seven inches that's been predicted, I don my winter coat, and dodge
snowflakes en-route to my favorite grocery. I'm feeling pretty good. We haven't had a good snow since last winter and it
puts me in the Christmas spirit for I am, along with the rest of Colorado, dreaming of a white Christmas.
It's a known fact that women are capable of
multi-tasking. We can do a hundred things at once - and, do them with finesse, thank you very much. Grocery
shopping? Piece of cake. I can do that with one hand tied behind my back, and a book in my hand ( I CAN to!).
Somewhere in my sub-conscious a plan takes form, "Push the
cart, load it up, and solve pressing problems 1-10." Having charted my course I shift into never-never
land.
She's at fault, too, you know. She could just as easily
been in produce, or dairy, but she decided to be in baked goods. I'm vaguely aware of her presence, but figure
I can maneuver around her without any trouble, after all I've both hands on the cart, no book in sight, this just isn't that difficult . . .
It doesn't even register that I've miscalculated the
distance. Anybody can make a mistake, right? I mean, really. She should have moved. No, I do not hit
her . . . directly. Just a measly 1/8" the other way and she would have been praising my carting
abilities, Now that's what I call a seasoned shopper. But, huh uh. My reputation
suffers irreparable harm the second I make contact. I don't exactly recall making contact, but
evidently I did. Seems like I do recollect a slight movement in my peripheral vision of one said black purse
rapidly moving in a downward trajectory beginning at her shoulder, and ending with her wrist.
I say, evidently, because honest it doesn't even
register that I've entered her sacred space. At least not until I'm on down the aisle. That's when I hear it,
"WWWEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLL EXCUSSSSSEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEE!!!"
I should
turn around, go back and say, "Oh, I am so sorry," but, for the life of me the only thing perched on the end of my tongue
is a barbed, "Like I MEANT to DO THAT!!!!!! Why were you standing there in the first place?"
It seems the better part of valor to overlook HER offense and keep
on going. I take on one more cognitive task thinking of all the things I could have said in retort:
"You rang?"
"Yes, my dear, how might I be of
assistance?"
"I'm sorry, you appear to be having a
difficult time right now. Were you traumatized as a child??"
"And, a Merry Christmas to you fair
lady."
"Do you know Jesus?"
What I really wish to say is, "And a bah-humbug to
you my dear."
Of course, I'm not
totally stupid. For the rest of my venture I am on enemy alert, keenly aware that she might be down the next aisle, or hiding
behind the potato display waiting to whip me with that big, black bag. For a moment I am seized with paranoia, What if
she's waiting for me just outside the door?
I have
opportunity to seethe every time I think about that woman and her purse for the rest of the evening, but I placate my conscience with a
reminder that at least I kept my mouth shut.
Wish I could say I handled it that well on
Sunday.
By Sunday morning I have justified my rudeness, and when I wake
there she is, Atta. Atta Tude to be precise. She's patiently waiting by my bed, slippers in
hand. I guess she snuck in the door with me the night before. I'm not sure where she slept. She's bigger than I
remember, a little crustier, but I call her sister, drape my arm across her shoulder and drag to the bathroom to get ready for church.
While I comb my hair, she sits on the side of the tub, and we just
kind of chat. She mentions in passing, "To bad you had to get up a whole hour early for choir practice. You
really could have used your sleep." We high five, and I take comfort in knowing that at least some one is aware of my
sacrifice.
She chatters non-stop all the way to church.
"Remember that woman at the store last night? She sure was testy. If anybody ought to be in church this morning, she
should be. Speaking of church . . ." I should make her stay in the car, but I don't even try. By now,
Attitude and I are buds, walking arm in arm. She gently reminds me that I don't really want to be here, and I grumble,
"Yea, I know, but I don't have much choice." I'm ready for battle. The only redeeming factor is my new Christmas
dress in which, I might say, I'm looking mighty fine. Not wanting to spoil the effect, I replace my scowl with
a facade of contentment which lasts approximately 37 seconds. Just long enough to walk through the sanctuary doors, and discover
that we are wearing, of all things, choir robes.
I don't do choir
robes.
As a matter of fact, we haven't done choir robes
in this church the whole time w've attended this church. Maybe you wear them EVERY Sunday, but, we don't. We don't even
wear them every decade. Which brings me to my next point, I know they haven't been cleaned in at least
that long. My new dress looks a sight better than these old choir robes.
"Whose IDEA was THISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?" I blurt
out.
Atta is fairly bursting with pride.
I throw her a less than friendly
look. Mortified I think, "I can't believe that came out of my MOUTH!"
Hoping to soften the blow I say, "Menopause and choir
robes just don't mix."
No one smiles.
Neither does any one
take credit for the choir robe idea. I'm thinking, This is just great. Just great! I've hurt
someone's feelings and can't even say sorry because I don't know whose stupid idea this was in the first place!
Fully satisfied that her mission has been accomplished, Atta rises,
turns and walks out the back door leaving me totally on my own.
It doesn't
make matters any better when my newly adolescent son Ben walks by, wrinkles his nose and says, "You smell like
celery, Mom."
My reason for breaking the rules?
Simple, I'm in a hurry and there's no time to find a buddy. I'm going on my first assignment for Neighbors Who Care, a ministry to
victims of crime and I'm running late. Jesus learned obedience by the things He suffered. By days end, I would do the same.
Easing the old, white station wagon into traffic I reason, “No one will know. It’s a good rule
for the others, but I can do this one on my own.” My assignment isn't all that difficult - pick up a single mom
and take her to replace clothing stolen from her house. Piece of cake.
We are meeting near her apartment complex in the notorious Five-Points neighborhood of downtown Denver. The
community has a reputation for violence and crime, but I’m doing this for the
Lord. What can possibly go wrong?
One block shy of our rendezvous
my chariot slows to a stubborn crawl causing traffic to back up behind me. “God,You and I both know that this
isn’t the place for a breakdown.
Please, TOUCH MY CAR!!”
He
doesn't.
Ahead is a Safeway grocery. If I can just get there . . . I limp along leading a parade
of disgruntled motorists, then turn into the parking lot just as my car dies. Now what do I do? A kindly store employee offers aid.
"You steer, I'll push." Both hands firmly in place he gives a hardy push.
Nothing happens.
My fair skin stands out
in stark contrast to the sea of ebony faces about me. I sigh. Maybe we can push it together. But, before I can move another man appears out
of nowhere. Silently he adds his muscle to the task at hand. While they push, I steer the car into a parking space. How nice of them to help
me. “Thank you,” I say to the first man, then turn to thank the
second, but he has vanished. I wonder if I’ve entertained an angel unaware.
Mind racing, I lock the door of
my car and head for the store. What should I do now?
I’ll call Rob (my husband). He‘ll come for me.
No answer.
I‘ll call Mom.
My
generally cool, calm, collected mother, scolds, “Ronda Jean, you’ve got no sense at all! What are you doing
down there by yourself?”
Good question!
The third maybe fourth time I try, Rob answers. “I’ll get a tow truck, honey, and bring you another
car.”
Satisfied that help is on the way, I call my
assignment for the day. Though she needs my help, she's just going to have to understand that I can't be her neighbor-who-cares today.
"My car broke down," I hasten to explain, " I’m over here at the Safeway store
. . .”
Mid-sentence she interrupts, “Oh,
you’re close by. I’ll be right there!”
I wait near the entrance of the store wondering
how I will recognize her when she comes. Soon a noticeably large pregnant woman waddles my way. “My name is Kay*. Thank
you for coming.” She keeps rubbing the small of her back. I smile. She smiles. Then without preamble she announces, “I
think I might be in labor!"
Labor?? I briefly considered controlled breathing - Phooo phooo whwee whwee. How
did I get myself in this mess? A broken car, and an expectant mother in labor. I know the answer to my question. We settle into the front
seat of my car. I am truly repentant. The Buddy Rule, Lord? What a novel concept! I calm with the realization that it
can't possibly get any worse.
Then Mom shows up.
I smile at her as I slip out of the car.
She doesn't smile back. “Get … in… this… car…. NOW!”
I look from Angry Mother to Expectant Mother watching comfortably from her seat. “I can’t, Mom. I
explain.“ See that poor lady over there? She has little kids. Someone stole their clothes. I ’m going to take her to get
some more. She’s counting on me. (SILENCE). Rob’s bringing another car. (MORE SILENCE) I really need to
stay.”
It just seems the better part of wisdom not to mention labor. She levels me with one of her
“We’re not done talking about this yet” looks, then leaves. Rob arrives moments later with another car. I
stifle the urge to beg, “Take me with you! I wanna go home!” I feel abandoned as he waves goodbye from the retreating
tow truck. My good intentions (and disobedience) have gotten me into this mess, now I'm going to have to see it through.
Help, me Lord, I humbly pray. And, He does.
Expectant mother’s pains ease. Several clothing banks later we’ve garnered adequate clothing for her family. God has
helped me in spite of my foolishness.
I never saw expectant
mother again, and my days of volunteering with Neighbors Who Care came to an end a few months later.
I learned some important lessons that day:
First - never break the rules
when going on assignment. Whether taking a single mother to replace stolen clothing, a victim to counseling, or a father to file a police
report always take a fellow ministry partner with you. The rule is safety first, no matter how invincible you think you
are.
Second - God is quick to listen to the penitent cry, but He doesn’t always rescue in the way we think
He should. His ways are above our ways, His thoughts far wiser than ours. Sometimes He has life lessons He knows we must learn.
And, last, but not least- never, ever, under any circumstance do you summon the woman who went through the
“Valley of the Shadow of Death to bring you into this world,” to come to your rescue.
Especially when you’re stuck in Five Points.
All by yourself.
Against
the rules.
Don’t expect that she will understand. It
just ain’t a gonna happen.
My
two teenage sons and I follow our growling stomachs to the local fast-food restaurant. Lunch trays in hand, we maneuver our cokes
and spicy-chicken sandwiches through the crowd and settle at a table. Andy takes a bite of lunch, then pauses, a look of
utter incredulity on his face. His blue eyes begin to twinkle.
"What‘s up?" I
ask.
He points, and I follow his finger to a table across the way. Discreetly, I turn
hoping to get a better look. Over by the window sits two cute kids - a brother, in the throes of terrible
two‘s, and his "should know better, but doesn’t care"pre-school sister. They're
having the time of their lives.
Their mom is in line ordering lunch and, from time to time, she
looks their way content that all is well. Obviously, we have a better view then she does. Brother has the saltshaker; sister has the
pepper. With finesse they work together creating a modern work of art. Shake, shake, swoosh, swoosh.
It’s amazing how much one of those containers holds.
We mothers understand these things; one sitting
nearby catches my eye, and we share a smile knowing certain judgment is coming. Having "been there, done that" I
almost feel sorry for the unsuspecting mom. It’s just a matter of time . . .
Hunger
calls my name, and I bow to the task at hand. There is no need for me to look; Andy is giving a blow-by-blow account,
"Auuugh! No!! They’re licking the table with their tongues."
Silence.
"I don’t believe it! She’s pouring it on his head."
Mom inches her way toward the cashier, money in hand. The color of their table has
changed from subtle blah, to patchwork black and white. Tension mounts as Mother picks up her tray, and stops for straws and
napkins.
We’re nearly breathless with wonder. How will she
respond? Will she blow? Will she cry? Will she turn red, and huff out the door? Will she speak
between clenched teeth, as mothers are prone to do under pressure? Thoroughly captured by the unfolding drama, we strain to hear
her words.
Mother rounds the corner, and quietly says, "You are in trouble." Then she
does the one thing we hadn’t thought of. She does nothing. Absolutely nothing. No angry words, no tears, no
huffing out the door. She doesn’t even speak between clenched teeth. Sitting her tray on a nearby table, she
motions for her miniature ruffians to join her. They leave the patchwork for a new subtle, blah table and begin to eat.
I’m not the only mom sitting mouth agape. I’m thinking,
"Any mother worth her salt (and pepper) would surely say something. I don’t know, like
maybe, ‘You made the mess; let's get it cleaned up!’ "
Even if
she decides to extend unmerited favor to her erring offspring, surely she will do something. I don’t
know, like maybe clean up it herself. Only in my dreams. They devour their lunch, oblivious to the stir they have
created.
I look at her.
I look at the table.
I look at my sons, and they look back at me.
Ben
questions, "Mom, are you going to clean it up?"
"No, I‘m not, but I’m tempted."
I’m also tempted to tsk, tsk, and throw a look or two while I wipe away the masterpiece. I am tempted to
declare something, I don’t know like, "Honey, let me help you be a better mother."
In the end I opt to put my lips together and say nothing, but I feel sad. One day
mom is going to lament, "I just don’t understand my kids." She’s going to wonder why her little angels
have no respect for personal property, or social skills, or her. I understand why. Maybe someone will gently say, "Do you think
maybe it goes back to the early years when you missed the teachable moments?"
I
recognize this is a teachable moment for me and mine. The drama we have just witnessed speaks volumes. Just to be sure, I deliver
a lesson of my own in Personal Responsibility 101. "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when
he is old he won’t depart from it," which being interpreted means, "Nip it the bud." Ronda
Knuth
His
uttered oath of profanity doesn't surprise me much. For some reason - be it right or wrong - it seems consistent with
motorcycles, bandannas and leather jackets. Nevertheless, I turn around in my seat to see.
Hubby Rob and I have stopped at a small coffee
shop in downtown Colorado Springs. Neither of us ate before making the hour-long drive to attend the funeral of a long-time
friend. “Would you like to stop somewhere for a cup of coffee, and a roll?” Rob had asked. We found a quaint
little shop with a banner stretched across the front saying, For Locals Only.
Half in jest I quip, “Think we’ll be
welcome?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” he says
taking my arm and steering me through the door.
The December wind has chilled me to the bone; a
cup of hot tea is just what the doctor ordered. I scan the room, and find a table sitting in the sunshine. It
isn’t very big, making it just right for us. Ahhh, now this is the life. No phones, no kids, just peace and quiet.
But, I digress. I turn around in my chair to see what is
going on. And, to see where Rob is in proximity to what is going on. I nearly choke when I see him striding toward the
group of four from which the expletive has arisen.
No, surely
not . . .
It would be just like Rob to defend my honor.
How sweet.
How stupid.
From deep in my subconscious a thought takes form,
“He’s gonna’ get killed.”
I hear Mr. Profane say something about a knife
in his pocket. Oh, my goodness. Then I hear him mention blood. Jesus, help us!
What is Rob thinking?
I strain to hear the first words out of his
mouth.
Come again?
My everything breaths a sigh of relief.
“Do you need a Band-Aid? I’m a dad so I always carry one in my pocket.”
“I sure would. That knife isn’t for me! I stuck
my hand in my pocket, and it cut the end of my finger.”
“Would you like for me to put it on for you?”
“Uh huh. Please. Are you a
doctor?”
Yup. That’s why I love this man so much. Always thinking
of somebody else. At least that’s what I tell myself once my heart stills, and the color returns to my face.
Fibro-fog. It's just one of the many symptoms of fibromyalgia, also known affectionately as
"thorn in the flesh" or "pain in the toosh." It's estimated that 7-10 million Americans have it, most of
them women which, in fact, explains why we of the gentler sex sometimes say and do the unexplainable. Because it is an "invisible
illness" it is not readily noticeable to the undiscerning eye. Which, in part, explains why those of us who have it are often
discreetly described as, "One card shy of a full deck" or, "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer."
I'm sure that's what the man at the filling station thought when my
car wouldn't start this morning. I was late for an appointment, and it was bitterly cold as I filled my tank to the top with high-octane
fuel. I lost precious seconds fine-tuning my attitude when I had to go inside to retrieve a receipt. "That's why
it's called pay at the pump," I grumbled. Back at the car I turned the key, still in the ignition, in
anticipation of the blessed heat soon to warm my frozen feet. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing. I turned off everything that could
remotely be conceived as a drain on the battery. Nothing.
I've only
been marooned half-a-dozen times in my thirty-plus years of driving, thus, I am considered a novice - totally ignorant of the survival
skills one needs when one is stranded. By now, the cold is seeping through, setting up house in my bones. I consider all my options. Hubby?
Still in sales meeting. Daughter? Twenty minutes away, and cradling my first-born grandbaby. Son? No cell phone.
Destitute and very cold I swallow my pride,
discerning as I do which of my fellow patrons might be inclined to show mercy to a stranded, frumpy woman. I spot one frosty-looking gent,
just lowering his ample girth into the warmth of his vehicle seat. In spite of his scowl, I convince myself that he looks like a kindly
soul. Fixing him in my sights, I begin to gingerly cross the icy lot. He notices, and unashamedly hastens his preparation for departure. I
notice, and unashamedly begin signaling him with appropriate hand gestures- which being interpreted mean, "Stay
right where you are, I have need of thee."
I quickly determine a course of
action-
First, I will don a sweet grandmotherly smile (I can do that now,
you know).
Secondly, I will schmoooosh. "You look like someone who
might be able to help me"
Now, I'm no dummy. Having reared a house full of
boys I'm quite adept at reading the masculine mind. On the one hand, I can tell he really wants to tell me, "NO!" But, on
the other hand, well... really... could you in good conscience tell your granny, no? He quietly acquiesces,
"Just let me pull my car over by yours."
Pulling
cables from the trunk, I assure him that the battery is almost new. "I just can't imagine why it won't start." He hooks
the cables to my car, and then to his, and I turn the key. Nothing. He waits, I crank, and begin to panic, "Wonder what the going
rate is for tow trucks? Bet this is going to cost a fortune to fix."
He ambles over to my car puzzled, "Must not be the
battery. Must be something else." He pauses - then suggests, “You wouldn’t happen to have your car in drive
would you?”
Red-faced, I offer my heart-felt thanks, mumbling as I do,
“Well, you learn something new every day, don't you?" I don't look back as I pull away from the pump. Don't need to. I
know what he's thinking as he watches me go, "There's smoke in that thar' chimney, but ain't nobody
home."
I realize I've had a momentary brain-fog. Why in heaven's name
didn't I think to explain? I'm sure he would have wanted to know: "The severity of Fibro-fog fluctuates from day to day, as well as
from person to person, and is directly affected, and exacerbated, by our degrees of pain, fatigue, sleep quality, stress, and other known or
unknown factors.”
It
was pretty routine, if you don't count the incident with the milk. I'd exchanged small talk with the cashier and sympathized with the sacker
over his bundle of defective bags. I'd watched nonchalantly as he sacked my groceries; paid scant attention as he bagged the milk. Then I
watched in horror as the carton ripped through the bag, hit the floor and exploded, raining dairy on everything in close proximity including
me.
I responded with a
measure of composure, if it’s possible to have poise while wiping two-percent off ones person. I was the picture of patience as
the milk was mopped and a new carton procured. I waited calmly for my remaining groceries to be bagged. On the way out
the door, I patted myself on the back. You go girl! Now, that's what I call grace. Pushing my cart with one hand, I used
the other to cinch my robe of piety a bit tighter about the middle. Lookin' good!
I drove the mile-and-a-half from store to home
feeling rather fine. Once home, I opened the trunk, then groaned out loud. To my dismay, every single bag had a gaping hole. You
have got to be kidding! Great. This is just great. Frustrated and tired, I launched a mental tirade. Talk about
incompetent! I oughta report this . . . Mumble, mumble, groan, groan.
Normally attitudes aren't fertile ground for heavenly whispers, but
today was the exception. As I stepped across the threshold, carefully carrying the first bag, I heard God’s gentle rebuke,
“Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.” Words of conviction straight from the mouth of
Jesus.
He was in the Temple,
before an audience comprised of novice scholars, religious academia, the ever-present scheming Pharisees, and one lone woman caught in the
act of adultery. Shame her, trap Him - that was their intent. Standing the woman before Him they charged, "Teacher, this woman was
caught red-handed in the act of adultery. Moses, in the Law, gives orders to stone such persons. What do you say?”
Bending, Jesus wrote in the dirt with His finger
- hardly the response they expected. How long He remained there, or what He wrote, we don’t know. His accusers waited impatiently,
determined to press for an answer. Finally Jesus stood, declaring as He did, "Let him that is without sin cast the first
stone.” Then He bent down and wrote in the dirt once more. Maybe He wrote forgiveness, maybe He wrote
grace. Whatever He wrote, when He looked up the woman stood alone before Him.
“Woman, where are they?” He asked, “Does no one condemn
you?”
"No one, Master."
"Neither do I condemn you, go and sin no more." (John 8:1-11)
I knew exactly what God was talking to me about. Just a few weeks earlier I discovered an
error, made in a moment of fatigue, which had catapulted the family into financial crisis. I should have noticed it sooner, but
didn’t. I was mortified that with a slip of the pen, I’d thrown us into chaos.
I dreaded the moment I would have to tell my husband what I had
done. When it came, I sobbed out my confession, then waited for his response. He was within his rights to be angry, instead he wrapped me in
his arms, wiped my tears with his thumb and whispered, “We’ll get through this somehow.” Then he prayed.
Healing grace washed over me like a soothing balm. It melted me, humbled me, left me stunned.
How quickly I'd forgotten.
Forgive me Father. I have
sinned.
Responding with unexpected grace diffuses, convicts, comforts.
Slowly, one day at a time He is changing me, conforming me into His image. It's slow, but I'm learning. Some days I do better than others,
if you don't count the incident with the milk.
God whispers to my heart at the
strangest times, and in the strangest places.
There are other more prestigious eateries in town, but I like Taco
House. The food is so-so; it's the memories that keep me coming back. Since I can remember, my family has frequented the simple
café, munching its chips and salsa and downing ice-cold sodas. I like to fancy I became a woman the day I ate my first bowl of
their green chili.
This visit is no different from the thousands before. Slipping into
the booth across from my 16-year-old daughter, Diana, I casually skim the menu then opt for a piping hot burrito smothered in (what else)
green chili. That settled, I scan the restaurant taking in the odd assortment of patrons - some obviously on their lunch break, others
kicking back just relaxing with friends. My nose is assaulted with a delightful assortment of south-of-the-border scents making my mouth
water in anticipation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see our waiter approaching the table. He looks dapper in his
blue jeans and spiffy white t-shirt. Though I've never asked, I'd guess him to be twenty-something-ish and worldly wise. He's friendly and
efficient, hence the title we've bestowed on him of Favorite Waiter. Without benefit of a serving tray, he manages our
table settings, a basket of corn chips, a bowl filled near to the brim with zesty picante sauce and two tall glasses of
water.
He is close, so close, when happens. As if in slow motion, I watch the bowl of sauce tip
precariously to the side. His attempts to stop the inevitable are futile. Fresh-from-the-refrigerator picante spills over the edge and
waterfalls into my lap.
Mortified, Favorite Waiter, apologizes
profusely, “Oh, no! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!”
It takes
mere moments for the pottage to seep through my now multi-colored skirt and down between my legs. Grabbing a napkin, I wipe at my skirt,
desperate to stop the unwelcome flow. I'm aware that our waiter is still standing at my side in shock. Knowing he feels horrible, I quickly
assure, "It's okay. Really. I'll just wipe it off. I'm not going anywhere special, so it doesn't matter. Look, it blends right in
with what I'm wearing!"
Glancing upward, I realize with equal shock that I am not the only
casualty. Favorite Waiter is wearing picante sauce, too. Beginning at the crest of his shoulder,
angling down across his stomach, and stopping shy of his waistband is a brilliant red stain. He looks worse than I
do!
We eat our meal, pay the bill and grin as he quips with a cautious smile,
"Everything okay, except for the clothes?"
Once in the car, Diana and I succumb to
laughter. "You know," I say between snickers and guffaws and catching my breath, "I feel sorry for him. He has to
wear that shirt for the rest of the day. We ought to go to the thrift store and get him another one to
wear."
The smile on Diana's face vanishes as she levels me with a mature beyond her years
look. In an even, measured tone she says, "We ought to go to the store, Mom, and buy him a
new shirt. It won't cost very much."
So, that is exactly what we do. On our return, I
appoint Diana as our emissary. Slipping through the side door, she timidly hands Favorite Waiter the brown, paper
bag. Curious, he looks inside. Then he smiles, one of those grins that stretch from ear to ear. "No
way!" he says, "I deserve to be punished, not rewarded!"
And,
that's when I hear it - the still, small voice of God. "That, daughter, is what grace is all about. Not giving people what they
deserve, but what they don’t deserve. Reward, not punishment. Forgiveness, not condemnation. Love, not
anger."
Thanks, Lord, for your marvelous grace and for whispering to my heart at the strangest times,
and in the strangest places.
That's What Grace is For
<< Click here to read story
Though the waiting area next to the
Radiation-Oncology department of St. Joseph Hospital is spacious, I feel like I am suffocating. We make our way to a wooden bench next to a
gently flowing waterfall, and make small talk. "I heard them read the twenty-third Psalm over the PA system a little while
ago," she says, "they said today might be a hard day."
A wheelchair across the way
cradles a tiny woman in its cold, unmoving arms. Angry burns from radiation wrap like a necklace around her reddened neck. I'm sure she
would rather be on a cruise basking in the warm, soothing rays of the Caribbean sun. Instead, she faces rays of another kind - blistering,
unmerciful, unwelcome. "Faithful are the wounds of a friend," scripture says. Some friend this radiation. She has no
choice but to walk arm in arm with her. Anything less will cost her, her life.
Through the window I see
another woman walking. Tall and stately, but obviously ill. A turban covers her balding head. Her floral print dress hangs loosely on her
body and I wonder if her foe is breast cancer. I wonder, too, what tomorrow holds for her.
We settle onto a bench just
outside of radiology, a cup of hot chocolate cradled in our hands. Neither of us really wants it, we just hope that it will warm our
tummies, and soothe our battered souls.
She starts to speak, then stops and begins to cry. "I can't believe we're here.
Why can't God just take us when He's ready instead of letting us suffer?"
I immediately think of all
kinds of theological sounding things to say. You know, things like, "Suffering makes us strong, conforms us into the image of Jesus
Christ. Why, I'm learning that there is added purpose in our suffering when it gives courage to others in their grief." It would
make a great outline for a sermon, but today it lacks punch. God seems to whisper in my ear, "Put your lips together and hush. She
doesn't need a sermon, she needs a shoulder."
It's sad. To another person, on another day, I might actually have said those words.
But, this is not just another person, this is my mom. And, it isn't just another day. This is the day my dad becomes an unwitting contender
in the battle for his life.
We cry together, then sit quietly for a while. "It would be okay," she says, "if you
just woke up one morning, and God said, 'this is the day' and then He just took you home."
"Yea," I say,
"You could get up, make your bed, brush your teeth and then just go."
"You wouldn't have to
brush your teeth," she muses.
"Or, make your bed for that matter," I quip. We share a smile, and
then we do the difficult thing; we just sit and wait, each of us lost in thought.
This is all new to me. We have
had lots of cancer in our family, but it has never been my dad's cancer before.
Yesterday I sat in the parking
lot near a small lake south of town and cried. Broken, and confused, my head throbbing and my stomach churning. "I don't want my
dad to die," I sobbed over the cell phone to my husband, Rob.
The sun was setting when I pointed the car toward home. Turning the
corner into our neighborhood I was suddenly aware that I could not even remember making the drive. Dad and Mom have always been my tower of
strength, now I must be theirs. "Father, help me," I prayed, " I need to be there for them and I don't have
anything to give."
Early this morning He whispered one simple phrase to my heart, "That's what grace is
for."
Sitting beside my weeping mom, and drying tears of my own, I feel so helpless. I wish for words to make it go
away. He gently reminds, "It's okay that you don't know what to say. Trust me with her hurting heart; trust me with his broken
body. Let Me care for them. That's what grace is for."
I feel so small, and very much alone. He reminds me that life is
tough. "I know it's hard. I will be your strength. Let me carry you. That's what grace is
for."
The future seems so bleak. God whispers, "Don't fear tomorrow for I am already there."
I rest in knowing they are His, and He will never leave them. I'm tired, but my heart is at peace. I snuggle into
the Father's arms and He holds me.
Lord, I Want to be Real
<< Click here to read story
Lord, I want to be real.
If being real means that I am alone, and in that solitude You walk with me, then let me be alone, accompanied
for the moment only by You.
If being real means that I struggle with the weakness of others, and wonder at my ability to
handle a difficult situation, but in that awareness You join me on my journey, quickening my heart, and sharpening my senses, then let me
struggle . . . let me wonder . . . let me be aware. If being real means that I grapple with where I am in the world, but in my wrestling You stand
by me, call my name, and bear me in Your everlasting arms, then let me wrestle on. Hold me such that I cannot loosen Your grip.
Lord, I want to be real. If being real means that I question and there are no answers, but in
my questioning I learn to trust Your Word, Your character, Your love, then let me question, let me listen only to Your voice.
If being real means that I am confused, not knowing which way to go- that I struggle with
sadness and wonder why You are silent- but in that bewilderment You walk with me, then let me be unsure, let me seek Your face, clinging
tightly to Your hand.
If being real means that I am exhausted to the core of my being, but in my weariness You sit
by my bed, and sing to me, Your fingers entwine with mine, and You gently whisper my name, then I will be weary resting in Your tender
care.
If being real means that I hurt, or walk with another who is hurting, and in that time of
intense emotion You are there soothing, teaching, lovingly speaking, "You are my own," then for You I will walk on, my
hand safely tucked in Yours.
Lord, I want to be real. If being real means that my body must ache, and sometimes I forget
to smile through the tears, but in my pain You become my strength, my comfort, my joy, then I will ache on safe in the shelter of Your
embrace. Not because I welcome suffering with open arms, but because I welcome You. More importantly, You welcome me.
When I am faithless, You remain faithful.
God of my
life, let me lean on You. Fold me closely to Your bosom.
Bathe me with Your presence. Not just my hands
and feet, Lord, but all of me.
O.K.
Since I know you’ve been dying to ask, I’ll just admit it . . it’s not easy driving a shiny new
coupe, and pretending like it’s yours. But, somebody’s got to do it. That’s one of the perks that comes with
being married to a car salesman.
Perk number one, of course, would be our
customers. We have wonderful customers. Happy ones, sad ones; smart ones, simple ones; fat ones, skinny ones. Dark ones, light ones. Some of
them are the nicest people. Some of them become dear friends. Oh, just so you know, we don’t call them perks to their
face.
Running a close second is marital harmony. You learn to pick and
choose your battles with a schedule like ours. There aren’t a whole lot of lines in the sand. We’re pretty happy
together. Might as well be, since we’re not together long enough to appreciate a full-blown fight.
Speaking of husbands, I can promise you I never have to worry about
Rob looking at another woman. Never. When Rob says, “Will you look at that?” I know before my head even turns
what he’s oogling, a ’52 Ford, or a ’65 Chevy, or a . . . . . being a ’53 myself . . . . oh, never
mind.
One favorite perk is the late model vehicle Rob drives home at
night. We’re supposed to drive around in it, and make people salivate, crave, and dream - you get the picture. As Christians, we
try never to push it to the point of envy. There are company rules. Still, on occasion, I confiscate the keys, slide behind the
wheel, start the engine, and put on airs. For a few, brief minutes I sport around the neighborhood, in that shiny new coupe, and
pretend that it’s mine.
Lest you begin to burn with envy, you should
know that there are drawbacks in being married to a car salesman. If you’re going to communicate with any level of intelligence,
you have to learn to talk their talk. They have a language of their own. With practice, extended car warranty, platinum program, rebate, and
drive shaft roll off your tongue most near as easy as laundry, chicken, colic and mumps. I’m not complaining, mind you,
there’s a silver lining to every cloud. Not only have I expanded my vocabulary, I’ve, also, become adept at
interpretation. For instance, “I’ll be there in ten minutes, honey,” really means, “give or take an
hour. Or, two. Or . . .”
Of course, the dynamics of the human factor must
be considered. It’s rare, but nonetheless, occasionally we have a truly cranky customer who wants it done.
Yesterday. Or, the one who insists that Rob turn water into wine. He’s quite awesome folks, but He
ain’t Jesus.
And, though it’s hard to believe, it can be rather trying
during those few, brief minutes when I sport around the neighborhood, in a shiny new coupe, and pretend that it’s mine.
Seriously!
I had one of those trying days not long ago.
There was so much to do. My mind chugged along like a sluggish locomotive, on a steep incline, on a blustery, snowy day. Gotta do,
gotta do, gotta do, gotta do, gotta do, gotta do . . . Wooooh- woooooh. Everything had urgent stamped on its backside. The
“to-do’s” become as insistent as quarreling siblings.
Do me first.
No, me!
I was here first.
Soooo, I’m more important.
Mommmm!
I keep track of my duties on an ever-shifting
list in my mind. I said that, to say this: Sometimes I forget. That probably comes as a great surprise to you, but I do have those atypical
moments when I descend into a fog. I like to think it’s because I have so much on my mind but, between, you and me- I think its
old age.
Anyhow, I was at the grocery store.
And, I forgot. I admit it, I forgot!
Everybody knows you don’t just go around saying that to
strangers- especially, HE strangers. There’s a rule about that somewhere. It says, “A real woman
never admits she’s wrong.” It’s on page 53, right before the paragraph that begins with,
“Real men never admit it when they’re lost. ”
Perhaps, you’ve never taken the time to notice, but there
are a lot of vehicles in the parking lot of a busy supermarket. Big ones, little ones. Old ones, new ones. I stop and scan the multi-colored
sea before me. Good grief, there must be two hundred or more of them.
There's a disturbing thumpin' in my chest. “Be still, my heart,” I say.
“I’m trying to look cool.”
Might it be that you know what I'm talkin' about? You stretch, pick
at your teeth, yawn, acting as though it’s the norm to walk out the door, buggy teeming, and take a few minutes to
appreciate the lovely lot before you. You lazily look this way and that- like you’ve got all the time in the world, and nothing
else to do. No kids, no husband, no dinner to fix, no life to live.
I
haven’t had a lot of practice looking cool. Obviously. It wasn't long before one of those cute, little high school guys-
the ones that make a living retrieving grocery buggies from the parking lot- says, “Can, I help you?”
I want to say, “Why, whatever makes you think I need
help?”
Instead, I say, “No. Well, yes. (chuckle, chuckle) I
can’t seem to find my car.”
“Maybe I can help
you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know where you parked
it?”
“Uh . . . no.”
“That’s o.k. What kind of car is
it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, that’s all right, what color is
it?”
“I . . . don’t . . .
know.”
I try to explain, but he doesn’t stick around for
long.
And, I? What do I do? Trying not to look too obvious, I begin to
leisurely stroll the parking lot, pushing my grocery cart, enjoying the view, just taking my time. Yup, it was so
special.
Up one lane, and down the next.
Up one lane, and down the next.
Scanning every license plate frame, looking for one- just one- that
says, “Burt Chevrolet, Rob Knuth”
Trust
me. It’s not easy driving a shiny new coupe, and pretending like it’s yours.
Ben and the Wright Brothers
<< Click here to read story
Nine-year-old Ben kneels beside the rust and green striped couch in the family room. Though
intent, the prayer he utters is brief and to the point. Moments later he stands, announcing with bold confidence, “I prayed that
God would help me fly.”
What’s a mother to do with an
announcement like that? Encourage and hope my prayer cancels out his? Ignore and hope he soon forgets? Out of the corner on my eye I watch,
keenly aware of every move he makes. He’s not one who is easily dissuaded. Picking up two pillows he sticks a hand in each
pillowcase and presses them firmly against his body.
He’s confident that he can fly.
I’m confident he can’t. As if reading my mind, he turns and says, “That’s right, you don’t
have faith!” He runs, and jumps into the sky. He's airborne for a second, then disappears from view. A loud thud is followed by a
groan. Aeronautical mishap number one. The pilot is uninjured and I breathe a sigh of relief. Now that the experiment is over, I can return
to my work.
Every mother worth her salt knows when quiet is
tooquiet. Before I have time to investigate a small, insistent voice says to no one in particular,
“Come on, you’ve got to hold me up!”
“Now what?” I ask, turning to see.
I should have known. Holding a plastic sword perpendicular to his
body, he pauses to explain, "This will catch the wind and hold me up." I should just say, “Look, Ben, it
ain’t a gonna’ work.” But, I’m caught between a rock and a hard spot- we'd just finished a science
lesson in which I'd bragged, "Thomas Edison didn’t give up, Ben! One thousand times he failed, yet even then he refused
to be discouraged. Know what he said? "Now I know a thousand things that won’t work!' "
There was no stopping that boy, and there’s no stopping
mine.
A myriad of prospective implements now covers the couch, all
intended to aid Ben in his quest to fly. He tries first one, and then another. Under his breath he murmurs, “I can’t
believe it. None of my flying machines are working.” I watch as he lifts a small, red plastic chair onto the top of an old table.
A blue balloon clenched in one hand he commands, “Watch, I can fly!”
“Does this look like it will work, Mom? I prayed for
God’s angels to lift me.” Before I can answer Ben kicks the chair out of the way and he is
airborne.
Silence. “Ow!”
“Were the Wright Brothers really real?” he
asks. I assure him, that they were. “I was just not believing in, God,” he says, and jumps again. An uneasy hush follows
then another "Ow!"
He quickly reassures, “No problem, Mom. I just twisted my
ankle.”
I am captivated. He is not going to stop until he can fly. Again,
he positions himself for lift-off. “I’m going to die, Mom! (My son, the hero) I think the runway is too
short.” I offer a bit of motherly wisdom, “Perhaps, Ben, God doesn’t want you to
fly?”
“I don’t know.” Is that a shred of
doubt I hear? Perhaps. Unfortunately, it’s not his ability that is in question. He suggests that the lesson we have studied is
fraught with error. With certainty he contends, “I know that the Wright Brothers never flew. My machine is better than
theirs!” Of course. That‘s it. History is wrong. Obviously if he can't fly, neither could they.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief. It's over. Hurrah! Maybe now we
can go on to other things. But, nooooo . . he’s found an orange, plastic propeller, and jumpy shoes.
“If I die, Mom, tell Andy he can’t have my toys, OK?” Pillows secured to the bottom of his feet (hence, the
term jumpy shoes) he moves into position and we have take off.
He crashes.
I said what I should have said at the beginning, “Now do
you think God doesn’t want you to fly?” His response is terse, and to the point. “Did the Wright Brothers give
up? Well, neither will I!”
“Why don’t you try,
Mom?” (Maybe, Ben, when it snows in Phoenix, in July.)
I really
wish he would give it up. We all have empty dreams.
“I know what I need! A parachute!
Watch God,” he says. “If you’re not going to help me then my parachute will!” I think about telling
him he's bordering on sacrilegious, but decide experience might be the best way for him to learn. If God isn't going to help him fly,
neither will a cheap cotton. He jumps. He crashes and his parachute flutters settles over his head. “Aaugh! I’m
claustrophobic!!”
“Why doesn’t God want me to fly?” he
asks, digging out from under the sheet.
“I don’t know, son. Maybe
it’s just not time.”
Pause. “I know!” Obviously,
he’s heard nothing I have said. “I just need to start lower. That’s it!!” He grabs a rope, and heads
for his next point of takeoff, "If this works, Mom, you can put it in the newspaper, Little Boy Can Fly Like Wright
Brothers.” I wait while he secures the pillow to his back with the rope.
He jumps.
He crashes.
That's not joy ringing in my ears.
“Maybe it’s time to do something
else,” I suggest.
In a single breath he blurts out, “What do you expect me
to do, Mom? What other kind of inventor do you know of? What should I do? Be Christopher Columbus, and leave home? Be William Bradford, and
go join the Indians? Be Thomas Edison, and invent the light bulb? Maybe try winning a war by being, Abraham Lincoln? I don’t think
so, Mom! But, being a Wright Brother is a good idea! Do you expect me to try any of those other things that won’t work?”
No, no, of course not.
I try to persuade him that even the best men in history took time
to think and plan before trying something new.
It goes right over his head.
“I need your help on this one, Mom!”
I pretend not to listen.
“Come here, Mom!”
I go. Did the mothers of other great men have to go through this?
He’s seated on the floor, both feet crammed into a single
pillowcase. The sheet is secured around his waist with a rope, the other end he twirls in the air like a propeller on a helicopter.
“This will work,” he says, “Can you
lift me up, and throw me on the couch?”
“No, Ben. I can’t.
You’re too heavy.”
“Please? Come help me,
please!”
I pretend, once more, not to hear.
There is silence- then, “Ben, to Ronda. Ben, to
Ronda.”
“Oh, all right. What do I have to
do?”
“Just help me stand
up.”
“Be careful, Ben. Your feet are tied
together.”
He brushes my words aside, and says excitedly, “Look,
Mom, I want you to be the first to see me fly! I’m bound (just a little play on words),
too!”
“O.K., Ben, I’m
watching.”
He crashes.
Now he has made a ramp out of pillows, (surely, we’re
getting close to the one thousand mark) and, he’s made wings out of a sheet.
“I’m going to try your desk. But, first I need
practice.”
Practice isn’t successful.
Doesn’t matter to, Ben. Obviously in denial, he proudly
announces, “O.K. I had one practice! It will work!!”
It
doesn’t.
“So, I’m not the best
inventor.”
Trying to be helpful I suggest, “Maybe you should start
with smaller things.”
“How do you expect me to get smaller
wings?”
“Not smaller wings, Ben! Smaller things. Maybe you should
try to invent something easier. Something simple, then go on to bigger things.”
“I’m not giving
up!”
“I didn’t think
so.”
Now the sheet covers his head, and drapes over his shoulders and
arms. Excitedly he says,
“This is what I need. If I crash, the sheet will soak up the blood.”
He falls. Thank goodness there is no blood.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this. I
was all set to take off. I just need to start up higher.”
I decide
it’s time to speak the truth in love when he asks, “Do you think I can do this?”
Slowly I shake my head from side to side and feel like a heel when
he says, “Thanks for the encouragement.”
I’m getting tired now. Really tired. He just won’t quit. I wish
I’d never heard of the Wright Brothers.
“Watch, Mom. Soon I’ll be
off and in the air and you’ll say, ‘How wrong I was! My son can fly!’ ”
He wrecks.
Silence.
Silence that lasts too long.
“Are you dead,
Ben?”
“No. It’s strange, Mom. As soon as I got up
there I tripped over my wing and fell back.”
He’s discouraged now. “How
come I keep falling, Mom?” (I wish his dad were here, he’s better at this than I am.)
“Well, Ben, the stuff you’re using to help you
stay up isn’t helping you to stay up!” (Profound)
Incredulously he says, “So, you’re saying you want me to give up the
dream?” (Did I say that???)
“Never. I’ll never give up
the dream!”
He positions himself once again to jump. I don’t think he
is even listening to me. “Watch, Mom. Oh, that’s right. You don’t think I can
fly.”
He prepares for take off. We have lift off. . . and. . . he
crashes.
“How did you know, Mom?” (I don’t
know, Ben. Sometimes mother’s just know these things.)
He tries
to persuade me that he’ll succeed if I just believe that he can.
“Other people can do somersaults, I can’t.
Other people can do cartwheels, I can’t. Other people can’t fly, I can!”
He thinks for a moment, and then continues, “I just had
the greatest idea pop into my head, Mom.” (I can hardly wait to hear it.) “I can’t fly! I’m not a
bird!!!” (Thank goodness he’s finally giving up) So what I need is a bird costume. I wish more people were here to see
me.”
Thank, God, we are alone.
“I know what I
need.”
“What, Ben?”
“I need Grandpa to build me some wings. Then I can
fly.”
Thank the Lord, Grandpa is out of town for a
week.
A scary thought flashes through my mind. Tomorrow we study Louis
Pasteur.
Out of the corner of my eye I see, Ben. He’s over by the
rust and green striped couch in the family room. He’s just said to no one in particular, “Maybe I wasn’t meant
to fly. Maybe I just need to do what normal boys do. I’ll try an obstacle course.”
His voice changes to mimic that of an adoring, little girl.
“Oh, look, he’s so brave and sweet.”
Daughter Diana and I are to meet for our weekly jaunt to the gym. Lest you worry needlessly,
let me hasten to assure you that I am not having a love affair with treadmills and belly crunches. But, I am crazy about her.
Having spent a restless night, tossing and turning, I don my baggy
sweats and frumpy top and set my face like a flint toward the gym. I don't really want to be there, but I promised. When our agreed upon
time came and went, I began to taste reprieve.
I leave two voice messages for her, sorta'
hoping she won't get them in time. Then I can say with a heart of integrity, "Well, Honey, I TRIED to call but you weren't
home." One more minute, I tell myself, then I'm outta here.
She's always had a knack for timing. Key in the ignition, and foot
on the pedal I'm ready to go when the cell phone rings, "Oh, Mom, I forgot." I was so close. With a sigh and an extension
of grace, I agree to our amended plans, "Why don't you pick me up at home, and we'll go for a walk at the park?" That's
preferable to the gym . . . how hard can a walk be?
So as not to be overly encumbered, I'd stored my
bulky purse in the trunk upon departing from home. Once at the park, I tuck the keys out of sight in the panel on the door. It's a
fool-proof plan. Now I'm free of purse and keys! "Don't hit the lock," I say to my darling daughter, as she pushes the
button and we simultaneously shut the doors.
Uh, huh. You are so
quick.
The shock wears off in a matter of seconds as our predicament
becomes clear. No purse - no keys - no drive. "Well, we'll just have to walk to my house," she says. It's not exactly a
skip and a jump, or a simple spit across the Holler. Off we go, out the park and across the busy street. The fact that I bounce like jello
with every step I trod tickles my funny bone. I giggle. She does not.
As traffic
bears down on us she calls back over her shoulder, "You're going to get run over, Mom, if you don't walk faster than
that." Like I'm not trying to hurry . . .
Down the street, and up the hill we go. Thank
goodness she has a hidden key at her house. Being the limber one, she climbs the fence, reaches into the secret hiding place, fishing for
the "just in case we get locked out key." It isn't there. She's so much like her momma. Her other set is inside her purse,
sitting next to mine, in the locked trunk.
The house windows are all closed, and
"No, Mom, I didn't leave the door unlocked." We spend too long trying to find a way in. She bends the screen while
attempting to take it off the back window. I'm just standing around, looking pretty, trying to offer moral support and wondering how we're
going to get out of this one.
The 80-degree October weather is sweltering. I don't know what
makes me do it, but I reach up, give that patio door a push and voila it slides wide open. While she insists it was locked, we walk into the
coolness of her welcoming kitchen.
Diana has studying to do and since her schedule
is full, I offer to drive her car to the dealership to get an extra set of keys from Rob.
"Why CAN'T I?" (I am NOT whining) For some reason
she is reluctant to hand over the keys. I don't know why - other people drive without their glasses (on the dash in my car), or their
driver's license (in my purse in the trunk). "Look, I haven't had a ticket in years. I can see up close. It'll
be alright."
But, noooooo. "I'll take you, Mom."
Her sanctification has been stretched to the limit. I hate to be
the one to throw the match on her combustible impatience, but this is a battle I simply must win. I'm not strutting into a million dollar
dealership in smelly sweats and a frumpy t-shirt. "Diana, I am NOT going in there looking like this."
She ponders my dilemma, then walks to the closet, and pulls out a
long, black dress. "Put this on!" I twist and tug and pull, stuffing my bulging body into the garment - a remarkable feat
considering I'm a 16W and she's an 8P. My red shirt adds contrast and cover. I smile when she says, "You look
darling, Mom." You betcha. My Chevy tennies are replaced with her more stunning ones, and we're off.
On the way I quip, "Look at it this way, honey, it's an
adventure." To which she replies, "I hate it when you say that."
Well, I never! Mark my word, one day those very words will slip past her lips, and
with a gasp she'll say, "Remember when . . ."
Sure
enough - Rob has a customer at his desk. Thankfully, hubby is nowhere to be seen. Red-faced I smile hoping he won't know who I am, grab the
key from a prearranged location, and make it back out the door in record time.
We drive back to the locked car still sitting at the park. I unlock
the door, hand Diana her things and try to impress her with my busyness. All I can think of is a cold drink of water and a nap to soothe my
teetering exhaustion. But, noooo, now she's into this "adventure" thing. So, while I drag to the bathroom to change out of
my stunning outfit, she's off to run for a mile in the heat, before escorting me around the path on my mile-long walk.
Start Saying Yes to Life
<< Click here to read story
Ask me and I'll tell you, it's Luci's fault. As a popular Christian speaker who has been
there, done it all she should have known better. I maintain good standing in the, "Sisterhood of
Naïveté." Tell us it can be done, and we'll take you at your word. While others more discerning would
have simply brushed her words aside, I took them to heart. Which is why I have concluded that dares should come with exclusionary
clauses.
For a fact,
I know that Luci Swindoll neglected to mention common sense. I knew I shouldn't do it, but how does a mother say no to her son,
especially when he's begging?
"Oh, Andy, honey, I don't know. I'm not as young as I used to be."
"Pleasssse, Mom! Come watch the fireworks
with us."
Pleading blue eyes are my undoing; in a moment of weakness I throw caution to the wind. I'm not the
first, you know. Once upon a time Jack did, too. Only he was really into beanstalks, giants, singing harps and
gold. Me? I like my feet planted firmly on the ground. It's like my comfort zone -
predictable and safe. Nevertheless, Jack left his, and tonight I leave mine. Our memoirs will credit us both with
memorable ascents - he into the clouds, and me onto the roof, straight up, fifty-million feet.
I almost relent when son Ben pleads,
"Don't do it, Mom. You're gonna die." (I think he has the gift of encouragement.)
Standing at the base of the old, wooden ladder, I
experience momentary panic, this is not going to be pretty. I get woozy six inches off the
ground. Hubby Rob mistakes my hesitation for pride. "Don't worry about your dignity," he
advises in his deep, smooth voice. Dignity?? Who's worried about dignity. We're talking terror here, bonafide terror.
The
fireworks are stunning, so they say. I wouldn't know. When one's life is at stake, one doesn't really
care. Hugging the roof with my legs, and clutching at the wooden shakes only intensifies the sing-song,
sick-song reverberating in my head, "What goes up, must come down." The boys stand to get a better view,
Rob sprawls casually on a soft blanket. They ooh, and ahh in celebration of each colorful burst of light. They
are totally oblivious to me. So much for sharing the evening, and feeling my pain.
They say time flies when you're having
fun. I suppose. I find it flies when you're not having fun, too. All too soon it's over, and one by one my
family forsakes me. With confident ease they descend, while I remain frozen in place. It is
not a pretty sight.
"It's oay, honey, take your time," Rob encourages. "You can do it."
"No. I
can't."
"Yes, you can."
I dangle one foot over the precipice, desperately searching in the darkness for
the top rung of the ladder.
"It's best, honey, if you turn around and hold on."
"But, then I can't see where I'm
going."
It's
quiet, too quiet. I can't quite make out what they are saying, with the exception of two little words - fire department.
"You
wouldn't!"
"We may not have a choice."
I have presence of mind enough to know that what little self-respect I have left can't
be maintained with a bunch of firemen standin' around, chattin' and holdin' a net.
A hurried caucus concludes with a face-saving
maneuver: get her to the northwest corner where it's closer to the ground and we've got a chance at peaceful resolution. They coax, and I
scoot. "Come on, mom, you can do it . . . That's it, wifey nice and easy . . . Oh, God, please don't
let my mother die."
It took awhile, but I did it. In retrospect, I reached some important
conclusions:
Dreams suffocate buried in comfort zones.
I want to do worthwhile things for the kingdom of God, and that means taking
risks.
I'll
do it for God.
But, when it comes to roofs, I'm sure I took Luci's words out of context. What she
meant to say was, "Stop saying NO, and start saying YES to life . . . but only after giving it
serious consideration!"
Just Call Me Momma Tyson
<< Click here to read story
It
probably has something to do with being twelve. Or, maybe it’s just that he’s his mother’s son. Whatever,
everything looks bigger, badder, teetering on catastrophe to Ben. The dangly thing hanging
under the car was nearly his undoing. “Will it fall off mom? Are you sure it’s gonna be O.K.? What if we’re
going down the road and it starts scraping? It’s made of metal. Couldn’t there be sparks? What if it starts a fire? Mom,
it could explode. I think you better pull over now! Mom, do you think we should call dad??? OH, MOM . .
.”
Why it had to be his ear is beyond me. I didn’t mean to do it. So, okay, we
were in a hurry, and all, but really. It could have waited, but I have this thing about unruly hair hanging over masculine ears. We
couldn’t do a complete detail before Sunday service, but at least I could do a quick trim.
One minute I’m
clipping away, the next the morning stillness shatters with an horrific howl. I look down into his once trusting, brown eyes, to see a look
of shock, and utter dismay. Then just like that they fill with tears.
“What, Ben, what?”
“Auuuugh! My ear, my
ear!” He takes off at a dead run for the blue chair in the living room and nestles into its waiting arms, while steadfastly
refusing mine.
I’m thinking, “Good grief, it can’t be that
bad.”
“Let me see, Ben.”
“Nooooooooo! Auuuugh,
nooooo!”
Well, forevermore. “Come on, it can’t be that
terrible!!”
“You cut my ear!”
I persuade him to pull his hand away so I can take a look. As luck
would have it, it’s covered in blood. “How bad is it, Mom? Is it really bad?”
“Uh, no Ben,
it’s not so bad. Not really.” It just doesn’t feel like wisdom to explain that little cuts can bleed like big
ones. I quickly wipe the blood from his hand, and transfer the tissue to his ear, “We’ll just put this over your ear,
and that will help.”
We have to finish; he can’t go with just one side trimmed. Bringing all the
diplomacy of motherhood into play I persuade him to let me cut the hair around the other ear with a different pair of scissors, all the
while hoping he won’t remember that once I clipped his ear with that pair, too.
Tucking the success of one ear
under my belt, I reach for the one that’s been wounded. “No, Mom, no. PLEASE.”
“Stop it, Ben.
I’m not going to hurt you (I hope). Now quit. I didn’t mean to cut your ear (as if that’s supposed to give him
comfort. If I didn’t mean to once, couldn’t I not mean to
twice?).”
The clock is ticking, a few more minutes of this and we’re going to be late
for church. Then I’m gonna’ have to explain why we’re dragging in past starting time, again.
“Ben, stop it!”
Finally, we take it in for the home stretch. The hair is neatly
trimmed, and we both breathe a sigh of relief. “Oh, what’s this? Ben, your ears are dirty, here let me . .
.”
“Auuuuggghh!”
On the way to church I hear Ben mumbling under his breath.
“What’s that you’re saying, honey?”
“I just said that I
think we should call you Tyson.”
King Solomon probably thought it unique to himself when he said, “Laughter is
good medicine." But, I think it was God’s idea.
The world looked rather bleak this morning. "You look tired, Mom,”
Diana said as I climbed wearily onto the treadmill, “Didn't you sleep well last night?"
"No. I stayed up too late."
"You look
tired, too," I commented, "Didn't you sleep well?"
“No, not
really.“
And
so, exhausted, we began our morning routine. Quite frankly, I'd rather have been home in bed. It was one of those weepy kinds of morning.
That’s what you get when you pair a menopausal woman with a pregnant one. We talked, lifted weights, dried tears- then did it all
over again. When all was said and done we weren't feeling much better. Figuring we'd worked off enough calories, to put them back in I
queried, "Want to go to Starbucks?"
"Sure, why not."
We climbed into the car and drove to the popular
coffee shop. Diana ordered her latte' and I, my Tazoberry Cream. What was easy for me, proved a challenge for Diana- one does not easily
squeeze a very pregnant tummy through a horde of caffeine depleted patrons.
Outside, the sullen gray clouds perfectly mirrored
our despondency. We settled at a round, wooden table near the window and made small talk- mostly me grumbling about the cold, and wishing
I'd gotten hot chocolate instead of my frosty brew. I stopped chattering when my wandering gaze landed on a rather large, unsightly bulge.
On my leg. Extending from the hinder side of my knee, to mid-calf.
"Well, forevermore. Wonder what that is?"
It's hard to be inconspicuous in a room full of
people. More so when you’re delicately groping up your pant leg. Whatever it was, it was very soft, and just out of my grasp.
I . . . can't . . . quite . . .reach. . . it.
Diana, nearing panic, pled in a frantic whisper,
"Moooommmmm, wait, don't pull it out here! You don't know what it is!"
"Probably just a sock," I say as
I grapple harder. Finally in frustration I relent, "O.K. lets go- I'll check it outside."
We snicker and waltz out the door. The
sun is peeking through the clouds, and I notice I'm not feeling quite so blue. I shake my leg, unaware that Diana is maneuvering down the
hill, and far away from me. With each jiggle I hope to coax the lump further down my leg so I can pull it out.
At the car Diana slips inside, firmly shutting the door behind her. I‘m guessing she‘s praying
for anonymity behind the tinted glass. Oblivious to her I press onward, shaking my leg, and shivering in the cold. My bulge hasn’t
budged.
Opening the door to the car I prop my leg on the floorboard, and bend determinedly forward. Like an
obstetrician coaxing a stubborn baby from the womb, I work my fingers past the ankle elastic, and up the leg of my britches. Whatever is up
there is coming out. I push in a little harder, determined to win. I can feel something with the tip of my fingers. Just . . . a .
. . little . . . further . . .
Aahhhh, the sweet savor of success. In one svelte swoop I pull my bulge firmly down my
leg, and into the glorious sunshine. A little bubble of joy wraps its arms around my heart, and squeezes a giggle from my lips. I lift my
head to the heavens, and laugh out loud with delight. Life is good again. There’s hope for tomorrow. Renewed energy for today.
I want to shout it
from the housetops, proclaim it from the mountaintops, tell the world around me I’ve found joy. But, I’m not exactly
sure what I’d say. So, I tuck my bulge away, and smile. No one would believe me anyway. I mean, when’s the last time you
found joy in a crumpled pair of “soon-to-be granny” panties?