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.”
&
lt;p>Messenge
rs, 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."
<
/font>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.
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. &quo
t;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. Encourag
e 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&nbs
p;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 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&am
p;nbsp;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.
Motherin
g 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&
nbsp;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.
Nurturin
g 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.
&ldq
uo;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.
Sometime
s 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&
;nbsp;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.&
lt;/p>
Yesterda
y 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&
rsquo;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.
&ldq
uo;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&
rsquo;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.
&quo
t;You sure you'll be all right, Mom, if we go ahead
and leave?"
&quo
t;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.
Shiverin
g 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?"
&quo
t;Hi, honey. It's me! I'm Fine. Just
fine."
&quo
t;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.
&quo
t;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
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?"
&quo
t;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.
&quo
t;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?"
&quo
t;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!).
Somewher
e 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:
&quo
t;You rang?"
&quo
t;Yes, my dear, how might I be of
assistance?"
&quo
t;I'm sorry, you appear to be having
a difficult time right now. Were you
traumatized as a
child??"
&quo
t;And, a Merry Christmas to you fair
lady."
&quo
t;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.
&quo
t;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!
p>
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.
&quo
t;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.
&quo
t;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&r
squo;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&rs
quo;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?"
&quo
t;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?”
&ldq
uo;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.”
&ldq
uo;I sure would. That knife isn’t for me! I
stuck my hand in my pocket, and it cut the end of my
finger.”
&ldq
uo;Would you like for me to put it on for
you?”
&ldq
uo;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-fo
g. 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.
Destitut
e 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-face
d, 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?”<
/p>
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.
&ldq
uo;Woman, where are they?” He asked,
“Does no one condemn
you?”
&quo
t;No one, Master."
&quo
t;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.
Respondi
ng 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.
Mortifie
d, 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.
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.
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.
Seriousl
y!
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!&
lt;/font>
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!
Everybod
y 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.”
&ldq
uo;Maybe I can help
you.”
&ldq
uo;Perhaps.”
&ldq
uo;Do you know where you parked
it?”
&ldq
uo;Uh . . . no.”
&ldq
uo;That’s o.k. What kind of car is
it?”
&ldq
uo;I can’t remember.”
&ldq
uo;Well, that’s all right, what color is
it?”
&ldq
uo;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.
Nine-yea
r-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&
;rsquo;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&r
squo;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!”
&ldq
uo;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!”
&ldq
uo;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!”
&ldq
uo;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?”
&ldq
uo;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!”
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;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!!”
&ldq
uo;Why doesn’t God want me to fly?”
he asks, digging out from under the
sheet.
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;I need your help on this one, Mom!”
I
pretend not to listen.
&ldq
uo;Come here, Mom!”
I go.
Did the mothers of other great men have to go through
this?
He&r
squo;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.
&ldq
uo;This will work,” he says, “Can
you lift me up, and throw me on the
couch?”
&ldq
uo;No, Ben. I can’t. You’re too
heavy.”
&ldq
uo;Please? Come help me, please!”
I
pretend, once more, not to hear.
There is
silence- then, “Ben, to Ronda. Ben, to
Ronda.”
&ldq
uo;Oh, all right. What do I have to
do?”
&ldq
uo;Just help me stand
up.”
&ldq
uo;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!”
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;I’m going to try your desk. But, first I
need practice.”
Practice
isn’t successful.
Doesn&am
p;rsquo;t matter to, Ben. Obviously in denial, he
proudly announces, “O.K. I had one practice!
It will work!!”
It
doesn’t.
&ldq
uo;So, I’m not the best
inventor.”
Trying
to be helpful I suggest, “Maybe you should
start with smaller
things.”
&ldq
uo;How do you expect me to get smaller
wings?”
&ldq
uo;Not smaller wings, Ben! Smaller things. Maybe you
should try to invent something easier. Something
simple, then go on to bigger
things.”
&ldq
uo;I’m not giving
up!”
&ldq
uo;I didn’t think
so.”
Now the
sheet covers his head, and drapes over his shoulders
and arms. Excitedly he says,
&ldq
uo;This is what I need. If I crash, the sheet will soak
up the blood.”
He
falls. Thank goodness there is no blood.
&ldq
uo;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&rs
quo;m getting tired now. Really tired. He just
won’t quit. I wish I’d never heard
of the Wright Brothers.
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;Are you dead,
Ben?”
&ldq
uo;No. It’s strange, Mom. As soon as I got up
there I tripped over my wing and fell
back.”
He&r
squo;s discouraged now. “How come I keep
falling, Mom?” (I wish his dad were here,
he’s better at this than I am.)
&ldq
uo;Well, Ben, the stuff you’re using to help
you stay up isn’t helping you to stay
up!” (Profound)
Incredul
ously he says, “So, you’re saying
you want me to give up the dream?” (Did I say
that???)
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;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.
&ldq
uo;I know what I
need.”
&ldq
uo;What, Ben?”
&ldq
uo;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.
&quo
t;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.
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!"
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 . .
.”<
/p>
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?).”
<
/i>
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!&rd
quo;
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?