Jen Thinks In Ink

Remain in Me

2011-03-07T13:24:00.006-05:00

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me." John 15:4

Intimidated. That's the word I'd use to describe my feelings about reading the Bible. For a very long time, I've felt intimidated, uneducated, lesser, even stupid.

I didn't become a Christian until age 24, well into a teaching career and about to be married. By then, I figured it was time to straighten up and "do the right thing." Besides, the man I was dating (now my husband) was a deeply-rooted Christian, and I was just a seeker. I figured I needed to "woman-up."

Do the right thing. Be a good Christian. Woman-up. Get a date. Those were my sole motivations for stumbling into seriously considering the Christian faith, though I had long witnessed, even envied, a peace other Christians seemed to have. Yet, it always appeared just out of reach for me and my chaotic life. Plus, though I owned one, I had only cracked the binding of the Bible a few times, that is, when I could remember where I'd stored it. To me, it looked scary. Thousands of thin, silver-tipped pages with rules, weird names and old stories...Frankly, I didn't know what to do with it. What was it all about? And who really was this Jesus whom I'd only seen on the front of church bulletins at Easter, when I'd dared to wander into church? A twisted figure hanging by his hands, blood dripping from a crown of thorns...it looked more like a preview from a horror flick. Where's the peace in that? I remember thinking.

Though it didn't go well, that first date with my husband changed everything. While I was just getting to know Scott, trying to impress him with a pretty dress and a, "Sure, I'll go with you to church this Sunday," smile, I had no idea that I would come face to face with Jesus that day. Besides, unless He was dressed in a loin cloth and carrying a crown, I wouldn't have known what He looked like.

The organ music passed as quickly as the sermon and collection plate. I'd almost made it to the end of this odd observance. Ten more minutes, and I'd be sitting with my date, in a corner booth at Applebee's, surroundings much more familiar to me. One last song listed in the bulletin promised to end the service, and to free me. Doxology. I looked at the weird word that, unlike the other hymns, was mysteriously without a page number. A quick glance in the front and back of the worn-out hymnal left me in a quiet panic. No Dox-ology listed.

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow..." they all stood and sang together. Scott also belted out the words beside me, as familiar to him as the Happy Birthday song. It wasn't until midway through that he noticed the tears streaming down my face and rolling over frozen lips. Busted.

Stupid. Uneducated. Heathen. Those must have been the words they were all saying, or at least thinking, about me, I imagined. Besides, I was hearing them loudly enough inside my own head. I wanted to disappear. Yet, in a gesture that sealed the marriage deal for me, Scott stopped singing, too, and put a gentle hand on my shoulder. If I didn't know better, I would have thought that man in the loin cloth and bloody crown happened to be sitting near and had touched me as well. I wonder if that's what mercy feels like.

"You should tell them," Scott encouraged, instead of judging me or blowing it off. "They should print the page number in the bulletin..." For pitiful people like me, is how I wanted to finish his sentence. Stupid. Uneduca-- But, something stopped the negative thoughts this time. I wrote a quick note to the pastor instead, and sheepishly signed my name. We couldn't get to Applebee's fast enough.

"You're right, and thank you," were the surprising words I received in return from Pastor Thompson, the man who would marry Scott and I just fifteen months later. "Do you mind if we call on you once in awhile for other suggestions? We could use your perspective around here. And, hey, are you two in a Sunday School class yet? We'd love to have you." Needed. Wanted. Valued. Those faint words began replacing the ugly ones in my head, and a loving relationship of discipleship and Bible study began in the first church I came to call myself a member. Yes, this must be what mercy feels like.

Even sixteen years later, my knowledge of the Bible is still quite incomplete. And, though I sometimes still feel "behind" or "lesser" than those around me who grew up in church and can recite sweet verses of mercy from memory, I still cling to the blue, NIV Study Bible Scott gave me that year, the one where I wrote Jennifer "Johnson" for the first time in the front of those silver-tipped pages. It's the same Bible I read to our 10 and 11-year-olds at breakfast before school each day. Everytime I open it, I still feel a little intimidated, but I'm getting there. In fact, it helps me remember that my walk with Jesus started with a relationship first. Scott Johnson and Corinth Church were Jesus in skin to me that day, and I have never forgotten how that beautiful man on the cross reached down and touched me through them. It makes me want to know everything about Him. It makes me want to reach out and touch others in His name.

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you..." are the words He used to instruct and encourage his disciples just prior to his own death on the cross. What sweet mercy he gave to his confused and anxious disciples that day. He continues to extend the same invitation and ultimate promise to all of us as well. It's a beautiful exchange, an endless marriage of Word and relationship. The Bible is our conversation piece with God, our textbook of all textbooks, and a wonderful place of refuge all at the same time. It's also our brilliant model of how to seek, identify, and bring others into relationship with God, too. It certainly keeps me coming back for more and more, and more, and more...

Thank you, Jesus, for teaching us through your Word and touching us through Your people. Help us to remain in You, Lord, and therefore, receive Your perfect plan for us. Teach us Your truths and squelch the negative lies the enemy may be whispering to us. It is when we remainin You that we are confident, fruitful and genuine. Grant us mercy and grace always, Lord. Keep us coming back for more. Amen.

Jesus Zombies

2009-08-01T16:21:00.005-04:00

I love Facebook for its ability to reach far and connect old dots. I always wondered where my college buddies are now or what happened to playground pals from elementary school. Now, I know. I love FB for more than that, though. What’s fascinating is that the subtleties of personality are present despite the once-removed nature of interaction there. Life ambition, quirky humor and even harbored resentments lie in status updates, photo uploads and personality quizzes. Recently, a FB friend posted a quiz revealing his most hated types of people. I nearly spit out my coke with laughter when one of his answers was, “Jesus Zombies.”

“A Jesus Zombie? Is that what I am?” I asked myself, imagining my friends and I as walking dead with empty eyes, arms affront, moaning the name of Jesus in ridiculous monotone. Random belly laughs erupted the rest of the day at the copier, while driving home and even when walking my Jesus-Zombie dog. The mental metaphor just wouldn’t leave me.

The human brain rests more comfortably with patterns than in chaos, so I was not surprised at all by the stereotype. Categorizing is a natural response, shaped by life experiences. It’s quite simply our attempt to make sense of things. The problem is, none of us can claim the same categories. While the Jesus-Zombie classification is hysterically foreign to me, I wonder to how many others, however, it may seem familiar. How are we, as Jesus followers, like zombies?

Definitions for the word include, mindless and controlled. While Romero’s 1968 film, Night of the Living Dead made “zombie” popular, etymology reveals a probable Haitian descent, most likely derived from the word zonbi, a voodoo-spiritual term for a person brought back to life from the dead without speech or free will. Interesting. I’m still chuckling.

I had almost forgotten about the Jesus-Zombie metaphor until Jesus himself brought it back to me recently. While I could have used a good laugh, a two-week stint with my husband in and out of the hospital and a personal bout with the flu did not conjure any visits from zombies. In fact, those friends that I had earlier imagined ambling aimlessly in mummy clothes were anything but lifeless to me. Just the opposite, in fact.

Consider Zombie #1, my friend Robin, who happily hosted my daughter in her home, despite Lily’s growing separation anxiety and horrid fear of seeing her Daddy on a gurney. Going beyond “the nice thing to do,” Robin cooked Lily’s favorite foods, carried her to the pool and found herself energized, not burdened, by doing everything in her power to make Lily’s life normal. And what about the time she waited, and waited, and endlessly waited in the hospital parking lot while I comforted Lily- in a dead panic at the thought of leaving Mommy behind again? No, mindless isn’t a word I would use to describe my Jesus-friend.

What about Zombie #2, my girlfriend Debby? With one surgery behind us and five crazy nights with my Asperger-diagnosed son in tow, she antied up for five more, without hesitation, when complications sent my husband back under the knife. “Because I love you,” was her matter-of-fact reasoning. Lifeless isn’t someone who hears you on the phone say, “No, I don’t need you to come to the hospital” and shows up anyway proclaiming, “You can get mad at me if you want to, but I had to lay my eyeballs on you to make sure my friend was ok.”

Let’s think about Zombie #3, my sister-friend, Cindy- or Cindy-Lou, as I call her. She texted me scripture every day, sometimes three times a day, and was an outlet to the world when I was stuck in the catacomb-esque CT scan waiting area, my husband fighting pain and nausea. She will never have any idea how comforting a simple “Hw RU my frnd?” can be. And her life-breathing scripture?…a complete Godsend. She and technology were simply vessels feeding me messages from above. I’m not talking about unrealistic “You will be healed” scripture, either. While there is a place for such, Cindy-Lou knew I needed to hear instead, “God is our refuge and strength, a very-present help in times of trouble,” Psalm 46:1 and, “He gives power to the faint and weary,” Isaiah 40:29. I wouldn’t say Cindy is living as one under mind control, would you?

Still, some would argue that these are things that church people just do. Nonsense. Jesus isn’t just a connection I have with these ladies, it’s THE connection. Jesus Zombies don’t go deep, and I have rarely gone deeper in friendship than with them. That’s why they show up in force when I am in need. I’d do the same for them in a Zombie-second. They understand what a privilege it is to be Jesus to another person, and they do it so well. These are just three of the many, besides my sweet family, who called, visited, texted, prayed, mowed our grass, made food for us and even offered to do the laundry.

So, call us Jesus Zombies if you like. Besides, I guess it’s just the newest slam-version of Jesus-Freak. But, I have never been more blessed by the hands of my very free-will exercising, life-giving, mindful and loving friends. Guess we have a great idea for a costume party, though.

Click here if you'd like to read the introduction to this series.

She Sees God in Butterflies

2009-04-26T19:13:00.005-04:00

(Click here if you'd like to read the introduction to this series)

She was a silent savior the first time I met my friend Debby. There I was, facing the ultimate terror- a room full of rowdy Sunday school children. A former high school teacher, the task of wiping noses and wrangling four-year-olds is unnatural at best. That day, pulling hair and snatching toys seemed to be sport to one in particular. The last thing I remember is the boy scaling a moveable chalkboard. I’d never seen a kid wreck a Sunday school room! We were at his mercy…or so I thought. Debby assessed the damage and expertly took command. In mere seconds, she pushed the chalkboard to the hallway, scooped up our small renegade and admonished him with an excellent mixture of soft and firm verbiage. This same phrasing she used when his parents returned to collect their little angel. While I stood frozen, Debby personified true grace in arbitration.

I continue to live in awe of my friend, but it isn’t because she’s perfect. In fact, after years of fumbling through friendships, I have learned that outward perfection sometimes hides an empty heart. So, I seek the heart of a person first, and what I have found in Debby’s is exceptional and overflowing. Deb is always looking for an opportunity to give…and to give BIG. A household, full-time job, a husband and twin boys to manage, she is able to do amazing things with little time and resources. In the few years I’ve known her, I’ve watched her organize secret appreciation functions, manage weekly ministry dinners, deliver coffee to those stuck in hospital waiting rooms, serve lunch to construction workers, become transparent to others seeking advice, take lonely elderly ladies to dinner, lead support groups and even give away her very possessions while expecting nothing in return. In fact, that’s how she prefers things. Seriously, it’s amazing to watch her work. Her humility and selfless giving never ends, and I believe God has given her a unique gift to be able to clearly see the needs around her. Also, He lovingly provides her the means to fulfill them. That seems to be Debby’s job, her purpose, and she absolutely glows when God is using her for His mission.

Watching Debby is a gift in itself, but being her friend is even more priceless. Friendship is where we get the good stuff, if we truly let others in. The behind-the-scenes-Debby is even better than the one out front. I love it because I am privy to her motives, and believe me, they are rare! Once, I saw Debby take off a pair of earrings and hand them to an admiring friend. The woman was taken aback and felt embarrassed at Debby’s offer. I love the next part. Debby leaned in and whispered, “It’s just stuff. Please bless me by enjoying them.” The friend still hesitant, Debby revealed, “Look, God is working on my want of material things, and it is a lesson for me to be able to give you something you would enjoy even more than I would. Plus, they’re just earrings!” Mind-blowing humility, I know! Folks sometimes don’t know how to take her, and a few might even argue that it’s excessive people-pleasing. Contrarily, I think it’s fantastic, Jesus-worthy stuff, and I just want to cheer when I see Debby in action.

I know how she does it all. Debby’s relationship with Jesus is her driving force, and it has a magnetic effect. Emerging from a monstrous past, her survival skills are literally (and unfortunately) perfected. Notice I didn’t say punctuality, a sense of fashion, or even organization are her strong points. Not that they are terribly weak, but a life of “just figure out what really matters and get it done” is still lingering for her. I happen to believe the imperfections make her even more amazing. She’s real. She doesn’t control life. Controlling life is simply too exhausting, and she has found a better way. She continues to give God the reins and is a model of humble endurance. I could hear her tell her story a hundred times and never tire of it, her story of sobbing uncontrollably in her car one day- of crying out to Jesus. How she received His undeniable answer is one of the most beautiful accounts I’ve ever heard.

Now, Debby says she sees God in butterflies. I have witnessed her exchange with Him on several occasions. She simply smiles and points, and I know to where her hand extends…always a Monarch in the window or the image of a winged thing in a book or a passing sign. God is never in the figure itself but in the timing instead. That’s how she knows it’s Him. She sees God in other things, but His “I Love You” to Debby is always delivered with precision and written in butterflies. That’s why I love being around her. There’s no pretention, no judgment, but plenty of spirit-filled experience and real wisdom.

Most recently, Debby is teaching me about marriage. Many would argue that if seeking a marriage mentor, find the perfect couple and ask them a thing or two. I disagree. I want to know what it’s like for people in the trenches, I want to hear from those who have been through struggles and are enduring them despite the odds. Those people remain vigilant, and I value their experience. Debby’s opinion on marriage is priceless, and because she never loses hope, I am beginning to think it is attainable. She says, “I intentionally try to be the wife Jesus would want me to be.” Debby is simply trying to be Jesus to the person He has placed closest in proximity to her. Sound flippant and easy? Oh, how it isn’t! While remaining one of God’s most remarkable gifts, marriage can get bumpy at times when in the throes of parenthood, financial struggles or when juggling life’s curveballs. Committed marriage requires patience, compromise and lots of gut-wrenching prayer. But, if I can see my husband as Jesus does, (not as I do, or even as he does, but as JESUS does) and act accordingly, I am well on my way to living a married life with few regrets. If I can become the wife with the right balance, a balance of firm and soft, of Debby-like grace in arbitration, I will have succeeded.

In the summer, our families gather at Debby’s house. She has the most amazing back porch. Oddly enough, I consider it my personal haven. Sure, the outdoors and country air are appealing, but I think I love it for much more than that. I love it because I can enjoy those things while being me…completely me… all at the same time. I could sit for hours watching the kids run around, laughing with Debby while our husbands debate classic rock or whether God has a conscience. That’s the beauty of life, when all the right things come together, even if it’s just for a warm summer evening. Debby’s porch is surely what heaven will be like for me, a place with untamed nature, unpretentious surroundings, unbelieveable peace…and butterflies. I hope there are lots and lots of butterflies.

Angels in My Infield

2009-04-14T10:25:00.004-04:00

It’s so easy for some of our species. To be charming. To be beautiful. To manage life. To command respect. To know just when to be submissive and when to wield power. To know when to step in or when to gracefully bow out. To know how to say, “I’m sorry,” and really mean it. And even to know where all of those secret places are where a girl can simply cry in peace.

Womanhood is at times a complete mystery to me. Yet, I am in awe of those who wear it well. I’m not sorry I feel this way, only sorry that I may have missed an opportunity or two. Being more comfortable hanging out with the guys is definitely overrated. For me, it was simply an opportunity to hide. To remain one chromosome removed from ever having to really know someone.

Perhaps this is why I am so comfortable with Jesus. He’s a guy. He doesn’t scare me as much as a 5’2” chick in heels with a color-coded day planner does. I’m 5’11” and at age 39, I’ve finally admitted that writing reminder notes on my hand is as close as I’ll come to conquering a palm-pilot. In fact, it feels good to admit things, to really accept them as they are.

That’s the only fault I’ve found with our gender. The word “accept” isn’t easily verbalized, or swallowed. Change! Do! Overcome! These are all feminine word-weapons if you ask me. Killer verbs dripping with perfume. If you don’t believe me, try instead dropping the “a” word at a tea party and listen to the silver spoons clatter to the floor. No, we like to fix people instead. Or at least attempt to love them into compliance. It’s our codependent MO, I’m afraid.

On the other hand, Jesus’ modus operandi isn’t like most guys I know. Instead of allowing me to remain at gender distance, He lays the very thing I need on my pillow every morning. Like a gentlemen, He whispers, “Accept. Endure. Carry On.” I am so in love with Him. He is poetry, and because of Him, I remain in motion.

No woman wants to hear those words except for me. At least that’s how it seems. But, my Jesus is full of soothing surprises. Just this year he has led me to the ironically impossible. Yet again, He has deemed it time to remove an element of blindness and to have me see.

What do I see? I see butterflies and Shakespeare. Bell-bottom pants and clouds of chalk dust. I see Fire’s Creek, red plum trees and hay bales. I hear the din on a school bus. I feel an unexpected embrace. I open crumpled letters. I see eyes ringed with wisdom and smiles laced with understanding. I sense endless patience, and I taste the purity of mountain water. He is holding my hand all the way. He is intentional, leading me backwards down a path of distant familiarity. A path where the non-sensical weaves together in a way only He could have possibly commanded.

I was blind before, but I see them now. I see the women in my life, but this time they have wings. They are not convoluted cherubs, but gritty-real, hanging on to halos with bare hands. They walk labyrinths, draw out-of-bounds plays and deliver sermons- the best kind- those without words. I never knew women could be so stunning. This series is dedicated to them, to those beauties that fear made me miss, or dismiss. Thank you, Jesus, for providing me a vehicle for proper thanks.

(Stay tuned for a gratitude series on the women who-with God’s help-have shaped this lump of clay I call “me” into something useful.)

Confessions

2009-01-04T13:07:00.003-05:00

When I read books, I rarely finish one. I’m known for gleaning what’s good in a book and leaving the rest for those with more time or fewer children. I’m rarely a cover to cover girl.

One book broke the streak this past year, however. Though I now sit January shivering, the summer sun and a beach chair helped me consume Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz last June. It still calls my name and may even be one I read…I can’t believe I’m saying this…twice.

Honestly, Blue isn’t the ticket if you’re looking for plot twists or hair-raising suspense. A non-fiction, stream-of-consciousness collection of Non-Religious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality as its subtitle proclaims, the book simply intrigued me.

One particular chapter, Confessions, was brilliant. In short, Miller attends an intensely liberal college, smartly challenging the concept that Christians and progressives shouldn’t mix. In a stroke of genius, Miller’s buddies decide to plant a confession booth in the midst of a blush-worthy, druggy campus festival of sorts.

“Here’s the catch…We’re not actually going to accept confessions,” says Tony, the group’s self-appointed leader. “We are going to confess to them. We are going to confess that, as followers of Jesus, we have not been very loving; we have been bitter, and for that we are sorry. We will apologize for televangelists, we will apologize for neglecting the poor and the lonely, we will ask them to forgive us, and we will tell them that in our selfishness, we have misrepresented Jesus on this campus.”

Miller’s words capture the moment that follows, “We all thought it was a great idea…It would feel so good to apologize, to apologize for the Crusades, for Columbus and the genocide he committed in the Bahamas in the name of God, apologize for the missionaries who landed in Mexico and came up through the West slaughtering Indians in the name of Christ. I wanted so desperately to say that none of this was Jesus, and I wanted so desperately to apologize for the many ways I had (also) misrepresented the Lord.”

In short, the stunt was a gutsy success on campus, and the small Christian group, representing humility and truth, not smoke and mirrors, soon grew.

For six months, I’ve wanted to write this blog entry. Emerging 14 years ago from a non-Christian background, I’ve seen why and how a church can repel. Sadly, many of the reasons are true. Hypocrisy is at the top of the list. Intolerance is a close second. Miller and his friends were right. Jesus was neither intolerant nor a hypocrite. Since reading Blue Like Jazz, I’ve also wanted to experience the freedom to say to the world, “I’m sorry, too!”

So, here goes…

I’m sorry for my friend who left church as a teenager after being ridiculed, her values questioned, for wearing…dress pants.

I’m so sorry for a man I talked with recently who has just returned to church after a bitter, angry 50 years! His reason for leaving? His mother was kicked out of church for not tithing.

I’m sorry to my brother-in-law’s friend, who upon finding out I am deeply religious, assumed I would treat him differently for living with his girlfriend.

I’m sorry to others who may have been told, as I was, “Honey, you just need to pray more. Christians don’t get depressed.”

My apologies to my parents who, as I recall the stories, were strategically placed on front pews as children and screamed at with threats of damnation at the slightest misstep. (I never questioned why they didn’t take us to church.)

I’m sorry for a woman I know who was shown a horrible film as a child with her youth group, a film depicting the consequences of sin…a corpse with worms crawling from it.

I’m sorry for the recipients of those fear-based tracts…the ones strategically placed in bathrooms and at the top of staircases. I picked one up once as a college student looking for some truth. What I found instead was a dark cartoon that gave me nightmares instead of drawing me closer to God. I can still see the image of Satan laughing, throwing my “soul” over his shoulder while descending into hell.

My apologies to the other children in my vacation Bible school class I ventured to on a summer trip to grandma’s house. It took me years to get over the teacher’s statement that if we even uttered the words, “I hate” and “God” in the same sentence, we would never be forgiven. Little did he know, my eight-year-old mind would spend hours repeating, “I hate the Devil, I love God,” a million times obsessively. Guess what? When one repeats such a phrase over and over, he/she is bound to screw it up…at least once. I did- more than once, sending me into an electric panic.

I’m sorry to those who have witnessed Christians praying one moment and spewing filth, engaging in questionable business practices, cheating, or running down others in the next.

We should be absolutely ashamed! We have a lot of mending to do, and it feels great to begin here, now. My personal prayer is that in the end, the line of people who have been helped by my words or actions is longer than the trail of carnage any ignorant talk, haughty judgment, or weak example I may have left behind. None of that is who Jesus really is.

I wish others could take a second look at Jesus, as I did. I wish others could hear the real truth about Christianity instead of lumping us all together with breathy televangelists, screaming preachers, or snobby hypocrites. I wish others could find a truth-bearing church, as I have, who spews grace instead of intolerance from the pulpit. One that contributes at least double the expected funds to the needy. One that reaches out (and physically walks out) into the community and the world by the hundreds. One that employs a full counseling department, investing in and welcoming those with troubles as Jesus did. One that reveals the absolute relevance of the Bible. One that has its share of hypocrites (notice I didn’t say, “sinners”- that’s all of us) in the rows on Saturday and Sunday and loves them anyway. One that asks people to stretch themselves for others instead of hoarding their -monetary OR situational- good fortune. What good is having true, deeply satisfying peace if you can't share it?

While today I wanted to take the rare opportunity to beg forgiveness for and from others, as Miller and his courageous friends did in Blue Like Jazz, I am simultaneously praising God. I could (and sometimes do) jump up and down in gratitude that those He placed before me who mirrored His true, merciful image finally outnumbered those reflecting falsehood.

It would be a privilege to be the same humble example for others. Will you pray that I will?

Faithful, Fruitful and Fulfilled

2008-11-17T14:08:00.005-05:00

The three F's are something my church (Covenant United Methodist Church) stresses and values for its people...living a life faithful, fruitful and fulfilled. This weekend, our pastor's sermon, the fifth in a six-week series entitled, "The Church God Wants Us to Be" (notice it doesn't say, "The Church WE Want to Be") was focused on living a life of faith and dedication, on bearing fruit through our labor and use of God-given gifts, and on finding our place of fulfillment in life through Christ. It is fitting, then, that this weekend was an answer to a dream, a calling, a hope, a pleasure. My first book, The Proper Use of One's Shell, (illustrated by Marley Ungaro) debuted this weekend. For once, I am speechless, humbled by how amazing God is...how complicated His plan is...and how everything I let Him take control of turns out better than I ever dreamed. Much love to all who have supported me in this. May you all find the proper use for your shell.

Jennifer
"He has made everything beautiful in its time." Ecclesiastes 3:11

For information on the book, check out ProperUseProject.com.

Proper Use Project

2008-09-17T14:30:00.004-04:00

Hello, all! I obviously haven't published anything here in awhile, but there's an exciting reason why. For now until its completion, check out the following blog for my latest writing project.

http://www.properuseproject.com/

"He has made everything beautiful in its time..." Ecclesiastes 3:11

Fish Tale

2008-07-19T20:50:00.003-04:00

I know you won’t believe me. It’s one of those things you have to see with your own eyes, witness for yourself. Even then, while it’s in plain view, you’ll likely shake your head or pinch your skin to verify sanity. Once you’ve experienced it, however, you’ll never, ever forget.

Every warm season since the death of Mr. Steve’s wife, Joan, a snowy egret returns to his house in coastal North Carolina. My aunt and uncle live just across the canal from his single-dwelling cottage. I admit, I’d heard the tales, too, and probably dismissed them as exaggeration…that is, until the irrefutable scene unfolded in front of me. Twice daily during nesting season, the white-plumed bird follows a canal to its end and swoops down on Mr. Steve’s back yard. The way the bird transitions from aerodynamic flight to full upright stance, using his great wingspan to gracefully stick the landing…Well, that, in itself, is- stunning.

What happens next, however, is enough to make one question the basic laws of nature.

Standing the full height of a small man, the animal walks gracefully across the knotty crabgrass and lowers his bright yellow beak. Then, the snowy egret, quite simply…knocks. He persistently pecks the glass of Mr. Steve’s back storm door, awaiting a response from within. (Mr. Steve even swears that if he doesn’t answer quickly enough, the egret will continue on to the front door, knocking feverishly.)

Eventually, Mr. Steve emerges, bucket in hand, lips moving in casual conversation. As comfortable as old friends, the two play a game of fetch. Mr. Steve pulls minnows from his bucket, while the hungry bird eagerly awaits his prize. The game continues until thirty or so minnows are safely stored in the egret’s long neck and he can return to the nest, retrieve the small fish and help feed his babies.

Observing through Aunt Faye’s kitchen window, I am always mesmerized. I never tire of watching Mr. Steve feed his egret. Witnessing the mutual exchange occur- fish for friendship- is nothing short of magical, hopeful and real.

Try conveying such a mystical moment to friend or perfect stranger, however. It’s near impossible. I can identify with the frustration Aunt Faye feels when telling the egret’s tale to the ladies at the local grocery store, whose response is usually a roll of the eyes or a suspicious cock of the eyebrow. Unless you’re in the presence of another first-hand witness, it’s just another fish tale.

I recently realized that telling a stranger the story of Mr. Steve and his egret is markedly similar to sharing with others why I am a follower of Jesus.

I must admit, the cards are already stacked against me regarding this. The proper term, “evangelism,” has earned a negative connotation, conjuring images of screaming tele-preachers or tract-bearing strangers. Eye rolling, suspicious glances and voiced disbelief are regular occurrences at the mention of the name Jesus. “Just another fish tale,” some eyes seem to say. Others question motives or become defensive, as if an unspoken boundary has been crossed.

Neither aggression nor agitation is ever my intention. When speaking of Jesus, I am simply spilling over, excited to share a genuine relationship that has brought order, humility and peace to my life. Besides, who would believe that a real God can speak to me audibly through songs…or to my friend, Debby, in butterflies?

Right or wrong, I have always shied away from evangelism for evangelism’s sake. Before becoming a Christian, I detested those who looked at me (as one of the unchurched) with pity, and I abhorred those who tried to sell me salvation as if it were simply fire insurance. If anything, these tactics were perfect God-repellants for my soul.

In the end, Jesus spoke to me for Himself. He knocked, and I answered. Then, He made His presence undeniably clear. He emerged…and I believed.

Such is Jesus’ modus operandi. He doesn’t do anything less for any one of us. That certainly eases my anxiety about being an aggressive evangel. Sometimes, the best thing I can do is get out of His way.

If you’re a non-believer, or a seasoned Christian who has simply lost the “magic,” don’t worry. Today I will not prick you with guilt or prod you with scripture. Like I said, the hand of Jesus is one of those things you have to see with your own eyes, witness for yourself. Even then, while He’s in plain view, you’ll likely shake your head or pinch your skin to verify sanity. Once you’ve experienced Him, however, you’ll never, ever forget.

He is always knocking, my friends, and I pray that you answer. May you witness your own fish tale today.

Lessons From a Spelling Bee

2008-04-28T22:00:00.003-04:00

“Your word is: ate,” directed the head judge at the regional spelling bee. “We ate the delicious birthday cake.”

A pig-tailed first-grader rose to spell her word, smoothing out her fancy Sunday dress as she stood. After sailing through the practice rounds, she stood eager to spell her first word in Round One.

“Ate. E-A-T, ate,” she said, confidently.

“I’m sorry,” replied the judge, “but that is incorrect. The word is ate, not eat.”

Stunned, she remained standing, even as the next contestant rose to spell his word.

“Excuse me,” the girl interrupted. “I’ve never heard that word before,” she oddly protested.

“I beg your pardon?” said the judge, confused.

“It’s just that I’ve never heard it used that way,” said the girl.

As the recording judge, I exchanged quick glances with the others at the head table, all of us pondering how we would save the pig-tailed girl from embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” The head judge spoke up. “Your turn is over, sweetheart. You just didn’t spell the word correctly, OK? Now, you must sit down in your seat. It’s somebody else’s turn.”

Red-cheeked, the first-grader simply stared at us, blinking. Finally, she plopped back in her chair without a word, her crinoline crunching beneath her. The first “casualty” of the spelling bee, horror plagued the little girl’s face.

“OK. Where were we?” said the judge. “Next student? Yes. You, there. Your word is: tense. The student felt tense before his math quiz.”

“Tense. T-E-N-S-E, tense,” a tall, lanky boy answered.

“That is correct, sir. You may remain standing,” commended the head judge.

The exchange of words and letters continued for three more rounds as some first-graders continued to stand while others took their seats.

“Excuse me,” the pig-tailed girl interrupted again, her small hand raised.

“Yes?” asked the judge. “Do you need to go to the bathroom, honey?”

“No, ma’am,” she said politely. “I just want to make sure you have the right spelling list. Are you sure that’s the first grade word list?”

“Yes, it sure is,” said the judge impatiently. “Now, it’s time for the next round.”

“But, ma’am. I studied all of the words. We all did,” she said, gesturing to her classmates from The Village School, renowned for winning spelling bees. “And, I just don’t remember that one being on the list.”

Eyebrows raised at our judges’ table. Kids stopped twisting their hair and poking their buddies to stare at the red-faced girl. I squirmed. Her lack of acceptance of a simple mistake made for an awkward moment.

“I must remind you that you are already out, young lady,” directed the head judge firmly. “Now, there are always more spelling bees,” she said, deciding to extend grace once more. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine next time. Please be seated until the bee is over.”

The spelling bee ended as predicted, with The Village School taking three of the top four places in the first-grade division. Finally, it was time for all of the contestants to join their parents at the Awards Ceremony. Curious, I kept tabs on the little girl in the pretty dress. I watched her burst into tears when she joined her parents, explaining her dilemma. Then, I spotted her sitting, arms crossed, during the ceremony, her first grade classmates receiving medals while she sat stunned, deflated and confused.

Witnessing that little girl learn perhaps her first hard lesson in defeat struck an all-to-familiar chord in me. Her situation wasn’t uncommon, yet I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to the hard lessons that many of us as adults are still learning. Think about it. When is the last time you came away from a situation in utter disbelief at its outcome?

Just like the pig-tailed first-grader, if we are not careful, we find ourselves living by a number of false beliefs that seem to give a sense of security but miserably fail us in times of distress. Unfortunately, these beliefs are eventually uncovered, usually through painful circumstances such as accidents, divorce, sickness, death, layoffs, betrayal…the list is hauntingly long.

False Belief #1- If I do everything right, I cannot fail.

The practice of controlling every element of our lives is probably the most common, and likely the most dangerous. While living by a proper moral code and practicing intelligent life skills absolutely aid a person in skirting danger and devastation, they in no way render someone immune from it. But, subconsciously we often think it does! Just as the little girl believed that if she memorized the entire first-grade spelling list, she couldn’t possibly make a mistake, many adults never even consider failure as a possibility. It is those who say, “I will be the perfect parent,” or “Divorce could never happen to me,” or “Other people get sick, but I won’t,” who find themselves the most devastated when these situations actually occur, especially when every preventative effort has been made to thwart them. Through control, we can find a deceptive sense of comfort.

False Belief #2- If I belong to a certain group, I am immune from disappointment and heartache.

Similarly, the belief that exemption from harm is automatic when one resides within a “safety net” is also destructive. While it was likely that the little girl would achieve success at the spelling bee BECAUSE she belonged to a successful school with ample resources, rich tradition and high expectations, had she never been told that success isn’t EVER guaranteed? She reminded me so much of those who believe that social or economic status equates a life full of ease and ultimate happiness. Others even use spirituality as a false sense of safety. Many believe that simply becoming and living as a Christian means that bad things will never happen to them. However, security is fleeting, and comfort isn’t God’s purpose!

False Belief #3- If I believe in #1 or #2 and I fail anyway, it must be someone else’s fault.

Finally, when the unexpected occurs, there are those who are quick to point a finger outward- at others. “Are you sure you have the first grade list?” the little girl boldly asked the spelling bee judges, still very sure that the simple mistake she had made couldn’t possibly have been a fluke, and was definitely NOT her fault. Blame is a common defense ultimately rooted in denial. For many, blame turns to anger and even vengeance. Not only do people point fingers outward, but they are sometimes pointed upward, at God. “Why did You let this happen?” we ask, or “I didn’t DESERVE this, God!” we shout. Sadly, it isn’t uncommon for hurting people to abandon their beliefs instead of seeking God’s wisdom for comfort and understanding.

As much as we hate to admit it, things happen, LIFE happens, mistakes happen. Yet, how do we resolve this and feel any sense of peace?

I believe the key lies first in the premise of humility. God’s Word says, “For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.” (Luke 14:11) Sure, we understand this on an intellectual level, and most of us don’t intentionally flaunt extensive preparation, economic status or spiritual stance as an indestructible shield. Yet, our hearts are often counting on these things to keep us from experiencing hurt. So, we must check ourselves constantly. Are we depending on God for our ultimate comfort or something else? Do we believe we are more immune from disaster than others because of who we are or what we have accomplished? Are we exalting our control, our resources or our spiritual status as absolutes or as guarantees instead of as the simple tools they are intended to be? If we are, we should expect to be humbled!

Does that mean that God punishes us for a lack of humility? Actually, because we depend on other things for a false sense of security, God doesn’t have to do that. We, in fact, punish ourselves when our securities fail us because we have used them in a way God never intended.

Beyond humility, grace in all situations is also key. What about those tragedies or misfortunes, you may say, that are simply out of our control? How do we avoid them? We simply can’t. They are what they are…we are neither able to predict them nor direct their outcome, so we waste precious time in unnecessary worry. Instead, Philippians 4:6-7 suggests, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” God wants us to replace anxiety, worry and self-pressure for prayer, for giving thanks, for relinquishing control to Him. When this happens, the peace of God transcends all of our own self-made securities. Finally, instead of promising ultimate protection from harm, He promises to guide us and to guard our hearts and our minds. God doesn’t abandon us in our struggles! Instead, He offers a truer sense of security and protection through His presence and guidance. Then, if we let Him, He will renew us because of our misfortunes, not in spite of them!

My friends, if you find yourself asking, “Are you sure you have the right list up there, God? Are you sure I am supposed to be the one living out this life?” Be certain that the answer is a resounding, “YES!” Instead of pointing a finger outward or upward when life goes awry, pry open that hand and try presenting an open palm instead. Let go of those artificial securities and give Him thanks for His provisions, present Him your most precious requests, and trust that He will guard your heart in all circumstances. There, may you find freedom, where the peace of God transcends all understanding.

Plans vs. Purpose

2008-03-31T23:26:00.006-04:00

Last Friday, I experienced one of those moments...those heart-pounding, knee-weakening, God-cheering parental moments. Moments when all the stars have seemingly aligned and instead of, "I'm hungry," "Make her stop looking at me!" or, "Why do I have to do THAT?," flowing from the mouths of babes, a child speaks profound wisdom, and our jaws fall agape. For those of you who are parents currently up to your elbows in bottles, braces or college tuition bills, here is an uplifting story:

A week-long Easter vacation provided my husband and I much-needed time to soak in all the wonders (and funny quirks) of our children without the world breathing down on us, sucking away our patience. With a nine-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter, I would describe us oftentimes as deer-in-the-headlights parents. I imagine we aren't the only ones who have had the idealistic bubble of parenthood burst at the first sign of a wailing baby or a sink full of dirty bottles. After nine years, we have certainly and willingly adapted, but there are times when we still feel like an inexperienced soccer goalie, desperately defending our territory instead of the confident coach on the sidelines calling the shots. This is especially true with our son, Ricky. Sure, Lily has her share of estrogen-induced melodrama. Still vivid is the time she refused to even consider our wishes for her to join the local Brownie troop. "MOM!" she reasoned. "I hate brown, and you know I don't wear vests!" Score: Lily 1, Parents 0.

With Ricky, however, we truly never know what player will hit the field each day. He has struggled with social and academic issues for years, yet his emotional awareness about life is stunning at times. Our vacation week provided a unique opportunity to sit back, observe and reflect on the recent culmination of a six-month process of psychological, physical and intelligence testing in which Ricky was involved, at our request.

"Sometimes, it's tough being bright," commented the school psychologist at the final meeting, just days before we left for vacation. She pointed out what we already knew: Ricky is not a middle-of-the-road kid. He is a boy of extremes. Superior language development battles against excruciatingly slow math comprehension skills. Highly developed intuition clashes with frustrating sensory processing and attention deficit issues. Extreme sensitivity for animals and the environment competes with Ricky's desire to be a rough and tumble boy like his buddies. Basically, our nine-year-old is busy battling the heartbreak of, "I'm different," at a time when he so desperately wants to be the same. An out-of-town vacation was exactly what we needed to regroup and reunify the "home team."

A new player was introduced over vacation in the form of a massage therapist my mother-in-law recommended for Ricky, citing the benefits of gentle-touch therapy for kids with sensory and attention deficit disorders. Every day of vacation, Ricky lay on the warm, padded table wrapped in flannel sheets while Marty worked her magic, gaining quite a rapport with our socially awkward son. While the physical benefits were probable, Ricky's positive interaction with Marty was more intriguing. The impact of those daily "huddles" wasn't fully realized, however, until my Mommy radar picked up faint whimpers coming from the back seat as we traveled home from the final appointment. Ricky was crying.

"What is it, buddy?" I asked, sensing the answer.

"Will I see Marty tomorrow?" he weakly managed.

"No, sweetheart, that was the last appointment." His whimpers intensified, and he hid is face from all of us.

"Maybe you can write her a note," I offered, sliding in the seat next to him. "You know, honey, all of those "testing" people kept saying how good you are with language. Why don't you write down what you're going to miss about Marty, and we'll go back to say goodbye one more time, okay?"

I wasn't sure whether he was motivated by writing down his thoughts or by the prospect of seeing Marty again, but Ricky went to work, filling up the inside of a blank thank-you card.

Though he wouldn't let any of us see it beforehand, Marty tearfully shared the note's contents:

Things I like about Marty:

1. She is very relaxing.

2. She is easy to talk to.

3. She is the only one outside of my family that cares about me so much.

4. I am not afraid to be myself with her.

Thank you for all that you have done for me this week.

Love, Ricky

That precious note spoke volumes about my son and taught us more about raising him that any other experience could have.

My son is an amazing gift entrusted to me by my heavenly Father, just as He has entrusted you with your own children, grandchildren, cousins, neices or nephews. Though many moments have been filled with the frustration of trying to guide my son through the awkwardness of growing up, I am thankful to God for the glimpse He gave me last Friday into Ricky's potential. Ricky genuinely loves people, and best of all, he is gifted at expressing it. At nine years old, he has surpassed most 39-year-olds in the area of emotional attachment and genuine expression.

I believe God granted this moment for my husband and I to take action, the subtle action of folding up our outstretched arms of defense and removing ourselves as Ricky's overprotective goalies. We must reclaim our proper place as coaches on the sidelines of his life, trusting the guidance from above. Doing so is excruciatingly difficult, but I know it is best. Marty's note was God's way of giving us a view of the big picture of His plans for Ricky's entire life, not just the awkward school years.

As parents, aunts, uncles or grandparents, we draw up amazing game plans for our little ones. However, while molding them into what we think is best while protecting them from what we believe is the worst, we can lose vision, experience frustration and even become overzealous controllers of the game. The task is magnified when children are born with physical, intellectual or emotional challenges.

Raising Ricky and Lily has humbled us in so many ways. Their defeats as well as their victories continue to bring us to tears. Our peace in this process comes from God's little reminders (like Ricky's incredible "moment" last week) and His angels in the form of supportive friends, teachers and family members. The ultimate reminders about navigating our relationships with loved ones can always be found in His word, as we are reminded, "Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails." Proverbs 21:19

Friends, may you be blessed with God's sweet moments, and may we all find the proper balance between our plans and His ultimate purpose.

Santiago

2008-03-15T17:24:00.013-04:00

He was going to be a tailor. It was decided. Santiago’s first fifteen years included a three-hour shoeless walk to school alongside six sisters and four brothers. He was born into a humble Christian family, but with a chronic empty stomach, Santiago found little solace in God. Now, at twenty-three, he found himself alone in a rented room above the shop. Yes. Becoming a tailor was the answer. He’d worked in the tailor’s shop miles from his poor barrio two years now, sweeping scraps and running errands for the old man. After sending money home, he earned enough for the room and a bed, plus a few meals a week. One more year and the boss promised to teach him the trade, maybe let him take over the shop eventually. All it’d take is a little more hard work and loyalty…a dream for a young Dominican boy like Santiago.

Sleep should’ve come easily, then, but he found himself annoyed by the quiet. Santiago slept folded up on the edge of the bed, barely disturbing the covers. He still couldn’t get used to having a bed to himself and fell asleep thinking about his siblings back home.

A hellacious banging soon rocketed the thin man to the floor. “Who’s there?” Santiago shouted hoarsely in the direction of his door, catching a glimpse of the moonlit clock on the wall. Three AM. “What do you want?” Santiago sang out again, fear beginning to well up in him. The door swung open, sending Santiago scrambling out of the way of a monster. The large, sweaty man loomed over Santiago, yielding shiny silver scissors above his head. Santiago froze.

“Our Father, which art in Heaven,” was all the young man’s lips could manage. “Hallowed be Thy name…” The Lord’s Prayer spilled slowly at first, gaining speed as Santiago’s fear turned to hopeless resolve. “Thy Kingdom come…” He was no match for this man. “Thy will be done…” Santiago closed his eyes and awaited the piercing blows.

“…Deliver us from evil,” he continued, unnerved again at an eerie silence. “For thine is the Kingdom, and the power,” Was the man still there? “and the glory, forever and ever.” With a weak, “Amen,” Santiago willed his eyes open again. Blinking, he faced not a drunken murderer, but the most astounding of beings. Before him stood Jesus.

Silver coins replaced the scissors in His left hand, and he held them before Santiago, “Is it going to be what YOU want, Santiago?” With His right hand, He motioned to the heavens. “Or is it going to be what I want?”

“Oh, Jesus, I want what YOU want!” Santiago desperately replied.

Jesus gently lifted the young tailor from the floor, inviting him to stand beside him. The vision of a pulpit emerged. Jesus motioned Santiago to read from the Holy scriptures upon it. In obedience, Santiago began reading from Ezekiel, The Valley of the Dry Bones...

"The hand of the Lord was upon me, and He brought me out by the Spirit of the Lord and set me in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me back and forth among them, and I saw a great many bones on the floor of the valley, bones that were very dry. He asked me, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’

I said, ‘O Sovereign LORD, you alone know.’

Then He said to me, 'Prophesy to these bones and say to them, Dry bones, hear the word of the LORD! This is what the Sovereign LORD says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the LORD.'

So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone. I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then He said to me, ‘Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, Son of man, and say to it, This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’ So I prophesied as He commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army…” Ezekiel 37

“But, Jesus, what does it mean?” asked Santiago sheepishly turning to Jesus.

“Tell My church to prepare, Santiago. For, I will return,” whispered Jesus as He faded from sight.

Santiago fell to his knees, crying out, repeating, “Yes, Jesus, I want what You want…I want what You want…”

Today, Pastor Santiago Ramón of La Romana, Dominican Republic, is a veritable dynamo, indeed preparing a vast army for Christ. Leading a large congregation with a focus on street evangelism, “Santiago’s” visions for Christ’s lost people have been continually fulfilled. His feats include several contemporary Christian music CDs produced in the Dominican Republic in which he innovatively combines emotion, a Latin beat, and genuine Christ-praise in songs like La Gloria de Dios (The Glory of God), and not ironically, Preparate, Cristo Viene (Prepare! Christ Comes). Currently, Santiago’s vision has gone global as American mission work teams join him several times a year in La Romana in order to help build a hospital, a school and a seminary on forty acres that once lay fallow, a trash dump for the poor barrios that surround it.

As a short-term missioner, it was there on the forty acres where I met Santiago for the first time. His successes were not what imprinted his image into my brain, compelling me to sit at his feet listening, to buy his CDs or to return again to mix concreta with other Americans and Dominicans in the sweltering heat. No, Santiago’s true gift to others lay in his presence, in his resolve, in his passion for his Jesus.

I asked Santiago once what kept that fire inside of him going. He proceeded to tell me the story of a young man who once wished to be a tailor. And with every moment of the story, Santiago breathed life into my dry bones.

Odd Couple

2008-02-24T23:11:00.003-05:00

My first love was a long, lanky man with slicked-back gray hair and black leather ankle boots. He called me, "Jenny." At age eight and fifty-eight, we made an odd pair.

Grandpa Ham wasn’t perfect. A machinist by trade and a heavy smoker, he often had dirty nails, and he never ate leftovers. He was also infamous for walking nowhere, hopping in his big, brown car just to go a block to visit the neighbors. I didn’t care. A skinny kid with few social skills, I loved my grandpa fiercely. Big, glassy brown eyes captivated me in gentleness as only a granddaddy’s can. I knew he loved me deeply, too, and I’ve often felt guilty for that. I wasn’t his only grandchild, but when we spent time together, I knew he loved me something special.

We had great times together, my granddaddy and me. I can still see the olive drab couch where we sat for hours during a hot summer week, me trying my hand at crocheting a potholder and him reading his paper. Occasionally, he’d elbow my ribs or pop me on the head with his paper. “Little Jenny, Penny,” he’d say and return to his reading. I beamed, full with love, wishing the moment would never end.

He wasn’t a quiet man. He said plenty. Our biggest adventure was a trip to the mountains on which he bickered constantly with grandma, “I know where we’re goin’, Jo!” he insisted as we twisted around and around on back mountain roads, crossing the Mason Dixon Line not once, but twice. My big sister and I giggled in the back seat. Then, we pretended we were firemen, pulling our shirts up over our noses to breathe because Grandpa Ham never rolled the window down to smoke. Of course, none of us ever wore seatbelts then, either.

Grandpa never got mad at me. I don’t think he could, not even the time when I locked his keys in the trunk, and he had to take out the back seat of the car just to get to them. It wasn’t until last weekend, however, that I realized what a gift he was for me.

“No boys allowed!” my sister, myself, my seven-year old daughter and my 87-year-old grandma insist at least once a year when we declare it Girls Weekend. No matter how busy we are, we converge on grandma’s house, taking her to Wal-Mart, listening to endless stories, savoring grandma’s cooking, and even learning how to crochet again. For 48 hours, three generations summon back those great old times. Last weekend, however, a male intruder became a welcome guest in my heart.

It wasn’t the first time that I noticed Grandpa Ham’s picture on Grandma’s family shelf, a black-and-white capturing a rare moment of him in a suit and silk tie. I pulled the dusty picture off of the shelf and met those glassy brown eyes and gentle expression again. “Your grandpa got all dressed up when I won an award for twenty five years of service with Colonial Stores,” Grandma Jo recalled of her time as a cake decorator and bakery worker. The picture was a cut-out. Having been married to another wonderful man for ten years after Grandpa’s death, she wanted to honor Grandpa with a single photo on her shelf. Crooked yellow edges showed that an 8x10 marking the bakery honor had been sheared to reveal his single picture and was ill-fitting in the 5x7 frame.

I got to spend some quality time with Grandpa Ham again last Sunday, stealing away to Wal-Mart to scan the picture and restore it to a proper size. It was more for me than for grandma as I wept in the Wal-Mart parking lot, hugging his picture and staring into those eyes again. “I miss you so much,” I cried, thankful that my daughter was in the back seat, lost in her headphones, watching Barbie: My Scene Goes to Hollywood on her personal DVD player.

Memories of his life and death came flooding back. Ironically, my most precious moment with Grandpa Ham occurred during the latter, and I have never told another soul what occurred between us then…that is until now. A young college student locked up inside myself, clumsily navigating my way in the world, I returned to his home twice when he was near death. A long-time sufferer of emphysema, he rallied the first time. The second time, he wasn’t so fortunate. That day, I entered the hospital full of visitors to hear, “Jenny, he’s asking for you.” On the outside, I acted surprised. I wasn’t. On the inside, I just wanted everyone else to magically disappear so I could somehow say goodbye to my first love.

Still seeing me through the eyes of a parent protecting a young child, Mom and Dad explained that there were tubes and a breathing machine. He wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I just nodded because how could they remotely understand that I didn’t care, that I didn’t need him to speak to me and that the tubes were what would make our last moments even possible? Still, for support, they sent me in with a neighbor or a distant cousin, I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is the moment that I saw him, he reached out his long arms for me. I ran to him and with a maturity from within and without a tear, I looked into his eyes, telling him a thousand things without saying a single word. He returned the favor and his warm, soft hand strongly squeezed mine. We spent the rest of the time holding hands, my head resting on his chest covered with tubes, the neighbor lady awkwardly mumbling about the weather to the rhythm of the breathing machine. Grandpa Ham died at home several days later, Grandma Jo and all five of his children surrounding him, telling him how much they loved him. I’m sure those moments were as much a gift to them as our time in the hospital was a gift to my grandpa and me, the odd couple.

I didn’t become a Christian until years after my grandfather’s death. Although my grandma and grandpa were church-going folks, there was never a spiritual element in our relationship. However, now in those difficult times when I just need to affix a human element to my faith, I imagine Jesus as my Grandpa Ham. I imagine Him as that rare person that makes you love who you are when you’re with Him. I imagine Jesus as One who overflows my heart with love just by His presence, the One with whom I can fill up a room with unspoken words. I imagine my relationship with Jesus as one more about just being than saying or doing.

So many of us are bogged down with what we believe is religion, ridiculous rule-following and God-punishing religion. My friends, it is so much more about relationship than religion! Our relationship with a loving Christ is what defines our character and the way we live our lives, not the other way around.

Last weekend, I thanked God for a precious memory and a very real reminder of who He is. If you are a seasoned Christian or a non-believer, here is my prayer for you, too, today:

“I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” Ephesians 3:16-19

Blue Eyes in 230-C

2008-02-16T13:35:00.007-05:00

“Mama?” he said sheepishly while exiting the car.

“What, honey? You’ve gotta go! I don’t want you to be late for class!”

“Mama, I forgot my lunchbox,” my son admitted.

Irritated, I sighed. “I put it by the door. Didn’t you see it? You know, this means Mommy has to go back home. Now, I’m going to be late for work!” I pointed out, anxiety rising as cars piled up behind us in the school’s morning drop-off lane.

I shouldn’t have said it, but impulse and the morning rush had won out over patience.

“I know, I know, Mommy. I’m sorry,” he said genuinely, a look of dismay covering his face.

At that point, I checked myself. “It’s okay, buddy, really. I’ll run home and get it for you. I’ll be right back. It’ll only take me a few minutes, okay?”

“Love you!” I yelled after him as he scrambled up the sidewalk to the door. He didn’t turn back to acknowledge my call.

“Good job, Jen,” I muttered to myself, disgusted at my lack of restraint, yet still annoyed at the inconvenience of having to retrace the trip home.

Slightly defying traffic laws, I barrelled down the back roads to retrieve the all-important lunch box, volunteers set to arrive for my direction in less than a half hour back at the office. “This is not the morning to have to go back home!” I muttered to myself, looking right and then left at a four-way stop sign. “Go!” I commanded the car directly facing me across the road, irritated that the driver had forgotten the right-of-way rules of four-ways. “You got there first, honey,” I condescendingly smirked. Upon further inspection, however, I noticed something out-of-sorts.

The car in front of me wasn’t going…couldn’t go…the driver was slumped over the steering wheel. My stressed-out frantic pace instantly reversed to slow motion. The scene was surreal. Here we were, the only two cars on the road in either direction, no-one else to stop and help a driver in distress. It was up to me. Just before I reached for my door handle, she moved. Her head reared up from the steering wheel, abruptly interrupting the stillness. She was crying. Violently, her shoulders shook, her mouth wide open. Startled, I teetered between running to help her or leaving her to the privacy of her own car.

She made the decision for me and pressed the gas to finally take her turn at the four-way. That should’ave been it. I should’ave gone on my way, perhaps throwing up a quick prayer that the young lady would have a better afternoon, but I couldn’t let it go. I followed her, thinking, My husband will kill me when he finds out I’ve followed a stranger! Just three turns later, the blue van turned into a cul-de-sac of modest homes, stopping in front of number 230-C. Pulling up behind her, I noticed she didn’t get out.

Rounding the van, I peered into the window to see most stunning blue eyes I had ever seen. Wet with tears, the eyes of a beautiful African-American woman in her twenties looked at me suspiciously. I tapped, and she rolled down the van window.

“I am so sorry to disturb you,” I apologized, “but I couldn’t help but notice you crying back there at the stop sign. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she weakly offered, still unsure of my intentions.

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I asked.

She shook her head, implying, “No.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I saw you crying and my heart just went out to you. I just had the urge to follow you and tell you that I know what it’s like to be desperate. It may not look like it,” I added, realizing that I stood wearing my ‘Sunday best,’ mostly because it was the end of the week and nothing else was clean, “but just a few years ago, I found myself crying in my car, and any other time I happened to be alone. I didn’t know what else to do. Today, you just made me think about how alone I felt then. I just couldn’t let you get away without telling you that whatever your situation is, someone understands.”

She stared at me, more tears streaming down her face and into her long, brown braids.

“Can I at least say a prayer for you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she managed.

Resting my hand on her shoulder, I began, “Dear Lord, I lift up a beautiful lady to you this morning. Father, she is desperate, and her heart is heavy. Please, Lord, give her peace in all of this. Show her where to go or what You would have her do. Give her some answers, Lord, but mostly just put Your arms around her, and let her know You’re there, that You care, and that You love her just as much as You love all of us. Peace be with her, Father, peace be with her,” I ended.

I squeezed her arm, asked her one last time if she needed help, and walked away. Turning into my own neighborhood, I realized that I had just experienced an amazing God moment. I thanked the Lord that He interrupted my frantic morning and allowed me, ME, to comfort someone. Someone else deserved my thanks, too, I realized as I retrieved the small lunchbox by the door.

“You can just give me his lunch, Jennifer, and I’ll take it to your son’s room,” the office assistant offered.

“No, I really need to talk to him. I’ll take it myself,” I insisted.

Waving through the small window in the classroom door, I summoned my son to the front of the room and into the hallway.

“Thanks for getting my lunch, Mom!” he said. His smile had returned.

“No, honey, I need to thank you for something,” I said, kneeling down to his level.

With that, he just looked at me, puzzled, and quite frankly, afraid I was going to lay a kiss on him or give him a hug in front of his third grade friends.

I pulled him away from the door so we could talk. “Thank you for forgetting your lunch today!” I said, watching him remain speechless. “No, really! Because you forgot your lunch today, I got to help a beautiful lady out and tell her how much God loves her.”

My son, quite a lover of people himself, began to smile as I recounted the whole story. By the end, he was quite proud of himself for being absent-minded and even let me hug him before returning to class.

Turning back down the hallway to begin my trek to work, I was stopped by a familiar little voice.

“Love You!” he hoarsely whispered in my direction. I turned to see that he had sneaked back into the hallway.

“Love you, too, buddy! I love you, too!”

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in times of trouble.”

Psalm 46:1

Miss Iola's Cherry Pies

2008-02-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

It's been an interesting week, so I thought I'd post a story that a friend of mine, a missions pastor, once told me. I loved it so much that I just had to commit it to paper. (Marcos y Mey: Dios te bendiga, mi hermano y mi hermana!)

Miss Iola always sat in the second seat of the first pew at country Methodist church in the hills of Henderson, North Carolina. “Amen,” she’d affirm often as I, a young student Pastor from Duke Divinity School at the time, preached some of my first sermons.

“Amen!” she’d shout, spitting tobacco juice into a tin can that always accompanied her to worship, seemingly underlining her statement. Raising a mentally challenged grandson Tommy, Miss Iola claimed to be one of the original members of the backwoods church folks say had been established by Francis Asbury back when he first rode on horseback through Virginia and North Carolina. Miss Iola was an interesting combination. She looked all of her, “eighty…mmm,” years, her wrinkled face chiseled by the hard life she had lived while still maintaining a tender, Jesus-like heart. I could always count on my sermon rating as Miss Iola exited the church, usually giving me a hug and reporting an “eight” on a good day, and a “five” on a slow one.

I got to know wise Miss Iola as more than just another character in that little church. She had a knack for baking, especially for baking her own homemade cherry pies. While leading a Bible study entitled, “Servants of God to Our Neighbors,” I noticed Miss Iola’s eyes light up one evening. Every Saturday from that day on, Miss Iola would bake up one of her pies and deliver it to someone in the community she thought might be having a hard time. I enjoyed the times she’d ask me to go with her, marveling at this hardened lady’s incredible knack for using a simple act of service to sweetly minister to an elderly woman, a widowed man or a struggling family.

One afternoon, Miss Iola wanted to take her cherry pie to a young single mother with three children whom she’d heard was having a hard time. The young woman struggled financially and was sinking into exhaustion and depression. “My heart goes out to her. Lord, she’s havin’ a tough row to hoe, and ain’t nobody there to help her with it, neither,” she explained on the way. I waited on the sidewalk while Miss Iola approached the torn screen door of a dilapidated rental house. Noises from three little ones playing and crying came from inside, and we could hear the young mother cursing. Miss Iola knocked softly. The door swung open, and a disheveled figure grunted an irritated, “YEAHHHH?”

“Oh, Honey, I know you’re havin’ a tough time. God bless ya! I ain’t got much, but here’s a pie I baked for ya…Maybe it’ll help a little bit anyway,” Miss Iola said, patting Melissa on the hand and turning to walk away.

“Who…who are you, anyway?” the young woman burst out, “And why would you bring me a pie?”

Miss Iola stopped on the sidewalk, “Well, ‘cause I know what it’s like to try to raise young-uns on your own. And, well, ‘cause God loves ya…and I just wanted to let ya know that He’s rootin’ for ya.”

“Is that it? That’s why you’re bringin’ me your pie? You don’t want nothin’ from me?” she asked, her arms crossed.

“God loves you more than you know, Honey.” Miss Iola left it at that, and we headed for the car. The young woman’s face soon melted into a smile.

“Wait a minute!” she yelled. “I…I…got some coffee…if ya wanna…” We sat in her modest kitchen drinking coffee while Melissa tried to manage her three rambunctious children. “Really, why did ya’ll come here?” she asked, after awhile.

“The truth?” Miss Iola laughed. “God filled my heart with so much love that it just kinda…spilled over onto you.”

After a minute of studying Miss Iola’s lined face, Melissa asked, “Do you go to church around here somewhere? Is that why you came here?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” claimed Miss Iola proudly. “It’s the one right there down the street a ways.”

“Oh, I get it. That’s why ya’ll came…to get me to go to church,” she said defensively.

“Nawww…Honey. That’s your decision. Come or don’t come. I just wanted ya to know that you’re not alone. That’s all. Besides…this cherry pie had your name all over it.” Before we left, I could tell Melissa was being won over by Miss Iola’s blunt honesty, just as I had been.

My approach would have been different from Miss Iola’s. I would have tried to tell this single mother the reasons why she needed to come to church- for the support, the teaching, and the fellowship. But, Miss Iola did things in her own way. She offered to come back to Melissa’s house and stay with the kids, just to give Melissa some time to clear her head. About two weeks after delivering her that cherry pie, Miss Iola walked into the sanctuary with Melissa and the kids. She looked a little uncomfortable when I greeted her. “I ain’t much the church goin’ kind, pastor,” she said quietly.

“I’m really glad you’re here. So, why did you come?” I decided to ask.

“Well, ’cause anybody who’d take a cherry pie to somebody like me without askin’ for nothin’…And anyone who’d offer to babysit my kids without tryin’ to armtwist me to come to church…Well, I just come to say thanks to God for Miss Iola. Is that a good enough reason?”

Miss Iola had learned she had talents that she could use for God, as we all do. Hers were her honesty, her time, and her pies. A month after first meeting Miss Iola, young Melissa stood up at the end of the worship service, gave her heart to Jesus, and became a member of that little church in the hills of North Carolina. Guess who was standing right there with her? Miss Iola, who said, “Amen,” and spit into her tin can.

Go On And Do It

2008-02-02T15:09:00.000-05:00

“It was like a game of Twister being played on a global scale,” remarks John Wood of his demanding travel schedule as an international marketing specialist for powerhouse computer software company, Microsoft. “The job was financially rewarding but full of high pressure and stress,” he comments in his book, Leaving Microsoft to Change the World, one of my new favorites.

Consider this excerpt from Leaving Microsoft’s first chapter:

“Seven years in, though, that nagging question continually popped up: Is this all there is-longer hours and bigger payoffs? I had adopted the commando lifestyle of a corporate warrior. Vacation was for people who were soft. Real players worked weekends, racked up hundreds of thousands of air miles, and built mini empires within the expanding global colossus called Microsoft. Complainers simply did not care about the company’s future. I was, however, increasingly aware of the price I was paying. Relationships-starved of my time and attention- fell flat as a result…The company could rely on me, but friends and family could not.”

I first encountered John Wood on an episode of Oprah. (Yes, I love to watch Oprah…when I can stomach the show’s content.) There to talk about his radical lifestyle change from marketing Microsoft to promoting worldwide literacy, I was impressed with his humility. Here was a man who had everything…according to the world’s standards: a positive upbringing, an ivy-league education, a high-powered career with the ultimate in financial reward and infinite opportunities to travel the world. Yet, his lack of the word, “I” in the interview provoked a huge grin on my face. He credited nothing to himself…

-Not his education
-Not his rise in Microsoft
-Not his “get away from it all” trip to Nepal where he first met Pasupathi, a Nepalese man in charge of locating resources for rural schools in his region.
-Not his encounters with the children there, eager to learn, yet stuck in a place grossly absent of even the most basic school supplies
-Not his conviction to fulfill a promise to Pasupathi who asked, “Perhaps, sir, someday you come back with books.”
-Not his decision to leave Microsoft
-Not the use of his entrepreneurial skills to found Room to Read, a non-profit organization whose vision is to, “provide the lifelong gift of education to millions of children in the developing world.”
-Not the rapid growth of Room to Read, which has now provided over 4100 schools and libraries for those in need in Nepal, Vietnam, Cambodia and India
-Not Room to Read's astounding success, a non-profit, “with the scalability of Starbucks and the compassion of Mother Theresa”
-Not even his book, Leaving Microsoft to Change the World, an Entrepreneur’s Odyssey to Educate the World’s Children

No, the book jacket inscription reads, “This is dedicated to my parents for teaching me to love education, to take risks, to believe in myself and to serve others.”

Basically, John Wood’s entire experience can be summed up in his revelation, “I was put on this earth to do more than make myself better off,” and in his courage to act upon that premise.

When Oprah Winfrey asked Mr. Wood how he might encourage others, the absence of a canned formula for success made my smile widen even further.

“Whatever God gives you to do…go on and do it,” Wood responded emphatically.

Wood insists it’s that simple. Yet, I believe it is that profound.

“Whatever God gives you to do…” assures that there are many different tasks to be completed on this earth and that we are all gifted differently by God. Not all are called to be life-giving world entrepreneurs. Thank goodness. I’d be horrible at that! It seems that John Wood was made for such a task, however.

What task do you feel “made” for? What is it that you feel a passion to do? When do you feel most fulfilled? John Wood isn’t referring to something you feel “obligated” to do. Nor should we compare our gifts to others’ talents. Finally, Wood doesn’t suggest that your life’s passion comes responsibility-free. What Wood has discovered, instead, is that when one’s gifting meets purpose and service, magic happens. Motivation appears. Energy abounds. Excitement builds. Balance is achieved. Others are influenced. God is honored.

What are you waiting for? If you haven't already, take Wood’s advice and, “Go on and do it.”

“We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.” Romans 12:6-8

Beyond Running With Scissors

2008-01-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, Running With Scissors is gripping, a heart-wrenching page-turner. In Scissors, Burroughs’ keenly-observant writing style reveals his life with a demented mother who pawns him off on her psychiatrist’s family, the Finches. Teetering between Mommie Dearest and the Finch madhouse, young Augusten learns what it is like to be tossed from the frying pan directly into the fire. Although the bulk of the book presents a ghastly life well beyond the majority of most human comprehension, there are moments of brilliant universality. Immediately upon finishing the book, however, I promptly threw it in the trash.

Running With Scissors left me disgusted, disturbed and angry. Did my disgust stem from the accounts of a family friend turned predator or from the slovenly way the Finches ran their household? Was I disturbed that a psychiatrist, a doctor, drew so many victims into his own emotional madness without ever being questioned? Or, was I angry that all of Dr. Finch’s twisted actions were explained away as, “Biblical?” No. The horrors committed in the book did not anger me as much as they greatly saddened me. We cannot forget that Augusten Burroughs’ story, reminiscent of A Child Called It, is absolutely true, and as a mother, the very thought of young Augusten’s life makes me shudder.

Instead, my distaste stems from the sheer popularity of the book. Make no mistake, I believe that the recording of reality is essential in preventing repetition of abusive cycles. Awareness is key in shaking complacent bystanders out of their sleepy stupor and into much-needed action. But if these were the true purposes of this book, they have been quickly forgotten. Instead, the book (now a motion picture) is quite frankly, a freak show. I wanted to shake people who might be reading or watching Running With Scissors and say, “Hey! Don’t you get it? This is not an author’s twisted concoction! This really happened, and it continues to happen…probably right there in your own neighborhood.” Instead of getting a voyeuristic thrill, much like a rubber-necker slows to catch a glimpse of twisted wreckage on the highway, the reader should alternately be sickened and spurned to action.

Reading Burroughs’ book has obviously motivated me. While I can marvel at his geniously-perceptive writing style, I only learned one thing from his memoir: reality-based writing without the inclusion of hope is absolutely fruitless, even irresponsible. This isn’t an attack on Burroughs himself. My heart utterly breaks for him. The events that he witnessed and the horrors exacted upon him will probably never leave him. Just reading about his experiences will most likely never leave me! What will more importantly never escape me, however, is the hope that life itself, the good as well as the bad, provides.

My friends, we all find ourselves running with scissors at times, but what happens when we actually fall?

There isn’t a single one of us who hasn’t once experienced hurt or pain. The effects of those traumas, however major or minor, don’t just disappear. Neither should they be swept under the rug, thrust into a dark corner or reduced to whispers. The ultimate question isn't whether these things happen, or even why they happen, although initially these inquiries are absolutely legitimate. The final question is, "What will you or I actually do with them?"

The Apostle Paul reminds us in his letter to the Corinthians that while life is full of such injustices and seasons of despair, we are not built to be consumed by them. “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair, persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed!” -2 Corinthians 4:8-10

The human spirit is truly indomitable. Why? I believe it is because we are created in God’s image. Courage, strength, and hope aren’t taught from the outside in; rather, they are coaxed from the inside out.

So, if you are in need of some encouragement, some reminder that there’s more, that life is not solely about suffering, allow me…or rather, allow Him:

For those who find themselves fearful today, let 2 Timothy 1:7 nudge you, “For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.”

For friends who are worn out by life’s demands, take God’s advice in Matthew 11:28-30, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

For ones who are discouraged by an unexpected path, take refuge in God’s promise in Jeremiah 29:11, “'For I know the plans I have for you,'" declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'”

For those who ask God, “Where are You?” Or, “What's the point of pain?” hear the answer in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.”

Finally, for those who are stuck, for those who are frantically treading water just to stay afloat, for those who just can't reach beyond the anguish, let me assure you of something. God is not a distant, hands-off entity, and He never, ever wastes a hurt. It is up to each one of us individually, however, to ask Him those tough questions... “How?”, “Why?” and then, “What Now?” Believe me, He will answer! Consider Paul's response to the Romans, "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? ...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us."
-Romans 35, 37.

As you enter into another week of reality, of peace for some, of anxiousness and drudgery for others, I pray that you will be more than a conqueror, that you not only endure but that your true path will be made clear, that you not just find contentment but that you are consumed by it. Dear brothers and sisters, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
-Romans 15:13

For Cora

2008-01-20T11:05:00.000-05:00

“Do you know what a Webkin is?” she asked in Rite Aid, aisle three.

“Do you mean Webkinz?” I replied, noting the hottest stuffed animal craze since Beanie Babies.

“Oh! Yes, that’s what my niece wants for her birthday. She’s about the same age as your daughter there. Do they sell them here?”

It was the beginning of a conversation that could have happened to anyone, anywhere. Then Cora looked up. She looked out. She looked beyond. She let something go. And so did I. The exact moment wasn’t obvious to either of us. Perhaps it was the way she spoke to my children, or when she revealed she was a teacher. Maybe she saw my dangling cross, but fifteen minutes later, we were still chatting, people maneuvering around, curious eyes glancing at us in Rite Aid, aisle three. Finally, my son’s tugging and my daughter’s, “I’m hungry,” signaled a time for closure.

I couldn’t shake Cora from my mind, however, while standing in the endless prescription line.

“I have over twenty years in as a teacher,” she had confessed.
"…just here to pick up a few ornaments for a Christmas tree for my eighth-graders. That’s what they said they wanted, so a few of us decided to chip in.”

I cringed at the thought of a rickety room full of eighth-graders. I taught high school for twelve years myself, but eighth-graders? They’re tactless aliens. And she was going to get the ingrates a tree?

“I love my kids,” she explained. “There’s just something about them. I don’t have any of my own. You know, we just got this new student. She’s a, a whaddayacallit, a Gothic?”

“A Goth? In eighth grade, huh?” I smirked. Yeah, I bet that one will have a field day with a Christmas tree, I thought. This woman should be awarded sainthood.

“She’s wreaking havoc in our school, saying awful things, being moody and mean. Somehow she talks to me, though.” I could believe it. Talking to Cora was as easy and comfortable as chatting with my big sister. I hoped the Goth knew what she had in Miss Cora.

“Hey, have you ever heard of something called As-bergers? They say she has that,” said a concerned Cora.

The words stole my breath.

“Did you say, Aspergers?” I managed.

Perceptive Cora read my stunned expression, “Um…yeah. It’s a mild form of autism, right?” she probed. “Smart kids, but very quirky.”

Still speechless, all I could do was covertly point to my son, who was yanking on my shoulder for the fortieth time, ignoring all social rules about interrupting one’s mother.

“Can I go to the toys? Can I go to the toys? Can I go to the toys?” he kept repeating. More yanking. The toy aisle in plain sight, I finally granted his escape.

“He has Aspergers?” she whispered.

“We think so. Diagnosis is a long process, but right now it sure explains a lot,” I answered. “Did you say the Goth girl just moved here? Because if she did, and she has AS, you’re a Godsend. AS kids don’t handle change well…messes up their whole world. They’re hypersensitive and need a lot of structure just to stay at even-keel,” I continued. “My son almost loses his mind at the beginning of every school year. At the end, too. It takes us weeks to get him settled. Drives his teachers crazy. Your Goth girl is gonna need somebody.”

It was Cora’s turn to be wordless. Finally, she sputtered, “So, that’s why the Lord had me come in here today...to meet you!” An odd thing to say, but I felt it too.

“Do you want cash back, Lady?” the cashier at the prescription counter barked, interrupting my thoughts.

“Uh, yes. Yes I do,” I smiled. Ten dollars led me back to aisle three. Thank you, Jesus, I prayed. She’s still there. “Cora, this is my contribution to your Christmas tree. Those eighth graders are lucky to have you.” Cora was the kind of person you’d give a million dollars, if you had it. Yet, she acted like my ten dollars was a million, so what’s the difference? I looked directly into her brown eyes one more time, praying that in the future, my son might be as lucky as the Goth girl to have a teacher like Miss Cora. A teacher more inclined to mercy than judgment. “God bless you, Cora."

My Rite Aid rendezvous hasn’t quickly left me, and neither have thoughts of Cora and her eighth-graders. I could easily have dismissed her by grunting a, “No,” or by quickening my step.

I’m glad I didn’t.

We are swift in cursing our hectic lives, aren't we? Sometimes, in the rush of completing one errand, one task after another, we even declare God’s absence. "Where are you, Lord?" we ask.

Look up every once in awhile, will you? He’s right there…right there in front of you.

You’ll be glad you did.

"Pay attention, Job, and listen to me; be silent, and I will speak." Job 33:31

How's Your View?

2008-01-14T14:13:00.000-05:00

I have two more heroes. Two gutsy women put it all on the line this weekend. They told their story. No, their REAL story. Four times. In front of hundreds of people. It was enough to summon internal cheers and a few external tears. Courage at its best. Selflessness above all. Two friends removed themselves from the picture, risked image, perception and reputation in exchange for outstretching their hands to others. Beauty at its finest. I couldn’t resist allowing them to reach out to you as well…

“…by taking a moral inventory of my life, I was able to see patterns of behavior. Through doing this, I discovered for the first time some of my family mottoes…These mottoes were not spoken…but more like, This is the way we do life in our house. Some of these mottoes were:

You must please other people at all costs.
Do not waste anything at all, even if it’s to your detriment.
Pretend like it’s okay when it’s not.
We are an island. We don’t need anyone outside of the family.

I believe that seeing these mottoes in black in white… that this was the first step for me toward change, toward making real change through a life process of depending on God."

“My life before was unmanageable. I was the Queen. Life was all about me, getting my way on my terms, in my timing because I knew best…I had the appearance of having it all together. If everything looked good on the outside, I felt good on the inside…I lived in self-centered fear…The walls I built for self-protection were insurmountable. I lived a double-life in repeated denial that anything was wrong…I isolated more, and I even prayed more…but hopelessness overcame me. I realized I could not change on my own strength. I surrendered my life and control. The Lord’s will (became) my daily goal and focus…I learned the tools to live life on life’s terms. This new life is amazing. I am becoming a new person. It is a slow journey, however, that takes patience. Now, I am no longer the Queen, but a beloved daughter of the King. I never have to be alone again because I belong to His Kingdom.”

Why do we do it? Why do we look beyond our own circles for heroes? Is it an insecure need for our champions to be perfect, to be all-conquering, and therefore…inhuman? Take another look at the people around you, not an obligatory glance, but a REAL examination. I had the chance to do just that this weekend as my two new heroines stood before the masses.

The view was spectacular.

"I have seen his ways, but I will heal him; I will guide him and restore comfort to him..." Isaiah 57:18

The Propeller

2008-01-09T13:05:00.000-05:00

Perfectionism kicked in. Immediately. This, upon realizing that my brother-in-law was successful at creating exactly what I asked for, a blog…for me. Who do I think I am? Why would anyone want to read what I have to say? Those questions, conveniently absent in the excitement of planning, smacked me square in the forehead at first log in. I stared at the green screen…a long time. You’d better not write anything unless it’s really good. The self-talk had begun again. You don’t have time for this. It’s a selfish waste. And don’t forget about those weirdos out there. Give absolutely no personal identifying information. Funny what we do to ourselves…how fear and paranoia can creep in and sound amazingly sensible.

A month has passed since that first log-in…and prompt log OUT. Three things have brought me back. Ferocity, Faith, and Fellowship. Ferocity…what a funny-looking word for such a powerfully-projected image. The fierce urge to write has propelled me from youth. Yes, propelled. My life has a tendency to sit and wait…and wait…and wait. Yet, at times writing has been the catalyst, the spark, the necessary thrust toward forward rotation…and I am thankful.

Faith has been a crucial accelerant as well. Did I say the “F” word? In print? Mass clicking on the right corner red X is audible. (Curses! Did I just reveal that I’m a PC user and not a Mac girl, too? More exit clicking.) Faith’s biblical definition declares, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see” Hebrews 11:1. At this point, I can genuinely say that I am absolutely sure of what I hope for and undeniably certain of what I do not see. Nothing but peace and freedom have followed those revelations. From my humble perspective, there are three entrances to the world of faith: God by family/cultural influence, God by theological study, and God by gratitude. While a combination of the three is ideal, it is not often reality. I have most definitely gained entry as the latter. God’s presence and workings in my life are irrefutable…and I am grateful.

Finally, while fellowship is the unexpected promise and necessary fuel for any blog…it is also the hope for this one. From my friends who hold me accountable with, “What have you written lately, Jen?” to my brother-in-law’s, “It’s great therapy,” a wishful purpose for Jen Thinks In Ink is to connect, to work it out, to share…with others like you. Kudos to Sissy and Matt for emotionally and technologically advancing me to this place (I still want my supergirl blog header!). Smooches to my family who overlook the constant clicking of the keyboard to see my accompanying smile. Blessings to my courageous faith friends who know the deal…God is Real!

Hebrews 10:25 says, “Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another…”

Won’t you meet me here again?

Jen