The Waffle and the Transfiguration

“This is awesome! This is amazing! I need to slow down because I just don’t want this to end!” These are not words I overheard while on some exotic vacation—no, I overheard this while eating breakfast at church a few weeks ago. Apparently the waffle with the creamy, buttery pecan sauce was beyond delicious. At the time, I laughed because my friend Linda does not normally express herself about anything with that much drama! In fact, I started teasing her that perhaps she should go home and journal about her feelings and let some of that emotion out.

So last Sunday my pastor preached a sermon about Jesus taking Peter, James and John up on the mountain where they all had a phenomenal religious experience, complete with a visit from Moses and Elijah. Pastor Chip compared Peter’s desire to stay, with our own desires to spiritually stay in those places where we felt heightened emotion and closeness to God. He even used the phrase, “it’s so good, and you never want it to end.”

All I could think about was Linda and the waffle. I wished that we could have started the sermon with Linda giving the “waffle testimony.” It would have started something like this: “So one time . . . I was eating this waffle . . . and it was so delicious . . .” She has assured me that I could never have persuaded her to do it, but every time I see her I still think about it and we laugh about the story that could have been told.

I continue to think about and be challenged by those mountaintop experiences and how they’re really not a bad thing—in fact they can be life-changing. There are those moments that come out of nowhere, catch you off-guard, bring out emotions that you didn’t even know existed, and then they’re gone with little chance of bringing them back. But are they really over?

I remember one of those moments that happened when I was in high school. Since I went to a Christian high school, you might expect that I was surrounded by people who spoke openly about deep and important things and whose priority it was to learn everything we could about God. That really wasn’t the case—we were pretty typical high school kids. But, we did have to go to chapel twice a week (where we didn’t always behave well).

On one particular day we had an “exchange chapel” from another Christian school and heard some students tell us their own stories of faith. I don’t even remember those students—their stories don’t stand out in my mind, but when the opportunity was given for us to share, I do remember the first person from my school that went to the microphone and it changed everything. Something happened in the gym that day that no one could explain. Other students came forward, stories were told, guitars appeared and spontaneous, praying, crying and singing erupted. Suddenly we were able to share from our hearts our struggles and our joys. It was emotional.

Our teachers and principal were smart that day. They cancelled class and let us stay on the mountain for a while. It was a day that most of us have not forgotten. When we came down that afternoon and went home, reality hit as it always does. Some parents questioned the sincerity of such an emotionally charged event. Other wonderful adults helped us set up an evening event where we sang and studied the Bible. The group was large at first and then slowly shrunk down to a faithful few.

It wasn’t long before that mountaintop became a distant memory. We could never recapture it even if we wanted to. But as I look back, it was the well-timed event that sent me off in the right direction. I joined my church, signed up for a mission trip, and continued to spend time with friends that I knew would encourage me to follow Jesus. It’s the defining moment of my faith—when I publically claimed what I had privately believed. And my guess is that I’m not the only one. Forty-some years later, I’m pretty sure that the “exchange chapel revival” is also the defining moment for many of my classmates.

We can’t stay on the mountain, but we can’t downplay the importance of those times. Jesus knew what his disciples were facing in the near future. He knew they needed that moment. He knew what my high school classmates and I would be facing in the future and that we would need our moment too. And as for my friend Linda . . . I think He just wanted her to enjoy that really good waffle.

Jesus, Bev and Ralph Lauren

It was one of those “surprise” snowstorm kind of days—you know, the kind where the snow comes down in huge flakes and builds up like heavy cement on the ground? We had cancelled all activities at the church and I was alone in my office when I heard their voices. I immediately wished that I had already left for the day, or at best had locked up so that I didn’t have to deal with folks who still thought we had our normal Wednesday night activities. I curiously I went into the hallway to see who had braved the winter evening and there stood a couple that I had met while working at our church’s breakfast club last Friday morning. We had given them a coupon for a free dinner during our all-church Wednesday evening activities.
They were smiling, happy and delighted to be inside the warm building, even though the sign on the door and the empty parking lot told them there would be no meal served. Apparently the county transit bus has rules that people may not have a round trip ride without getting off the bus once, so the driver had insisted that they needed to get off and they would be picked up “later.” (Question to self: Do I wish to let the county know that this makes no sense?) I’m sure they have their rules for a reason, but I was immediately relieved that I had left the building unlocked.
We had to call the county back and let them know that a “pick-up” was necessary and they told us they’d be back in thirty to forty minutes—say what? Oh well, I realized that I was going to stay a little while longer. The couple was unperturbed.
Let me just say now, that one of our wonderful kitchen women had already started on the Wednesday night meal and, when we decided to cancel, she graciously finished her task and divided it amongst staff people who were delighted to take shepherd’s pie and salad home. I had my own stash in the refrigerator.
As I visited with the gentleman, I learned facts that turned them from strangers into Jesus himself. While the woman tried on all of the clothes that were hanging in the lost and found to see if anything fit, the gentleman told me about their living situation in a camper where they had no running water. An electric heater and frying pan were their luxuries. I know exactly where they live and it broke my heart. He also told me that he normally earns enough money in the fall to make it through the winter, but he had been hospitalized with spinal meningitis and had been unable to work at all. He was grateful to have a place to live and that his landlord allowed them to keep their dog.
Okay, so here’s the part where I gave them my meal. Can you believe I was still a little sad to give it up? Come on, Bev’s shepherd’s pie is pretty sweet and I could already taste the spinach salad! Ironically my pastor and I had just been talking about the Fruits of the Spirit and I mentioned that self-control was probably the most difficult for me—I even mentioned food. Dang—I hate when that happens!
So my meal was gone and I was starting to be okay with it. The woman, who had been wandering around the church made her way into the choir room and began to play the piano—no song or anything, just messing around with scales. Suddenly it dawned on me that I had left a pair of jeans in there for one of the choir members to fix for me. I envisioned her coming out with them in her hand, or even wearing them and telling me how badly she needed them. Come on God, not my best jeans! They're Ralph Lauren's from Macy’s and they weren’t even on sale! Thankfully, she didn’t ask, but I’ll never put them on without thinking about her.
After more conversation, a little bit of snow-shoveling from the woman who couldn’t sit still, and a total heart re-adjustment for me, the bus arrived. I went home a different person. I ate cheese and crackers and left-over pork loin for dinner. It was delicious and I was grateful!

What Do I Have to Do to Get a Cake Around Here?

In our church we have a habit of celebrating special events with cakes—delicious icing-laden sheet cakes. Today we had one for a couples’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. A few weeks ago we had one in honor of a church member who had been selected as Charlevoix’s “Citizen of the Year.” Several months ago, we had one in honor of a member who had been playing the organ and piano in church for fifty years. This morning as I was getting ready for church I was thinking about my own musical duties for today—play keyboard for two worship services, play some hymns at a nursing home in the afternoon, and then lead some music for a small group gathering in the evening.

I remember how it all began back in the fourth grade in a Christian School where the singing of hymns was part of our morning routine. For the first time, I had a teacher who did not play the piano so we either had to sing acapella or count on some students from the sixth grade to play for us. One weekend I decided to be the fourth grade accompanist and proceeded to learn the hymns one by one. I started out with “In Sweet Communion” which was a song my mother suggested because it was only a few lines long in a simple key signature.
In sweet communion, Lord with Thee I constantly abide.
My hand thou holdest in thine own to keep me near thy side.

Pretty soon I had a list of songs on the chalkboard that the other little fourth graders could choose from and I was on my way to a lifetime of playing. My parents did not have a lot of money, but they did send me regularly to lessons. I went to Mrs. Albers’ house every Saturday morning with the $1.25 that she charged for lessons clutched in my hand. Her dog Cleo, a little black bull dog would try to greet me at the door but, since I was afraid of him, he would be sent instantly to his little bed.

Mrs. Albers taught me well, even though I didn’t practice enough and successfully avoided the theory part. I never realized how important music would be to me as I got older; I remember sitting at the piano singing and playing my way through happy times as well as broken-hearted times. My rebellious sister bought the music to “Jesus Christ Super Star” and I loved playing it. I remember singing the lyrics to “Hosanna:” “Why waste your breath, moaning at the crowd? Nothing can be done to stop the shouting. If every tongue was stilled the noise would still continue—the rocks and stones themselves would start to sing!” My mom would hear me and wonder where I had gotten that great music. She would not have approved and I never told her it was a rock opera.

One Sunday evening, after I had married and moved up north, our pastor asked if anyone could play the piano. After looking around and seeing no volunteers I raised my hand. That decision eventually led to regular piano playing, choir accompaniment, Christmas Cantata, praise team and much more. I’m really an average musician, but I’m willing to try a lot of things and have kind of figured out how to fake my way through things. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that being able to play anything in a hymnal is kind of a dying art and I’ve always just kind of taken it for granted. (By the time I was in the sixth grade, there were at least five of us who could accompany singing.)

I’ve had to stretch and grow because there’s lots more music to be played now. I’m so proud of myself for acquiring the recent ability to read off a chord chart—no notes on lines—just letters!! Sometimes I have to use my listening skills and figure out something from a C.D. And that theory stuff that I was never interested in, has become a fascinating and gratifying puzzle that I finally figured out after teaching other students for about twelve years.

There have been some Sundays, especially during the Christmas season, when I feel like I’m at the piano all day. Those are the days that I imagine my parents sitting on a love-seat in heaven with a cup of coffee, listening and high-fiving each other and acknowledging that the hard-earned $1.25 a week they paid for lessons was well worth it. I think they know how much I appreciate them and how I’m making up now for all of those times they had to nag me to practice. And my piano teacher, last I heard she was still teaching. I had a chance to thank her a few years ago. And, when I think about it, I accompanied my first hymn in the fourth grade at about eight years old. Let’s see . . . fifty-eight minus eight is . . . hey! I’ve been at it for fifty years too! I believe my cake is coming any day now!

Why I'm Not Giving Up Chocolate For Lent

Here it is on Ash Wednesday and I’m eating a chocolate brownie with a glass of wine. A lot of people probably gave these things up for Lent, but I’m not one of them. Oh sure, we had a wonderful church service this evening with a message that challenged us to give up those things that keep us from following after God. I even wrote some things down and placed them at the cross. I did not promise God that I would give up some “thing,” but I did promise to make some changes in my life regarding how I spend my time.

One of those changes involves being more intentional about prayer. I’m kind of an obsessive-compulsive Bible reader with a competitive spirit, so I’m pretty good at that. I’ll read large chunks of scripture at a time just to claim the title of “first-person-to-get-through-the-Bible-this-year” in my home. (I’m only competing against one other person and I’m not sure he cares whether I win or not.) But prayer involves more commitment from me. I keep putting it off . . . or falling asleep . . . or thinking that my prayer list is too long I’ll never get to it all. There are tons of excuses but I’m going to do better at that.

I’m also going to try to journal every day during Lent. That’s hard work for me but it just might keep me away from that arcade of video games on my IPad calling to me. I learn stuff about myself when I write, and perhaps someday one of my curious grandchildren or great-grandchildren may read this and learn stuff about me too.
I’m going to work on a few relationships as well. There are a couple of people in my life for whom my heart aches and I’m not sure what that’s about. I think they’re struggling and could use a listener and an advocate. During this season I’m going to be intentional about that and I know that God will prepare the way for those conversations.

So . . . this Ash Wednesday, 2012, I’ve added things to my life rather than giving things up. In the past I’ve found that I was giving up things that I knew I should, but my motives were wrong. I think if I give something up, it shouldn’t be something that I know would be good to give up anyway. Like food. I was talking with someone tonight who actually weighed herself before she came to church because she was going to give up all food after 8:00 p.m. and she was giving up desserts also. She was annoyed with herself because she weighed the same as she did on Ash Wednesday last year, in spite of the fact that she had lost 12 pounds . . . during Lent.

If I give up something that I know I should give up anyway, that’s kind of like using God for dual purposes. If I need to lose the weight, why make it look like I’m giving up food for a spiritual purpose? It’s kind of like waiting to pray until I’m on my way to work and have nothing better to do. Isn’t God worth my setting aside special time? And isn’t God worth my giving up something that is truly a sacrifice, not something I should be giving up anyway?

So . . . that’s why I’m taking another approach. I’m adding things to my life that I know are part of His plan for me. If I do them well, those things I should have given up, whatever they are, might just fall away.

The Tattoo Tells the Story

The “Royal Flesh” Tattoo and Piercing Center surprisingly was open very late on a Saturday evening. We were giggling as we climbed out of the taxi and saw the sign on the door telling us that a young man named “Powder” was the artist on duty that evening. We had made an impulsive phone call and knew he was expecting us. My friend Connie was whimpering a little bit, but the rest of us were calm and managed to keep her settled down as well. After the procedure was finished, we climbed back into a taxi, minus a little cash and sporting fresh bandages to cover our wounds.

My friends and I were having a lot of fun that weekend making many memories. If life is a story, this was a chapter to remember. Conversations about tattoos had been going on for several summers and all that was needed was the right occasion, someone to throw down the challenge, and the right person who knew where to take us. All that came together on that evening in Chicago. There were no time-consuming decisions to be made; we all knew exactly what we wanted. Coincidentally, Connie and I were wearing necklaces depicting the symbols we each cherished and our friend Deb quickly found a picture of hers.

They say that once you start “inking” your body, you’re likely to become hooked. They also say that if you get tattoos when you’re young, you’ll probably regret it when you’re old. My daughter, who speaks humor into the truth, told me I’m smart because I waited until I actually was old to get the first one (a magnolia in memory of a very dear friend on my ankle). This time however I became a little bolder with a message that goes much deeper than “I miss my friend Lori.”

If you do a Google search for the symbols, “alpha and omega,” you’ll find lots of Greek and sorority items. There’s also a home-schooling website, a brand of car seat, and a recent movie about two wolves. The symbols have been used often, but never with such deep meaning as in the book of Revelation. When the Bible talks about Jesus being the beginning and the end, His timeline stretches much farther in both of those directions than anything else with that title; so when I put an “alpha” on the inside of one wrist, and an “omega” on the inside of the other, it meant a lot more than Jesus being there from the beginning to the end of life as I know it.

I’ve had some feedback about my decision—actually mostly positive. We’ll see what summer brings when my wrists are laid bare for all to see. When people ask me, I’ll feel compelled to tell them about Jesus, but I’ll probably ask them if they want the short explanation or the long one.

My life is a story. These symbols remind me that I know how it begins and I’m confident how it will end. What happens in between is the awesome part. I just finished Donald Miller’s book “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,” and it was one of those life-changing, or should I say “story-changing” experiences. He talks about having the amazing chance to re-write and change ones story—it’s never too late. The chapters of my own story all happen between the “alpha” and “omega.” It’s pretty much up to me to make them meaningful.

Sometimes that quest for a meaningful story involves getting messy, sometimes it involves difficult and intense conversations, sometimes it involves excruciatingly hard work, but other times it involves the pure joy and silliness of making memories in a tattoo parlor.

Chicken Soup for the God Mother's Soul

I’m not really sure about what the title “god mother” means, but it’s a title that was given to me twenty some years ago. Along with that title came a “god son,” and every now and then I’ve played the “god mother” card, all in good humor of course, just to get him to do what I knew he should or should not be doing. For instance, about ten years ago I was sitting having lunch in our local pub and observed some young boys across the street pelting cars with small berries that they had plucked from the nearby trees. One of my friends said, “Isn’t that Kyle over there?” Suddenly my “god-motherly” instincts took over and I marched across the street to have a stern conversation. He was pretty surprised and decided to move his mischief down a block, away from my watchful eye and my amused friends.

That type of behavior has followed Kyle to the present time. It is endearing to some, amusing to others, and definitely annoying to law enforcement. For instance, this past April, while returning to Charlevoix for his sister’s wedding, he and his best friend decided that a jump from the bridge into the frigid waters of the Lake Michigan Channel at 1:00 in the morning was an appropriate activity. Oh yes, and a day or so later, my own sons encouraged him to scale the wall of the castle during the wedding reception while wearing a tuxedo. They chronicled the event with photos of him sitting in the turret like a smug Rapunzel.

Yes Kyle has done his share of mischief and has approached life with an intensity unlike I’ve ever seen in a child/man. He is impossible to ignore—even if you want to. He’s been a pretty amazing athlete; wearing his heart on his sleeve and often using some rather unorthodox moves. I remember a football game when he kicked the ball in the opening kick off, ran down field and tackled the guy who caught it. He’s also had his share of broken bones, sprains, dislocations, and always lots of blood. I think he has splinted some of his own broken bones and has allowed others to super glue his flesh when stitches were indicated. I’ve also observed the removal of warts with a propane torch.

Kyle has a pretty good job right now—one that’s well suited to his personality. He manages a jewelry store and does a mighty fine job of it. He’s moving right on up in the company. A little while ago, he attended a jewelry convention on the east coast. I understand it was a pretty high class affair calling for formal attire and refined behavior. The store managers received several gifts at this convention, one of them a diamond pendant.

When Kyle was on his way home, he found himself seated next to a middle-aged woman whose husband was seated several rows behind him in the plane. They struck up a conversation and formed a friendship during the flight. When Kyle told her what he did for a living, the woman told him that her husband didn’t buy her jewelry because it wasn’t important to him. She made it clear that he was a wonderful person and had been a good husband for 30 years, but didn’t believe that gifts of jewelry were necessary.

When they landed Kyle was introduced to the woman’s husband and, as she left to retrieve their luggage, Kyle did something heroic; he gave the pendant to the man with these instructions, “give this to your wife because she deserves it.” He then was able to observe (from a distance) the touching moment between husband and wife that followed.

Kyle listened to his heart that day. His wife would have liked the necklace, his mother would have been happy to own it, his sister would have worn it with pride and his god mother would have treasured it. But Kyle gave it to the right woman that day.

Kyle makes sure that some of the events of his life have storybook endings. He has turned out to be a fine man and his parents should be very proud—they’ve raised him well. But the story brought tears to my eye, a softness in my heart, and just a wee smidgen of god-motherly pride.

W.W.A.D. - What Would Annie Do?

“The holidays are over, people!” she said as she snatched up the cute little metal Christmas trees off of our desks and placed them in the closet. And just like that she was gone. Annie—office organizer extraordinaire! I’m wearing an imaginary bracelet these days that says W.W.A.D.—“what would Annie do?”

It started out with an old dot matrix printer, a fax machine with a roll of thermal paper, an electric type-writer, boxes of financial records dating back to the seventies and lots of dust. These were all housed in the dreaded “back room” right next to our office at the township.

No one in the office was willing to tackle that room, so we hired Annie. Annie came with glowing recommendations, a three-ring binder full of governmental laws pertaining to township records tucked in clear plastic sleeves and a bizarre excitement to undertake the task at hand.

Several mornings a week, we’d hear Annie back there thumping and moving and sneezing from the dust. After a few months of work, many full shredding containers and lots of laughs over outdated equipment, Annie has re-emerged and the room has been transformed to a tidy, well-labeled source of history. It’s amazing what a few boxes, markers, and labels can accomplish in the hands of a determined organizer.

You’d think that we’d let her go now that her job is finished, but . . . no. Annie has uncovered more—we’ve allowed her to peek into a few closets within our office and have seen her eyes light up. Suddenly our supplies are organized and accessible. We no longer have ink cartridges for non-existent printers, envelopes are all in one spot and she’s uncovered a ten-year supply of jumbo paper clips.

And now . . . well now I’m getting kind of nervous. I think she might be working her way over to my desk and I’m not sure how I feel about that. I tend to work in chaos and, even though I believe in the old adage that “a messy desk is a sign of a creative mind,” the truth is I don’t really like working in a mess and creativity is not exactly a requirement for a township treasurer. So . . . it’s decision time—do I let Annie help me with a task that’s pretty daunting or do I try to get myself organized before she gets to my corner? Trying to stay a step ahead of her is my current plan.

But that’s not the only place I need help. Annie has inspired me to begin the de-crappification of my house. A few years ago I asked my daughter to help me organize my photos since I was “a little behind.” She loaded several boxes into her car and returned them as a Christmas gift—sixteen tidy albums full of pictures!

So now I’ve been inspired to do more. The old phrase, “how do you eat an elephant?—one bite at a time” has kind of been our motto at home. Collecting all of my spare yarn and knitting needles from various spots in the house and boxing them up—one bite of the elephant. Throwing away long-expired medications, sun tan lotions and supplies from a dog who hasn’t lived here in four years—another bite of the elephant. Faded wrapping paper, crushed bows, Easter basket grass, knotted curling ribbon, dried out ink pens, ridiculous items that make me shake my head—they’ve hit the trash bag.

Other things aren’t so easy. So much stuff—so much sentimental value—so many memories. But I can’t keep it all. The gift is in the realization that there’s a lot of people and a lot of love in my life. I just can’t keep every candle, every teddy bear and every piece of jewelry. Nor can I keep every letter and every card; and if I were to start re-reading them, I’d lose courage and hang on.

This is going to take a while and it’s quite exhausting, but I’m determined. That elephant is not staying around forever. That huge stack of music will get organized. Junk will be destroyed and the yard sale will happen. I’m taking one bite at a time. Bottom line—that’s what Annie would do and she gave me the courage to pick up the spoon.