The Truth About the Flying Crutches

I knew that the incident of the “flying crutches” would make a great story, but there’s an appropriate time for everything, and this occasion was not one of them. It was our annual congregational meeting at church and our pastor asked us to share stories of growth—growth within our church and growth within ourselves. It’s pretty easy to share about things outside of ourselves, like how many more people are involved, what activities have meant a lot, but that personal growth stuff is a little more difficult to put your finger on. It’s harder to track because every moment of personal growth seems to be followed by painful failure.

I had been to a meeting at church where we’ve been working on spiritual growth for about two years. The meetings are intense, we’re vulnerable, we share with each other and challenge each other, and we pray. The end result is supposed to be growth within our church because our level of personal growth will be contagious. So, how’s that working for me? Apparently not too well.

I arrived at home that night after the meeting with all of my post-foot surgery handicap gear. Left foot driving, crutching my way to the trunk, removing my knee walker and hauling it all in the house one-footed at the end of the day had exhausted me. The fact that my husband didn’t run out to help me annoyed me, but I was feeling “spiritual” enough to give him the benefit of the doubt . . . until I stood at the top of the family room steps and observed him fast asleep. The slamming of the trunk, the garage door going down, the passive-aggressive clunking of my equipment—none of those sounds had aroused him from his stupor. I don’t know what got into me at that moment, but the next thing I knew the crutches had left my hand with some speed and were crashing and bouncing all the way down the steps. Words cannot describe the look of panic on my husband’s face as he jumped to his feet. There was no way I could pass it off as a mistake. I looked at the clock—my spiritual growth had lasted eight minutes.

Last Sunday afternoon we presented out community Christmas cantata. Every year many churches in our area come together, beginning our rehearsals in October, and presenting an awesome program to a packed house. We had postponed this presentation because of inclement weather the previous week. Everyone was on stage ready for our pre-performance rehearsal and warm-up. Our custodian came into the sanctuary and asked me to ask a few people to move their cars because our county intermediate school district was doing some road tests for new drivers in our parking lot. Because of the weather, they too had rescheduled. The reaction from choir members was astounding—arguing, complaining and nasty looks. I apologized but it didn’t seem to help.

Fast forward to the performance; all of the lovely carols are being sung with amazing fervor. “Peace, peace, peace on earth and goodwill to all. This is a time for love, this is a time for joy . . . “ I think you get my drift. I’m really not criticizing my fellow choir members—if I hadn’t ridden with a friend that day, I would have jumped right on the complaining wagon with them saying things like, “this is our church” or “why are they doing this on Sunday?” Our collective spiritual growth was kind of at a standstill that day.

Just before the performance began, I was talking with a fellow band member. She too had been acting negatively about a few things and was hoping that her behavior would not affect her playing. I told her that I don’t believe God works that way—He works through our flaws and our crap and turns them into beautiful things. If I believe that I have to be perfect, and totally have my spiritual act together every moment, in order for beautiful music to come from my hands on the keyboard, or from my life in general, then I am putting too much importance on myself. I think that true spiritual growth recognizes that.

The cantata was beautiful. I’m sure there were a few mistakes, but I’m also sure they were not the direct result or punishment for our personal failures. I believe God hears our music as perfect, despite our ignorance and whining. He also makes beautiful music out of our sometimes-pathetic lives.

So, if I had answered the question posed by our pastor about growth within our church and within us as individuals I would say that as a church we’re taking two steps forward, followed by an occasional self-centered step backward. As for me--I’m also taking personal steps toward growth—two steps forward, one crutch-throwing incident backward.

"From Crayons to Perfume"

“So how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try . . .”

It was Tuesday, May 6, 1968 as I recall and I was in the 9th grade. School was dismissed at noon that day and all of the students were pretty happy about that. Someone picked me up—I’m not sure who—but I remember looking out of the car window, sensing the irony of the happiness around me along with my own internal pain. My mother was employed by the school as a secretary and classes were finished at noon that day so the staff could attend my father’s funeral. So it was a “bittersweet” day—sweet for most of the students, but pretty bitter for me and my family.

I think most adults would agree that middle school is pretty tough on a kid and that certainly was true for me. Elementary school had its challenges, so did high school and college, but middle school was a unique experience. The transition from “crayons to perfume” was a difficult one—a time when the course of my life was determined. Because of my father’s illness and the effect it had on my family, I looked to any influential adult for guidance, consistency and attention. The constant adults in my life were my teachers.

Looking back more than forty years now, it’s interesting to analyze how my life was affected by circumstance and by people. People win, hands down. The stuff that happened was out of my control, but the adults in my life showed up when I needed them. I can picture all of the classrooms in the Middle School building and I can tell you which teachers occupied each one of them. I can’t tell you exactly what they taught—but I can tell you their names, who they were as people and how they helped to shape my life.

One of them made me feel extraordinarily special by signing my yearbook, “to my favorite student.” (I can prove it because I still have the yearbook.) One of them decided to not allow “couples” to share seats on the bus on our eighth grade trip to Lansing. That sure took a lot of pressure off those of us who hadn’t been “invited” by one of the boys to sit with them. Another one whose enthusiasm inspired me to be interested in politics, helped me realize at a young age that it was possible to be a liberal and a Christian. One teacher introduced C.S. Lewis to me by reading “The Screwtape Letters” aloud to us. It was a little complicated and hard to understand, but he’s one of my favorite writers today.

Someone else, knowing that my family was broke, donated $5.00 so that I would have some spending money for our 9th grade trip to Chicago—I’m sure it was one of my teachers. (So . . . whoever you are . . . I bought two pairs of earrings and a book about Bobby Kenedy with the money.) My dad passed away during the night on May 3, the day of that 9th grade class trip. My mom encouraged me to still go so I did. When I stepped on to the bus, all of the students were quiet and respectful because one of my teachers had already told them the news that I was unable to share.

The list could go on because I have many more memories. It’s really not about what they taught or about what they did as much as it’s about who they were as people. My teachers were not perfect—but they cared about us and they cared about me. I needed them and I needed their authenticity and they came through for me. I have not forgotten them. I’ve reconnected with a few of them lately and they are still the same people of character and integrity that they were then—there have been no surprises.

“So . . . how do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume?” I hope I just did, but if not; thank you Mr. Klynn, Mr. Ritsema, Mrs. Woodwyk, Mr. Boonstra, Miss Bielema, Mr. Boersma, Mr. Wallinga, Mr. Huizinga and Mr. Knot! Hopefully someday I can thank you all personally.

"But only speak the word . . ."

Sometimes people have the amazing ability to ruin my day. Let me rephrase that in the correct way: sometimes I’m amazed at how I allow people to ruin my day. Isn’t it surprising how much power we give other people, both in the negative and the positive aspects of our lives?

Ron and I recently came back from a trip to Denver Colorado. It was a business/vacation type of trip, but this was our first time with this particular group of people and we knew no one besides each other. To make things a little more difficult, it appeared that they all knew each other. So, each evening we put on our nametags, went to the “hospitality” room and hung out. There were times when we were surrounded by friendly people, other times when we made an effort to approach someone, but sometimes we felt as awkward as middle school students at a dance. It’s hard to describe the insecure feelings associated with “not belonging,” but it’s not always pleasant.

There’s been another time recently when I’ve felt the same way in my own home town. Sometimes decisions that should be made fairly are based on “who you know” or an unspoken set of rules known only to some. It’s been frustrating and discouraging but also a chance to introspect about some of my own flaws and inconsistencies.

It’s pretty easy to set up a “pecking order” in my mind. It’s not always a conscious thing, but if I’m honest, I have to admit that it’s there. If I ask myself whether I’ve treated people in the same way that has recently hurt me, I need to give an honest “yes”—and probably more times than I realize.

In my job, I’m lucky enough to be able to dig into some scripture passages that have been assigned to a certain Sunday. Today I was studying the scripture for August 15 which is Luke 7:1-10, the story of Jesus healing the Roman Centurion’s slave. It hit me pretty hard. First of all, you have an important Roman military person asking a Jew for help. He certainly could have had the help of fine physicians, but he asked for Jesus. Furthermore, he wanted to save the life of his slave “whom he valued highly.” This guy apparently didn’t understand anything about “pecking order.” The Centurion heard about Jesus, wanted to meet Him and asked the Jews for their help. The Jews, on the other hand, understood the system. They “recommended” that Jesus help this man because he had been useful to them in building their synagogue. “He scratched our back, Jesus, so you can scratch his.”

Jesus decided to go and do the healing because everyone is important to Him and faith like the Centurion had seems to catch His attention every time. Before Jesus arrived at the home, the Centurion sent friends to give him this message; “Jesus, I know that you don’t need to be here to heal my slave. I know your time is valuable, I understand authority and I know that you have it. Please just 'speak the word'—I don’t need to see the ‘abracadabra.’” Suddenly we see that the Centurion did understand who Jesus was and the position of importance that He held. And the slave received the blessing of healing.

I’m not sure where I’d place myself in that story. There are times I feel like the Jewish leaders who go around doing favors for each other based on the pay-off. There are times that I feel like the slave who survives only by God’s grace and the unconditional love from others. But, I’d really like to be the Centurion—aware of others around me, but unaware of the status that society has imposed upon them. And, like the Centurion, when I had “heard about Jesus” I would immediately understand that I could trust Him with all of life’s problems, small or great and be able to say to Him, “only speak the word . . .”

And Jesus would notice my faith . . . and healing would happen . . . and no one, no one could ruin my day.

Movie Stars and Gospel Choirs

It had been one of those rather dreary March days, but there was lots of activitiy at my church. Many people had been around most of the afternoon and now on this Wednesday evening, they had packed the sanctuary. The praise band was warming up for the service—rather raucous at times, but no one complained; excitement was in the air. I looked around, surprised at who had shown up for a Wednesday evening service. There were lots of folks from my church, others that I didn’t know, even some teenagers had come without their parents.

The service began with a beautiful prayer from our former pastor’s son, and then we began. Our singing was a little timid at first, but with a little encouragement, our praise filled the sanctuary. We sang a lot—never tiring of the melody. The preacher also warmed up and got excited and we reacted. We sang, we clapped, our hands were in the air—it was awesome! I couldn’t stay for the entire time, but understand that many people stayed for at least three hours.

Okay, so there’s one little fact that I’ve left out—there was a movie crew in town and they were shooting a church scene for a movie. We were all extras in this fun little adventure. I had to leave early because the choir was practicing for Easter Sunday in one of the smaller classrooms and I was needed on the piano. I’ll be honest, at first I wanted to stay in the sanctuary where all of the action was, but when I walked into the choir room where the real life stuff was happening, I wanted to go back and grab folks from the sanctuary and put them in the choir.

This incident has been playing over and over in my mind for several weeks now. I wondered what would happen if, on the following Sunday our worship leader said something like this; “Pretend that those cameras are still rolling and let’s praise God this morning!” Please understand, that I’m not criticizing my friends at church, I’m puzzled and curious about all of our behavior, including my own. At first I would have told you that what was happening on that Wednesday evening was “pretend” worship, but after thinking about it, I’m not so sure. We were given permission to cut loose, and we did. Actually, it felt pretty good.

Generally, we’re all rather reserved in our worship and I don’t know that it’s a conscious choice or if it happens by default. There was another occasion where I’ve watched people totally abandon their inhibitions during a worship service and that was during a church exchange visit with a Baptist Church from Detroit. (Their church had been racially targeted and our church had expressed our love to them and a strong friendship formed.) When they visited us with members of their congregation, including the choir, I can’t even begin to describe some of the things that happened, nor can I explain it. I remember sitting in the choir loft singing with their choir (concentrating hard on the clapping and swaying thing) and members of my own congregation were on their feet, barely able to control their emotions.

And so I’m left wondering. I’m not judging—I would never equate spirituality with one’s physical behavior in church—I know better than that. Many of us were raised in church environments that were much more structured than those same denominations are right now. And I certainly don’t believe in behaving in ways that are expected in a certain environment. I know it starts in the heart and if my heart isn’t right, no amount of emotion can make up for that.

And so I’ll pray—for myself and for all of us, that as we approach Easter, we will be ready and open to worship God with abandon—however that looks for each of us. I’m praying that I don’t need the movie cameras or the gospel choir, but that my heart overflows. I’m getting excited, how about you?


(For those of you who are reading this as a note on facebook, this is also posted on my blog: theda-cuttingloose.blogspot.com)

Playing the part of Jesus/A non-speaking role

My friend Jeff always gets asked to play the part of Jesus in our church. If there was anyone who looked like Jesus from all of the pictures that are around, it’s Jeff. A few years ago we bought a white robe for him and it was a perfect fit—no alterations necessary. He’s lean, he can grow a beard on command, and he’s got one of the kindest faces you’ve ever seen. Yes, Jeff is always the first person that comes to mind whenever we need a “Jesus.” This past Christmas Jeff was asked to play the role of Isaiah the prophet in our cantata and although he was honored, he was a little nervous to do so. Come to find out, this was his first “speaking part.” I was amazed because, after all he’d been on stage many times; he’s carried a cross on Good Friday, danced on Easter Sunday, and sat across the table from a man with many prayer requests in the video, “Coffee with Jesus.” But Jesus had never had a speaking part!

I immediately felt bad about this, thinking we’ve made a huge mistake here having all of those dramas and never giving Jesus a speaking part. Jeff had never even spoken into a microphone! I started to pull together some life lessons with this realization—lessons like; that’s our problem, we always want Jesus around, but we don’t want to hear what He has to say. I was already planning on the next drama/video where we definitely would give Jesus something to say.

But I kept thinking . . . and pondering . . . and even listening perhaps for Him to speak. We were driving down the freeway in Grand Rapids when I saw a billboard that said, “I miss it when you don’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’” signed, Jesus. Wow—seriously, a message from Jesus right there on the freeway? It caught me off guard and I started to ask myself some question. If Jesus rented a billboard, is that really what He would write on it? I tried to imagine what He would really say: “Watch for me—I’m here;” “Love each other as I have loved you;” “My peace I leave with you . . . not as the world gives.” Yeah, if Jesus was into renting billboards, I think He’d say things like that.

But is a billboard really His style? There are those who might believe it is, but I don’t think so. When Jesus was on earth, he certainly spoke, but when people didn’t hear what He said, He acted; He healed the sick, touched the unclean, respected the outcasts, cleansed the temple, and washed feet.

And this all started with the action we just celebrated—His birth. Jesus as God willingly submitted himself to being born. I took my grandson Jack to an outdoor nativity scene a few nights ago and watched as he walked up to the doll in the manger and touched it gently; Jesus as a baby--a non-speaking role. On Christmas Eve my infant granddaughter Piper played the part of Jesus in a live nativity at her church. She didn’t make a sound; Jesus as a baby—a non-speaking role.

So I’ve kind of come full-circle. In the “Coffee with Jesus” video, Jesus wanted to speak, but He couldn’t because the gentleman he was with wouldn’t stop talking. The noisier we get, the less we’re able to hear. At one point He did reach out His hand in a gesture of reassurance, but it went unnoticed. Even when we don’t listen, or when we out-talk Jesus, He still communicates by his actions in our lives. Maybe that's the best way to get our attention. He still heals us, touches us when we’re unclean, respects us when others don’t, and cleanses those places in our lives that need it.

I think that's why this is my favorite Christmas Carol ever:

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given.
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

"A King Comes Riding By" and Shepherd's Pie

Family stories—those legends that get passed down through the generations—some true, some highly exaggerated, others probably myths, but too good to abandon so we keep telling them. I was reminded of that when I spent a delightful shopping weekend with some of my favorite women. Each year, the men go off to the woods to do the manly thing by providing venison for their families; translation—they go to hunting camp and have a blast and maybe one of them might shoot something.

Hunting camp itself is based on legend. The “Clyde’s Cup Club,” is named after their ancestor Clyde who has been gone for so many years that many of them never really knew him. But oh the stories—they can all repeat the stories. Topping the list, is a tale of a young Clyde’s escapade with a certain young lady in a horse-drawn wagon and his inability to take “no” for an answer.

Clyde’s sons are all gone as well, but their sons and grandsons occupy bedrooms at the club that are named after each one of them. There’s “Stan’s Studio,” “Jack’s Joint,” “Bob’s Bungalow,” and “Ken’s Castle.” At night they sit by the fire and reminisce. They talk about Clyde, they talk about Clyde’s sons, and they talk about themselves. And they laugh. In fourteen years or so little Jack will join them—by that time there will be new stories and the old ones will have changed in the telling.

So, as I went on my fourth annual shopping trip, I was keenly aware of the stories and legends that exist amongst the women as well. We compete for “best deal” of the weekend; we discuss whether or not it was worth it to have Kari in a wheel chair last year with her handicap parking privilege; and we laugh about the times we’ve packed too many of us into one fitting room. We come home and we laugh and talk some more and none of us would miss “show and tell” where we each take our turn showing our purchases.

My grand-daughter Piper joined us this past weekend, making me aware of the generational stories that will be passed on to her. (She belonged with us because she is a girl after all and it’s never too early to start her training in proper shopping techniques.) She was fussing a little in the evening, so my daughter decided to tell her some of our classic family stories. “Auntie Ro-Ro” decided to entertain her with stories of her grandmother. So . . . the legend of the shepherd’s pie started its journey through the generations.

It’s not that funny really, but my children witnessed it and they think it’s funny. It involved a recipe with layers of hamburger, corn, some canned soup and mashed potatoes on top. Rather than preparing the instant mashed potatoes, I merely sprinkled the flakes on top, assuming that some magic would take place in the oven and turn the flakes into mashed potatoes. The shepherd’s pie was a thin layer of goo which my children have never forgotten. And now Piper knows the story, but she’s okay with it because she also believes in magic.

When it was my turn to tell Piper a story, the tables were turned on Auntie Ro-Ro. It involved a Palm Sunday, a children’s choir up front and a four-year-old Ro-Ro who had not yet developed her musical ear. Above the children’s gentle singing of the song “A King Comes Riding By,” we heard her loud chant—same words but no melody. So here’s where some bad parenting came in—her father and I laughed, and when she observed us she became silent. Honestly, we tried not to, we just did and to this day she reminds us about it. Call me a bad mom, but it still makes me laugh. (She did figure it out eventually and has lots of musical skills.)

Piper heard these stories and more and will continue to hear them as she grows up. I expect they’ll change with the telling and with time, but that’s okay. We’ll tell her about the glamorous outfit we bought for her on her first shopping trip; a gold dress, little gold shoes and a fur shrug—all in the tiniest sizes ever. (We opted out of the purse.) We’ll tell her how we all were watching the Michigan/Michigan State game on television while waiting for her to be born, and I’m sure her dad and mom will tell her that Uncle Tony and Uncle Tito were able to use their season tickets and actually see the game live because of her arrival.

And so the stories continue . . . and grow . . . and change. My children and grandchildren will pass them on. And they will laugh.

“Life will go on as long as there is someone to sing, to dance, to tell stories and to listen.”
Oren Lyons

At First He Mumbled

So I decided to go on a little spiritual retreat today. I’ve wanted to do this for some time now, but I’ve been procrastinating. In my job as worship director, it’s very easy for me to get caught up in the details of what I do, and it’s so easy to forget the big picture. Our Advent theme has already been announced, we’ve already had a brainstorming session about how best to portray our theme throughout the season, and it feels like we’re good to go.

But . . . something’s been bugging me and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Our pastor is going to be preaching on the first few chapters of Hebrews. That excited me because if you ever asked me what my favorite book of the Bible is—that’s it. So here I was with sermon titles, all sorts of music and plenty of ideas for artistic illustration, but the scripture had not yet spoken to me.

So I decided to leave for a day, find a quiet place and see if I could hear God speaking to me through the book of Hebrews. I chose today as the right day—a bleak and rainy Tuesday. After procrastinating until close to 10:00, I drove to Petoskey, listening to “You are Holy,” the song we had sort of decided as a good theme song for Advent. I listened to the background music to see if I could figure out the right piano part, I listened to the volume, I planned how to introduce the song, etc. It took me at least 20 minutes to let all of that go, and really sing along, “I’ll sing your praises forever, deeper in love with You. Here in Your courts where I’m close to Your throne, I’ve found where I belong.”

Okay, that put me in the right mood. My first stop was a coffee shop—after all, I needed sustenance for the day. I found myself a cozy little corner and started to read some notes and think. Okay, so I did a little bit of people-watching also. I watched a mother chastise her son who had Downs Syndrome because he was holding the outside door open too long. I melted when his dad put a comforting arm around his shoulder briefly. Oh, and I gave directions to someone who asked how to get to Petoskey High School—I hope they were right.

My next stop was the Petoskey Library where I found a quiet table by the window. I became very diligent—I filled at least 10 sheets of paper with notes. I organized things and I made progress that felt really good. I dug into my Bible finding wonderful Old Testament scriptures that applied to the Hebrews passages. I thought about the Advent candles, the children, the stage arrangements, and those wonderful creative props. I got really excited working on the communion service that we have just before Christmas.

I got a little hungry again, so I walked over to a Pub for lunch. They gave me some peanuts, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw the shells on the floor like everyone else did. I kept them in a little pile on my table and even after the waitress came and swept them from my table to the floor, I still couldn’t do it.

So, back to the library to finish my day with some more note-taking. I was feeling rather smug about my accomplishments, and it was getting late in the afternoon, so I thought I’d try my hand at a little poetry. Here’s where God stopped mumbling. (Yea, I know He never was mumbling; I just wasn’t listening.) I tried to put Hebrews 1:1-4 into a poem. It took a little bit of work, and it may need a little bit of tweaking, but something happened in that writing. I started out writing about Jesus, and all of the things those verses say about Him, and suddenly the poem became about who I am because of Him.

So, here it is:

Reflection of the perfect one
Was mirrored in God’s only Son.
The imprint of the Father’s face—
A human visage of His grace.
Creator, when the world began,
Now offered as redemption’s plan.
Unlike the angels, Jesus came
To share our life, our death, our shame;
And humbled down to hell’s abyss,
Was raised above to heaven’s bliss.
Inheriting all things divine
My Savior/Brother makes them mine.
His faithful word I now embrace,
I too reflect my Father’s face.


And that’s what I did today.