Keep Climbing

I was halfway around the world, but I was at home; I was alone, but never lonely; I was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausted, yet I felt energy that I have never known before. These are just a few of the incredible things I experienced on my recent trip to Israel.

In retrospect, it was a pretty gutsy move, joining a tour group of total strangers on the adventure of a lifetime, and what an adventure it was! I can't tell you that this trip was at the top of my bucket list, but when I heard about it, I was filled with a strong desire to go and, when my husband wasn't as excited as I was, we decided I would go alone. And that's exactly where God wanted me--away from family, co-workers, and friends. I needed to figure out who I was without the distraction of people and jobs and my busy life in general.

People asked me if I was afraid to travel to a place that might be "unsafe," and those fears never crossed my mind. I'm afraid of little things like escalators going down, so when I found myself having to haul two suitcases down the escalator at O'Hare Airport, I felt a whole new sense of courage and independence. When I finally met up with my entire travelling team, and realized what a friendly bunch they were, I was relieved and excited.

So . . . after thirteen hours of time in the air (including a stop in Istanbul), losing seven hours out of a day, and a sore neck from my unsuccessful attempts at sleep, why did I feel like I was arriving at "home" when we landed and why did it continue to feel like home during the next eight days? This place, this land of Israel, the hills and valleys, the desert--all of it has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. The Sunday School stories and pictures, hundreds of Bible story books, and the colored maps in my Bible signify something that's part of my DNA.

It's no wonder I wept as our boat glided slowly on to the Sea of Galilee, or when I looked up at the mountain where Jesus prayed. I could almost see His silhouette against the sky and the thought that He already knew me then, overwhelmed me. Knowing that from that mountain, He saw the disciples "straining at the oars," reminds me that He sees my struggles as well. We sat on the beach where Jesus may have called His disciples or where He asked Peter, "Do you love me?" Jesus knew how discouraged Peter must have felt after denying Him and He knows how discouraged I can get, yet Jesus came to him in that place and offered forgiveness and a future that boldly impacted the church forever.

I was "home" when we celebrated communion together in the Garden of Gethsemane and as I wandered alone through the olive grove where Jesus prayed. Earlier that morning, as I was waiting for our bus, a little woman from Hong Kong had been playing a familiar tune on a ukulele. As I listened, the words came to me and we began to sing together, each in our own language:

King of my life, I crown Thee now
Thine shall the glory be
Lest I forget Thy thorn-crowned brow
Lead me to Calvary
Lest I forget Gethsemane
Lest I forget Thine agony
Lest I forge Thy love for me
Lead me to Calvary

That song was all I could hear, as I walked in the garden. I was "home."

Even though I had many moments of quiet reflection by myself, I never felt the lonesomeness that many of us struggle with. I had no friends or family with me, yet I was beginning to understand the concept of family in a new way. Some of the archeological ruins that we explored demonstrated what a Jewish family looked like. Families would build a home and continually add to it as they grew. Soon these "insulas" would grow to be very large and at the center, was the synagogue.

As the trip progressed, I began to understand this concept as it was demonstrated to me by my travel partners. The tribe mate who grabbed my large suitcase off the turn stile and those who grabbed my hand as I climbed down large rocks became my brothers. The delightful woman who screamed and laughed with me as our camel precariously stood, hind legs first, became my sister. So many gestures of kindness--the couple who climbed halfway up the mountain just to retrieve the jacket I left, those who bought me ice cream or loaned me money for a necklace when I left my money on the bus, the kind ones who took my picture when a selfie was my only option--all of them became family. And every now and then, I even felt comfortable asking for help! I wish there was a way to express to this amazing group of people, how much I learned from them about taking care of each other.

So now I'm home and the trip is in the past. I was told that it would take a week to recover and at first I didn't believe it. The body needs sleep and I was sorely lacking in that area; but it was a happy exhaustion. Physically, I had done more than I thought was possible. I was told to prepare for five miles a day, and I was ready for that--no one talked about the inclines. Silly me, all those biblical places are called Mount Whatever for a reason. I'm pretty sure that at least 2/3 of my steps were uphill. Please don't question my math on that, I think the bus strategically moved around a little so that we had the full "climbing" experience. But I never missed an opportunity to hike down into a cistern or well or go just a little further on the mountain for a better view. When we were offered a tour of Hezekiah's amazing tunnel, I strapped on my head lamp, slipped into my water shoes and followed the crowd, trusting that we'd support each other through our claustrophobia. I had strength that I didn't know I possessed.

So I have a lovely photo album that I've worked hard on, some amazing memories and so much more. I've learned that, even though we live in a well-planned and logical universe, the way God reached down to us was not logical or predictable. Bethlehem, Nazareth and Capernaum--these were humble and very real places. Jesus didn't choose His disciples from those who sat in the "chief seats" in the synagogue, and He certainly did not choose a beautiful babbling brook for His baptism, as we so often picture it. When He fed throngs of hungry people, He didn't stop to do a mathematical calculation. When He asked His disciples "Who do you say that I am?" He did it in one of the most pagan settings of His day. And when He chose disciples, when He taught, when He spent time alone with God, when He prayed in Gethsemane, and when He finally died, He climbed mountains to do so. Following Jesus as He walked here on earth was not an easy journey, and following Him in my life is not always easy either. There are days of pure exhaustion, but the climb is so worth it.

I’m pressing on the upward way,
New heights I’m gaining every day;
Still praying as I onward bound,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”

My heart has no desire to stay
Where doubts arise and fears dismay;
Though some may dwell where these abound,
My prayer, my aim, is higher ground.

Lord, lift me up, and let me stand
By faith on Canaan’s tableland;
A higher plane than I have found,
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

Mrs. P and Me

I believe that it's time for me to forgive my third grade teacher and maybe Holy Week 2016 would be a good time to do that. I'm not sure I want to forgive her . . . maybe it's still too soon, but it's clear to me that I have to do something because she's haunting me.
As a child I loved school, but I hated the third grade because I had the meanest teacher ever; I've had teachers who were strict, but Mrs. P was beyond strict--she inflicted some permanent damage.

I met up with a few grade school friends a few months ago and we started to talk about her. Perhaps because some of their parents had voiced complaints, Mrs. P's teaching career only lasted two years at my school; however that didn't change what happened that year for me.

I believe that this teacher used fear to control us; maybe her motive was to make us tough, but in my case it worked the opposite way. And the fear thing . . . not only was it a fear of her, but I quickly developed a fear of all of my classmates because Mrs. P. had set up a system where the strong could overpower the weak. And you can only guess where I fell on the strong versus weak continuum.

On two occasions that I remember Mrs. P accused me of cheating based on reports from my classmates. The first time I weakly argued my case, but she believed the other child. The second time I never was able to explain myself and had to take home a paper that said "F - cheating." Even as I write this I can get worked up about the situation and I wish I could go back with a fraction of the courage I have now. Oh the things I would say . . . and that's what haunts me.

We all took turns leading the class each morning as we sang little praise songs. The song leader was allowed to select various children to sing solos on certain verses and I remember slinking shyly down in my seat so that I would not be noticed and called upon. The day that it was my turn to lead, I was kind of relieved because I had a small level of control--if I was leading I would not be chosen. Well guess what? One student selected a song that had leader verses and student verses. From her seat at the piano, Mrs. P told me I needed to sing one leader verse and there was no arguing with her. I can still hear my shaky voice singing:

Oh see the sky, so blue so high
So very far away.
Who lives up there where all is fair
Dear children, can you say?

Yes, I remember the moment so clearly that I don't have to look up these words--they're imbedded in my mind.

So what kind of person does this? Why did she allow the strong to take advantage of the weak? Did she know the impact this was going to have on the lives of children? These are questions in my heart that have always needed answers. And . . . thanks to Google and a brief white page search, I probably could get some answers.

I've connected with a lot of people from my past thanks to facebook and it's all been such a positive experience. Distant cousins, former teachers and neighborhood friends from my childhood are all some of the delightful surprises I have encountered. I love tying up loose ends and I love old friendships that somehow come "full circle."

But there are also some negative experiences in my life that I would love to speak into, not for any good reason other than to have the last word. I have said for many years how I would love to run into Mrs. P and I would tell her how much she damaged me. Well, she showed up in a Google search--at least I'm pretty sure it's the same person based on age and a few other facts. I've even fantasized about bumping into her "by accident" and facing her one more time. But that's where it stops because I'm sure I wouldn't see the woman I remember. I know that she's old and perhaps frail and has probably been damaged herself.

So now I know the truth; the conversation that I've imagined, could actually take place, but it never will. There would be no point and I have no idea where her life has taken her. And beside that, isn't it time that I let go of a grudge that has hung on for over fifty years?

I was struck by a quote I read recently by Brene Brown: "In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die." Isn't Holy Week the best time to finally forgive an ancient grudge? And theologically I understand how something or someone has to die in order for us to be forgiven; then we in turn can forgive others. But there's more to the story for me. Something else has to die in order for me to forgive Mrs. P.

I need to let go of that frightened little third-grader. She has been following me around long enough. I have looked at life too often through her scared and timid eyes and I need to be done with it. You see, it's no longer Mrs. P's fault--now it's my responsibility. "In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die." That fragile third-grader who's intimidated and fragile needs to die, for my sake, and when that happens I'll be free to forgive. So Mrs. P, "From one person who needs forgiveness to another . . . I forgive you . . . and I wish you well."

They're Everywhere

I just found a whole bunch of new people far away from home who have become my good friends. I’m not talking about acquaintances, I’m talking friends. It’s odd that you can bond so easily with folks you’ve just met, but we’re already at the hugging stage. I’m talking about my new friends at a little church in North Port, Florida. It wasn’t even my idea to meet them; it was Ron’s plan that, if we spent some time down here, he wanted to serve the community in some way. So, my daughter in law did some research on her phone and immediately came up with the name of a church that serves a dinner to the hungry every Monday night.

And so Ron made the first connection by introducing himself and offering to do whatever they wanted him to do. The group of church ladies that has taken this on was delighted to show him the ropes. The dinner is small, serving thirty to forty people, and there’s no kitchen in their current building so everything is pre-made and kept warm in roasters. And while it can get crowded in the small space they have allotted, they unapologetically to do what they are called to do.

The first time I went with him, I felt like I was kind of in the way, but they put me to work as well. I sat behind a little table and I was the official “counter.” Every time someone new came into the room, I had to make a little mark on the paper—that’s it, but I sensed that it was a big responsibility. Of course, while I was doing that, Ron was schmoozing with the church ladies and the dinner guests—one of his many spiritual gifts.

We’ve also attended the worship services on Sunday morning that are held in their rented office building. I’m amazed at how they’ve adapted a small room with low ceilings to accommodate their praise band. Generous cups of coffee and baked treats are served in a narrow little hallway just before the service. Everyone knows each other in this small congregation and we were immediately drawn into the group.

Since my tasks at the dinner have been minimal, I’ve enjoyed many conversations with the other helpers, including Pastor Gary. I’ve heard about his postponed retirement goal, I’ve heard about major health struggles and miracles within his family; we also had great discussions on the similarities and differences in our religious denominations. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the solid little group of church ladies that we’re all familiar with who run the show, and have earned the almost fearful respect of the pastor.

But what moved me the most was the strong desire of everyone in that church to have an impact on their community. Free dinner isn’t the only thing offered here; there’s a clothing closet and a food pantry; people are also encouraged to attend “Celebrate Recovery” which ministers to those with “hurts, habits and hang-ups.” Each Saturday morning there is a massive bread give-away. (Apparently when they say “bread,” they mean cakes, pastries, and sometimes other groceries as well. I wouldn’t know—I don’t get up that early.) They’ve been looking for a new building, but staying within their neighborhood is very important to them because of whom they serve.

As Ron and I left the dinner last Monday I was feeling rather emotional about my experience. Ron had just prepared the meal of ham, cheesy hash-browns and beans, but somehow I was thinking that the gift he/we had given and received was not about a meal; it was about so much more. I believe that when followers of Jesus connect with each other, and we serve Him together, we breathe new life into each other as well. We’re not alone in this!

We have so much in common as individuals and as congregations. Many of us struggle with inadequate facilities, over-worked pastors, struggling budgets and unique personalities. It’s okay. Sometimes we do the right things in inadequate ways and we easily lose our focus—but then God sends someone to remind us why we’re here.

It’s hard for me to adjust to new places sometime because I need to connect with others. Other circumstances may have led us to attend a large church when we’re away from home, just out of habit or obligation. But because of Ron’s desire to serve, here’s where we ended up. I love this little church in Florida—they’re my people now—we’re friends and co-workers and I’m going to miss them when I leave. But I know that wherever I go I’ll be able to find more people like them because followers of Jesus are hard to miss.

Take Time to "Wallow"

I think I need to tell my high school English Literature teacher how awesome he was. Plaid sport coats, bowties and a brush cut . . . along with a little smirk on his face—these are the things I remember about him as he stood in front of our class. He was an artist in every sense of the word; he loved the English language and music and for some reason he loved teaching high school seniors, most of whom had no interest in Shakespearean sonnets, much less how to write a heroic couplet .

I remember walking into class one day and telling him that our school choir was singing songs from “South Pacific.” I told him that I loved the song “Some enchanted Evening” and asked him if he loved it too, fully believing that he would tell me it was “schmaltzy crap.” Instead he said, “Love it? I wallow in it.” I’ve never forgotten his totally unapologetic response to a song that, as a seventeen-year-old, I thought was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. (I wonder what he’d say if I told him that a few years later I did meet a stranger that I had spotted across a crowded room, sent someone to introduce us, and we’re still together after forty years. Somehow, I think he’d wallow in that story too.)

For reasons that totally escaped my high school classmates, Mr. Haan made us memorize poetry. There were at least six things he insisted that we recite, including works by Shakespeare, Blake and Tennyson. I didn’t understand the logic behind memorizing these works either, but since it was an easy thing for me to do, I never minded being called up to his desk to recite the latest poem. And guess what? I can still do it, much to the annoyance of my family and friends. In fact, I even learned more than what was required of me because in the process I discovered that there’s something so beautiful about putting words together in poetry.

Shakespeare’s description of love in Sonnet 116 was pretty good when I first learned it, but now it has become beauty and truth borne out by experience. Love is . . . “an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken;” it is the “star to every wandering bark . . .” I’m thinking that a little Shakespeare along with I Corinthians 13 read at wedding ceremonies might be a great idea.

I’ve also thought a lot about Tennyson’s description of prayer when he says, “more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” He describes prayer as a “golden chain” that binds the entire world around the feet of God. I can’t find a more beautiful description than that and I never tire of reciting it. And, speaking of prayer, I can’t think of anything better (other than the Lord’s Prayer of course) than John Donne’s “Hymn to God the Father.” In this poem of confession, Donne talks about all of the possible ways he has sinned, confesses them and ends each verse by telling God that there will always be more. Donne asks God to remind him that at his death, the work of Jesus will be complete and his final sin—the sin of fear—will be gone. I wasn’t required to memorize this poem, but after Mr. Haan explained it to our class, I claimed it as mine. Whenever I fly in a plane—you know during those few moments of take-off when all of those crazy “what if” thoughts go through your head?—that’s when I recite it.

Let me tell you one more thing about poetry that I’ve learned recently. It can get you out of a jam. You see, I love studying church history, creeds and theology—that’s one of the luxuries of my life. However, when I have to write papers sometimes I get stuck with things that seem illogical. And let’s face it, there are things we believe that are difficult to explain and sometimes seem to defy logic. That’s when I pull out John Donne. It’s not that he can explain things any better, but he’s an artist and has the ability to celebrate those things that are incomprehensible. I could write a pretty long paper about the virgin birth, but when it’s finished Donne’s words “immensity cloistered in thy dear womb” speak to my heart rather than my logic. “Immensity cloistered”—I’ll never tire of that phrase.

Donne can’t really explain the Trinity much better than I can, and admits that reason “proves weak or untrue;” yet he can confidently say, “batter my heart, three-- personed God” because “I dearly love you.” He desperately wants all of the qualities of each person of the trinity present in his own life. And that’s what matters most.

I hope that there’s a little poet or a little artist in all of us—I have to believe there is. I know it’s different for everyone, but we tend to push that inner poet pretty far back sometime. I had a teacher recently, who taught a creeds and confessions class, that would periodically interrupt himself and begin to recite an appropriate poem while looking each of us in the eye. Talk about getting my attention! Maybe we should try that more often.

I would have missed lot in my life if I had never learned to appreciate poetry or any of the arts. We don’t always have to be logical you know. A lot of people believe that artists will change the world and I’m starting to think they might be on to something. Whether it’s true or not, I’m grateful for that high school English Literature teacher, and I’m going to continue to read and recite poetry because it’s given me clarity in life, it makes us all like each other a little more, and . . . it has also kept me out of a few jams.

The Time-out Chair

So, did you know that there’s actually a “time out” chair in heaven? I’m pretty sure that’s what one of my commissioned pastor classmates told me. Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but that’s kind of what he implied when he said that my behavior here was going to have some eternal consequence for my husband. No . . . he really didn’t say that either—I guess I better start from the beginning.

Isn’t it amazing what a well-placed “good job” or an “I’m proud of you” can do? And isn’t it also true that one bit of negativity or perceived “judgy” behavior can quickly put doubts in our minds? Affirmations and discouragements—they’ve all taken on many different forms in my life, and have sometimes come from the most unlikely places. I’ve always responded well to praise (who hasn’t?) but one of the things I’ve begun to recognize is that, not only can I respond positively to criticism, I can learn and grow from it and eventually (ouch) even be grateful. When I decided to embark on a new journey a few years ago, I gained a lot of insight and help along the way from those who were my cheerleaders, but also from those who didn’t quite understand.

I’m relatively impulsive, but I usually don’t make major decisions based on a “whim.” However, when I first decided to follow in the footsteps of my new friend, Jan, that’s probably what many were thinking. When I first met her a few years ago she told me that she was a nurse . . . and a commissioned pastor. I knew that she was close to me in age and that the pastor thing was relatively new for her, and something deep inside of me said, “You’re going to do this.” Even I was shocked at the intensity of my reaction, but there was no turning back. I knew that his was no “whim,” but it was the Holy Spirit speaking clearly through my own passion.

When I brought the subject up to my husband, I barely had a chance to explain what I had in mind when he said, “Do it—I’m with you on this one.” (He had no idea that this was going to put him in the “time out” chair.) My close friends, my kids and my pastor all expressed joyful support which made my plunge into this crazy plan a lot easier.

And so, just a few short weeks after my sixtieth birthday, and feeling the weight of great expectations, I began my first classes. I loved studying and writing papers and I loved learning from some great pastor/teachers. All of the creeds and catechism that I had learned as a child came back and breathed new life into me. I was more organized than ever and believed that I was able to accomplish almost anything. And when my final paper was written and all of the oral exams were complete, I celebrated—with my friends and family, but also with a deep joyful satisfaction that God was completing a work in me that He had started many years ago.

But, as I’ve already hinted, not every part of this journey was filled with encouragement. I know that there were those who didn’t understand my decision and those who aren’t sure how they feel about women being pastors. I’ve wrestled with this myself and I can’t even say for sure how my parents would feel about my choice. I think they would be in that awkward place of “proud disagreement.” One of my required classes was a huge struggle for me because I felt “tolerated” but not accepted by the teacher and by the solid group of male students. As I fought my weekly insecurities, I gained a new level of appreciation for those who are misunderstood. I learned to speak up without giving up even when my voice wasn’t heard.

I learned a lot from those who were going through the program with me. I figured out what kind of pastor I wanted to be, and what wasn’t going to work. I also learned that not everyone was my fan. There was one classmate in particular that I suspected fell into this category. We disagreed on almost everything except a shared assessment about the way some people treat their pets. (Sorry if I just lost the animal lovers.) But when he and I started to talk about women as elders and pastors, the conversation was harder and more hurtful than I anticipated. There are many people in my life whom I love and respect who would agree with him to a degree, but when he told me that my call to become a pastor was merely a case of my heart deceiving me as scripture warns, I was dumbfounded. He also went on to tell me that my husband would be held accountable for allowing me to follow my “deceptive heart.”

I was kind of shaken by all of this until my pastor told me that my husband would only have to spend a little time in the “time out” chair when he got to heaven—whew! That’s a relief for both of us. Seriously though, during that painful conversation, I learned things that I never would. I’m continually examining my heart, to make sure I’m not being deceived; I‘m also learning not to question God’s call in other people’s lives—they can figure out their own hearts.

So that’s briefly a story of my recent adventure. I’m so grateful for the affirmations that came from everywhere: people from my church who were excited to hear about what I was learning and actually attended the oral exams; those who were patient when I was too focused on studying and got a little cranky; my family who insisted on throwing a “fancy” party in spite of my urgings to keep it simple. And the list goes on.

But I’m also grateful for the difficult times and the challenging people. Don’t get me wrong—I never felt persecuted, rather compelled to pause, pray and refocus before proceeding. If it had been too easy, I would believe that I had done this on my own and that’s far from the truth. There were lots of people who attended the commissioning service held in my church and I felt loved and affirmed. But I was also keenly aware of the “cloud of witnesses,” that surrounded me –especially those parents and grandparents who perhaps observed from that place where the “time-out” chair is no longer needed, remembered or mentioned.

Relocation

I'm one of those rare people who have made only a few major moves in my life--two to be exact. Yes, once out of the home where I grew up into a home a few miles away, and seven years later, almost 200 miles away to a place I knew nothing about. Marriage was the reason for the first move, my husband's career was the reason for the second. Both were scary and adventuresome.

I suppose I could adjust to the nomad type of life if I had to, but I kind of like the stability and predictability of staying in one place. I remember when I was little every now and then my sister and I would rearrange our bedroom. I would lie in bed and try to adjust to the new perspective. It was always weird.

That second move that I made, happened half a life-time ago now. We had just turned thirty and Ron had the opportunity to run the Petoskey branch of Coca Cola. We jumped in with both feet. We had no idea how difficult it would be to say good-bye to family and friends. As I watched the moving van pull away from our home in Jenison to head north and hugged both of my pregnant sisters good-by, reality started to set in. Other relatives showed up at our new home to help us move and those good-byes were even more difficult. There we stood gazing out of our living room window--all five of us--waving and crying. The thought of it still makes me cry.

Fast forward a few months. Some of those same family members came up to visit us that summer. They were shocked as we walked together through the streets of Charlevoix, seeing that we had already connected with so many people, as if we were at "home." We were happy and we had no regrets. It had been the best decision for our family.

We often talk about how that relocation has changed us. We have life-long friends that we never would have known with whom we have shared grief and joy. I know that there was one little boy that Rhonda met every day at the kindergarten door of the elementary school that has become my wonderful son-in-law. In our loneliness, we immediately found a church where our gifts were discovered and put to good use. The most important change however, was our dependence on each other as a family. We learned very quickly that "we" were all that "we" needed and that we could make it on our own.

This past Christmas has been all about relocation as well for me. With our children grown and wanting to spend Christmas in their own homes throughout the state, we've begun the habit of celebrating at one of their homes. After all of the grandchildren were asleep in various corners of my daughter's home, the adults tiptoed into the kitchen, ate dessert, and whispered and laughed quietly about memories of Christmases past. Hysterical laughter is hard to suppress, but we managed. Williams' Christmas Relocation turned out just fine.

My church made a decision to relocate this year as well. We decided to move our Christmas Eve service to the high school auditorium. Relocation can really mess with our traditions, especially where holidays are concerned, but here's why we did it: we wanted to be able to invite those who might not be comfortable in church to come and hear about Jesus. And you know what? I'm proud of my church, because we understood that. In spite of a little bit of grieving, we were willing to give up what we held dear. "Silent night," sung to the glow of battery operated tea lights instead of real candles, was just as beautiful when we saw the big picture.

After all, Christmas is about relocating isn't it? I'm pretty sure that a young expectant couple didn't want to relocate to Bethlehem that close to the baby's due date, and later experience the inconvenience of relocating to Egypt to protect that child's life. And then there's the obvious--Jesus being asked to relocate and come here for us. I remember our good-byes to our family and I'm trying to picture the good-byes when Jesus left heaven. The reality of relocation must have hit pretty hard and He knew that He had little to look forward to. God didn’t look down a few years later and see all the new friends Jesus had made—instead He saw a small group of faithful followers, a lot of curious on-lookers, and many enemies.

Yet, He still would have said that relocation was good. I think it was pretty awesome. Jesus taught me this Christmas that some of my traditions need to be given a fresh assessment and that when I’m called to relocate, it can be pretty amazing.

It Only Hurts When I Walk . . . or Sit

It’s only appropriate that I woke up this morning in pain. As I limped my way into the bathroom and lowered myself onto a toilet seat that felt like it was six inches off the ground, I never questioned my actions from the previous night that brought me to this place. I had postponed a goal of water skiing one more time in my fifties to the eve of my sixtieth birthday, and I deserved to feel this way.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with water skiing. I love it because it’s hard and I learned to do it. I hate it because it scares the crap out of me. However, there is a certain exhilaration in skimming across the water on a hunk of fiberglass, looking at the mountainous wake and saying out loud to myself, “no guts, no glory.” When I fall, I forget to breathe out—I breathe in and generally come up gasping and choking.

I should have known I’d have a little bit of trouble. Three pins in each of my recently repaired feet, fused joints in a couple of toes, and some extra weight made it difficult to even get the skis on, but we did—I say “we” because it was a group effort. The rope came along behind me and I said “hit it,” and I didn’t get up. I said “hit it” at least seven more times and then I heard and felt the hamstring go. I wasn’t sure if I really was hurt badly, but I knew it would be wise to quit. Did you know that cool water camouflages pain? Getting the ski off my left foot and getting back into the boat—once again a group effort.

So . . . today my butt and leg hurt. I walk like I’m sauntering, but with great concentration. I’m using the handicapped bathroom stall at work. I’ll never get out of the recliner alone. Am I upset? Heck no! I could be depressed and discouraged, but at least I tried. My dusty O’Brien ski has been washed clean in Elk Lake and it’s in the back of my car. I’m going to try to use it again . . . but not today.

Instead of feeling old, I feel adventuresome. An ice pack and some Aleve are helping me cope with the irritation. (Incidentally, the ice pack leaked on to my chair, so please don’t believe any rumors of my incontinence that I’m sure may be already out there.) This pain will either go away or will remind me that I’m actually pretty gutsy.

I’d like to propose a toast to myself on this day! Are you with me? I have so many things to celebrate! So as I enter this decade, I’m hanging on and saying, “Let’s hit it!”

The Blogs I Never Wrote

My friend Doug reminded me the other day on facebook, that it really was time to write a new blog. The last one I wrote was in February during Lent and that really is pretty pathetic. It’s not like I haven’t tried though—I started lots of them, but for some reason I couldn’t finish them. I just went through them and I have no idea where I was going and what I really wanted to say.

I found one about my youngest son and his habit of collecting stuff—Simpson guys, Pez dispensers, to name a few. I even talked about him falling asleep with the Sears Wish Book open on his chest, dreaming of the toys he wanted and sometimes talked me into buying for him. I have no idea what I was trying to say; maybe something about not getting what we wish for, or wishing for the wrong things, I don’t know. But I’m sure it would have ended with God somehow. It always does you know.

Then I started a blog about my husband. It was pretty good and I don’t know why I didn’t finish it. Probably because I didn’t want to brag—yeah let’s go with that. He did something really special for me for Valentine’s Day, but I can’t tell you because it would be bragging. But it involved text messages from lots of people telling me how much he loved me, and also photo messages from him in various places carrying a sign that said “I love you.” What kind of guy would stand in Meijer’s produce section and ask a stranger to take his picture with his little sign? My guy. I should finish that one sometime.

Then I started to write one about the song “Red Solo Cup.” A friend of mine who can’t seem to stay sober for any length of time was singing this song one day. I told her that she should think of a new favorite song that might have a better influence on her life. I’m sure that I threw out some good churchy songs and she probably felt judged. The next day I was working on memorizing Psalm 16 and when I got to the verse, “the Lord is my chosen portion and my cup,” suddenly I found myself singing “Red Solo Cup.” Oo-ooh, now there was a blog just waiting to be written: God’s cup of joy versus the world’s fake cup of happiness. I never got anywhere with that one—let’s just say that even God thought it was a bad idea. Besides, the Gaithers' had already handled that. (Quietly humming, “fill my cup Lord, I lift it up Lord . . .”)

So I stopped writing because I kept getting stuck and couldn’t figure out why. In the meantime, I’ve been working on a “Faith-walking” course that I’m taking. It’s really heavy and I have lots of homework, including a daily “spiritual workout.” I committed to a lot of reading, prayer and solitude. I’m great at reading, so-so at prayer, but I kind of suck at solitude. I’m catching on though. If I read, follow that with prayer—gotta write those prayers down though—then when I’m done, I hear Him. Sometimes when I see the way yesterday’s prayers were answered I hear Him. Sometimes when I read another devotional and take a few notes, I hear His message coming through several times in one day. And if I pay attention or, as Frederick Buechner says, “listen to your life,” I hear God all day long. And when that happens, my heart is full . . . and yes, my cup is full too.

So when my friend Doug gently chided me about not posting a blog in many months, I felt compelled to tell him why. I told him that for some reason God was telling me to stop talking for a while. The world really doesn’t need to hear what I have to say right now. I believe that getting stuck in my writing is just another way God is speaking to me. I think He wants me to listen more and speak less and I guess I’m okay with that. And do you know what my friend’s response was? He said, “Sounds like the start of a blog post right there, one I'd enjoy reading!”

So, there’s the truth as I know it today. Someday maybe I’ll tell you more about my son’s nut cracker collection or about the last crazy wonderful 37 years with Ron, heck I might write new lyrics for “Red Solo Cup” that could be sung in church. Maybe . . .

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.

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.