Finding Faithfulness

I settled myself into a chair at the end of the second row, among about fifty other seniors who gathered on a dreary Wednesday afternoon. I didn't expect to begin the new year here. Life has a way of taking unexpected twists and turns.

It all began the day I took my Christmas decorations down and marched them up to the attic. I don't know how many times I climbed the stairs. Apparently, too many. I've learned to manage one bad hip joint, but when the "good" side began to buckle over the next week, I found myself in a pickle, clinging to the furniture to get around..  

A few days of taking it easy helped, yet at times I still found myself grabbing whatever chair or counter happened to be nearby. After eight years of avoiding the orthopedic office, I made an appointment, hoping a little PT would do the trick. "Bone on bone, severe arthritis, cysts," they said. I couldn't argue with the x-ray.

After much prayer, consulting with "my people," and gathering up courage, I signed on the dotted line. Wednesday's required joint replacement class taught us what to expect, physical therapy tips, and risks. I limped to my car praying,"Oh, Lord, how can I be faithful in this circumstance, this challenge?" 

How can you be faithful in your situation? 

Ironically, last month (before I had any inkling of surgery) I blogged: "Over and over, God has given me every reason to trust Him. These evidences of His power and involvement in my life help me remember and practice the truth the next time my stomach knots up and I find myself dreading instead of trusting."

I just finished reading Kings and Chronicles and have been so impressed with God's supernatural power demonstrated in overthrowing armies, changing the minds of kings, and protecting those devoted to Him. His sovereignty down to the smallest detail throughout these chapters and His faithful hand in my own circumstances have brought me comfort. No matter what lies before us, He's got the whole world in His hand! 

And really, it's not about you or me anyway. Paul, a prisoner in Rome, wrote these words: "I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel . . ." (Philippians 1:12-14). Not only did all the guards hear about Christ, but the believers gained confidence to speak God's Word without fear. 

Wherever God directs our days, we have the opportunity to reflect His light to those around us (Matthew 5:16). Because of what happened to our family in a 2003 car crash, many have read Penned Without Ink, the story of God's trustworthiness and grace in the face of trauma. Because of what happened in Barry's passing, others have gleaned strength from his legacy. 

In 2017, Joni Eareckson Tada celebrated the 50th anniversary of the diving accident that left her a quadraplegic. Because of what happened on that fateful day, Joni & Friends was born, an organization that not only gives support to those with disabilities all over the world but shares the hope of Christ. Because of what happened through years of pain and suffering, Joni's many books offer a unique depth and thoughtful encouragement. 

Battles, prison, trauma, and pain aren't experiences we would choose. Yet, like Joni, I want to walk my journey well to the glory of God. Reading the Old Testament stories along with Paul's prison experience put my surgery in perspective. Can you and I link arms with these heroes of faith and say, "What has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel."? 

Slapping Mosquitoes

Bzzzzzz. Ouch. Slap. "Gotcha." Another one. Then another. Pretty soon, we feel itchy all over!

Like it or not, this is the season for pesky mosquitoes. Time Magazine says, "Mosquitoes really do prefer some people to others." Those with Type O blood or a certain chemical make-up attract these blood-suckers. Other factors that invite them include dark clothing and movement along with those who are sweaty from exercising. If you're looking for a healthy tick and mosquito repellent, we like this one from Beyond Organics. 

Sometimes life is a little like slapping mosquitoes. First one thing "bites" us, then another, then another. Pretty soon we feel like we're dancing an unwelcome dance that's exhausting. And there's no end in sight. Even in the night, the bzzzzzz of worry keeps us awake.

I've had a few "mosquitoes" buzzing around me lately. An unexpected car repair, several important decisions, the concerns of my kids, and most recently, a diagnosis of osteoporosis. I'm a prime candidate, I know, but the low T-scores still took me by surprise- especially since a healthy diet and exercise have been part of my routine. I've been researching and putting a plan in place to fight back, but the bzzzzz of concern and worry about any number of things follow me around like a hungry mosquito. 

You've been there, too.

There will always be mosquitoes buzzing around, but we have a "worry repellent" available to us. 

God is our refuge and strength, a very present and well proved help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its water roar and foam, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.

What are your current circumstances? Will you and I trust God with our stories . . . though we face health challenges? Though reasonable expectations turn upside down? Though change brings about uncertainty and unsteady steps? 

Be still. Cease striving, and know that I am God . . . the LORD of hosts is with us. (Psalm 46) 

There is a God in heaven who invites us to His throne . . . to bring to Him all our daunting and pesky problems . . . and to find abundant grace and help in time of need (Daniel 2:28; Hebrews 4:14-16). 

Photos from bing.com/images/freetouse

The Christmas Countdown . . .

I eyed my calendar, making a mental note of all I had to do before the 25th. Decorate the house, purchase gifts and wrap them, plan menus, attend holiday events, write our annual Christmas letter and mail out cards, pick up last minute gifts and grocery items . . . all before they come trooping through the door and the quiet turns a bit chaotic with three little grandsons, their parents, and a favorite aunt. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

Timing is important this season of the year, like planning a celebratory meal so every dish finishes cooking at the same time. We feel the strain of getting it all done just right, on time, making it special and memorable. Does anyone else feel the pressure?

Over the last few years, our family has talked a lot about simplicity. How can we keep the traditions alive that are important to us without doing everything we've always done . . . without "doing it all"?

The answer to this question varies, but we've learned to be okay with a little less baking and decorating and fewer gifts. And our time together is just as meaningful. We treasure every bit of stimulating conversation and laughter around the table that feeds a feeling of belonging.

On the other hand, no holiday is perfect. The kids cry. A new toy breaks. A part is missing, and we can't find the receipt. The roast doesn't get done in time. The empty chairs, seen and unseen, remind us of those who are no longer with us. We feel the loss . . . more so than on regular days. 

So then, there's the matter of trying to adjust our expectations . . .

 . . . and focusing on the first Christmas where a government tax bill shuffled people around the land of Israel, making it necessary for a young virgin to give birth to her firstborn son in a stable miles from home. Not ideal by any standard, yet somehow in God's perfect time according to His perfect plan.

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons (Galatians 4:4-5).

This Christmas, I want to be purposeful and embrace those traditions that are meaningful, don't you? And to see the wrinkled newborn in the manger with fresh eyes, to hear the brilliant announcement and glorious song of the angels with the shepherds, to follow the mysterious star with the wise men, and to embrace the wonder of it all with Mary and Joseph. 

No matter how our holiday week plays out, a simple story from long ago makes all the difference. And in this wonderful story, the baby's name is Immanuel. 

God with us. 

Your thoughts?

Unused Gifts

"Mom, why haven't you used the cutting board I gave you for Christmas?"

Elisabeth, home from college for summer break, pulled out the locally crafted cutting board from the bottom cupboard. It looked as new as the day she gifted it to me. I had been delighted when she shared how she managed to surprise me without my having an inkling of what she'd been up to. A mutual friend had made it. A work of art. A wonderful gift. A treasure.
I felt a little guilty now as I eyed the unused gift on the counter. My daughter didn't give it to me to collect dust. She wanted me to benefit from it, to enjoy it. Why hadn't I used it? I saw it every day when I pulled out the old cutting board. And I liked it - a lot. Perhaps it was because I didn't want to mar the surface, to mess it up.

Later that day Elisabeth and I chatted about God's gifts. Like her, God gives us gifts to USE, not to neglect in a dark corner of our lives. He gifts us with time, material resources, abilities, and spiritual gifts. We looked up several verses that highlighted the fact that God wants us to USE His gifts:

1 Peter 4:10: "Each of you should USE whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God's grace in its various forms . . . so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ."

Romans 12:6: "Having gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us USE them . . ." 

So why then, do we hesitate to use the gifts of God? Perhaps for the same reason I didn't use my cutting board: We don't want to mess things up. We fear we won't use them well enough. We fail to acknowledge the significance of what it will mean to the Giver and how His power complements our human offerings.

Like Elisabeth, God is disappointed and grieved when we neglect the gifts He's chosen to give us . . . gifts paired perfectly with the "good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do" (Ephesians 2:10).

We've been using my cutting board a lot this week. It already shows signs of wear . . . and yet my daughter is glad to finally see me use it. The grooves and stains represent the shared experiences of cooking, hospitality, and laughter along with savoring our few weeks together before she heads off for a summer internship.



This time, when she's away, I'll use her gift. And it'll remind me of the importance of using God's gifts to serve others . . . for His glory.

What about you? Together, let's dust off those neglected gifts and USE them!

                                                                                                                                              

On the Way Home, Part 1

Indianapolis Airport: Gate B7

Perhaps all the exhausting inconveniences held a little bright spot in an odd sort of way.

After a full day of waiting and watching our departure time bump in minute and hour increments from 12:40 p.m. to 10:30 p.m., our flight to Philadelphia canceled altogether. Weather issues on the East Coast, they said. That left my daughter and me standing in line at Gate 8 in Fort Wayne, IN. "I'm sorry," the ticket agent told us as he punched his keyboard. "I can't get you out of Ft. Wayne until the day after tomorrow. The only other option is to leave out of Indianapolis tomorrow at 12:22 p.m., fly to Chicago, and then onto Scranton.

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Indianapolis? Two and a half hours away? How would we get there? What good is a Tracfone at a time like this? My heart began to pound.

Another ticket agent who happened to be standing there began to scroll on her phone. “Here’s an option you might want to try.” She turned her screen in my direction so I could jot the number down.

Hoosier Shuttle. Maybe I could make this work.

Once we arrived at the motel, I called the number. Would anyone answer at 11 p.m.? I left a message and paced the floor. Soon my phone rang. “We’re booked at 7:30,” the lady said, “but I have seats for 5 a.m.”

We boarded the shuttle at 5:20 and sat on the front bench seat behind the driver and a gentleman passenger. Conversation began to flow in the predawn darkness. As the miles clicked by, I found myself listening to the man in the front passenger seat. With charcoal skin and a dark mustache, he wore a flat cap and glasses. Stories rolled off his tongue like thick molasses. One of six children, he was born in Mississippi. His dad picked cotton for two cents a pound. His parents didn’t have much of an opportunity to learn to read and write. Leftover prejudices saw to it that black ignorance remained the norm. “So they couldn’t better themselves,” he said. He told us his family had no running water in the house until he was fifteen or sixteen.

“How did you end up in Wisconsin?” the driver asked, referring to an earlier part of the conversation.

“The good jobs were in the north,” our new friend simply stated. “Many of my high school friends went to college to become teachers. Me? I went straight to work—made more money than them, too. I’m 62 now. . . . I’ve done okay." Later, the father of seven girls and one boy mused, “This is the best country in the world. You can better yourself if ya have a mind to.”

Topics jumped from the beauty and roar of Niagara Falls to how the Amish live to politics. “Ya know, the world is coming to an end.” He leaned up in his seat, pointing his long brown finger to make his point. “If the wrong leaders get into office and if they push the red buttons. Well . . . that’ll be it.”

“Where are you headed?” I asked as we neared the terminal.

“New York. I’m getting a car and driving it home.” He turned to me. “You live far from I-80?”

"About forty-five minutes."

He laughed. “There’s nothin’ at them exits all away across Pennsylvania.”

“Yep.”

I watched him enter the double doors, somehow feeling lighter having listened to his story, the story of a man so unlike me—a white woman from Buffalo and Pennsylvania who always took running water for granted and who’s never been to Mississippi or Wisconsin. I took a little of the conversation with me, and as we wait at Gate B7, I’m grateful for that little bright spot tucked in a couple of days of travel frustration.

And now, I just want to go home!


NOTE: Thanking God that we made it home safe and sound, even if it was twenty-four hours later than expected.

A New Appreciation

Sometimes I take everyday gifts for granted . . . but don't realize it until they're not there, even temporarily. Can you relate?

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My husband's  been out of commission for a week and a half. Intense pain brought us to the ER, the primary care physician's office a couple times, and finally to the fourth floor of the hospital. The surgeon removed the pesky problem--or so we thought. It's been a rough recovery, though, which leads me to question if there's isn't more to the issue . . ..

The recliner has become Barry's bed. He's finally keeping clear fluids down . . . yet I wonder what tomorrow will hold. He has tried to engage, but exhaustion has a way of taking its toll. We miss his take on the newspaper headlines, his "living encyclopedia" answers to our questions, and his sense of humor. He can't mow the lawn and trim the yard, take the garbage out, weed the flower beds, or plant the broccoli . . . We've managed to pitch in and take up some of the slack, but we realize one thing more than ever. He does a lot around here!

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So thank you, Barry, for all you do every day--and more importantly, who you are to all of us. Please get well soon. We love you!

What gifts do you appreciate, perhaps even more because of changes in your life or in the lives of those you love? 

Reflections From a Button Box

Last week, my dad noticed one of his shirt buttons missing, one belonging to his button-down collar. "I dug around and found Mom's button jar," he told me. "And I think I found two that match pretty well."

Dear Dad. Nine months ago now, Mom slipped into a better world, leaving behind her husband of over 56 years. She'd be proud of him. When I go over to the house, I notice that he's kept up their cleaning routine along with all the other housekeeping chores they did together. He's learning to cook a little, and he even irons his shirts. Thus, the missing button discovery.

The next day, when he came for dinner, he brought his shirt and two buttons. My button box did not reveal anything better, but as I threaded a needle my mind flooded with memories.

"Do you know where this tin box came from?" I asked Dad. The next few minutes found us chatting about our next door neighbor, a dear sweet lady who always spoke a kind word. She'd given my sister and I Peanut Butter Puffs for Christmas one year - and I kept the tin. A perfect place to collect buttons. Then I shared this story:

During sixth grade

when the bus stopped at the corner for the first time

and locker-lined hallways stretched on like railroad tracks

and first period swimming lessons became mandatory . . .

During sixth grade

when boys and girls found themselves caught between

sunny days of kickball and clouded contests of relationship and SATs,

when girls went back and forth between sneakers and high heels . . .

Mr. Heaton taught science.

It seemed a day like any other

except he tore a piece of paper into square bits

and sprinkled them like white confetti on the floor.

"So the cleaning lady has something to do."

As my eyes followed the last of the fluttering cascade,

I thought of the only cleaning lady I knew, the lady who lived next door.
With snowy hair, too-thick glasses, and a smile

that warmed you like hot cocoa on a chilly day,

she walked to the neighborhood elementary school every afternoon.

Mom said she worked hard.

During sixth grade, 
a shadow fell.

I took off my sneakers. 

"I'll never forget that day," I told my dad. "I guess part of growing up is realizing that people don't always live up to our expectations. Even people who are supposed to be role models."

I finished the sewing job, then added, "Every time I get out my button box, I think of Mrs. B. and that day in my sixth grade science class."

Expectations. They're tricky, I think. Shouldn't we have some expectations, especially of people in responsible positions? Yet, we're all human . . . very human. We often find ourselves disappointed in each other - and even in ourselves. Would you agree?

Perhaps the writer of Psalm 62 grappled with expectations when he wrote, "My soul, wait only upon God . . . for my hope and expectation are from Him. He only is my Rock and my Salvation; He is my Defense and my Fortress, I shall not be moved" (verses 5, 6, The Amplified Bible).  

Reflections from a button box . . . What comes to your mind when you think of expectations?