On the Way Home, Part 2

Do you like to travel? If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you choose? Why there?

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I have friends who love the open road. Others look forward to an occasional cruise or a February flight to Florida where it's warm and sunny. One couple went to Australia to hike and breathe in the beauty of the Southern Hemisphere. And then there are missionaries and others who find their place to serve anywhere from Europe to Asia to South America and beyond.

Unlike these brave souls, I'm afraid I'm a little like Beatrice Curtis Brown's character, Jonathan Bing, who when he was invited to visit the king, sent back this reply:

If you please will excuse me, I won't come to tea;

For home's the best place for all people like me!

 

Lately I've been thinking about why "all people like me" might be more inclined to choose home if given the choice of whether to go or stay. For me? Having survived a car crash, the ever-present possibility seems to simmer on the back burner of my mind. On top of that, probably my introvert-ish nature craves the quiet, the predictable, the stable routines. It's a place I know in a world of unknowns. It represents family gatherings beside a blazing fire, writers' meetings around my dining room table, and hot cups of tea served with love to all who cross the threshold.

But I go.  

I go to visit my children in Lancaster where I play with two special grandboys and where the clip-clop of Amish buggies always stirs up a cloud of curiosity. My youngest daughter and I make our yearly pilgrimage to Lake Michigan to visit with my late husband's family, relishing in the sand, the wind, the waves . . . and the sense of belonging that comes with intentional gatherings and conversation. Last summer, we drove over 1000 miles to visit perspective colleges in the Midwest. On our last trip, we traipsed through no less than five airports coming and going.

And while waiting at the gate, I ran across these words penned by Elisabeth Elliot: "Traveling nowadays means what it has always meant; facing risks."* Then she cited the writings of an ancient apostle who shared his travel log:

In my travels I have been in constant danger from rivers and floods, from bandits, from my own countrymen . . . I have faced danger in city streets, danger in the desert, danger on the high seas, . . . I have known exhaustion, pain, long vigils, hunger and thirst, doing without meals, cold and lack of clothing.**

Talk about risk! These words put my travel frustrations in perspective.

So, maybe "all people like me" aren't as adventurous as others, not as apt to take risks. But often we go. We go because of the people we love. We go to be together. 

We go . . .because we want to be driven by love, not fear. 


Are you more apt to stay or go? Why? 

* Elisabeth Elliot, On Asking God Why And Other Reflections on Trusting God in a Twisted World, (Grand Rapids: Fleming H. Revell, 1989), 60.
**2 Corinthians 11:26, 27. 

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.

The Tug-of-War Between Dread and Trust

So, what are you looking forward to this year? A long-planned vacation? A family reunion? A conference or get-away weekend?  Spring?! I have a few things I'm anticipating. Visits with my grandboys--and their parents! Planting a variety of veggies in our new lasagna garden we prepared in the fall. Attending the Montrose Christian Writers Conference. Oh! And I have a book coming out in early September.

On the other hand, are you dreading some things coming up? 

I'll be honest with you. I find myself dreading quite a list of things. Things like filling out the FAFSA, a necessary form for my daughter to attend college. Or, figuring out what to do when my crawlspace is suddenly taking on water. Or, tackling the paperwork to obtain another year of health insurance. I find myself a little fearful and anxious about travel and health issues and even maintaining the house long-term.

I'm learning that dread and trust are at opposite ends of the spectrum. If I'm dreading, I'm not trusting the God who promises to walk beside me and be my refuge and strength through both the big and little challenges.

I'm not alone in this tug-of-war between dread and trust. Way back in the days when the Hebrew people found themselves on the brink of the Promised Land, Moses spoke these words, "Dread not, neither be afraid . . . Yet in spite of this word [the people] did not believe (trust, rely on, and remain steadfast to) the Lord [their] God" (Deuteronomy 1:29, 32, The Amplified Bible). They wandered around in the wilderness for forty years before enjoying the blessings God had planned for them.

Lately, I've been challenged by the apostle John's words to "practice the truth" (1 John 1:6). The truth that God invites us to come to the throne of grace to ask for wisdom. The truth that He will never leave us or forsake us. The truth that He has a purposeful plan for my life and will guide me every step of the way. He invites us to trust Him.

With God's grace (and the help of the accountant), the FAFSA and health insurance paperwork are complete. Throughout the past months, over and over, God has given me every reason to trust Him. These serve as monuments to help me remember the truth the next time my stomach knots up and I find myself dreading instead of trusting. 

Dread not. Neither be afraid. 

Photos from Google Images.

Going Green

We do a lot of recycling in our house: paper, cardboard, glass bottles and jars, tin cans, plastic . . . Some weeks the lid to the recycle bin barely closes, especially if I've been cleaning out. Which, as I mentioned in my last post, I feel driven to do this time of year. I cleaned out the end table drawers, the kitchen closet, dresser drawers, and the linen closet. And I'm still going through Barry's papers and notes. I don't keep them all, but I want to touch every paper. I still can't get over how many subject areas he studied.

Sometime in the late eighties and early nineties, Barry served on the committee to begin the recycling drive in our community. We still try to conserve and go green as much as possible by recycling, composting, and opting for more natural materials and less packaging.

The other day I ran across an ancient text where the color "green" caught my attention:

[Most] blessed is the man who believes in, trusts in, and relies on the Lord, and whose hope and confidence the Lord is.

For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters that spreads out its roots by the river; and it shall not see and fear when heat comes; but its leaf shall be GREEN. It shall not be anxious and full of care in the year of drought, not shall it cease yielding fruit.*

In some ways, this season of my life could be characterized as "the year of drought," a year of firsts, of change, of learning to manage on my own, of handling everything from crawlspace issues to cars to single parenting. Maybe you can identify. Not that we haven't experienced many wonderful blessings, yet how easy to succumb to the "fear" and "heat" of daily adjustments and to "be anxious and full of care," resulting in a life void of the fruits of joy and peace.

 

I want to be like a tree with green leaves even in the dry times. Don't you? I'm learning that going green in this sense has a lot to do with trust. Confidence and hope in the Lord. Believing and relying on Him. And somehow God takes our loss and recycles it into compassion, sensitivity, and a stronger connection to the One who demonstrates His faithfulness in every circumstance.

So, the next time you put something into the recycle bin, remember that going green means more than salvaging paper, plastic, and glass. It has a lot to do with trusting God to write our stories in times of abundance and drought.

 

*Jeremiah 17:7, 8, The Amplified Bible

To Begin Again . . .

We made it through another holiday. 

I didn't know how this Christmas would be for me and the girls since Barry passed away in May. I have to admit, it proved harder than I thought . . . hanging the "Our First Christmas" ornament on the tree, shopping and wrapping alone, seeing the empty recliner on Christmas morning. BUT we did okay. We laughed. We sang. We stayed up too late. I love these five-star kids of mine--three daughters, a son-in-law, and two grandboys. 

I spent today cleaning out drawers and a closet. It's my way to unwind, to reflect and plan. One lingering Christmas thought keeps coming to mind. Maybe it's what I need to take a deep breath and begin again.

It's typical to remember Mary as the promised virgin, the mother of the Messiah. Can you imagine the responsibility of mothering this baby? This toddler? This young son? I can't fathom what it must have felt like to lose track of the twelve-year-old Son of God! And then to see Him grow into a man, the God-man, who had an agenda even Mary didn't always understand. 

This year I received a Christmas letter from a friend who lost her husband to cancer about a month before Barry passed away. Cherie's letter resonated with me:  "Do we give much thought to Mary, the widow? Jesus was 33 years old when He died. but first, He took care of the needs of His widowed mother. He turned His mother over to the care of John. . . . who took care of Mary as if she was his own mother." 
 
Losing a husband as dedicated and caring as Joseph must have dealt a hard blow to the woman who pondered so much in her heart. Did Joseph die before their children reached adulthood? Was Mary a single mom?

After Jesus' resurrection, we find her and her other sons among Jesus' followers in the upper room. She was present when another apostle was chosen to take the place of Judas Iscariot, when Peter preached his first sermon, and when the Holy Spirit came. Later, when great persecution came to the believers in Jerusalem, was she among those who scattered or did she stay? We don't know.

Whatever the case, she chose to number herself with those who believed her Son to be the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6). She stayed involved. She stood for the truth. She exhibited faithfulness.

What a wonderful example as we begin 2016. I want to be involved, to be faithful, don't you? 

Photos from google images.

Rethinking Mealtimes

So, who's the main person who feeds the people at your house? The one who cooks, packs lunches, and makes sure everyone is fed and nourished? In my home, it's me. I enjoy it most of the time.

Do you sometimes resent all those hours in the kitchen because of the more worthwhile items on your TO DO list?  At times, I do. Especially this season of the year. Recently, I heard a statement that has revolutionized the way I think about the time I spend in the kitchen. 

"Jesus took time out of His sermon to feed people."

I found the story in all four gospels. People had come from far and near to hear Jesus teach. When "the day was already far gone," Jesus sent the disciples among the people to search for food "that these may eat." All they could find was a little boy's lunch, consisting of five barley loaves and two small fish. In the end, Jesus fed 5000 men plus women and children from this little lunch, lovingly prepared by an unnamed mother that morning. Several ideas stand out in bold as I read this story.

• Jesus asked the people to sit down, which they did, in groups of hundreds and fifties, "looking like so many garden plots" (The Amplified Bible). Even though the hour was late, they didn't "eat and run" or eat standing up. They sat down.
• Jesus gave thanks. A simple tradition that acknowledges a heavenly Father who takes care of us.
• The food was simple yet nutritious: fish and bread.
• This picnic was an organized affair, not a free-for-all. Lots of helpers made it work. Jesus distributed "to the disciples and the disciples to those sitting down."
• There was plenty. The people ate "as much as they wanted."
• Nothing was wasted. Jesus gave specific instructions to "gather up the fragments that remain, so that nothing is lost."
• In the gathering dusk, the people went home with more than full stomachs. The experience touched them. "This is truly the Prophet who is to come into the world."

All worthwhile activities, wouldn't you agree? So much more that just getting the crowd fed. Translated into our century: a simple menu of plentiful, nutrient-dense food. A table of seated family members and guests. The giving of thanks. A setting for conversation, for sharing the wonder of daily miracles, for telling stories that reflect God's faithfulness. A feeling of warmth and belonging. It doesn't always happen this way, I know. Yet even though mealtimes have their challenges, perhaps these observations are worth our consideration. Perhaps there's another way to view our work in the kitchen.

The next time we're tempted to sigh over the endless cooking and baking responsibilities and all that goes with it, or even feeding a baby every three hours around the clock, let's remember how Jesus took time out of His important kingdom service to feed people. There's a whole lot of worthwhile-ness in that! 

Quote by Jennie Allen, Restless: Because You Were Made for More, W Publishing, 2013, video for Lesson Six.
Story from Matthew 14:14-21, Mark 6:33-44, Luke 9:11-17, John 6:1-14. 
Photos from bing.com

The Ultimate Trade-off

I've been anticipating the holidays coming up. The first Christmas without the man who, year after year, came huffing and puffing down the stairs and over to the tree on Christmas Eve, huffing and puffing because of all the "heavy" gifts he carried down for me. When the girls were little, they squealed with delight. The tradition continued all the way up until 2014. Who would have dreamed this Christmas would be different? We're already feeling the loss.

My wandering thoughts have also reflected on what Christmas meant for Baby Jesus. His represents the greatest loss of all, really. The reality of this came together for me at the mall . . . 

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Sleigh bells jingled in the background, and lights twinkled as I waited at the end of a long line of strangers to exchange my cash for my daughter’s Christmas gift. In a limited sense, I became poorer so she could become richer. When we give a gift, we sacrifice money—and ultimately time. Yet my transaction didn’t make me truly “poor” or make her truly “rich.”

But what if our family left our suburban home with only the clothes on our backs? What if we left our cars in the garage, our furniture, our technology, our clothes, our freezer full of food, our education, our jobs, our children’s school, and all that we have and do. And what if a refugee family from a third-world country moved in and suddenly acquired all we left behind . . . while we took up their life of hand-to-mouth poverty? We, who had been rich, for their sakes would become poor that they might gain our riches.

What if a billionaire traded places with the poorest of peasants? 

What if the Son of God became poor for earthlings like us?

Jesus willingly embraced the ultimate poverty. He left His Father and all that encompasses the celestial sphere to become a helpless infant. He took on human limitations. The hand that formed the heavens with the moon and the stars, wrapped themselves around a teenage girl’s finger as she lovingly swaddled Him in homespun strips of cloth. He became utterly dependent on the people He created—for milk, for shelter, for protection. Although He was the Word from the beginning, He had to learn to talk. Taking on humanity demonstrated no small sacrifice. He traded all of heaven’s glory for our sakes so that we could acquire all He left behind.

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We celebrate Christmas because a Savior came to provide eternal life. We sing carols about joy, celebrate with candlelight services, and re-enact the Nativity. We rejoice in the benefits of His grace.

But Jesus experienced unfathomable loss. Loss for a sinful people who may take the incarnation for granted. And if becoming a baby wasn’t humbling enough, He gave up His life as the ultimate sacrifice. For our sakes—all because He loves us.

This Christmas, l hope we will remember God’ unspeakable gift. It’s through His poverty we become truly rich.

Joy to the world!

 For you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though He was rich, yet for your sake He became poor, that you through His poverty might become rich (2 Corinthians 8:9 NKJV).

 Reprinted, in part, from Christian Devotions.