You just never know when God is going to bump into you – and you, him.
A lady learned recently what a beautiful thing it is to collide head-on with the Lord. Over the past several years, she had grown slack in her relationship with him and had not been in fellowship with a church family for a while. It grieved her, but she couldn’t seem to move herself to correct the situation. Shortly after relocating to a different state, she lost her husband. Neighbors who had already connected with her and her husband during his short illness were right there for her with food, comfort, and moral support. She hardly knew them, but they cherished her and her husband as if they all were old friends.
These neighbors invited her - now a new widow - to return with them to their church services (she and her husband had gone with them a time or two previously). She complied, thoroughly enjoying everything. She was drawn in to their weekly ladies Bible class, and also began helping with various other activities. She found a wonderful new friend, a wise older lady, also a member at the church. These activities and friends were life-savers as she confronted the many, many tasks widows sometimes must resolve by themselves, and which can take months, not weeks, to deal with.
Through one avenue at a time, the Lord began speaking to her in her spirit. In studying Jeremiah in ladies class, a burden settled on her: her need to repent of lukewarmness toward Jesus. She made up her mind she would share her burden and her repentance with these sweet women. However, in the service the next Sunday morning, everything seemed to unite to further prick her conscience: the song about heaven, and Amazing Grace – My Chains are Gone; then the sermon on forgiveness particularly moved her. The neighbor shared his handkerchief with her as they both wept.
She hadn’t intended to go forward at the invitation song, but after scribbling a note, she walked down the aisle and handed it to the minister. He read her confession aloud to the congregation. She told them she had not been faithful to the Lord before moving to their community, and felt she had set a bad example for her family, friends and relatives. The note concluded with “I now want to live each day for the Lord. I ask for prayers to set a good example for everyone around me. I now feel so free.”
The preacher asked God to use her repentance to touch many lives. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the father of four girls (who worked with the youth and taught the high school class) made his way to her and whispered that he was struggling with a lot of problems. In fact, he had decided to walk away and stop coming to church. But because of her open repentance and confession, he, in his words, "won’t do that now" and thanked her. Her response to God's call had enabled another to collide with the Almighty!
I’m sure she floated out of the building that morning!!
Her concluding thought in her email was this: “I am sorry I wasted years being a bad example and not being faithful like I should. I had many excuses too numerous to list why I just couldn't do... what I now am able to do with God's help.”
Praise the Lord for these collisions!! May we all have more of them.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Encountering God Through Grieving with Another
I visited with an old friend recently. We reminisced, caught up on our children’s doings and each other. Like most of us, her life has been checkered with sorrow, including the untimely death of her father of her two daughters.
We were silent for a long moment, thinking of our shared past. She said finally in a resigned voice, “You just don’t know what life’s going to throw at you; you just do what you have to do.”
I replied, “You’ve certainly had your share of suffering, and losing Pat was probably the worst.” Even though he died nearly 20 years ago, and she has been happily remarried for awhile, her blue eyes glistened as big tears welled up and overflowed. In a shaky voice she whispered, “And I still cry over that one.”
The death of one’s mate is not easily “gotten over.” I have not experienced that loss, but I’ve known many women who have. “My husband died” is a phrase stuffed so full of multiple emotions it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst wide open. Which is similar to how some widows feel in the days, months, even years after laying a husband to rest.
We who are on the outside looking in on this life struggle try to comfort and console: we deliver casseroles, pound cake and iced tea; we offer sympathies and clichés. Then after the “proper” amount of time has passed, we’re concerned if the bereaved woman is still grieving. We wonder about her if she wants only to talk of her loss when we visit. We try to involve her in activities and events (potlucks at church, a movie, a trip, a part-time job, etc.) to blot out the pain. If prematurely presented, these things are only a bandage covering the wound for a time. She still sorrows. At this point, after we’ve suffered long with her; after we’ve given all the comfort we can call up; after we’ve offered wise advice, even quoted Scripture, do we now, in a crevice of our minds, think: Okay, it’s time to get on with your life! Enough! I confess I did when I first confronted this type of pain. No more.
Mourning is a complicated process that cannot be shortened by a few well-meaning/chosen words and actions. It cannot be compressed into a Reader’s Digest version. In the days of the movie, "Gone with the Wind," a widow was given a full year to mourn a life turned upside down. Not such a bad idea – no expectations put on her, or early deadlines issued – the widow’s black clothing prescribed how others should treat her as she recovered.
Maybe we want so badly for the veil of sorrow to lift because we are terrifically uncomfortable and nervous when faced with the grief of another. True, it’s soggy, sad, and frankly, not much fun. Perhaps a popular statement is in order here: It’s not about me - it's not about us. It’s about the woman who's suffered the loss of her mate. It's the supreme act of love to grieve with that widow, offering no platitudes and not attempting to cut short the tears. To listen heartfully every time as she remembers, agonizes, and/or worries about the future. It’s part of the healing process. Include her in your life, invite her to accompany you to whatever, but if she declines, accept it graciously. And continue to include and invite (not badgering) until she’s ready to accept.
It’s not about me, or us; it’s about her.
We were silent for a long moment, thinking of our shared past. She said finally in a resigned voice, “You just don’t know what life’s going to throw at you; you just do what you have to do.”
I replied, “You’ve certainly had your share of suffering, and losing Pat was probably the worst.” Even though he died nearly 20 years ago, and she has been happily remarried for awhile, her blue eyes glistened as big tears welled up and overflowed. In a shaky voice she whispered, “And I still cry over that one.”
The death of one’s mate is not easily “gotten over.” I have not experienced that loss, but I’ve known many women who have. “My husband died” is a phrase stuffed so full of multiple emotions it’s a wonder it doesn’t burst wide open. Which is similar to how some widows feel in the days, months, even years after laying a husband to rest.
We who are on the outside looking in on this life struggle try to comfort and console: we deliver casseroles, pound cake and iced tea; we offer sympathies and clichés. Then after the “proper” amount of time has passed, we’re concerned if the bereaved woman is still grieving. We wonder about her if she wants only to talk of her loss when we visit. We try to involve her in activities and events (potlucks at church, a movie, a trip, a part-time job, etc.) to blot out the pain. If prematurely presented, these things are only a bandage covering the wound for a time. She still sorrows. At this point, after we’ve suffered long with her; after we’ve given all the comfort we can call up; after we’ve offered wise advice, even quoted Scripture, do we now, in a crevice of our minds, think: Okay, it’s time to get on with your life! Enough! I confess I did when I first confronted this type of pain. No more.
Mourning is a complicated process that cannot be shortened by a few well-meaning/chosen words and actions. It cannot be compressed into a Reader’s Digest version. In the days of the movie, "Gone with the Wind," a widow was given a full year to mourn a life turned upside down. Not such a bad idea – no expectations put on her, or early deadlines issued – the widow’s black clothing prescribed how others should treat her as she recovered.
Maybe we want so badly for the veil of sorrow to lift because we are terrifically uncomfortable and nervous when faced with the grief of another. True, it’s soggy, sad, and frankly, not much fun. Perhaps a popular statement is in order here: It’s not about me - it's not about us. It’s about the woman who's suffered the loss of her mate. It's the supreme act of love to grieve with that widow, offering no platitudes and not attempting to cut short the tears. To listen heartfully every time as she remembers, agonizes, and/or worries about the future. It’s part of the healing process. Include her in your life, invite her to accompany you to whatever, but if she declines, accept it graciously. And continue to include and invite (not badgering) until she’s ready to accept.
It’s not about me, or us; it’s about her.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Chosen
I wasn’t chosen.
Now that could be a happy or sad occasion. If, as a kid, I wasn’t picked to be a part of a softball team I was sad indeed. However, if the teacher passed over me and chose some other unfortunate individual for an oral book report, I went limp with relief. And so it went. Chosen for this; not chosen for that. Happy – sad. In other words, life.
My latest chosen/not chosen episode took place in a far loftier atmosphere than an arid, weedy ball field – a judicial building in our small town.
We, the chosen jury pool, dutiful citizens all, huddled together one rainy, cold Monday morning in the Wilbur D. Mills Court House. Yawning, shivering, some of us slightly moist, we each answered “Here” as our names were called by a smiling circuit clerk. May I say all the court officials were super courteous? They were, from the cheerful bailiff who greeted us at the court room door, to the just-mentioned pleasant circuit clerk, to the gentlemanly lawyers, to the soft-spoken judge with an appropriate twitch of humor. Don’t know about the court reporter, she had her hands full and didn’t any pay attention to us. (It occurred to me that our bailiff would outperform Judge Judy’s somber officer any day of the week.)
At the beginning of this adventure, I asked the Lord to do with me as He wanted. Before you admire me too abundantly, I also added a post script that He knew I did not want to do this, but YWBD (your will be done, for those of you unfamiliar with church talk). Plus I felt a little guilty not wanting to participate in the process since I am an American citizen. Still didn’t want to do it, though.
As the dreary morning wore on, 18 potential jurors and alternates moved to front row seats as each was chosen. One of them, a long-time acquaintance, threw me a glance that really looked like a sigh as she rose from her seat. When the final alternate was seated, I exhaled a small whoosh of relief – I hadn’t been chosen! However, underneath the relief, a tiny sprig of disappointment wriggled (to my surprise). I stepped on it immediately and breathed: Thank you, Lord, for sparing me.
Oh, but it wasn’t over yet: one of the selected asked to speak to the judge. He recounted his tale of woe which concerned his mother-in-law. No, not the things he disliked about her, if any; he was supposed to transport her to the airport that afternoon smack in the middle of the trial. His Honor opined that he surely didn’t want to be party to anyone getting in trouble with his mother-in-law and dismissed him from duty.
We, the leftovers, tightened those muscles so recently relaxed and waited with bated breath to see who the next offering might be. Lord I meant what I said: YWBD. But please don’t let them chose me!!
Me! It was me - I mean, it was I! I was chosen as the replacement! Okay, Lord, I’m good with this. I scrubbed past the once-again-relieved fellow waiters to take my place with the selected few.
After 30 minutes or so of both defense and prosecuting attorneys questioning us about prejudices, opinions, etc., it was time to select the final 12 and an alternate. Lord, you know the routine: YWBD. But…!
Many minutes later, just before the clerk called out the name of the 12th juror, I wondered how God would finish this up. Didn’t have long to wait; yep, I would be one of the 12. I was number 12, as a matter of fact. As I sat down in the box, a friend sent me a slightly evil grin from his seat of “unchosenness,” relishing my fate.
In spite of this seemingly done deal, the Lord wasn’t quite done. Just as I settled in and began to feel important and elite and even kind of biblical (Jesus chose 12, didn’t He?), the clerk corrected, “My mistake - Mrs. Woodell is supposed to be the alternate for this jury, not one of the 12.” I changed seats with the lady next to me. I’m still good with this, Lord, even though I’m not biblical anymore. I’m demoted. YWBD.
But the Lord wasn’t done, even yet. After lots of paper shuffling, a little conferring with the attorneys and a word to the judge, Ms. Clerk said, “My bad – Mrs. Woodell isn’t supposed to be the alternate.” Then she spoke these words alight with sunbeams and garlands of roses and cotton candy: “Mrs. Woodell, you are excused from jury duty; you are free to go.”
This time I was the evil grinner as I exited the box.
And don’t try to tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor.
Now that could be a happy or sad occasion. If, as a kid, I wasn’t picked to be a part of a softball team I was sad indeed. However, if the teacher passed over me and chose some other unfortunate individual for an oral book report, I went limp with relief. And so it went. Chosen for this; not chosen for that. Happy – sad. In other words, life.
My latest chosen/not chosen episode took place in a far loftier atmosphere than an arid, weedy ball field – a judicial building in our small town.
We, the chosen jury pool, dutiful citizens all, huddled together one rainy, cold Monday morning in the Wilbur D. Mills Court House. Yawning, shivering, some of us slightly moist, we each answered “Here” as our names were called by a smiling circuit clerk. May I say all the court officials were super courteous? They were, from the cheerful bailiff who greeted us at the court room door, to the just-mentioned pleasant circuit clerk, to the gentlemanly lawyers, to the soft-spoken judge with an appropriate twitch of humor. Don’t know about the court reporter, she had her hands full and didn’t any pay attention to us. (It occurred to me that our bailiff would outperform Judge Judy’s somber officer any day of the week.)
At the beginning of this adventure, I asked the Lord to do with me as He wanted. Before you admire me too abundantly, I also added a post script that He knew I did not want to do this, but YWBD (your will be done, for those of you unfamiliar with church talk). Plus I felt a little guilty not wanting to participate in the process since I am an American citizen. Still didn’t want to do it, though.
As the dreary morning wore on, 18 potential jurors and alternates moved to front row seats as each was chosen. One of them, a long-time acquaintance, threw me a glance that really looked like a sigh as she rose from her seat. When the final alternate was seated, I exhaled a small whoosh of relief – I hadn’t been chosen! However, underneath the relief, a tiny sprig of disappointment wriggled (to my surprise). I stepped on it immediately and breathed: Thank you, Lord, for sparing me.
Oh, but it wasn’t over yet: one of the selected asked to speak to the judge. He recounted his tale of woe which concerned his mother-in-law. No, not the things he disliked about her, if any; he was supposed to transport her to the airport that afternoon smack in the middle of the trial. His Honor opined that he surely didn’t want to be party to anyone getting in trouble with his mother-in-law and dismissed him from duty.
We, the leftovers, tightened those muscles so recently relaxed and waited with bated breath to see who the next offering might be. Lord I meant what I said: YWBD. But please don’t let them chose me!!
Me! It was me - I mean, it was I! I was chosen as the replacement! Okay, Lord, I’m good with this. I scrubbed past the once-again-relieved fellow waiters to take my place with the selected few.
After 30 minutes or so of both defense and prosecuting attorneys questioning us about prejudices, opinions, etc., it was time to select the final 12 and an alternate. Lord, you know the routine: YWBD. But…!
Many minutes later, just before the clerk called out the name of the 12th juror, I wondered how God would finish this up. Didn’t have long to wait; yep, I would be one of the 12. I was number 12, as a matter of fact. As I sat down in the box, a friend sent me a slightly evil grin from his seat of “unchosenness,” relishing my fate.
In spite of this seemingly done deal, the Lord wasn’t quite done. Just as I settled in and began to feel important and elite and even kind of biblical (Jesus chose 12, didn’t He?), the clerk corrected, “My mistake - Mrs. Woodell is supposed to be the alternate for this jury, not one of the 12.” I changed seats with the lady next to me. I’m still good with this, Lord, even though I’m not biblical anymore. I’m demoted. YWBD.
But the Lord wasn’t done, even yet. After lots of paper shuffling, a little conferring with the attorneys and a word to the judge, Ms. Clerk said, “My bad – Mrs. Woodell isn’t supposed to be the alternate.” Then she spoke these words alight with sunbeams and garlands of roses and cotton candy: “Mrs. Woodell, you are excused from jury duty; you are free to go.”
This time I was the evil grinner as I exited the box.
And don’t try to tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Thirsty?
If any man thirst …
Drinking water isn’t an option. A nurse recently called my attention to the scarcity of H2O in my body. She looked at the results of a urinalysis and exclaimed with passion, “You must drink more water!!” I guess it’s true that just because you don’t detect or recognize the signs of thirst doesn’t mean your body isn’t dry.
So it is spiritually. Thousands of people don’t have a detectable yearning for spiritual water, but that doesn’t mean their souls aren’t as parched as my yard in August. If someone does become aware of a soulful emptiness, chances are he or she will try to assuage it with a placebo. You know what a placebo is – a sugar pill or some other totally ineffective “remedy” for what’s ailing you. It’s not the real thing. Sadly, a vast part of our world relies on magic potions instead of the only Cure.
Christians use placebos too. I’ve done it, and may again if I’m not alert to Satan’s deceptions. Those in the world, and we who claim the Lord both may seek exciting diversions/recreations, gather possessions, be completely absorbed in our families, become some of “holic,” or perhaps pursue the perfect romantic relationship - anything to quiet that ache within.
Many Christians may spurn the above tactics, but have a go at self-medication with perfect church attendance, communion, singing in a prescribed manner, or refraining from becoming overly chummy with those outside their “boundaries.” The less-conservative might depend on the weekly spirited praise and worship service as an antidote for their thirst, or close fellowship of like-minded brothers and sisters, or an outside-the-box benevolent or evangelistic mission.
Most of the activities mentioned are A-Okay. Who could argue against a dynamic worship assembly? The Lord’s Supper is a powerful part of Jesus Christ. Who doesn’t want (and need) wonderful fellowship? Nothing wrong with buying a couch. Falling in love will never perish from the earth. We certainly must relieve the misery of the poor. And didn’t Jesus say something fairly important about seeking the lost?
The catch, or hitch in our get-a-long occurs when we try to substitute any of these for the intimate relationship the Lord God longs to have with each of us. No stand-in for this will ever, ever work. I can’t have a meaningful relationship with a cracker and sip of grape juice; same thing goes for the newest and liveliest song. Intimate companionship with others will alleviate my thirst until they have to go home.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a spiritual sugar pill – I want the Lord!! I don’t want anything that surrounds my God in the way of spiritual trimmings; I want the Center of those accessories!!! The Rock of my salvation. I don’t want the salvation alone – I long for the Source of that salvation. No Gator-ade for me; only the Living Water.
Pray for steadfastness in pursuit of the Savior Himself; pray for a stronger thirst, and pray that none of us settles for a sugar pill.
Drinking water isn’t an option. A nurse recently called my attention to the scarcity of H2O in my body. She looked at the results of a urinalysis and exclaimed with passion, “You must drink more water!!” I guess it’s true that just because you don’t detect or recognize the signs of thirst doesn’t mean your body isn’t dry.
So it is spiritually. Thousands of people don’t have a detectable yearning for spiritual water, but that doesn’t mean their souls aren’t as parched as my yard in August. If someone does become aware of a soulful emptiness, chances are he or she will try to assuage it with a placebo. You know what a placebo is – a sugar pill or some other totally ineffective “remedy” for what’s ailing you. It’s not the real thing. Sadly, a vast part of our world relies on magic potions instead of the only Cure.
Christians use placebos too. I’ve done it, and may again if I’m not alert to Satan’s deceptions. Those in the world, and we who claim the Lord both may seek exciting diversions/recreations, gather possessions, be completely absorbed in our families, become some of “holic,” or perhaps pursue the perfect romantic relationship - anything to quiet that ache within.
Many Christians may spurn the above tactics, but have a go at self-medication with perfect church attendance, communion, singing in a prescribed manner, or refraining from becoming overly chummy with those outside their “boundaries.” The less-conservative might depend on the weekly spirited praise and worship service as an antidote for their thirst, or close fellowship of like-minded brothers and sisters, or an outside-the-box benevolent or evangelistic mission.
Most of the activities mentioned are A-Okay. Who could argue against a dynamic worship assembly? The Lord’s Supper is a powerful part of Jesus Christ. Who doesn’t want (and need) wonderful fellowship? Nothing wrong with buying a couch. Falling in love will never perish from the earth. We certainly must relieve the misery of the poor. And didn’t Jesus say something fairly important about seeking the lost?
The catch, or hitch in our get-a-long occurs when we try to substitute any of these for the intimate relationship the Lord God longs to have with each of us. No stand-in for this will ever, ever work. I can’t have a meaningful relationship with a cracker and sip of grape juice; same thing goes for the newest and liveliest song. Intimate companionship with others will alleviate my thirst until they have to go home.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t want a spiritual sugar pill – I want the Lord!! I don’t want anything that surrounds my God in the way of spiritual trimmings; I want the Center of those accessories!!! The Rock of my salvation. I don’t want the salvation alone – I long for the Source of that salvation. No Gator-ade for me; only the Living Water.
Pray for steadfastness in pursuit of the Savior Himself; pray for a stronger thirst, and pray that none of us settles for a sugar pill.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Encountering God
God is also in the down-to-earth, everyday goings-on of life. I'm so glad!! I realized I was experiencing his presence not long ago while in the midst of a home church meeting. Part of the group is made up of one family: mom, dad, their son, his wife and their baby, and two grown daughters with their respective families.
The Lord has blessed the three young couples with four little boys among them, ages about 4 years to 5 months. Lively, sunny-natured little guys who adore each other, they have a ball at gran and grandad's home. As we grown-ups attacked the food, the three older youngsters giggled with delight (that special joy only close boy cousins share), chasing each other in and around the taller people. Mamas and daddies monitored their speeds and slowed them down when necessary. Every now and then a couple of the men wondered about the activity at their kneecaps; when they looked down, they beheld short fellows in pajamas karate-chopping their patellas. All in fun, no harm done.
The three mamas, dads and the grandparents worked together as a team, corraling and caring for the bundles of energy. I heard, "Do you want me to fix his plate?" or "I can give him his bottle." Kisses and hugs were bestowed randomly and often. If by chance one of the boys fell victim to an owie, comforters were johnny on the spot.
The 18-month old took time out from frolicking to make a sudden stop in front of his grandmother - he mumbled some request in a strange language. She understood it! Turning to his mother, she asked, "Is it okay to give him this?" (Respect. Granmom did not want to ignore parental rules, or even preferences.) Mom nodded okay, and her son flashed a grin that dazzled all close by.
The 5 month old spent the evening being cradled and smooched on by mom, aunts, grandmom and granddad. Anytime relief was needed, many willing hands reached out to aid the baby's mommy. He was content with every one of his adoring relatives!
Correction - sometimes hard to give in a crowd - was handled firmly, and with respect to the children. I didn't hear ridicule, sarcasm, harsh, screaming voices or inappropriate language erupting.
Even though the great-grandparents weren't there this evening, I can't leave them out! They're very much involved in the lives of their children, grandchildren, and great-grans. The two of them gladly help out in times of need, and know their little great-grans well from frequent contact with them. Once at another get-together, I saw one of the granddaughters lean over, kiss her grandmother on the cheek and whisper her thanks for their wonderful help when she was sick. Great-grandmother also teaches their Sunday School class weekly.
I know these families aren't perfect. They suffer stress, anxieties, misunderstandings and other problems just like we all do. They even make mistakes!
However, the point is not whether they do everything right; the point is that God has been invited to live among them. He binds them together in love. And the Lord's influence was so obvious that night as they loved on those kids, on each other, and on those of us who were privileged to watch God in their midst.
The Lord has blessed the three young couples with four little boys among them, ages about 4 years to 5 months. Lively, sunny-natured little guys who adore each other, they have a ball at gran and grandad's home. As we grown-ups attacked the food, the three older youngsters giggled with delight (that special joy only close boy cousins share), chasing each other in and around the taller people. Mamas and daddies monitored their speeds and slowed them down when necessary. Every now and then a couple of the men wondered about the activity at their kneecaps; when they looked down, they beheld short fellows in pajamas karate-chopping their patellas. All in fun, no harm done.
The three mamas, dads and the grandparents worked together as a team, corraling and caring for the bundles of energy. I heard, "Do you want me to fix his plate?" or "I can give him his bottle." Kisses and hugs were bestowed randomly and often. If by chance one of the boys fell victim to an owie, comforters were johnny on the spot.
The 18-month old took time out from frolicking to make a sudden stop in front of his grandmother - he mumbled some request in a strange language. She understood it! Turning to his mother, she asked, "Is it okay to give him this?" (Respect. Granmom did not want to ignore parental rules, or even preferences.) Mom nodded okay, and her son flashed a grin that dazzled all close by.
The 5 month old spent the evening being cradled and smooched on by mom, aunts, grandmom and granddad. Anytime relief was needed, many willing hands reached out to aid the baby's mommy. He was content with every one of his adoring relatives!
Correction - sometimes hard to give in a crowd - was handled firmly, and with respect to the children. I didn't hear ridicule, sarcasm, harsh, screaming voices or inappropriate language erupting.
Even though the great-grandparents weren't there this evening, I can't leave them out! They're very much involved in the lives of their children, grandchildren, and great-grans. The two of them gladly help out in times of need, and know their little great-grans well from frequent contact with them. Once at another get-together, I saw one of the granddaughters lean over, kiss her grandmother on the cheek and whisper her thanks for their wonderful help when she was sick. Great-grandmother also teaches their Sunday School class weekly.
I know these families aren't perfect. They suffer stress, anxieties, misunderstandings and other problems just like we all do. They even make mistakes!
However, the point is not whether they do everything right; the point is that God has been invited to live among them. He binds them together in love. And the Lord's influence was so obvious that night as they loved on those kids, on each other, and on those of us who were privileged to watch God in their midst.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Bark and Babies
Frustrated that squirrels were systematically chewing all the bark off her Japanese maples, a lady wrote to an expert for help. "What's going on?" she asked. "The pests don't even eat the bark; they spit it on the ground. They're killing my trees!!"
The expert, in a calm voice that came through the newsprint, soothed the tree owner, assuring her the damage is most likely superficial even though the maples may look seriously wounded. Then she surmised - only a theory, mind you - that expectant female squirrels are the culprits, and, they are gnawing the bark off to relieve their labor pains. Well!
The more I considered this sad situation, the more I pitied those poor lady squirrels. They don't have the benefit of Lamaze instruction. They don't enjoy the option of screaming for an epidural - "AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW!!!!" They can't even grovel for any of that fake pain-reliever, Demerol. And those cowardly daddy squirrels who could be coaching have probably holed up somewhere, smoking cigars until it's all over. These ladies have to go natural-baby-squirrel-birth all the way. So they attack trees.
Now before you laugh out loud, just think for a moment. If you've delivered a baby, don't you remember certain stages of that experience when you might well have chewed some bark had it been handy? Actually ripped it right off a tree?! Then spat it on the ground and dared anyone to say anything? It might be immensely satisfying to add this component to the baby-delivery saga. Maybe we ought to request a few potted trees in the labor and delivery unit.
The expert, in a calm voice that came through the newsprint, soothed the tree owner, assuring her the damage is most likely superficial even though the maples may look seriously wounded. Then she surmised - only a theory, mind you - that expectant female squirrels are the culprits, and, they are gnawing the bark off to relieve their labor pains. Well!
The more I considered this sad situation, the more I pitied those poor lady squirrels. They don't have the benefit of Lamaze instruction. They don't enjoy the option of screaming for an epidural - "AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW!!!!" They can't even grovel for any of that fake pain-reliever, Demerol. And those cowardly daddy squirrels who could be coaching have probably holed up somewhere, smoking cigars until it's all over. These ladies have to go natural-baby-squirrel-birth all the way. So they attack trees.
Now before you laugh out loud, just think for a moment. If you've delivered a baby, don't you remember certain stages of that experience when you might well have chewed some bark had it been handy? Actually ripped it right off a tree?! Then spat it on the ground and dared anyone to say anything? It might be immensely satisfying to add this component to the baby-delivery saga. Maybe we ought to request a few potted trees in the labor and delivery unit.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
That Unruly Tongue
If there's one thing my mom and dad would not tolerate, it was bad language. Perhaps they'd been warned by their respective parents that if they wanted to die early in life then just say some naughty words aloud. Whether or not my grandparents' took that perspective I can't say; I know my mother and father did. Especially anathema in our home was dragging God's name through the mouth lightly. "My Lord!" was a commonly heard expression with some, but it better not slip past any lips in our house!
I never heard my dad use one curse word, unless you count "Dast it!!!" That seldom-used expression exploded from him only when something or other was tromping on his last nerve - accompanied by purplish face and clenched teeth. Usually an ornery car was to blame. My mother let one "bathroom" word slip one time when she was extremely provoked (on purpose) by my father. Something to do with him pretending to run into a tree as we motored into the church parking lot.
My folks' aversion to smutty and irreverent talk did not prevent me from indulging in that sort of talk when I was a teen. Some sort of statement to my world, I suppose, about how I was not under anyone's thumb - certainly not my parents'. I was a grown-up, sophisticated lady, er, girl, with her very own potty mouth. I still blush with shame remembering my stupidity.
Eventually, praise God, the stupidity receded somewhat. When I married, I trashed the expletitives, even developed an outright aversion to them. I suppose I thought that since I now considered myself an adult, I ought to act like one. I was free!! Later a more compelling reason harnessed my tongue: if I claimed to be washed in the blood of the Lamb then shouldn't I behave as though I were washed in the blood of the Lamb?
"Hallelujah, my tongue problem has been dealt with!" That's what I thought all those years ago. Ha!! I had only imagined my tongue was at last well-behaved. The Lord let me know quickly that He also had something against g-o-s-s-i-p (which I was still committing). And saying hateful words to my husband. And hurtful things to my children. And illegal use of sarcasm to slyly disparage another person. And judgmental slurs from my superior self's mouth about those not as perfect as I. Not to mention putting a stained glass slant on my words at times (even when I didn't feel that way) so as to sound properly spiritual to others. Oh, me.
Is it a revelation to you that my struggle to allow the Holy Spirit to taste and approve my words before I let them dribble or explode from behind my teeth is still going on? I think not, because you're a people too. I'm resigned that my training process may continue for awhile. Maybe even until my dying day. I fervently pray, however, that the Spirit will grow stronger and more masterful; that my tongue daily become less connected to me, and more attached to Him. I believe that will happen.
I never heard my dad use one curse word, unless you count "Dast it!!!" That seldom-used expression exploded from him only when something or other was tromping on his last nerve - accompanied by purplish face and clenched teeth. Usually an ornery car was to blame. My mother let one "bathroom" word slip one time when she was extremely provoked (on purpose) by my father. Something to do with him pretending to run into a tree as we motored into the church parking lot.
My folks' aversion to smutty and irreverent talk did not prevent me from indulging in that sort of talk when I was a teen. Some sort of statement to my world, I suppose, about how I was not under anyone's thumb - certainly not my parents'. I was a grown-up, sophisticated lady, er, girl, with her very own potty mouth. I still blush with shame remembering my stupidity.
Eventually, praise God, the stupidity receded somewhat. When I married, I trashed the expletitives, even developed an outright aversion to them. I suppose I thought that since I now considered myself an adult, I ought to act like one. I was free!! Later a more compelling reason harnessed my tongue: if I claimed to be washed in the blood of the Lamb then shouldn't I behave as though I were washed in the blood of the Lamb?
"Hallelujah, my tongue problem has been dealt with!" That's what I thought all those years ago. Ha!! I had only imagined my tongue was at last well-behaved. The Lord let me know quickly that He also had something against g-o-s-s-i-p (which I was still committing). And saying hateful words to my husband. And hurtful things to my children. And illegal use of sarcasm to slyly disparage another person. And judgmental slurs from my superior self's mouth about those not as perfect as I. Not to mention putting a stained glass slant on my words at times (even when I didn't feel that way) so as to sound properly spiritual to others. Oh, me.
Is it a revelation to you that my struggle to allow the Holy Spirit to taste and approve my words before I let them dribble or explode from behind my teeth is still going on? I think not, because you're a people too. I'm resigned that my training process may continue for awhile. Maybe even until my dying day. I fervently pray, however, that the Spirit will grow stronger and more masterful; that my tongue daily become less connected to me, and more attached to Him. I believe that will happen.
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