The telltale wake

 The news a woman killed a 1,000 pound alligator in a SC lake took a bite out of my enthusiasm to go kayaking. I checked the map to see if there were any connecting waterways linking my lake to that one. But the prospect of a warm day bathed in the round yellow light of September triumphed over fears of reptiles. 

We launched our boats and set off paddling. I automatically chose a point in the distance to set my course by. That was how my father taught us to drive a boat. He would show us a landmark and tell us to line up the bow with it. The he would go sit in the stern with my mother. It didn't seem as if he were paying attention to how we were driving, but whenever we started to zig-zag, he would holler,"Point the bow toward the hill." I'd glance back at the S-curves in the telltale wake trailing behind us.

Some weekends we'd sleep on the boat. On one such outing, I woke early before anyone else. I looked out the cabin window and saw we were drifting toward shore. Believing the anchor had come undone, I sat in the pilot's seat, picked a tree on the horizon, and turned the wheel toward it. The boat kept twisting and turning, as I, the only one awake and able to save the ship, sat at the helm with my face fixed on a point in the distance.

After a while my father woke up. He watched me for a few minutes before informing me that although the drift gave the illusion we were nearing shore, we were still secure at anchor. (Although he was kind not to mention my efforts were futile because the engine was off,my siblings were quick to so.)

The memory of that experience helps me appreciate the imagery in Luke 9:53. Jesus "was journeying with His face toward Jerusalem." He wasn't deterred, dismayed,or diverted. He understood both the the suffering and the glory, and set His face toward His purpose.

I wish I could claim to always know exactly what to do. To be able to say with courage and conviction, God told me thus and thus. The truth is, some days I circle around on anchor, others, I'm buffeted by waves and distractions. And then I hear my father say,"Point your bow to the landmark."

And I realign my course toward the One who is faithful and true, because I want my Father to look at my wake and say, "yet with respect to the promise of God,[she] did not [zig-zag] in unbelief, but grew strong in faith, giving glory to God, and being fully assured that what He had promised, He was able also to perform" (Romans 4:20).

Beware the sag in the zip line

 "If you've heard this story before, don't stop me, because I'd like to hear it again."--Groucho Marx

My students used to love to sidetrack me into telling one of my stories. As the dreamy look glazed my eyes, and I launched into an animated reverie, they would give each other a grin and cast a furtive eye at the ticking minutes on the classroom clock. I knew what they were doing, but figured there were valuable lessons to be had in life stories as well as in textbooks.

And so,when my friend, Lorie, responded to my post about leaving the rat life behind, with a comment that she could now call me a swinger, I was reminded of the time. . .

We were zip lining through the rain forest. It was the third time I had taken a mission team to work at the Home of Life for children in Costa Rica. Each year, on our day off, the team opted for the canopy tour. We hiked high into the forest, donned helmets and safety harnesses, and whizzed along a cable strung from one tree stand to another. Since I had already done this several times, I was confident that I could hold on with one hand and manage the camcorder with the other to get some live video of the experience.

I waited until we got to the longest stretch of cable. "Keep up your speed," the guide warned. "There's a sag in the middle and if you go too slow, you won't be able to make the rise to the platform. Either you'll have to haul yourself in, or someone will have to go get you."

I stepped off the stand and entrusted my body to the harness. The cable zinged, as I sailed along. But in the attempt to get the camcorder at a better angle, I twisted myself around--just enough to slow down--just before The Sag. As I began the upward slope to the platform, I could hear the dread in the guide's voice as he hollered, "You're not going to make it. Grab the cable so you don't slide back."

Letting the camera hang from my neck, I reached up and started hauling myself, hand over hand, as we had been shown. My friends on the platform twenty or thirty feet away, tried to help reel me in with their calls of encouragement. The guide, who probably didn't want to have to go get me and haul us both in, ordered me on,"Pull, pull."

But the last fifteen feet might as well have been a hundred. I had no more strength. I hung there like a pair of wet pants on a clothesline.

The point is, ah, yes, there is a point. The theme that's running through my mind lately is that God is doing a new thing, not only in my life, but in many of the lives around me. But new things don't usually pop up over night. There is a space between old and new, between then and now, between here and there. And sometimes in that interface between one thing and another, there's a sag. We get stuck. We don't think we can make it to the other side. Our friends' cheers lack the power to pull us in. We don't like hanging there, but can't do anything about it.

Thank God for the One who has been watching us all along, the One with strength enough to rescue, the One who hooks us to His belt, wraps His arms around us and hauls us in. Thank God for the assurance He won't leave us hanging in the sag between here and there.

 If you have any thoughts on new things, old things, or the space in between, join in the conversation.

P.S. Didn't want to poke through all my stored-away pictures for a personal one, so I took the above shot from the web site of Monteverde Canopy Tours.

Car Thief, God Moment

As I snuggled on my couch for my 5:30 a.m. devotions the other day, I was unaware of the person rifling through my car on the other side of the wall. When the car horn beeped, (perhaps at the moment the perpetrator threw away my Mercy Me CD), I leapt up, grabbed a flashlight, and ran to the door.

The car door was open, which I took to mean the thief had fled. Indignantly foolish, I approached the car slowly, aware that I was alone, in my pajamas, and except for my foot-long metal flashlight and yipping pooch, defenseless. Other than some Christian CDs, my favorite soundtrack, O, Brother Where Art Thou? and an ashtray full of change, nothing was missing. I called the police anyway in case there were other incidents in the neighborhood.

As the officer wrote the report, I could see he was weary. It had been a busy night he said. Two armed robberies and two house break-ins. But I suspected there was more to his heavy spirit. By the time he left, I had learned the deeper story, the one that stole his energy and weighed his being.

Being a Miss-I-See-A-Lesson-Everywhere, I settled back down with my coffee and let the excitement of the early morning events roll over me.

Lately I had been doing something I knew I wasn't supposed to be doing. The facility that bordered my property had recently banned pets. But every morning for the past three years, I had walked the dog there. So, I decided to continue--under the cover of darkness, early in the morning around 5:30. Although I didn't expect to encounter anyone in the dark, the possibility of doing so, coupled with a guilty conscience, was beginning to bother me.

Now I knew for sure others were out and about in the dark. I had been oblivious to the danger around me, but the One Who is Merciful had given me both protection and mercy as He taught me a lesson. I resolved to stop being so careless by not locking doors, and to stop endangering both my physical and spiritual well-being by my defiant, forbidden walks.

But there was more than my own personal lesson involved here. As I wrapped up my prayers of thanks, I remembered the officer whose life intersected my own that morning and whose story lodged in my spirit.

Surely the One who protected me knew the one with the difficult job of protecting others. Perhaps the One who hears my prayers had arranged this brief encounter in my driveway so that I could pray for the one who was weary.


O, Lord, may you cause your face to shine upon him who is weary, who feels life has taken a hard turn, who needs to know You who sees, and cares, and holds all things in your hands."

Leaving the rat life behind and swinging from the trees

My husband and I were enjoying the pastoral scene at the bird feeder. Not only were all the regulars present--chipmunks, squirrels, doves, cardinals, and towhees, but also a newcomer. I squinted my eyes as I focused on the furry, hunched up haunches.

"Is that a rat?" I asked. Alarmed that such a nefarious creature was within spitting distance of the house, we debated what to do. Bob worried if he put out a trap, he might catch the chipmunk, which although a nuisance, doesn't have the image problem the rat does.

Putting our hopes in the neighbor's cat, we kept a vigilant eye. Day after day, the rodent took its place with all the other creatures under the feeder. I have to admit, he behaved himself. Not a New York City sewer rat this one. He didn't rush around twitching his nose and gobbling all the food. He obeyed the bird feeder protocol.

"He's forgotten he's a rat," Bob said.

My assessment was far less generous. Regardless of its dining manners, it was still a rat. I wrote trap on my shopping list.

Later that day, I read an article about some other animals that seemed to be having an identity issue. The orangutans in a Dutch zoo had forgotten they were supposed to swing from trees. Apparently their initial  enclosure had been too small for arboreal travel, and so they had gotten used to sitting on the ground. The zoo hired a gymnast to swing from the treetops in hopes of enticing the sedentary primates off their butts and into the trees of their new facility.

Prone to seeing (and stretching) analogies, I considered the implications in my own life. I am only too happy to forget I was once a rat, but now, thanks to the grace of God, I am a new creation. Still, it is easy to settle, to be satisfied with the tidbits I have. In doing so, I begin to forget who I am and what high treetops I am called to live in. I need the examples and encouragement of others to cheer and challenge me on to new heights, as I cheer and challenge those behind me, still sitting on the ground.

The apostle Paul said,  "The things you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, practice these things; and the God of peace shall be with you."  Phillippians 4:9

Traffic Jam Ahead

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One year my husband, daughter, and I drove from New Jersey to Guatemala. Although I am not a good passenger, I had little problem traveling through the United States, but traveling in Mexico, and especially in Guatemala, raised my adrenaline levels to all-time highs. I never realized how much I had taken bridges and guardrails for granted.

We had to cross several rivers to get to our Mayan village in the highlands. One day we came upon a traffic jam caused by a pickup stalled in the river. Not being the ones stuck, nor being in any particular hurry, we took advantage of the situation to get some pictures of a typical day on the road. After a short delay, the truck recovered and continued across the river; no one worse for wear.

The minor interruption in my journey had not caused me any distress back then, but yesterday as I listened to the news, I wondered how I would have responded had I been in the midst of the 11-day traffic jam in China. There would have been no overhead signs warning me of a delay up ahead, no chance to exit the two-lane road, no bathroom! no blankets, no food, except for what the enterprising villagers provided. Just totally, unexpectedly stuck, with no idea what was ahead or what was behind.

A British couple described how they were happily aglow as they returned from a romantic vacation only to come to a sudden, days-long stop in the thick of the heat, diesel fumes, and irate travelers. In the turn of a minute, everything changed. Their lives and plans caught up in the collective repercussions of an event sixty miles down the road.

Unforeseen traffic jams, floods, catastrophes . . . .

The thing is, I was considering all of this as I was floating in my pool. The contrast between what my body was experiencing and what my mind was thinking stirred up a sense of guilt, which threatened to drown the pleasantry of the moment. Should I be enjoying myself when others are suffering, I wondered.

Then clearly, the very paraphrased lesson from a passage of Scripture (which I'd appreciate if anyone knows where it is) came to mind: No one knows what is ahead. But if I cannot and do not praise and thank God in the good times, how will I have the strength to do it in the bad?

I rolled over, floated on my back, and called to the depths of the deep blue sky.

Bless the LORD, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless His holy name. Psalm 103:1

He Knows My Face

     

 My husband's newly discovered fondness for text messaging got me thinking about forms of communication. Since good communication is vital to a healthy marriage, I wondered how this non-real-time electronic correspondence would affect one of the most powerful means of messaging a woman has--her face.

Researchers of non-verbal communication report that of the thousands of configurations facial muscles are capable of, over three-thousand combinations are understood in every culture. One study claims that 55% of effective communication is done through non-verbal expression.

But then, any woman could have told them that. Being able to convey innumerable messages by an imperceptible adjustment of her eyes is a skill learned at an early age, as my five-year-old granddaughter informed me. She was telling me about her friends at school and mentioned one boy in particular. I asked her what it was about him she liked. 

 

 "He knows my face," she said. "He knows when I don't want to be bothered, but I let him anyway."  

Wow.  

Although I suspect women are better at sending messages and interpreting facial codes than men, this is a valuable skill for any relationship. When my husband was in the pastorate, he was often tempted (gregarious man that he is) to use examples from our marriage. Usually, I could sit in the front pew with an angelic look pasted to my face and let him know in a timeless second he better switch gears in his story.  

One time, however, we were doing a home group on marriage with several other couples. Hoping his transparency would set the tone for the meetings, Bob closed in a prayer that went something like this: "Lord, I pray for more passion in our marriage." 

 

He knows my face. In a nanosecond, as every bowed head raised, I sent a message: "You are going to see some passion as soon as everyone leaves!"  

But as it is, Someone Else knows my face as well. In that instance, He deflected the barb of my arrow and redeemed both the situation and my husband. That year for a pastor appreciation gift, the church gave us a weekend at a romantic inn.  

My husband is out of town today. He sent me an electronic greeting and a happy face. I sent him back a text ending with the word kiss. Weak substitute that it is, it will have to do until we see face to face.

She has warm hands

Although my back-to-school moments with children have long passed, I remember them clearly. My daughter, the only girl, was a Velcro child. She stuck so close to me that we moved as one unit.

I decided she needed to go to pre-school a few mornings a week to ease her into the world beyond my pant legs. Like a hound on a foxhunt, I searched out every program for miles around. I sat in show-and-tell circles, noted any potential five-year-old bullies, and examined lesson plans. Finally, I found the perfect program, made especially so because of the teacher.

Although it was held in a church that we were not members of, and the classes were rapidly filling, the director assured me my daughter would be placed in that particular teacher's class. That first day finally arrived. My daughter donned her backpack, and I donned my brave, happy face. I rolled up her sleeve and planted a lipstick kiss on her arm, so she could look at it if she felt insecure.

As we approached the classroom, the director intercepted me, pointed to another room, and said that would be my daughter's."Oh,no," I protested. "I specifically chose that other teacher. She's the only reason we are here."

 Unmoved, the director said Mrs.First-Choice Teacher's room was full, but that Mrs. X was also a wonderful teacher. Not wanting to throw a parental fit in front of all the nervous little children, I handed my daughter over to Mrs. X and hurried to my car where I promptly burst into tears.

All morning, sure my daughter was in duress, I paced, and cried, and ranted, and raved. "Why, Lord? I spent weeks looking for the perfect place for her and at the last minute it all changed."

Finally, in between my complaints, I realized the story of Joseph was playing in the background of my mind. As I paused to pay attention, I remembered the lesson from Joseph's life. In spite of all the bad that happened to him, things he had no control over and that seemed so unfair, God intended it all for good.

The morning passed. Calmed enough to meet her at her classroom door, I expected to find her anxious and in tears. Instead, a happy child laden with crayon drawings greeted me. "How was it?" I asked.

"Good." she said. "I like my teacher. She has warm hands."

Indigo Inn: Vision and Re-Vision

 Perhaps because I'm old enough to have a history of my own, I've come to appreciate lessons of the past much more than I did from my classroom desk. Last weekend my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Charleston, a city whose cobblestone streets, brick alleyways, and pillared buildings exude the triumphs and tragedies of lives long gone.

We stayed at the Indigo Inn, once an indigo warehouse, now a comfortable lodging place in the heart of the historic district. All the rooms wrap around an interior courtyard of lush vegetation and splashing fountains. I wondered how the layout had ever lent itself to being a warehouse.

Turns out the vision of an 18th century woman became the re-vision of a 20th century one.

Eliza Lucas Pinckney, a 16-year-old colonial woman, took over the management of her father's plantations. She experimented with indigo, and in spite of many failed attempts, persevered and went on to become a successful business woman credited with developing indigo as one of South Carolina's major cash crops.Years after her death, a warehouse built to store indigo attested to the longevity of her vision.

According to Brian, our innkeeper, thirty years ago his parents bought the old warehouse. One website suggests that Frankie, his mother, had  a lot to do with the inn's present condition. Not having interviewed her, I can only speculate how she might have convinced her husband. Nothing to it. Just take off the roof, carve out the middle, plant a courtyard full of trees and shrubs, section out some rooms around the perimeter, and hang out the sign.

As I hunkered down with my breakfast plate on one of the couches tucked amidst the foliage, I saluted the woman who, instead of tacking a "historical building" sign on an edifice which no longer functioned in its original purpose, persevered through a new possibility. And if the full house on the weekend we stayed was any indication, her re-vision had paid off.

Sometimes I've tended to think of revision with dread, when, in fact, its meaning--to see anew-- is a positive action. It sees the exact word in place of the elusive one. It sees possibilities in place of problems. And it sees tourists chatting around platters of wine and cheese in place of bricks of indigo.

May I have the courage and perseverance to see any defunct warehouses in my life through the eyes of Holy Spirit Re-Vision. (And may my husband agree!)

Cannibals, Tourists, and the name of Jesus

Several years ago while vacationing in New Zealand, we arrived in the seaside town of Napier. Seeing a large crowd gathered at a dock, we parked our car and joined the throng who were looking at a large (as in 115 feet) Maori war canoe.

Suddenly the crowd surged forward. A man standing next to me asked if we would like to go for a ride, and before I had time to assess the fact his shirtless body was marked with paint, we climbed onboard.

It wasn't until we cast off that I realized a) there were well over 100 people onboard, 80 of whom were bare-chested, war-painted oarsmen, 40 to a side, b) we were headed into the Pacific and there was nary a life jacket in sight, c) we were the only touristy, white-skined people --a fact made all the more unnerving when the hefty warrior next me grinned as he asked, "Did you know up until a few years ago we were cannibals?"

In unison our tattooed warriors roared out a chant and raised their pointed, white-tipped oars in the air, and then plunged them into the water. The leader banged out the cadence for his oarsmen and we set off. Our wide-eyed, six-year-old daughter turned to me and said,"Get me out of here."

The cliches fit: steel cold fear paralyzed me. What had we gotten into?

Just then a man stood, thrust his sleepy, drippy-nose baby into my husband's lap, and banged out a safe-journey prayer--in English--in the name of Jesus.

In an instant everything changed. Fears fled. We were going to live! Salt spray flicked off my face as I noted the happy crowd. It was a beautiful day, and we were having an adventure I could now enjoy because of assurance in that name.

Never had a name sounded so good, so safe, so comforting. Jesus. The name that bears the power of the Almighty to grant safe journeys, deliver from evil, and make cannibals brothers.

P.S. Turns out it was a ceremonial replica touring the country for its 150 year anniversary.

Can't keep a hubcap on

 Not being blessed with a very developed sense of humor, I have to work to cultivate one, so I usually laugh on Saturday mornings between 10:00-11:00. 

That's when Click and Clack the Tappet brothers analyze their callers' car problems with a wit and wisdom that makes even the most dire of mechanical failures hilarious. I'm trying to get up my nerve to call them with an observation I made while living in the North and which has continued to prove true even here in the South.

So, I digress from my usual efforts to edify or inspire and instead share with you my inexplicable observation. Perhaps someone has a suggestion, or perhaps you too, will begin observing this phenomena, which at the very least makes for harmless entertainment while driving.

Simply put: green sedans lose their hubcaps more than any other color vehicle. Don't go away--it's true. I challenge you to start looking. 

I first noticed this shortly after we gave our college-bound daughter our green Subaru. Every time she came to visit, it was missing a hubcap. A car's visual appeal is immediately lowered by one naked black tire and exposed lug nuts, so much so, that our daughter, who would much prefer clothing, asked for hubcaps for Christmas. By spring, one was missing. Suspecting she was running over a lot of curbs, I lectured her on her driving habits.

One day, I pulled into a parking space behind a green sedan--with a missing hubcap--stuffed full with pillows, crates and other items indicative of a move. My immediate reaction was, "Oh no! She's moving back home already."  

Although it wasn't her, it got me noticing the high number of green sedans that were missing hubcaps. My degree in sociology fails me in my efforts to explain this. People who drive green cars usually inherit them, thus don't care as much? People who buy green cars are earthy types and drive in rough places? Green paint repels hubcaps?

There is some benefit to this seemingly mindless diversion. Studies show that that an idling brain actually is doing deeply creative work...so if you're stuck on a problem or have writer's block, maybe you should take a drive.

And If you see a green sedan missing its covers, let me know!

Lightning Stirkes and a Merry Heart

  Why I remember light travels at 186,000 miles per second and that there are 5,280 feet in a mile, I have no idea. I'm sure the teacher who drilled those facts must have taught me something else as well. Really, it's not like the knowledge of the speed of light is particularly useful on a daily basis, but I do remember it during thunderstorms.

As a kid, we used to count the seconds between the lightning and thunder, but I don't remember if we knew to divide the total by five, which would make a bit of a difference. I might have spent my childhood thinking a five second space meant the storm was five miles away when, in fact, it was right on top of me.

Last night we had a ripping thunderstorm. Since the pool is close to the kitchen patio doors, I was counting the seconds from the lightning, and trying to not forget the mahi-mahi in the broiler, and thinking about an acquaintance with breast cancer, and listening to the news about drug thugs taking over a previously prosperous town in Mexico...it was all very worrisome.

But then, I caught the end of a news story that made me stop and cheer for a little town whose name I didn't catch. This town, like many others these days, had no money for recreation projects. But the people made a decision not to let recession and depression steal the joy of their children's childhood. Deeming summer memories of swimming, and splashing, and laughing important to the well being of their children, they raised the $12,000 needed to run the pool.

Good for them, I thought. I'm sure they had plenty of pressing needs, but they chose something immeasurable.

A merry heart does good like medicine the author of Proverbs tells us. I may not have much money, but there are lots of inexpensive ways I can do something to lighten my spirit--take time out for beauty, do something different or differently, read a humorous story, call someone and cheer them. Such little things are not life-changing but they just might be enough to change my perspective for the day and knock me out of a rut.

Lord, today,may someone needing the healing of a merry heart be blessed by a gift of laughter.

P.S. Perhaps too trivial for a laugh, but--Reuters has some silly news stories, like the girl who took her car for an oil change. The mechanic found bags of drugs under the hood and called the police. She told them she didn't know the mechanic had to look under the hood. (Okay, maybe not)