May My Lasting Impression Not Be One of a VW Bug

The birthing center anchors the entrance to the town; a veteran’s cemetery marks its end. Dunkin Donuts, a market, bar, pizzeria, and smattering of other enterprises sustain the ebb and flow of life between. 

We snagged the only beds around—a quintessential country B&B with printed wallpaper, eclectic furnishings, and hearty breakfasts that brought new meaning to “stick to your ribs,” and everywhere else to boot.

I had been quick to secure the one bedroom with its own bath, (although my brother delighted in saying I stole it from under him—he having to share the other bath with the guests in the next room—his sons.) I had no qualms in pulling rank. And he had none in short-sheeting my bed. Having never experienced this age-old camp trick, we were totally baffled when we pulled back the blankets. Surely our innkeepers knew how to make a bed. Bill’s triumphant giggles on the other side of the door were a dead give-away.

We had come to this tiny spot on the Vermont map, wedged in between lush hillsides and Interstate 89, to celebrate a man’s life and death, and to reacquaint ourselves with family and friends long ago scattered, like a rack of pool balls, in different directions.

I was curious about the images my brain released in response to the oft asked question, “Remember me?”  In an instant, the white-haired woman facing me morphed into a teenager urging me to buy my mother a parakeet to match the one she was buying for her mother. The gregarious woman dishing out generous portions of food and picking the dog hairs off my sweater informed me I was her godmother (Lord forgive me for my delinquency in spiritual motherhood).  The lanky woman in jeans stirred sad memories of a trio of best friends broken by a family move.

A solid, towering man reminded me he was indeed the young cousin boy who worked for my father one summer. He, in turn, remembered two things about me:  I was a skinny, beaded hippie, and I had a 1964 blue Volkswagen.  Since I don’t have a cool mini cooper, or any other car of note, and I’m not decked out in beads or tattoos, this got me thinking about the impressions I make on people.

Whether we like it or not, our days are numbered. Soon my car will be at the head of the train. When it’s time for me to get off, how will I be remembered? Funerals and family gatherings remind me I have been careless with my time, my friendships, and family. There’s not much I can do about what’s behind, but I can affect what’s ahead.

[Lord] teach us to number our days, that we may present to Thee a heart of wisdom . Let Thy work appear to Thy servants, and Thy majesty to their children. And let the favor of the Lord our  God be upon us; and do confirm for us the work of our hands; yes, confirm the work of our hands.—Ps 90:12-17

I suspect the life I have lived in between the birthing center and the burial plot will be remembered along with tepees, and other assorted adventures, but in the end, I pray it will be saluted as one lived in the faith and joy of the Lord.

These afternoon storms sure pack a punch—and so does the Lord

I was so mesmerized by the black swirling rain that obliterated my view of the pool fifteen feet away, that I didn’t even think “tornado’ until it had moved its trail of havoc down the street.  Not that I know what I would have done if it were, but I probably wouldn’t keep standing in front of the patio doors.

After the tempest passed, I surveyed the damage. Apart from some of those nasty sweet gum trees losing their heads, all was well. One lawn chair floated upside down in the pool and yet the other was undisturbed. Same chairs, same place. One gone, the other left.  It reminded me of Luke’s warning—“ two will be in a bed, one will be taken the other not; two women will be grinding, one will be taken the other left”  (Luke 17:34-35).

This was just a sudden violent storm, not a tornado, earthquake, or tsunami, still it pressed its point—all man’s might comes to naught in a few furious seconds.

The fallen tree had wiped out the fence, leaving a gap which I was sure the pooch would be happy to notice. We have a cute little electric chain saw that works great when there is electricity, but is as useful as a flashlight full of dead batteries when there’s not.  My husband left for work, saying he would come back to cut the tree out of the fence as soon as the electric came on.

I thought I’d lighten his load and surprise him by chopping all the bushy branches from the main trunk. Hoping a sweaty, filthy woman who was attacking a fallen sweet gum tree with a pair of lopping shears wasn’t worthy of the evening news, I kept my face turned away from the helicopter that hovered overhead.

As I worked, I prayed for a friend who had called. Although she lives elsewhere and wasn’t affected by my weather, she was experiencing her own emotional storm. I wanted to intercede for her and hoped the Lord would accept my prayers even as I lopped branches, but I worried whether I should be on my knees in undistracted petition.

At some point in my sweaty labor, I wondered if any of the spectators out ogling the aftermath would stop and offer to help. For some reason, I was certain if someone did, I would know the Lord heard my prayers of intercession for my friend.

A mother and daughter stopped to chat and then passed by. Two boys taking advantage of the tree- blocked street zipped by on skateboards. A tired man stopped to say he’d lost his barn. Electric trucks, road crews…slowed to look and continued on.

I chopped and prayed. Two hours passed.

A teenage boy walked by, stopped, exchanged news of ruined roofs and missing trampolines. And then, there it was. God’s sweet assurance in the storms. The boy surveyed my mess.

  

“Do you need some help?”

A skunk with a can on its head is reason to freeze

  There are those times when fear nails you to the spot, clips your lips shut, and freezes all your otherwise honorable actions. Sometimes these reactions are justified. Like the time my parents left me to the skunk.

One night my family was visiting friends; the adults chatted on the porch; we kids romped the yard, spun each other silly on the tire swing, and chased after fireflies with our mason jars. I was barefoot, as usual, but the dewy night grass was cold on my feet, so I went to the car where I found a pair of my father’s shoes (Why his and not mine? I have no idea).

I remember the moment well. It was dark; I could see the adults across the lawn, silhouetted against the porch. Just as I started clunking across the grass, I heard a rattling noise coming straight toward me. Apparently, my mother noticed it also because she yelled at me to get out of the shoes and run. A skunk with a tin can stuck on its head was careening wildly about six feet away from me.

  

I froze, as did everyone else. No one moved. Not an adult. Not a sibling.

 Finally, I started running as best as I could. My mother kept yelling for me to ditch the shoes, and the skunk, just trying to free his head, chased behind, banging and rattling. At some point, my father snatched me up as the skunk disappeared into the woods.

Well, I never held this against my parents, never needed therapy or anything, because I know all too well how easy it is to freeze while your brain weighs all its options. So many times, I’ve felt like a coward about saying the right thing, or standing up for someone, even the Lord.  I know it doesn’t do any good to berate myself when I wish I had responded differently, but I do use the moment to remind myself the next time I will have more courage.

I worry about the times we are living in. You can’t say “Amen” at a graduation. The National Anthem is too violent to be sung, and the military burns Bibles in Middle Eastern countries, because they offend, but handles the Koran with the demanded reverence.

G.K. Chesterton said, (years ago), “These are the days when the Christian is expected to praise every creed except his own.”

Right now, my lines have fallen in pleasant places, and for that I am thankful. I don’t have much stress or persecution. My life isn’t demanded of me because I am a woman or a Christian.

But I am praying now, in these good times, that I will live each day with courage to say and do what is good, right, true, and life-giving—wherever I am. I’m praying that I would practice integrity in the daily little things, so that should I be given a moment “for such a time as this,” I will take courage and fear not, for I know my God is with me.—Maybe even courage enough to risk the consequences and pull that can off a skunk’s head, should I ever meet up with one again!

Deleting the alphabet. In the end, the “Rs”remain

 Back in the days when we didn’t know any better, my siblings and I stuck our tongues out at each other and hurled childish names designed to inflict pain. Our little barbs were usually countered by the retort, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”   

Older, wiser, and more properly civilized, I now know that is not, and was not, true. Names do hurt. Words, although invisible to the eye and intangible to the hand do pierce and cut.

I’m not supporting name-calling, but I think our newly found super sensitivity to language is askew. Perhaps it’s the product of trying to have good without God.

We don’t say the “N” word (unless we happen to be speaking to each other) nor the “R” word, and not several of the “G” words—one because it slurs a nationality, the other because it acknowledges Deity. But, we tolerate the “F” word; even allowing it in the books almost every kid in public school reads as part of his/her literature program. Go figure.

I personally don’t like the “D” words. Whenever I feel niggled, I tell my husband I have the “Ds.”—Despair, depression, dismay, dejection, distress, disruption, destroy, disease, diet, death.

But then there are the other “R’ words. They are the best. They are the words of life, of hope, of healing. They represent the most numerous motifs of the Bible: Reform, restoration, rebirth, redemption, reunion, reconciliation, reward, reversal, and return.

The “R” words belong to those of us who know no matter how many of our rights, our words, our liberties get deleted, no matter how much we suffer the “D” words, we know we are the “people who can have tragedy in [our] heart and comedy in [our]head”* because no man can take the “Rs” away.

We live in a fall, but we will Rise.

“And as for me, I know that my Redeemer lives. And at last He will take his stand on the earth. Even after my skin is destroyed, yet in my flesh, I shall see God.—Job 19:25

*G.K. Chesterton

A half-pound Phoebe takes over—again

Okay, so we’re not talking a multimillion dollar standoff between a rare worm and an oil pipeline, or a fly and a building complex, cases in which I landed on the side of progress, but the takeover of my poolside gazebo by an eight-ounce bird that screams “phee-bee” has me in a conundrum.

At first I was delighted the Phoebes had chosen to build their nest in the rafters of our gazebo. They flitted around the spacious enclosure as though it were their very own castle. But when they started pooping on the patio chairs, I began to think less favorably about our up-close-and-personal National Geographic happening.

Still, in deference to motherhood, we let them enjoy their takeover while their babies were nesting.  We avoided sitting in the gazebo for any length of time because I worried about the eggs going cold, or babies missing a meal. Finally, they took flight (a departure hastened when I tried to get a picture of them hovering on the rim of their nest).

Happy to hear them calling in the nearby trees, we moved back into the gazebo with our pool paraphernalia. The phoebes, however, knew a good thing when they had it, and they weren’t giving it up so easily.  Lo and behold, a few weeks later, there they were, staking their claim once again. Annoyed with our presence, they’d fly in close or perch nearby scolding and threatening.

I admit; I am amused at the gutsy stance of these tiny keepers of the castle. And I am humored by their apparent enjoyment of their find—a spacious, roofed, open-sided dwelling on the edge of insect -rich woods. 

They dwell securely, unaware that it is by my grace. And that is a reminder I would do well to contemplate. I too, dwell securely by the grace of God.

My phoebes are a living picture of the message the psalmist proclaims when he likens the birds that build nests in the Lord’s house and seek protection at His altars to the person who trusts in the lord.

  

Psalm 84—“Yes the sparrow has found a house and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even Your altars, O lord…happy is the man who trusts in you.’

As I, once again, move my chaise lounge out onto the deck and await the next flight.

When hurricanes, floods, and earthquakes don’t get attention, try Zombies

That’s what a recent blog for the Center for Disease Control did to get the attention of those of us preparedness slackers who think either, “Something like that would never happen to me,” or, “If something happens there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

We may have a sense of apathy about natural disasters, but we sure want to know what to do in the case of a Zombie outbreak. According to a Reuters report, so many people responded to the blog that the site crashed. Apparently the popularity of Vampires and Werewolves hasn’t warmed us to the horror of ambulatory beings bent on eating our brains or possessing our beings.

The Zombie lure may have been successful in drawing people to the site but I don’t know how successful it was in directing the attention to the real focus. How many people went out and bought batteries, water and extra first aid supplies?

We are a stubborn species. Ever confident in ourselves and our present reality.

But we all have been warned of two certainties: one day we each will face death, and one day the Lord will return. And no man knows the hour of either event.

Each day I read the news, especially as it pertains to Israel, I get a knot in my stomach like I’m sensing the approach of the Zombies, the encroaching of evil within my borders. I look at my pitiful emergency supplies stored in what I refer to as my “terrorist” cupboard, and although I get a bit of comfort knowing I have something on hand, I realize how feeble my attempts to save myself really are.

The only place I take any comfort is in knowing my real preparedness comes in drawing close to the Lord, in practicing the awareness of His presence in the good times so that I will be able to stand in times of danger and evil. I pray for my loved ones, and I pray for Israel.

And I cling to the certainty that one day when the Zombies threaten to take over, when darkness covers the earth and deep darkness the peoples; . . . the glory of the Lord will appear, the Holy One of Israel, and He will redeem all that are His.

Meanwhile, I do think I’ll take another look at the CDC’s site, this time bypassing the Zombies for the duct tape and other supplies info.

A day at the beach in burkas and Speedos

As a child, I delighted in playing with my grandmother’s stereoscope (a vintage Viewmaster of sorts). I’d place the sepia-colored, double-image cards on the holder, adjust the viewer and stare transfixed as the two photos morphed into a three-dimensional image that floated before my eyes.

Lately, I feel as though I’m seeing things through that old viewer again. Only instead of double-imaged paper pictures, I’m seeing opposing views of life. Simultaneously, I see good and evil, beauty and ugliness, the One who gives life and the one who destroys it.

One scene in particular has lodged itself in my mind this week. A woman told me about the time she watched a family emerge from their car for a day at the beach. The mother and young daughters, fully covered, gathered their billowing garbs as they made their way through the sand to the shore. A little boy and his father followed, each sporting a skimpy Speedo.

The males, unencumbered and undaunted by the revelation a wet Speedo delivers, frolicked in the water. The girls splashed about, enjoying, as best they could, the water that weighed down their garments like soggy diapers.

This image, however innocuous, reminds me of the oppressive evil that plays out all over the world today. A simple news search reveals story after story of women who are killed each year in “honor killings, who live with faces seared by acid-throwing men, who are lashed and beaten after having been raped. Young girls daily suffer atrocities under groups like the Taliban that we wouldn’t want our children to know even exist.

Meanwhile, we, in our tolerant, free thinking, liberal disillusionment, open our doors to the very ones who want to destroy us. Why not allow them to establish their Sharia law in our land? We are generous in our tolerance. The tragic irony is that what we call freedom is actually enslavement.

And as we stumble over ourselves to permit their Prophet, we forbid our God to be mentioned in public places. We welcome the one whose ways allow beating, maiming, and killing females, yet ban the One who came to set the captives free. We let the deceitfulness of self-righteousness blind us to the One came to give life.

The images through my viewmaster are becoming clearer, more three-dimensional. The time is drawing near. There are two sides. There is one battle.

And there is one Victor.

“ . . .  today I have set before you life and death. . . So choose life that you may live, you and your descendants after you.”—Deuteronomy 30:19

I'd rather be like the swan besotted with the tractor than be nibbled to death by a duck

“Being nibbled to death by a duck.” I don’t remember where I read this, but it is an image from some Bible study that has stuck in my mind over the years.

Have you ever been in a relationship or a situation where someone has picked at you—quietly, persistently undermining everything you did? I have and I’m sorry to say, I haven’t behaved well. Constant taunting erodes even the toughest wall of defense when it is primarily focused on resisting, in this case, the temptation to fire off a verbal volley.

Achieving victory over anything, whether unfair treatment or addiction, requires more than a defensive grit-your-teeth-and-hold on battle plan. Victory comes with a new mindset, a new vision imprinted in the very core of your being.

 A great example of this comes from the book of Nehemiah. The Jews who were rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem were being “nibbled to death by a duck.” The enemies in their midst taunted, mocked, threatened, jabbed, and stabbed until the people of Judah were worn down, fearful and disheartened.

Nehemiah admonished them to not be afraid. Easy to say, but how to do? Nehemiah tells them to remember the Lord, great and mighty, to imprint Him on their minds.

Recently I saw a news clip about a swan who “loves” a blue tractor. The swan walks alongside the tractor, stands by it when it stops, and runs after it when it goes too fast. This has been going on for years. No one knows just what the fascination is, but they speculate something about the tractor was imprinted on the swan early in life.

Ah, besotted.That’s what I want.To have the Lord imprinted in fiber of my being so that I will rest in the security of knowing the One who is great and mighty.

A random thought came, as God thoughts do

The other day I got myself in such a dither, I had to take a time out.

It was my last chance to make a revision in my manuscript before its final edit. For days I had been agonizing over a change that involved some people I had written about. I scrutinized my motives, examined my heart, and submitted myself to Holy Spirit conviction. Still, I couldn’t come to a decision, mainly because I didn’t want to hurt the primary person involved.

My stomach was in such a knot I plunked myself down in a chaise lounge, set my face toward the sun, and said, “Lord, I give up. You know the situation. I can’t come to a decision, so I’m going to sit here and clear my mind, and expect to know what to do when I get up.”

A random thought came, as God thoughts do. I started thinking about the title of my friend, Lori Roeleveld’s book, Far From the Tree. I had read the first few chapters but didn’t know who the villain was. I toyed with whether he (?) was close to another character, as in “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” or whether he was far removed as in, “the apple fell far from the tree, this time.”

In the midst of my musing, the phone rang. Lo and behold, it was the person in my book I was most concerned about. After chatting a few minutes, I plunged in and asked what they (I know it’s supposed to he or she, but choose to ignore correctness for obscurity) thought about my concern. Their immediate response surprised me.

“I think that’s good. In fact, it’s better.”

Just like that. No issue. No reason for days of angst, anxiety, and anxious thoughts. Then, as though that weren’t reason enough to know God heard my prayer, in the midst of the conversation, my friend said, “Yeah, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Well, I still don’t know who the villain is in Lori’s book, but I do know this: The Lord delights in answering prayer, and sometimes, He just can’t resist topping it with His signature flourish, no matter how random it seems.

Oh why, do I spend days fretting and fuming?

“Return to your rest, O my soul, For the LORD has dealt bountifully with you.”—Psalm 116:7

The renovation winds down, the marriage survives, and God redeems a bad decision

Did you ever worry that you made a terrible decision and wondered if God would ever make it right? I did. My last three years read like a synopsis on the fall of woman:

1. Situated nicely—money in the bank, health solid, friends, and fame (well, not so much that). Wanders south to buy a house. (Husband trusts her judgment, lets her go alone.)

2. Beguiled by a blue plastic liner, buys a swimming pool with 100-year-old house attached.

3. Suffers consequences of bad decision: discovers rotten floor boards, broken water pipes, smelly wallpaper, mold and decay. Overwhelmed by magnitude of task, relationship with spouse and only friend within 700 miles strains, health suffers from sleepless nights, renovation consumes finances, jobs elude grasp, Lord does too.

This last renovation nearly did us in. I was big on vision but short on wisdom. (The yellow duct tape holding the front door frames together should have been a clue). Not only had I underestimated the financial costs, but also the emotional and psychological ones as well.

The dreadful realization we were over our heads stared us in the eye at three in the morning; it ate with us on paper plates of take-out; it sucked our joy, our strength and our vision. We didn’t know anyone, had no friends to come over and help carry sheets of plywood, or advise us, or cheer us on. I was known in the neighborhood simply as the lady with the dumpster.

I felt as though the Lord had left me to my mess, and I couldn’t see our way out.

I thought of how His disciples, friends, and family must have despaired to see Him hanging on that cross, to see Him die. The end, the hope, the king is dead. What now? Go home and wonder.

Mournful silence for three days.

Until that morning…God trumps death! He up and leaves the rocky tomb. And He makes a way for us to follow. That’s the great ending to the story: fallen, yes, but then redeemed, restored. Alleluia!

Meanwhile, as we undergo our sanctification, our stripping, and ripping, He sustains us. He reminds us that He is a God of restoration, of hope, and of redeeming bad decisions.

That’s what we had to keep in mind during the days of the Monster Restoration.

One day Bob brought home a bouquet of zinnias. We shook the sheetrock dust off the plastic covering the couch, overturned a box, lit some candles, found a classical music station on the Bose, and decided to reclaim our vision.

“That arch looks great.”

“So do the new ceilings. The wood flooring will be in next week.”

“It’s fifty degrees here; they’re having a blizzard in Vermont.”

“I peeked under the pool cover today. The water’s still blue.”                     

entry before

entry after

                                                   

fireplace wall before

fireplace after

Renovated woman takes down a wall .

That wall had annoyed me since the day we moved in, particularly because it blocked the light from the one large window on the other end of the long, narrow basement room. Every time I went downstairs, I envisioned the wall gone. The problem was, that rated among the bottom fifty projects on my husband’s to-do list. 

Finding myself home alone one weekend, I decided to face my giant. What was the worse that could happen, anyway? Armed with a hammer, I marched into the basement.

For a few moments we stared at each other—the wall and me. Finally, screwing down my courage, I swung. Chunks of sheetrock crumbled and fell. I was committed. Piece by piece I stripped it down to the studs, leaving the ones that had wires running through them for my husband. The rest I dismantled, being fairly certain they weren’t holding up the first floor.

Sunlight flooded into the newly opened space. I realized the main obstacle that had stood between me and a renovation project more complex than paint and wallpaper was fear—fear of the what if’s. What if I messed up? What if I broke something? What if I started and couldn’t finish?  What if my husband got mad?

Now these are certainly things to consider—it especially helps to know the temperament of your spouse— but they are not insurmountable. So what if I screw up? It is my house. Broken things can be fixed. Once free from the paralysis of the what-if’s, I was able to tackle other projects, like tiling the bathroom.

(Granted. Most people don’t mix tile mortar with the kitchen mixer. But when you’ve finally gathered up your courage and given yourself the it’s-my-house-I-can-do-what-I-want pep talk, there’s no turning back—even if you’ve overlooked a few things, like the right tools. But I digress…)

           

Being paralyzed by the what-if’s happens in all kinds of situations. I worry, fret and stew about making the wrong decision, about where to go and what to do, about God’s will for me.

But God says to ask for wisdom and He will give it. He says to seek His face and walk by faith. He says to make plans and He will direct my steps. And if I make a mistake?  Can He not work all things to good?  Are His mercies not new every morning? Can He not hook His rod and His staff around me and set me upright?  Is His arm too short to save?

I had to laugh this morning while reading 1 Kings. Elijah taunts the Baal worshipers for their god’s lack of intervention—“…Either he is missing, or has gone aside on a journey, or he’s asleep…”

But Elijah’s God, and my God, is ever-present. He is my Helper, and by his grace, I will not be afraid to tackle that which is before me.

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