Lousy Timing, Lovely Time

Frozen citrus in Florida, because the Shanks are in town.

Of all the dumb decisions Larry and I made when we were dating, engaged and newly married, the dumbest had to be the wedding date. Who gets married in early March? During Lent?? But we were young and foolish, as they say, and just couldn’t wait the extra ten weeks until my senior year of college would be over. So we married on the Saturday of the beginning of my Spring Break in 1984, which was March 3. And headed north, to NYC and New England (as I said…DUMB).

Among the reasons why not to get married in early March, the biggest has to be that unless you live pretty far south or can take the time and money needed for a very long car trip or a flight, you will be celebrating your anniversary all bundled up, with no flowers or green grass or autumn leaves to color the scenery. And if you do travel south–say, deep enough into Florida to get beach-warm, or to an affordable Mexican destination–you will be encountering swarms of hazed, half-naked college kids, because remember, you got married on SPRING BREAK, dummy. That’s the week college kids have spring break.

Our compromise solution this year was to celebrate this milestone anniversary (our 25th!) with a car trip just south enough to reasonably expect pleasant (if not beach-warm) weather for a few days, and do a bigger trip when our schedules and budget are more cooperative. Northeast Florida is about a 7-hour drive from Charlotte, and the beach there is lovely and NOT crowded with spring-breakers.

Unfortunately, as a married couple we have had incredibly bad timing even when we were thinking clearly. Sometimes it’s just plain bad luck. Examples: both of us graduated into a lousy economy (early 80’s), then Larry’s accomplishment of an MBA missed the beginning of the corporate boom by about a decade (allowing us just a few good stock growth years before the bust). I see this as God’s little way of keeping us from becoming too fascinated with wealth accumulation.

Then there’s the uncanny bad luck we seem to have of scheduling vacations that turn out to be the record week for rain or cold or snow in the part of the country we’re going to. I know lots of people think that’s true of them, but I could give more examples of this than I care to recall. It’s why we woke up to a thin layer of snow on the inside of the window sill in Connecticut on our honeymoon; why we spent a sleepless night on top of a bald in a series of three thunderstorms; why we white(brown)water rafted the Chatoogah in a record (and I think dangerous) flood stage that had the raft guide dudes whooping and me white-knuckling my oar and praying please don’t let me lose one of my baby (teenage) boys to this churning brown flood of a river.

And it’s why, the TWO times we’ve driven to Florida for an anniversary getaway, we’ve encountered record cold temperatures.

Fernandina Beach set a record low temperature of 30 degrees on Feb. 28, 2002. Guess who had just pulled into town to celebrate their anniversary?

And now, here we are again, thankful to have barely escaped the freak snowstorm in Charlotte the night we left, only to arrive in Savannah (last night) and in Fernandina (this afternoon) to more record cold (predicting 31 degrees tonight: “bring in those tender tropicals, folks!”) After having paid extra money for the room with a balcony too.

Truth is, though I’m disappointed, we actually have learned to expect this kind of weather luck. You bring winter clothing to Florida because you bring winter weather to Florida…every time. And you wrap your scarf around your neck, lower your head into the north wind, and walk the beach together, shop the antique shops, stroll the cute little streets, and try not to think about how much more fun this would be if it were the 70-degree day it would normally be if you hadn’t brought your stupid bad weather luck to this unsuspecting town.

When you’re married to the right person, lousy timing can’t even come close to ruining your lovely time.

Nothing like a good man and a good cup of coffee to warm up your cold morning. And waving to the guys on the freighter from your hotel balcony is cool.

 

A day between celebration and shame

Yesterday was an unusual one for us Charlotteans:  snow day.  This gave us the opportunity to sleep in a bit, and keep the TV running most of the day to catch the important parts of the inauguration activities (the parts in between the anchors’ commentary on fashion, crowd size, and which door Obama might come out of).  The prayers were–uh–interesting (Rick Warren thinks those in glory would turn their gaze away from Christ and be wowed by a milestone in human history??).  The speech was about what I expected, and the crowds were eerily Obama-maniacal, of course.  How people do need a hero.

Like almost every American watching this historic event, I am rejoicing that Americans can elect and install an African American president, and do it with very little visible protest from bigots.  I rejoice for what this means for black Americans, and for our nation’s history.  I welcome this needed sense of healing from the profoundest disease of its early days. 

I would so love to believe that a changing of the guard can accomplish what Obama supporters believe it can.  And I think it will, to a limited extent:  the world may just give us a fresh hearing, African Americans and perhaps other minorities will take courage and press on in the face of bigotry, and legislators will have to curb their more blatant acts of partisanship and pork, at least until our antennae go back down.  But human nature being what it is, Obama’s honeymoon will soon be over, and he will face the same sticky no-win situations men of similar character and more experience have faced before, and failed.  He will have his failures too.

So, if I could send a message to the new president, it would be this:  Congratulations, Mr. President.  I have already been praying for your protection and wisdom, and will continue to do so.  But I hope that the groundswell of approval and welcome, the tears of joy on the mall, and the heady first night of sleeping in the White House won’t make you forget the promise you made to those who did not vote for you:  “I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.”  For my part, scripture tells me to show you respect (I. Pet. 2:17) and to pray for those in office (I. Tim. 2:1-2), and I will do that.  That means no snide or uncharitable remarks, even when I disagree strongly with you.  George W. Bush may not have been the most effective president ever, but it pained me deeply to hear followers of Christ speak of him disrespectfully, even hatefully.  I pray that I won’t forget that during your term in office.

I have another prayer today, the day between inauguration and the anniversary of Roe v. Wade:  that somehow God will turn the heart of this president to compassion for the unborn.  News articles and blogs abound chronicling Barack Obama’s alarming comments and actions that suggest a great blind spot in his otherwise compassionate agenda.  His focus has always been for the rights of the mother as opposed to any rights of an unborn infant–or, in the case of his extreme opposition to the Infant Protection Act, some born infants. 

The issue of abortion legislation is tricky and not one I intend to tackle here.  I believe that the state has the responsibility to forbid acts of violence against any human life except when violence is absolutely necessary for the state to restrain evil, and I believe that life is sacred from inception.  I know the issue is not as simple as that, but I think those are two foundations to stand on when weighing the rights of one human against another. 

That’s why I find Obama’s words to Planned Parenthood so disturbing:  “…look, I’ve got two daughters. 9 years old and 6 years old…I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don’t want them punished with a baby.  I don’t want them punished with an STD.”  Hidden in there is a pretty clear statement about the value of a human being conceived unintentionally as opposed to one conceived intentionally:  a human’s worth is measured in its value and convenience to other humans.  We decry denigration of a race of people, we decry disregard for a the suffering of a continent, and rightly so.  Should not our compassion extend to those who are undervalued and brutally murdered because they are not convenient to their parents?  May God have mercy on us.

I find it encouraging that pro-life and most pro-choice proponents, including Barack Obama, agree on one thing:  the high numbers of abortions in this country should be reduced.  I hope at least that we can find some solutions that we can agree and work together on.

20 weeks from conception

I also find it encouraging that polls seem to suggest that the young-adult generation is actually less tolerant of abortion than the preceding one.  In the words of Rev. Patrick J. Mahoney, Director of the Christian Defense Coalition, “Every recent poll shows that America’s emerging generation is embracing a culture of life and desires an end to the violence that has resulted in the deaths of over 50,000,000 innocent children and wounded so many women.”

God grant that this tide would turn in the coming years.  May the inaugural words of our new president truly apply to ALL Americans:  “The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.”

 

Let me show off my girlfriends

I have just finished establishing a new blog for me and my “Dinner Chicks” friends. This group has been a priceless gift to me. Not gregarious by nature, I could easily hole up and isolate myself, especially in tough times. But these precious women

The Dinner Chicks - my house, Nov. 2008

  (most of whom ARE gregarious by nature, and fellow disciples of Christ as well) have coaxed me into relationship by being gracious and generous and fun, and have shown me what a treasure long-term friendships can be, if you tend them well. Plus, we have enjoyed dozens of chef-quality meals without the chef-driven-restaurant prices.  Click on the link to see our blog, and check back often (you do know how to RSS, right??) for new recipes, meal theme ideas, great foodie websites, and plenty of silly pictures.

 

A summer and autumn sampler

I am so far behind in keeping up this blog, that I am forced to do a catch-up helicopter ride over the last four months with this post.  There is no deep theological insight here, except to say that as I’ve been organizing my pictures online today, I have been overwhelmed at how richly God has blessed us. Our boys are believing God, and they are so much fun to be around!! (I miss you two college men.) And He has given us such good friends in this place (North Carolina).  We will have been here ten years this coming June, and those years have been filled with some of the deepest friendships I have known.  Some started almost as soon as we got here (including Dinner Chicks), and others are just beginning.  I’m grateful for all of them.  Sadly, some friends have moved away, but we continue to tend several friendships at long distance (annual fall gathering with Rod and Judy Huckaby and friends).

Here’s the rundown of events. Click on the hyperlinked words to view the complete event albums, and watch the slideshow.

In August, our friends helped me surprise Larry with a 50th Birthday Party.  I left food and supplies hidden here at the house, and while we were at evening church service, friends brought more food and set up the flowers and balloons and goodies for us to come home to.  They all hid behind the garage as we rounded the corner, and…

Surprise!!

The next day we headed for Raleigh and stayed overnight with Andrew’s RUF pastor and family, so we could get up early for our flight to New England. We started in Maine,

 

moved on to Boston,

 and ended in NYC.

 That whole trip merits a separate blog entry, so stay tuned.

 

Later August found me once again enjoying the Canteys’ beach house in Edisto with my Dinner Chick girlfriends. This was absolutely necessary, to cure the post-vacation, post boys-went-back-to-school blues.  Belly laughs, good food, and some special entertainment by Mary during a game of charades.

Larry and I had a spur-of-the-moment getaway to Black Mountain just as the leaves were beginning to turn in October. A few weeks later, after the colors had ripened and moved further south, we were back in the mountains, this time with a group of friends who gathered in a great mountain house near Hendersonville. We loved catching up with Rod and Judy Huckaby, who were among our first and dearest welcomers when we arrived in Charlotte all those years ago. They moved to Tennessee several years ago, and we miss them.

When I get sad at the realization that many of the wonderful people in my life will inevitably move away, or move on to other circles or churches or ministries, or even to fairer worlds on high–I remind myself that in heaven, there’s plenty of time for more fellowship.  We literally have an eternity to enjoy each other, over good food, good music, good fires, good hikes … or whatever God has in store for us to do together on the other side.

 

Giving to God the strength of their youth

Blessed is he who has regard for the weak;
the LORD delivers him in times of trouble. - Psalm 41:1

Andrew

We (Larry and I) spent last weekend visiting our boys, who are working at Clemson’s Outdoor Lab camps. Clemson’s beautiful grounds on a finger of Lake Hartwell are home to several summer camps sponsored by agencies such as Sertoma (Camp Sertoma) and the Jaycees (Camp Hope). Sertoma offers week-long camps for kids from underprivileged backgrounds, kids with hearing impairments, and kids with other life challenges. Many of them are foster children who have already bounced from home to home multiple times in their short lives. Camp Hope hosts mentally handicapped adults, for the most part, and these campers by contrast are very often brought to camp by their birth families, who love them well but I’m sure are happy to have a week off from caring for them, knowing that they are safe, and having a ball. Camp Hope is often their favorite week of the year. The Hope staff go out of their way to make it that way for them.

It is truly inspiring to watch the young people on staff at Hope/Sertoma work with the campers. While not expressly Christian, these programs attract young people (mostly college students) who are there to give their lives away, and many of them are indeed believers. You can feel that in the spirit of the place.

Daniel

Many of the campers have been coming for several–or in some cases many–years, and their friendships have developed with the staff over the years. Each one has a unique requirement as to what he or she needs most from the staff: speak to me but don’t try to hug me; hug me and don’t let me go; give me simple instructions one step at a time; speak to me in sign language; motivate me with Mardi Gras beads and I’ll do anything you ask. It’s a learning curve that the staff have to negotiate quickly, and once they’ve mastered the best technique for each camper, the week’s up and it’s time to say goodbye, for this year.

Jared

Our two oldest sons, Andrew and Daniel, are working their second year as counselors. The pay’s not anything like what they might make working a summer job at home (caddying, waiting tables, working construction for Dad, another engineering internship) — but that doesn’t seem to bother them much. Our youngest, Jared, was also there last week with a group from our church (Christ Covenant), serving as a counselor’s helper, or “CIT” (counselor in training). Andrew and Daniel did that in years past as well. Apparently, once the bug bites, you just can’t get enough Sertoma/Hope. Our intention was to bring Jared home from his week at Sertoma, but he asked the staff if he could stay and volunteer for a few more weeks (he’s too young to be on paid staff). That offer was accepted pretty quickly, and we hear that he is actually working in Andrew’s cabin this week, which is cool.

I couldn’t be prouder of my boys. We might tease them about the money they’re not making (and may very well need as poor college boys)–but as Psalm 41 assures us, God will indeed honor those who honor him by caring for the least. Their lives will be blessed in ways that money can’t rival. As one Christ Covenant youth leader said to me during our visit, watching these young people pour out their hearts and energies into the campers gives one much hope about the future. This is the silver lining of the often self-involved Generation-Y. Some of them just don’t fit the mold, praise God.

I encourage you to view the slideshow of images from this amazing place (click HERE, then click on “slideshow”) , and see if it doesn’t bring a lump to your throat too. You can also see more pictures and read about the experiences of counselors by visiting Andrew’s camp blog. If you visit that blog, be sure to leave comments; I’m sure they could use a word of encouragement. They are tired.

 

The Sue Ann Nivens of Christian women’s self-help

I have gracious friends, who graciously invited me to join a book discussion / accountability group centered (initially) around an old book on Christian living (for women) called Disciplines of the Beautiful Woman. My friends have been so gracious, in fact, that they have not kicked me out of this little group, even when my reactions to this book have been less than enthusiastic.

The book is just chock full of motherly advice about how to simplify and organize your life, from wardrobe to bedside table to daytimer. Sounds healthy, right? And of course, the task can be overwhelming, so here’s a sympathetic encouragement from the end of the book, where author Anne Ortlund imagines what her overwhelmed reader might be thinking about all the organization systems she has presented. Read it in your best Sue Ann Nivens voice:

“But here I sit,” you say, “with a girdle in the middle of the floor, dishes in the sink, and unanswered mail strewn on the bed. Where do I start?” (p. 123)

Did you catch that? There’s a girdle on this poor reader’s floor.

See now, I too would be truly bothered by the presence of a girdle on my floor, but not for the reasons Ortlund may be thinking.

Before I go off on why this book is not for me, let me recommend it to SOME of you. If you can get past the dated examples she gives (it was published in the 70’s, after all) and the privileged life she leads (at the time of writing, she had a housekeeper three days a week, and traveled all over the world sitting in hotel lobbies and on cruise ship decks writing books while her husband had speaking engagements), you might find the organization systems in this book useful. You will especially warm to it if:

you feel your home and your schedule are messy and

you accept the premise that your outward self ought to be organized, neat, and attractive because this is becoming to a woman of God, and

you are the kind of woman who cares a great deal about appearance (of your outward self, of your home and “personal space”) and

you are looking for some ways (and a pep talk) to simplify and organize your life so that you can devote yourself more fully to personal devotion and to discipling more women.

 

Well now that I read that list, objecting to this book kind of makes me feel like a heel, especially considering the stellar reputation this dear woman has as a speaker and author, and the fact that she lost her husband, Ray Ortlund, just last summer. I truly wish this sister well, and I hope her books and hymns continue to inspire for decades. 

But for me, this book throws up some red flags.  Take a second look at that second bullet point. It’s that link between our (or our home’s) outward appearance and our inner godliness that gives me pause. Occasionally she states this outright, but more often she implies it, in a hundred little ways. Here’s a classic one, on meeting with God in the a.m. before you’ve brushed your teeth and otherwise made yourself presentable: “don’t you feel sorry for God when daily he has to face all those millions of hair curlers and old robes?…It seems to me the ultimate test of grace” (p. 43).  It’s silly notions like this that make me wonder, “do books on men’s issues read like this??”

The unfortunate thing is that she has so many good principles to offer: “eliminate and concentrate” (a version of Thoreau’s “simplify!”); reflect on and write out your life’s guiding principles and priorities, and order your days by them; purpose to share Christ with non-believers as often as possible, and to disciple new believers until they can be disciplers themselves. I did actually find some of her practical ideas useful and have even implemented some of them (albeit in my own non-fussy style).  But there is that disturbing undercurrent in the book—so much so that while I wanted to learn from her ideas, reading the book was for me a prolonged exercise in eye-rolling and repeating to myself, “it is for freedom that Christ has set you free … it is for freedom that…”.  There are an awful lot of “oughts” and “shoulds” in this book that don’t seem to have any basis in scripture. Having been raised in churches with lots of oughts and shoulds, and having long since diligently and joyfully shed the underlying legalisms of all those voices in my head, I find I balk at this kind of tone.

In the chapter on cleaning up and organizing your immediate surroundings, for example, she begins with the assertion that your closet, your bathroom counter, your bedside table “should reflect the order and peace of your inner life with God” (75). It should? Why? Are people assessing my inner life by the orderliness of my bedside table? And if it’s messy, just what are they assuming this announces about me and my God? A cluttered table equals a cluttered soul? How about I just don’t value tidy housekeeping as much as I value the books that are stacked on that table, and given a spare half hour I will almost always choose reading over dusting? How about if my husband and my boys find me way more interesting that way? Come to think of it, maybe my messy bedside table reflects my inner peace with God (and the resultant peace within myself) perfectly.

When someone writes that dirty laundry is “unworthy of lying around, untended to, in the life of a child of God!” (p. 75), I have to ask the question (and I think it is oh SO healthy to ask the question), “why is this presented as a moral issue?” When someone tries to tisk-tisk me into their pet (but extra-biblical) virtues–in this case, tidiness, fastidious organization, and charm-school appearance and manners–my attennae go up. And hopefully, my heart reminds me to be nice, but to firmly insist that they stop shoulding on me.

In her defense, I have to say that the chapters on kingdom priorities and discipling show me that this woman’s heart is in the right place. For her, the outward appearances are important, probably because of the way she was raised and the people she’s around, and I really believe that she devised her organizational systems and wardrobe planning in an effort not to be bogged down by what she sees as the demands of good housekeeping and feminine grooming, so that she can get to the Kingdom work. But I am grateful that in my generation, God’s women aren’t expected to wear coordinating outfits and have tidy bedside tables to be considered “beautiful.”

And I’m glad that my gracious friends probably won’t be too miffed that I ragged on the book online too.

 

Israel’s future glory in Christ

God has done again what He so often does: brought several threads together for me, to show off a powerful truth. After studying Isaiah all year, after hearing stirring comments on Israel Sunday evening at my church, and then after writing a blog entry on the Jews just yesterday, I find this morning a blog entry by John Piper that puts an exclamation point on all of this. He quotes J.C. Ryle:

They are a people reserved and kept separate by God for a grand and special purpose. That purpose is to make them a means of exhibiting to the world in the latter days God’s hatred of sin and unbelief, and God’s almighty power and almighty compassion. They are kept separate that they may finally be saved, converted and restored to their own land. They are reserved and preserved, in order that God may show in them as on a platform, to angels and men, how greatly he hates sin, and yet how greatly he can forgive, and how greatly he can convert. Never will that be realized as it will in that day when “all Israel shall be saved.” (Are You Ready for the End of Time? 137-138 )

 

I pray that the glory of that day will not be lost on me.

 

maybe UNDER the table is more accurate

Today I read where Jesus called a desperate woman a dog. And I realized I am a dog too. Maybe even an anti-semitic dog.

I wrote in March about being “at the table,” which of course is what Christ graciously invites us to, but I think we’d do well to remember often just how gracious this invitation is. Our rightful place, if we have a place at all, is not at the table, but under it.

The story I read (see Matt. 15:21-28 ) is one that on first reading can make you uneasy, as many gospel stories and parables do. It just doesn’t sound like the Jesus we know. But of course we only have the verbal record. What was going on nonverbally and in the heart would probably set our objections aside immediately.

The context is this: after spending frustrating days being scoffed at by his relatives and neighbors in his hometown, scrutinized and criticized by self-righteous Jewish teachers, and hounded by the masses of miracle-followers all around the lake, Jesus “withdrew” to a town on the coast, away from the madding Jewish crowds of Galilee.

But then there’s this desperate voice: “Lord, Son of David, have mercy…”. At first he makes no response, but when his disciples request that he get rid of this gentile woman because of her noise, Jesus answers something strange: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel.”

What?? You agree with them?? And you’re not going to have mercy because she is not Jewish??

Well there’s a whole lot of theology in his words, and a whole lot of theology in my objections. But take a look at the rest of the story, and decide for yourself what he’s up to here.

She hears his response, and simply kneels down and begs (like a dog?) for help. Then he calls her a dog: “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” Given that he has just said quite clearly that his “bread” is for Israel (obviously the “children” of the metaphor), there can be no doubt whom he is calling a dog. Even if you think of “dog” as “little dog,” like a cherished little fluffball under your kitchen table, a dog is a dog.

Now, considering the state this woman is in, would you expect her to be offended? Her little daughter is possessed by a demon. She has no hope.

Her response says everything about what faith looks like. “Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” In other words, “Lord, I know I am a dog, and have nothing to offer you. I’m just glad to be under the table, for whatever crumbs might fall my way.”

This is exactly the kind of faith, the kind of poor-in-spirit heart, that the Lord responds to, every time. I love what Matthew Henry says about this passage:

“Those whom Christ intends most to honour, he humbles to feel their own unworthiness. A proud, unhumbled heart would not have borne this; but she turned it into an argument to support her request. The state of this woman is an emblem of the state of a sinner, deeply conscious of the misery of his soul. The least of Christ is precious to a believer, even the very crumbs of the Bread of life. Of all graces, faith honours Christ most; therefore of all graces Christ honours faith most.”

This passage convicted me this morning, because I know I typically have an upside-down view of who “belongs” at the table: according to my proud heart, it’s first for the gentile, and then, if they’re really humble and repentant, the Jew. (Those mean old Jews — who did they think they were, rejecting and crucifying my savior?) God forgive me my attitude! I even find I have this strange knee-jerk surge of anti-semitism sometimes when I encounter a face and personality that my mind instantly labels as “typical Jewish.” Where did that come from?? A misguided Sunday School teacher when I was six? I hate bigotry! How did these ugly thoughts take root in me?

John Piper preached some convicting sermons on this topic a few years ago, and my own pastor referred just this week to God’s intentions toward Jews, and what a glorious day it will be when finally the lost sheep of Israel will be gathered in. Piper’s warnings to us gentile believers are strong and appropriate:

“It is not you who support the root, but the root that supports you” [Rom. 11:18]. People who need to be supported should be slow to boast. And a Christian is a person who has made a deep discovery: He is weak, lost, sinful, helpless, indeed, dead in trespasses and sins. A Christian is a person who by grace has wakened from a dream of self-sufficiency into a reality of dependence. Utter dependence on the grace of God. Christian, if you boast over the branches, if you are anti-Semitic and proud, you don’t know who you are. Or you are not who you say you are.”

As gentile dogs such as I feast on the overflow of crumbs under the table, we should be longing and praying for that day of salvation for the lost sheep of Israel, guarding our hearts against any sense of arrogant entitlement to the Son of David.

 

too distracted to breathe

I have delayed this entry far too long. I kept waiting to be inspired to write something uplifting, encouraging, amazing. It could be months. My life contains aggravatingly long stretches of completely uninspired days. The question is, whose fault is that, and if it’s mine (which it probably is), how do I make it stop?

Logophile that I am, I have to pause a bit here and examine the word “uninspired,” because I believe that language (diction) often chooses me more than I choose it, in a way. What I mean is, I could have chosen any number of synonyms to describe this stretch of days (”unexciting,” “unremarkable,” “commonplace”…), but what came off my fingertips is “uninspired,” and I believe that word moved from my unconscious onto my computer screen for a reason that bears examination. (Word choices often do bear examination, particularly for people who think as metaphorically as I tend to do.) Here’s the significance: I know consciously that “inspire” means breathe in, and I certainly connect that image (and etymology) to the Holy Spirit (spirare - to breathe), but I wasn’t consciously thinking about the relation of my creative doldrums to my spiritual doldrums until I saw the word on the screen. See now, this is why writing matters: to write is to think.

Given that rabbit trails–such as this one I just took–are the stuff of life, or at least the stuff of writing, what can I learn from that little rabbit trail? Simply that it reminds me of why I started this blog in the first place, and subtitled it “Weekly musings on life in Christ.” I need the discipline. To have musings to write requires reflection, and God knows I need to be doing more reflecting. And to do more reflecting requires taking time to be still. Which is exactly why I’ve had several uninspired weeks: no stillness.

Why? Because when a family of five takes a memorable, adventurous vacation in August, someone spent hours in April planning it (mom). Because once you start arranging flights and lodgings for Maine-Boston-NYC, big money is on the line, so you better be sure of your plans and book quickly while affordable things are available. Because Skybus pretends that all is well just two days before it declares bankruptcy and announces that your tickets are worthless (but of course you have already booked rooms for the cities you now have no way to get to, unless you re-book tickets with another airline, which will completely bust your budget). Because retrieving your money is your responsibility, not the bankrupt airlines’. Because our puppy hasn’t quite learned proper respect for the invisible fence yet. And because, at the end of a solid week of all this time of pretty much full-time travel-planning on the internet (and puppy chasing), my mood and my mind defaulted to black scribble, which is the best way I know to describe that foulness of outlook, that ticked-off funk I get into from time to time. It looks like Lucy in the cartoon here. Words are just inadequate. Everything is a mess of ugly knots. Oh, and I pretty much resent everybody I know.

Remember that comment I made on the last entry about knowing that in the parable of the sower, I am the “good soil?” Well I’m still claiming that by faith, but these are the days when the Savior has to remind me of it, if I would give him just half an hour: 29 minutes to calm myself down and stop being petulant, and a minute to listen to him call me his child. But for days on end, I gave him no such time. No, I was too busy stewing about whether the owner of that awesome apartment in Brooklyn with the rooftop view of the bridge was going to e-mail me back, or if I should just go ahead and book the one in East Village, which is $100 more per night. Tick tock. Things are booking up. Better not lose this one. Maybe check one more website…

Good soil, but thorns sometimes. The seed still grows, but the fruit is limited, choked by the “worries of this life” (Matt. 13:22). Deep inspiration stops, replaced by shallow panting. Mercifully, God does not forsake us then. But equally mercifully, he also does not usually reward us with his peace until we stop bolting like a frantic deer, realize that we are short of breath for no good reason, and lie down in those green pastures where He will restore our souls, every time.

How timely that the Tozer Daily Devotional (you HAVE to sign up for this one!) yesterday said this:

“Prayer: Take Time to Listen”

The entrance of Your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple. I opened my mouth and panted, for I longed for Your commandments. -Psalm 119:130-131

The Quakers had many fine ideas about life, and there is a story from them that illustrates the point I am trying to make. It concerns a conversation between Samuel Taylor Coleridge and a Quaker woman he had met. Maybe Coleridge was boasting a bit, but he told the woman how he had arranged the use of time so he would have no wasted hours. He said he memorized Greek while dressing and during breakfast. He went on with his list of other mental activities–making notes, reading, writing, formulating thoughts and ideas–until bedtime.The Quaker listened unimpressed. When Coleridge was finished with his explanation, she asked him a simple, searching question: “My friend, when dost thee think?”

God is having a hard time getting through to us because we are a fast-paced generation. We seem to have no time for contemplation. We have no time to answer God when He calls. – Jesus, Author of our Faith, p. 46.

Tozer knew it and I know it:  when there is a dearth of inspiration, it has nothing to do with lack of available air.

 

at the table

Everything I read and hear these days, Kingdom-wise, seems to point me back to the same thing: I am always on the receiving end; He is always the source. Most recently, I have been thinking in terms of tables.

I have wanted a new kitchen table for quite a while now. Our old set was one of those Amish-built (truly — we got it in Virginia from a Mennonite vendor) round/oval pedestal tables and sturdy windsor-back chairs. I remember being so grateful for it when we were able to buy it, and it held up well to toddler seats and school projects and a cook who isn’t very careful to use hot pads under the chicken casserole (that would be me). But for various reasons, it was time for that set to go. So I listed it on Craig’s List, and it left yesterday for the home of a young couple with a toddler and a baby on the way. It stirred a little wave of sentimentality, I have to admit.

This morning I was looking — for the third day in a row because it intrigues me — at the parable of the sower. I’ve moved on in my reading to some of the other parables that follow it in Matthew: the six “the kingdom is like…” parables. But I keep returning to that first one, and thinking about what kind of soil I am. And why. By Christ’s words, I am good soil. The good soil represents those who hear and understand, those who have ears to hear. I know I am one of those. Most days I know it right down to my toes, and other days I need him to remind me. But I know it. And I know that makes me blessed, because I get to see and hear what the prophets and righteous men of old longed to see but did not, as Jesus tells his disciples. I live in the time of the law written on hearts and minds. Hallelujah!

But why did I get to be good soil?

I don’t have an answer other than “because God ordained it so.” But I do know that the question is one that I started asking way too late in life. I think many of us who grew up in homes where Jesus was loved, “where children early lisp his fame,” who were cherished and well fed and handed every opportunity to know Christ that this world can afford — we can easily be underwhelmed by the gospel. He weaves himself so gently and so faithfully into our life story that it takes a knock on the head for us to see how amazing that grace has been. We may even begin to take some of the credit for his being there. (We were pretty good kids, after all.)

So we do what well fed children often do: we come to the table without a word of thanks to the father who provided the food, and we retire to the couch without asking how we might help with the work of the family, and we assume that meal will always be there. And it is.

I did that as a kid at home, and so did my kids. I think sowing gratefulness in a child’s heart must be one of the greatest challenges in a parent’s job. The “starving children in India” line ought to work, but it just doesn’t. And no matter how ungrateful your children’s hearts may be, you always feed them anyway, because they are your children. Generally, they develop gratitude later, when they have to pay for their own food, or feed their own children.

So how does God work gratefulness into the heart of a son or daughter who has been fed grace from infancy? He works it slowly and faithfully, by the word and by prayer, just as He works the other marks of maturity into us. With the word open in my lap and his Spirit in my ear, I hear him say “blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear. 17For I tell you the truth, many prophets and righteous men longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it” (Matt. 13:16-17). And by his grace, I hear, I see, I understand what He means. And by his grace, I am grateful.

This week, this Holy Week, as I have the privilege of being at my Father’s table again, I know that He paid everything He had for this meal, and He did it out of his great love for me.

By his grace, may that knowing keep me off the couch.