Category: stories

June 26, 2008 mother's heart

tiny messages . Background Music

I was cooking pasta in the kitchen, and I heard a sudden chorus of giggles.  Three gigglers — two little ones and one big grown up one.

“Tickle meeee!”
“Wheeeeeeee!” (translation = “no, tickle meeee!” from the giggler who can’t say most words yet)

I couldn’t resist a peek around the corner.  I saw two little boys lying side by side on their bean bag with arms stretched over their heads and one big boy (daddy) leaned over them with tickling fingers poised.  All were joined in one resounding symphony of giggles.  It was at that point I added my own giggle to the chorus.  And, I couldn’t resist getting in one tickle of my own before getting back to my boiling pot.

It’s a time of change in our household.  We’re nurturing a still new landscaping business, entering new stages from baby to toddler, from toddler to big boy, and preparing for a new “little seester” in early September. It has stirred up even the youngest hearts in our little giggle crowd. Change has become the background music of our lives.

The one consistency of change is its constant presence.  And, like all background music, it sometimes asserts itself.  At times it’s a dirge, and we are saddened and brought to tears.  At times it’s staccato, disjointed so we can hardly keep up.  At times it’s a waltz, and we think we are finally in a predictable rhythm.  At times it’s forte, a cacophony that stretches and irritates.

Then, the giggles.  That joyous chorus relegates the turmoil of change to its right place — the background. It’s just the hum we learn again to accept.  The beautiful music of laughter has refocused our perspective.

“Our mouth was filled with laughter and our tongue with joyful shouting; then they said among the nations, “the Lord has done great things for them.” (psalm 126:2)

Indeed.

The tiny messages God continues to include with our gifts — 2 little boys and the anticipation of 1 little girl, each with open eyes, open ears, open hearts, and much to teach.  “Behold children are a gift of the Lord…” (psalm 127:1)

June 21, 2008 on faith

Dumb Question?

“Do you wish to get well?”  That was the question that caught my attention as I read this story from the New Testament — an account of a desperate man in need of healing.  In need of hope more.

“Now there is in Jerusalem by the sheep gate a pool, which is called in Hebrew Bethesda, having five porticoes. In these lay a multitude of those who were sick, blind, lame, and withered, waiting for the moving of the waters; for an angel of the Lord went down at certain seasons into the pool and stirred up the water; whoever then first, after the stirring up of the water, stepped in was made well from whatever disease with which he was afflicted.

A man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there, and knew that he had already been a long time in that condition, He said to him, 

‘Do you wish to get well?’

The sick man answered Him, ‘Sir, I have no man to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, but while I am coming, another steps down before me. Jesus said to him, ‘Get up, pick up your pallet and walk.’ Immediately the man became well, and picked up his pallet and began to walk. Now it was the Sabbath on that day.” (John 5:2-9)

I am 38 years old.  I don’t know how old this man was, but he had been ill as long as I’m alive.  He’d spent those years day after day waiting for an opportunity for healing — the stirring of the waters — only for someone else to jump ahead of him.  Maybe they were more agile, maybe more motivated, maybe they had more help, or maybe they just coveted the power of the stirring for more trivial maladies.  Regardless, he’d spent 38 years losing his place in line.

Imagine the disappointment and despair each time.  He probably didn’t even pay much attention to the rustle of the waters any longer.  What was the use?

Then, a man named Jesus stopped by Bethesda one day.  Of all the multitudes of afflicted waiting by the pool, Jesus walked up to this man (not by accident, I’m sure.)  Jesus knew that he had spent what probably seemed like a lifetime in this condition.  He knew each disappointment, each and every slighted moment.  But,what a question!

“Do you wish to get well?”

Why ask?  As I read, my first thought was “duh!”  Dumb question.  Was Jesus just making small talk?  Was He looking for a conversation starter?  Was he distracted?  Did He have some need to be asked, a vain acknowledgement of His power?  Was he mocking the man’s past efforts?

No. I know from my Bible that Jesus was not dumb, nor did He lack the ability to cut to the chase.  He seemed to always move with purpose and with kindness and forethought.  He certainly was not self-centered or vain — the cross is evidence of that.  So, maybe my impression of a dumb question was actually the most important question.

Maybe the man had gotten so tired and disappointed that his hope, the possibility of healing, had become dim.  Maybe it had almost flickered out.  Maybe after all these years, it was a question the man needed to answer.  Maybe his lack of hope had become the true barrier to healing.  Was the question meant as a reminder to fan the flame of faith again?

The man’s answer revealed the depth of his despair.  “Sir I have no man…”  There was noone.  He was resigned.  But, perhaps the soul search that question provided begged an answer so greatly that the man was forced to stare down despair.  The waters of his spirit were stirred.  He was confronted with a decision of faith, a call to action.  It’s time to move.

And, this time there was Someone to help him step into the waters of hope and be healed.  “Get up.  Pick up your pallet and walk.”  He had encountered the only man who would help him — the only many who could.  That man was Jesus.

May 18, 2008 on faith

Thinking About Oxen

“Where no oxen are, the manger is clean.  But, much increase comes by the strength of the ox.” (Proverbs 14:4)

I love the book of Proverbs in the Bible.  It’s the drive-by shooting approach to wisdom.  Each little kernel of truth is maybe one or two sentences arranged in one or two verses without much context or explanation.  Maybe it’s the time of day, but sometimes I’m left thinking, “Hold on.  I know this is profound, probably even life-changing or relationship changing or more, but I’m gonna need a minute.”  

This particular proverb stood out to me today as a jewel of wisdom to help me keep my eyes on the main thing.

I’m one of those that derives a certain amount of comfort and security from being in an orderly, relatively clean space – at least as orderly and clean as you can get with a somewhat pack-rat mommy, husband, dog, cat, two toddlers, one on the way, and all the “stuff” that comes with each.  Nevertheless, we do try.  And while our ordering system may not be readily apparent to the naked eye, it IS ours and we like it.  I have found that when my surroundings are in chaos, so is my brain.  An uncluttered home frees up an uncluttered mind and spirit.

Which brings me to my predicament…
Saturday was partially spent cleaning and getting our home to a nice state of relative calm.  Then, not even 12 hours later, I’m faced with a sink full of syrupy dishes, carpet littered with cupcake/french fry bits and floors dotted with mud.  Plus, various nap time pauses and my own 6-months-pregnant lack of energy have left my nesting projects in the boys’ rooms in a more chaotic state than when I started.  My first instinct:  run screaming from the house.

Then, I see Proverbs 14:4 — cleverly posted above the stove.
“Where no oxen are, the manger is clean.  But, much increase comes by the strength of the ox.”

Now, I’m no oxen expert, but I’m guessing that they can produce quite a mess.  And, the only way to avoid it is not to have them in my manger.  Yes, that might help the barn stay spotless, but look at the “increase” I’m missing.  It’s obvious.  The strengths of the oxen FAR outweigh their mess.

When it comes right down to it:  No amount of sticky fingerprints or clothes-strewn rooms or muddy floors could ever diminish the great joy I receive from the family God has given me.  Those giggles and squeals, drum beats and bouncing balls are a priceless increase.  So, we live with a few crumbs, and our coffee table has honey mustard stains.  At least we’re all in the same room; everyone is healthy and growing and (at the moment) smiling; and I can grab them and kiss them any time I want.  I am a wiser woman when I keep my focus on the blessing and my thoughts away from trivial complaints.

Lesson learned — again today.

May 16, 2008 on faith

You’ll Cut Your Eyes!

My grandparents lived on a farm outside Macon, Mississippi that was just a few acres of pasture with a small herd of cattle my Dad nurtured.  As a child, I spent most weekends there enjoying the special attention of my grandfather and indulging in the few tomboy traits I possess.

Saturday adventures with Grandaddy would sometimes include a trek through the pasture behind the house or behind the beagle pens.  As I walked or ran or jumped along, carefree and fascinated by thistle bushes, I would inevitably hear “You’ll cut your foot!”

Now, I’ll leave to your imagination a picture of the pitfalls (or piles) to which my grandfather was referring – the ones littering the grass of a cow pasture.  Needless to say, I was oblivious to the stinky mess that awaited my Buster Browns.  “You’ll cut your foot” was Grandaddy’s code phrase of sorts, a warning the entire family had learned to interpret as “look down, now.”  It was a call to pay attention, because every step isn’t necessarily a solid one.  But, when you’re walking through a cow pasture, what do you expect?

As I think about paying attention and absorbing so much of the world around me with intention, I can hear a warning in my mind – “You’ll cut your eyes!”  The fact is; there are a lot of well-manicured lawns out there, a lot of beautiful, worthy landscapes… and a lot of cow pastures. Not everything – every site, every book, every picture, every news item, every tv show, every personal attitude, every opinion – is worthy of my attention.  

My dictionary widget describes a worthless thing as something without value or use.  Some pursuits are profit-less, of no benefit, even detrimental. Why would I want to muddy my vision and stink up my perspective by spending my attention on what is worthless?  

It’s true that determining what is valuable is somewhat of a subjective thing.  However, I believe that there are some core universal “things” of value:

People.  
Not necessarily their ideas or attitudes or opinions – there’s plenty of stinkiness there – but, people.  The Bible teaches that because God created each of us (knit us together in our mother’s wombs [psalm 139]), each individual is a soul, a unique person of infinite worth to God.  If it matters to Him, then it ought to matter to me.  

Truth.
It doesn’t change.  If it’s true, it’s always true.  If it’s not, it never is.  The Bible teaches that the word of God will stand forever.  To me, that’s the best source of what is true and what is false, and the more relative aspects of what is worthy and what is garbage.

Beyond those universals, I’m left to create my own filtering system of value, a visionometer of what is worthy of attention.  I can wisely use this verse as a good guideline:

Whatever is true
whatever is honorable
whatever is right
whatever is pure
whatever is lovely
whatever is of good repute
if there is any excellence 
and if anything worthy of praise, 
dwell on these things.
(philipians 4:8)

This verse is not to say that I should ignore everything ugly or disturbing around me and only “see” the pretty stuff.  That’s not just naive; it’s ridiculous.  But, even the ugly, hard things can lead us to a place of truth, honor, and purity.  It’s up to me to determine if the potential is there.

I’m still working on that visionometer, but my goal for myself and for EyeJunkie is to commit with Israel’s King David, the poet, “I will set no worthless thing before my eyes.” (psalm 101:3)

May 14, 2008 on social justice

Human Writes.

115 pages. That was the sum of Elie Wiesel’s Night, an account of the Nobel Laureate’s imprisonment in Nazi concentration camps.  I believe it was toward the end of page 7 that I got up from my chair, walked to my bedroom, and put the book behind several others in a basket under my bedside table.  I actually consciously thought, “I’ll just pretend I don’t have the book.”  I even thought of hiding it under the bed.

Page 7 was Mr. Wiesel’s account of how Moishe the Beadle (his Kabbalist tutor) miraculously survived his stay at an early Polish Gestapo work camp.  He returned to the village warning whoever would listen of the experiences in store for the Jews in hopes they could “ready” themselves while there was still time.  No one wanted to listen.  The poignant regret of that fact made me want to close the book, for it was inevitable foreshadowing of the rest of the story.

I know.  It was a strange reaction, but the memoir from the first sentence was so powerful, almost devastating, to me that I wanted to throw it away without reading any more.  But, I didn’t have the nerve.  Somehow I felt that I owed it to Mr. Wiesel to read his words.  If he had survived the horror described in that book and been bold enough to record it, how could I possibly NOT show him at least the courtesy of reading it, acknowledging it?

It was the first time I had read a personal account of a Holocaust survivor.  I think that is the reason why this book came to mind when I was contemplating an article on Human Rights.  I came across an initiative from Bloggers Unite encouraging writers to blog about Human Rights on May 15 as a way of bringing more awareness to the issues.

As I thought about my own perspective on human rights, it seemed that Human Writes was a more appropriate term.  You see, a major barrier to our engagement in these issues is that the statistics on the grossest forms of human rights violations are simply numbing.  Large numbers become impersonal and lose their meaning.  But, when one human writes of his own experiences, how can we dare to look away without asking questions? How do we summon that kind of boldness?

In Elie Wiesel’s speech accepting the 1986 Nobel Peace Prize (38 years to the day, ironically, after the United Nations adopted its Declaration of Human Rights), he said, “…I have tried to keep memory alive, I have tried to fight those who would forget.  Because if we forget, we are guilty, we are accomplices.”

As I open the burden of Night again, I see that Mr. Wiesel does not share OUR luxury of forgetting.  For he writes of his first night at Birkenau:

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.

Never shall I forget that smoke.

Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.

Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever.

Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself.

Never.

The issue of human rights brings a new dimension to “paying attention,” the pursuit of this website.  It requires a harsh confrontation with the raw, cruel capabilities of human beings; the realization that the events of Elie Wiesel’s Night did not happen in the 12th century, but less than 70 years ago – one lifespan.  Yet, similar cruelties are occuring all over the world even as I write.  And if I am honest, I admit that the seeds of those mind-boggling statistics occur even in my own little hometown every day. Each time someone (even I) with words or looks or actions seeks to diminish the infinite worth of another human being created in God’s image, we have contributed to the cruelty, as if acknowledging the worth of another somehow diminishes my own.

Elie Wiesel once asked Moeshe the Beadle,  “why do you pray?”  The answer – “I pray to the God within me for the strength to ask Him the real questions.”

I pray for that same strength – to ask God the hard questions, to ask myself the hard questions, and to have the courage to face the answers.