Him and Them

Not long ago, we visited a well-known church in a large town near our home. At first glance, all was quite impressive. The parkway leading to the church was flanked by established businesses with manicured hedges and large homes whose ample acreage was abundant with pools, trampolines and professionally engineered tree houses.

The curving ascent through posh suburbia was a slight yet noticeable climb. Just as we thought we had missed the church, we saw the bright orange cones that indicated lots of traffic. This had to be the place. Like the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace—the changing of the crowd required much planning and coordination. There were so many coming and going that the local authorities had to lend a hand to make sure that all maneuvers were made without incident.

This was a smooth running operation. We were volleyed from one parking attendant to the next. The closer we came to the church the more articles of bright green the attendant wore; kind of a lime green status symbol. The same young man that motioned us to the first time visitor parking served as crossing guard when we made our trek up to the building. He must have also been doing some serious security duty that kept him from fraternizing with the patrons. His eyes were hidden under a safari hat and sunglasses. However, his lips, though appearing cemented together with epoxy made a slight noiseless motion as we crossed in front of him.

Every portion was straight-line architecture and “state of the state” of the art. You almost expected the huge waterfall in the clearly marked garden to morph into whatever the next “scene” required. Just as suspected, with the lift of a blind, it served well as a baptistery backdrop. This place was truly fabulous. A passionate, articulate pastor led the massive gatherings that faithfully switched places each Sunday morning. There were signs indicating that there was something for everyone.

The drone of activity just outside the sanctuary was vaguely familiar; much like the gathering of anxious shoppers waiting for the grand opening of a department store. Everyone pushes toward the door; engaging in casual chitchat, eyes miss connections at well-timed intervals, cell phone junkies make one more text before the spree begins. The ominous difference was that shoppers waiting for sales have a serious gleam of anticipation. Most of those in waiting looked worn under their perfectly styled facades. It appeared as though this gathering was just an item on the “to-do” list. If there was any anxiety at all—it was over swiftly reaching a seat in a sought after area. No, there were not any “bad” seats in the house…planning is everything, you know.

The well-delivered sermon was laced with drama to peak interest, scripture to pack inspiration and points to prove intention. The fabulous roster of foreign missions outreach read like the departure boards at a major airport. The youthful pastor reminded the parishioners that there were few slots available for the next adventure. Sadly, the fervor of his delivery winced with a hint of desperation as he boldly reminded the audience of people in need just outside the walls of the church, their Jerusalem (Acts 1:8).

What else could anyone wish to know about this splendidly organized operation? There was much coming and going…an impressive edifice…culturally sensitive musicians…challenging sermons…a well-dressed multitude…close and clearly marked visitor parking. Actually, If Jesus slipped in as a causal observer, he would probably be concerned with answers to two questions: “What happens Monday morning to Sunday’s challenge of reaching the needy with love and truth?” and “how does this well-oiled machine treat the maintenance man?”

Unfortunately, we are easily impressed with appearances and we often miss the truly important. The “stuff” we consider so valuable here on earth, we will walk on in Heaven. The wise among us address issues that touch the heart of God simply, Him and them: How we reverence Him and how we treat them.

A Few Boxes

“There’s only a few boxes; I only have a one bedroom apartment” should have been a red flag but it was not. How could my dear husband have gotten us into yet another job that was way over our heads and miles beyond our physical ability? Moving furniture, boxes and other unnecessary treasures from a second story apartment would have been difficult under the best of circumstances but when you throw in an elderly lady bound to a wheelchair and equally as bound to her stuff; there is certain to be a glitch or two.

The story had probably replayed more often than we wish to believe. Her children had “taken her estate” and left her with a small pension to live on and no remarkable contact or assistance. She was truly all alone. The plan was that we would deliver the truck the evening before the move and two volunteers from a local church would load it. We would drive the loaded truck to the new apartment and maybe unload a box or two. However, the next morning plans changed. The relieved look on the faces that met us as we poked our heads around the door to see if help was needed, should have been adequate warning. A quick affirmative chorus started the adventure that would occupy us for the remainder of the day. Her helpers needed helpers and they were happy to see us.

Our journey home that evening would provide plenty of time to rehearse all that actually took place while we were moving furniture. Not only did we have time to compare what motivated us and kept us working that day (Her deceased husband had fought at Normandy, she was someone’s mother and Jesus would have helped this little lady if given the chance), but also, there was time to assess the not so obvious work that we were privileged to do. This was not an easy assignment but it would later become apparent that it was a divine one. The stifling heat and humidity seemed to place an explanation point to every action. Saturated hair and perspiration dripping in your eyes has a way of accentuating any experience. We were frayed mentally by our own agenda, physically stressed by all the “stuff” that had to go to the new apartment, emotionally squeezed by the sad circumstances, and spiritually cornered to do all that we were doing as unto the Lord (with the right heart attitude). We mustered a grateful chuckle as it occurred to us that Jesus had been “given a chance” and in the form of two unlikely moving people, He had helped.

We were there to listen to four different devastating scenarios. Apparently, some very heavyhearted people had come to help this little widow. The heartaches were passionately explained at different times during the day. The hope of God’s Word was shared amid boxes on the tailgate of the moving truck, while wrapping breakables in the middle of a dusty storage unit and while balancing bed frames and waiting for reinforcements. We just thought we were there to help a widow move her world from one side of town to another. God knew that we were there, more importantly, to move His message from one person to another.

The Roof Man

The roof had been leaking for quite some time and this was the third estimate; the other two though a little steep were comparable. The roof was not going to repair itself and my dear husband had done a whole lot of patching to no avail. After enduring the numerous buckets scattered across the kitchen, the idea was to hire a professional but the wiry, weathered option under the ragged cap was not my first choice. There was something very wrong with hiring a roofer that did not have a ladder. Besides, everyone knows that contractors drive trucks, not broken down old cars. However, Linnie was convinced this was the man he was to hire. There was not even a second guess when the roof man needed to “borrow” gas money to get home after giving his quote.

It would take more than a written estimate and a few technical roofing words thrown at me to convince me that we had made the right choice. My convincing would come when raindrops were no longer an inside issue and not until. My best skeptic face accompanied me during each encounter with the ragged roofer. However, there was no way to ignore the progress. The man on the roof was not only competent at his work but he was also a confident communicator. While we listened, he became an important person instead of a mistakenly chosen contractor. Life had pounded him soundly. Difficulty was woven throughout his humorous stories. His truck had been destroyed in a fire, his wife lived with a very serious illness and he had a colorful history. Interestingly, the sadder notes of the roofer’s song did not play as loudly as the happy part.

“Headed to work?” his question cheerfully bounced from the housetop. My explanation that this part of my day would be training prospective foster/adoptive parents brought a somber response and request. After his second sentence, my mind began jumping ahead of him filling in the blanks. It seemed that he had agreed to take in a friend’s child to help while the friend was serving time in prison. Having no idea what that agreement would require, the roof man and his ailing wife watched as this little person in their charge began destroying everything in sight, including setting fire to his work vehicle (Rewind: “Everyone knows that contractors drive trucks”).

Tears began to push the dust off his ruddy cheeks as he explained how he had not been able to care for the child but had suffered many sleepless nights wondering what had actually happened to him. “They (*DHR) had told me that I would be able to keep some contact with him but it never happened.” “He was so bad, I can’t imagine anyone being able to handle him. I should have tried harder but, my wife was so sick…Maybe you can help me, I just have to know what happened to him.”

This story was all too familiar. Thankfully, from his position on the roof he could not see my shock. Pretending to cover my eyes from the sun while nodding in his direction seemed to keep him from noticing the amazement that stamped itself from my forehead to my chin. My thought at that very moment: “God, You are awesome…amazing, fabulous…and everything in between”.

Two days later, the roof man left our house with a spring in his step; He had his answer. The child that he had tried to help was safe, well adjusted and living the life every little boy dreams about. He had in fact done the “right” thing by taking the little guy to the authorities so long ago. Relief replaced the heavy load of guilt that he was finally able to set aside. It was as if time rolled back a bit; the severe lines in his face gave way to a huge smile. The information he was given was enough to lighten the horrid load he had been carrying. We had already discussed the importance of confidentiality. The roof man knew that if we were able to get any information from DHR, it would be slight. He understood and the information he had been given was enough.

The job was finished in less than a week. The roof man left with a promise to stay in touch. We will pray for him. In Heaven, we will be able to tell him that we were the foster family and the child was never moved from home to home (a possibility that haunted him). It will be great to tell the incredible story of how God brought his adoptive family to us and how He (true to His Word) sets the solitary in families (Psalm 68:6). The picture of that young boy and the happy (adoptive) family is once again in its prominent place in our den, their story safe and lives undisturbed. The roof man is on to his next job and we are more convinced than ever that God will move Heaven and earth to heal the broken hearted. Occasionally, He lets us see a thread or two of the tapestry; when He does, it is simply fantastic.


Follow up note on this story: The roof man finished his work on our roof on Friday afternoon. The following Monday, Montgomery experienced what some meteorologists called a “500 year event” with torrential rain and flash flooding all over the city. It was the worst rain that many Montgomery residents can ever remember. Over 10 inches fell in Montgomery that day within a few hours – zero drops of rain fell into my kitchen. Thank you Mr. Roof Man and bless you Lord. You are good all the time!

*Department of Human Resources

Wake Up Call

Awakened by a replay of something that had happened more than a decade ago, I leaned over to find 2:46am staring back at me from the alarm clock. The next thought was a statement so clear it was almost audible, “I have always protected you.” This straight-forward statement seemed oddly out of place but was the answer to a heart’s cry mulled over two weeks before. While rehearsing a long list of relational fractures—I kept coming up with the same conclusion. “God could fix this.” It would be admirable to say that I sent my complaints heavenward. Instead, I just kept stirring and stewing the what-ifs. Whether our concerns take the form of prayers, complaints or feeble mumblings, the Lord knows, cares and desires to meet us at our point of need.

Two forty six in the morning, wide awake reliving a forced review of events that could have ended in tragedy. Ten years ago, a friend’s child ran into my utility room and grabbed my sleeping shepherd. We would learn later that the child had just come from her brother’s house and been playing with his Rottweiler. Startled from a dead sleep, my dog interpreted the child’s animal scented hug as an attack and snapped before he even opened his eyes. The results was two small puncture wounds that we would be told by the Emergency Room physician were 1/8 of an inch from the child’s carotid artery. While the child adamantly protested the treatment and the mother argued against my dog’s impound, I blasted gratitude to the throne.

It went without saying that this incident could have ended so differently. While, tracing the minuscule fissures in the ceiling of my aged abode and rewinding the words, “I have always protected you”; other forgotten scenes came forward. A near crash at a busy intersection on my 18th birthday, missed by an intoxicated driver whose demolished vehicle would later be on the evening’s new. A split second and a fourth of a mile separated our destinies. How had I so glibly taken this noteworthy protection for granted?

Next, the camera in my mind’s eye trained on the quivering hand of a young gangster as he screamed, pointed the handgun in my direction and began firing dead on from less than twenty feet away. The anguish in his eyes, a resolute combination of anger and fear, is bolted onto my brain. The “startled” reaction to unexpected noises faded within a few weeks but, the cold sad impression left by that young man’s eyes remains. Untouched, not even a bullet hole in my car…

Yes, Lord…You have always protected me. You are amazing and completely trustworthy. You are my fortress. Your very name is my strong tower (Proverbs 18:10), even during times when—I do not recognize your faithful watch care; you are there. Not one thing that happens here on this confused planet takes you off guard. Thank you for the times of loving protection I am able to recall and for the dozens that slip by without fanfare. You are far more than I deserve. It is a privilege to reside under the shadow of the Almighty (Psalm 91). You are my God, my shield, my protector and the author of amazing wake-up calls.

our chickens return

My house guest held two pieces of a plastic ladle in his hand and timidly said, “I did not mean to break this”. “Oh no” I lamented, that was special piece from a museum in Poland and there is no way that it can be replaced. Why I wouldn’t even try? Honestly from the look on his bewildered face I don’t think he heard anything after my “oh no”. Realizing that he had not caught the humor in my voice—I quickly told him that nothing in my home was worth worrying over…just things…things, not people. The transformation was incredible; he went from very concerned to laughing with me. What could have made this once successful minister fearful over a broken ladle? People.

People that had at one time worn the title, “friend”; people that had worshipped and worked alongside of him; people that had betrayed, backstabbed and belittled in the name of climbing the proverbial ladder; people—like my friend and like me made in the image of God. How did we (people) stray so far from the original?

Since our creator made us people and not puppets, we choose. Life is a continual choice—moment by moment: Obedience or disobedience, selfishness or sacrifice, comfort or comforted, loving or unloving, blessing or blight. Our words are powerful and our actions paramount. My Christian perspective says that I have the power within to reflect the ONE that I belong to and an obligation to my fellow man to give a proper estimation of Jesus Christ.

However, even without belief in a deity there are just some (unspoken) laws that govern (or used to govern) humanity. It seems (and my battered friend is proof) that we are getting farther and farther from respect and civility. It is important for me to remember that I am a reflection but—I am also a receiver. My great grandmother used to say “chickens always come home to roost.” It is beneficial for me to consider the “chickens” to which I am giving flight because—they will be back.

holding me

Are you a poor leader or am I a pathetic follower? Well, that goes without explanation. Every miniscule fragment of history indicates that you are an impeccable leader. The perfect, sovereign, awesome leader of Daniel in the den of lions and Moses in the midst of the unforgiving crowd of future Israelis; the matchless leader of the stars of the millionth galaxy as they line up in perfect order to be tagged and tossed purposefully into the velvet atmosphere. Your majesty and leadership again and again are proven perfect.

Obviously, the flaw is not with the leader but with the designated follower: me. Oh, I do great for a second or so then the wearisome details of the journey get me completely side tracked. Sadly the good that I do along the way in a feeble attempt to “feel” close to you only brings distance that is almost more than I can bear.

When I look up from my completed task, beaten and exhausted, starved for a tender nod of approval, I find that you are so far away that you are almost unrecognizable. How did I lag so far behind? How could you leave me? Don’t you love me? Can’t you see I am trying so hard to please you? Why did you keep walking away from me? I was doing fine for awhile, you saw didn’t you? You knew, yet you allowed me to slowly step back, you could have stopped me. Why do I keep lagging behind? Every weary, leaded, fractured step depletes me.

Standing, extending to the greatest height I can muster (like a little girl tip-toeing to see something wonderful), I see you are a vague shadow, distant, far away; but as my posture changes from head strong and tall to kneeling then falling on my face, I find that you are no longer the vague figure on the nebulous horizon. You are present, a touchable, tangible Savior and a gentle, caring Master. You are anxious to lift me to my feet, ready to set me aright, forgiven, new and on my way. I however want to stay at your feet, clinging to you, like a little child grasping her mother’s ankles, holding tightly; partially out of humility and gratitude; mostly convinced that if I let go it is easy to once again lose my perspective. Oh precious Master, could that have been the reason Mary brilliantly chose to anoint your feet, to be near you, to honor you, to take her rightful place?

If I cling to you just at the hem of your garment, I will know when we are to move, I cannot make a misstep and I will not stray from the One who should be the grandest object of my affection. If I hold on tightly all is well, always, forever. It is then that I realize You, lovingly, are with Your very thought, holding me.

dusk 2 dawn

The couple was so concerned for their daughter. They were people of faith and knew that God could take care of this difficult situation. We promised to pray for their daughter, Dusk. There was no need to write the request; such an unusual name would be easy to remember. Then on to my next appointment: carpool.

Layton, my six year old grandson and I had a few minutes to spend after school before my next commitment. Layton would probably like helping wash the car. Besides, it would be a great way to make a memory even if the car didn’t get clean. As we were pulling into the carwash, we saw a young lady perched on the edge of a drainage ditch (Montgomery was once a swamp so it has a grand network of drainage ditches).

Before I even stepped out of the car to start washing, I knew the coins that we had mustered for the car wash would be spent a different way. “Where are we going, Nana?” Layton asked as I told him to get back in to car. I pulled over to the ditch and asked the sad looking girl if she was waiting on a ride. Her answer, so typical I could have scripted it but—so was mine. For the next few minutes, Dawn was given physical food (purchased with the carwash money) that would last an hour or so and spiritual food (purchased by the blood of Jesus) that will be in her mind from now on. She did not pray with us but, she heard truth and her next “high” will not be nearly as exhilarating. She has an offer of help—when, she is finished with the “ditch” living. She has hope that there are people who care and will help her find a new life. Dawn tearfully thanked me for the meal and clutched the card I had given her. “I may call you….in three hours or three weeks” she mused.

As for Layton, he was not the least bit disappointed about the carwash. He smiled and tucked his little head shyly as, I explained how he had “ministered” by just sitting quietly while I was talking to the lady from the ditch. As for making a memory with my grandson—I can’t think of a better one.

I had to smile when I thought about beginning my morning with Dusk and ending my work day with Dawn. The Lord really does care about every miniscule detail. From my perspective—I should have met Dawn first. When, asking the Lord about it later. He reminded me about the verses in Genesis that clearly reflect the order of the Jewish Day.

….and the evening (Dusk) and the morning (Dawn) were the first day...

Our God is amazing. He does not have to show up in our day to day but, He certainly does.

Listening,

identity crisis

Identity Crisis? Not a chance. I would be the one to walk through my house and find a huge arrow written in dust, on my coffee table and labeled, “she went that way.” There is not enough time or space for me to exercise my right to an identity crisis or any other interesting sounding catastrophe. Are you kidding? There are people around continually reminding me, who I am…

For my dear husband, I am a coffee clutch partner. He wants me to join him for coffee about 5 p.m.. He wants to be in the swing, coffee in hand and have me there, too. He may not say a word, he may be playing with his cell phone or even talking on it but, he wants me to be there and is highly insulted if I am not.

For my children, I am transportation for all of their left behind paraphernalia: items, they must have, to avoid being sent to the gallows. I am the family treasurer. I can find gas money where there was none. Actually, my children think that I am all knowing and totally out of touch—simultaneously. How can I locate belts, shoes, orthodontic rubber bands, literature books and the TV remote yet have no clue about life? How is it that the same children who trust me with their children, their dog and their health disregard my advice on just about everything else? How can the ones who believe that I am as old as dirt think I know nothing about living?

For the precious, perfect pictures of God’s infinite creative wisdom called grandchildren, I am a jungle gym, a pitching machine and a chef rolled into one. My grandchildren believe that I was created to entertain them; whether its making up silly songs, reading the 15th book or playing marbles. I am never supposed to get tired, ill or think of giving up at anything. For them, Nana is an infinite source of wisdom. I know everything from where bluebirds go when it rains to whether or not worms burp. It is amazing that their parents are convinced I know almost nothing and they think I know everything.

To My co-workers: I am a sounding board, a whipping post, a true anomaly and prayerfully, a dependable comrade. They chide me, love me, misunderstand me, encourage me and fight alongside me. For them, I am a wearied cheerleader, an unnecessary referee and a foolish dreamer.

To those whom I serve daily; I want to be a source of hope and encouragement. I am a resource, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to tattle to when they have been wronged or when they just want to feel like their words count to someone. I am a deposit for a place to live, a payment on an electric bill, a voice in court, a caring advocate or a thorn in their flesh. I am the one who insists that they dream big, work hard and keep trying. I am the one who avoids their phone calls and tracks them down when they attempt to avoid me. I am a relationship that points them to the only relationship that can take them around this world and into the next.

To my parents, I am a daughter—capable and inept, kind and thoughtless, fun and foolish, helpful and unnecessary, loved and hated; understood and irrelevant. I am a dependable source of love, and comfort.

To my friends and extended family, I am a belly laugh, a listening ear, a caring heart, a willing hand, a believing and understanding soul. I am there.

Even my dogs give me a tag: I am a pat on the head, a yell as I fall headlong over them, I am a grump when they beg, a softie when they are ill and the one who makes sure that someone makes sure they have food and water.

To my Lord: I am a weary servant and a jubilant daughter. I am a refusing runner like Jonah and a defiant, defender like Daniel. I am a graceful dancer and a bumbling idiot. I am haughty and repentant, fearful and bold. I am painfully timid and totally confident. I am a mess most of the time, seen through the eyes of Heaven and explained by the testimony of His Word, without merit of my own. When the crisis, identity or otherwise, comes my way; Whether whispering from the deepest crevice or screaming from a pinnacle, when I am at the top of my game or waving the white flag of surrender; the identity that I treasure above all the others is: “HIS”.