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.

The Champ

Basketball Camp would be a fabulous idea. His daddy had been a high school star and always learned a lot at ball camp. In keeping with tradition, Layton headed to camp, as excited as his stoic personality would allow.

Poppa would drop off and Nana would pick up. We enjoyed the detailed explanation of his drills and the games. Of course, countenance changes had to match the content of the story. When, the topic switched to one on one competition, it was very serious. “I was the one-on-one champ today—it was me and Scotty, again” his soft breaths were as deep as his contemplation. “Nana, it was hard and I hope we do not have to do the one-on-one, again.” The next afternoon brought an almost identical report. “Scotty” was fierce, a real nemesis, a bruiser and a tough competitor on the basketball court. It would be fun to meet this young man and watch the competition during the final ceremonies.

My welcome to the camp finale could not have been more pleasant. An eight-year-old blonde beanstalk gave me a tight hug and a warm smile. She was especially precious because for years, we had been privy to her journey: biological family in turmoil, lives out of control, no hope, twists and turns in and out of the system, volunteer parents, drug use, court proceedings, fearful times, questions, supervised visits, no hope. Space and confidentiality will not permit me to untangle her story. Only God could have directed us through that impossible maze of bureaucracy to her “forever” family (their story a miracle all its own).

It was a pleasant surprise to see my little friend and tell her that my grandson was also at ball camp. “You may know him….his name is Layton” as quickly as she asked his last name; she answered with a mock scowl, “Layton, Layton Dickson?” “I almost beat him in one on one” she snipped with a giggle. The Lord was probably covering his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. He was probably sharing the details with Heaven. How could he keep from telling this story? After all, God is concerned with the details. It was almost impossible for me to keep from looking straight Heavenward and yelling, “You are amazing!” I know that my children are afraid that one day I will do just that…and that is very possible. The Lord is amazing and when He lets us see a fraction of his plan, it is too much to contain.

Many stories must simply be cloaked and chronicled. Her family’s privacy is paramount and of course, Scotty’s story is safe with me. Besides, it would be a complete affront to my dear grandson, if he knew that his Nana had helped his chief opponent get to basketball camp.

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.

lessons from a teapot.....

“We are having a three course tea, whatever that is, like they have in England. Do you have a teapot that I can take? My teacher said for anyone that could to bring a teapot.” After dragging my very weary, out of shape, poor example of a body out of bed, I made the trek to the dining room where four prized possessions kept watch. The only pot that would serve the purpose for a room full of eighth graders was Mammaw Campbell’s canning kettle. It almost seemed a sacrilege to call it Mammaw’s because—it was my dear Pappaw that always retrieved it from the stove in the basement whenever it was needed. It was Pappaw that always handled the steaming liquid that would be poured over the jars in the canning process. My mind’s eye had no trouble vividly conjuring up a picture in full color of Pappaw meting out just the right amount of water into the precious commodities that he and Mammaw were storing away. It would be Pappaw that would dry the well used pot and return it to its rightful place until the next time it would be called to duty.

Pappaw never called it a teapot; it was always “the kettle”. Every now and then his strong Irish descent would pop to the surface of a conversation like the tender sprouts of corn in his garden. This was one of those occasions. My cousins and I loved to hear Pappaw Campbell say, kettle because the initial e, in kettle, ran like a frightened rabbit and was replaced by a snappy “i”, He proudly pronounced it, “kittle”. We would giggle and try to get him to say “kittle” again and again. Pappaw would laugh with us and then tell us that he didn’t have time for such foolishness (“go on you fellars—I have work to do” ) and he would be on to the next project….one or all of us following like ducks to a pond would trail behind him. Pappaw’s plans may take us from the kitchen but never far because, when there was canning to be done, He always had to stay within earshot so when Mammaw called he would only be a few steps away.

The journey back to that little green hill and Mammaw’s kitchen took just milliseconds. When my heart goes to Mammaw’s house, there’s always a patchwork sample of lives well lived, not rushed through—not endured, invested--lived intentionally. As I placed the kettle into a Wal-Mart bag, I reminded Dallas of the treasure that she was taking to school. “Please take care of this baby, it was your great grandmother’s”, I cautioned. A kiss on the cheek, a quick, “I will Mom” and my sweet daughter was out the door. As I walked from the kitchen to the living room mulling over—my memories and sipping my lukewarm coffee….the trailing words of my plea, “…it was your great grandmother’s” repeatedly trickled from my mind to my heart “…it was your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s.”

The word “your” began to wrap itself around me like a toasty blanket on a frosty morning. Our lovely, vivacious daughter was a gift to our family when she was just a little girl. She had not been born to us. She has truly been an undeserved blessing. By the same token, her adoption into our family gave her rights to all that we as a family possess. The stroke of a judge’s pen gave our Dallas a lady from Birmingham England for a grandmother, all the stories from the West Virginia Mountains and the right to claim the Tarheel ancestry of those born in North Carolina from my side of the family tree. Every family story, every tear, every side splitting story (like Aunt Senia’s horse ride or Mammaw putting linament in Pappaw’s nose), every recipe, all the joy, each uphill journey, all the unique pieces of our puzzle became hers. All Dallas did was just be, just exist, just be. Wow, what an incredible transaction. As the Holy Spirit smoothed the canvas of my mind’s eye—the picture of God’s grace in the gift of His only son, Jesus vividly came to life.

The Creator of the Universe gently painted a clear picture of His eternal plan and in His grace and mercy chose this morning to remind me of His love. “That is what I have done for you, Debbie—Adoption is a beautiful thing. My grace has made it possible for you to have all the riches of my glorious heritage. You are my beautiful adopted daughter. All those children that my Father brings to me are absolutely gorgeous in my sight. Their beauty in my sight is not because of what they are able to accomplish. Every son and daughter is beautiful, in my sight, because they look like my Son. That is what adoption does, Debbie, passes to you all the riches of glory and you just get to “be”. “I love you my daughter— I love you, died for you, chose you, adopted you.

Prayerfully, the teapot will return from English class. It will be returned to its place on the shelf in the dining room but—I doubt that I will every look at that or any other teapot quite the same.

Christmas carols

It was a typical Saturday morning, if there is anything typical about spending the morning with grandchildren. The boys helped Poppa cook breakfast, disturbed the slumber of two dozen rolly-pollys (who thought that they were safe wintering in the border around my flower bed) and then they assisted me with making beds. They make beds the way I attempt life by climbing right into the middle of it. That’s a story for another day.

The younger of the two loves to see how things work. It was not unusual for him to be drawn to a small music box sitting in the windowsill. In his usual un-methodical manner, he began twisting the fragile stem to make the music begin. Thinking that I was rescuing the music box from him so that one day, I would one day be able to “leave” it to him brought a chuckle. Would these energetic promises that shared our last name remember this morning? Would the thought of Saturday mornings at Nana-Pop’s house bring a chuckle to their hearts 20 years from now?

While they listened to a Reader’s Digest version of the box’s history, I gently wound and released the key. As expected the clearest tinned melody began spilling out of the tiny box. The song was clear and familiar to me. The two angels crowded closer to me than space permitted, listening intently. “That is a beautiful song” commented the eight year old. His four year old brother agreed wholeheartedly telling me to make it play again. In the midst of placing our order for a replay of that lovely Christmas hymn—I asked the boys to tell me the name of the tune. Neither of them knew. How had this happened?

Fast forward to Sunday Morning; waiting for Bible Study to begin, a friend shares with the teacher how she feels lead to purchase Bibles for her nieces explaining their “sad” circumstances, “they don’t even recognize the Christmas Carols.” Anytime there is a common theme, especially if that theme seems a little out of place, I know that it is a “board out of Heaven with a message written on it” moment and I have learned to pay close attention.

Monday, heading home, I flipped on the radio and was not surprised to hear a regularly scheduled radio host. What was surprising was his topic. The Garlow Perspective was discussing, of all thing, Christmas Carols. A radio show, on the 9th day of February, talking about Christmas Carols; does that seem a bit odd to you?

I am not sure what all of this means. Honestly, regrettably, I have not taken the time to get before the Lord and ask. My time with Him has been primarily requesting wisdom for handling other situations that screamed loudly and demanded immediate attention.

Three days, one apparently misplaced theme, two precious grandchildren who may not always be so attentive to what I have to say and a newly acquired interest in Christmas songs has me thinking. You know, in ten years, it will not matter if every item on my “to do” list from this past week was crossed off. However, I believe with all my being that Heaven has a word for me neatly woven into the melody of a familiar Christmas Carol. That message has eternal value.

Needless to say, I am listening—I will be seeking God’s heart on this topic. I will be researching the history of Silent Night and my grandchildren will hear Joy To The World playing at Nana’s in the Spring.

plans

"I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes looking for my reading glasses. So indicative of my last 49 years looking for worth, searching for love, looking for my car keys, stalking my purse, digging for a pen, scrambling to find a schedule and at this juncture of life—I’m longing for a complete thought.

I have chosen to refer to this marvelous portion of life as “half time”. In sports, that is the time to regroup, refresh, rethink and relax. That’s the problem... I am trying to do this in the wrong order. No wonder I can’t get a clear thought. No wonder, I don’t want to write thank you notes or tackle my mail. No wonder life seems to be flying yet in sepia tones of slow motion so I can visualize all that I am missing—no wonder.”

This journal entry from the summer of 2007 was the beginning of the next chapter, the 2nd half if you will. It marked a time of reflection, introspection, painful evaluation and a renewed sense of purpose. Prayerfully, this communication will allow you, the reader to laugh, to cry, to identify and to grow with me into the image of our loving Heavenly Father. He truly is working all things for our good. No matter if you are frantically paddling in the middle of the first quarter of life or you are seated at the bottom of the third. Life is meant to be enjoyed—not endured.

There is a marvelous plan because there is a magnificent Planner.