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What’s Green and Hurts All Over?

6 Sep

Kudzu.

I never really gave it much thought, but over the summer, as I drove through Virginia’s southern counties, its pervasiveness intrigued me. I did some research and now I find the plant fascinating, or at least, its story. It’s a story of compromise.

Kudzu came to America in the 1800s the way sin enters one’s life—as a beautiful and desirable object from a distant land we’d heard of, but never seen. Let’s not call kudzu alien or unnatural to the region…that sounds so unrefined; how about exotic? What a delightfully mysterious word, exotic.

All the nicest gardens just had to have Japanese kudzu, that hearty and lush vine-bush that grew quickly and provided wonderful shade. Of course, like all exotic possessions, it came at a steep price, but with a little reshuffling of funds (perhaps we could use that money set aside for charity this month…?) status quo was obtained.

During the depression era, someone discovered that kudzu could stop soil erosion. The government began pressuring southern farmers to take it out of their pots and gardens and plant it around their fields and along highways; they pressured the way young men pressure young women to do things they ought not. In some cases, the government even paid farmers to defile their soil. And the farmers agreed, because, well, everyone was doing it. And besides, it wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

Soon, the farmers realized they’d made a mistake, and that new life was being created at rapid rates. The government said, “Wow, that’s quite a mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” and turned away. They went back to Washington, removed it from their list of species acceptable for use under the Agricultural Conservation Program, and labeled it a weed.

Kudzu planted its roots deep into the Georgia and South Carolina soil, strengthening into a network of obstinate toddler-like tendrils that shot up and raced across the ground, stopping to climb mailboxes and telephone poles. It was cute at the beginning, like a child’s first swear words, or those “But I wanted a trophy!” temper tantrums that we’d video tape, chuckling. Coddling fools, we lifted some of the barriers so they wouldn’t feel stifled—anything to keep the little ones happy. Next thing we knew, the vine children became rebellious teenagers, racing over and past farmland boundaries, pushing down fences, climbing over walls of absolute truth that blocked their paths, and yelling, “Progress through freedom!”

Winding its way up and around. Isn't it pretty?

Winding its way up and around. Isn’t it pretty?

Throughout the late 1900s, the vines thrived through a system of situational ethics supported by the motto, “anything goes if it benefits me.” They started climbing trees, wrapping their manipulative tendrils around even the tallest and heartiest species.

Townspeople noticed, but did nothing.

“The leaves make a pretty contrast against the forest, and it isn’t hurting anyone,” they’d say to protesters. “Stop being so dramatic and show some tolerance, for Pete’s sake.”

Others said, “Sheesh! It’s not as bad as cogon grass or privet, so what’s all the fuss over a few weeds?”

The trees noticed though, because they’d become embroiled in a battle over light and nutrients, and the war was very real to them.

Kudzu devouring a hillside

It’s not really hurting anything…

Sadly, their age and wisdom were no match for agility and avarice, and millions of acres from Florida to North Carolina (and now Virginia) and as far west as Texas were smothered and choked. Kudzu and other weeds like it now consume an estimated 150,000 acres of trees and other flora each year. Under every one of those delightful green towers (look Dad, that one is shaped like a clown!) is a dead or dying tree that once contributed greatly to our ecosystem.

In 1998 it was listed by the U.S. Congress as a Federal Noxious Weed, but this fancy label didn’t come with an eradication plan. Besides, some people enjoyed it. They fed it to their animals, made baskets, and chopped it up to use as fertilizer.

“I’ve got it under control in my back yard; I’m not too worried about your problems.”

In Japan, it’s made into jelly, so we may as well make room on the store shelves now. It’s coming, whether you like it or not. If you don’t, you’re a hater.

Can it be defeated? Possibly. People once tried to introduce an insect that supposedly eats the kudzu vine. Regrettably, it also devoured soybean crops. They’ve tried locating the root crown, which can be quite deep, and destroying it, but some reports say even the tiniest sliver of surviving crown can regenerate. Many eradication methods could work, but it will require a strong stand against compromise and a lot of effort. Too much effort it seems, now that the beast has been allowed to run wild for so long. In some regions entire houses, barns, and silos have been overrun, as if it were easier to leave than fight. Perhaps the owners just didn’t want to be seen as bullies.

Yes, it’s bleak out there, but what do you think? Is the battle lost?

kudzu overwhelming roadside

Kudzu, or muscadine, or porcelain berry, or Virginia creeper. I’m not a botanist and can’t swear, but the vines are all similar, and inflicting similar damage.

“Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.”  — James 1:15

 

 

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Love Tosses Caged Sparrow Over Another Hurdle

27 Aug

I honestly believe it will never be this special again.

First, some great news…We have an agent! Her name is Diana; she read my proposal for Joe’s story and asked for the manuscript Friday. Over the weekend I went through it one last time and pronounced it finished Sunday night. I sent a hard copy to Joe and electrons to Diana; she is now working on finding the right publisher. I couldn’t say for sure whether Joe or I was more excited, but as I listened to Joe’s elation over the phone Friday, I was tickled to pieces to have witnessed it. (I do believe he did a little jig.)

Completed manuscript

One step closer to the book rack!

It was a sobering moment, Sunday night when I hit the “send” button, and with one click, transmitted more than a year’s worth of work and dreams off to an unknown world in cyberspace. I sat there staring at the “message sent” notice for a long time, contemplating the true scope of this journey, which actually began in the early 70s, sitting with my Nana in her giant four-poster bed, listening to her read from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House in the Big Woods. I became so inspired by Laura’s storytelling gift that I knew, just knew, it was what I wanted to do for my life. I started writing with abandon, and when my English teacher, Mr. DeRobbio, said I had a gift, I positively soared. I was going to be a writer!

But I didn’t do it. Not really. I stifled the call to write, with a military career (during which I wrote as a journalist, but not for myself–yet even there I received encouragement from people I admired and still try to emulate, like Pat Gibbons, Tom Bartlett, and Ken Smith-Christmas…), and I put it aside for two wonderful children and years of busyness. All the while, I knew God was nudging me…“So, when are you going to start?”

Then He put friends in my life to nurture and encourage, each one sending me a little closer to the ledge—Susannah Johnson’s “The Artist’s Way” class pushed me to Sarah’s writing group, where she, Martha, Meredith, and Anne dared me to dream about “what if?”

One domino toppled the next. I found myself at a writers’ conference that fanned the spark into flame, and met inspiring people like Beth Pensinger and Erin Elizabeth Austin. Over the next year I was a fly on the FB wall, watching their struggles as Beth wrote and published a sweet read called, “Let Me Fall: The Love Story Between God and His Dimwitted Daughter,” and Erin inspired thousands by sharing her battles and victories over darkness and founded Broken but Priceless Ministries. I’ll never be able to express to these women how integral they’ve been in my journey, and yet we barely spoke to each other.

But I STILL didn’t listen, so God forced my hand. He sent Linda Rondeau, a fellow writer and perfect stranger. She just appeared outta’ nowhere, armed with a story about a man who went to prison for a crime he did not commit and looking for someone who might want to write it. Another domino. This led to Joe and his awesome story.

Desire, ability, a story that absolutely HAD to be told–I had no more excuses. I even had my husband’s wide-eyed, “I’m-a-bit-nervous-but-I-know-this-is-important-to-you” blessing, and two sons who were glad to see me doing what I loved. And then sweet, sweet Phanalphie, of RhueStill Inc., who didn’t even know me yet but read my writing and offered me a net to jump into, and she probably would have flown out here from Oklahoma and pushed me off if I’d asked her to.

And again, I didn’t leap off the cliff. I more or less attempted to inch my way over the rim, scraping my knees as I fumbled blindly for toeholds, and I found myself only a couple of feet down, clinging to a ledge by my fingernails, half in and half out of two vastly different worlds. It took more nudging, by many more friends. Carrie and Kevin, my best friends and confidantes from work, helped pry my fingers off the ledge by assuring me that “the gang” would be fine, and although they’d miss me, I had to leave or risk going through life not knowing. Since I left, both of them have sent me inspiring notes when I really needed them, and many others from work continue to check in. Chuck and Rebecca check in almost daily, and let me whine on their e-shoulders when things don’t quite work out the way I want them to.

I also received tremendous support from my prayer partners, Kathy, Dino, Linda, Chris, and Michele, from my neighbor Julie, and friends and family from all over like George, Heidi, Jo, and Willa.

And a book was born.

While I was writing this I thought, you probably wouldn’t want to read a bunch of names of people you don’t know, but then I realized, this isn’t about the names. You do know these people. They’re in your lives as well. You just call them something different.

The bottom line is, if there’s ANYTHING you want to do, you can do it, but not on your own. Dare to dream. Then surround yourself with positive, prayerful people, and listen to God’s nudging; remember that He put this desire in your heart in the first place.

I will write more books. Joe’s story is powerful, but it probably won’t make either of us famous. I will write better books, and more than likely a few flops. I may even receive recognition for some, although that is not my measurement of success.

But it will never be like this. This is special. This is the end of the beginning. And you helped.

Thank you.

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For Bill, Who Knew the Secret

9 Aug

Yesterday was the final day of a long goodbye to our friend and neighbor, Mr Bill. We sent him off with military honors and with much wisecracking and laughter, as was befitting a man voted class clown in high school and who laughed habitually, with great abandon.

Mr. Bill’s life, though too short, was a life well-lived. He was one of those rare people who truly knew that the secret to happiness is to love God and love others. His sweet wife Julie says often of him that he never knew a stranger, which aptly describes the way he so easily drew everyone in, and how effortlessly he could make anyone laugh. His gregarious joy was so contagious that even people who’d only met him once or twice came to the funeral yesterday with stories of his antics and his generosity. A woman he worked with as a teenager at a Hallmark store in the 70s wrote from Arizona to tell of how fondly she still looked back on those days, and how, after she shared her regret with Bill that she’d never received an Easy-bake Oven when she was a child, he’d left one on her car one day, gift wrapped. She still has it today. Another man, who knew Bill in the early 80s and who hasn’t seen him since, came all the way from London to say goodbye, because the bond they’d formed all those years ago had been just that strong.

William Dean Turner

William Dean Turner

He joked about everything, even his cancer. He wrote in a letter to his friends: “I had a PET Scan, which is like a CAT Scan, only it’s for people who have dogs, fish, birds, or are just not cat fans. This scan showed the tumor had shrunk to half its original size. Everyone who was not mentioned in my will was overjoyed.”

Later, when the news came that the cancer had resumed its growth and the doctor told him he might have 4 months or 40 years, he said, “that’s the same thing my parole officer told me!”

We met Bill about 10 years ago, through our son, who was around 5 at the time, and who is the reason we call our neighbor “Mr. Bill.” That title made us giggle (my husband and I, that is, because we’re children of the 70’s Saturday Night Live).

Our son developed a Dennis-the-Menace/Mr. Wilson-type of relationship with Mr. Bill. I swear they started swapping jokes almost from day one. Some days our son would stand draped over our mailbox, watching for him to come home from work, bursting at the seams with the “gem” of the day. Seeing his car come around the corner was an occasion for great glee. Bill would leap from the car and fire off a gem of his own that he’d been saving for just that moment. I suspect each of them poured through the joke books every night, looking for ammunition.

Bill was good to all children, and children loved him. He had a child’s heart.

Throughout his Chemo treatments, Bill continued to celebrate life, especially last Halloween (his favorite holiday) when, despite being weak and tired, he dug through the garage and hauled out the house-sized, inflatable black cat with a motion-sensor caterwaul-screeching device and erected it across his walkway (because the kids expect it, he said).

After he passed away last Saturday, my family was saying a prayer of thanks for Bill and his friendship, and it was my son who hit the crux of what had been Bill’s mission on earth, when he said, “Mr. Bill truly knew how to love thy neighbor.”

As I stood with friends and at Quantico National Cemetery watching the Air Force honor guard fold the flag and handed it with great reverence to Mrs. Julie, I realized we’d soon be forming a line to walk past his coffin, and I’d have one final moment, just between the two of us, to say something noble. I actually fretted about this, because it suddenly mattered to me a great deal, but when my turn came, I had nothing. So, I just patted the coffin, closed my eyes, and that’s when the words came:”

“Goodbye Bill, and have fun up there!”

And I know he will.

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Christian Prayers for a Muslim Tradition

28 Jun

Today is the first day of Ramadan, which has always meant nothing to me because I understand very little of the Muslim religion and its customs.

However, this year I find myself thinking of Fatima, a beautiful woman from Pakistan who watched my youngest child for more than five years, and I’m picturing her in prayer during this time.

Fatima had a quiet spirit, laughing eyes, and an accent that made everything sound exotic. We loved the way she pronounced our son’s name—not “Charles,” but “Shar-less.” Fatima and her family moved away when my son entered the first grade, but the peace and grace about her stays with us to this day.

Flag of Pakistan

Flag of Pakistan

We knew she was Muslim, but we were indifferent about it. She dressed in the conservative shalwar kamez (pants with an ankle-length, stylish shirt), and a scarf that I believe is called a hijab. If I’d taken a moment to ask, she would have happily told me what it was, but I showed no interest in her customs. When she asked for certain days off during Ramadan, I found alternative care, but did not inquire about that either. I guess I didn’t want to pry, or have to “defend” my own religion. I wish now that I had asked.

Fatima loved America. She studied for weeks before her citizenship test, and I can still recall how her face lit up the day she told me she was now a U.S. citizen. She celebrated Independence Day, Flag Day, and Memorial Day. She asked me questions about my uniform, and loved the idea that I was a Marine. On September 11, 2001, she grieved with the rest of America when our nation was attacked.

That was the first time I asked her anything about her religion, and I’m ashamed to say it was more accusatory than curious. I rushed home early from work that day and went straight to my son, practically snatching him from her hands.

I looked into her eyes, which were not laughing that day, and I demanded to know, “What kind of God do you have that he would endorse something like this?”

She practically sobbed her response.

“That is not our God. Our religion doesn’t teach this.”

It was somewhat of an epiphany to consider that perhaps those who profess to follow Allah are as varied in character as those who profess to follow Jesus. Some are good, some are evil.

I also knew Fatima loved my son. She practically raised him, while I went off to work, alongside her own two children. She read to them all together, bought his favorite foods, taught him the Arabic alphabet, and gave him gifts at every occasion. Even Christmas. She loved Christmas, and I never thought to ask why.

So that brings me back to Ramadan, and why it matters to me now. I’ve learned a little bit about Muslims since those days. I worked for a while in a place where terrorist group activities were tracked and analyzed. There I read, almost daily, stories about Boko Haram spreading its anti-Christian violence across Nigeria, and the fear and hatred being spewed throughout Indonesia by Jemaah Islamiah, and now the atrocities spilling out of Syria and across Iraq with mind-numbing speed, all in the name of “Allah.”

I believe more Muslims are like Fatima than Saddam Hussein, and because I believe that, I’d say they’re a lot like me. They want to please God, and follow His will for their lives. So for the next month, as the world’s Muslims enter a time of prayer and fasting, I will be praying as well. I suspect we’ll be praying for the same things:

1. They will be praying to become spiritually stronger. I will pray that as they seek to know God, He will reveal Himself to them, during prayer time and as they dream at night, as a loving God and a God of mercy.

2. They will be praying in appreciation for God’s gifts. I will pray that as they search for the Truth, they will learn it. While they study their most precious gift, the Koran, let them find and take to heart its command to read the Injeel (the New Testament), and realize that if God is, indeed, all powerful, He can surely maintain the integrity of a little ol’ book over a mere 2,000 years.

3. They will be praying to become more obedient. I will pray that their obedience opens doors to understanding.

Near the end of July (around the 24th), Muslims will enter an even more intense period of prayer, known as Lailat al Qadr, or the Night of Power (also Night of Destiny). During this time, they will pray through the night, believing that this night marks their fate for the following year. The doors between them and God will be open wider than ever. They will be praying for mercy, forgiveness, and salvation, not knowing for sure whether He would do so. I will pray for the same, knowing that He does.

Is anyone with me?

 

“I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd.” John 10:16

 

 

 

 

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When Fathers Are Imperfect: You Call this Love?

14 Jun

Not everyone loves Fathers’ Day.

Did you have the perfect dad, someone who attended every sporting event, band concert, and scout ceremony? Who knew your friends’ names and read the articles you wrote for the school paper?

I didn’t. My dad barely knew me, and he attended nothing—not even my high school graduation.

Dads are a strange lot. When we’re young we think they’re perfect, but for most of us, at some point we learn the truth: that they’re human, and we’re disappointed.

What was that moment for you?

Perhaps your dad was away on business on your birthday one year and he didn’t call.

Or maybe he promised to bring you something and then forgot.

Perhaps he committed an unspeakable shame that your mother forbade you to talk about, even  with your best friend.

Perhaps one day, when you needed him more than ever, he looked the other way.

Or worse, walked out of your life.

Maybe he died before you even got to know him, and all you have of him is a photograph in a tiny frame.

Or maybe you don’t even know who he is.

I believe there’s a place in everyone’s heart set aside for loving a father, and we long for that love, but it doesn’t always look as we expect it to.

My dad was tough, a U.S. Marine, private first class. He fought with the First Marine Division in Korea, where one day a piece of shrapnel sliced through his head like a band saw. The Corps sent him home with a metal plate in his head and a glass eye, and a prediction that he wouldn’t live to 25. He beat the odds, married, fathered nine children, and died at the age of 64 in 1997. Love wasn’t part of his vocabulary.

Still, I know without a doubt that my father loved me, even though he only said it once. I was around 35, and home for Christmas, unaware that it would be the last time I’d see him alive. He mumbled, “luv ya” at the door when we were saying good-bye. I was so surprised I asked him to repeat himself, but he wouldn’t.

If I had measured his love for me according to outward affection, I’d be one hurtin’ puppy. In fact, I remember standing beside his easy-chair every night, waiting for my bedtime kiss. He’d touch his palm to his lips, turn his hand over, and slap me on my forehead. That was love.

Oh, how I despised him sometimes. Many times. He let me down; he let my brothers and sisters down, each one in a different way; and he let my mother down in the worst way. He never read to me. He got himself fired every time we were about to be ok. And he died, way too soon.

Oh, how I loved him. He was a good man. He made us all laugh. He could fix just about anything, and he loved dogs. We joked that he treated his dogs better than he treated his kids, but I challenge my siblings to consider this: he treated us just like his dogs. He wrestled with us, took us out on the water so we could feel the ocean breeze blow through our hair, and he always made sure we were fed. That was love.

Dad and his father

Dad and Grampa. Don’tcha just want Gramps to pull him closer?

Dad’s own father was more than strict; he’d been hardened by events of World War I and the Depression, and by a secret past he didn’t want anyone to know about. To his children, he was as cold as ice.

So here’s my epiphany: Nobody taught my dad how to “do” fatherhood, so he did the best he could with what he knew. I believe my dad was determined to be what his father was not—warm, funny, and adventurous. He took the good from his dad, too, like a hard-working spirit and a sense of responsibility for family. We often went without, but we were always sheltered and fed (I know Jo, but a tent is shelter). You see, he could do the opposite of his father’s example and he could mimic those traits in his father he admired, but he couldn’t create a picture of what love looked like by watching a man who didn’t love.

I forgave Dad for being human long ago. He gave me my sense of humor, pride for my country, and a special fondness for the ocean. As a parent, I’ve tried to retain the good from his example and forget the rest. I’ve disappointed my sons many times, but I think I’m closer to getting the love part right because I saw into my dad’s heart, to who he wanted to be but didn’t know how. I pray my sons come even closer with their children.

I know now that there’s only one perfect Father, and He has shown us everything we need to know about love. He loved us first so we could watch and learn. I so wish my dad had known Him.

Regardless of where you stand this Fathers’ Day, there’s something you can do to make it a meaningful day:

If you’re angry at your dad, forgive him.

If your father is still here, tell him you love him.

If he’s gone, remember the good things about him.

If your heart is aching because you never knew a father’s love, call to the one true Father. He won’t let you down.

“We love because he first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

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Waiting on The Call: Roping Time with a Molasses Lasso

3 Jun

I’m not good at waiting.

I remember a time early in my marriage when I was struck by a creative muse and got up around midnight to write a story that wouldn’t let me go. When it was finished, I liked it so much it made me giddy. I wanted so badly to share it that I woke my husband from a sound sleep, turned the reading lamp on to its highest setting, and pushed my story under his nose.

“Read it!”

Startled by my exuberance and the brilliant illumination, he shielded his eyes and squinted at me to determine the source of my distress. When he realized there was none, his entire body sighed with exasperation. He would have given me his incredulous face if he could have held his eyes open.

Instead, he took the pages as he rolled away from the lamp’s glaring light, and slid MY MASTERPIECE under his pillow on his way back into dreamland.

Not one to give up easily, I yanked his shoulder back so I could retrieve the captive pages and encouraged him again to take a look.

“I can’t believe you won’t support me,” I wailed.

Sensing he was somehow in the wrong, my husband struggled to sit up. He took the papers and honestly tried to focus. Instead of reading, I suspect his brain was weakly calculating the requisite number of seconds he had to sit upright before I’d believe he’d read it. He handed the papers back and mumbled, “Looks good,” before slipping away again. Never mind that they were upside-down.

I spent the rest of the night pouting.

He finally read it the next day, somewhat alert and mostly awake after a poor night’s sleep. He gave me good comments and some constructive feedback. His serious attention to the details compelled me to go back and look at it again. I realized it wasn’t as good as I’d thought the night before, and I rewrote it three or four times before I liked it again.

Since then, I’ve learned to be a bit more considerate about when to share, and to put my ego on the back burner. At least I hope I have.

However, when I took Joe’s story proposal to the writers’ conference recently, that giddy kid resurfaced. I drove down to Asheville feeling a bit like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, who just knew his teacher would like his paper about the Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock so much that she would tell his parents to purchase one immediately.

My appointment with the agent was on the first day, and I approached her table with a mix of excitement and fear. I didn’t bring the giant basket of fruit as Ralphie would have, but I did almost give her that knowing wink. And I must confess, I looked around for a blackboard on which she could scrawl “A++++++!”

She took my proposal and read. For a long time. The voices in my head waged a battle of conjecture as I watched. “She loves it. She hates it. She’s read 50 others just like it today alone. I should have worked harder on the opening. She nodded! She likes it. She’s taking too long. She hates it…”

At last she looked up, smiled at me, and said, “Would you e-mail this to me?”

YES! YES! YES! Wait, what?

She didn’t ask for my manuscript, but for an electronic copy of the proposal. For a while, I was crushed. Surely, she saw the potential in Joe’s story. I’d been expecting to leave this place an agented author.

But then I remembered that long-ago late-night “reading” and found peace. I received the best possible response for a conference setting. There was no way she could give that proposal a definite assessment there, with hundreds of would-be authors clamoring for her attention. She wants to read it again, later, when she can give it serious focus. And I must wait. She said it could take two or three months for Joe’s story to reach the top of her pile. Sigh.

Calendar with the days marked off

Like sand through the hourglass…

I sincerely believe that because patience is one of the many virtues I lack, the less content I am with waiting, the longer it will take. So, I’m back at my writing desk. While I wait, I will finish the final chapter of Joe’s story and start working on my web page, to make it a more active place of business.

Instead of pining for answers, I will be thankful for how far along this book has come, and I will quote the Greek philosopher Epicurus, who said, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”

The agent will contact me at just the right time. I will be patient, and I will remember that she did smile.

I will also keep checking behind the stereo for a package. You never know.

 

“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Psalm 27:13-14

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Take THAT, Cancer! A letter of hope.

30 Apr
Cicada swarm of 2013

Remembering the cicada swarm of 2013

Call me Jim, for want of any other name.

My world came crashing down about a year ago when the cicadas swarmed, with their beady little eyes and gnashing teeth, making a noise that was so horribly loud I thought it would never stop. But it did, and they disappeared, leaving destruction in their wake. I could see it on the oak tree across the street all summer long, a constant reminder of my own condition: dead, cancerous brown tufts where there was supposed to be verdant new life.

I tried to live a normal summer, but the after-effects of my treatment was devastating. My limbs are still scarred from the abuse I suffered, and I ached in the core of my being. Some days it sapped all my energy just to keep breathing. 

By autumn, I began to shut down. I took no pleasure in the foliage across the street because I just couldn’t bring myself to feel joy. One by one, I began to drop those things that gave me my own color.

I slept through most of the winter, and through the long Spring that Refused to Come. I just couldn’t seem to get going again. As we were pounded by one snowfall after another, each bringing the cold back with it like an unwanted relative, I became certain I would never be warm again. It was almost too much to bear. I wanted God to take me. I even begged Him. I stood outside one morning with my bare, frail arms stretching upward and I made a fist as best I could in the buffeting wind and screamed,“ENOUGH!”

But He didn’t take me.

Spring blossoms, at last

Across the street, spring blossoms, at last

Instead, He gave me another spring. Today I look around at all the color across the street, and I’m amazed. The oak is green again, having sloughed off those dead branches. The cherry tree on the corner is alive with pink blossoms. Front lawns are decorated with yellow daffodils, purple hyacinths, and tulips of all colors. Bees are darting about the fragrant blooms, transporting life from one end of their world to another.

Cynically, I say to myself, it’s only temporary. The colorful blossoms will fall away, and all around will be ordinary green. It will be as if spring never happened.

Or will it? I consider the oak across the way. I remember only a few years ago when it was a frail sapling, struggling to survive. Yet each year after the spring, it is a little bit taller, stronger, and heartier. What a nice word, hearty. I let it linger on my tongue, tasting it gently, longingly.

Finally, each day is warmer than the last. I stand still in the front yard, staring up at the sun as His life-giving sap runs through my veins. I can tell that I, too, have been touched; my own color is returning. It was a long, arduous year, but I made it. And like the oak, I know I will never be the same as I was. God may, indeed, still take me before I’m ready to go, but right now I’m alive, and He is with me, so I will lift my face to the heavens and sing praises for the days I have.

I peer into the window where I can see my friend Bill resting in his chair after another round of chemo. I beckon wildly but he does not notice. I wish, as I have so often since the cicadas came, that I could speak to him, but I don’t know how.

If I could though, do you know what I would say?

I’d say, “Bill, take heart and look to the heavens. If He would bring me through all this…me, an ordinary dogwood tree, what do you suppose He’s doing in you?”

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There’s a Cure for That, but Can You Handle it?

10 Apr

The kitchen looks like a war zone—plates and pot lids strewn about, towels on the floor, a blade from the overhead fan dangling precariously. Blood is seeping out from my husband’s sleeve, dripping onto the kitchen island. Our foreheads are drenched in sweat and we’re panting with exhaustion. The cat’s ears are flattened back, and his eyes seem to be spinning wildly.

I look at my husband for support. We nod in agreement—break time is over. We’re going back in, this time with even more determination.

We’ll get this medicine into him if it’s the last thing we do…

 

OK, it wasn’t that bad, but it felt that way. Aslan, our sweet kitty from the Twilight zone, fought like a wild tiger for about ten minutes before we gave up, and we had to give up, to keep him from hurting himself.

The most disheartening part was that we were fighting over pain medicine. He was in great pain from a bladder infection. We were struggling so hard because we love him and don’t want him to be in pain. But he was afraid.

Cat in a box

You can’t hide in a box. There’s pain in there too.

You cat owners out there would agree, the veterinarian’s instructions were almost laughable (and by laughable I’m talking about that hideous, fear-based, strait-jacket laugh):

“Just measure out 3 milliliters with this plunger and squirt it under his tongue twice a day,” she said. “Do not squirt it down his throat.”

Under his tongue. Riiight.

So we all know how that train derailed, don’t we?

When Aslan wouldn’t open his mouth voluntarily (I hear you snickering), hubby tried the grip & pry method, which instantly brought out the claws.

Then we tried wrapping him, cajoling him, and bribing him with treats, all to no avail.

Then we tried brute persistence (“the heck with under the tongue; this is going down the throat!”) Naturally, more medicine went into my own mouth than his. Tastes as nasty as you’d expect, but my neck doesn’t ache anymore, thank you very much.

We even tried putting it in his food, but apparently the odor is easily detectable, and thereby initiated a hunger strike.

And after all this struggling, we still hadn’t even touched the antibiotic—a rather large purple pill that he needed to ingest in order to cure the infection.

So finally, we gave in. Setting aside the pain medicine, we managed to get him to take the antibiotic by disguising it in a bit of tuna. After about a week of only antibiotic medicine, he is back to his old self. The pain medicine is still in the vial. It makes me sad to think he was in pain much longer than he had to be…if he had only let us help him.

When I think of how hard Aslan fought us and the stress he put himself through, I wonder if that’s what it’s like from God’s perspective as He directs our paths. Does He feel frustrated, or does He watch in amusement when we fight Him? Does He try to force us, or does He give in and let us stay hurt just a bit longer than we might have been?

We’re such goofy kids. We turn away, hide, make deals—anything to avoid THAT, because it’s painful, or different, or scary. How sad to think that all along we’re not only making things worse, but we’re missing out on wonderful gifts He wants to bestow upon us. Because we think we know better. Because we’re afraid. Because we’re mad at Him.

I struggle with the irony that I only want to curl up on His lap and purr when all is well. However, it’s when all is NOT well that He wants most to hold me. For more than ten years I was particularly angry at Him because I lost many loved ones before what I thought was their time, despite knowing that as long as I’m on Earth I never will understand why. By not trusting that God knew what He was doing, I spent years wallowing in anger and hurt before I came back to Him, exhausted from the struggle. He wanted to hold me but I wouldn’t let Him.

I can assure you that whatever pain you’re going though, God is certainly aware of it, and He knows the reason for it, and He knows what will come of it. Trust that He doesn’t want you to be in pain. Why would He, who loves you more than anyone could possibly love a cat, want anything but good for you?

Don’t fight the arms that hold you. His touch can heal. Sit still, already! The best is yet to come.

 

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Survey Says: What the heck was I thinking?

27 Mar

It took me a long time to decide to write this because I thought displaying my lack of faith would discredit the amazing things God has done for me thus far. After all, I’ve been saying all along that the one constant on my journey to become a full-time writer has been my conviction that it’s exactly what God wants me to do.

So, of course He’s going to take care of me, right?

Compass

To find your direction…

Well, he did for a while. It’s been two months since I left my paying job, and we’ve been successfully balancing atop a financially precarious fence by relying on predictability. I mean, absolutely NO surprises.

Then yesterday I noticed the cat behaving as if he has another infection (something he usually conveys by “marking” the floor). Setting that issue on the back burner, I took my youngest to his dentist appointment, where I learned his wisdom teeth need to be pulled, like, now. Also, the dentist says, his lower teeth are turning—he needs to go back to the orthodontist. Finally, as I drove home I noticed with dismay that the “check engine” light on my dashboard is flashing.

I can’t afford all of these crises, and certainly not all at once.

Despair washed over me in an avalanche of self-doubt:

What the heck was I thinking, leaving a perfectly good job? If I were “working,” these issues could have been easily resolved!

My knee-jerk reaction should have jerked me to my knees. But I sped right past that and settled for just being a jerk.

I have to make some income, I thought, turning to the internet in a panic. Somehow all my wild clicking landed me on some “pay-for-survey” sites, where companies “pay you handsomely for ten minutes of your time.”

Perfect! I have opinions…they want to pay me for them? How cool is that?

So I spent hours clicking boxes, typing in preferences, and disclosing the darkest secrets about the potions and lotions lurking in my medicine cabinet. My clicking finger became sore, my shoulders ached, my eyes started burning from staring so intently, but I kept on. Finally, when I could no longer focus, I quit for the night. I made $6.50, which, apparently, I now have to report to the IRS.

After a fretful night’s sleep, I started this morning stumbling blindly in a cloud of defeat, but this time I did turn to God, praying my oft-recited, “I believe Lord; help me in my unbelief.”

Instead of finding an answer, I found my mind wandering through an uncharted outline of an intriguing story idea, one with many layers, and action, and joy, and discovery, and—wait! I already have a writing project; I don’t need another!

Frustrated, I left my time of prayer (and I jotted down a few notes about the story idea, because it really is cool…)

compass and cross

…you first have to know where you’re going.

Then, on my way back from my son’s bus stop, I heard a one-minute radio spot that brought me back to solid ground. I was reminded that, much like a pilot navigating through a fog, I know where I’m going and I can trust the navigation tools I’m relying on to get me there.

I had to admonish myself for perhaps the millionth time: You’re exactly where God wants you to be. He never said it would be easy, but He did say, “Trust me.”

So I went into the house and got to work, beginning my day as usual by reading a psalm. Today it was Psalm 142. I got no further than verse 3: “When my spirit grows faint within me, it is you who knows my way.”

With a bit of a jolt I thought back to the cool story outline. Criminy! That was His promise! He’s telling me there’s something next. And there will be something after that, and after that. The bills will get paid, and we will be fine. He knows the way; I don’t have to.

So I write about my momentary lack of faith because it shows I’m human, but it also demonstrates how our faith can actually grow through moments like this. I’m more certain about what I’m doing than ever. Besides, as my friend Liz reminded me this morning, with some whiskey and a good pair of pliers, I can handle that ol’ wisdom teeth issue…

By the way, my inbox was flooded this morning with survey opportunities screaming at me: Tell us about your car! What’s the best soft drink? Do you have insurance? Click here, Click HERE, CLICK HERE!

I not only deleted the emails, but took the extra two minutes to hit the “unsubscribe,” which is the “morning-after” click for irrational internet panic.

Now I shall return to Joe’s story, my friend and current project, knowing I’m right where I’m supposed to be, and that He knows the way to where we’re going.

I hope He has pliers.

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For Gary, who turned around…

11 Mar

This week I’m dedicating my blog to Gary, an ordinary man who lived a life of extraordinary kindness. Most people who read this page didn’t know him, but that’s ok. I didn’t know him as well as I would have liked, but I’m touched by his spirit and I think you can be as well.

Gary was a quiet, unassuming man who was quick to help and slow to anger. His face displayed a curious mix of inner peace and ancient pain. He knew how to listen. Anyone who stopped to talk with him walked away thinking, “Gee, that was a lot more than I meant to tell him about myself, but it’s ok because he likes me anyway.”

People were drawn to him, particularly people who were sinking in despair.

That’s because Gary knew what it was like to be on the bottom. At one point in his life, he sank so far down into a murky pit that the walls started caving in over him, and that could have been the end of his story. Instead, one day he looked up and saw an outstretched hand against a small piece of light. He grabbed hold and began what would be a long, arduous climb to freedom. It wasn’t an easy journey. The walls of the pit were slippery; what few foot-holds he could find were so sharp they left scars; and there were people still at the bottom who pulled at his legs, trying to drag him back down. He never would have made it out if that hand hadn’t remained tightly clasped around his. It gave him hope and encouragement, and he knew whoever was behind it would never give up on him.

Eventually, he was pulled into the light, where he lay for a while gasping, joyfully tasting the clean air, and grateful for a second chance.

Many of us, when we’re pulled out of our darkness, dust ourselves off and say, “Whew! That was close!” Sometimes we even remember to thank our rescuer before we go on our way. We rarely look back.

Gary, however, once he caught his breath, turned back to the pit, planted his feet firmly, and reached out his hand. He set up camp there, on the edge of darkness, where he spent the rest of his days pulling people to safety and encouraging them, fighting with all he had to keep them from falling back in. He never forgot that outstretched hand.

The church was packed yesterday for Gary’s funeral service. I was amazed to see how many people were there, people whom Gary had touched in just a few short years. But there’s more to the story, because Gary taught them more than just how to climb out of the darkness. By his example, he taught them to turn around and reach back down. Today there are many, many people camped at the edge, feet planted, hands extended.

As I see it, Gary’s legacy is a ripple of kindness extending light outward across a pond of darkness. And in the end, the light will win.

 

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