The Ants Go Marching…

I’m a busy girl. Too busy. I often think about how busy I am. I dislike the word busy. It conjurs up images in my mind of ants marching all in a line, heading somewhere (who knows where) just because all the other ants are doing it. I wonder if they ever think about why they’re all marching. Or if they just want to stop and sit in the shade and think about something other than the endless march they are part of. Or maybe they’d like to march the other way. Or put down the gum wrapper they’re carrying back to the hill.

I feel like an ant sometimes. Like this past week, for example. The fall season of lessons started up for me. I had 30 students come through the door over a period of four days, a family to feed, a young son to be a good mother to, a conference to plan for, recordings to finish, bills to pay, errands to run, friends to visit, phone calls to make, a husband to serve…all good things, nothing out of the ordinary. But all together it made me feel like I was marching, marching, marching. And I find myself focusing on the time it’s going to take to do everything on my schedule and how tired I’m going to be when the day is done…and I zap all the fun and joy out of all of it. So there I am, all exhausted and stressed and living for my next vacation. Not in the moment at all.

I’ve heard it said that “busy” is not a good thing…that busy is often the partner of stress and the enemy of peace and rest and sanity. So sometimes I try to fool myself and think that I just have a “full schedule.” The reality is that I’m really just busy and probably need to learn something about balance. How do the ants do it?

So this weekend while I’m at the coast doing music for a women’s conference I’m going to take a long walk on the beach and ponder how I can get some balance and still do all the things I need to do, how to filter out the things that aren’t important, treasure the 30 students that come through my door each week, (knowing they are busy too, and have chosen to spend some of their busy day with me), soak in every moment I have with my husband and son, and look at the glass half full for a change, no matter what the day looks like.

And whenever I have a moment, maybe I’ll stop marching, get out of the line to sit in the shade and ponder something nice. Be in the moment. And then maybe I’ll get back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Serving Leftovers to a Holy God

The Bible says, “confess your sins to one another so that you may be healed.” Since I like to be healed I am sharing this with you.

I just returned from vacation, where invariably my cluttered mind gets uncluttered and God gets through. I think more clearly about things that matter. Also, I read a lot.

This time I read the book, Crazy Love by Francis Chan. A chapter that really struck me is titled, Serving Leftovers to a Holy God. Malachi 1:8 is referenced where priests were sacrificing blind and lame animals instead of only the best as God had commanded. God called them on it, told them they wouldn’t use these animals to prepare food for an honored guest yet they were sacrificing them in God’s holy temple. God called this practice evil. In fact, it disgusted Him so much that He said He wished there was someone who would just shut the temple gates.

The practice of giving God what is left over in our lives (money, due to bills; time due to busy schedules; attention, due to forgetfulness) He calls evil. But we think, “Well, I’m giving more than the next guy.” Or, “Hey, something is better than nothing…” These are not the ways God thinks. He thinks it stinks. And since He’s the Creator of the Universe and the One Who provides my very next breath, He gets to define evil, and He says this is it.

So here is my confession: I have drug my sorry, sleepy self through the sanctuary doors early on Sunday mornings to give God and my brothers and sisters my pathetic leftovers. Having not practiced with excellence, meditated on the day’s lyrics, listened to a new song (because, you know, I am so busy!) and demonstrated before God and my church family a practice God calls evil. Please forgive me.

Tim Kizziar said, “Our greatest fear as individuals and as a church should not be of failure but of succeeding at things in life that don’t really matter.” Francis Chan wonders in this chapter how many doors of American churches would God just like someone to shut? I don’t want my church to be on this list.

Whatever it is that we do, to serve God, our community, each other, let it be our best. Let’s give our first fruits, not only with regard to our money, but our time and our attention.

I wouldn’t serve leftovers to even the most familiar of guests, why would I even think of serving leftover anything to a holy God?

Happy Anniversary

Celebrating 18 Great Years…

My Sister’s Suit

My sister’s swimsuit has had quite the adventure this summer.

Not because it intended to. No. It was quite content laying dormant in the dresser drawer, pulled out on weekends for the occasional dip in the spa; packed in the suitcase (just in case); kept on the top of the stack due to special properties, the magic of shaping perfection.  But hello, in the drawer, none-the-less.

Until I happened along. Me. The forgetful one. The stressed out sister whose job apparently consumes so much of her life that when she packs for a vacation that includes lakes, rivers and WHITEWATER (her favorite things by the way) she FORGETS her bathing suit, water shoes, boy-shorts and gloves. I mean, HELLOOOOO!

So what does one do when faced with this obvious “DUH!” event at the beginning of one’s vacation?

Well. If “one” is so fortunate to start their vacation by way of “one’s” sister’s home, then “one” immediately sets to rifling through “one’s” sister’s drawers. (CLOTHES drawers.)  And if “one” is lucky “one” finds THE PERFECT suit. THE suit that said sister cherishes with the part of her that is left over from the rest of the parts that cherish her cherished husband; The magical suit that makes any plain gal look like something; Makes her feel like she could maybe turn some guy’s head — make her husband remember 20 years ago — make cellulite feel like baby fat. OK, I’m taking this too far… Really: I just needed somethin’ to go rafting in…

And so I did. Well, actually not quite. My sister’s suit’s first adventure was on a jet boat UP the Snake River in Hell’s Canyon. Bordering Oregon and Idaho, this cool swimsuit never knew which state it was in from minute to minute, or which time zone. If that wasn’t enough, the class III and IV whitewater was also pretty cool.

At the top of the run, at Hell’s Canyon Dam, we turned around, and my sister’s swimsuit charged down the Snake, through Hell’s Canyon, twice as fast as it came up. (Rafts, you know, take three days to do the same trip my sister’s suit did in six hours.)

A night’s rest was well deserved. Rinsed in mountain water and gently draped over a shower bar, my sister’s suit took leave of the day and rested for a yet bigger adventure. Whitewater kayaking on the Salmon.

We didn’t prepare her for this, me ‘n the suit. We were going to raft. We know rafting. Well.  (The Shotover, Clear Creek, American, Upper Columbia… GOOD class III and IV whitewater.) But my sister’s suit REALLY-DOESN’T-LIKE-TO-RAFT-WITH-TOURISTS. (OK, I know we were tourists, too, but I’m talking about the ones who wear button up shirts, nice shorts and tennis shoes on the raft. They often bring their little kids with them. Or a large beer keg and picnic cooler. These folks are “The Floaters.” They don’t want to get wet, they just want to float down the calm parts of the river, skirting all the good stuff.) We had a long talk about this, and we agreed. You pay your money, you want what you pay for: Whitewater. Not floaties.

So the suit and me and Jay made a pact: If we get stuck with the floatie crowd we’ll take the double kayak.  We disembark the bus to the put-in and watch, and wait. Sure enough: We’re paired with the couple from Utah with 5 kids. (Well, actually, one dad, five kids, two moms. Hey, they could be sisters. Who’s to say?) Regardless, we took the kayak.

OK, so we’ve kayaked before. We OWN a kayak. A cruiser, a Klepper. But it’s built for rivers, bays and oceans, not whitewater. So this thing we’ve opted for is an inflatable, much higher on the water. Gulp. Lisa’s suit’s in front, Jay’s in back. They are nervous. Me, too, a little. But there was no turning back.

The suit is glad we didn’t. She got the ride of her life. While doing nothing more than covering all the important body parts that valiantly pulled through “Angel Drop,” “Five Holes,” and more, without breaking a sweat, she took the ride in stride, even the six hours of sitting in frigid mountain water. Nary a complaint. And when it came time to swim — the toss at Class IV “Kayak Muncher” — she rallied and failed me not (thank God!) as we rode out the bottom half, paddle in hand, until she was pulled (and I mean YANKED) from the chops into a raft stuffed with the likes of all of me and five pounds of additional water.

She was happy in the company of other suits just for a few moments, until Jay was also yanked, then the three of us hopped back into the kayak for another couple hours down to the pull-out.

Yes, my sister’s suit has had the adventure of her life. But now it’s time to go home. Parting is SUCH sweet sorrow (I mean I REALLY like this suit) but I just borrowed, and I cannot steal. My sister wants it back. She’s made that very clear. So one final adventure via UPS back to Oregon (*sniff*) and the suit will be back in the drawer. I don’t know which of us is sadder, but we both thank my sister for the memories.  

The Golden Rule Revisited

A friend of mine from church came over the other day to work on some music for her ministry. She leads worship on a regular basis for a few local nursing homes. She wanted some help with leading from the piano…she felt inadequate for the task. Over the course of an hour, we talked and worked on some music…and I came away changed.

I have had a soft place in my heart for people of older age. I walked through the devastating effects of Alzheimers with my maternal grandmother, and watched my mom care for her the last 10 years of her life, long after grandma no longer knew any of us, and had permanently retreated into a place in her mind only she was aware of.

My friend, however has not only a soft spot in her heart for the aged, but a burning passion. She says that when she plays and sings the hymns she has planned for each week, people that have been silent and with no discernable memory sing along. Something about the words and melody of those old hymns of the faith reach a place inside that nothing else will. It’s like the Holy Spirit uses the hymns to call to their spirits.

I was so moved after she left, somewhat convicted that I had been comfortable with just having a soft spot in my heart. I realize God doesn’t call us all to the same ministry and doesn’t give us all the same passion for the same causes. But I want to have more passion and not be so complacent about those in our society that don’t have a voice and often no longer have anyone interested in their life.

Shortly after my friend’s visit I received a thank you note from her along with a Starbuck’s card…she was grateful for the time I spent with her. She also enclosed a copy of an article, “The Golden Rule, Revisited”. As I finished reading it, I realized I was the grateful one–to have my eyes opened to the reality of what is all around me, tucked away in nursing homes, out of sight and too often out of mind. Lord, forgive my complacency. Give me your eyes to see the need and your passion to make a difference.

The Golden Rule, Revisited

They lie there, breathing heavy gasps, contracted into a fetal position. Ironic, that they should live 80 or 90 years, then return to the posture of their childhood. But they do. Sometimes their voices are mumbles and whispers like those of infants or toddlers. I have seen them, unaware of anything for decades, crying for parents long since passed away.

I recall one who had begun to sleep excessively, and told her daughter that a little girl slept with her each night. I don’t know what she saw. Maybe an infant she lost, or a sibling, cousin or friend from years long gone. But I do know what I see when I stand by the bedside of the infirm aged. Though their bodies are skin-covered sticks and their minds an inescapable labyrinth. I see something surprising. I see something beautiful and horrible, hopeful and hopeless. What I see is my children, long after I leave them, as they end their days.

This vision comes to me sometimes when I stand by the bedside in my emergency department, and look over the ancient form that lies before me, barely aware of anything. Usually the feeling comes in those times when I am weary and frustrated from making too many decisions too fast, in the middle of the night. Into the midst of this comes a patient from a local nursing home, sent for reasons I can seldom discern.

I walk into the room and roll my cynical eyes at the nurse. She hands me the minimal data sent with the patient, and I begin the detective work. And just when I’m most annoyed, just when I want to do nothing and send them back, I look at them. And then I touch them. And then, as I imagine my sons, tears well up and I see the error of my thoughts. For one day, it may be.

One day, my little boys, still young enough to kiss me and think me heroic, may lie before another cynical doctor, in the middle of the night of their dementia, and need care. More than medicine, it may be compassion. They will need someone to have the insight to look at them and say, “Here was once a child, cherished and loved, who played games in the nursery with his mother and father. Here was a child who put teeth under pillows and loved bedtime stories, crayons and stuffed animals. Here is a treasure of love to a man and a woman long gone. How can I honor them? By treating their child with love and gentility. By seeing that their child has come full circle to infancy once more, and will soon be born once more into forever.”

The vision is frightful because I will not be there to comfort them, or to say, “I am here” when they call out, unless God grants me the gift of speaking across forever. It is painful because I will not be there to serve them as I did in life, and see that they are treated as what they are: unique and wonderful, made in the image of the Creator, and of their mother and me. It is terrible because our society treats the aged as worse than a burden; it treats them as tragedies of time. It seems hopeless because when they contract and lie motionless, no one will touch them with the love I have for them, or know the history of their scars, visible and invisible. I am the walking library of their lives, and I will be unavailable. All I can do is ask, while I live, for God’s mercy on them as they grow older.

And yet, the image has beauty and hope as well. Because if I see my little boys as aged and infirm, I can dream that their lives were long and rich. I can dream that they filled their lucid years with greatness and love, that they knew God and served Him well, and were men of honor and gentility. I can imagine that even if they live in the shadowland alone, somewhere children and grandchildren, even great-grandchildren thrive. I can hope that their heirs come to see them, and care, and harass the staff of the nursing home to treat Grandpa better. I can hope that they dare not allow my boys to suffer, but that they hold no illusions about physical immortality, and will let them come to their mother and me when the time arrives. And best, I can know that their age and illness will only bring the day of that reunion closer.

My career as an emergency physician has taught me something very important about dealing with the sick and injured, whether young or old. It has taught me that the Golden Rule also can be stated this way: “Do unto others as you would have others do unto your children.” I think that this is a powerful way to improve our interactions with others, not just in medicine but in every action of our lives. And it is certainly a unique way to view our treatment of the elderly. For one day all our children will be old. And only if this lesson has been applied will they be treated with anything approaching the love that only we, their parents, hope for them to always have.

James Dobson Family News, January 1, 2001, Issue 1

Spiritual Assessment

I asked my sister and her friends to take an online spiritual assessment with me. I felt this was an important thing to do since these women are charged with the spiritual nourishment and growth of dozens of women attending our annual women’s retreat. I believe women like this should score very highly on these types of assessments.

The good news is, they all passed. The bad news is that they all scored way higher than me.

I have taken it three times now. Last night I was backslidden, but I didn’t answer the question about heaven. This morning I was still backslidden but I moved my kid to private school to get a better score. This afternoon I rethought my response about the shot glasses versus the sculpture and scored 75, which means I just barely qualify as slightly evangelical. 

I really put a lot of stock in these things and believe they accurately assess my spiritual state so I am going to go fast for a year now and also look up the benefits of flagellation. 

Snap Shot

My sister has always been considered “The Nice One.” I was the problem child. But recently I was looking at some old black and whites from our childhood and a couple of photos gave me pause. This one in particular:

 Admittedly, I look like a future ax murderer. But check out the dog:

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

 

Dad

It’s Dad’s birthday today, six years since he died. I’ve been thinking about him all day. I miss him a lot, even after all these years. When special things happen, I wish he were here to celebrate with me. When I have a particularly bad day, I wish I could just sit with him and borrow his calm.

He had such a great sense of humor, and a tender heart. The older he got the more tender he became; he would choke up at the oddest times. He had a lot of time to reflect in his last years and not all of the reflections were easy to take, I’m sure. I would sometimes look over at him, sitting in his favorite chair, and see tears running down his face. He would just say, “I’m so sorry.” I had long forgiven him and no apologies were needed, but he needed to say it.

He had a simple life that I often wish I had. In our later years, he was never too busy to be with us or with his grandkids. I wish he could see Jake play football and baseball and golf–he would’ve loved to see how much Jake loves to golf.

There is so much more life that I wanted to share with him–I wasn’t ready for him to leave us. I was such a selfish girl, I thought too much about myself and not enough about him. I should’ve told him more how much I loved him. I should’ve served him more. I should’ve been more patient.

I sometimes wonder if God lets him see how much he’s missed.

Today I was also thinking about what my sister wrote and read at his memorial service…

My Dad

My dad wasn’t perfect. (Is anyone’s?). He made some mistakes. He made more good, I think.

While alive, we might remember the bigger mistakes more than we should. But family and friends are about forgiving, forgetting.

We remember the good things about people when they pass on.

And laugh about some of the faults and foibles.

We have been doing a lot of that for the last few days.

Dad died early Thursday morning.

My mom and her sister, when they finally retired, spent the rest of the early morning hours in the living room, talking.

My sister and I, along with our husbands and kids, arrived Thursday night. And we talked some more.

Dad’s brothers arrived on Sunday and the house has been filled with their talk. “Remember when’s” and stories from childhood on.

Friends have called and dropped by, cards and letters have arrived…(And food—thank you very much!)…all remembering my dad. The good things he did, the stories he told. (And he could tell a good story—those of you who have known him long are smiling to yourselves and can probably tell a few).

Listening to this talk you remember things you forgot, and hear things you never knew. Another facet, another shade of color of the person you love so much and thought you knew so well.

I have been listening to these stories all week. Now it’s my turn: Let me tell you what my dad did for me.

My dad took me hunting. I remember the first time—I was four years old. We were in upstate New York and the snow was deeper than me. And we bundled up and went tromping through the woods in search for deer. My family remembers I wet my pants—but mostly I remember hunting with my dad.

When I was 10 or so, he taught me to shoot a rifle. Later, when I was in the Air Force, I had to shoot an M-16 to qualify for something or other. Both times I imagined my dad standing firmly behind my shoulder so the recoil wouldn’t knock me on my backside. I got two expert marksmanship medals that way—pretending my dad was standing right behind me.

He taught me to bowl. He taught all of us how to bowl! Kids, sons-in-law, and grandkids. (Of course none of us could touch his average!).

Just a couple of nights ago my sister and I, our husbands and my daughter went to the Triangle to bowl some games. I think that a memorial in itself some way…

My dad was a great provider.

He bought me my first car. (He helped me buy probably at least two other cars as well, and my sister, too, I’m sure).

He helped both my sister and I buy our first homes.

He has loaned me more money that I care to admit needing…

He never hesitated to help when we were in need.

He was the best grandpa. I am so glad my daughter was able to spend part of nearly every summer with my folks.

So we’ve been remembering.

We remember things like Old Spice, old songs, a familiar phrase or the oft-told story that always makes us laugh. The fact that he loved to listen to my sister sing (and in a bit she will sing one of his favorite songs).

But the best foundation my dad laid, on which all the rest lays (on top or alongside), are the many ways he showed us his love and his commitment to our success. By providing for us, putting braces on our teeth, helping us get our start as adults on our own, capping off his commitments to his family in the role of indulgent grandpa and even more indulgent owner of one very lonely tabby cat.

We will miss him much, but know he is in a better place—one without pain, without hassles and where he can look on us all and continue to care for us well.

So I’ll think about him until I go to bed tonight, and maybe cry a little, then wake up and try to live well and apply the good lessons he taught us. I hope he’d be proud.

I love you, Dad, and I miss you.

Some Children Annoy Me

WHO DO YOU BELONG TO?!— a phrase I long to say sitting in the salon waiting room this morning.

The cause: Two pre-adolescent boys, typically oblivious to the facial expressions of the adults around them. One boy, with freshly washed hair, repeatedly shakes it like a big dog just in from the rain. Dots of water and overly-priced hair product splatter the pages of my book.

His companion, when not punching and pinching, vigorously rubs an inflated yellow balloon on his dry hair, the static crackling as he slowly pulls it away from the upended strands.

I should be entertained and amused, but I came here to be pampered and reflective, so I am annoyed.

Then in the back of my mind, the words, Whoever accepts one of these little children, accepts Me…   So, now I am annoyed with being annoyed.

Later…

While curing my freshly browned roots under the dryer and reading my book, I catch out of the corner of my eye a woman in her early 30’s, appropriately aproned and freshly cut, twirling around and around in her salon chair as she awaits her stylist for the blow dry.

I think she gets it.

I wish I had that balloon.

The B.P. Club

Once I told a pastor friend of mine I thought he overtly favored “The Beautiful People.” You know, the athletes, successful professionals, the intellectuals, lovely women, handsome and fit men. I thought he went out of his way to befriend them. And I thought he had far less time and patience for those requiring a little extra grace, the folks not so pleasing to the eye, not so socially adept.

I still think I was right. And judgmental.

But that’s not the point.

In looking back I believe I was keen to this insight because I was in the latter group. I was not one of The Beautiful People. I was an insider because I was on staff. But if I walked in off the street I was sure I would not have received the same attention.

I grew up in a blue collar family with an alcoholic father. I do not have a college degree, I’ve lived in a trailer park on welfare, and spent much of my life as a skinny, social misfit.

But over the years I have learned some things: I fell into a job I am good at. I learned what styles of clothing and hairstyles look decent on me, learned to speak to people and make friends. Now once in awhile I find that I “qualify” as a member of the first group. Not all of the time, it depends of course on who is doing the qualifying, doesn’t it?

When I find myself “qualified” it sort of feels good. Believing that even some people include me in The B.P. Club is both wonderful and disheartening.

And it feels wrong.

I am not so different from my old friend. He cultivated friendships with The B.P. perhaps to make his church more successful looking and therefore more attractive to the surrounding upscale community. Perhaps he did it to validate himself. This strikes a chord (albeit, one played on a badly tuned piano). It feels good to think others have placed you in The B.P. category. It feeds the ego, strokes the emotions. And builds bad character.

I think this happens in all kinds of communities. The qualifier is how alike you are to those doing the qualifying.

Regardless of the club in which you are qualified, it’s a relatively small club. It may seem kinda cool while you’re in it, but it’s shallow. Like staring at your navel. The benefits are questionable and you’ll probably find stuff there that’s really not that attractive.

And I wonder what people outside the club think.

Do they think, ‘Jesus’?

Do they think, ‘inclusive’?

Do they think, ‘welcoming’?

Or do they feel excluded, unwelcome, less valued? And when they learn you are Christ follower, what do they think of your Christ?

Don’t get me wrong: Having certain qualities—beauty, intelligence, financial acumen, professional savvy, athletic or musical talent—are good things, God-given gifts. It is the willing acceptance of, or seeking to gain entrance into, some kind of “better than others” group that is dark. It’s got satan’s fingerprints all over it.

I am reasonably sure Jesus wasn’t in The B.P. Club when He was here. He hung with the fringe. He lambasted the people who had their religion tight. He went out of his way to avoid those who thought they had it together and spend time with those who didn’t.

He would’ve visited me in the trailer park. He would’ve avoided me at The B.P Club.

If being in The B.P. Club means not being where Jesus is, I don’t want a membership after all.