Beep Beep Beep

Flickr photo by Caitlinator, creative commons

The alarm went off early at our house today.
It's the first day of school. The first day of middle school for our youngest, the first day of senior year for our middle child. Beginning of a beginning and the beginning of an ending.

I feel a little like throwing up.
How about you?

No, just joking here. Kind of.
I bet you know what I'm feeling. You may even be feeling it yourself right now. You try so hard to be the cheerleader, to keep everybody's spirits up, to be positive, to answer all the questions your sweeties ask.
Questions like...

What if I'm too early? What if I'm too late?
What am I supposed to do when I walk inside the school?
What if I have to go to the gym cause I'm too early and I don't have anyone to stand with?
Are you allowed to talk in the hall?
Can you stop and talk to your friends or do you have to keep moving?
What if I can't open my locker?
What if the 7th and 8th graders are mean?
What if I don't have anyone to sit with at lunch?

You finally answer all the questions, for the second and third time.
Then, as your youngest leaves you, kissing your hand so that no one can see, he says,
"Oh no! I just realized! THERE'S NO MORE RECESS!"

It's a good day for coffee. In a BIG mug.

I've weathered these changes before. You'd think that by the third time around, I'd be a pro at this. I'd have it all down pat. Not so, daddy-O.
I might know better to anticipate the feelings, the tugging of the invisible cord that connects my heart to theirs, but the feelings don't change.

So today I'm praying for kids everywhere as they start a new year, and for the moms and dads who love them. Help us all remember, God Of Beginnings And Endings And Everything In Between, that you go with us in every new adventure. Though you've seen it all and weathered it all, your love for each one of us is still as passionate as ever.

Have a great Monday, y'all!

Before you scatter, tell me, any adventures starting up in your life? I'd love to hear about what's new for you!

Love, Becky

Welcome to Chemistry Class

Flickr photo by oooh.oooh, creative commons

So much can happen between two people in a split second.
Walls can materialize or fall, Jericho-style. Each person can step out on trust, gingerly placing a foot on the water, or refuse to get out of the boat, clinging to the suspicions she's secretly believed were true.

School starts Monday here, and a classroom memory has spent the week fluttering around my brain, begging for attention. It was one of those pivotal, split second moments, one that doesn't exactly make me proud.

Perhaps you've had a moment like this. Sometimes I've stood at the fork in the road and chosen well, and other times, like this one, I haven't.

I was teaching chemistry at a high school, and it was the first day of class.
I decided to start the year by doing a strange thing, strange, at least, to the other teachers and teens at my school. At each change of class, I stood outside my door in the noisy hall, and as students tried to duck their heads and dart into my classroom, I stopped them. I introduced myself to each student over the din and asked his name, welcomed him to the class, shook his hand, and showed him where to sit according to the seating chart on my clipboard.

Within seconds, a long line of young men and women had formed outside my door.
"This is weird." "Why is she doing this?"
Why was I doing this?
Partly to welcome them to my classroom. Partly to show my respect for them, the respect they got for free, respect that I required back. Partly to show dominance. I'm in charge of this class. It is my home (thus the curtains on the windows and the flowers on my lab table.) I will respect you, but you must act like ladies and gentlemen in my classroom.

The teens watched me, watched their friends interact with me, waiting for something to happen. I knew this was strange for them. I expected that a few would try to amuse each other, tell me their name was SloMo or DreamBoy, or tip their hat in fake formality, cushion the awkward earnestness of my handshake with sarcasm. I'd experienced it many times before and had learned to meet it head on, to set a businesslike tone on day one, friendly enough, but firm.

So far, the kids had been great.

Then a tall, red headed boy to the front of the line, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"I'm Mrs. Ramsey," I said, thrusting out my hand. "Welcome to chemistry class."
The boy shook my hand, a corner of his lip turning up, as if he were about to spring something on me.
I waited for his name. He said nothing, just kept on shaking my hand. What was he doing?
"Now, tell me your name."
"I..I..." he said, looking hard at me. "My..." His mouth was open but nothing came out. Kids behind him snickered. "Go for it, Dan," one boy said.

Time stopped.

What kind of a joke was this?
I could feel my body tensing, anger rising. So he was one of those, huh? There's always at least a couple every year, needing to impress their friends. Start things off by showing me what a pain they'd be until I wrestled them into control.

Other kids were watching. I'd give him one more chance to straighten up.
"I believe I asked for you to tell me your name."
More open mouth.
"Now." I barked, my voice dampened by the noise of the hall.
The student squinted his eyes at the floor, "Da Da Da Dan," he said. "Dan At At At Atkinson."

My heart jumped into my throat.
What have I done? He was stuttering.

He wasn't being rude or a smart aleck. He was struggling with a speech problem and I had exacerbated it, calling attention to it in front of everyone.
"I'm glad to meet you, Dan," I said, trying to recover, wanting to shrink into the linoleum. "You're in the third row from the door, 2nd seat."

Dan was doing his best, and I had assumed the worst.
Over the next few weeks, I quickly learned what a lovely person Dan was. I still think of him from time to time and wonder how he's doing.

I'm not teaching this year, and I think I've grown a lot since then. (At least I hope I have.) So why has this memory been haunting me this week? Is God trying to tell me something?

Maybe it's all about fear. Fear makes me do things I regret. It makes me hold tight to what I have. It keeps me from being generous, from going for the life God has for me. Fear stunts and shrinks. It keeps us from loving others and fully experiencing God's goodness.

Or maybe the memory is about the fallacy of being in control. We're not in control of anything, really. Just our own selves, the way we react to others, the choices we make to love or not to love.

God, help me let go of control. Free me from fear and the way it binds me.

What about you? Do you wrestle with fear and the need to control? What helps you?

Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.
1 John 4:18

Smoke

Flickr photo by neilbetter, creative commons
About this time last year, a group of workers repairing an underground steam pipe under the parking lot outside my daughter's dorm found human bones buried in the dirt.

This is not what most parents want to discover on move-in day.

"It's no big deal, Mom," Sarah said. "Remember, I told you DeSaussure was a hospital during the Civil War. They say they used to bury the amputated parts out back. Either that, or it's leftover cadavers from when the med school was here."
Sarah laughed at the look on my face.
"Mommy," Sarah said, patting my head as if I were cute, "you've got to remember. This place is OLD. You can practically breathe in the history."

Breathing in history.

As we worked on packing up the minivan to take her back to school on Friday, I remembered the bones and our conversation.
Her comment about breathing in history sent me rafting down a stream of consciousness.
Care to ride along? (There is purpose to the journey, I promise!)

Stop #1?
I'm teleported back to junior high. Mr. Keck taught me tons of useful things, like how to use the slide rule (calculators need batteries and were probably a passing fad, anyway,) and how to pronounce Molybdenum ("It's mo-lib-din-um, not molly-be-denim!"--he's probably still slapping his knee in heaven over that one.) But then there's the rant I still ponder quite often: that there was a set number of atoms when the world came to be, and we just keep reshuffling them over and over, in death and birth, in eating and in pooping, in recycling and cooking, planting and manufacturing, killing and procreating. "Breathe in," he used to say. "Why, you might be sucking down an atom that once belonged to Aristotle! Abe Lincoln! Who knows! Whenever you breathe, you're tasting everything that came before you. You're tasting all creation!"

I used to think of this a lot when we lived in France.
(Stop #2)
Not because I was particularly philosophical there. (Though I was. Big changes were happening.) It was on account of the smoke.
I've heard that there's a big effort to curb smoking now, more serious than when we were there, when I'd stop by a café for a café au lait and end up smelling like smoke until the next morning's shower. The smoke was devilishly stubborn. It surrounded you, weaving itself into the fibers of your clothes, nesting in your hair, swirling in and out of your mouth, plunging into your lungs. You'd have to work to get rid of it, lather up with soap and shampoo, wash your clothes, set your coat on the balcony and let wind and time work on it.

I was thinking on this (and drinking coffee!) as I read my psalm yesterday.

But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
let them ever sing for joy.
Spread your protection over them,
that those who love your name may rejoice in you.

For surely, O LORD, you bless the righteous;
you surround them with your favor as with a shield.

Psalm 5: 11-12

You surround them with your favor as with a shield. Surround us like smoke, swirling, weaving into our fibers...

This brought my raft to my last stop stream-side: the fourth grade Sunday school classroom at church.
Each Sunday we light the candle before the children come in, to remind them that as we sit on the carpet and tell the story, we're on holy ground.
God is with us, providing light and presence.
At closing time, we don't snuff out the candle. We call it changing the light, transforming it from a light we can see to another form, to smoke that gets in our hair and lands on our skin. It swirls around us and spreads through the room. We take it with us wherever we go, to big church or home, hanging onto our bodies, in our lungs, in our hair.
The God Of All History that came before us and will unfold for years after we're gone, surrounds us like a shield.

I may have forgotten how to use the slide rule long ago, but that truth stays with me.

Emmanuel, God with us, thank you for surrounding us with your favor, like a force field, like smoke in our clothes and hair, breathed in our nostrils, sucked down into our lungs. Thank you for being in us, around us, before us. We love you.

Have an awesome, wonder-filled Wednesday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Jerry, Grace, and Rosemary

Flickr photo by HA! Designs, creative commons
Before I could get his hot meal and carton of milk out of the coolers in the back of my van, Jerry was waiting for me on his back steps, clutching a framed photo in his good hand.

Jerry's waited for me on his back porch every other Wednesday for nearly five years now, so I know exactly what to expect. He'll be dressed for church since it's Wednesday, even though Prayer Meeting won't start for at least seven hours or so. His left eye will look at me while the right one darts around, and his right arm will be drawn up to his side, unless he decides to unfold it with his good arm and wave it around to emphasize a point.

I also know to expect Show and Tell. Sometimes Jerry will show me the dog his sister Rosemary gave him for Valentine's Day, the one that says I love you when you squeeze its paw. Other times it's the family of monkeys his daddy carved out of peach pits, the Last Supper clock that his preacher gave him, or one of his neckties of Bible verses.

"He's like a child," I told Todd. A child in an old man's body. A child who'll tell you that his boxers feel scratchy inside his pants, or that the smell of cabbage made him vomit yesterday. A child who likes to tell stories.
How Jerry loves to tell stories.

I can recite most of Jerry's stories by heart, particularly his favorites, which often involve household appliances. There's the one about the day his vacuum cleaner belt broke, and then the replacement belt broke right after that. (!) And there's the story about the dryer he bought from June, a girl who works with Rosemary. That dryer is 26 years old and has never been scratched SO DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT PUTTING YOUR KEYS ON IT, HEAR?

There are also the family stories, most of which focus on what a hussy 71 year old Rosemary is, how she took his camera without permission and took a photo of herself WITH A MAN, and how she loves to go to the Moose Lodge where people walk around with a beer in each hand. "I told her I can't go in there cause my church would throw me out, and then what would I have? No church to go to. I'd be all alone!" Every time he tells it, tears dribble down his face.

What story would it be today?
By the looks of the photo he was holding, it'd be the one about his sister Grace.
Grace died of a heart attack when she was only thirty one.
"She was good," he'd probably say. "So good. So much gooder than Rosemary." Then he'd start in on his favorite story of late, the one in which Rosemary called him on the phone and said "Guess what we just ate," and he said "What," and she said, "Peanut butter and banana sandwiches," and he said, "Well, where's mine?" He'd tell me again how Rosemary used to REFUSE to bring him any bananas, even though she KNOWS he loves peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
I'd listen and then I'd say what I always said at the end of the story: "Jerry, why don't I go get you some bananas right now?" and he'd say, "Naw, I got some in the kitchen. That's not the point."

I closed the van door and prepared myself.

"Hey Jerry. How are you doing today?"
"Fine. Did I ever show you this picture?"
"You sure did," I say. "Your sister Grace was a pretty lady."
"Yes," he says, stroking the photo and smiling at it. "She sure was. She didn't deserve what happened to her."
"No she didn't. It's really sad that she died so young."
Jerry snapped his head up and looked at me funny. "That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that man she married. The evil one. The one who woulda kilt her. That James Thornton."

What?

Within a minute, Jerry is crying, telling me the story of how James used to make Grace walk while he drove the car, and said cruel things to her and made her cry. Sometimes he even hit her, and she'd come running back home, to Mama and to Daddy and to him. He was twenty three then. Twenty four when she died.

As Jerry tells me, the tears run down his face, through the uneven patches of whiskers, falling off his chin onto his church shirt.
"She'd run away time after time, but she'd always go back. Cept'n that last time James Thornton tried to come get her. Daddy looked out the window and saw James Thornton's car and said, 'Ain't no way he's getting her back. Over my dead body.' He pointed the gun at the car but it jammed. And there comes James Thornton, out of the car, storming across the yard. Daddy told Mama, he said, 'Mama, get me the hammer.'"

Jerry stopped for a moment to get a dirty dishtowel from inside and blow his nose on it. "You should have seen it. Daddy smacked him in the head and he fell just like a tree falling down. BOOM! Right on the floor. One of my shoes was under him. I remember that. James Thornton fell on one of my shoes."
"After he got out of the hospital he never bothered her again. But you know what? She died the next year anyway."
Jerry took a deep breath and then looked at me.
"There's a lot I don't understand," Jerry said, wiping at tears, "but I know Jesus saves. And I know He's with my sister Grace. And Mama and Daddy. Rosemary too, one of these days. Course she might not end up there." He snorted loudly, the tears stopped, and then he smiled and started telling me about the day his vacuum cleaner belt broke.

A few minutes later, I patted his hand and went back to my car to finish my route, my heart pulled out of shape by his tears, that he'd experienced such a violent thing, that his sister had lived that life.

I thought of his childlike self, how easily his tears came, and how easily they'd stop again. No, he didn't understand many things, but he knew God loved him, loved Grace, loved his church family, even loved banana hogging Rosemary.

I thought of my own self, the way I clench back my tears and bury my fears and hurts deep so they can't slip out, to preserve the image I want to project.
Do I mourn freely, and allow God to comfort me, or do I stuff it down?
Do I trust God like Jerry? Like a child? Or do I spend my time reasoning, doubting, questioning?

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. ¹⁵I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."
Mark 10:14-15

God, give me faith to come to you as a child. Help me to quit spending so much time guarding and hiding and managing things on my own. Help me put more trust in you.

What does coming to God as a child mean to you? Does the thought make you bristle or give you comfort?

Have a wonder-full day, y'all!
Love, Becky

Washed

Flickr photo by smlions12, creative commons

Do you remember your baptism?
Maybe you were just a baby and you have only the memories your parents shared with you. Or maybe you were older and were pushed into joining the church. Or maybe not. Maybe it was one of your most powerful experiences of your life, or maybe the meaningful part came later, when your faith grew, and you learned what it really means to be take your part in the church, your place in the family of God.

I've been thinking a lot lately about my baptism, probably because I just wrote about it over on the Being page of this blog. I hoped it might work as a way to introduce myself to newcomers here, to give a feel to who I am and why I write. And I hope it will encourage folks to keep coming back, to sit down in the circle and share your own faith stories.

As you can see by my own account, my baptism had a slightly shady/weird/embarrassing beginning, but it turned out to set me on my faith journey in quite a powerful way.
That's not so surprising, I suppose. Baptisms tend to be moving, powerful experiences.
Every single time I watch one, whether it be a baptism of a baby or an old man, in a church or in a swimming pool or creek or river, I say to myself, "That's got to be the most beautiful one I've seen yet."
And don't even get me talking about my children's baptisms. I'm all out of Kleenex!

So today I'm hoping that you'll share some baptism memories of your own. They could be of your own baptism, or others you've witnessed.
I hope you'll share!

Have an awesome weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

PS. Enjoy this beautiful song, Been to the Water, by my friend, award winning songwriter Kyle Matthews.

Love, No Matter What

Flickr photo by jimbob!, creative commons
"I don't get it," my son said on Saturday, grumbling when I wouldn't let him change the channel from the Today show. "Why are they doing all this wedding talk anyway?" he said. "It's not like the whole country really knows her."

I tried to say something about the joy a wedding brings, how it reminds us of hope and promise, of love and new beginnings. Besides, I did feel like I knew Chelsea Clinton a teensy bit, having watched her grow up over the years.
By that time, Ben had lost interest and started texting somebody.

I should have pointed him to Millie Martini Bratten. As Editor-in-Chief at Brides magazine, she explained that the toasting and dancing and wedding traditions gave America a much-needed lift. "No matter what is going on in the world," she said, "there is love."

What a good reminder.
No matter what is going on in the world, there is love.

I'm a terrible flip flopper on this matter.
It's not that I don't believe it. I absolutely do. It's just that it's such a tug of war for me.

On the one hand, I want to fully be a participant in this world. News junkie that I am, I want to know what's going on. Tell me everything, the feel good stories and the teary traumas. The natural disasters and the stories of recovery and hope. I want to know about the shootings and the crying, the hunger and the wars, even as I go through my comfortable day.
I want to know so I can pray, I say. But sometimes I remember and sometimes I don't.
Other times I just stand there, watching the TV screen, trying to keep my jaw from falling open.

There is so much pain in the world, it's astounding. But there's also joy in the face of it. Even peace, sometimes. This astounds me too.

Flip flop.

On the other hand, I want to give my TV to Goodwill and become a Baptist nun. I want to spend my life walking through the woods, thanking God for moss and the fact that birds sing. I want to write poem prayers in my head about the beauty of breathing, the trickle of a creek, the uncurling of a fiddlehead fern. I want to ponder free will and grace.
This requires quiet and cloistering away. Certainly no news reports.

See the problem?
To which world do I belong?
I'm God's, first and foremost, but I live in community, and I love that too. God created us to be here, to share his love with each other, to serve each other, to enjoy his peace.

Ah, peace. I think that's what this flip flopping is really about for me.
So I've had to get stern with myself and set a limit on the news. Moderation in everything, right? Being aware is important, but I need serenity too. When anything stands in my way of finding God's peace, I know it's time to make a life adjustment.

Do you find it hard to straddle two worlds? What helps you?

I think Bratton's words will help. No matter what is going on in the world, there is love.
A love the Psalmist describes so well:

How exquisite your love, O God! How eager we are to run under your wings, To eat our fill at the banquet you spread as you fill our tankards with Eden spring water. You're a fountain of cascading light, and you open our eyes to light.
Psalm 36:7-9, The Message

Thank you God, for the strong shelter of your wings, for the banquet of a new day, for living water that always refreshes. As we walk through this world of pain and sorrow, of joy and hope, open our eyes to see your light. Cascade all over us!

Have a wonder-full day, y'all!
Love, Becky

Unfinished Business

Sometimes when you see the same thing every day, you stop noticing it anymore.
Like how sweet a boy looks conked out on a dog pillow.

Or how goofy a dog looks when he's trying to make you love him again after he's stolen the peanut butter off the counter, sneaked it out the dog door, and hidden out under the grapevines, licking out every last bit of goodness with his alarmingly long tongue.


Or how gorgeous muscadine grapes look as they get big and juicy in your backyard.

Wait a second.
Flip back to that first pic.


Yep, that's the one.
Talk about not noticing things anymore. How embarrassing!
See that couch? If you've been around here for a while, you may remember that I found it two and a half years ago at a yard sale. Back then it was all blue and flowery, but the moment I laid eyes on it, I heard the angels sing. See, we have an itsy bitsy television in our bedroom, and for some reason my kids always ended up in there to watch movies and plant popcorn kernels between our sheets. A comfy couch would get them out of our bed. Plus, it was only $25!

Two seconds after we lugged it through the door, I downed a pot of coffee for strength and began hopping all over it, measuring and sketching and calculating how I'd make the slipcover. Twenty-one yards would be enough. I sped to the fabric store and returned with red denim.

For the next day and a half, I turned my dining room into a sweat shop, hunched over my sewing machine, turning out pillow slipcovers. I'd done this before with the couch in the den, so I kind of knew what I was doing.
Finally it came time to tackle the couch itself, the reupholstery part. The part I dread.

The couch in the den had straight, easy arms. This one had rolled arms, arms that whispered I'm too hard. You can't do it. Who do you think you are, Martha Stewart?
I stared at the couch and drew things and measured some more.
I struggled and gave myself brain cramps and a Medusa hairdo, and finally decided just to sleep on it. Maybe the solution would come to me. Maybe I'd feel braver tomorrow.

When I woke the next morning, I took a long look at my couch.
Then I decided to start a blog.
It's two and a half years later and I'm still loving my blog. Unfortunately, however, the couch still looks like this.

I've grown so used to the look that I hardly even see it anymore.

Does this ever happen to you?
You get attracted by a new project, and you dive in full force. Then you get to the part that feels strange and scary, and you abandon it for something more comfortable. Something that looks easier or more fun. Like making a skirt for your dog or a dress for your daughter. Starting a blog or a novel. Or just rearranging your silverware drawer.

Pretty soon you forget about what you've left undone. That is, until your parents come to visit and you catch them looking funny at it, running their fingers along the cardboard strip that's stapled on the outside, wondering if you did that on purpose.

You meant to get back to the couch. You really did. It's just that there are always other things to tackle. Other things that seem more doable and fun.

Do you do this in your inner life too?
I'm guilty.
Maybe someone's hurt us or we've hurt someone else. Maybe there's a weakness we know we need to work on, something we've done or haven't done and we regret it. But instead of dealing with it head on, we move on to other things, things that are easier and suck out less emotional energy. We'll get back to it another day. We'll tackle it when we're not so tired, when we have more time.
Soon, we don't even think about it anymore.

Today I'm praying that God will reveal to me all my unfinished business. (Not in one fell swoop, mind you! That vision would surely send me galloping back to bed, squeezing shut my eyeballs and burying myself under pillows for a week!)
One issue at a time, please, God!

I know that God will do it if I ask. After all,
He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with him.
Daniel 2: 21 NIV

And God won't just leave me there, quaking at my mammoth To Do list.
He'll work with me all the way.
For I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.
Philippians 4: 13, New Living Translation
Thank goodness! Thank God!

What about you?
Do you have unfinished business, DIY and otherwise? What gives you strength to get back to the list?

I've found that sometimes accountability can help, so here goes:
I'm determined to fix that couch before school starts, so I hereby promise you a photo of a finished couch by August 16!
Fifty lashes with a wet noodle for me if I don't post it!

Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all!
Love, Becky

Serendipity

Flickr photo by mikebaird, creative commons
Tanner barked at his leash, begging for a walk. We all needed the exercise and Sam was willing, but did we really have to go outside? It was10:30 AM and already 92 degrees. "Only if we go to the river," I said. The thick canopy of trees and the gurgling of water would make it bearable.

As we walked the shady path, I thought of my French friend Corinne. Before she moved back to Paris, we'd take our dogs down to the river once a week, and Tanner still looks for Valentin every time we pass her house. I laughed to myself to think of our search for the Big Bird. What was the French word for heron? When I described it, she said it sounded like a dinosaur. "Oh, believe me, it's real," I said. "I've seen them plenty of times down here." But with the noise of the dogs and our busy conversation, we never saw a single one together.
In the year since her move, I'd spied a heron only once, and that had been several months ago. Had they left our river?

Tanner was ecstatic to sniff the path, yanking Sam from one side to the other as we tried to talk.
I wanted to hear what Sam thought about my blogging topic for today: Serendipity, the phenomenon of discovering completely surprising while searching for something else. Like when Christopher Columbus was looking for India and ended up discovering the Americas. Or when Todd and his Mom were taking a walk through our neighborhood and got to talking about his childhood friend, Luke Smith. Whatever happened to him? And then the very next day, Todd took another walk, and who should step out of his house a mere half mile from our home? Luke Smith! I wanted to know what Sam thought. Was it God? Or just a wild coincidence?

The walk was fun, but finally the heat was too much and we headed back.
"Wait," Sam said before we left the river. He took the stick he'd been carrying around and threw it high. It made a great splash. "Look Mama!" he said.
I turned to look at the water and gasped. There was a great blue heron, spreading its wings, launching itself into the sky just above the splashing stick in the river!
It was there all the time, resting in the quiet, on the opposite bank. If Sam hadn't thrown the stick and made the splash at exactly that time and place, we wouldn't have seen it!
Thank you, Sam! Thank you, God!

Have you experienced serendipity in your life? I'd love to hear your story!
Do you think it's luck or something bigger?

Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all!
Love, Becky

Praise the LORD.
Sing to the LORD a new song,
his praise in the assembly of the saints.

Let Israel rejoice in their Maker;
let the people of Zion be glad in their King.

Let them praise his name with dancing
and make music to him with tambourine and harp.

For the LORD takes delight in his people;
he crowns the humble with salvation.

Psalm 149: 1-4

Revolt of the Household Appliances

I bet this has happened to you.
One night while you were sleeping, your household appliances had a secret meeting with your roof and your AC unit and the car in your driveway, and made a plan. MUTINY!

Forty eight hours later, before you've barely finished your second cup of coffee, tires start popping and a radiator blows, a vacuum belt snaps and smoke alarm batteries go off in an ear splitting chorus all over the house. Within the week, your home turns into a sauna and a freak hail storm tears up the roof. Even the blender you bought two years ago at the church yard sale purses its metal blades and refuses to budge!

And the money you thought you saved by spending your four days of vacation staying at your parents' house at the beach? It dribbles out in checks to repairmen, for car parts and shingles and air that won't give you heat rash in uncomfortable places.

Oh well. Tant pis, as the French say. Too bad.
Don't cry for me, Argentina. There's no Job story here.
We all have good health, a few homegrown tomatoes that the dog didn't notice, a nice time at the beach, and a (newish) roof over our heads.
Besides, what was that vacation money doing anyway? Just getting dusty in the bank, awaiting the purchase of a stack of college textbooks or new carpet that doesn't look like it spent 60 years with the seven dwarfs. (Pre- Snow White.)

You know what Woody Allen says about the future, right?
If you want to make God laugh, just tell him about your plans.

Yep, we can plan all we want, but what happens, happens.
It's my nature to be against this. I like security. Don't you?
I want to be the ant, storing up food for the winter while the grasshopper plays his fiddle. I wouldn't be mean about it. If the grasshopper came shivering to my door, I'd probably invite him in, let him sleep on the carpet, and only occasionally slip the consequences of fiddle playing into conversation. I'd I'd even share my ant food, within reason.

But a few mornings ago, I read anew the story of God's people wandering through the desert, the sad lot of newly freed slaves, so hungry and tired that they began to whine about forgetting this freedom thing and running back to Egypt, where they could get a decent meal once in a while.
What fascinated me most about the story was how God chose to send them bread from the sky. They could collect only what they could eat each day, and if they sneaked a little extra to save for the next, it rotted and got wormy.
This made me laugh.
God's just like a parent!
The kids needed to learn to depend on Him daily, so He finally took control, walking them through exactly what He wanted for them, step by step-just like we do when our kids get stubborn and refuse to use the potty or sleep in a big girl bed or come home in time for curfew! After much patience and encouragement, we finally take away the pull ups or dismantle the crib or take away the rights to the car, and say, "Here you go, honey. This is how you do it. Mommy's going to help you."

The passage in Exodus (chapter 16, if you want to read more about the manna) also made me think about how often I live in the future, thinking of the bread for tomorrow, instead of enjoying the bread on the table. I think about how happy I'll be once my next book sells, or I get the job, or my kids move out of one stage into the next, instead of soaking in my happiness right where I am.
Planning is fine, but this is life. I need to live it now, not waste my time living in the future.

Maybe that's part of what Jesus was trying to tell us when he gave the lesson on how to pray.

He said to them, "When you pray, say:
'Father, hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come.
Give us each day our daily bread...
Luke 11:2-3, NIV

Today I'm going to try harder to put the future on the shelf and enjoy where I am. And while I'm at it, I'll thank God for my morning multigrain toast--and for a hardworking toaster that didn't bow to peer pressure!

Have a wonder-full day, y'all!
But before you go, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Is living in the moment a struggle for you too? Do you get starry eyed, wishing on the future? What keeps your balloon tethered to today?

Love, Becky

Yoda and Paul and the Domino Trail

Flickr photo by Micah Taylor, creative commons
In my youngest child's quest not to be BORED OUT OF HIS MIND this summer, he decided to enter a contest held by Klondike Bars. (Arteries in both our bodies stood up and cheered to find out that this did not involve eating massive quantities of ice cream. Our taste buds, however are still in mourning.)

For this "Grab the Remote" challenge, entrants had to make a video in which a lazy person uses some kind of homemade contraption to retrieve his TV remote from a coffee table, with the condition that he remain with his derriere firmly planted in the couch/easy chair.

Sam was inspired by Mousetrap, a game we loved to play for the one-and-a-half weeks before we started losing pieces. You know the game?


Yep, that's it.
He asked me to help him a little with the camera work, (unfortunately this was after my second cup of coffee, so it's a teeny bit shaky,) but I think it turned out great. Take a look for yourself!

Yey, Sam!
He had a great time doing it, setting up the chain of events, one leading to the next, until the remote was in his hot little hand.

His "this will knock this, which will knock this, which will knock this" narration nudged my brain to fire off its own domino trail.

To start, my noggin woke up a funny little voice way back in the Star Wars corner of my brain.

"Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

Yoda led me straight to a Liberty Mutual commercial (at the end of the post,) which in turn took me over to the apostle Paul.

"...we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."
Romans 5: 3-5

I heard my brain recite it, and then I looked it up and studied it again.
Sorry, Paul. Saying it might sound nice, but it's awfully hard to truly rejoice in suffering, even though I know it will build character, make me a better person, yada yada yada.

But then I looked at my boy, and I thought of all the times all three of my kids have struggled/suffered/floundered a bit. Sometimes I've chosen to dive in the pool and yank them out of the water, coughing and sputtering. But other times I've let them flounder just a while, even though it's hard to stand there watching, because I know that there are things they need to learn, lessons they can only get through their own floundering. It's some of the most difficult work of parenting for me, letting my children learn things on their own, work things out by themselves in their hobbled-together, inexperienced way. It takes a lot of self control on my part to resist the urge to always be the fixer, but sometimes I know I have to do it for their sake.

Surely this is part of the mystery and great love of God, that he sets us free to work things out on our own, even though he could step in like Superman and save the day. There are times I just don't understand why he doesn't act more, when horrible pain and suffering are allowed to occur. But I know God is good and loves us with a love too big to understand. I trust I'll understand one day.

Wow, that's heavy stuff. And to think it all started with Klondike bars.
Now I want ice cream!

So how about you? Does this post spark any ideas of your own? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Love, Becky
PS. Don't miss this Liberty Mutual commercial. Love it!