Tuesday, December 28, 2010

December 28

What a difference a year makes. Last December 28 Daddy left our house to fly back home. I didn't know it then, but he had visited us for the last time. Though hospitalized until December 22, he had roused his aging body and made the flight to Atlanta. I had picked him up, rented walker in hand, and he had come into our house to grace us with his peaceful presence.
He mainly sat in the recliner, napping when there was a lull in the festivities, but his rheumy eyes twinkled and his smile took part when his two-year-old greatgrandson Tyler held court in the den. Daddy later commented to my brother that one of the delights of Christmas had been Tyler because he was "so engaging."

Today, December 28 a year later, Daddy is gone. Right after he got home last December, he went back to the hospital for 5 weeks. His body began shutting down, and by the first of April I wondered if he'd make his ninetieth birthday May 2. But he rallied once more, and as all the family and many friends gathered on May 1, he laughed and enjoyed the accolades and anecdotes of his long, well-lived tenure on earth.
Just six weeks later, on June 14, Daddy flew home to his eternal home - the place of no sickness, no aging, no leaving, no sorrow. The place where he can fully enjoy the Christ of Christmas.

We missed Daddy this year, but life goes on. We started a new tradition of playing family jeopardy (Who knew David's favorite Christmas present as a child was roller skates?). We watched three-year-old Tyler's delighted expression as he tore open one of Santa's gifts and found inside, yes, roller skates. We laughed when he stared down at the four pads and said, "I didn't know I had so many elbows!" His candidness was totally engaging, and I smiled, remembering Daddy. He would have loved every moment.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Tail Lights and Blue Lights

David and I just experienced a typical Bazemore trip. That is, it was fraught with "Oh, brother" moments. (If you don't know what 'fraught' means or have never heard the word before, then maybe you're not old as dirt like I am.)

Back to the trek fraught with troubles. First of all, let it be said that if David had agreed to take Friday afternoon off so we could fly to Shelley's, then these things wouldn't have happened. That said, please understand that there is no root of bitterness in me about it. After all, if it were not for road trips, I'd have hardly anything to blog about.

So did you notice that I said it was a 'typical' Bazemore trip? Back in the day, we were famous for our mishap-laden family vacations. Like the one when Hillary came down with a 105-degree fever the day we got to Disney World, and then after a trip to the emergency room for a strep test and 24 hours of antibiotics, when she and I could join the family fun once more, it rained every day we were there until the day we were leaving when it was gorgeous weather and our van broke down and we had to spend several hours at a repair shop where they didn't really repair it so we had to stop and add water to the radiator every hour on the way home. Fun times!

Or the trip to Gatlinburg where I made reservations online and the place was a dump so we had to find another place but practically everything was full and it had snowed after we'd had three weeks of 75-degree weather at home so I didn't think about taking coats and we had to go to the outlet mall and buy everyone a coat and the van broke down (again) and David and I had a big fight.

Or the outing to Atlanta when Shelley had strep and we had to push her around in a wheelchair at Six Flags. Or the time Hillary got lost twice at Opryland (when it was an amusement park). Or the year we got to Panama City only to find our hotel had just had all the rooms' carpets cleaned and I was allergic to the smell so David went out to find an antihistamine for me but was rear-ended at a stoplight, causing the van to break down and David to have to go to the emergency room.

You know, after recalling those moments, last weekend doesn't seem so bad. No one got sick or hurt. Nobody got lost. The weather was beautiful, albeit COLD. David and I didn't fight. We don't have a van anymore. Ah, but the car...

We left right after David got off work on Friday evening. Since David was going to fly home early Monday morning, we took two cars as far as the Atlanta airport. He told me to go first and he'd follow. He noticed right away that my right tail light was out but wasn't too worried because the brake light and turn signal were working fine.

Well, no sooner had we crossed the Georgia state line than I saw flashing blue lights move around David and pull in behind me. I knew I wasn't speeding, but my heart picked up its pace anyway.I slowed my car and stopped on the shoulder, then watched in my rearview mirror as the police car came to a stop with David close behind him. I waited while cars flew by and wondered why the police weren't chasing them instead of bothering me. Finally, the officer stepped up to my passenger window. "Ma'am," he said, "Can you tell me who this gentleman is who's following you?" Ha! I felt relief. The police were doing their job, protecting innocent citizens, noticing the smallest of details - like a mysterious man pursuing a lone woman.

"Yes, he's my husband." I chuckled and explained.

"Well, he tells me he noticed your tail light was out. We usually just give warnings for this, but I'll have to see your license and go put the warning into the computer."

So much for chivalry, I thought. There must have been ten cars who had passed me going 85 or 90 since we'd left Opelika 25 miles back, but the police were going after the real menaces like me. Oh well, warning duly recorded, we were soon on our way. Only 7.5 more hours to go!

Traffic through Atlanta was crowded, of course, but moved amazingly quickly for a Bazemore trip. Soon the highway became smooth and dark, and I was lulled into catnaps and finally, sleep. Suddenly, a loud thump-bump-bump and serious jostle awoke me. "What happened?" I blurted, sitting upright.

"We hit a deer. I saw him way up on the right, but then my attention was drawn to the person coming up on our left, and the next thing I knew, we had hit the deer." I was amazed and relieved that the car was still trucking along and our headlights seemed to be working, but there was no more sleeping for me.

About an hour and a half later, at 3 Am Eastern Standard Time, we were almost there. Almost. In fact, we were right behind Shelley and Shawn's townhouse. With go-go-Gadget arms I could have touched their back door. Then the unbelievable happened. Though David had not gone a mile over the speed limit the whole way, we got stopped by the police, again!! My first thought was, "Oh, brother" and my second thought was "They've already got the warning on the computer, so this shouldn't take long." Our goal was in view. Bed and just a few hours sleep were tauntingly close.

"Sir, may I see your license and registration?" the nice officer asked. I searched frantically in the glove compartment while David pulled out his license. As the GPS, phone charger, Zaxby napkins, Wendy's napkins, Chick-Fil-A napkins, proof of insurance papers, etc. started falling into my hands, the policeman continued, "What brings you folks to North Carolina?"

I quit my searching and chimed in, pointing to the townhouse, "We're visiting our grandson for his birthday. They actually live right there."

Though I would have welcomed chit-chat about our wonderful grandson, the officer changed the subject abruptly. "What happened to the front of your car?"

A short conversation about the deer incident ensued, with the policeman checking out the damage to the car and seeming satisfied. "Well," he said, "We were looking for someone with front end damage who fled the scene of an accident, but it looks like you two just had some bad luck. Enjoy your stay in North Carolina!" And so we turned the corner, pulled into the parking spot, went in and went to bed. Oh, and enjoyed our stay in North Carolina - especially me, who got to stay until Wednesday.

Now, there's always a spiritual lesson, and I was pretty sure what the one in this event was, but I didn't like it, so I was hoping another would come to mind. Then, in my quiet time this morning, the same lesson emerged and I felt like God was saying, "Admit it, Joy," or, as I used to say to Hillary when she wanted to argue with me, "Give it up, honey. Just give it up."

So here. I'm giving it. The spiritual lesson:
I want to believe I'm following all the Christian rules and that it's really all those people doing the bad sins that God should stop, question and warn. So what if my tail light isn't working? My brake light and turn signal are working. What's more important than my car's rear lights is that all those people are speeding, for heaven's sakes!
- So what if I was unkind in the way I spoke to that store clerk? At least I didn't yell or talk about her behind her back. And besides, I was right.
- So what if I'm spending tons of money on gifts and the poor don't have enough to eat. It's Christmas. I have to buy gifts for my family, and friends, and coworkers. It's how I show I love them.
- So what if I don't call the people who weren't at Sunday School today. I'll think about calling them. I'll even pray for them.

Hey, God, what about the murderers? the adulterers? the thieves?

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Reunion

I recently attended my 40th high school reunion. Now, before you start saying, "Wow, she's old!", let me explain that I'm not that old. I didn't graduate in 1970 - I graduated in 1971. But, I should have graduated in 1972. I was a year ahead in school because we lived overseas when I was a child (that's a whole 'nother story). Anyway, our class held a combined reunion with the class of 1970, and I'd estimate there were 250 people there.

I hate those kind of things, but my life-long friend Joyce, class of '70, suggested we attend together, so I went. Here's the thing. I wasn't in the 'in' group in high school. In fact, I always sort of felt like I was in the 'out' group, if you know what I mean. Once, at the end of the tenth grade, I decided to try to catapult myself into the 'in' group by trying out for cheerleader. I made it through two days of excruciating tryout practices only to end up so sore that I couldn't climb the stairs at school or sit down on the potty without fainting. That very summer my mother beat me at tennis, and when I was upset about it, said, "Oh, don't worry. You're just not coordinated." If I'd only had that bit of blessed information a couple of months earlier, I'd have saved myself the humiliation of cheerleader tryout practices.

But I digress. Since the cheerleading idea bombed, I decided to try out for something a little less strenuous but not quite as 'in'. The Downbeats was a nine-girl a capella group that could just as easily have been called the Singing Geeks. I made it! So during my junior and senior years I enjoyed the musical challenge and 'fifteen minutes of fame' we got from singing at civic clubs and at school and church functions. I gained some valuable musical experience and confidence through being a part of Downbeats, but the close comraderie with the other girls was the real blessing. So when I decided to go to my reunion, I hoped I'd see some of them there.

Nope. I saw some familiar faces and even sneaked peeks at nametags to see if I'd have any 'Aha' moments, but it didn't happen. I ended up talking to five people:
1. David Lingerfelt, class of '70 -brother of Alan, a good guy friend of mine (class of '72). David never knew me in high school and didn't know I'd been friends with Alan. End of conversation.
2. Scott Eden - a supernice guy who sat behind me in senior English and, though he was in the 'in' group, always had a smile for me. BTW, he is just as nice and still as cute as he was in high school.
3. Gail Copeland, class of '72 - Her husband, Jimmy, was in my class. He was busy preparing with one of the bands that played later. Jimmy and Gail were good, close friends from my youth group at church.
4. Harriet Moncure - She tripped over the base of a column I was standing near, and when she caught herself and stood up, she was right in front of my face and blurted, "Joy Crawley!" (my maiden name). If she hadn't tripped, we might not have seen each other. She was not a close friend in high school, but it was still fun to talk to her.
5. Kathy Jordan - Kathy was another person in the 'in' group, but I approached her because we went to church together way back when and because her mother and mine were the best of friends. We had a short talk, mostly about deceased family.

Except for these five life-altering conversations, I tagged along with Joyce and spoke to the people she knew. At least we tried to speak. I don't think I've mentioned that the music was way too loud. The longer the evening went on, the more I wished I was back at the hotel with my sister and brother (The three of us had met in Richmond for a family reunion of sorts). As songs of the sixties and seventies blared in my ears, I longed for the quiet and comfort of sharing real, present-day life with those I love. So at ten-thirty I said my goodbyes to Joyce and her friends and to high school for the last time.

Some days I long for the reunion that will take place when I walk through heaven's gates, and these are the people I want to talk to first:
1. Jesus - a very dear friend. He once laid down His life for me. He knew my name before I was born, my maiden and married names. He pursued my heart and became the lover of my soul when I shyly let Him in at seven years of age. Not only has He been by my side all these years, but He has lived within me to guide, comfort, rebuke and cherish me. He is a very dear friend, and when I reach glory, I want to see Him first. I want to bow at His feet and hug His neck and feel His arms pulling me into the 'in' group.
2. Mama - my earliest friend. I want to tell her that I never appreciated her enough and I'm sorry for that. I also want to tell her how much her devoted life influenced mine. And I want to hug her and laugh with her and tell her about my grandchildren who she never got to meet.
3. Daddy - my other earliest friend. I want to hear his laughter and just sit with him for awhile.
4. Daddy's daddy - He died when my daddy was 11 years old, so I never got to meet him. But I've read things he wrote and things people wrote about him, and I know I'm going to love him.
5. My other grandparents and Aunt Pony and Aunt Tamar (two old-maid great aunts who were like extra grandmothers to me).

Of course, there are others I'm going to want to see and talk to, but these will be first. And I think we'll be able to hear each other because I hear the music there is beautiful.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Fingernails and Forgiveness

When I was a child we lived in Hong Kong. My parents were missionaries, and we were not rich, but compared to the average Chinese family there, we were very wealthy. In that culture, wealthy people had servants, so we had a servant, too. Ah-King was our combination cook, housekeeper and nanny.

Ah-King would let me hang around while she squatted to cut vegetables for dinner, did the wash, or whatever. One day, when she and I were the only ones home, I wandered away from her into my parents' bedroom. Bored and looking for something to pass the time, I drifted into their bathroom and came upon the beautiful sight of my mother's red fingernail polish sitting on the counter. Somehow knowing I shouldn't but not being able to resist, I proceeded to paint my fingernails while unintentionally daubing bright red patches all over my fingertips and parts of the bathroom counter and sink as well.

Just about the minute I put the brush back in the bottle for the last time, Ah-King came looking for me. Hearing her calling my name, I closed the door and locked it quickly, smearing red polish on the doorknob. Seconds later her Chinese-accented voice came through the heavy wooden door, "Miss Joy, you in there?"

I frantically turned the faucet on and began washing my hands. "Yes," I answered, voice quavering. "I'm almost finished. I had to go to the bathroom, and I'm washing my hands." The lie hung heavy in the room, feeling like a weight on my back.

Imagine my little-girl horror when the red stuff wouldn't come off!! I scrubbed and scrubbed to no avail, and my dismay quickly turned to dread.

"Miss Joy, what you doing?" Ah-King persisted. "Open this door."

Realizing I was a cooked goose, I turned the lock and slowly peeked out, clasping my hands behind my back (which, by the way, is a sure indication that a child has something to hide). Ah-King leveled her small frame against the large wooden door and pushed into the bathroom.

"Ah-ee-ya!" she cried. "What you been doing in here?"

"I-I was just trying to ma-make my fin-fingernails pretty," I sobbed and stuttered, "but it wo-won't come off. Not e-even when I wash with so-oap."

When she saw my hands, Ah-King shook her head and scolded, "Miss Joy, you know you not suppose to play with your mother's things." Then she took a long look at my tear-stained face still frozen in a horrified expression and said, "You never do this again?"

I quickly shook my head "No," so Ah-King opened a drawer and took out a plastic bottle and some cotton pads. She deftly began applying the magic liquid in the bottle to the cotton pads and then used the cotton pads on my fingers, the counter, the sink, the cabinet, the floor and the door. Where red had been, normalcy surfaced. I can still remember the disbelief, relief and gratitude I felt.

"Are you going to tell on me?" I asked, bottom lip protruding.

"No, but you be good, you hear?"

Ah-King had been given the authority of a parent that day, but she chose to be a servant to me. She put herself in my place and cleaned me up. How relieved I was. I couldn't get the 'sin' off me, but she knew how to do it and had mercy on me. She took responsibility for the dirty cotton pads in the trash can. She acted as if it never happened. I honestly don't remember much of anything else Ah-King ever did, but I remember her mercy and I remember that I loved her dearly.

"This the pow'r of the cross;
Christ became sin for us.
Took the blame, bore the wrath -
We stand forgiven at the cross." - Getty

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Inheritance

"We're spending your inheritance!" Mama exclaimed with a chuckle. My parents were off on their second journey to Hawaii, planning to trace the route they had taken to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary.

"Good - you deserve it; have a blast!" I replied.

Less than two years later, Mama fell on her head, and even though early on she seemed to be getting well, after two months she began having seizures. Over the next five months, she slowly lost her abilities and finally went into a coma-like state and died December 31, 2001. For eight and a half more years we enjoyed Daddy but lost him in June of this year.

Sadly, Mama and Daddy didn't have nearly enough time to spend all of our inheritance. So checks from their different investments are beginning to come in. My husband and I are having to make decisions - what to do with the money, how to invest it, how not to lose it! In today's economy there are no "sure things." Interest rates are dismal, even on long-term investments. The government will insure only so much in bank accounts. Stocks are iffy.
Well, I made a decision that many of you will appreciate. I decided to invest some of that inheritance in our house. The house is forty years old and the last time anything was updated was long before we moved in eighteen years ago. Well, actually, we have replaced the upstairs carpet and the kitchen flooring. And we've also painted a room or two, but the kitchen and bathrooms had that '80's look going. I figure the new stuff will increase the value and sellability of our house, should we decide to put it on the market in the next few years. At any rate, the money won't be wasted because I am going to enjoy the new countertops, appliances and beautiful, up-to-date paint techniques being applied by an expert (not moi). Thank you, Mama and Daddy!

I am grateful that Daddy was a smart investor and my parents were wise spenders. Though they worked as missionaries and church workers all their lives, they lived on a budget and saved enough money to support themselves in their old age. I'm thankful that they had enough to enjoy their golden years, living in a very nice retirement community and taking trips for pleasure. And of course, I would be lying if I said I'm not appreciative for their financial legacy, that leftover money they bequeathed to us kids.

But I'll be eternally indebted to Mama and Daddy for the other legacy they left us. You see, whereas they used discretion when spending money, they completely blew the budget when it came to spending their lives on people. They lived Jesus' words in Matthew 16:24-25: "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it." I pray that I will be like that, that my children and friends and even people who don't know me well will be able to say they looked at me and saw Jesus. Thank you, Mama and Daddy, for this inheritance. It is precious. It is eternal. It's why I miss you so much.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

"Softens Hands While You Do Dishes"

Remember the old Palmolive dishwashing detergent commercials? Women in beauty salons with their nails dipped in bowls of kelly green Palmolive? The manicurist, Madge, reassuring them, "Relax, it's Palmolive!" (You can see an example on youtube. Just do a search for 70s consumerism - Palmolive.)

Then, about ten years ago, the hot paraffin wax portable spas came along. They advertised that in just one treatment, your hands would be noticeably softer and younger looking. Of course, the model was always closer to twenty years old than forty. Her hands undoubtedly looked pretty fabulous to start with. She had not been asked by her eight-year-old grandson what the red, rough place on the back of her left hand was (eczema) and then been informed that the dark places were liver spots! (You can see an example of the young woman on youtube. Just do a search for Paraffin Wax Spa Hand Treatment at Home. You can see the old woman's liver-spotted hands by coming by my house on any given day.)

Current trends lean towards hand massages with healing oils, pumice stones, intensive care hand lotions, built-in lotion dispensers next to the built-in detergent dispensers next to the latest kitchen faucets, and so on.

Calluses can be a good thing. As in guitar-playing and knee-praying. But no one wants to shake hands with someone whose hands are dry, cracked and rough. No one wants those hands caressing his face. Those hands are disastrous when a woman is trying to put on panty hose.

How do your hands look? Are they dry, callused? Has the wear and tear of life worn and torn them? Is there really no such thing as a dishwashing detergent that softens hands? Do you just not have time to do home hot paraffin wax treatments? Do your pumice stone and intensive healing lotion sit in the drawer unused? Have your loved ones gotten used to the roughness of your hands and you really don't care what strangers think? Well, that's okay. I have to admit that sometimes mine are soft and sometimes they could sand a two by four smooth.

I hate to admit that my heart might be like that, too. Sometimes it is soft towards hurting people, slow people, disrespectul people, boring people. Sometimes it is soft towards God. Sometimes I want to know Him and His plans for my life, no matter what. But at other times, especially those days when I haven't read God's Word or worshiped Him or prayed, my heart feels callused. I care about me. Me and mine only. Oh, how I need Him to smooth away the rough, selfish places in my heart. How about you? Ponder these lyrics by Keith Getty. If you know the tune, sing with me.

Speak, O Lord, as we come to You
To receive the food of Your Holy Word.
Take Your truth, plant it deep in us;
Shape and fashion us in Your likeness,
That the light of Christ might be seen today
In our acts of love and our deeds of faith.
Speak, O Lord, and fulfill in us
All Your purposes for Your glory.

Teach us, Lord, full obedience,
Holy reverence, true humility;
Test our thoughts and our attitudes
In the radiance of Your purity.
Cause our faith to rise; cause our eyes to see
Your majestic love and authority.
Words of pow'r that can never fail -
Let their truth prevail over unbelief.

Speak, O Lord, and renew our minds;
Help us grasp the heights of Your plans for us -
Truths unchanged from the dawn of time
That will echo down through eternity.
And by grace we'll stand on Your promises,
And by faith we'll walk as You walk with us.
Speak, O Lord, till Your church is built
And the earth is filled with Your glory.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Just One Thing

My friend Sherrie is the director of our church's weekday preschool program. We were in Cracker Barrel yesterday when she asked me what I thought she should give the teachers for their Christmas gifts. We looked around a bit, but no inspiration came. After more discussion, however, I had an idea she jumped on. So, after we had eaten lunch, we went to a large store that sells just about everything you can imagine.

As we began looking through all the giftware, I was reminded of a time a few years back when I went to that store looking for teapots. I was the Preschool Minister of our church, and I had decided to have a tea party for young girls and their mothers. I wanted each table to have a different teapot as a centerpiece, so for several months I hunted for teapots. It got to the point where I could walk in a store and see only those small things that had handles sticking out of one side. All the other paraphernalia in the store would fade to the background, and all I had to do was check the item to determine if it was a teapot, pitcher, or mug.

After several more weeks of searching, my mind had learned to notice only those items that had a handle on one side and a spout on the other, thereby eliminating mugs from my view. Then, finally, after a couple more weeks, I could scan the shelves of a store and see only those things with a handle on one side, a spout on the other and a lid on the top. I was looking for and looking at just one thing - teapots! My search became so simple that I began seeing teapots practically everywhere I went, and I had to stop buying!!!

There's such a wonderful spiritual lesson in this, friends. We can get overwhelmed living in this world where we're bombarded with all kinds of "stuff." Finding God's will for our lives should be easier than it is, and I want to challenge you to start today by narrowing your search. Jesus said to Martha of Bethany, "You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed." That one thing was modeled by Martha's sister, Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to Him.

We need to get to know Jesus by reading the gospels over and over. Then we will learn the shape of Him. Finally, as we walk through this crowded, busy, hurried, sinful world, we will begin to see where He is, what He is doing, how we can join in on what He is about. The world will fade from view, and just the one thing - Jesus - will fill our thoughts and hearts. And that is His will for our lives, His good, pleasing and perfect will (Rom. 12:2b).

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Not Good; Not Good at All

My righteousness was certainly filthy rags today. The real pain of it is that I knew it was going to be. I put off calling the credit card company because something just told me I was going to get mad. And even though I prayed that the Holy Spirit would guard my tongue and keep me calm, I lost it.

I knew they would argue with me about cancelling because I tried to cancel last year, and I had allowed that woman to talk me into keeping the card. This year I was prepared! I called August 25 and asked that the card be cancelled on August 30, the day before the annual fee would be charged. The guy tried to stop me. He gave me all kinds of reasons not to cancel (just like the woman last year did), but I stood firm. Finally, he said okay. My new card had already come in the mail, but I hadn't activated it. So when August finished, I dusted my hands off and said, "There. That takes care of that!"

But it didn't. I got my last statement, and on it was the annual fee. Also on it was a charge on Sept. 2. I knew I hadn't charged anything on that date because I thought the card was cancelled. So I looked back in my email records and found I had charged to that online store on August 23. Aha! They were trying to trick me, but they didn't know who they were dealing with!!!

The long and short of it is, the man called me a liar on the phone today; said their records showed no phone call from me since 12/09 and therefore, I would have to pay the fee. Well, I didn't yell exactly, but my voice rose a little bit. After all, I wanted to be sure he heard me say I didn't appreciate being called a liar and that I had indeed talked to a young man six weeks ago, and I had thought my card was cancelled and he could just check his records and see that I hadn't charged anything in six weeks and that was not normal activity for me!

I got nowhere with him. And I ended up feeling so raunchy about the way I had handled my feelings. Why did I think the world would act in a Christian manner if I couldn't? Isaiah 64:6 says, "all our righteous acts are like filthy rags." Filthy rags. The Bible is talking about the unclean rags that have menstrual blood all over them. Yeah, that's what my so-called righteousness looks like.

Oh Jesus, thank you for pouring Your blood over me and making me to become righteous in God's eyes. "God made him who had no sin to become sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God" (2 Corinthians 5:21). I'm just a sinner, saved by grace. Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Puzzles

Puzzles are fun. Word puzzles. Number puzzles. Jigsaw puzzles. I like to be able to figure them out. The process, to me, is invigorating. The more challenging the better. Like the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. My daddy had a book of 200 of them, and he'd only done through #91 before he died, so I am attempting to do the rest. So far, I've totally completed only four out of the twenty-four I've attempted. They're difficult, sometimes grueling, but oh, the sheer satisfaction of figuring them out and checking them off! And I'll keep going back to the ones I haven't finished because sometimes I'll have an AHA moment the second or third or fourth time around. Something will finally click, and then I'll be able to get another word and another.

I think that's the thrill. Finally getting something I didn't think I knew.

Life is a puzzle, full of situations that are puzzling and people who I don't get because they are so different from me and my little world. Why don't I get as excited about life puzzles as I do about Sudoku or Crytoquote or the New York Times Sunday crossword? Maybe because the stakes are so much higher. If I don't figure out the Crytoquote today, then oh well. But if I can't solve the puzzles of poverty and wealth, giving and saving, putting my neck out there and protecting my soul, being risky and being daring, etcetera, etcetera, then what does my life mean?

Jesus said, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself " (Matthew 22:37-39). Paul said, "Love never fails! Everyone who prophesies will stop, and unknown languages will no longer be spoken. All that we know will be forgotten. We don't know everything, and our prophcies are not complete. But what is perfect will someday appear, and what isn't perfect will then disappear...Now all we can see of God is like a cloudy picture in a mirror. Later we will see him face to face. We don't know everything, but then we will, just as God completely understands us. For now there are faith, hope and love. But of these three, the greatest is love" (1 Corinthians 13:8-10, 12-13).

I guess the answer to my dilemma is to get excited about pursuing love. Not the thrill of answers and complete solution of the myriad of earthly puzzles, but the joy of loving as Christ loved me and gave himself up for me as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God (Ephesians 5:2).

Thursday, September 23, 2010

It's a Boy!

Our daughter Heather and her husband Josh found out today that they are having a boy. Heather and I had been secretly rooting for a girl, each for our own reasons, but we were both really happy to find out that the baby is doing well, progressing perfectly, and already knows how to sit "Indian style." In other words, the technician found it pretty easy to determine the sex!

I hate to admit the reason I wanted a girl is the clothes. When I was looking for a cute Christmas outfit for Tyler, my almost 3-year-old grandson, I found one choice. In the same store were forty Christmas outfits for little girls. And bows and purses and tights and cute little shoes. And for later on, tiaras.

Which reminds me of something. May I start at the beginning?
Jesus became my personal Savior in 1961. Though only seven years old, I truly and tremblingly gave myself to Him and asked Him to live in my heart forever. In the years since I've heard many an outstanding testimony and sometimes have regretted making my profession of faith so early, before I committed some bad sins that could have really "beefed up" my testimony. I'm just kidding (sort of). But you know what I mean. I would sit there thinking, How bad could I have been at seven years old that Jesus would need to come in and completely change my life?

In all seriousness, though, every person, no matter his or her age, is just as "bad" as the next. Every person is born with a sin nature. Genesis 8:21 says, "The Lord smelled the pleasing aroma and said in his heart, 'Never again will I curse the ground because of man, even though every inclination of his heart is evil from childhood.'" From childhood. If you've ever been around infants or toddlers, you've seen the sin nature in its early stages. The moment a child realizes there are choices in life, he begins to assert his preferences. He fusses at not being able to do what he wants, when he wants. Or she gravitates towards the "no no's." The Toddler's Creed humorously illustrates another of the ugly truths in man's sin nature:
If I want it, it's mine.
If I give it to you and change my mind later, it's mine.
If I can take it away from you, it's mine.
If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
If it's mine, it will never belong to anybody else, no matter what.
If we are building something together, all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like mine, it's mine.

Sounds a bit like covetousness, doesn't it? Let me edit my earlier testimony just a bit. Jesus became my personal Savior in 1961 when I was just seven years old, and oh, how I needed a Savior. Selfishness, egotism and covetousness ruled my heart. I wanted all the pretties I saw: that girl's boxy red purse with the brass buckle, that friend's shiny black shoes, that boy's really sweet mama, that candy store's malted milk balls, that acquaintance's nifty bicycle horn, that neighbor's gleaming swingset with super slippery slide, that teacher's colored chalk, that library's date stamper, that... I think you get the picture. If mere desire could've made them mine, they would have been MINE.

I never felt that desire more profoundly, however, than when I first laid eyes on a tiara. I believe the occasion was a Girl's Auxiliary coronation service at my church. In those days, many Southern Baptist girls took part in GA's (Girl's Auxiliary), an organization with the purpose of teaching about missions work around the world. In view of earning badges and other symbols of accomplishment, each girl in GA's would work on memorizing scripture, participating in mission action projects and creating artistic expressions and symbols of the Christian life. Step by step and year by year a girl worked to become a Maiden, Lady-in-Waiting, Princess, Queen, Queen with a Scepter and Queen Regent. All the hard work culminated in a coronation service at the end of each school year. Well, before I was even old enough to be a GA, my older sister Anne became a Queen and was ready to be crowned at the coronation service. She and two other girls, dressed in long white dresses, hair styled into updo's, stood on the platform, and one by one their mothers placed tiaras on their heads, signifying they had reached the rank of Queen.

Immediately a burning desire came over me that was so great I can hardly describe it. I wanted to be up there in flowing white dress, but more than that, I wanted that tiara. Its glitz outsparkled anything I had ever owned, and the shape of it was divine, so triangularly did it point toward heaven. I knew for certain that if I had that tiara my life would never be the same.

Now here's the really cool spiritual lesson. No tiara could actually ever change my life, but when Jesus came into my heart, as the song says, "He changed me completely and a new life is mine." And, when you are saved, you become a tiara of sorts - a crown. Listen to Philippians 4:1 - "I love you and long to see you, dear friends, for you are my joy and the crown I receive for my work" (New Living Translation). Paul was saying that when someone becomes a Christian, he becomes a crown for the one who lead him to Christ. Here's a special note: That tiara my sister got for becoming Queen is long gone, but she led me to Christ so I am her living crown (tiara), and have been for 49 years. Thank you, Anne, for loving me that much.
Now, readers, let's go get some living tiaras.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Fishing

The lake was gorgeous after the cool of the early spring morning. Norma Jean and I stirred up lemonade and fixed a large thermos of coffee while the men retrieved the fishing rods from under the deck. When we women walked down to the beach area, I could hear Wally and his father mumbling a foreign language of crappie plugs, long jig shanks and minnows. Norma Jean, Wally's mother, set the drinks on a tiny garden table in the sand and motioned for me to follow her up under the deck. We found four ratty lawn chairs and soon were lining them up parallel to the water's edge. She sat in the far left chair, right beside the drinks table, and as I sank down beside her, she handed me a glass of lemonade, my preferred poison when I was that age, one month past twenty-one.

I sipped absentmindedly on the tart treat while watching Wally with my full infatuation. He baited a hook with a minnow, something I thought extremely cruel and yukky in principle, but when done by him seemed almost heroic. Then he walked towards me with the fishing rod. "Stand up and I'll teach you to cast," he said.
"Cast?" I was new at this fishing thing and not at all sure I wanted to learn to cast. After all, baiting the hook had been pretty disgusting.
"Yeah, silly, cast. You don't have to look so petrified - it's easy."
So I stood up and walked nearer to the water. I wondered if he would do the stand behind my back and put his arms around me to teach me kind of thing. I almost swooned thinking about it and then remembered his parents and said loudly, "I'm not scared. Of course it's easy."
"Shhh," the men rebuked. "You'll scare the fish away."
"And that would be bad?" I grinned just a little, tilting my head to see if his mother would grin, too. She did.
"Joy." Wally wasn't grinning. "Do you want to learn to fish, or not?" Of course, I knew what he really meant was I want you to learn to fish because I like fishing and fishing is fun and later you women can clean this fish and cook it for us.
"Yes, yes, I do," I fibbed.
So began the lesson on casting, and after about fifteen tries, I finally cast far enough out to leave the line in. Then I sat down in my chair like Mr. Irwin had done long before, right after his first cast landed way out there. As soon as I was settled, Wally threw his minnow-weighted line way out there, too, and slowly sat. I handed him a glass of lemonade and asked, "What do we do now?"
"Wait."
"For what?"
"For a fish to bite."
"How long do we wait?"
"Well, as long as it takes."
"How long is that? What do we do while we wait?"
"What do you mean, 'do while we wait'?"
"Well, I don't know. You're the one who fishes, not me."
"We just wait, quietly."
"Oh."
At this, I turned to Norma Jean who was staring into her coffee as if there might be some message from God in the bottom of the cup. She wouldn't look me in the eye, so I knew she had known all along I was going to hate fishing. She just hadn't had the nerve or the heart to tell me.

Just about that time, I felt a gentle tug on my fishing pole. "I - I think I got a fish," I stammered.
"Really?" Wally was incredulous. "You?"
"Yeah, look, it's pulling on my line!" My voice was rising even as I was rising out of my chair.
Wally hopped up beside me, softly barking instructions. "Give the rod a sharp jerk, and then reel the baby in."
I jerked on the line a little less than sharply so as not to hurt the fish too much Then I deftly turned about face while placing the rod over my shoulder like an infantryman's rifle. I marched up the beach towards the house, keeping my eye over my shoulder so I could see when the fish cleared land. When I had him up even with the chairs, I dropped the rod and raced back towards the others, yelling, "I caught a fish, I caught a fish!"
Norma Jean just stared at me with mouth agape, but the guys whooped and guffawed, slapped their knees and shouted.
"Shhh," I warned, "you'll scare the other fish away." Then I leaned down to take a look at my first fish ever. It was covered in sand but beautiful all the same.

Jesus said, "Follow me and I will make you fishers of men." We don't have to know how to do everything just right in order to tell someone about Jesus. We just need to do it because every soul is beautiful to Christ, even the sand-covered ones.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Bedbugs

Have you listened to the news lately? One of the stories from a few days ago was about the plague of bedbugs in densely populated areas. The news item spoke specifically about New York City, and I began to painfully recall...

A couple of years ago, my oldest daughter Grace and her husband, residents of New York City, began to notice itchy places on her arms and upper back. After several weeks of Grace being awakened in the early morning hours by increasing numbers of itchy spots, she and Jonathan began to do some research on the internet and discovered they had bedbugs. They weren't sure where the bugs had come from, although they had some suspicions. At that point, however, the origin was not the issue. They had to find a way to get rid of them.

They tried smothering them by putting plastic sheets on the mattress and box springs. They tried all kinds of self-helps found on the internet and elsewhere. Finally, though, they acknowledged that their efforts weren't working and they were on the way to going crazy. So they called an exterminator. It was their last hope. Still, there were a number of things they had to do to get ready for the exterminator to come. They had to clean their apartment from top to bottom and get rid of anything that possibly contained the bugs. They ended up throwing out their whole bed, sofa, a chair and many other items. At last, the exterminator could come. They vacated their apartment for three days while the powerful chemicals supposedly did their job. See, that's the thing. There was no guarantee that the bedbugs would not reappear.

Well, they moved back in, got a new bed and a new sofa and waited. After awhile, when they began to see a bug here or there, they immediately killed it. It was a miserable existence, waiting for the proverbial "other shoe" to fall. They wondered what would be good enough to rid them of the bedbugs for good.

There's a spiritual lesson in this. We all have bedbugs (sin) in our lives, and just as bedbug infestation is part of living in densely populated areas, sin is part of living in this world. Sometimes we notice the consequences of sin, but we still don't want to admit that we have sin in our lives. We may say, "I'm a good person, not a 'dirty' person." Yet sin still lies beneath the surface, hidden in places most people don't see: selfish or impure thoughts, etc. When we finally admit we have sin, we want to cast blame. If we get past that point, and many do not, we often believe if we just work on ourselves and try harder, everything will be okay. We buy all kinds of self-help books, read all the internet has to say about our problems, watch talk shows in which self-appointed gurus give possibly well-meaning advice. We may even succeed in 'cleaning up' some aspects of our lives. But underneath, hidden in the deeper places, causing us issues in our work, in our relationships, in our health, sin still lurks. And because of that sin, we are on our way to hell.

We need a Savior. Not just any Savior. We need Jesus. The wonderful news is that Jesus' blood works better than any exterminator's chemicals ever could. His blood cancels sin. Period. If we acknowledge our sin and ask Him to come in, He lives in us and as sin reappears, He is there to remove it. Psalm 103:12 says, "He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west."
Grace and Jonathan were very happy that their bedbugs did not return in full force. But their happiness cannot compare to the glorious joy we can have in knowing our sins are forgiven - eradicated, exterminated - and we're on our way to heaven.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Jonah and ...

The story is called "Jonah and the Whale," but that's a misleading name. The whale has more of a supporting role, so a more apt name would be "Jonah in the Whale," except Jonah is only in the whale for a fourth of the story. Other possible names:
"Jonah and God's Will"
"Jonah and the Ninevites"
"Jonah and the Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Few Days"
"Jonah and Himself"

Perhaps I better stick with the name the Bible uses - "Jonah." Anyway, I was reading the story of Jonah this morning and noticing how it is different from the other books of the Bible called the Minor Prophets. Maybe it is so different because Jonah was so different. The other minor prophets listened to what God had to say and then shared it with the people God told them to. Jonah, on the other hand, heard what God had to say and then ran away. He didn't want to tell the Ninevites to repent and be saved. He was afraid they might do it and God would save them. I was reminded of the Game Show Network game called "1 vs 100." In this particular game, a contestant is pitted against 100 people. Everyone is asked the same question and given the choice of three answers. Each of the 100 vote secretly for what he or she believes is the correct answer. Then the contestant gives his answer out loud. If he is wrong, the 100 (the "mob") wins and he loses. If he is right, he wins and the "mob" loses.

Did Jonah think he was on "1 vs 100"? He seemed to think that if he told the Ninevites to repent and they did, that they would be the winners and he would lose. But if he didn't tell them, then they were the losers and he would win. Silly Jonah!! Salvation is a win-win situation. When we share with others, we lose nothing. In fact, we gain the joy of seeing people come to Christ, plus we please our Father, who is not willing that any should perish. If Jonah had only understood this, we could call the story "Jonah and a Whale of a Happy Ending."

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Shoe Shopping

My friend Karen and I went shoe shopping yesterday. We visited seven shoe vendors in two and a half hours. If we'd been making a reservation for the trip and they had asked, "Business or pleasure?", we would have answered, "Business." Our shoe shopping venture held not a trace of the frivolous. We were on a mission for a particular type of shoe - Zumba shoes. Zumba is a sort of Latin dancing aerobic exercise in which the participant does a lot of jumping, twisting, squatting, toe tapping, gyrating, twirling and pivoting. The shoes we already owned were fine for the jumping, squatting, toe tapping and gyrating, but the tread on the bottoms was making it hard to do the twisting, twirling and pivoting. We needed shoes with a smooth rubber sole and a circular slipperier rubber "pivot" point near the toe of the shoe.

Now, here's the thing. One of us wears a 6.5 shoe, and the other one wears an 11. One person's foot is like a ski, and the other's looks more like a piece of knobby pie (broad at the toe and narrow at the heel). Yet we were determined to find "the" shoe that would satisfy both our needs, both of our tastes, and our completely different feet.

First of all, I'd like to complain (can you imagine that?!). The Zumba teacher, who is 22 and built like Barbie, showed Karen her shoes, which she claimed to have bought at Academy Sports. Another woman in the class showed me her shoes (different from the teacher's) which she claimed to have bought at Rack Room Shoes. Well, Karen and I immediately headed for Academy, the teacher's choice. After all, our goal is to look like her when we've Zumba -ed for several months! Academy had a large array of dance/cheerleader/training shoes, none of which looked anything like our teacher's. Nevertheless, we tried on several pairs. I should say I tried on several pairs since evidently there are only two women in the world who wear an 11 so the shoe stores don't carry them. Academy had one pair in an 11. It was black with pink stitching. Karen tried it on and liked it okay. So I found it in my size and tried it on. For some reason (I know it couldn't possibly be my short, fat feet with appropriately fat ankles above them), the tongue of the shoe dug into the front of my ankle, making it quite uncomfortable. The tongue of Karen's shoe, on the other hand, was half way down the top of her foot!

Feeling betrayed in some way, we left there and headed straight for Rack Room Shoes. Rather than hunting on our own, I decided to ask someone where the Zumba shoes were located. I noticed a tall blond in tennis shoes talking to a customer about some shoes. I waited patiently, probably twenty seconds or so, until she seemed to finish the conversation. Then I walked up to her and boldly said, "We were told we could get shoes for Zumba here. Where would they be?" The woman proceeded to tell us that the store had a pitiable number of athletic shoes for women, and led us to a display that contained maybe four shoes. We dutifully looked at them. Then Karen said, " There are some women's athletic shoes over there" and she pointed back where we'd come from. The salesperson walked with us to that area and replied, "Well, yes, this row is women's, but then the next row starts the men's. They just don't have many for women." Did you notice the "they" in that sentence? She wasn't even a sales person - I had asked a fellow customer to help us! Actually, Rack Room ended up having quite a few women's athletic shoes, but not the ones we were looking for. By this time I was feeling very disappointed.

We hit five other stores and never found either of the shoes the women had recommended. So we ended up with no shoes (yet!). But, I got a spiritual lesson out of it.

Sometimes we share a spiritual lesson with people and expect them to get the same excitement or inspiration or conviction from it that we experienced. I'm very guilty of this. The truth is, though, that people have different spiritual sizes and shapes and needs. We all have to have the main things (like soles, shoelaces, "pivot" points) - that Jesus is God's Son; He came to earth to live the life of a human being and then to die on the cross for our sins; He arose from the grave; He's coming again some day. But some of the other things (like the tongue on the shoe or the width of the heel) have to take in consideration the person's individaul walk with God. He knows what we need just when we need it, and He is faithful to speak to me in my way and you in yours. He's got all the sizes. He's got all the shapes. He's got all the "shoes" we need for this twisting, twirling, pivoting, jumping, squatting, toe tapping, gyrating life.
Praise Him!

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Constipation

My two-year-old grandson has trouble with constipation. It's a vicious thing. You see, when it's hard, it hurts to go, so he holds it in. Then it hurts more. Just the other night he was in so much pain that he ran around the sofa screaming for almost an hour. My daughter had tried everything (she thought) and nothing was working, so she sat on that same sofa and cried for him. I won't go into any more detail because the subject is gross enough, but Shawn, my daughter's husband, got home from work about that time and in his calm way took over the situation. After about thirty more minutes, my sweet little grandson finally let go and got relief. Less than five minutes later, he peacefully fell asleep in his daddy's arms.

There's a spiritual lesson in this. I know - go figure.

We all have trouble with sin. It's a vicious thing. When it's been there awhile, we don't want to let it go. We may even rationalize that it won't hurt us that much to hold onto it. But it is toxic and it grows and it gets harder and harder to let it go. The pain that sin will cause is excruciating. Not only to us but to those who love us.

Thanks be to God, our heavenly Father! He came and took over the situation. He sent relief through His Son, Jesus Christ. If we will let our sin go, He will clean us up. We will feel such peace. We will be able to rest in the arms of the Almighty. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened [with sin], and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls" (Matthew 11:28-29).

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Whunh?

This morning I was trying to write the word "wierd," and I wrote it that way and it looked strange so I asked a friend how to spell it. Then I changed it to "weird". That brought up a conversation with another friend about the rule "i before e except after c, or when sounding like ay as in neighbor and weigh." We agreed that it's weird that "weird" isn't spelled "wierd" because the rule says it should be. So I ask you, Is any other language in the world more inconsistent than English?

Like, I was wondering, why are people who blog called bloggers, people who jog called joggers, people who rob called robbers, people who mug called muggers, people who bat called batters and people who knit called knitters, YET
people who brag are called braggarts and people who nag are called nags?

Pronounce the following words out loud:
rough, tough, cough, though, bough
touch, ouch
cut, hut, shut, put
out, loud, soup, coup
knight, night, knee, nee
neigh, weigh, sleigh, neither
bare, care, pare, are
mere, sere, here, there, were
our, flour, sour, tour, your, pour
receive, believe, sieve
marine, saline, lupine, sanguine (you might have to look up the last two!)

Unfortunately, I could go on forever. Fortunately, I won't.

Sometimes I just have to look at our language and say, "Whunh?" Thankfully, our Savior is not like this. Hebrews 13:8 says, "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever."



Thursday, August 5, 2010

Detour

I can't believe this is happening again. (Big sigh) Well, I'm not going to do what I did the last time, that's for sure.

The last time had been right after our honeymoon in 1977. We had just picked up our gifts from my parents' house and were set to drive to Beaufort, SC. Three circumstances spelled doom for that day, but little did we know. First, I had never driven from Richmond to Beaufort. I didn't know the way. Second, I was driving David's car and he was driving mine because my hatchback was filled to the top with gifts and I couldn't see over or around them to drive it. Thirdly, I had never heard of overdrive, which David's new Volvo had.

I was following David, but we weren't even out of Richmond when we got separated and I went the wrong way. I was driving over the overpass when I saw my little bright blue Ford (with David at the wheel) heading straight down 95. I super-panicked and stepped on the gas. My plan was to turn around as soon as I could and go so fast that either I would catch up to David or be stopped by the police and they could radio ahead and stop David, too. Though I drove over 80 miles an hour for an hour, neither happened. I finally stopped at a roadside store, went in, and called my mom. She had probably just sat down with a cup of coffee, dusted her hands off and thought, There! Last chick out of the nest for good. It's Independence Day!

Unmotherly-like, she said, "I really don't know what you should do, Joy," and I was feeling ever so poorly when David suddenly walked in. I rushed into his arms, only to find that he was sort of standoffish. "It's a wonder I saw my car parked out there, Joy - you parked behind a van! Why were you driving so fast? I've been trying to catch up with you for almost an hour!" He bombarded me with harsher words than I had ever heard from his kind mouth, and I wondered if the man I was married to was the man I thought I had married. But my cries and explanations calmed him down, and we got back on the road.

I wish I could tell you everything went fine after that, but remember the overdrive thing? I had not put the car in overdrive while driving over 80, and long before we reached Beaufort, the Volvo's engine started smoking. We finally made it to Beaufort, but that car was never the same again.

Now back to June 20th of this year. My husband David and I were delivering furniture from my recently deceased dad's apartment to two of our children's homes. We had dropped off some things at Shelley's the night before, and the plan was simple: We would drive from her house in Apex, NC, to Pelham, AL, Heather's home. I would drive my car, leading the way for David, who would drive the U-Haul truck. I had made this journey by car many times, so I confidently started down the road, keeping a close watch in my rearview mirror.

About thirty minutes into our trip, my cellphone rang. It was Shelley with the bad news that David had left his suitcase at her house. So I pulled over to the side of the road and broke the baspel to David (gospel means "good news", so shouldn't baspel be an apt synonym for "bad news"?). We discussed whether he should go with me, burning up unnecessary amounts of fuel, wait there for me, in the middle of nowhere, either scorching or running the air conditioner (burning up unnecessary fuel) or just go on and I might eventually catch up with him. We chose plan C even though David does not own a cellphone (yes, it's true).

I called Shelley quickly and asked her about the number of the road where we were supposed to turn. I wanted to be sure we had it right. So, with my explanation that he would come to a turnoff for Highway 421 and that he should go either west or south on it, whichever the choice was, we parted.

I made the trip back to Shelley's in record time, picked up the wayward suitcase, and just as quickly got back to where I had left David. I drove on, feeling very happy because I wouldn't have to drive as slowly as I had to with the weighed-down U-Haul following me. When I came to the turnoff for 421, I obeyed myself and went south. After about thirty minutes, I began to feel that maybe I was on the wrong road. Though I was in the middle of nowhere and surrounded only by trees, grass and rolling hills, nothing seemed familiar. These particular tree/grass/hill scenes somehow looked strange. That's just silly, I told myself, and kept driving. Any minute now you'll come to the interstate. Well, any minute came and went and still no interstate, but I stubbornly refused to think that if a person is going from NC to AL he would take a 421N.

Thank goodness Hillary (another daughter) called. I asked her to look on the internet and find out where I was. Her husband did so while she tried to reassure me. You see, by that time, I was really worried that I had sent David the wrong way and he would never know. There's a long ending to this story, but I'm going to tell you the short one. We were supposed to go north on 421. It hit interstate 85 pretty soon. Yikes!

David, with his inborn sense of direction and common sense, thank the Lord, had figured out quite early on that he was headed due south and that interstate 85 moves southwest, so he turned around and went the right way. I had a GPS in my car and finally decided to use it to get back where I was supposed to be (there could be a spiritual lesson in that, but that's not the one for today!). David and I never crossed paths again. In fact, I skipped going to Pelham and came straight home to Opelika.

There's a spiritual lesson in this. God and I need to be in the same vehicle. That vehicle is his Word. Listen to some of the promises from Psalm 19 (NLT):
The instructions of the Lord are perfect,
reviving the soul.
The decrees of the Lord are trustworthy,
making wise the simple.
The commandments of the Lord are right,
bringing joy to the heart.
The commands of the Lord are clear,
giving insight for living.
The laws of the Lord are true;
each one is fair.
How can I know all the sins lurking in my heart?
Cleanse me from these hidden faults.
Keep your servant from deliberate sins!
Don't let them control me.
Then I will be free of guilt
And innocent of great sin.

When I try to follow God without being in his vehicle (his Word), I so often go the wrong way. Lord, I pray that I will not go so far on the wrong path that I never catch up with You again.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

"I'm cold!"

My grandson Andre is ten years old, 59 inches tall and 69 pounds. His arms are long, his legs are long, his neck is long, his feet are long, really long. In fact, most of his 69 pounds is probably in his size 10 men's feet. To say he's thin is a gross understatement. If it weren't for skin and bones, he'd be invisible. Subsequently, Andre is almost always cold. He is fond of curling up in a ball, yanking his T-shirt over his knees down to his feet, and then pulling his arms inside like a cocoon. But my daughter Shelley can't stand to see him do that because it stretches out all his T-shirts and then he looks even skinnier.

Last week, Shelley, her two boys and I visited my sister Anne in Oklahoma. While we were there, the outside temperature stubbornly hovered at a sweltering 100 degrees. But, thankfully, Anne's air conditioning unit worked overtime, keeping the house a pleasant 70 degrees. Pleasant for everyone but Andre, that is. If he wasn't outside in the pool, he was miserable and made the rest of us miserable with his complaining about being cold. Anne helpfully pointed out that he should always carry a jacket. She must have been remembering Mama's oft-spoken advice, "It's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it." Of course, Shelley commented, "We all know who would wind up carrying that jacket," and I added, "Or if he's like you all were, he'd end up losing jacket after jacket."

I've been doing some deep thinking, and I've decided that what Andre really needs is some fat. I used to be cold, but I gained ten pounds and now I'm quite comfortable. So if anyone looks at me as if I'm a fatty, I tell myself, "I'm getting ready for the last days. I'm storing up energy. After all, it's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Awakening

It's 5:20 in the morning, and I've been awake for an hour and a half. No, I'm not an over-achiever. Just a woman who can't go back to sleep. It's so frustrating, sometimes, lying there in the dark in the bed, willing yourself to close your eyes and relax. Thinking maybe this night will be different, that tonight a miracle will occur and your mind will give up its circling. Circling like a vulture, waiting for just the right moment to swoop down and snatch your sanity in its talons. Sounds kind of strange, doesn't it? Losing one's mind to one's mind. If you are familiar with sleeplessness, you know what I mean. The mind gets cranked up, and you just can't stop it. If only it would ... Oh, well.

So I'm at my computer, and I hear it. Though it's still dark outside, I hear a lone bird singing an upbeat melody. The sweet song trills through the trees, through the air, through the window into my ears. I start thinking about our back yard. It's a mess. We have a broken pool that has metamorphosed into a frog pond - not the idyllic kind with the picturesque lily pads and pink blossoms. The grungy, murky, algae-filled kind. The surrounding trees and bushes and grass are overgrown. Beyond this tangle of green, there is a creek and beyond that, the woods. Kudzu has claimed many of the trees in the wood, and it is hanging low over the creek, threatening to leap across to our trees. From there, I imagine our house being taken over much as briars overtook the castle when Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger and fell into a deep sleep. People will drive by our lot and say to their children, "See that large green blob? That used to be the Bazemores' house, but then...."

What a dark scenario. What a hopeless imagining. The night is dark, the kudzu is aggressive, the snakes and spiders are real, and my mind is a vulture, not letting me sleep. Yet the bird sings. The creek tinkles by. Then the bullfrogs join in with their guttural bass voices. The song seems to say, "Your Creator is here. I'm keeping watch in the dark. Don't be afraid."
Psalm 121

Thursday, July 15, 2010

"Crying Won't Help Anything"

Yep, those were some of my Daddy's wise words to me. I've thought of them several times since he died a month ago. And I've had to disagree. Though crying over his death has not brought him back to us, the tears have not been in vain.

Maybe I need to back up, w-a-a-a-a-y up. To 1960 (the olden days, for some of you). I was six years old, sitting on the front steps of our red-brick, tri-level house in Richmond, Virginia. The morning was hot, the gnats already swarming. It was a perfect day to go swimming, and my Daddy was walking to the car to take me to Three Chopt Recreation Association, aka the pool. Yet I sat there bawling. That's when Daddy turned to me and said, "Crying won't help anything, Joy."

Now that I think of it, I guess you could say he was being kind because what I was doing was not simply crying. I was having what my Mama called a hissy fit, dramatically throwing myself on the steps and wailing like an ambulance siren. I had already tried the martyr's silent crocodile tears thing, but it hadn't seemed to phase Daddy, so I had moved on to the hissy's loud real tears fit. Why? Swimming lessons. Yes, my mean old parents were making me take swimming lessons. They wanted me to be able to keep from drowning. They wanted me to enjoy jumping off the diving board, doing handstands under the water, having relays with friends and other such torturous activities.

Truth be told, I wanted to do all those things, but I was afraid of any water deeper than my knees, and I just knew those swimming lesson teachers were actually sadists who looked forward to throwing innocent children in deep water and watching them sink. Hence, the hissy fit.

Of course, I ended up going to swimming lessons because in those days, a child's histrionics did not change a parent's mind. I cried all the way, mind you, hoping that at the last minute Daddy would choose the humane road and turn the car around. But he made the left into the parking lot. W-a-h! He pulled into the first available space. W- a- a-h! He came around and opened the door for me. Wa - hunh -ah! He "helped" me out of the car. Wa - hunh - hiccup - unh - ah! And he unceremoniously propelled me into the pool area, where he gave me "the look" and left. Oh, well! I learned to swim and have been grateful many times, although I never learned to enjoy the water like my brother and sister did.

Crying didn't help. In that situation, Daddy was so right. And there've been other times in my life when his wise words have applied and I've skipped the dramatics because I learned a lesson that day. But I think Daddy meant more than meets the ears here. I think he meant that we can rebel against life, kick against reality, even throw a hissy fit every now and then, but we won't be the best we can be if we don't face our fears or do the hard thing.

I have found that crying doesn't help everything, but crying out to God does. Listen to this wonderful story from Mark 10.

verses 46-52:

As he went out of Jericho with his disciples and a great number of people, blind
Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus, sat by the highway side begging.
When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to cry out and say, "Jesus,
thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Many charged him that he should hold his peace: but he cried the more a great deal,
"Thou son of David, have mercy on me."
Jesus stood still and commanded him to be called. And they called the blind man,
saying unto him, "Be of good comfort; rise; he calleth thee."
And he, casting away his garment, rose, and came to Jesus.
Jesus answered and said unto him, "What wilt thou that I should do unto thee?"
The blind man said unto him, "Lord, that I might receive my sight."
And Jesus said unto him, "Go thy way; thy faith hath made thee whole." And
immediately he received his sight, and followed Jesus in the way.

I am reminded of the Chris Rice song -

Weak and wounded sinner, Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by.
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!
Now your burden's lifted and carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!
And like a newborn baby, don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk, sometimes you fall, so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!
Sometimes the way is lonely and steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours with rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!
Oh, and when the love spills over and music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!
And with your final heartbeat kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Pressing Matters

I didn't want to do it, but I had to. That is, iron my skirt. My linen skirt - you know the kind that gets wrinkled again as you are putting it on after ironing it. Probably no one else at the conference would be able to tell I had ironed it, but I had to do it because I would know. So I went to the closet and removed the ironing board. Then I reached up on the shelf for the iron. Wow, I said to myself, this iron is so light. This won't be bad at all.

With a lighter heart, I set up the board and plugged in the iron. After looking all over it for the on/off dial, switch, button or something, I finally noticed a raised button that extended the length of the handle. Sure enough, when I pushed it, it lit up and the iron began to warm up. There, I congratulated myself, now I'm ready. This'll be a cinch.

By the time I had the skirt situated just so on the board, the iron was hot, so I began sliding it over the skirt. It was so light that I decided to be really playful with it. I stuck just my index finger under the handle and with a mere nudge of the knuckle this way or that, the iron continued to glide over the linen. But then I noticed that the wrinkles were not actually disappearing. I picked the iron up and felt the skirt. It was barely warm. So I looked at the iron, and that's when I realized the on/off button must have been pushed by my palm because it was no longer lit. Undaunted, I proclaimed aloud, "No problem. I'll just continue ironing with one finger. That way I won't press the handle at all," and I pushed the button again.

My blithe attitude lasted about thirty seconds because as I ironed, making very sure that I didn't press the handle, I began to notice once again that the wrinkles weren't flattening out. Oh, my goodness, I shouted silently, the thing has turned off again, all by itself. However, the skirt was only half pressed and unfortunately, it was the back half. So I had to press on (pun intended :)

I examined the iron one more time to see if there might be some dial/switch/button or something I had inadvertantly touched, but there was nothing. So I pressed the handle and began in earnest to push that baby over the skirt. It had become a contest, a race if you will. I held my breath, pursed my lips, crouched in a Ninja position and attacked. Yet the iron cut off after twenty or thirty seconds. By this time, my original delight with the iron had disappeared. I am ashamed to say that, even though I was attending a Christian conference, I said to the offending piece of plastic, "You're stupid, stupid, stupid. Why won't you just iron my skirt?!?"

My next inoffensive thought was, This would have been so much easier if the iron had a manual. Of course, I don't know if I'd have taken the time to read the manual until after all this stuff had happened (after all, the iron was so light and I knew how to work an iron, didn't I?). But reading it certainly would have saved me time and trouble.

There's a spiritual lesson in this. Do you get it? Psalm 119:105

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Who's to Blame?

There she sat, her pageboy cut chestnut hair framing her young, pale face. Her eyes scanned the room looking for what? We weren't sure. Then we noticed her eyes stop. That I'm thinking, I'm wondering, should I or shouldn't I? look came upon her countenance. She stood up from her table, you know the square kind with four chairs, one on each side. She scooched like a miniature Mata Hari over to the nearby booth and carefully but quickly moved the newspaper and sundry items from the booth to the table she had just vacated. Then she flew into the booth just in time to see her brother and mother come around the corner with breakfast. The innocent family members took their seats in the booth, and all three began to cheerfully eat bagels and sweet rolls.

We, the audience, sat on the edges of our mental seats and waited for Act I, Scene 2. We didn't have to wait long. A man, probably in his early sixties, rounded the corner, coffee and pastry in hand. He headed straight for the booth, then stopped short in dismay. He glanced at the booth beside the first one, gave his head a slight shake, then gazed back at the family enjoying breakfast in the first.

My friend and I exchanged quick, amused glances, then turned back to the scene playing out before us. By this time, the old man had noticed his newspaper on the table. He set his coffee down and took a seat, facing the booth! Though aiming a few disgruntled looks towards the unsuspecting mom in the booth, he began to eat, picked up his newspaper and opened it wide. There, I thought. He's just going to move on. Not so. He closed his newspaper and folded it in half. Then he said, loudly enough to be heard by the family in the booth - and us, for that matter, "Is there any particular reason you moved my things over here to this table?"

"Wha'? Hunh? Who, us?" the mom answered.

"Yes." He was sort of glaring now.

"You mean your stuff was on this table?" The woman was still perplexed.

"Yes, and someone moved it here," he continued. "Didn't you do it?"

If I had dog ears, I believe I would have heard squirming going on in that booth as the mom finally caught on. "Anna, did you move the man's things over there?"

"Mm-mm," we barely heard.

Well, the mom apologized, of course, but there was no swift movement to try to undo the wrong. The family went on eating, and the man took up his paper again.

We went on with our conversation, and were just beginning to think the play had ended when Mata Hari herself, red-faced and tentative, scooched up to the table and muttered, "I'm very sorry for moving your things, sir."

To which he replied, "Okay," and went back to his paper.

Being me, I thought, "There's a spiritual lesson in this!"
The man assumed the woman had done it. He couldn't imagine that it had happened any other way. But how wrong he was! The little girl's mama made her say she was sorry, and I guess it would've been a little awkward for the man to turn to the mom and say, "And I'm sorry for assuming it was you who did it." He probably did the best thing to just say, "Okay" and move on.
What about us, though? What about all the times we place blame on someone when we don't have all the facts? How many of us would need to scooch up to someone and say, "I'm sorry for assuming you were in the wrong"? I know I am quick to judge. I think I deserve to feel disgruntled, even angry for all the injustices in my life. Who's to blame? I want to know.
No wonder Jesus' model prayer included the lines, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Sorry it's been so long since I posted. Life happened in a rather dramatic way between then and now. To make a long story shorter, my daddy passed away on June 14. Though he was 90 years old, we were not ready to let him go. I guess you're never ready to say good-bye to your parents. Of course, we know we will see them both again some day.

In the next few posts, I want to share parts of a letter I wrote my dad in 1988. Everything I said about him in that Father's Day note intensified over the next 22 years. He showed me more and more what unconditional love is and I appreciated him more and more. I hope these stories bless your life and that you will allow God to use you as He used Daddy - to impact the lives of many every day.

Dear Daddy,
My earliest memory of you is a Daddy who like fun. My favorite game was "Where's Joy?" At bedtime I would run upstairs and hide under my covers. The suspense was great as I heard you slowly climb the stairs. Then you'd stop at the door and say, "Where's Joy?" Silence.
"Where is Joy?" Silence.
You'd come in and sit down on top of me, keeping your weight on your legs. Once again you'd ask, "Where's Joy?"
Sometimes I'd remain quiet a little longer, but most of the time I would pop out and say, "Here I am!" You would look so surprised, we'd laugh together, and the game would be over.
"I love you, Daddy," I'd say.
"That's nice," you would reply. You didn't say the words, "I love you" very often, but you showed me every night by tirelessly playing "Where's Joy?"

My daddy was a preacher, a missionary, a seminary teacher and an author. He was big stuff, I'm telling you. This story of him reminds me of a quote from St. Francis of Assissi:
"Preach the gospel at all times, and when necessary use words ... It is no
use walking anywhere to preach unless our walking is our preaching."
Yep, daddy's playing was his preaching to me. It said, "I love you. You are my child, and you matter to me. I enjoy spending time with you. I never tire of you." What a sermon, and how like God he was. I hope you and I will demonstrate that kind of love as we are willing to spend time with those who need us.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

No Eye Rolling, Please

I could actually hear my daughters' eyes rolling when I chose the name for this blog. You see, as they were growing up, often I would say, "There's a spiritual lesson in this," and then I'd share the lesson whether they wanted to hear it or not. After awhile, every time I'd say it, they would roll their eyes and groan. Not that they were prodigals or pagans, but they were kids. I made them go to church twice on Sundays and every Wednesday, so they didn't want to hear preaching from me during the week.

They are grown now. All four married. Responsible for their own spiritual growth. But things keep happening in life that make me think, "There's a spiritual lesson in this." So here it is - my blog. If they want to read it, they can. If other people want to peak in, they can. And I will bask in the joy of freely writing down the simple spiritual lessons in everyday occurences. No eye rolling, please.

I am currently at a writers' conference in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. The last hour or two of the drive up from Alabama was glorious. Except for when I encountered the road work on interstate 40. The actual area inhabited by highway workers came to approximately 100 square feet, no big deal. But the "Reduce Speed Ahead" sign came 3 miles before that tiny area, and the "Right Lane Ends - Merge Left" sign came 2 miles before the cones in fact closed off the lane.

Well, when the sign said merge left, most drivers merged left. Due to the mountains, we couldn't see around the next bend, so we trusted the sign and obeyed. Of course, this automatically made our speed reduce, so we were putt-putting down the left lane when this red truck goes flying by in the right lane. Boy, was I irritated. But I took a deep breath and chalked it up to the fact that his mother probably never said, "There's a spiritual lesson in this, Johnny."

I had just settled back down when an old, light blue chevy motored past in the right lane, belching acrid smoke. My hackles started rising, and I thought, "These back country people think they can just stay over there in the right lane and then break in front of everybody who's been putt-putting all this time. How rude!"

About that time we drove around the bend, and the highway straightened out in front of us for a half mile or so. I could see that the right lane was open for all that distance, but the only vehicles in that lane were the red truck and blue chevy. Well, I said to myself, it's Sunday, so maybe the workmen aren't working and they took down the cones. And maybe these two local drivers are the only ones who knew that. So of course I pulled over and stepped on the gas.

No sooner had I relaxed into the luxury of sixty miles per hour than we turned a bend and the cones loomed just ahead. I noticed the red truck had already found a place in the left lane, but the chevy was still trying to stick his nose in where people didn't want him. I suddenly felt chastised by every car that had remained in the left lane and wondered if anyone would be gracious enough to let me in. Out of the blue came the thought, "There's a spiritual lesson in this, Joy!"
Now that I am writing about it, I find several lessons, but I'll only share two.
  • God sent Jesus to be our Savior. He warned us that eternal damnation is coming. Some of us heeded the warning and accepted redemption through Jesus. We moved over into God's lane. Sometimes that lane slows us down, keeps us at a safer speed. But then we see the unsaved zooming by, and we wonder if we really needed to rush over to God's lane. We resent that the lost succeed and flourish while we, the rule-followers, have to wait on God.
  • We may judge the people in the right lane and puff up about our superior behavior and question the fairness of the eleventh hour conversion. Why would God let that person into the left lane even though the person didn't move over until the last minute?

I guess for the same reason He welcomes me back into His lane after I have strayed. "The Lord is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance" (I Peter 3:9b). I'm not saying a person can lose his salvation once he is truly saved. I'm just saying that all of us earth-dwellers traveling on the highway of life need grace. From God, and from each other.

Love you,
Joy