When I Grow Up

When I was in Kindergarten, I decided that when I grew up I would become a teacher. This lasted for several years and even included the plan of 1) finish high school, 2) go to college for four years, 3) become a teacher for a year and 4) get married. (I was eight when I came up with this well thought out plan.) However, by the time I reached the ripe old age of 12, I was a bit disillusioned with the idea of teaching and, because I was reading a series of books I really liked, decided that becoming a private investigator was more to my liking. Then I decided I would become a writer. But, like most Americans, by the time I reached eighteen and did graduate from high school I really had no earthly clue what I wanted to do. But when I was twenty-two I hit upon my life goal: when I grow up I want to be like Allyson.

Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think of Allyson. It is said that you can go through a whole life and have only one really, truly, sincerely good friend. I have actually been blessed with many of those who remain a huge asset in my life five, six or even twenty years later. But none like Allyson. We have known each other for nearly nineteen years and been the very best of friends for nearly fourteen. And we have promised to be friends even after our kids are grown, we’re so old we’ll have to shout to hear each other on the phone and any day could be our last. Really we have. And then we’ll see each other in eternity.

Today is Allyson’s 40^thbirthday and today, more than any other day, I praise God for her. Words can’t express how much her friendship has blessed me, how she has seen me through some of the hardest times of my life, and how she has both sympathized and challenged me through the highs and lows. That the Lord has used me in her life often amazes me. Aside from the fact that I can organize my way out of Tornado Alley, I have very few gifts that hold a candle to the fact that Proverbs 31 was written about Allyson. Which is why I want to be like her when I grow up. And maybe by the time our kids are grown and we’re in wheelchairs, I’ll have succeeded. But I doubt it.

And that doesn’t really matter because we’ll still be friends anyway. For which I am forever thankful.

Dead...but God

Dead: 1) no longer alive; deceased; expired; no more; passed away; 2) complete and absolute; total; entire

Something that is dead has no use. Cut flowers die and you toss them out. Batteries die, causing something not to work, and you replace them so the item will work. Electronics, leaves, trees…it all dies, is no longer of any use, and somehow we toss it aside and move on to the next thing.

Someone who is dead also has no use. They can no longer move or think, work or play, talk or feel. The physical body the spirit and soul have left behind is no longer of any use. We cremate it or bury it. As Christians, we have the hope of Heaven for our soul which will one day indwell a new body. But the earthly body is just a corpse. And while there is a short window when some of our internal organs may be of use, all in all, the body is now of no worth to us or anyone else.

And what is dead, we cannot bring to back to life. Death is absolute. It’s complete. Which is why dead things are tossed aside and dead bodies are buried. They’re useless. Worthless. Totally and completely void of any value.

At a small group a couple of weeks ago, the word “dead” struck me. We were talking about Ephesians 2, reviewing the recent sermon on verses 1 through 9. Twice in those verses the apostle Paul calls us “dead”. And while those verses are very familiar, it caught me like it never had before. Dead. I was dead. Worthless. Without merit. Of absolutely no use whatsoever to the God who created me. Completely and absolutely dead.

Ed and I often have circular conversations about his dad. His dad is devotedly Catholic – often hilariously so for he talks of nothing else but his religion and how good and devoted he is to it. Which can cause me to roll my eyes, but it also pains my heart. He pushes aside his sons, his grandchildren, his brother and just about everyone and everything else in pursuing this cult called Catholicism. And he really, sincerely believes that all his devoted good works are going to pave his way to Heaven. It is truly heart wrenching to watch. And, yet, am I any better?

For there is a piece of me (and a larger piece than I care to admit) that often thinks I bring some sort of merit to my salvation. That I did something wonderful or was somehow passively good, so God looked into eternity future and chose me. Which is not at all true. Because I was dead. And a dead person contributes absolutely nothing to anything. God has no need of me – no need at all.

But God.

In verse four God, who is rich in mercy and loves His people, steps in. He looks upon my dead body and tells it to rise. Tells it to live. Tells it to walk in His grace, and do good works, and glorify Him. Not because it contains some inkling of life. No. It’s as dead as those dry bones wasting away in Ezekiel. But because God is God. Because God is life. Because God is love. And He – and only He – can take what is dead, make it alive, and use it to His glory. How awesome is that?

And how humbling.

I’ve thought of this often over the last couple of weeks, almost every time I imagine I’ve done some good thing. It checks me. Reminds me that, except through the power of my God, I’m just a worthless dead thing. So if I did happen to choose that which was good, it was by God’s grace alone. And, so, to God be the glory! I am alive!

My Mom

My sister Abby recently saw a sign in a store that read, ”It’s not lost until Mom can’t find it.”

In my house, it’s not lost until Grandma can’t find it.

I honestly think Emry wouldn’t be surprised if my mom could walk on water. As far as she is concerned, “Grandma” can do anything. If I can’t find one of her little toys, Grandma needs to come over because she can find it. If a button falls off her shirt or a toy needs stitched, we need to take it to Grandma’s because I am apparently incapable of threading a needle and stitching a button. (I am not. My mom did try to teach me to sew. I did cross stitch for a short period of my life. I can thread a needle and re-attach a button. Now a seam ripper…well, I won’t confess to how many of those I have broken but it is safe to say every single one I have ever used.) But the best one had to be a few months ago when the DVD player wasn’t working. While I hunted down the DVD cleaner, Emry stood impatiently by and informed me, “Call Grandma. Grandma can fix it.” I wanted to say, “Emry. Your grandma would be doing good if she even got the thing turned on,” but, of course, I didn’t. Because Grandma can do anything. And everything.

I learned this past week that Grandma even makes her own puzzles. A year has passed since my last Mother’s Day post when I wrote about the amazing things Emry thinks my mom can create. Apparently, even though she is four and knows much more about economics (buying and selling at a store) than she did a year ago, if my mom has given it to her then my mom has made it. Hence the floor puzzle of a sea animals my mom gave her several months ago. Emry had pieced it together one rest period and it was still on the floor when I was brushing her hair the next morning. On the bottom of the puzzle is a game telling the kids to find one whale, two dolphins, etc. in the picture. I realized that the word “octopus” was spelled wrong. (It’s spelled “octapus” on the puzzle.) Not really thinking much about it, I stated that aloud. Although she is doing quite well with her reading, that word is currently beyond Emry’s skill level and yet she queried me about it. So, I told her the word “octopus” has a second “O” in it and not an “A”. She nodded her head sagely and stated, “Grandma painted it wrong. She needs to fix it.”

Honestly, I don’t think she believed me when I said Grandma did not make her own puzzles, but she did seem to understand that it could not be fixed.

Since moving to Indiana, Mom proves more and more that she is not only an amazing mother but she is also an amazing grandmother. The kids love spending time with her, they rush to greet her when she comes, they want her to come every day, they love going to her house and they are sad when she leaves. And if that doesn’t tell you what kind of woman my mother is, I don’t know what will!

Moms

Mother’s Day is this weekend. A time of reflection. Not so much about my own motherhood. For one, no one needs to declare a holiday for me to spend time reflecting on all my mistakes. But, mostly, when I think of Mother’s Day, I am not the first person that comes to mind. In fact, a whole slew of women come to mind before I think of myself.

Which made me think of all the women in my life who have been either an example of great motherhood or like a mother to me. Allyson always comes to mind first. The epitome of the Proverbs 31 woman (although she would be the first to tell you she isn’t). And although I think of Allyson first, her own mother has been a wonderful example in my life. I have spent many happy hours with Mrs. Walker (and Mr. Walker) and I would gladly spend many more. She is also an amazing woman.

I think of the handful of nurses I worked with in Texas. They, first, were amazing women as hospice nurses – a unique breed with a gift of seeing patients and their families through one of the hardest chapters of life. But they also took me under their wings – making sure I made wise choices, I had a listening ear, I didn’t do stupid things and, if I was sick, took the drugs they gave me. Dinah, Jill, Gayle, Valerie and Debbie will always hold a special place in my heart. Most days, they were the reason I went to work at all!

In Minnesota, there was Tirzah. Tirzah is nearly nine years my junior and was expecting her first (of now three) children when I met her. I will never forget the first time I met her for my first thought was,  “Oh my goodness, that is one of most breathtakingly beautiful women I have ever met. We will never be friends.” I swear that is what I thought. Fast forward nine months when Tirzah came to work three to six hours a week at camp doing accounting work. Immediately a fast and furious friendship ensued that has held tight to this day. Yes, Tirzah is gorgeous. But she is also sincere, humble, funny and transparent. She’s an awesome mom and I wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to have those awkward pre-marriage conversations with!

In Pittsburgh there was Mrs. Timko. She and her husband have “taught” the baby to two-year Sunday school hour for over fifteen years at that church, watching many of those babies now awkwardly walk through their teen years. Emry adored them and they were Ethan’s first babysitters when he wasn’t but four weeks old. Mrs. Timko reminds me of my mother. I often wanted to ask her why she decided this way or that on a certain subject because I knew she could see things in a way I could not and was probably right. Most amazing, I think, was the grace of God in her life to simply get up in the morning for one of her sons died just before I met them and the second died the summer after Ethan was born. But she also knew she had a reason to keep going: her three grandchildren. She is always there for them.

Or how about my adopted grandmothers – women who have shown me what a real, loving grandmother can be? Mrs. Hardy in New Hampshire was the grandmother of the boy I tutored. She has always been interested in my life, supportive of my journey and even gifted me with her fine china and crystal. In Minnesota there was Mrs. Carlson who has now gone Home to be with her Savior. She and Mr. Carlson took me under their wings and often had me over after church for lunch. Everyone else in that church adored them, too.

I feel like the writer of Hebrews 11 and must now state, “And what shall I more say? For the time would fail me to tell of…” Denise, Mrs. Armstrong, Anna, Charity, Mrs. Sloan, Mrs. Baker and so many, many others. I am very blessed. I don’t think I could ever have too many “moms”!

God's Sovereignty: Ants

Since the weather warmed up, ants have been the bane of my life. Our little house has a little addition that includes the master bedroom and dining area off the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it’s on a concrete slab but you can tell it wasn’t done well. Eventually the cracks in the foundation will cause many more problems than some sloping and creaking flooring. Right now the biggest pain is the open invitation to the ants.

It seems like a never-ending problem for as soon as I cut off one entrance, they find another. It doesn’t help that Ethan drops every single thing he ever eatson the floor. So I sweep and mop until, I swear, you can eat off that dining room floor. Vinegar, baking soda, ant traps…I finally did purchase a plant-based spray which has seemed to keep 99% of them at bay. At least, for now.

The other night at dinner Emry, who has watched this on-going battle with ants, remarked that she had killed an ant outside that afternoon. I told her she didn’t need to kill the ants outside. That’s where they are supposed to live. And, after all, God did create them. 

Emry nodded in her sage little way, agreeing that God did create the ants and then added, “Jesus sent the ants into our house.” 

Ed started laughing. I wasn’t sure what to say. For her logic was superb. Of course if Jesus created the ants He could send them where He pleased – outside or in my house. I certainly couldn’t dispute that, but I think I responded that I wished He would keep them out…and find another way to sanctify me.

Scholars with my years of education that I have been alive sit around and dispute the sovereignty of God. Is He really sovereign? Or maybe just half sovereign? And if “half sovereign” is even possible, then what does “sovereign” even mean? Meanwhile, my four-year-old stops me in my tracks with her perfect train of logic: if God created the ants, then He is over them. And if He is over them, then He sent them into our house. Because God is, indeed, sovereign over all.

I must confess I haven’t looked at an ant the same way since. They remind me of God’s sovereignty…and my need of sanctification. 

But if the ant I see is in my house…well, I do still kill it.