Heartthoughts: Wake Up Call

I looked at the clock on Saturday and saw it was almost noon. Oh, no. I hoped I hadn’t missed a new cooking show by an area resident! I flipped on the Food channel, but something else was on. Maybe it was on TLC. No, but here was the insane program of mother’s entering their babies and young kids in beauty pageants. My heart went out to the small contestants. They were so adorable and innocent as they cried and protested at what they were put through to satisfy the vanity of someone else.

“No!” the pudgy three-year-old tot exclaimed. “Don’t wanna be princess!” as her mom relentlessly ran a comb through her wet hair. Greater powers than hers prevailed, though, and the baby was beautified, cajoled and forced into a routine that was sad and disgraceful. Suddenly it was as if something came over the child as she pranced, whirled, did gyrations and posed like a wind-up doll on stage, to the glee of her parent.

“Are these supposed to be blurry?” a 10-year-old contestant said after contacts to change her eye color were inserted with difficulty. She was having trouble with her “clippers”, plastic teeth worn to cover her own gap-toothed smile. This was unreal! Her mother had made her a Vegas-style costume copied after nightclub showgirls. “If I don’t win, I still want to be a show girl when I grow up,” the child announced.

It reminded me of a speaker we heard once in Mississippi whose dad had told her, “If you keep that school-girl figure, you can be a Bunny in Vegas.” She found herself doing just that, but in a miserable lifestyle. She said one day a backslidden Christian, a fellow “Bunny”, came up to her and said, “I know what’s wrong with you. You’re under conviction.” The girl didn’t know what that meant, but it set her on a path to seek God. She prayed to be saved, and with no one to guide her, she decided to baptize herself in her own bathtub. “Yaba-daba-do!” she chortled as she came up out of the water. God took those small beginnings and turned her into a powerful preacher.

Sometimes I feel like Jeremiah, the prophet, when I see what is happening in our world. Everywhere are excesses juxtaposed with deprivation. Food has become such an obsession it has its own channel on television. Sports and entertainment have become idolized. Fashions are immodest and/or indecent, especially for the young, while young girls are sexualized and exploited. The list is infinite.

What happened to the simple lifestyle we used to raise our children? My own kids are under enormous pressures in raising their families. Thankfully, they are guiding them in the right direction. My grandchildren are involved in the wholesome activities of band, football, cross-country running, part-time jobs and youth ministry, but I will not stop praying for them. The stakes are too great.

Through the Cracks

“Kyle’s birthday’s tomorrow,” our son, Trevor, mentioned as Howard was asking about the boys in his phone conversation this morning. What? I had forgotten another birthday? I can’t believe it. The third grandchild’s birthday I’d missed this year, and another that I had remembered belatedly! I have always kept up with their birthdays religiously, even if there are 18 of them. I will get his card today; while I’m at it, I’ll get one for granddaughter, Michaela’s, whose big day is the 27th. Since that was my grandmother’s birthday, that one sticks in my mind.

Speaking of mind, I learned a new word this week, and it’s French, at that: haricot vert. A Mississippi friend on face book was sharing her supper menu of mac’n’cheese, squash and buttermilk biscuits, when she threw in haricot vert and rib eye. Turns out it is thin green beans, the kind I prepare occasionally, pronounced something like ar-e-ko-ver with a French accent. Must be something I missed while living around Cajun/French influence in the South.

Well, it’s one thing to miss something trivial, but children’s feelings are not trivial to me. I felt so bad on two occasions recently over a couple of oversights that were unintentional, but unfortunate, nonetheless. Our church had planned a youth activity, which was to include adults for a support group, and I was asked to bring cookies. The little girl I have been “mentoring” called to see if we could pick her up. The event started at 5:30, and my husband didn’t get off work until then, making it at least past six when we would get there. Not to mention that she lives about 20 miles away. Howard told me we would not be able to pick her up. I suggested other people she might call, but she said she had already tried them.

I couldn’t enjoy the gathering knowing that she was absent, especially when I saw someone she sometimes rides with was there by herself. She said “Brittany” hadn’t called her. Then Wednesday night the service was spontaneously re-scheduled for 5:00 p.m., to allow time for a fellowship meal with an abundance of food leftover from a reception the day before. Everyone was called with the announcement, except apparently, Brittany. She showed up at 7:00, when everyone was leaving, breathless and hair wet from the shower (I had given her a hair dryer, when I learned hers was “broke”, but she was in a hurry). She had tried to call us at 4:30 for a ride to evening church, but we missed the call.

Lord, let me make it up to her. I know children are resilient and forgiving, but they have tender feelings, too. My grandkids know I love them and will overlook my forgetfulness, but I do not want to offend “one of these little ones” who may be on the cusp of faith.

Life Lesson

I was engrossed in the pastor’s sermon when my husband thrust his arm in front of me with his wrist watch showing 12:20. Oh, no, I needed to get home, since we had invited our son’s family for lunch! It takes us 30 minutes to get home, and I had some final preparations to do. Anyway, my roast needed to come out of the oven by now. Ten minutes or so later, I nudged Howard, suggesting we leave a little early. He gave me a stern look and shook his head.

Trying to be patient and not let my thoughts interfere with what was being said as the pastor seemed again to be closing, I whispered to Howard that maybe we could leave at the close of the invitation. He was lost in prayer and shook me off in irritation. The invitation took a twist as Pastor shared his father’s colorful past in lengthy detail, the point being that if God could save him, (which He did), he could save anybody. It was almost one o’clock when we left. Visions of a dry roast and impatient family waiting in our driveway made me urge my husband to hurry, even though I was receiving a well-deserved lecture on reverence in church.

Imagine my surprise when no one was in our driveway, our daughter-in-law was being detained at a short meeting after their services, and my son and granddaughter were taking leisurely motorcycle rides and in no hurry. My grandson wouldn’t even be present, as he was visiting a friend. Even more astounding was my discovery that the roast was fork-tender and cooked to perfection! The meal was lovely, and I was ashamed of my anxiety.

I read somewhere that when we get upset if things don’t go according to our plans, it is a form of sin--wanting to be in control rather than trusting God with the details of our lives. The Bible does say in Proverbs 16:9 that man plans his way, but God directs his steps. I still have some work to do in this area.

Yesterday, for instance, I had planned to do laundry and hang clothes outside, as I do every Wednesday. We got up to a rainy morning, the first in weeks, so I was disappointed, wishing I had washed the day before when the weather was sunny and hot. I had agreed to go with Howard to do something since I couldn’t hang my wash, but suddenly the sun came out with a nice dry breeze, and I wanted to stay home!

Begrudgingly, I did what he wanted, resigned to the probability that it would cloud up again before I got back, as the weather report predicted more rain, and I would miss my window of opportunity for blue sky, laundry-drying weather. But it was clear and beautiful for the rest of the day! I got all the clothes washed, dried and folded with plenty of time to spare!

I thought of my little granddaughters, who, through no plans of their own, were taken on a long vacation by their parents. They may have wanted to stay in their room and play with their toys, especially the two-year-old, who doesn’t like her play interrupted. But they saw so many wonderful sights and enjoyed new experiences that would never have happened if they had had their way. Their father had a better idea.

A Sword for Dragon Slaying

“What are you reading?” I asked my little ‘protégé’ as she sat next to me in church one morning. The book she was holding was covered with fanciful dragons and other mythical-looking creatures. She held it up to me and smiled, but I couldn’t get a good look at it until she went to the restroom and I glanced through it. It seemed to be a Harry Potter-type book for young people. She said yes, it was, to my question when she sat down.

I’m glad she loves to read; she is particularly bright and knowledgeable for a 12 year old. (The other night at church when a man played the guitar and a harmonica simultaneously, she quipped, “He’s multi-tasking!”) I whispered the Bible verse, Philippians 4:8, to her that says we are to think on good things that are true. She wrinkled her nose at me, but continued flipping through the book.

Later, I was struck with the thought that I should give her some good reading material. My favorite classics I have were too old or too young for her, but I did look around the book section of Walmart. Nothing suited, and I considered a Bible, since she usually reaches for one of the standard Bibles that is kept beneath the church seats for those who might need one.

At the Christian bookstore, the Bibles were either too expensive or the print was too small. Then my eyes settled on the devotionals. I picked up a one-minute devotional for girls with a bright, whimsical cover that was small enough to put in a purse. The catchy, energetic writing with scripture passages and spiritual applications seemed just right for her age. I gave it to her Sunday just as the kids were being dismissed from their classes, and she couldn’t have been more pleased.

Then during a moment in the morning service their Sunday School teacher spoke from the pulpit that she had a special presentation to make, calling up a half dozen young people, including “Brittany”. “These kids have been so faithful in their church attendance, some not having missed a service since they first started a few months ago, and some that come even without their parents,” she explained. “And when someone came up to me and said they wanted to anonymously do something for the youth, we decided on this.” She then presented each one with a handsome, compact Bible with large print!

Thank You, God, for your perfect provision! I could see how perfect it was when Brittany kept pulling the Bible out from its packaging during the service, stroking it, feeling the smoothness of its pages as she rubbed them against her arm, and clasping it against her chest, eyes closed and smiling as she turned her face heavenward. May that always be her focus, and the Bible a compass to guide her in the right direction, even as people come alongside when her course needs correction.

Til We Meet Again

“This is the fanciest I’ve ever seen her done up! She was a very practical woman!” The speaker was assisting at the funeral today of someone he loved very much, judging from his fond reminiscences. “If someone gave her something, she was as likely as not to return it to the store, take the money and spend it at garage sales!”

Well, I could vouch for her fondness for garage and estate sales. We like them too, and nearly always ran into our friend rummaging through merchandise on a pleasant Saturday. “I spent 32 cents!” she would announce proudly of her frugality and bargain hunting. I’ve no doubt she went to the sales for the camaraderie, fresh air and sunshine, and the entertainment of peeking into someone’s life through their possessions.

Today was her funeral, and the church was packed. We got there right on time, but it was too late to get a seat in the sanctuary. We sat in the overflow room and listened to the service over the sound system. “Have you ever seen any of her quilts?,” a lady said to me in the privacy of the overflow room after quilting was mentioned in the eulogy as one of her passions. “They are gorgeous!” she exclaimed. I had heard that they even had some of the quilts on display in the viewing room of the funeral chapel. I remember her saying she had made quilts for all her children and many for her friends and grandchildren as well.

Her love for church and living for God was the main remembered attribute of the departed today. “Church is where she learned the way to Heaven,” the speaker noted. “You don’t learn that at the Elks Club, or Kiwanas or the American Legion,” he went on. “Church was her life.” Judging from all the friends and family in attendance, hers was a life well lived, and her influence was felt by many.

A dignified-looking elderly woman sat across from us on a makeshift seat in the overflow room. Toward the end of the service she said, “She was my best friend, my next door neighbor. I’m going to miss her so much; we talked every day.” She went on to say they were both widows, and were very close. My husband told me later the woman speaking was of a well-to-do business family here.

Like the quilts she created, her life was a patchwork of interlocking relationships built over the years and long lifetime in her community. Joined together, the pieces were a montage of colors, patterns, joys and sorrows, lovingly and painstakingly stitched into a covering of faith, offering warmth and comfort in a thing of beauty, like the life of the one we honored and remembered today.

The Hum of Life

The younger generation! I can’t keep up with them, nor would I want to try, physically, but it even boggles my mind just thinking about it. One grandson has just returned from a spectacular, heart-stopping climb in the Peruvian mountains. I had forgotten it was this week, so I was spared the worry of his adventure. The area was a four-day climb in just getting there. I can’t wait to see his pictures.

His cousin, a drama major in college, has struck out for New York City to find fame and fortune. He had his first casting call today, after braving the perils of the unknown in finding a room, being locked out, and frightening his mother out of her wits at the thought of him alone and vulnerable in our country’s largest city.

Our youngest son and his family have been touring the West coast for the past two weeks, seeing everything from the original Starbucks in Seattle to Disneyland in Anaheim. Although knowing they were keeping the trip necessarily tame with two tots in tow, I was unsettled to learn of a massive blackout in areas they were headed. Thankfully, power was restored just before their arrival. They should be home tomorrow, praise the Lord!

Our granddaughter, married earlier this year and expecting her first baby, experienced alarming symptoms tonight and headed to the ER. A flurry of communications set us praying, although the crisis was mostly past by the time we heard about it. Turns out mother and baby are doing fine, and we should be welcoming a strapping baby boy in a few months.

Even my daughter-in-law tackles challenges fearlessly. She has gone to spend the night in a cabin at a camp with members of civic organizations to learn team work by, among other things, participating in a ropes course. Never mind that she has just returned from a week-end church retreat at a rustic, cowboy frontier town. Where does she get her energy? I suppose by doing those energizing things.

My domestic life is dull by comparison, with the highlight of my day being having a plumber out to fix recalcitrant pipes. I felt like Hilly, from The Help, when they deposited our commode on the front lawn so they could go in the back door, so to speak, to remove a foreign object that was slowing things down. The rod in our tissue holder had unaccountably sprang from the wall and disappeared, and after searching the room from top to bottom, we could only conclude, with the evidence of impaired flushing, that it had lodged unseen in the depths of the porcelain fixture. No amount of fishing or plunging could locate it though, until the professionals removed the offending cylinder.

My life may be dull, but that’s okay, it is also peaceful; and there is a certain vicarious pleasure in knowing of the activities of the jet-setters and newly weds. Just don’t ask me to climb any mountains!

Church!

Our church is like a big family reunion at every service! We leave there feeling refreshed spiritually and emotionally (and physically, especially since the Bible says a merry heart does good like a medicine)! Take yesterday. An older gentleman got up to sing a solo, an old familiar hymn, and invited the congregation to sing along. It was a little hard to do, though. He must have learned it to a different tune, I thought. Then when it was over, he deadpanned, “I guess you noticed everyone was off key but me,” getting an appreciative laugh from the audience.

Then in the evening service last night, a tender mood hung over the crowd, owing to the unexpected passing of a church member. “Bill,” the pastor said, “would you favor us with a song tonight?” He was speaking to one of the church’s favorite singers, and he continued, “How many would like him to bless us with two or three numbers?” All applauded politely, but enthusiastically.

He began by doing a speaking part of the song, “Just What Heaven Means to Me,” in honor of the departed, a longtime friend of his. The rest of the eye-moistening song moved several to reach for tissues. “This song has been going through my mind ever since a Brother sang it a few weeks ago,” he said of his next number. “But I know you won’t expect me to sing it with this thing,” he said as he attached a harmonica holder around his neck. He then played a plaintive version of “Hallelujah Square”, accompanying himself on the guitar.

“That was so good, I think we ought to have Mollie sing it!” the pastor’s wife suggested. After a rocky start, the spunky singer found her key, and we were treated to a rambunctious rendering of the emotion-filled song. Arms waved and hands clapped in joyous participation. The hour was growing late, and I think the pastor was wondering when he had lost control (as he often jokingly says), putting his sermon on hold and inviting everyone down to the altar. What a time of refreshing as we were swept up in waves of glory in old-fashioned worship.

The service ended with a heart-rending testimony of an older saint who said she was never taken to church as a child, only met with a harsh “No!” whenever she asked to go. “What did I ever do to make Daddy not want me?” she asked an older sister, who told her she had done nothing but be born a girl. He father was so angry she was not a boy he wouldn’t look at the newborn for a week. In a soft voice,the lady told of a feeling of rejection throughout her growing up years, finally meeting the Lord as a young married woman. She prayed her first prayer over her seriously ill child, to see 105 degree temperature in the baby drop instantly to a normal 98 reading. Still yearning to be filled with the Holy Spirit, she at last was gloriously baptized. She said from that day on she has not felt unwanted. I think that holds true for all who were in attendance last night.