Category Archives: This and That

The Silent Pen

Writer Page Finished

 

 

 

Not forgotten;
Ignored.
Six years set aside.
So many words unspoken,
Forgotten;
Each a message undelivered,
Never missed.  Inkwell Tiny

Once upon a time
Ev’ry thought held down by ink.
Thought birthing thought,
Captured,
Shared –
And filed away.  Inkwell Tiny

Now, unwritten essays
Recognized,
The psalmist cries my tears;
My praises sings.
No loss today
The thoughts I had
Yet did not give
My silent pen.  Inkwell Tiny

Plain recognition
Of who I am,
Standing,
Kneeling,
Before the Infinite One.
Love
Unspoken,
Unrecorded,
Is enough.
Praying Hands Glow

 

scroll-divide-horizontal-2Copyright 2016.  All Rights Reserved.

SHORT STORY by Mommy: Yelling at Mrs. Washburn

Tuesday, 6:30 a.m.

Today I just know I’m going to yell at Mrs. Washburn.  Only once, if I can help it.  I woke up with a headache, and I know I’ll forget myself sometime today when my head hurts, and I’ll yell at her.  Well, not exactly yell….I’ll shoot my eyes at her, frown, stretch my voice real tight and fast, and I’ll snap, shoot a string of words at her with a glare, and I’ll go back to writing on my papers,…but I’ll be nice to her the rest of the day.  I’ll only yell at her once.

Tuesday, 4:30 p.m.

I had a feeling it was going to be one of those days.  I had a headache this morning, late to school, papers ungraded and plans half-finished.  Randy walked noisily into the classroom, banging desks, walls, and students.  After getting the first period organized, I was hurrying to catch-up with plans and papers during a break with my class at P.E.

Just then Mrs. Washburn, Melody, my friend, came in and asked me if she could borrow the science video.  I feel kind of bad because I yelled at her, “I don’t have it!  Chris has it.  I don’t know where he put it!”  I mean, I didn’t have time to go looking for it.  We all wrote down who was using it and when.  She was supposed to have that note.  How was I supposed to get my work done?  The kids were going to get out of P.E. in 15 minutes.  She knew how busy I was.  It wasn’t my fault Chris didn’t pass the video on.

I tried to find her at lunch to explain, but I had to meet kids in my room.  After school she came to return the video, but when I looked up to say “Hi” she had already left the room.  I guess she was busy.

Oh well, we’re good friends.  She’ll understand.  After all, I only yelled at her once.  She’ll forget about it by tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.

I wish I had caught Melody today.  I just wanted to apologize.  I can’t believe how the time has flown.  I thought she might wait at her car and walk with me inside this morning, but I guess she didn’t see me.  At our mailbox in the office, I said HI and stopped to wait for her to go together to our classrooms…but I guess she’s busy.  She didn’t seem to see me.  She looked busy all day long.  That must be why she didn’t pop into my room like she usually does.

Oh well, I’ve been busy, too.  She’s probably forgotten.  Maybe I should forget it, too.  After all, I only yelled at her once.

Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

Boy, the week has really gone quickly.  I didn’t see Melody all day long.  Except for once.  Yeah, I passed her in the hall.  I called to her, but she didn’t hear me.  There’s so much going on.

Well, I’ve got to leave early.  It’s really no big deal.  After all, we’ve been friends for 5 years.  She’ll understand.

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THINGS TO REMEMBER

Words have awesome power to build us up or tear us down emotionally.  This is particularly true within the family.  Many people can clearly remember words of praise parents spoke years ago.  Others can remember negative, cutting words–with the whole scene etched in extraordinary detail on their minds.               —Gary Smalley

Disagreements and quarrels in a relationship are inevitable, and they can be beneficial or deadly.  If two people know how to resolve conflicts so that their relationship deepens and matures, they possess a magnificent skill. But if they don’t know how to deal effectively with their disagreements, their marriage may be systematically destroyed.  More marriages fail because two people don’t know how to handle their differences than for any other reason.  That’s why it’s so vital to know ahead of time that you and your spouse-to-be are skillful at managing problems.  If you don’t know that, you’re taking a big risk in getting married.                            —Dr. Neil Warren

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America…Land of the Free and Neutral

When I taught 5th grade, my students memorized the Bill of Rights.  Listening to each young person recite our list of freedoms gave me, their teacher, a new appreciation for our democratic government.  Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press.[i]

Americans are free to speak.  Patrick Henry was willing to trade his life for the sake of a few words.   Two hundred years later, the American free press continues its war against tyranny.

I was moved by the story of Dan Eldon[ii], a photojournalist killed while covering civil war in Africa.  Through the magic of television journalism, his sister took us to the places he loved in Africa, retracing his steps and meeting with his friends.  She and photographers reconstructed his life up to the moment of his death, his sacrifice for the freedom of writers and photographers to tell the truth.

Justifiably, Americans hold an unshakable pride in our free press.  Our reporters and photographers have opened the doors on repression in China, reported atrocities in Rwanda and Iran, and unseated political leaders in the White House and Mexico.

The power of a free press is almost unimaginable.  The History Channel documents the story of the French Resistance, an entire movement of common people fighting the Nazis through use of printed posters and newspapers.  In Africa and in Europe, the power of the press to preserve freedom inspires awe.

This heightens the irony of the following sad truth.  Today in America, we uphold the freedom of the press, while we have prostituted its significance.

My fifth graders now feel that our precious freedom of the press is meant to protect their rights to rent R-rated movies.  As a sacred protection of the noble right to express religious and political views…they have not a clue, a hint, or an inclination.  The First Amendment gives store owners the right to display and promote profanity, nudity, and violence, making sure young children will be influenced by a free flow of depravity. The First Amendments’s role in preserving our liberty, the foundation of our way of life…yawn…hmmm…what’s for dinner?

America is awash with crudity and violence.  All the while, media and entertainment industry executives scramble to hide behind the noble mantra Freedom of the Press, their banners raised and defended at the great cost of American life.  In the same breath or frame shot, media and entertainment industry executives call out to American citizens, “We have rights, you know.  Don’t mess with our freedom.  That’s censorship!”

Interesting.  Americans are able to express any level of nudity and violence, largely because the free press establishment will expend great energy to prevent the slightest restriction on crassness in the public arena.  Reporters, scriptwriters, painters, songsters, and producers have joined in a strange alliance, suggesting that the promulgation of expressions of depravity is on the same noble plane as Jeffersonian editorials written to defend republican freedom.

Funny.  While we seem unable to hold back the tide of bad taste and filth, America has almost succeeded in eliminating 100% any reference to religion, and more specifically, any reference to God.  If we call “Him” the great force, the power-be-with-you, the spirit, the master, fate, or the hand of justice, we can print it.  But dare we call “Him” God, then we must separate him.  From what?

And this is the second ironic twist on the First Amendment freedom of the press.  While we refuse to limit and restrict the promulgation of violence, we are definitely willing to restrain the press, to restrict it, to limit it—when and only when it comes to God.

Sad.  America grew strong on the notion that free men could freely think for themselves.  Yet, we have a media frozen in the notion they must protect common man from the mention of “God.”  I want to call out in the newspapers, “God is alive.  He’s not dead.  You never killed Him.  You just quit talking about Him.”  But these are fighting words.  They must be restricted.  By whom?  The Free Press.

I want to call out again.  “Hey, this is America.  We’re free.  Remember?  We can talk about pubic areas, breasts, and God.”  I want to shout and accuse, “Censorship.”

But not in America.  We call it Neutrality. Now that’s an American oxymoron for you.  It’s as if by coining a word, we can create an American citizen devoid of opinion, thus, and American without bias.  He’s a genetic wonder, a DNA marvel, the Neutral Man.

Let’s think about this Neutral Man for a minute.  Has anyone ever met an American without an opinion?  In reality, Americans are famous for having opinions.

Years ago, a young foreign exchange student from Japan came to talk with my fifth graders.  She talked about foods, customs, language…all the things unique to Japan and United States, the things she had to relearn in order to understand her temporary ‘home’ in the States  Just before she finished speaking I asked her, “What major difference do you find between the people themselves, the Japanese and the American people?”

With a look of slight timidity, she smiled and answered, “The Americans, well,…they…if you ask them a question, they’ll tell you what they think.  They’re much more willing to speak out.”

“You mean, ‘We’re rude?’” I offered.

She broke into an open and relaxed laugh.  Then she diplomatically suggested, “Well, in my country, people are more reserved.  They don’t say everything that’s on their mind.”

But the students and I knew what she meant, even as she attempted to say it nicely because she liked us.  We’re rude.  America is the land of bias.  Mostly, we Americans seem rather proud about it.

Given this truth, just where do we think we’re going to find Mr. Neutral?   Yes, God and religion are a source of bias.  How could it be otherwise?  Religion with its claims on truth  forms the foundation of law, of nations, of morality.  It creates an order out of chaos, a way of structuring the world to make sense of small, daily events.  Everybody has Religion.  We all need to give structure to chaos.

Even the atheist has religion.  But then we call it philosophy.  That means God is dead.  But isn’t that very idea of a dead god a religious position?  Or maybe we’ll invent a neutral religion.  We’ll just call him the force.  The Force be with you?  Sounds suspiciously like The Force is god’s younger, smaller distant cousin.  What if The Force were dead?  Who could kill Him?  And when?

Our major problem today in the media is not in its threat to freedom of the press, but in its intensely biased effort to sell the idea of neutrality.  Are there really two worlds, the biased world and the neutral world?  Can we really accept the assurances of a mere human being who insists he’s the unbiased gatekeeper for neutrality?

Can we really look any person in the face and accept that he/she doesn’t care?  That’s it’s all the same to them?  If it is really all the same…if neutral means everything goes…let it all hang out…then let’s change the force back into God.  If it’s really all just the same.

Just what do you mean by the force?  Assuming instead that we all work from a point of view, I’d rather know up front.  If you openly and forthrightly declare your definition, then I don’t have to guess.  Is god dead?  If I know what you think, dead or alive, then we don’t have to argue about it.  I certainly don’t expect you to change your mind or agree with me.  It just helps to know what you mean when you talk.  It helps to fill in the spaces between the words.

You see, after years of writing, I’ve learned there’s often a bigger story between the words.

Every writer burns with the indignation of losing precious words and thoughts to the scissors of an editor, as she works to make a story fit eight inches of newsprint.  More often than we like, she crosses out the boring parts, our own personal favorites left in the story because we the writer especially liked them.

But even before the editor gets her chance to snip and cut, before we writers write the words we write, we are all influenced by bias.  What else accounts for the urge of one reporter to spend a lifetime telling the story of the rise of Nazi regime as an alarm for future generations…while another reporter chases Loni Anderson to find out if she’s really as mean (or beautiful) as Burt Reynolds said in the latest article?

Every time a reporter chooses a story idea, he exercises bias.  He decides which point of view deserves to be heard, and he silences the others by ignoring them.  Working together, hiding behind the First Amendment, the American journalistic empire is not eliminating bias.  Rather, it is building a consensus of bias.

Taken together, choosing the story and writing the story, we writers can hardly avoid the influence of personal bias.  And as we write to please our editors…to get our stories in print…we work to satisfy the mainline bias, the industry standard, built upon the need to please editors who carefully pick and choose words to fit the story they want to tell.

“No, I don’t think we want to emphasize that point in this story.”  And the editor crosses out God and Jesus.

The only time mainstream writers are allowed to write God and Jesus in print is when they’re writing about someone who hates them, or at the very least, considers them quaint.  How else can you explain the extraordinary press received by the Jesus Seminar?

I don’t begrudge the atheists their press.  After all, this is the land of the free-thinking man.  But where is the free press of rebuttal?  Where are the scholars who can press these men into a test of intellect and integrity?  Unfortunately, these challengers hold God and Jesus in reverence, as believers, and, as such, are subject to the editorial scissors.  Where is a mainstream “neutral” reporter demanding that Jesus Seminar members declare their personal bias and evaluating the influence of atheism’s bias on their research?

The First Amendment never guaranteed neutrality.  Rather, it enjoined the government from establishing a single, required governmental religion.  It was written to guarantee the expression of all ideas, even the love of God.

Our Founding Fathers knew that every human being is guided by bias—a bias of faith and religion.  The authors were men of deep religious faith, a faith that gave them the inspiration and courage to fight and to die for the First Amendment.  They never dreamed a First Amendment inspired of God would be used to remove God from national dialogue.

Is there a remedy to this mess?  It might be easier than you think.  Let’s…each of us…declare our bias up front.

I suggest it would be immensely more honest if American journalists adopted a Secondary Byline policy.  Why not try to give readers a clue as to which words were cut out, why the paper interviewed a Buddhist or a democrat instead of a Christian or a republican?  Let the reader have a chance to decide what information is missing, and where the writer and editor molded the words to fit their own personal prejudice.  Let’s report the story, and give two bylines:

Presidential Candidates Debate American Morality
by Newt Rull
by Professed Atheist…or Christian, Muslim, Undecided…or Whatever!

With our biases declared front and center, we might finally open healthy national dialogue by exposing all points of view, in full disclosure, being willing to accept full responsibility for our own particular point of view, our own bias.  Wouldn’t the reader better understand a new story involving a moral point of view in the context of the writer Mr. Rull’s personal bias?  And —what does this particular story have to do with the bias of the editor who cut the words out and the publisher who owns the paper who paid for the story?

Until then…please, do me one favor.  A tiny favor.  Just don’t ask me to believe Mr. Newt Rull is unbiased.  Nor his editor.  Nor the publisher.  Not in America.  Sadly…and most especially…even in the Land of the Freedom of the Press.

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Television 9/5/99:  Dying to Tell the Story, C. 1998 Turner Broadcasting, story of photojournalist Dan Eldon, told by his sister and other family members (Kathy/Amy/Michael) about his death 4 years earlier (approx. 1994) in Africa covering civil war there.  Order for $20 at 1-800-278-7599

Same Night Television:  Story of the French Resistance on channel 71.  Common people fighting the Nazis through use of printed posters and newspapers.

 


[i] “Bill of Rights,” The World Book Encyclopedia, vol. 2, pg. 234b.

[ii] Dying to Tell the Story,” Turner Broadcasting, C. 1998.  (Order for $20 at 1-800-278-7599)

Broken Pot

Quote:  What is a friend?  A single soul dwelling in two bodies. 
–Aristotle

The pot sits on the window ledge above my desk where I work every day.  It links me to a treasured friend.  Forty years my senior, I consider Marion my sister.

We’ve shared our faith, writing, and books.  Most importantly, we’ve shared the past three years of pain following the deaths of her husband and my mother.  In the same month, Marion and I were united in the loneliness and grief that fills your soul where a loved one once lived.  We’ve cried, gossiped, traveled, and laughed.  So I wasn’t surprised when I found her gift on my doorstep.

I opened the tiny box to find a delicate ceramic bowl made of overlapping leaves reaching up from around the bottom in golds and greens, finishing at the top in a fluted edge of leaf points.

To my surprise, there was a web of yellowed cracks where someone had glued the broken pot back together.  Puzzled, I wondered at Marion’s gift.  I knew it had to be especially chosen for me.  I chuckled.  I wondered if I should ask her about the cracks.  Had she even noticed them?  Her handwritten card explained.

“How wonderful to find friends in life!  And this little ‘whatchamacallit’ is to remind you of the fact that God takes our beautiful lives and mends them, when we let Him.  And the mending goes on and on.  And to remind you of me—one fragmented life that God, in His mercy, has put back together.”

Amen, my friend.

 

Bible Verse:   The LORD is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion.  The LORD protects the simplehearted; when I was in great need, he saved me.  Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you.                                 Psalm 116:5-7

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Treasures of a Woman’s Heart: A Daybook of Stories and Inspiration, Lynn D. Morrissey, ed., Starburst Publishers, 2000, contributor, “Broken Pot.”

AT THE FOOT OF YOUR CROSS

Praying Hands Gold

I fall at the foot of your cross,

My Lord Jesus Christ,

And raise my eyes to fix upon yours,

Begging to draw down the power of your love and forgiveness

Offered to me without deserving.

Please, Lord Jesus, carry my longing

With you to the throne of Almighty God,

Holding my heart in trust

Until the day I find myself with you at last.

May I, Lord Jesus, with your love at the cross

As my witness to the power and mercy of God,

Accept the gift of this one day,

Glorifying you and the Almighty

With each thought and deed.

I beg you, Lord Jesus, to stand between me and

Every evil temptation casting a shadow on my path.

Let your brilliance light my way

So that when evening falls,

I might lay my head upon my pillow

And lay my day at your feet as my best,

In love,

My offering of thanksgiving I give, that you loved me enough

To go to the cross as My Light

And My Salvation.

Amen.

FOR THE CHILDREN: Classes Help Divorced Parents


Published April, 2000

Classes Help Divorced Parents
Focus on the Positive

Any adult who has experienced divorce, knows the pain and anguish of this conflict.  Worse yet, is the divorce that involves children.

Mother and daughter team Georglyn Rosenfeld and Natalie Cawood, have an important message for families in the midst of the divorce process.  “Stay focused on your children.  This is the reason for your continuing relationship and communication with each other.[i]

Helping adults plan a healthy life for their children is the focus of their three-hour class, offered as part of the Superior Court program to assist parents in the divorce process.  The classes, “What You Need to Know to Help Kids Survive a Divorce,” explore the effects of divorce on children and what parents can do to help their children survive.

Georglyn Rosenfeld points to statistics that show 50% of divorced parents return to court less than a year after the divorce, fighting over their children.  In an effort to help these families, the legislature passed a law three years ago requiring divorcing parents to attend education classes about the effects of divorce on children.[ii]

Rosenfeld and her daughter hope to alert parents to the effect divorce will have on their children.  “I have on my web page quotes from kids, dozens of quotes.  [Parents] get their kids on the web page, and it helps open up the topic to them.  They see what another nine-year-old boy said about divorce.”

While parents are often focused on the personal adult conflict, their children are suffering.  Even as early as one year of age, children may experience a fear of abandonment, sleep problems, and regressive behaviors such as clinging and whining.

Rosenfeld points to new studies challenging previous assumptions.  “They used to tell us under age five, it’s harder.  Now they say it’s harder on teenagers.  They’re getting ready to launch out on their own.  They want a secure base.  They also want their own relationships.  And if Mom and Dad can’t keep it together, how can they possibly believe in a long-lasting relationship?”

Rosenfeld and her daughter Natalie know first-hand the hurt and pain of divorce, after Rosenfeld and her husband parted.  This helps each of them relate to the personal struggles of the people who attend their classes.  Information and advice is packaged with love and understanding.  “Did you see the man hug me after class tonight?” Rosenfeld asks.  “That’s not unusual.  I have bikers, construction workers, big rough burly men…come up and say, ‘You know, I can’t believe you feel my pain as much as you do.’”

Yet, Rosenfeld delivers no-nonsense, on-target advice.  Their class is all about reducing conflict in the lives of the children.  “Let the children feel loved and supported by both parents.”  For the sake of the children, parents must learn to set aside their anger.  Most importantly, counsels Rosenfeld, “Let the children have unlimited access to both parents.”

She acknowledges, in light of the anger produced by divorce, these goals are hard to achieve.  But based on their strong Christian faith, Rosenfeld and Cawood tell their classes forgiveness is required, even if it seems impossible at the time.  “They say it’s unforgivable.  They find it very hard to forgive.  But that’s when I usually see tears streaming down peoples’ faces.  They know they have to forgive.”

While people of all faiths attend their classes, Rosenfeld believes her Christian faith crosses all boundaries.  Her message, even as a divorce begins, focuses on healing, forgiveness, and reconciliation.  And a local church donates Bibles which people can take with them, free of charge.

Additionally, divorce can be especially painful for Christians.  “They have a double problem with divorce.”  She counseled a pastor who “definitely needed a spiritual counselor to help him reconcile this in his beliefs of God and right and wrong.  His torment was greater.”

While their class deals with the pain of divorce and conflict, Rosenfeld is encouraged by signs that people accept her advice.  One excited father told Rosenfeld he couldn’t believe it when his ex-wife called and offered him unlimited access to the children.  In class, his wife had learned how harmful fights for visitation were, and she made a decision to change.

Even Grandparents thank Rosenfeld for her help.  They enroll in her class just to learn how to help their grandchildren and children through the divorce process.

Best of all are the times when a couple in the midst of divorce proceedings agrees to attempt a reconciliation.  Rosenfeld hopes more and more couples will give serious consideration to restoring a healthy marriage.  “If we could get people, especially Christians, to come to theses classes or send their friends to these classes, I think they would think about filing for the divorce and see what they could do to reconcile.”

______________________________________

For information on their classes and book, contact Rosenfeld and Cawood at:

www.divorceandkids.com or phone (480) 946-9680

Book by Laurene Johnson and Georglyn Rosenfeld, Divorced Kids, What You Need to Know to Help Kids Survive a Divorce,” is available at www.amazon.com and on Rosenfeld’s website.

 


[i] Rosenfeld and Cawood, “What You Need to Know to Help Kids Survive a Divorce,” class handout, page 13.

[ii] Medlyn, Beverly, “A Plan to Ease Pain of Divorce Courts,” The Arizona Republic, May 5, 1999.

LET’S RENEW THE SPIRIT OF LAST JAN. 1

Globe We Are World 2The NEW Millennium, 2000, gave mankind such hope.  It suggested a transformation of the world.

What a joyful day we spent last New Year’s Eve, watching the new millennium unfold like a delicate rose across the planet, one time zone after another.

Newscasters, cameras and ceremonies around the globe all synchronized to show us the magic of midnight revelry in Spain, Germany, and Brazil

We called our daughter in Madrid, Spain, “Happy New Year!”  With phone in hand, and our television popping fireworks, we exclaimed, “We see you!  It’s midnight in Madrid, and we see the fireworks.  It’s beautiful!”

It was beautiful, January 1, 2000.  Instead of  the long-anticipated worldwide calamity, God seemed to show us, in one long-lived day, what humanity is capable of at its best.

What I wouldn’t give for January 1, 2001, to ring in the same beauty.  But once again, we humans are focused on the wrong thing. In the year 2001, there is that untidy little digit, the “one.”  It gives an edge, a point to the rounded thousand.  What is there to celebrate, we ask, when 2001 is just another year?

Eventually, truth sinks in.  We will add digit upon digit, one year at a time, a collection of years without worldwide significance.

Uninspiring numbers 2016, 2256, 2891.  One thousand of them, marching on endlessly, centuries filled with insignificant years.  Each year will melt into the next, one after one after one,…a thousand times before mankind again feels a compelling desire to reflect on his place in the world, of man’s effect on mankind.

We should have learned a millennium-sized lesson on January 1, 2000.  For that one hopeful day in the life of  planet earth, we focused on the beauty of a new sunrise and our fellow man with whom we share such beauty.  Sadly, a sunrise lasts only minutes.  Reassured that impending disasters and world destruction were no longer possible, life quickly returned to normal.

The mid-east is a land divided where people come both to worship and to kill.  In the United States of America, we sought to perfect ways of counting ballots to grab an election.  The ozone layer continues to recede.  Deforesting moves at an ever expanding pace.  And we still bury number six plastic in Arizona landfills because recycling is not a priority.

The New Millennium has become just another millennium.  Worn-out and over-rated.  Is it little wonder?  We wanted to change the world without realizing the need to change the human heart.

World change is in the little things.  Each day is renewal, even though we approach it as the same Globe Sheenold thing.  We want to see change in the big things.  We want to bring the environment back in order, feed every starving person, and bring world peace.  Our eyes are on the big things.

Environment.  Recycling.  These are in the little thing: the Styrofoam cup.  Taking a stand for the environment is easy.  Trying to get a cup of coffee to go without using one more Styrofoam cup isn’t.

World Peace.  Ban the bomb.  But, looking at my own family, how many feuds and bitter words are responsible for people refusing to talk with each other?  How easy to write a letter, make a phone call, meet for coffee.  How easy to listen to each other, to extend compassion, to admit our own offenses.

Mother Teresa said world peace begins at home.  Nearly everything else begins at home, too.  In the little things.

We wanted to pack all of our human hope into one year, 2000.  We wanted it to bring a New Millennium.  But do we want the new millennium to grow out of old habits?  We must remember that a millennium comes to us one decade, one year, one week, one minute at a time.  We are each individually responsible for a lifetime of decisions.  We want big change.  But do we want to take little steps?

The coming year is no less important than the year 2000.

Preparing for 2001, we must exhort one another anew.  Each day we are given a chance to make perfection, to bind up wounds, to give rather than to receive.  The words of Jesus are no less true today than when He spoke them, “For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks.  The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in him, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in him.”  [Mat 12:34-35, NIV]

If we truly paid attention on January 1, 2000, we caught a glimpse of what we could make of this world.  We saw the reality of bringing good things out of the good stored up in us.

And that hopeful vision alone should turn our hearts to the tremendous possibilities ahead in a new year…a new day—in each new minute in time.   End Scroll

THE POWER OF A GRATEFUL HEART

Published

I opened the card in front of me, grabbed my pen, and found myself stuck once more.  How could I properly express my thanks to Shirley?

My supply of thank-you cards rates first prize.  I have flowery spring thank-you’s, cat and puppy cards, winter hearth scenes, dried flower wreaths, rabbits surrounded by pastel hearts, and razzle-dazzle million-dollar thanks.  I can’t pass by the rack of thank-you cards in the store without picking out a new set, a new picture, a different approach to thanks that will come in perfect somewhere “down the road.”

One of the best parts about sending a thank-you to a friend is deciding whether it will be a bunny or a million-dollar thanks.  Maybe a friend called to cheer me up, or went out of her way to give me a ride, or remembered my birthday with a plant.  I always have a proper thank-you note on hand.  Except for Shirley.

Thanking Shirley is different.  It’s impossible to let her know the impact of her act of kindness with a simple card and note.  No clever joke or sentimental rhyme will work this time.  I must thank Shirley for thanking me.

It was really no big deal.  I had wanted to write a story to enter in a contest, and right off the bat I thought of Shirley and her husband.  After five years of marriage, her husband was so taken by the joy of their marriage, he had asked her to marry him—again.  She said yes, of course, and they renewed their vows at a small chapel I attend.  Their story of love needed to be told.

I spent a wonderful afternoon interviewing them.  At home, I transcribed my notes, wrote and rewrote sentences and paragraphs, building their story, and with my husband reading it over to give me feedback, I polished a few spots and tucked it into an envelope addressed to the magazine.  I sent a copy of the story to Shirley along with a note thanking them both for taking the time to meet with me.

Weeks passed, and I busied myself with new projects and family responsibilities.  My mind had long ago set aside the story of Shirley’s wedding.  To be truthful, life was approaching the mundane.  My new writing project was a monster.  Day followed day, as I spent long hours at the library doing research and picked up dinner on the way home from Taco Bell.  One evening, opening our bag of burros and tacos, my husband came into the kitchen with a twinkle in his eye.  “You have a letter here.  I think it will perk you up.”

I reached for the flowered envelope.  From Shirley.  When I opened it and pulled out her note, my heart did a double-beat.  There were three pages written in the most beautiful long-hand.  Ignoring dinner, I sat down to read her letter.

She began by thanking me for interviewing her, for honoring their marriage with recognition.  She and her husband had taken their copy of the story to share with members of their marriage bible study.  They had used it to express their own thanks to the leader of the group who had been so instrumental in guiding them through difficult times in their marriage.  Shirley carried the story to the chapel where they had renewed their vows, and the Sisters had rejoiced again for helping this marriage “made in heaven.”

On a very personal note, in her thank-you, Shirley told me of a current trial she and her husband were sharing.  They were struggling to support the very life of one of their children.  She let me know how heartened they had been during this crisis to have a story of a life triumph, something to read and renew their thankfulness to God for his many blessings.

I laid her letter down and looked across at my husband.  I couldn’t speak.  How could I begin to measure the encouragement contained in three pages of kindness from my friend?  Just five minutes earlier I had wondered if this chosen career of mine, writing words upon paper, was worth it.  My “monster project” seemed too immense, too impossible.  I had begun to let little doubts come together into major discouragement:  maybe I should quit.

As I read Shirley’s thank-you yet another time, I was consumed by the realization that her letter testified to the power of a grateful heart.  Her words revealed the qualities of gratitude that make thanksgiving so rare and yet so marvelous.  Gratitude takes time.  It requires attention.

How many times have I listened to someone talking to me, while my mind is actually wandering, pondering the errands on my list?  How many times have I wanted to let someone know I appreciated a kindness, only to forget myself ten minutes later?  How many times had I jotted off a quick note of thanks to a friend, failing to reflect on the minute details of their effort that might be worth mentioning?  Being thankful takes time.  You can’t hurry thanksgiving.

I could actually picture Shirley setting at her kitchen table as she wrote her note.  There was no hurry in her handwriting.  She went beyond a quick thank-you to pay attention to the details of thankfulness.  She put herself into my place as a writer, taking time to imagine what it’s like to sit for hours in the quiet at a computer.  She shared the story with others, and she took time to tell me of their own celebrations, celebrations that mean a lot to a writer who longs to improve the lives of people with her words.  She allowed me to “see” their smiles, to hear their “ooh’s” and “aah’s.”

Now, I must find the words to thank Shirley for the lesson she taught me about thanks.  I want to find the words to tell her how she has filled my heart with encouragement.  She has given me the reason to tackle “the monster” once again, a reason to think it might be worth the effort in the end.  I will be a writer for a little while longer.  This is a lot of thank-you to fit into one card.

And as I set my pen to a thank-you card for Shirley, I am suddenly overwhelmed with how small my efforts at thanksgiving are when I take the time to pray to God.  I realize how often I want to skate over the surface of gratitude, not giving the time to pay attention.

How God must thrill as he hears us give attention to our thanksgiving!  Slowing down, listing God’s blessings, one at a time, I know there is no way to hurry gratitude.  It is a lifelong attitude, a prayer ever upon our lips and in our hearts.

I begin to write.  I slow down.  A grateful heart does not count time.

_____________________________

It is good to give thanks to the Lord,

to sing praises to thy name, O Most High;

to declare thy steadfast love in the morning,

and thy faithfulness by night,

to the music of the lute and the harp, to the melody of the lyre.

For thou, O Lord, hast made me glad by thy work; at the works of thy hands I sing for joy.  (Psa 92:1-4 RSV)

THE SPACE IN-BETWEEN

Published July, 2000

Like most parents, my husband and I used to look forward to the summer.  It was our Space In-Between.  I was a classroom teacher, and my husband directed a summer camp.  We were just as excited as our kids.

Three whole months stretched out before us, a vast expanse of special time In-Between where we could enjoy cool pine tree forests, take special interest classes with no report cards, and linger late in the evening with the kids over a Scrabble game.

We enjoyed the summer as a family.  It was a pause in life, a time to catch our collective breaths.  Best of all, this was a time to anticipate renewal.  The coming school year shone brightly ahead, and we all made plans for September when we would be able to start with a clean slate.

But this year…this Space In-Between…it seems to stretch out with no end in sight.  Our youngest child has his high school diploma in hand.  He is enrolled in a college 2,000 miles away, and as I walk by his room this summer, I keep wondering what it will look like after he takes out his clothes and all his favorite possessions.

Yet, it’s not really the things I see changing before my eyes that make this Space loom so large and vast ahead of me.  It’s the things unseen, the questions that keep popping into my head for which there are no answers.  How did we do as parents?  How will he fare in the real world?  And, biggest of all, who will be his god?

This is a time when a parent sets all the worries of a lifetime out on the table, and we start worrying about the worries.  Did I spend too much time wondering if his teeth needed braces?  Given a choice between losing his winter jacket and losing his faith, did I really have the right focus?

Justin assures me he will look for a church close to campus, and I know his college encourages students to stay in their faith.  He professes a belief in God and in Jesus, but are there any little questions, small seeds of doubt that will bloom in the coming culture of college where kids are pushed to challenge tradition?

I come by these fears honestly.  My husband and I, for separate reasons, lived a secular life for forty years.  We were happy in our ignorance, until we met our supreme challenge of life.  We quickly learned how little help our pride and self-satisfaction offered us when we fail to acknowledge God.  Jesus literally saved us.  He literally showed us the Way.

We have done our best as parents to be transparent with our children, to share our faith walk, and to encourage them to follow.  But this is a pretty radical change for children in their teens as they witness their parents reaching out for God who was never welcomed in the home before.  I know well the life of doubt, of self, and of wandering.  Did we come to Jesus soon enough to share the power of His transforming love with our children?

Early in the summer I asked my son, “What do you think about going to buy a Bible of your own choosing?  Would you like to pick out a Bible that has just the right type of notes and translation to help you read on your own in college?”

My heart did a somersault when he told me, “Sure.  I’ve been thinking about that myself.”

Yesterday we went to the Christian bookstore.  As I left him to make his choice, unfettered by motherly coaching, I walked down aisles of children’s books.  Pictures of happy Veggies and pop-up books sharing the Christmas story renewed regrets that my husband and I had missed sharing the joy of Jesus with our children when they were young.  Like a patient hurrying to get her flu shot at the last minute, I wanted to drag Justin from the Bibles over to this aisle and read him bedtime stories on the floor in the bookstore.

Lunacy?  Of course.  But desperation calls for desperate measures.  The Space In-Between this summer is filled with so many possibilities, and I can no longer see to the end of the Space anymore, when classes would normally resume at the grade school and we’d all be tucked safely away into a life that’s close and comfortable.

I placed the pop-up books back on the shelf just as my son came round the aisle with his brand new Bible in hand, unsoiled, and protected in a tight plastic wrapper.  As much as I wanted to know this new Bible would keep him in the safety of faith in Jesus and be my Mother’s guarantee, I finally saw the truth.

The Space In-Between now belongs to Justin.  I can no longer engineer his life, getting him up in time for church and thanking him for saying grace at the table.  I can ask him, from a distance, how his faith is coming…if he gets time to read his Bible.  But only from afar.

I now understand the sense of urgency Paul must have felt, writing to his Christian disciples in Ephesus.  What joy must have filled his heart when he received news from Timothy, evidence of the Thessalonians’ continued faith.  And in Paul’s heart I see the glimmer of a new heart I must develop as a mom.  “I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better.” [Eph 1:17 NIV]

Love continues.  Prayer continues.  And my own faith continues.  My children can still witness the love of Jesus, the power of God in our lives.  But only as my husband and I perfect our own faith–perfect it in humility, confession, repentance, service, compassion, and love.

It would be easier to go backwards, to worry about our young children paying attention in Sunday school.  Of course, I can still worry about our children at college, even from afar.  But Jesus leads me in the more difficult Way, the life of witness through example.

Maybe the more important questions for Justin when he calls home will be when he asks me, “How’s your faith, Mom?  Do you still read your Bible in the morning?  Do you pray for me each day like you promised?”

The Space still looms ahead, a vast unknown.  I have to let God have His own way with my children.  The comfort I have comes, as it always does, from submitting in prayer:  “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name.” [Mat 6:9 NIV] And I let go.

AN ABUNDANCE OF SIMPLICITY

Published October, 2001

It started as an imaginary game.  Phase One of  a new home development sprouted out of the dry desert ground just minutes from my husband’s job on a large research farm near the small town of Maricopa.  Staring at the wood studs and up through the open rafters of the future model homes, we replayed the popular billboard slogan for each other.  “If you lived here, you would be home by now.”

Not that Vic minds the forty minute drive to work.  He has grown to love the slow transition from the clogged streets of the city, southward past the last vestiges of  Tempe farmland, a right turn around Dugan Dairy, and then a quiet drive into the wide open spaces of desert.  It’s a literal transition from clutter to space, an unraveling of mental tension and a reconnection with the earth as God created it.  Breathing is easier; thinking is possible.

Still, we thought…we could live just down the road from work.  We could actually live in the open spaces away from city smog.  No more hustling and bustling.  And our imaginations took over.

What if…what if we sold our BIG home and bought a little home, we asked each other.  What if we sold all of our unused possessions, gave them away–starting over again in a little way just like we had started thirty years ago as fresh college graduates.  Just the thought of having rooms filled with emptiness seemed to release a major burden for each of us.

Our imaginations took flight.  Over the weekend, laying on our backs in the living room, we surveyed the four walls covered with baskets, paintings, and cabinets of trinkets.  What did we absolutely need in our “new smaller home?”  What could we live without?  At the kitchen table, we mentally cleaned cupboards.  One set of dishes, a spice rack, and our pots and pans—was that really all we needed to eat healthy meals?

On trips out of town this summer, we began to imagine our hotel rooms as home.  One bed, two chairs, a small desk, dresser and bathroom.  We felt complete.  Returning home, one trip after the next, slowly the tension between the true clutter of our life and the open spaces we envisioned began to gnaw at my heart.  Did I really have to dust hundreds of knick-knacks for the rest of my life?  Did we really have to move just to rid ourselves of life’s complexities and distractions?

Then suddenly, as if God could no longer stand my complaining, His gift arrived.  After months of what-if, we have acquired an empty room, a patch of carpeting surrounded by four walls, a practice space of nothingness.  Our daughter moved into an apartment, taking her furniture with her.  Yet, what might have been a cause for sadness and loss punctuated by the absence of her lovely smile has blossomed into possibilities for all of us.  A room of space, a desert room of openness and breathing and thinking—right here, under our very roof.

We are of one mind.  This will be our desert preserve, a guarded space.  Last night we moved in a bookcase and arranged the shelves with favorite titles.  I spread out the Moroccan rug from our daughter’s travels, and a lamp stand points three beams of light up and down across the books and onto the quilted pillows in the corner.

In the darkness of the late evening, we laid back on the Moroccan rug and let our eyes adjust to the glow of the streetlights filtering into the room and across the walls.  Twinkling above, florescent stars made me smile.  They seemed bigger now, without the furniture.  They had space to play against, to fill the room with their warmth.  Vic’s toes wiggled, a detail that struck me in the open space of the room.  I reached out for his hand, and he squeezed mine back in response.

Custom dictates that a room without furniture is incomplete.  But Vic and I know that would spoil God’s gift.  In a world filled with man-made creations, God has given us back the simplicity of life, a room of space for listening, an expanse of stillness where He has room to fill the spaces for us, to tickle our toes and squeeze our hands, to whisper and remind us.  Be still, and know that I am God. [Psa 46:10 NIV]