Archived posts from June 2007
Our five year old nephew is spending the night, and Pip (he’s 15) is taking him camping! OK, they’re in the backyard, but they’re way out by the woods, away from the house, and they have a campfire, and we went down and visited and had a s’more, mm-mm good! It’s a beautiful night, almost a full moon, and Luke is excited, he’s never slept in a tent before. Later this summer, our family will be camping in Rocky Mountain National Park. Unfortunately, you can’t have a campfire there, but we’ll do our cooking on a tiny little packable stove. I’m trying to figure out WHAT we’ll be eating--I can’t live for four days on ramen noodles and peanut butter sandwiches.
UH-OH, it’s been an hour since we’ve been in the house, and the back door just opened, and Philip said Luke wants to sleep indoors. He says he can’t sleep out there, there’s too many noises! Uncle Brian took the little guy upstairs and put him to bed, but Philip’s gone back out to lay on the hard ground--he’s a diehard! We’ll give Luke a few more years.
It was a gorgeous early summer day about four years ago. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and I was cutting the grass, something I do only when I want to, since I have teenage boys. And at the appointed time, I climbed off the mower, got in Brian’s new truck, and headed down the interstate to pick him up at the airport, a forty minute drive.
I had the music cranked, a new Jason Upton CD, and had driven about twenty miles when I suddenly noticed the sun had disappeared and in fact the sky had gone to black. It seemed to happen instantly. Huge fat drops of rain pelted the windshield, and then my cell phone rang. I reached to turn down the music, and as I did, cars in front of me began to hit their brakes. The rain came in torrents, and I struggled to answer the phone and slow the vehicle at the same time.
It was my friend Linda. "Where are you?!" she yelled. She is always excitable, but it was good she yelled over the deafening roar of the rain. I told her I was on the way to the airport. "Yeah, but where ARE you??!!!" I told her I thought I was near Dearborn, and started to tell her I couldn’t chat right then. It had also started to hail and I was steering my car under an overpass, thinking of how new it was, and how I really didn’t want to be the one to dent it all up. But there were already several cars under the bridge, and parked right in the middle of the road. I was able to get my nose under, but that was about it.
And Linda was screaming, "That’s where the tornado is! I’ve got the TV on at home!" I really wasn’t worried about anything but the paint on that car. But I did look up and realize that the western sky was as black as night. I said to her, "Well, what am I supposed to do?"
She yelled, "Take cover! Take cover! You’re supposed to take cover!" I looked around me and saw people all over the road, running to get under the bridge. Cars were lined up behind me, and emptying out. I didn’t want to be the idiot who didn’t take this seriously, so I reluctantly got out of my car and joined them. We had to step over a guardrail, and a small stream of water. A little girl was crying, and being urged by her dad to leap over the water and climb the dirt and rock hill—it wasn’t one of those nice concrete underpasses. I knew my fabric sandals were history.
I joined the mass of people huddled at the top. The noise of the storm—the rain and the wind, was so loud. Oh the humanity! But were we united together, attempting to comfort and encourage and help one another? No, I think just about everyone under that bridge had a cell phone stuck to their ear, probably unable to hear the impassioned last goodbyes of their loved ones. That was a strange moment, thinking how we were so isolated while being together—cell phones may be one of the worst inventions ever when it’s all said and done.
And then, probably less than two minutes later, it was all over. The rain and wind instantly stopped. I looked around a minute, seeing nothing but the concrete under the bridge, and then decided I needed to step out into the real world and survey the damage.
I think I was the first to leave the confines of our safehouse, and found there was no damage to see. I looked east, and the sky was blue and cheery. I looked west, and the black cloud was being swept away. But underneath stretched a long black line from high in the sky all the way to the ground. It looked like a black thread being dangled from the sky, and it was dancing around just like I’d seen in pictures, back and forth, in a teasing sort of way. I thought, "By golly, it’s a tornado. My first ever. Won’t Brian be jealous? All his life he’s wanted to see a tornado." I watched it for several minutes, dancing back and forth, back and forth. It was probably a quarter of a mile away from me.
I was startled from my fascination when I heard the blast of an airhorn right below me. Some guy in a semi wanted me to move the car! I glanced around, and everyone was gone. So I hurried down the hill, jumped in the truck, and took off. In five minutes, I was driving on dry pavement, with no sign of any storm. The day was just as beautiful as it had been when I had left home.
I glanced at my watch. As thrilling as it had been, the day’s diversion really hadn’t taken much time. I still had time to stick to my original plan and return something at a store near the airport. I really wanted to do it, because they had a 30-day return policy, and I wasn’t planning on being back in the area anytime soon. But I now had muddy feet. I decided not to let that stop me, and when I arrived at the parking lot in the city, I found a puddle to rinse my feet and shoes off in, and went inside.
I was still terribly excited, and wanted to tell somebody about my adventure. When it was my turn to let the girl ring up my return, I told her, "Guess what? I just saw a tornado!" She looked at me, said "uh-huh," and went right back to the task at hand. Guess she wasn’t too impressed, or thought I was just a nutcase.
When I had called my boys to check on them at home, I found they had gone in from the yard work and were safe in the basement playing video games. When I told them my adventure story, Aaron, the 16-year old, said, "Mom! Don’t you know that’s the most dangerous place you can go in a tornado??" And sure enough, that evening on the TV, I saw a report with footage of people being blown out from under an overpass. Oops. I had just been a silly ignoramus, just following the crowd, like sheep to the slaughter. There’s a great spiritual lesson there—just because everybody’s doing it, doesn’t make it right. Now I know, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. And yes, my husband is jealous, because I’ve seen a tornado and he hasn’t.
I must have messed up my knee Tuesday night. Ashlie, my darling daughter-in-law, and I were out walking and having a grand old time--two other neighbors had joined us, it had gotten dark, we were doing our fifth mile, and I still had plenty of energy. Ashlie and I were running up a hill--I had my throttle wide open, going as fast as I could, and I looked over at her running next to me and said, "I feel like beating you this time." She looked at me and took off like the Roadrunner, leaving me in her dust. God knows I need humbling on a regular basis.
I felt great when I went to bed a little later, but when I first stepped out of bed the next morning, something had gone very wrong with my left knee. It was all wobbly, felt like it wouldn’t support me. I was mystified, and limped around all day. It hurt a little, but not too bad, it just felt like I was going to fall on the ground with every step I took.
This bummed me out. No exercise today. And our annual summer vacation mountain climbing trip was just a few weeks away. I know too many people with bad knees that never get better. I asked my Father to heal it, and continued to baby it. I woke up this morning, and even before I got out of bed, I knew I was once again 100 percent well. WOO--HOO! I’M HEALED!!! THANK YOU JESUS!!!!
OK, OK, I can see you rolling your eyes, thinking "religious fanatic" and that it probably just healed up of its own accord, after a day of rest. "It’s not a miracle at all, just the restorative power of the human body."
Excuse me??? The restorative power of the human body??? WHO gave it that restorative power? Show me another machine that can spontaneously "heal" itself! Your car? I don’t think so! This computer? hahahahaha... Only LIVING things have that power--and where does that life come from?
George MacDonald said, "The miracles of Jesus are the works of His Father wrought small and swift that we might take them in." His protege, C.S. Lewis, said, "Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see."
Jesus turned water to wine at a wedding, and all marveled. But His Father turns water to wine everyday, on a far grander scale, albeit much slower. He causes WATER to fall from the sky onto vineyards, for that water to soak the ground below and to be absorbed into the roots of those vines. He causes the sun to shine, and uses the energy from the sun to cause grapes to grow, which are then harvested and pressed. The juice from those grapes is put into barrels or bottles, and voila! WINE results! Who else can do such a thing? No one, it’s IMPOSSIBLE.
Jesus brought Lazarus, a man dead four days, back to life. But the Father continues His project of bringing millions from death to life, from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of light. It’s on a much bigger scale, but shrouded in mystery and promise, a regeneration that is very slowly worked out, seen and understood only by those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.
Who healed my knee? God healed my knee! Was it "supernatural"? I don’t know, and I really don’t care. It doesn’t matter. God is the source of everything that’s good in my life. I’m rejoicing that my knee is back to normal, and walked two miles this morning just to make sure. I’m trying hard to take good care of the body God gave me, since it’s the only one I have. I know it’s not going to last forever, and someday will let me down. I want to have the grace and maturity to praise Him no matter what. He is my All in All.
A semi-amazing thing has happened, a further unfolding of the prodigal cat saga. In case you missed the story which I posted in March, we adopted two 5 month old kittens from the pound in January. It turned out to be a very frustrating experience, and in the end I cast them both into the outer darkness (the great outdoors in this case).
I finally had my fill of taking care of cats who hated me and refused to interact in anyway.
(there’s a spiritual lesson here.)
After a few days, Buechner (named after one of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner) humbled herself and came home. It was a while before she was fully domesticated, but we now have a cordial, and occasionally very loving, relationship.
Her sister, however, Yancey (after Philip Yancey, another favorite author) hardened her heart, hissed out her hatred, and set off to see what the wide world had to offer her. We caught a glimpse of her in the bushes late one night about two weeks later, but finally realized she was gone for good. Or so we thought.
Last night I took a walk, and ended up in my neighbor’s yard visiting. Ironically, Gary was telling the story of how he once shot a cat who was stinking up his yard with a 22 automatic handgun. He was telling how he fired five shots--- bam! bam! bam! bam! bam!—and the cat just stood there. He was shocked, wondered how he could have missed, and fired again. Bam! bam! bam! bam! bam! The cat looked at him, and then fell over on his side. Dead. With ten bullet holes. Gary said he felt like a real gangster, went to the garage, wiped his gun off, and then got a brown paper bag, put the cat inside, and walked down the road. When no one was looking, he tossed the bag in the ditch.
I said, "Ok, neighbor—I want you to know I have a CAT. And I don’t want her shot full of holes. In fact, I used to have TWO cats, I just haven’t seen one of them in a few months." We then began to discuss what these two cats looked like, and Gary assured me the other thing had happened a long time ago, and he had no intention of repeating his crime.
It had gotten dark while we were talking, and I was going to head home when suddenly a cat appeared at the edge of the yard. I couldn’t see it very clearly, thought it might be Buechner, but realized there was too much white fur—they are both long haired, but Buechner is a chocolate and caramel calico, while Yancey is a grey and white tabby.
I wondered if perhaps, ironically, my prodigal had returned.
The cat darted about the yard in the dark, meowing plaintively. And so I began to also dart about the yard, creeping as I got closer. She ran across the street into a construction site, and hid in some weeds. The only way I could locate her was the continued meow, an invitation to come closer, to not give up the search. Everytime I would draw near, she would run a few yards further away. She led me on a chase, and then began to throw herself on her back and squirm as if she wanted to be picked up. This was one confused cat, but five minutes into the pursuit, I knew it was Yancey. Amazing.
I spent about fifteen minutes in the dark playing this game with her. She would draw close to my outstretched fingers, but when I tried to touch her, she would run.
It was frustrating, but this was my cat, and I was surprised at the affection I felt for her, despite my exasperation. And then I did touch her, and she wilted. She came willingly into my arms, and I carried her home, stroking her all the way.
She was a mess. She was covered with cockleburs and matted hair, and there wasn’t much meat on her bones. Living away from the master’s house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I took her inside, into the laundry room, and got some cat food for her, and she began to inhale it. I spent forty five minutes trying to clean her up, and she ate most of that time like a starved wolf. It was pathetic.
I was trying to be gentle, but occasionally she would hiss at me when I pulled a little too hard on her hair. She was starved for food, but she was also starved for affection, and she wanted to be loved. She frantically stuck her nose under my hand again and again, wanting to be petted.
Yancey spent the night in the laundry room, and was docile and calm when I got up this morning. I hadn’t completely got the mats and burrs out, but she was decidedly improved. I decided to take her outside.
Buechner was asleep under the grill, and got up when I opened the door. I sat Yancey down, she saw Buechner, arched her back and hissed. "Good grief, it’s your sister," I said. Buechner was indifferent.
I saw Yancey a little later, running around the side of the house. I hope she’s around tonight. I can only do what I can do. The rest is up to Yancey.
Paris Hilton and St. Francis of Assisi--a study in contrasts....
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Paris Hilton went back to jail yesterday. She went crying and screaming, "It’s not fair!" And then, "Mom!" And if Mom could have prevented it, she would have. She’s always been able to before, but not now.
I’m happy for her, and more hopeful than ever! That’s not sarcasm, and it’s not malice, not a matter of wanting to see her suffer. But this is the first time Paris Hilton has had to face a higher authority, when her money and social status has not been able to buy her out of a jam.
I’ve been thinking about what I would say to Paris Hilton if somehow we were alone in a room for an hour—what I might say to try to convince her that the Christian life is real and authentic and that Jesus is the answer—HER answer. How I would try to make her see that she is living a life heading for disaster—a life of death heading for more death. I wasn’t feeling real hopeful at the prospect of convincing her to rethink her life.
Luke’s account of the Sermon on the Mount lists some "woes"—"Woe to you who are rich, for you are receiving your comfort in full. Woe to you who are well-fed now, for your shall be hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep." Jesus is remarking that those who have no needs, or who sense no needs, are in danger of missing out on the Kingdom of God. They are happy with the way things are, and therefore don’t desire change, don’t hungry and thirst after something different.
Even the secular media is decrying the shameless narcissism and me-attitudes of the twenty-something Hollywood crowd. They seem to live for nothing but pleasure, for one party after another. They have no sense of social obligation—in actuality, no obligations whatsoever. But now Paris, the poor little rich girl, has an opportunity she’s never had before. She has an opportunity to do nothing at all for forty-five days--no parties, no shopping, no friends, just time to think. And that opportunity comes right upon the heels of learning that she really is not the master of her fate, the captain of her ship, the one who calls all the shots. There is a higher authority she has to answer to.
So I said a prayer for Paris, that she might at last, like the prodigal son of the Gospels, "come to herself." That she would suddenly realize that there is more to life, an obligation, that she would become aware of the reality of God. Paris has had what some would consider a privileged life—and this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
