I make it a practice, every morning to read scripture. This is my personal time of study, prayer and devotions to God. And it never fails that regardless where I’m focusing my attention that God will bring something to the front of my mind that I’ve never really seen before. Any of your guys ever have that happen to you?
The other morning I was reading in the Old Testament studying that time after God had brought His people out of slavery in Egypt and under Joshua’s leadership was giving them the promised land, one battle at a time - this verse caught my eye:
Judges 1:6-7 (NASB)
But Adoni-bezek fled; and they pursued him and caught him and cut off his thumbs and big toes.
7Adoni-bezek said, "Seventy kings with their thumbs and their big toes cut off used to gather up scraps under my table; as I have done, so God has repaid me." So they brought him to Jerusalem and he died there.
WOW! Can you imagine – having both your thumbs and both your big toes cut off? I read that and stopped dead in my tracks, trying to think just what that would be like. How humiliating. Especially for a warrior – instead of a steady and purposeful walk, I’d always forever after be wobbly with unsure feet. And that’s not to mention never being able to handle a sword again which I think was the weapon of choice then. I mean, how’d I even hold a fork? You know a lot of scientists say that the biggest difference between humans and other mammals are our apposing thumbs…………. Needless to say I spent several days just pondering having my big toes and both my thumbs cut off.
I just kept going back time and time again to these two verses and I finally landed on that 2nd verse. King Adoni-bezek himself had done this very same thing to 70 kings who afterwards were reduced to gather the scraps from under his table as they were no longer able to provide for themselves……
When I was a little girl, I loved to hang out with the adults. Listen in on their conversations and maybe if I was lucky be the center of attention for a little while. I remember it feeling so good, and eventually I’d start acting out a little – something my Mother called being “brigaddy.” Any of you ever hear that word, brigaddy? Anyway I’d start showing off, and one of the adults (usually one of the Aunts) would look me straight in the eye and say, “Little girl you’d better watch yourself, cause you’re going to reap what you sow.” Might not always be those exact words, sometimes it was “Laugh now, cry later;” Or “won’t be near as much fun if your Daddy catches you acting like that!” Man did they know how to dampen a party and bring me down. Because regardless of their exact words, I got their meaning! I was acting badly and I was going to pay for that bad behavior! I was going to reap the consequences for my behavior.
The more I read the more it seemed to me that King Adoni-bezek must have grown up around some of my relatives because he certainly was “getting” that same concept. He himself said, “As I have done, so God has repaid me.”
Now while I believe that there are consequences for my behavior, it doesn’t always set well with me when I’m pondering God’s mercy and grace in the New Testament with His “an eye for eye and a tooth for a tooth” in the Old. Any of you ever think like that, or am I the only one?
I mean it sort of seems that God is pretty ticked off through a lot of the Old Testament. Just look how quickly the victory in chapter 1 of Judges turns to God’s anger in chapter 2. It seems almost instantly the Israelites have gone and done it again and it isn’t near as much fun when Daddy catches them acting badly again!
Judges 2:20-23 (NLT)
So the anger of the LORD burned against Israel, and He said, "Because this nation has transgressed My covenant which I commanded their fathers and has not listened to My voice,
21(I also will no longer drive out before them any of the nations which Joshua left when he died,
22in order to (test Israel by them, whether they will keep the way of the LORD to walk in it as their fathers did, or not."
23So the LORD allowed those nations to remain, not driving them out quickly; and He did not give them into the hand of Joshua.
So which is He? Is He the “Eye for an Eye,” God or the “Mercy and Grace,” Savior?
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t come up with an answer that made sense to me, so I decided to just keep reading and trusting that God is love and love is all about mercy and love is all about grace and trusting is all about faith. Faith that even when I can’t understand and don’t have the capacity for it that God is always faithful and true and can be trusted. Then I came to the third chapter of Judges.
Judges 3:1-2 (NLT)
These are the nations that the Lord left in the land to test those Israelites who had not experienced the wars of Canaan. 2 He did this to teach warfare to generations of Israelites who had no experience in battle.
Wait a minute, maybe it’s not about punishment at all. Maybe it’s about discipline? One definition of discipline is; “Training expected to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior.”
God wasn’t just being mean, punishing the Israelites for bad behavior. He was disciplining them – teaching them to be warriors so they could defend themselves. He loved them so much that He wanted them prepared for life and even though it was in His power to do so, for some reason He just didn’t hand it over to them - they had to do some work for it. Really sounds like a parent doesn’t it. His heart was for His children’s good, so He allowed a situation, circumstance, through which they could learn a specific character or pattern of behavior – He had an outcome in mind other than retribution! He wanted them successfully involved in their outcomes!
So this thought begs the question, when was the last time you had your thumbs and big toes cut off? What was your situation? Did you, like King Adoni-bezek, believe or even say, “God has repaid me?” Or maybe you tried to figure out what you’d done that made God mad enough to bring the catastrophe, this situation I'm seeing as punishment?
But let’s take a closer look.
Judges 2:11-16
The Israelites did evil in the Lord’s sight and served the images of Baal. They abandoned the lord, the God of their ancestors, who had brought them out of Egypt. They went after other gods, worshiping the gods of the people around them. And they angered the Lord. They abandoned the Lord to serve Baal and the images of Ashtoreth. This made the Lord burn with anger against Israel, so He handed them over to their enemies all around, and they were no longer able to resist them, causing them to be defected as as He had warned. And the people were in great distress.
Let’s continue....
Judges 1:16 Then the Lord raised up judges to rescue the Israelites from their attackers.
Now, let that all sink in just for a minute. How many times have I always focused on the “punishment,” here and not really comprehended everything that is being communicated.
1) They had been warned, time and time again - instructed on how to behave. Were told that they behavior had consequences. They refused to listen, like many children, believing they knew what was best and that they didn’t have to follow God’s
(Daddy's) instructions.
2) When their behavior opened the door to catastrophe, like most children do - they cried out to their Daddy (God) to take over and save them and get them out of a horrible situation (one created by their behavior).
3)God’s love for His children is so strong that even though it happened time and time and He knew they’d behave badly again and again, He stepped in with a plan to save them. (Judges 1:16)
He forgave them, put a plan in place that would give them the tools to be successful and it didn’t cost them anything. All they had to do was receive it. Sounds pretty good doesn’t it? Sounds like mercy, grace and love to me. Sounds like I've been focusing on the wrong portion of the scriptures!
According to Timothy Keller’s book “Prodigal God;” “Mercy and forgiveness must be free and unmerited to the wrongdoer - if the wrongdoer has to do something to merit it, then it isn’t mercy.” But this doesn’t mean that forgiveness is free, “forgiveness always comes at a cost to the One granting the forgiveness.”
You see God not only stepped in with a plan to save the Israelites this time, but because He’s God, He knew that they’d need help time and time again. He knew that we’d never be able to manage it either on our own either. He knew that forgiveness would be costly, not to us - but to Him. As Keller writes, “Jesus was stripped naked of His robe and dignity so that we could be clothed with a dignity and standing we don’t deserve. On the cross Jesus was treated as an outcast so that we could be brought into God’s family freely by grace. There Jesus drank the cup of eternal justice so that we might have the cup of the Father’s joy. There was no other way for the heavenly Father to bring us in, except at the expense of our true elder brother.”
He loves me so much that He's willing to discipline me as any good parent does and He willing paid the costs involved in forgiveness. How awesome is that?
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
We Forgot Music
We gathered at the church with our immediate family and two best friends, so the church was mostly empty. The preacher performing the ceremony was from my parent’s church, he stood with a solemn expression just in front of the altar. No one thought to lower the lights and I was blinded by their glare as I sat three pews back beside my Mom.
Someone finally took charge, I don’t remember who, and I was directed to the front. My dress, pink over pink, was short - striking just above my knee. His suit brown, perhaps the first one his parent’s had ever gotten for him, and a green shirt. I was shocked by that green shirt, it just didn’t seem appropriate for the occasion.
My best friend stood beside me as my maid of honor. We arranged for his little sister to be flower girl but hadn’t bothered with actually bringing any petals for her to drop. Our wedding rings, plan gold bands to precious for us to trust to my nephew to carry as ring barer. His father’s words still ringing in my ears of our irresponsible in spending money on such nonsense as those rings.
As I stood just in front of the preacher waiting for the service to begin, my mind traveled back over the past two months. His mom’s anger and never ending lament of “How could you do this to me?” His father grim statement, “Well son you’re stuck with her now;” speaking as though I was invisible and not standing there right beside his son as he spoke.
I couldn’t figure out why my parents allowed his father, after long fervent insisting, to take me on that mad trip to Paris, Va (without them) thinking we could “secretly” get married there even though only 17. Or his bringing us into his kitchen and chastising us (me) for telling someone that I was pregnant as though anyone with any awareness couldn’t easily see that I was only gaining weight around my waist. Besides it wasn’t like it was going to be going away.
The Ceremony finally began and was over very quickly. The only sound I remember, the clicking of my knees as I tried to stand still and pay attention to what the preacher was saying.
I signed the marriage license then as he signed his name, I stood just behind him twisting the wedding band round and round on my finger wondering if I just say it right now and take the ring off before we walk out of the church that this craziness would end and we’d not be married. I could just go back to being a senior in high school.
But I didn’t say a word - just stood there in total silence and to this day the one memory that over shadows all others is the deafening silence. The wedding, with no joy, no congratulations, and absolutely no music.
Someone finally took charge, I don’t remember who, and I was directed to the front. My dress, pink over pink, was short - striking just above my knee. His suit brown, perhaps the first one his parent’s had ever gotten for him, and a green shirt. I was shocked by that green shirt, it just didn’t seem appropriate for the occasion.
My best friend stood beside me as my maid of honor. We arranged for his little sister to be flower girl but hadn’t bothered with actually bringing any petals for her to drop. Our wedding rings, plan gold bands to precious for us to trust to my nephew to carry as ring barer. His father’s words still ringing in my ears of our irresponsible in spending money on such nonsense as those rings.
As I stood just in front of the preacher waiting for the service to begin, my mind traveled back over the past two months. His mom’s anger and never ending lament of “How could you do this to me?” His father grim statement, “Well son you’re stuck with her now;” speaking as though I was invisible and not standing there right beside his son as he spoke.
I couldn’t figure out why my parents allowed his father, after long fervent insisting, to take me on that mad trip to Paris, Va (without them) thinking we could “secretly” get married there even though only 17. Or his bringing us into his kitchen and chastising us (me) for telling someone that I was pregnant as though anyone with any awareness couldn’t easily see that I was only gaining weight around my waist. Besides it wasn’t like it was going to be going away.
The Ceremony finally began and was over very quickly. The only sound I remember, the clicking of my knees as I tried to stand still and pay attention to what the preacher was saying.
I signed the marriage license then as he signed his name, I stood just behind him twisting the wedding band round and round on my finger wondering if I just say it right now and take the ring off before we walk out of the church that this craziness would end and we’d not be married. I could just go back to being a senior in high school.
But I didn’t say a word - just stood there in total silence and to this day the one memory that over shadows all others is the deafening silence. The wedding, with no joy, no congratulations, and absolutely no music.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I Too Have a Dream
My entire life I’ve really struggled with understanding racial prejudice. How is it that the pigmentation in our skins – a detail created by less than a 2% difference in our DNA – can create a situation or mind set that allows a person to think less of a group of people and more of themselves?
In the mid-fifties while I was a little girl, my family moved from the hills of Eastern Kentucky to Huntington, WV. Our house was located directly across the street from a good sized hospital where many of the employees were people of color. This was the first time in my life that I can remember ever seeing anyone who really didn’t look like me and I was totally fascinated. I would set on the front porch with my mother and watch the people as they came and went from work; talking with each other, joking, laughing - with skin that looked to me like chocolate silk. I wanted to get closer, to be able to touch that skin and look directly into their eyes, maybe even talk with them some, but my mother’s answer to that request was, “stop staring Peggy, it’s not polite.”
Before I was in grade school we moved across the Ohio River to Chesapeake, Ohio, which for all intents and purposes was a totally white community. So, the only time I’d see anyone of color would either be on television (usually the news), or on our twice monthly public transportation rides (we rode the City Bus) to town to pay bills and to do a little shopping. As we journeyed, the bus stopped frequently allowing people on and off and it was a mix, a casserole, of skin colors and nationalities. Once again I was totally fascinated. I wanted to get closer – to touch and see. But my Mother’s voice was still loud and clear; “Peggy, stop staring it’s not polite!”
I remember watching Martin Luther King on the news in 1963 as he gave his address “I’ve Got a Dream!” I can still feel the chills and the emotion it brought to me even at the tender age of eight. His words motivated me and I wanted to go and be an active part of the solution instead of part of the problem. It was around this time that I discovered books, so a whole world opened up to me and I remember reading the library out on every book that covered the topic of the Underground Railroad - I identified which of the houses just to the east of us were a part of that road to freedom so many years ago and my active imagination would run through different scenarios of those journeys, the hardship, the hiding in the dark, the perils to both the runaway and those assisting them.
It’s not that I wasn’t aware of prejudice, even though I lived in an entire “white” community and thus didn’t see it in action - I did hear the talk. I heard the conversations that the adults thought were going over my head as I sat on the floor playing jacks. And, I remember all too well the times that I was urged to be quiet when I so desperately wanted to question what I heard, being told that I was just too young to understand… Well I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now.
I’m not saying that I can understand any person’s or ethic group’s personal struggle, just as they cannot totally and completely understand mine. I’m just trying to figure out why we have to approach our differences in this manner.
Maybe it has more to do with an individual that I recently had to let go from work. You see I supervised her and her supervisor during her short tenure and while it wouldn’t be appropriate to go into the reasons for the dismissal, it never entered my mind to let her go for any reason other than her individual conduct and performance. Yet, now she is saying is was because she is a person of color. She appears to be on a massive campaign (not her first during her employ with us) trying to involve the media and trying to discredit not only me, but my company as well. Never touching on the personal responsibility that is hers based on her actions that has nothing to do with race.
My usual response is to stay quiet, not speak out, not question; because as my Mother used to admonish me, it’s just not polite. But is that the correct response? Is it okay to lay blame where it doesn’t belong, to create reasons that don’t exist just because there is always someone who is going to be willing to listen and believe? I know that the answer to that question is it is going to occur that way because we live in a fallen world after all. But God is in charge and all things work to the good of those who love Him and are called to His purpose. So my prayer today is that God rains multiple blessings on this woman. Blessings of provision and blessings of peace – that He place people in her life that will help her along her walk and that He draw her closer to Him with each and every breath she takes. I ask this for myself as well and that He completely blankets us both in His truth.
In the mid-fifties while I was a little girl, my family moved from the hills of Eastern Kentucky to Huntington, WV. Our house was located directly across the street from a good sized hospital where many of the employees were people of color. This was the first time in my life that I can remember ever seeing anyone who really didn’t look like me and I was totally fascinated. I would set on the front porch with my mother and watch the people as they came and went from work; talking with each other, joking, laughing - with skin that looked to me like chocolate silk. I wanted to get closer, to be able to touch that skin and look directly into their eyes, maybe even talk with them some, but my mother’s answer to that request was, “stop staring Peggy, it’s not polite.”
Before I was in grade school we moved across the Ohio River to Chesapeake, Ohio, which for all intents and purposes was a totally white community. So, the only time I’d see anyone of color would either be on television (usually the news), or on our twice monthly public transportation rides (we rode the City Bus) to town to pay bills and to do a little shopping. As we journeyed, the bus stopped frequently allowing people on and off and it was a mix, a casserole, of skin colors and nationalities. Once again I was totally fascinated. I wanted to get closer – to touch and see. But my Mother’s voice was still loud and clear; “Peggy, stop staring it’s not polite!”
I remember watching Martin Luther King on the news in 1963 as he gave his address “I’ve Got a Dream!” I can still feel the chills and the emotion it brought to me even at the tender age of eight. His words motivated me and I wanted to go and be an active part of the solution instead of part of the problem. It was around this time that I discovered books, so a whole world opened up to me and I remember reading the library out on every book that covered the topic of the Underground Railroad - I identified which of the houses just to the east of us were a part of that road to freedom so many years ago and my active imagination would run through different scenarios of those journeys, the hardship, the hiding in the dark, the perils to both the runaway and those assisting them.
It’s not that I wasn’t aware of prejudice, even though I lived in an entire “white” community and thus didn’t see it in action - I did hear the talk. I heard the conversations that the adults thought were going over my head as I sat on the floor playing jacks. And, I remember all too well the times that I was urged to be quiet when I so desperately wanted to question what I heard, being told that I was just too young to understand… Well I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now.
I’m not saying that I can understand any person’s or ethic group’s personal struggle, just as they cannot totally and completely understand mine. I’m just trying to figure out why we have to approach our differences in this manner.
Maybe it has more to do with an individual that I recently had to let go from work. You see I supervised her and her supervisor during her short tenure and while it wouldn’t be appropriate to go into the reasons for the dismissal, it never entered my mind to let her go for any reason other than her individual conduct and performance. Yet, now she is saying is was because she is a person of color. She appears to be on a massive campaign (not her first during her employ with us) trying to involve the media and trying to discredit not only me, but my company as well. Never touching on the personal responsibility that is hers based on her actions that has nothing to do with race.
My usual response is to stay quiet, not speak out, not question; because as my Mother used to admonish me, it’s just not polite. But is that the correct response? Is it okay to lay blame where it doesn’t belong, to create reasons that don’t exist just because there is always someone who is going to be willing to listen and believe? I know that the answer to that question is it is going to occur that way because we live in a fallen world after all. But God is in charge and all things work to the good of those who love Him and are called to His purpose. So my prayer today is that God rains multiple blessings on this woman. Blessings of provision and blessings of peace – that He place people in her life that will help her along her walk and that He draw her closer to Him with each and every breath she takes. I ask this for myself as well and that He completely blankets us both in His truth.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Mom
Perhaps the best place to start is at the beginning of the end. That day wasn’t much different than many of the others that I had had to face with my Dad. Began with a phone call, “Peg, this is Dad. Your Mother has fallen and I can’t manage to get her up by myself.” “Have you called an ambulance?” “Should I? I called just before I called you.” “Is she conscience?” “Yes.” “What happened?” “She was on her way to the bedroom, with her walker, she stopped at the doorway – there just over the floor furnace grate. I asked her what was wrong, and she said her legs were going to give way. I tried to catch her, but before I could get there she was on her knees, holding herself up with just her arms. I was trying to get onto floor with her, but there wasn’t much room to maneuver, she said that perhaps she could push herself with my help through the door and over to her bed, and we could get her up from there. I moved the walker to give this a try. We hadn’t really started when she said she thought her arms were going to give way too, her arms began that uncontrollable tremble, before I could react her arms gave out and she fell hard to the floor. Hit her head.” “Dad, you’re taking her straight to the Emergency Room?” “Yes.” “I’ll meet you there.”
I was at work, in the warehouse when the phone call came and while not that different from the dozens of other phone calls I had received from Dad over the past two years since Mom’s stoke, this call took my breath. I felt like I had jumped into a pool filled with ice water, and even though it was an unseasonably warm evening in October I broke out in goose bumps and a cold sweat.
I ran down the rickety steps to the ground floor. Calmly stated, “Got to go, Mom’s fallen and I need to meet Dad at the hospital.” Concern from those present, “Is she okay?” “No, I don’t think so.” Their questions came heavy and slow as though being filtered through thick syrup, my statements and responses coming from somewhere outside of myself. Silently screaming at myself, “Hurry, Hurry! How can you be so calm!”
The drive in many ways seemed longer than normal, yet because of my fears and what I thought I would have to face it ended to quickly. “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she has to go tonight, please let it be after I get there, please God, please God,” I pleaded over and over again. That drive is magnified in my mind’s eye. The night sky clear and dark with a golden tint coming from where the sun had just fallen beneath the horizon. The lights from the Ashland building on the hill over the 6th Street exit sparkle as I pass. How can it be so beautiful? How can anything bad happen on a night such as this one? “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she must go tonight, please let me there before she leaves. God, please. God, please.”
I was so sure of this day’s outcome that I called my boss while in route. “Mom’s fallen, I’m going to meet her and Dad at the Emergency Room.” “Is she okay? she asked.” “No, I don’t think so. You’ll need to call Roger and make sure the warehouse is covered, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t think that I will be available.” “Call me when you know something,” concern in her voice. “I’ll do my best.”
I try calling my sister, no answer at either her Charleston or Charlotte numbers. I leave messages at both. “Sharon, this is Peggy. I’m on the way to meet Dad at the Emergency Room. Mom fell in the hallway, on top of the furnace grate.” I call my older brother, and though nearly paralyzed with fear, I assure him that everything is okay (Oh God, please let it be so) and that I’ll call from the hospital. He is to call our other brother, Tom. After I hang up I wonder why I said that? Do I really believe that everything is going to be okay? I’m afraid that I’m so selfish that the reason is that I want her last living moment to be with me, only me. No, that’s not it – she is going to be alright, she will be going home. I’m not ready to be without my Mother.
Mom reached the hospital in her ambulance at almost the same time that my Dad and I arrive in our cars. I’m directed back to a small room, where my mother is lying on a hospital gurney much to small for her girth, already in a hospital gown her body is doing it’s best to bust out of. She has managed to keep her pants on though and appears more comfortable for that fact. Her nose is scraped and there’s a small red bump coming up just to the side of her forehead.
I lean over and stroke her face and hair with both my hands. She looks into my eyes and smiles. States in no uncertain terms, “I need to pee now!” Before I can get the nurses to get me a bedpan it’s too late, Mom soils her pants. No problem, easy clean up. “I love you Mama,” I say over and over again. I feel foolish, so sure this was the end. Yes she’s bruised, but in fine spirits. Talkative as usual, a magpie.
Hospital personnel arrive and whisk her away for a CAT scan. Dad and I wait in her small room. He repeats the events of the day. Mom got up with a headache, maybe he should have taken more notice. She has chronic headaches, how was he to know that this one might be different. How will he get her home, they will have to keep her until she can walk. If she can’t walk how will he take care of her. The thoughts swirling around and around in his head are coming in a steady stream out his mouth. I try to calm him the best I can, feeling such relief that my mother appears not to be at death’s door that I find a spot on the floor and finally allow my body to just give way onto it. The multitude of problems that are facing Dad too insignificant in comparison with my thoughts up to this point.
Mother’s return to her room in the same high spirits. Restarts the conversation as though she hasn’t been gone for the better part of an hour. Her conversation is music, never ending soothing music. “Peggy, I dreamed of Dale today.”
Dale is my aunt, not by blood but by decision. She is the daughter of my grandmother’s (my father’s mother) second husband. Dale lived most of my life on and off with us as I was growing up, like a sister to my Mother and a surrogate mother to me. She died on December 3, 1992.
“What was your dream? I ask Mom.” “I dreamed I was somewhere with Dale, but I don’t know exactly where, it’s wasn’t familiar. We were taking care of a baby. That baby was the prettiest little thing, had blond hair. Oh, Peggy we were having the best time! I really hated to wake up.”
“Peg, I got to go again.” “No problem, I’ll go get the nurses.” Again, too late.
For the next several hours Mom needed to go like clockwork every 15 minutes. “What did you drink today?” “Nothing different. Oh, there I go again. No warning that time.” The nurses finally wise up and put in a catheter.
The doctor comes in, stays two minutes and leaves. The physician’s assistant comes in and says that the CAT scan is really unremarkable. Shows us what “might” be a shadow, or it could be where she moved during the procedure. If it’s a shadow, it’s probably where her brain is bruised from the fall. They’ll let us know more later.
I still think that we will be taking Mom home that night, Dad doesn’t think so. If she can’t walk how will he get home much less take care of her. We’ll cross that bridge when it comes is all I can think.
More tests and more waiting. Mom magically scoots to the foot of the mini-bed and is unable to get herself rearranged. The nurses are called again and get her back in position. The PA returns stating they will be keeping Mom over night for observation.
Mom hates being in the hospital. All her life it’s been one thing or the other, mostly asthma and she dreads every moment given over to a stay. She doesn’t like to stay alone. I’m torn, because I know this. I also know that I will need to go to work tomorrow and that I will be dead tired after sleeping in a chair by her bedside. “Mom, would you like for me to stay with you.” “Peggy I hate for you to have to do that, with your bad back and all.” “I don’t mind, I love being with you. I will need to run to the house though, bring the dog in the house and get some clothes for work tomorrow. Dad can you get back by say 7:30 or 8:00am?” Dad smiles, “earlier if you want.” “No, 8:00am will be fine.” “Dad, you won’t go before I get back will you?” “No, as a matter of fact she’ll probably still be here – you know how slow this place is to do anything.”
I kiss my Mother, telling her I’ll be back as soon as possible. My Mother’s last words to me are, “I really hate for you to do this, are you sure you don’t mind?”
I arrive home, still relieved and begin to prepare for the next day. It’s after midnight and my poor dog has been chained up outside since 7:00am! She is wired and needing to play. After I pack I set down to play with the dog and work off some of her energy before I put her in her crate. The phone rings.
“Peggy, you better get back fast.” My fathers words over the line. “Why? What’s happened.” Not long after you left Mom wanted to set up on the side of the bed so I helped her up. She started picking at the bottoms of my shirt, trying to rip them off. Then she started trying to get up off the bed. I said, “Inas, what are you doing? You know you can’t get up, and you’re going to rip my shirt.” She told me plan as day, “Yes I can. I’m going to walk over there and set in that chair for a while.” Well, I talked her out of that then she began trying to rip the buttons off my shirt again. I knew something wasn’t right so I got the nurses. They have your Mom back doing another CAT scan.
I’m on my way.
I don’t remember one moment of this second trip to the hospital. It is as though I was home and then suddenly I was back at the hospital.
Mother is in a different room, larger so that more hospital personnel can get in and care for her. The PA meets me at the door. “The CAT scan shows a large accident. She’s bleeding into her brain. The speech area of her brain is gone, she won’t be able to speak to you and I think most of her memory will be going soon as well.” Blunt and to the point, but she did keep her hand on my shoulder through the entire conversation. She walked me over to show me proof on the CAT scan film. There was a dark ball taking up about a quarter of Mom’s brain.
I run to Mom’s room. The nurses carefully explain that Mother can’t speak to me, but can hear everything. That it would be good for me to talk with her, reassure her, tell her goodbye.
I walk up the bed. Larger this time, cradling her girth. I lean over the bed and stroke her face and hair with both my hands, “Mom, I love you. Have they explained to you what’s happened?” She looks up at me, a very direct look, unreadable. Fear isn’t mirrored there, only longing. I’m struck with just how beautiful my Mother really is. Her eyes are simply fantastic.
I see peace there, in my Mother’s eyes. And something else – perhaps longing. Dad returns. Confused and in denial. Tells me that another doctor was there earlier wanting to make some decisions, but he told him to come back after I got there.
The Doctor arrives and wants to talk about our options. Dad wants to leave Mom’s room, the doctor states even though she can’t speak she can hear us perfectly well, that any conversation we have regarding her is her right to hear.
He breaks horrible news. There is a massive bleed and there won’t, no can’t, be full recovery. He tells us that if she lives, and it will be a miracle if that happens even with dynamic effort, she probably won’t remember any of us and she’ll definitely never be able to speak again.
By this time Mom has slipped away, still alive but unconscious and who knows if she can hear us or not.
The doctor’s news is grim and Dad is barely in control. I ask the doctor, if we go for dynamic measures what does that involve. He describes surgery, busting into Mom’s brain by removing a portion of her skull - massive long procedure that can only be done after they get her blood thickened (she has been on blood thinner for years). He explains that the very act of taking her off the blood thinners may create a clot that either migrates to the lungs or the brain which in itself may end up killing her. I look the doctor dead in the eyes and ask him point blank - is your mother still alive. He answers yes. If it were your mother, right here, right now and you were making the decision for her - what would you decision be? He doesn’t hesitate, tells me that he’d take her off of all live support and medications, thus creating a situation where she would simply fade away from us.
Dad and I discuss the options and decide to go with the doctors recommendations. Just after the decision is made, my brothers arrive and everything has to be retold and the decisions made again. I’m beyond exhausted and feel as though if they don’t stop talking that my head is going to explode. Finally, they wheel Mom to her room and I set up to spend the night.
That night turned into six nights. People came and people went, I flew my kids in from across the country (my son from California and my daughter from Texas) so that they could say goodbye to a warm body. I went for 72 hours before my body forced sleep on me - so afraid that she’d pass without me aware. You see I had to be there, it was so important to me to be there when her spirit left her body. I don’t know why - it just was all I could think of. Either that she’d open her eyes and all would be well or her spirit would slip away and for either I had to be there.
The six days and nights that Mom lingered we clung together as a family. Cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews, sons and daughters, grandchildren, we came together as though it was a reunion. We loved each other and we were horrible to one another. I think back on that week and wonder how any of us survived the tension and stress of waiting for Mom to die.
One of my last memories is standing by the bed, stroking Mom’s hair, willing her to open her eyes and be okay. A longing came over me so strong that I still wonder why I didn’t act on it. To just crawl into the bed with her and hug her tight. You see when I was a little girl, I loved finding Mom alone in her and Dad’s bed and crawling under the covers with her. I loved her scent and the warmth of her skin as well as the sound of her deep and steady breathing. I was so over whelmed with that old longing, to crawl in that bed with Mom just as I did when I was a little, that to this day I don’t know how I managed not to follow my heart. But I didn’t do it, I stood there and pushed that longing aside and to this day oh how I wish I had followed my heart.
Six days after she fell, around 11:00am on a dark and rainy day Mom quietly slipped away. The six days that she lingered were the most emotionally wrenching and stressful time of my life. Images forever burned on my brain. Yet I cannot remember the exact day in October or the exact year of her death and I always wonder why that is.
I was at work, in the warehouse when the phone call came and while not that different from the dozens of other phone calls I had received from Dad over the past two years since Mom’s stoke, this call took my breath. I felt like I had jumped into a pool filled with ice water, and even though it was an unseasonably warm evening in October I broke out in goose bumps and a cold sweat.
I ran down the rickety steps to the ground floor. Calmly stated, “Got to go, Mom’s fallen and I need to meet Dad at the hospital.” Concern from those present, “Is she okay?” “No, I don’t think so.” Their questions came heavy and slow as though being filtered through thick syrup, my statements and responses coming from somewhere outside of myself. Silently screaming at myself, “Hurry, Hurry! How can you be so calm!”
The drive in many ways seemed longer than normal, yet because of my fears and what I thought I would have to face it ended to quickly. “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she has to go tonight, please let it be after I get there, please God, please God,” I pleaded over and over again. That drive is magnified in my mind’s eye. The night sky clear and dark with a golden tint coming from where the sun had just fallen beneath the horizon. The lights from the Ashland building on the hill over the 6th Street exit sparkle as I pass. How can it be so beautiful? How can anything bad happen on a night such as this one? “Please let her be alive, please let her be alive, Lord if she must go tonight, please let me there before she leaves. God, please. God, please.”
I was so sure of this day’s outcome that I called my boss while in route. “Mom’s fallen, I’m going to meet her and Dad at the Emergency Room.” “Is she okay? she asked.” “No, I don’t think so. You’ll need to call Roger and make sure the warehouse is covered, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t think that I will be available.” “Call me when you know something,” concern in her voice. “I’ll do my best.”
I try calling my sister, no answer at either her Charleston or Charlotte numbers. I leave messages at both. “Sharon, this is Peggy. I’m on the way to meet Dad at the Emergency Room. Mom fell in the hallway, on top of the furnace grate.” I call my older brother, and though nearly paralyzed with fear, I assure him that everything is okay (Oh God, please let it be so) and that I’ll call from the hospital. He is to call our other brother, Tom. After I hang up I wonder why I said that? Do I really believe that everything is going to be okay? I’m afraid that I’m so selfish that the reason is that I want her last living moment to be with me, only me. No, that’s not it – she is going to be alright, she will be going home. I’m not ready to be without my Mother.
Mom reached the hospital in her ambulance at almost the same time that my Dad and I arrive in our cars. I’m directed back to a small room, where my mother is lying on a hospital gurney much to small for her girth, already in a hospital gown her body is doing it’s best to bust out of. She has managed to keep her pants on though and appears more comfortable for that fact. Her nose is scraped and there’s a small red bump coming up just to the side of her forehead.
I lean over and stroke her face and hair with both my hands. She looks into my eyes and smiles. States in no uncertain terms, “I need to pee now!” Before I can get the nurses to get me a bedpan it’s too late, Mom soils her pants. No problem, easy clean up. “I love you Mama,” I say over and over again. I feel foolish, so sure this was the end. Yes she’s bruised, but in fine spirits. Talkative as usual, a magpie.
Hospital personnel arrive and whisk her away for a CAT scan. Dad and I wait in her small room. He repeats the events of the day. Mom got up with a headache, maybe he should have taken more notice. She has chronic headaches, how was he to know that this one might be different. How will he get her home, they will have to keep her until she can walk. If she can’t walk how will he take care of her. The thoughts swirling around and around in his head are coming in a steady stream out his mouth. I try to calm him the best I can, feeling such relief that my mother appears not to be at death’s door that I find a spot on the floor and finally allow my body to just give way onto it. The multitude of problems that are facing Dad too insignificant in comparison with my thoughts up to this point.
Mother’s return to her room in the same high spirits. Restarts the conversation as though she hasn’t been gone for the better part of an hour. Her conversation is music, never ending soothing music. “Peggy, I dreamed of Dale today.”
Dale is my aunt, not by blood but by decision. She is the daughter of my grandmother’s (my father’s mother) second husband. Dale lived most of my life on and off with us as I was growing up, like a sister to my Mother and a surrogate mother to me. She died on December 3, 1992.
“What was your dream? I ask Mom.” “I dreamed I was somewhere with Dale, but I don’t know exactly where, it’s wasn’t familiar. We were taking care of a baby. That baby was the prettiest little thing, had blond hair. Oh, Peggy we were having the best time! I really hated to wake up.”
“Peg, I got to go again.” “No problem, I’ll go get the nurses.” Again, too late.
For the next several hours Mom needed to go like clockwork every 15 minutes. “What did you drink today?” “Nothing different. Oh, there I go again. No warning that time.” The nurses finally wise up and put in a catheter.
The doctor comes in, stays two minutes and leaves. The physician’s assistant comes in and says that the CAT scan is really unremarkable. Shows us what “might” be a shadow, or it could be where she moved during the procedure. If it’s a shadow, it’s probably where her brain is bruised from the fall. They’ll let us know more later.
I still think that we will be taking Mom home that night, Dad doesn’t think so. If she can’t walk how will he get home much less take care of her. We’ll cross that bridge when it comes is all I can think.
More tests and more waiting. Mom magically scoots to the foot of the mini-bed and is unable to get herself rearranged. The nurses are called again and get her back in position. The PA returns stating they will be keeping Mom over night for observation.
Mom hates being in the hospital. All her life it’s been one thing or the other, mostly asthma and she dreads every moment given over to a stay. She doesn’t like to stay alone. I’m torn, because I know this. I also know that I will need to go to work tomorrow and that I will be dead tired after sleeping in a chair by her bedside. “Mom, would you like for me to stay with you.” “Peggy I hate for you to have to do that, with your bad back and all.” “I don’t mind, I love being with you. I will need to run to the house though, bring the dog in the house and get some clothes for work tomorrow. Dad can you get back by say 7:30 or 8:00am?” Dad smiles, “earlier if you want.” “No, 8:00am will be fine.” “Dad, you won’t go before I get back will you?” “No, as a matter of fact she’ll probably still be here – you know how slow this place is to do anything.”
I kiss my Mother, telling her I’ll be back as soon as possible. My Mother’s last words to me are, “I really hate for you to do this, are you sure you don’t mind?”
I arrive home, still relieved and begin to prepare for the next day. It’s after midnight and my poor dog has been chained up outside since 7:00am! She is wired and needing to play. After I pack I set down to play with the dog and work off some of her energy before I put her in her crate. The phone rings.
“Peggy, you better get back fast.” My fathers words over the line. “Why? What’s happened.” Not long after you left Mom wanted to set up on the side of the bed so I helped her up. She started picking at the bottoms of my shirt, trying to rip them off. Then she started trying to get up off the bed. I said, “Inas, what are you doing? You know you can’t get up, and you’re going to rip my shirt.” She told me plan as day, “Yes I can. I’m going to walk over there and set in that chair for a while.” Well, I talked her out of that then she began trying to rip the buttons off my shirt again. I knew something wasn’t right so I got the nurses. They have your Mom back doing another CAT scan.
I’m on my way.
I don’t remember one moment of this second trip to the hospital. It is as though I was home and then suddenly I was back at the hospital.
Mother is in a different room, larger so that more hospital personnel can get in and care for her. The PA meets me at the door. “The CAT scan shows a large accident. She’s bleeding into her brain. The speech area of her brain is gone, she won’t be able to speak to you and I think most of her memory will be going soon as well.” Blunt and to the point, but she did keep her hand on my shoulder through the entire conversation. She walked me over to show me proof on the CAT scan film. There was a dark ball taking up about a quarter of Mom’s brain.
I run to Mom’s room. The nurses carefully explain that Mother can’t speak to me, but can hear everything. That it would be good for me to talk with her, reassure her, tell her goodbye.
I walk up the bed. Larger this time, cradling her girth. I lean over the bed and stroke her face and hair with both my hands, “Mom, I love you. Have they explained to you what’s happened?” She looks up at me, a very direct look, unreadable. Fear isn’t mirrored there, only longing. I’m struck with just how beautiful my Mother really is. Her eyes are simply fantastic.
I see peace there, in my Mother’s eyes. And something else – perhaps longing. Dad returns. Confused and in denial. Tells me that another doctor was there earlier wanting to make some decisions, but he told him to come back after I got there.
The Doctor arrives and wants to talk about our options. Dad wants to leave Mom’s room, the doctor states even though she can’t speak she can hear us perfectly well, that any conversation we have regarding her is her right to hear.
He breaks horrible news. There is a massive bleed and there won’t, no can’t, be full recovery. He tells us that if she lives, and it will be a miracle if that happens even with dynamic effort, she probably won’t remember any of us and she’ll definitely never be able to speak again.
By this time Mom has slipped away, still alive but unconscious and who knows if she can hear us or not.
The doctor’s news is grim and Dad is barely in control. I ask the doctor, if we go for dynamic measures what does that involve. He describes surgery, busting into Mom’s brain by removing a portion of her skull - massive long procedure that can only be done after they get her blood thickened (she has been on blood thinner for years). He explains that the very act of taking her off the blood thinners may create a clot that either migrates to the lungs or the brain which in itself may end up killing her. I look the doctor dead in the eyes and ask him point blank - is your mother still alive. He answers yes. If it were your mother, right here, right now and you were making the decision for her - what would you decision be? He doesn’t hesitate, tells me that he’d take her off of all live support and medications, thus creating a situation where she would simply fade away from us.
Dad and I discuss the options and decide to go with the doctors recommendations. Just after the decision is made, my brothers arrive and everything has to be retold and the decisions made again. I’m beyond exhausted and feel as though if they don’t stop talking that my head is going to explode. Finally, they wheel Mom to her room and I set up to spend the night.
That night turned into six nights. People came and people went, I flew my kids in from across the country (my son from California and my daughter from Texas) so that they could say goodbye to a warm body. I went for 72 hours before my body forced sleep on me - so afraid that she’d pass without me aware. You see I had to be there, it was so important to me to be there when her spirit left her body. I don’t know why - it just was all I could think of. Either that she’d open her eyes and all would be well or her spirit would slip away and for either I had to be there.
The six days and nights that Mom lingered we clung together as a family. Cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews, sons and daughters, grandchildren, we came together as though it was a reunion. We loved each other and we were horrible to one another. I think back on that week and wonder how any of us survived the tension and stress of waiting for Mom to die.
One of my last memories is standing by the bed, stroking Mom’s hair, willing her to open her eyes and be okay. A longing came over me so strong that I still wonder why I didn’t act on it. To just crawl into the bed with her and hug her tight. You see when I was a little girl, I loved finding Mom alone in her and Dad’s bed and crawling under the covers with her. I loved her scent and the warmth of her skin as well as the sound of her deep and steady breathing. I was so over whelmed with that old longing, to crawl in that bed with Mom just as I did when I was a little, that to this day I don’t know how I managed not to follow my heart. But I didn’t do it, I stood there and pushed that longing aside and to this day oh how I wish I had followed my heart.
Six days after she fell, around 11:00am on a dark and rainy day Mom quietly slipped away. The six days that she lingered were the most emotionally wrenching and stressful time of my life. Images forever burned on my brain. Yet I cannot remember the exact day in October or the exact year of her death and I always wonder why that is.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Fall Blues
Fall has come and so it seems I’m going through a weird time, one of indecision and uncertainty, with vague aches and pains, migraine headaches and a stuff body that is refusing to move as I direct it. Why? Well to be frank – I don’t know nor do I understand it.
This time of uncertainly is not the first such episode of my life, and does seem to come more often in the fall than any other time of the year. The first visit occurred in the fall of 1966 and I remember it well. I was in the 7th grade. Me and a friend of mine were walking around Chesapeake Junior High at lunch – that’s what we did, we ate and then because we thought we were too old to play on the monkey bars or giant stride, we walked around the building until the bell rang sending us to our afternoon classes. I vividly recall my emotions (I hesitate to refer to them as thoughts, they just seemed to out of control to be that) as they twirled and swirled around inside me; emotions of indecision and uncertainty, of longing for something (maybe love?) and stability; something that I could grasp onto and make some kind of sense of for my life. I remember thinking would things ever really be different?
As we walked the topic turned to children and a longing so strong rose up in me. I could actually feel the weight of my child in my arms and that sweet smell of baby whiffed up into my nose and my senses. I felt, what I thought had to be, perfect love. As that thought passed another replaced it, in my mind’s eye there was me and I was surrounded by 5 or 6 of the blackest children I had ever laid my eyes on ranging in age from about 2 to 4 years. In my arms I cradled a black baby, perfectly soft, perfectly created and sleeping restfully. This vision was quite a shock to me, since I was totally surrounded by white. The town was white, the school - white, everybody there was white, so much so that when in the 8th grade a student enrolled that was from Puerto Rico he became an instant hit not because he had such a winning personality but because he was a novelty. As this picture began to fade, and while I didn’t have a strong understanding of the word, I clearly heard “missions” spoken to me. At that point I knew I was being called to something beyond myself and my current understanding.
This event so impacted my being that to this day I can describe to you how my hair was styled and exactly what I was wearing. But, I didn’t tell a soul. Never once in the following 30 years did I tell anyone about this event! At the age of 12 I simply did not have a frame of reference to explain the vision (and yes it was a vision, I’m certain of that) or to explain how I clearly heard the one word directive. I couldn’t even speak it in my thoughts that God had spoken to me, how was I going to explain it to anyone else?
So I filed the memory away, got past what I eventually came to call my fall blues and began living a life of my own choosing.
Falls came and went with varying stages of the blues and occasionally the memory of that vision in 1966 would be brought back to me, but as the years passed less frequently until eventually it had almost completely faded from my memory. And I had changed, my life had changed. I had two wonderful children that were the center of my world and my focus was on them until one day in the fall of 2002 it dawned on me that I was alone, with one adult child living in Texas and the other in Germany. I realized I was thoroughly dissatisfied with my life and decided I needed a change. So, God opened a door and I moved to the unlikely place of Cincinnati, OH. Wonderfully, my daughter, in Germany decided to join me so immediately my satisfaction level raised about 1000%!
Once here, I still had my “fall blues,” and after about 4 years God brought back to me that vision of so many falls ago, and along with that memory a new vision. In this one, I’m standing on a small knoll covered in dirt that is similar to red Georgia clay. It is hot and I’m dressed in some sort of wrap around multi colored skirt and t-shirt, I’m thinner than I am now and my hair is blowing gently in a small breeze, the sun so bright I have one hand over my eyes to shade them, my body tanned and my cheeks highlighted in red from a slight sunburn, and there are three beautiful black children clinging to the hem of my shirt while I hold a black toddler on my hip. I hear the word “missions” again, but this time it reverberates through my being and hits my heart with the heat of the tropics. I also hear two years and assume that I have two years to ready myself for this calling.
In those two years I complete studies at the Vineyard Leadership Institute and wait with anticipation for God to “reveal” to me His plan once I graduate. Graduation comes and goes, but I hear nothing. The summer after graduation comes and goes, still I hear nothing. So here I am, it’s the fall – the time of the year that is always the most difficult for me emotionally and I feel like I’m struggling to just get through each day. My body hurts, both shoulders stiff with limited range of motion, migraines that I have not really suffered with for many years have reappeared and are with me almost on a daily basis, I’m suffering pain in my left hip and in the lumbar region of my spine, and even with exercise my weight is not budging down even one pound. I’m a mess, but have decided to speak life and not death into the situation so am prodding on the best I can and trying not to complain.
I am praying for God’s leadership and direction. I am praying for healing and restoration and for the will and ability to make life changes that will impact my body weight and overall health. Praying for patience that I not jump ahead, but wait to hear from the One that does know what is best and will direct my path. Oh, I forgot to mention, when God brought that second vision to me, I asked Him, “How, how now at this old age and this current level of physical ability (or disability); with these health issues?” His answer was Joel 2:25 “Then I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust have eaten, the creeping locust, the stripping locust and the gnawing locust, my great army which I sent among you.” Wow, those locusts really do sound like so many aspects of my past, at my choosing I allowed them to swarm, creep, and strip and gnaw away at me – but God has promised restoration! I don't know what the future holds, or how God will use me but that's okay. These fall blues will pass and He will guide my path in His time and not mine.
This time of uncertainly is not the first such episode of my life, and does seem to come more often in the fall than any other time of the year. The first visit occurred in the fall of 1966 and I remember it well. I was in the 7th grade. Me and a friend of mine were walking around Chesapeake Junior High at lunch – that’s what we did, we ate and then because we thought we were too old to play on the monkey bars or giant stride, we walked around the building until the bell rang sending us to our afternoon classes. I vividly recall my emotions (I hesitate to refer to them as thoughts, they just seemed to out of control to be that) as they twirled and swirled around inside me; emotions of indecision and uncertainty, of longing for something (maybe love?) and stability; something that I could grasp onto and make some kind of sense of for my life. I remember thinking would things ever really be different?
As we walked the topic turned to children and a longing so strong rose up in me. I could actually feel the weight of my child in my arms and that sweet smell of baby whiffed up into my nose and my senses. I felt, what I thought had to be, perfect love. As that thought passed another replaced it, in my mind’s eye there was me and I was surrounded by 5 or 6 of the blackest children I had ever laid my eyes on ranging in age from about 2 to 4 years. In my arms I cradled a black baby, perfectly soft, perfectly created and sleeping restfully. This vision was quite a shock to me, since I was totally surrounded by white. The town was white, the school - white, everybody there was white, so much so that when in the 8th grade a student enrolled that was from Puerto Rico he became an instant hit not because he had such a winning personality but because he was a novelty. As this picture began to fade, and while I didn’t have a strong understanding of the word, I clearly heard “missions” spoken to me. At that point I knew I was being called to something beyond myself and my current understanding.
This event so impacted my being that to this day I can describe to you how my hair was styled and exactly what I was wearing. But, I didn’t tell a soul. Never once in the following 30 years did I tell anyone about this event! At the age of 12 I simply did not have a frame of reference to explain the vision (and yes it was a vision, I’m certain of that) or to explain how I clearly heard the one word directive. I couldn’t even speak it in my thoughts that God had spoken to me, how was I going to explain it to anyone else?
So I filed the memory away, got past what I eventually came to call my fall blues and began living a life of my own choosing.
Falls came and went with varying stages of the blues and occasionally the memory of that vision in 1966 would be brought back to me, but as the years passed less frequently until eventually it had almost completely faded from my memory. And I had changed, my life had changed. I had two wonderful children that were the center of my world and my focus was on them until one day in the fall of 2002 it dawned on me that I was alone, with one adult child living in Texas and the other in Germany. I realized I was thoroughly dissatisfied with my life and decided I needed a change. So, God opened a door and I moved to the unlikely place of Cincinnati, OH. Wonderfully, my daughter, in Germany decided to join me so immediately my satisfaction level raised about 1000%!
Once here, I still had my “fall blues,” and after about 4 years God brought back to me that vision of so many falls ago, and along with that memory a new vision. In this one, I’m standing on a small knoll covered in dirt that is similar to red Georgia clay. It is hot and I’m dressed in some sort of wrap around multi colored skirt and t-shirt, I’m thinner than I am now and my hair is blowing gently in a small breeze, the sun so bright I have one hand over my eyes to shade them, my body tanned and my cheeks highlighted in red from a slight sunburn, and there are three beautiful black children clinging to the hem of my shirt while I hold a black toddler on my hip. I hear the word “missions” again, but this time it reverberates through my being and hits my heart with the heat of the tropics. I also hear two years and assume that I have two years to ready myself for this calling.
In those two years I complete studies at the Vineyard Leadership Institute and wait with anticipation for God to “reveal” to me His plan once I graduate. Graduation comes and goes, but I hear nothing. The summer after graduation comes and goes, still I hear nothing. So here I am, it’s the fall – the time of the year that is always the most difficult for me emotionally and I feel like I’m struggling to just get through each day. My body hurts, both shoulders stiff with limited range of motion, migraines that I have not really suffered with for many years have reappeared and are with me almost on a daily basis, I’m suffering pain in my left hip and in the lumbar region of my spine, and even with exercise my weight is not budging down even one pound. I’m a mess, but have decided to speak life and not death into the situation so am prodding on the best I can and trying not to complain.
I am praying for God’s leadership and direction. I am praying for healing and restoration and for the will and ability to make life changes that will impact my body weight and overall health. Praying for patience that I not jump ahead, but wait to hear from the One that does know what is best and will direct my path. Oh, I forgot to mention, when God brought that second vision to me, I asked Him, “How, how now at this old age and this current level of physical ability (or disability); with these health issues?” His answer was Joel 2:25 “Then I will make up to you for the years that the swarming locust have eaten, the creeping locust, the stripping locust and the gnawing locust, my great army which I sent among you.” Wow, those locusts really do sound like so many aspects of my past, at my choosing I allowed them to swarm, creep, and strip and gnaw away at me – but God has promised restoration! I don't know what the future holds, or how God will use me but that's okay. These fall blues will pass and He will guide my path in His time and not mine.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Sept. 25, 2009 Muslim Day of Prayer
Yesterday, on Sept. 25, 2009,fourteen days after the anniversary of 9/11 tens of thousands of Muslims planned to pray for the “soul of America” in mosques and outside the U.S. Capitol. I didn’t watch the news so don’t know what if any coverage the event received from that media – but really didn’t find much coverage of the event on the internet this morning either. So, I don’t know anything at this point regarding the turnout.
But many of the responses I have read prior to the event were comments along the lines of; a group of people praying to a demon god or praying to a non-existent god. I have been taught since I was a child that the god Muslim’s pray to is not the god of Abraham, even though they believe that he is. Now, these type of statements make me truly shiver and I’m not always sure exactly why.
Why is it that as Christians we can recognize the God of the Jews as God and that they just have it wrong in regards to Jesus and we can’t recognize the god of the Muslims along these same lines? Is it just because of the Koran? Then what of the Jewish Talmud? Is it because we believe Islam has rewritten the books of the Old Testament in such a way that they don’t match up to the Torah (if my understanding is correct, Isaac is replaced by Ishmael in the story of Mt. Moriah as one case in point)?
Why do I shiver? I think I shiver, not because I am appalled of what is being said, or that it isn’t truth, or that I believe it was Ishmael and not Isaac. I think I shiver because I hear fear in the words; fear of satan and of satan’s dominions. We are afraid of the capacity of this group of people to do evil and to harm us. We are afraid of their holy jihad. I don’t believe that it is unreasonable that we fear – 9/11 taught us that.
But is that fear controlling our thoughts, reactions, words? If we are soaked in fear how do we take up the “Great Commission” and approach these lost souls? How well they ever hear our witness when we stay locked in our fear and while never speaking directly to them continue to call their god a demon or non-existent in our writing? I believe that God’s heart is that they come to Him through Jesus and that Jesus is the bridge of understanding between the two of us.
As with a good majority of Christians, Muslims believe what they are taught and are not reading the books of their faith anymore than many of us read our Bibles. They are taught that Jesus was a prophet; that it is He who will usher in the end of the world (that He will return) as a prophet – just not as the Son of God. The book of John for the Muslim is the Injel. The same book of John where we can find what Jesus said of Himself. That He alone is “the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)
I’m not saying that the bridge is going to be easy to walk across. I’m just saying that I don’t think I have chance of being heard by my Muslim brothers and sisters, of presenting to them what one of their books (the Injel) has to say on the topic of Christ if my fear is turning my heart to use words that are going to push them harder away from me, to want them either gone entirely or to turn them into what I see as a good American, instead of having a heart that desires they come into the family of God and accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior. He is the only way to the Father.
But many of the responses I have read prior to the event were comments along the lines of; a group of people praying to a demon god or praying to a non-existent god. I have been taught since I was a child that the god Muslim’s pray to is not the god of Abraham, even though they believe that he is. Now, these type of statements make me truly shiver and I’m not always sure exactly why.
Why is it that as Christians we can recognize the God of the Jews as God and that they just have it wrong in regards to Jesus and we can’t recognize the god of the Muslims along these same lines? Is it just because of the Koran? Then what of the Jewish Talmud? Is it because we believe Islam has rewritten the books of the Old Testament in such a way that they don’t match up to the Torah (if my understanding is correct, Isaac is replaced by Ishmael in the story of Mt. Moriah as one case in point)?
Why do I shiver? I think I shiver, not because I am appalled of what is being said, or that it isn’t truth, or that I believe it was Ishmael and not Isaac. I think I shiver because I hear fear in the words; fear of satan and of satan’s dominions. We are afraid of the capacity of this group of people to do evil and to harm us. We are afraid of their holy jihad. I don’t believe that it is unreasonable that we fear – 9/11 taught us that.
But is that fear controlling our thoughts, reactions, words? If we are soaked in fear how do we take up the “Great Commission” and approach these lost souls? How well they ever hear our witness when we stay locked in our fear and while never speaking directly to them continue to call their god a demon or non-existent in our writing? I believe that God’s heart is that they come to Him through Jesus and that Jesus is the bridge of understanding between the two of us.
As with a good majority of Christians, Muslims believe what they are taught and are not reading the books of their faith anymore than many of us read our Bibles. They are taught that Jesus was a prophet; that it is He who will usher in the end of the world (that He will return) as a prophet – just not as the Son of God. The book of John for the Muslim is the Injel. The same book of John where we can find what Jesus said of Himself. That He alone is “the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)
I’m not saying that the bridge is going to be easy to walk across. I’m just saying that I don’t think I have chance of being heard by my Muslim brothers and sisters, of presenting to them what one of their books (the Injel) has to say on the topic of Christ if my fear is turning my heart to use words that are going to push them harder away from me, to want them either gone entirely or to turn them into what I see as a good American, instead of having a heart that desires they come into the family of God and accept Jesus as their Lord and Savior. He is the only way to the Father.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
That label is so loud, I can't hear what you are saying!
I got up this morning and began my usual morning routine of breakfast at the computer. You see, I go to the web for news of world and to Facebook for news of my friends. I especially love Facebook even with all it’s unnecessary clutter (nope not really interested in your Mafia status) as it helps keep me up to date on people that I would be totally out of touch with. I get to see pictures of family I’ve never met and on occasion read a comment from the heart that opens my understanding of who they are and what’s truly important to them. I find this freaking amazing!
I also like a good debate. If I listen, really listen, a well articulated viewpoint stretches my thought process, pulls out questions I’d never considered and allows me to know the things about my friend that are important to them. I gain a better understanding of the life they live, how they process information and think through problems based on that particular filter. If I listen to everything they are communicating it gives me a road map to the care and perseverance of a friend. In other words it can bring me beyond myself, outside of my view, outside of my filter and open up a whole world of understanding. Debate for me is not necessarily about swaying but understanding the other’s viewpoint. It’s about learning about one another those things that make us who we are – the things about each other that make us unique!
What I don’t get is the nastiness that can come through a difference of opinion; the name calling, the mud slinging and just the plain ugliness that spews forth. It saddens me that if we the nation, exercise our rights under the constitution that we are labeled as “Nazis,” “unpatriotic,” “bitter clinger,” “evil monger,” “angry mobster,” or a “mob.” By the same token these same people that are being so labeled come carrying signs stating “A village in Kenya is missing their Idiot.” wearing t-shirts with a picture of a white faced black eyed Obama labeled as “joke,” or one with “Chairman Maobama,” logo across the front. Or by someone thinking it’s okay to call anyone hypocrite because they believe that Michael Vic should not be allowed to play professional sports again due to his dog cruelty conviction because after all Sarah Palin reportedly shoots wolfs from a helicopter and calls that sport.
What I’m saying is I believe our views are lost, deeply buried, in the meanness of our response when we react in these manners, with these types of words and actions.
As it states in Romans 13:1-3, I believe that there is no authority except from God and that our leaders are placed by His hand. That we are to submit to this authority, and protest against it, in such a fashion that honors God, and shows respect to everyone (1 Peter 13:17) and Titus 3:1 states; “Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe with all my heart that each and everyone has the right to a viewpoint, an opinion that is different from mine. If you think differently than me it does not make you evil, it does not give me the right to name call or sling mud at you, it does not make you stupid or ignorant, it does not make you a hypocrite, it does not turn you into a Nazi, it is not a sign that you are unpatriotic or that you don’t care about the “working poor,” nor does it give me the right to hit you with racial or ethnic slurs.
As a Christian I am called to pray for my leaders. “I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone – for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all people to be saved to come to a knowledge of the Truth.” (1 Tim. 1-4) Now, I don’t believe that this is a call to stick my head in the sand and ignore the “issues” of the day or to not speak out; but what if while I’m speaking out my goal is to be a representative of God and to show His love? I don’t know about you, but pray changes the condition of my heart; it makes it impossible for me to hold hatred toward a person or their view when I’m on my knees in prayer for them.
I also like a good debate. If I listen, really listen, a well articulated viewpoint stretches my thought process, pulls out questions I’d never considered and allows me to know the things about my friend that are important to them. I gain a better understanding of the life they live, how they process information and think through problems based on that particular filter. If I listen to everything they are communicating it gives me a road map to the care and perseverance of a friend. In other words it can bring me beyond myself, outside of my view, outside of my filter and open up a whole world of understanding. Debate for me is not necessarily about swaying but understanding the other’s viewpoint. It’s about learning about one another those things that make us who we are – the things about each other that make us unique!
What I don’t get is the nastiness that can come through a difference of opinion; the name calling, the mud slinging and just the plain ugliness that spews forth. It saddens me that if we the nation, exercise our rights under the constitution that we are labeled as “Nazis,” “unpatriotic,” “bitter clinger,” “evil monger,” “angry mobster,” or a “mob.” By the same token these same people that are being so labeled come carrying signs stating “A village in Kenya is missing their Idiot.” wearing t-shirts with a picture of a white faced black eyed Obama labeled as “joke,” or one with “Chairman Maobama,” logo across the front. Or by someone thinking it’s okay to call anyone hypocrite because they believe that Michael Vic should not be allowed to play professional sports again due to his dog cruelty conviction because after all Sarah Palin reportedly shoots wolfs from a helicopter and calls that sport.
What I’m saying is I believe our views are lost, deeply buried, in the meanness of our response when we react in these manners, with these types of words and actions.
As it states in Romans 13:1-3, I believe that there is no authority except from God and that our leaders are placed by His hand. That we are to submit to this authority, and protest against it, in such a fashion that honors God, and shows respect to everyone (1 Peter 13:17) and Titus 3:1 states; “Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good.
Don’t get me wrong, I believe with all my heart that each and everyone has the right to a viewpoint, an opinion that is different from mine. If you think differently than me it does not make you evil, it does not give me the right to name call or sling mud at you, it does not make you stupid or ignorant, it does not make you a hypocrite, it does not turn you into a Nazi, it is not a sign that you are unpatriotic or that you don’t care about the “working poor,” nor does it give me the right to hit you with racial or ethnic slurs.
As a Christian I am called to pray for my leaders. “I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone – for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all people to be saved to come to a knowledge of the Truth.” (1 Tim. 1-4) Now, I don’t believe that this is a call to stick my head in the sand and ignore the “issues” of the day or to not speak out; but what if while I’m speaking out my goal is to be a representative of God and to show His love? I don’t know about you, but pray changes the condition of my heart; it makes it impossible for me to hold hatred toward a person or their view when I’m on my knees in prayer for them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)