That's What Christmas Is All About, Charlie Brown

I couldn’t help myself. It was a steal. Practically half price after the discount and a register receipt coupon I found at the bottom of my purse, I left the drugstore in delight, my very own authentic Peanuts Nativity Scene in hand. Sure, the grandkids are a little old for the toddler-sized toy, but I didn’t pick it up for them. I picked it up for me.

“I’m gonna set it up on the buffet,” I gushed, as my husband stood in the kitchen watching me try to unwrap my unwrapped gift to myself. I cut through layers of tape on the box and pulled out the two-level plastic display, complete with its cardboard replica of painted snow against a starry, dark blue backdrop, all its characters held securely in place with straps lest any sticky-fingered, curious five-year-old try to kidnap them in the middle of CVS.

In the painted firmament, a Snoopy Sheep stood beside the Angel Sally Brown and Wise Woman Peppermint Patty, all of them gazing lovingly at the Holy Family below—Charlie “Joseph” Brown, Lucy “Mary” Van Pelt, and a baby bundle in a bright yellow straw-filled manger resting inside a plastic star-adorned stable.

It was Peace on Earth behind a layer of molded plastic. I couldn’t wait to pull out each cast member and set up their cartoon creche. So I could play, I mean, decorate with it. It was an unbreakable, adorable display comprised of seven simple, symbolic, childlike characters. And, by a cruel twist of packaging fate, every one of them a hostage.

“Do you want some help?” my husband asked from a few feet away while I tried desperately to set the captives free from the police-grade plastic ties securing them to their cardboard platform.

“No,” I grumbled, slicing through the transparent clam shell that covered the whole theft-proof collection. “Whoever invented this stuff,” I whined, using both hands to shove my kitchen scissors under the strapping, “should be arrested.” Cut. Snap. Exhale. I set Mary and Joseph on the table while I tried to release the Baby Jesus from his confinement. “It was easier for Mary to give birth than it is to set this baby free.” Grunt. Groan. “They’re all a bunch of criminals.”

“The Holy Family?” Rob asked, his brows knit together.

“No,” I said, pushing away the razor-sharp edges of constricting plastic. “The people who came up with this packaging.”

Moving up to the celestial plastic floor, I tried in desperation to slide the tip of my supersized scissor blade under tiny plastic straps beneath the Angel Sally so she could take flight, but all I managed to do was knock down the Virgin Mary and send the Baby Jesus flying.

Way past frustration now, I moved Charles Joseph to a new spot on the table where he fell over in exhaustion. Delivery room father, I thought, rolling my eyes. I didn’t know why he was so fatigued. I was the one doing all the work. Flat on her back still, Mary’s frozen smile was aimed at the ceiling, while her faceless baby slept away in the security of his upside-down manger. In the heavens above, three more characters waited—immobilized by fear—for their turn at emancipation.

I dropped the scissors on the table. “I don’t know how to cut the rest of these guys loose without the risk of a piece of jagged plastic slicing through one of my arteries,” I mourned, trying to remove the clamshell. “They’re all stuck in the firmament and I’m afraid to get them down.”

“Let me help,” Rob said, reaching past me to pick up my uncooperative scissors.

“See what I mean? Criminals. Now the guy on blood thinners is risking his life to pull an angel from the starry, blue sky,” I muttered. While I put my head down on the table, Rob, aka Coumadin Man, released the Celestial Sally Brown and set her in front of me where she maintained a prayer posture over the disabled parents.

“It’s starting to look like a crime scene,” I mumbled. “Or an explosion. There are body parts everywhere.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Rob said, clenching his teeth while he released Snoopy from his shackles. “Everybody’s fine. Nobody died. I’m not even bleeding.”

“It shouldn’t be this hard. Listen to this,” I said, staring at my phone. “Google says the best way to cut thick plastic is to drill at least 6 holes through it first. It’ll weaken the structure.”

“And puncture Peppermint Patty. Stop worrying. We’re almost done here.”

Finally, after fifteen minutes of dramatic struggle, they were all free and unharmed. I set them up on the antique sideboard, appropriately placed beneath a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree, its single red ornament dipping in deference to the victorious group below. 

It seemed so easy when I first saw them. Buy them, make them mine, set them up to shine in all their glory. But then there was that problem with all their constraints. A major complication. A huge time investment where I had to call in the rest of my support team to pull off their liberation. It took a village to set their village free.

Very symbolic when you stop to think about it.

I’ve heard people say that God sacrificed His Son when he sent Jesus to earth. It’s true. It was an unbelievable sacrifice. But it was also a covert rescue operation devised by all three of its key players. God was in Christ Jesus, the Bible says, reconciling the world to Himself, not counting our sins against us. The story of Christmas is one of cooperation between God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit, all working together to buy back what was stolen from them in a long-ago Garden. Us. They loved us so much, together they gave up everything to make us their own.

I thought the little scene I wanted to display on my sideboard was all about a miraculous birth when, in fact, it was all about what it took to set the captives free. I had it wrong for years. As warm as the Nativity story sounded, I couldn’t get past the heavy price God paid to buy us back. I felt guilty when He wanted me to feel loved. If I’d read past the condemnation most preachers want me to hear, I’d have seen where God said He did it for “the joy set before Him.” That joy was us.

I looked at the happy little group on display in my dining room, not even focusing anymore on how difficult it was to release them. I just loved seeing them stand in their freedom.

Merry Christmas. And in the words of the Angel Sally, “Peace on earth, good will from God to men.”

Debbie's Note

“You’re killing me, Smalls,” I told my husband as I handed him his debit card. I swear, our credit union needs to offer those things in a necklace version that Rob can wear around his neck. Two weeks ago was his birthday and I gave him a virtual gift—one of those fancy new propane griddles to replace his grill. Our son-in-law has one, our son just got one, and all the grill loving males in my family think they’re the best thing since kobe beef. “Did you order your grill yet?” I asked my husband a few days ago. And yesterday. And this morning, when I found his debit card abandoned on the desk in the office where he’ll never remember he left it once he’s in the checkout line at Walmart.

“No,” he sighed, getting up from his football game on tv to head into the office. “I’ll take care of it right now.”

Kinda shot myself in the foot there. I was already set up at the desk in the office to spend the morning writing. My coffee cup was there, steamed to just the right temp, my computer glasses were ready at just the right distance from the mouse, and now I had nothing else to do but . . . wait for my husband to order his birthday gift on the computer we share.

I wandered around in circles for a few minutes trying to decide what to do, sat down at the other office desk, and did a little tidying up. Random papers out of the way, busted rubber band in the garbage can, move the coaster to the other side of the laptop. You know, important stuff while I waited.

The second desk is actually my desk. I’ve abandoned it in favor of our main computer while I write that book I’ve been working on for five years. But my antique desk is pretty. It’s a parade of framed photos of my family, inspiring words of encouragement, pretty candles, and a large photobook I left out to remind myself of another project that needs my attention.

Recently, for my sixtieth birthday, my daughter contacted almost sixty of my friends from over the years and asked them to write a note to me about our friendship. She found photos of many of those people, compiled all their letters and pictures into one beautiful collection, and gave it to me at my party so I could cry in front of all my birthday guests. It was the most touching gift I think I’ve ever received. It took me three days and two boxes of Kleenex to read through it. But many of the writers of those letters weren’t there to see me open it. Even the people who were at my party didn’t have time to read through it or find their own letters in print.

I decided I need to write thank you notes to each of those people. All fifty-something of them. A tall order for someone who hates to even send post cards anymore. After a couple of months of writer’s cramp, I stacked the first twenty thank you cards on top of the photo album on my antique desk and never looked at any of it again except to dust it all. But in my warped way of thinking, as long as the whole thing stays there in plain site, I believe I will someday finish the other forty thank-you’s and eventually mail them all out.

“Eventually.” It may be the saddest word ever included by Webster in his dictionary. Synonyms include someday, sooner or later, one day, finally, and the worst of all, in the end. More often than not, someday never comes. It’s a word for the future, not for today. We live in today, not in someday or eventually. I shuffled the stack of written and unwritten thank you cards around so they’d look a little neater where they sat abandoned on my desk, then I shuffled through them in curiosity. None of them had addresses on them—another bad habit I have. I do all this work, I thought, rebuking myself, lick the envelope and label it, but fail to find addresses or stamps and eventually, even if I sent the note out, the recipient will have forgotten the nice thing they did for me.

Halfway through my shuffling, the name on one of the envelopes made me pause. It was written to my friend of thirty-plus years, Debbie Alldredge. I dropped all the other cards, holding this one in my hands as tears of regret filled my eyes. She never got to read it because I never sent it. I thought about it for a few minutes, opened the envelope I will never send, and read the note I’d written to her. Then I looked up what she’d written to me in the photo album my daughter made and cried a little.

Debbie passed away this summer. The good-bye I said to her was supposed to be temporary. I’d see her when we returned from our vacation. Suddenly, everything from the last few hours I spent with her became etched into my mind as I listened to her husband tell me on the phone that she was gone. I’ve never lost a friend like that before. She was probably the funniest woman I’ve ever known. She was also wise. Patient. And the very embodiment of faith in her God. But honestly, the gift she kept giving me was her ability to make me laugh. I told her dozens of times to please write a book about her life—the world needs another Erma Bombeck.

I couldn’t take away the disease that was robbing her of her life. I didn’t have wise words to say. I wasn’t even the close friend I wish I’d been. But when we were together, Debbie told stories and we laughed. We laughed at her illness. We laughed at the fear. We laughed at frustrations. It was like making fun of the fearful disarmed it. So we laughed.

I wish to God I had mailed that note on time. I’d love to say I’ve learned my lesson and will never procrastinate again. That I’ll always be there for everyone I love when they’re hurting at exactly the right time so I’ll never have regrets. But I’m just a flawed person like everyone else. I lose my focus. I forget to pray even though I promise I will. I put off phone calls. I even—gasp—misplace my debit card sometimes.

But I learned something from Debbie. If you can laugh at life, you can get through anything. If she were here, she’d just laugh at the way I wrote out all those thank you’s and never mailed them. So, this morning I held up the note I wrote, open-faced in my hands, and I asked Jesus to show it to her. I know He will. And I’m pretty sure when He does, she’ll have a good laugh about it.

Life is too short to regret all our flaws. There are too many of them and, anyway, I kind of think we need them—fuel for the fire and all that.

It’s just a lot more fun to laugh. Debbie taught me that.

Old School

I’m old school.

And I kind of hate it.

Inside, I’m still the same girl I’ve always been—insecure, naiive, gullible, as optimistic as an ostrich with her head in the sand (if I can’t see it, it’s not really there.) By now, judging by all the gray hiding under my faux red hair, I should be halfway to Methuselah in the wisdom department, but I’m not sure there’s enough evidence to convict me of that. 

I don’t actually know if Methuselah was wise, anyway. The smartest thing he figured out was how to live longer than the rest of the world. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be 969 before I kick off. Who’d be around to come to my funeral?

I know. You’re dying to know my age. Fine. Sixty-one and a quarter. Old, right? I used to think so. When I was young, I sometimes perused the obituaries in the morning newspaper . . . what? You don’t know what a newspaper is? I’d roll my eyes at that, but my optometrist told me there’s so much mileage on them they might get stuck up there. A newspaper was the internet printed on a piece of paper so big that, with clever folding, it could be repurposed into a pirate hat.

So, obituaries. I always checked to see how old people were when they died and sixty-five was about the average. “Yeah, that’s a pretty ripe old age,” I’d think to my twenty-something self, figuring I had about a hundred more years to live before that happened to me. Then I’d fold up the newspaper, wear it around the house for a while, eventually toss it in the trash, and never stop to wonder what kind of neurosis I had that made me wear pirate hats made out of obituaries. 

If sixty-five is a “ripe old age,” then this spring chicken's nearly cooked. Logically, that would mean I only have another three and three-quarters of a year before my eulogy winds up in somebody’s cyber trash, too. Do you have any idea how fast the years roll by now? It even feels like I’m on the downhill side of life. 

Yesterday I was halfway through my thirties and homeschooling my two kids. That afternoon I stood at their graduations. Still clearing the clutter out of their old bedrooms, I bought a new dress to wear at their weddings, and by the time the day was over I had seven grandbabies. And I accomplished all of that while I still felt thirty-five. I mean, I was tired¸ but I was still really young. In my mind. Where it counts.

You’re confused, aren’t you? Maybe you should try some of my coconut oil. Really clears out the cobwebs. What I’m trying to say is that my body is doing some weird things that I’m not prepared for simply because it thinks it has the right to after sixty-one years. But my heart and my mind and my brain and my second brain all think my body needs to get a grip and start acting as young as I feel, which as I said before is thirty-five.

I had a friend who warned me the year I was thirty-nine and seven-eighths that when I hit forty my body would fall apart. First of all, I rebuked that in the name of Jesus. Secondly, I unfriended her from my address book. And finally, I had to wonder what kind of cruel cosmic joke started with a time bomb going off in my body right after I was scheduled to blow out my birthday candles? Who says my body has to fall apart just because I graduated my kids, married them off, and transformed myself into a grandmother in one long day?

And this is my point. The reason it took me over six hundred words to explain. There is no freaking school for people like me who are about to get old. There actually is no “old school.” It’s a lie. Because if there was a school designed to prepare us for menopause and manopause, aching joints and flabby arms, trifocals and colonoscopies, cardiologists and eight-year-old checkout clerks who call me “honey” but still bag my groceries with soup cans on top of my tomatoes—sweet thing, I’d be the first in line when that school opened for business.

It’s not fair that old age can sneak up on us while we’re still young. I feel like I’ve been set adrift in a Sea of Senility. And let me be clear—I did not book this cruise. Somebody has let down this generation of Baby Boomers, and I suspect it’s either the government’s fault . . . or aliens.

That’s all I have to say. Good luck when sixty-one and one quarter comes your way. Maybe by then there’ll be an Old School diploma hanging on your shiplap-covered living room wall right above your mid-century modern lava lamp and antique laptop. You’ll survive old age, too. Just remember one thing—soup cans go on the bottom, tomatoes on top.

I need a nap.

Thanks to Michael Coghlan for his nostalgic photograph of the actual pencil sharpener I probably used fifty-five and one quarter years ago. The original photo can be viewed through this link:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/mikecogh/37188127474/in/photolist-k6TeEL-YEbSFC-bEr6BG-TKNW7K-8vtfkP-29Dxti-4Ei4E2-4EaEpT-abaV4e-7RaMBm-6cJRoH-dipEZj-3gS6JT-njahZN-RjpCHg-tYv65-bvhBpj-46SjoU-5XLjT9-8DPos1-EnkfA-H2wjLw-5y3zwE-opURkC-6jeTq9-EZktGg-23CvyjW-281Qy19-CWfSpD-23c57Fr-JexA67-251mgrF-23hh4da-23aPT7M-46Ne8z-72fDJj-5GEL1t-BoAxH-21Nptpo-opE7ze

Sweet Defeat

“What is that?” he asked, pointing to the white casserole and its murky brown contents.

“Apple Crisp,” I told my guest, trying to sound confident. “It’s our dessert.”

Actually, it was an experiment. I just didn’t know at the time that’s what I’d made. It should have been delicious. It was full of homegrown apples, Irish butter, unprocessed sugar, sea salt, the best cinnamon you can buy online, and flour. I’ll bet that’s what the problem was. The flour. It wasn’t organic.

I couldn’t blame him for his fearful question. I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat it either, let alone serve the weird-looking concoction. But I knew the ingredients were stellar. And since I thought my normal tried-and-true recipe for apple crisp was too simple and old-fashioned, I figured I’d google something better, my friends would be wowed, and the evening would be a complete success. So, I went online to find someone else’s superior recipe to finish off the comfort meal I’d made for my neighbors. And that’s when it happened.

The internet lied. (Well, it couldn’t have been operator failure.)

“This is the best recipe I’ve ever found!” the author gushed in her too-long post in between all the flashy ads that broke up every paragraph. “I tweaked it and made it better. You’re gonna love it!”

I’d have had her arrested for fabricating evidence, but I threw the proof in the trash and blocked her on my computer.

I blame myself. I don’t even know who that blogger was. Why did I trust someone I’ve never heard of before? Why did I believe her when she’s never once cooked a meal for me? Even more important, why do I keep practicing new recipes and serving them to my neighbors?

To add insult to injury, she raved about her homemade browned butter salted caramel sauce. That ridiculous enticement cost me a precious hour in the kitchen, one of my favorite Pampered Chef spatulas, the first batch of ruined caramel sauce, and a second with a very distinct hint of scorch.

It was supposed to be the finale to a fine dinner. The piece de resistance following a satisfying meal. But more than all of that, it was supposed to bring my friend and me victory if the cards weren’t going right. That was the plan—it’s always the plan. If Lady Luck is flirting with the boys, giving them all the breaks, we retaliate with sugar and inject our opponents with enough carbs to put sucrose in a coma. That’s how we win.  First, the four of us eat dinner, then the men cheat at cards, we break for dessert, and finally we show ‘em who’s boss.

Apparently, that only works if the dessert is delicious. We lost six out of seven rounds and half of us went home with a headache.

So, thanks a lot, internet, for failing to taste test all those recipes you let just anybody put up in public. I used to think you had all the answers, but now I know you’re just in it for the pop-up ads. From now on I’m going old school. Back to my worn-out recipe box. Next time I need a tasty treat, I’ll look up the right way to make it in one of the hundreds of recipe books gathering dust on my shelves. And if that fails, it’s back to vanilla ice cream and store-bought chocolate syrup.

Winning at cards is too important to risk gambling on homemade salted caramel sauce.

Selah

Selah.

I love this word, which is weird because definitions are important to me and nobody knows what "selah" really means. It shows up 71 times in the Bible and once on my foot. Where I had it tattooed. The word with no meaning. It makes people ask questions. People like my eight-year-old granddaughter, Tully.

“That’s pretty, YaYa,” she said a few weeks ago. “What does it say?”

“Selah.”

“What does that mean?”

Well, that’s the question of the ages, isn’t it? Since it’s found almost entirely in the book of Psalms which was the hymnbook of its day, most people think it’s a musical direction. It’s a place where musicians pause to take a breath and let the instruments take over for a while. A pause or a rest. That’s the reason I bit my lip for ten minutes while a talented tattoo artist needled it into my skin last year. Because I need a reminder, in a place I often see, to rest.

I have another tattoo, my first one, that actually is a musical quarter rest. “Is that a bat?” a friend asked me when I showed the healed version to her. In the months since I got that one, only two people have ever recognized that it’s a quarter rest—that zigzageddy shape which, when you view it sideways, resembles . . . a bat.

So, I have this hangup with the word, “rest.” I love it. I need it. I crave it. Not the kind of rest like when your bones are weary or your brain is bored and you plop into a chair to watch Gilligan’s Island reruns for a while. I need the kind of rest that refreshes my soul. The problem is you can’t be a worry wart and rest at the same time. Oil and water, that one.

Six years ago, I found out I had cancer. It was terrifying. I didn’t know for a while if this was my final curtain call or if I’d be around for a few more performances. Six years ago. It was not my curtain call. But after my surgery, it took a while to heal. I often sat and read in my favorite chair, my feet crossed and propped on an ottoman, where I had a view of a plaque across the room, a promise inscribed on it.  A promise which carried me through that entire experience. “The Lord will fight for you,” it reads, “you need only to be still.”

It was my literal lifeline for months. Years. Actually, it’s still my lifeline. Just to know that the God of the universe thinks enough of me to literally fight my battles for me, to fight for me, is overwhelming. I sat in my chair with one foot crossed over the other, looking at that promise on the plaque on the wall, and I decided I would someday tattoo that verse on my propped-up foot—a picture of the physical rest forced upon me, symbolic of the spiritual rest I craved.

I thought about it for five years. I wrote it with a pen on my foot. Which tickled. And I made an important decision. Thirty-eight letters is too many to tattoo on any part of my body. Especially when it’s your first tattoo. Which is why it took five years to get that little quarter rest on my left forearm. I couldn’t figure out how to condense all those letters into one.

Until the rest. The one that resembles a bat when you look at it sideways.

Somehow, it wasn’t enough. My sister, who is the instigator of the whole tattoo idea though she’d never had one either, decided to get one of her own once I took the plunge, and wanted me to come along. I spent a few weeks looking at the blank spot on my resting foot where I really wanted that tattoo in the first place. I'd chickened out because everybody said it’s so painful to get one there. Now I made up my mind. Five letters was better than thirty-eight. We made an appointment together, Lynette got her first tat, and I my second.

It’s beautiful. It’s right where I wanted it. It, as well as my bat tattoo, both remind me to rest because God thinks I’m worth fighting for.

“YaYa?” Tully said, breaking into my thoughts. “What does it mean?”

“It’s from the Psalms,” I began. “It means to, like . . .”

I had to figure out how to explain it in language an eight-year-old could understand without all the drama of cancer and surgery and weeping in a chair for weeks while I wondered if I would live or die. Condense it, Eula. Just like you condensed that verse in Exodus to five letters in a tattoo.

“It means to pause, to take a breath. Stop and think about how good God is.”

She nodded like she understood and didn’t know why I’d had such a hard time explaining it to her. “So, it means to just calm down,” she said, in all of her eight-year-old wisdom. Now I was speechless.

I paused.

I took a breath.

I thought about how smart eight-year-olds can be.

And I didn’t have anything better to add to her definition of the beautiful tattoo on my right foot which reminds me to kick fear and terror to the curb while God fights for me.

“Yup,” I said. “It means to just calm down.” Finally I know what all those Bible translators have never figured out. But one word is still better than three when it comes to biting your lip in a tattoo parlor.

Selah.

Frayed Edges

Guilt.
Shame.
Condemnation.
Jesus took it all away.

But it still gets my attention. Somehow, it’s easier to tune in on the droning, repetitive voice of the accuser instead of the voice of my soul’s Lover. Why is my selective hearing selecting that?

You will not need to fight in this battle. Take your positions, stand still, and see the deliverance of the Lord Who is with you.

I know He is. But still I fight. Still I fall. Still I fail. Still.

Then be still.

Those who enter into Christ’s being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud.

Yeah. That’s what it feels like. Compressed by the pressure of a low-lying black cloud. Pretty sure that’s not the abundant life.

A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death.

But what about moral standards? My expectations? His expectations! What about those? And judgment from other people. What about that? What if I mess this whole thing up and people point and say, “I knew she was a faker.”

It’s a dead end to obsess over self. If you want to find the way out into the open and a spacious, free life, turn your attention to God.

So, I’m pretty self-focused here in this game of moral living—that’s what you’re saying? That’s why I keep listening to the wrong voice and agreeing with it?

For you who welcome Him, in whom He dwells—even though you still experience all the limitations of sin—you experience life on God’s terms. When God lives and breathes in you (and He does, as surely as He did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life.

It feels dead when I cave in to condemnation. “Life on God’s terms.” Interesting. I’ve been living on my terms thinking that was what pleased God. You know, keep a log of sin, apologize a lot, grovel if necessary, crawl around believing I’m a worm He let in to His kingdom against His better judgment.

Okay, well, that’s messed up. Don’t you see that we don’t owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent? There’s nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God’s Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go!

I get really tired of hearing the accuser’s voice. He’s pretty good at pointing out my inabilities and disfunction.

I’ll bet.

I keep trying to protect myself by always doing the right thing. You know, keep the law with the help of God’s Spirit.

How’s that working for you?

Pretty wormy.

Listen, God went for the jugular when He sent His own Son. He didn’t deal with the problem as something remote and unimportant. In His Son, Jesus, He personally took on the human condition, entered the disordered mess of struggling humanity in order to set it right once and for all. The law code, weakened as it always was by fractured human nature, could never have done that.

But what about the greatest Commandment and the second greatest—and the other eight?

The law always ended up being used as a Band-Aid on sin instead of a deep healing of it. And now what the law code asked for but we couldn’t deliver is accomplished as we, instead of redoubling our own efforts, simply embrace what the Spirit is doing in us.

“Simply embrace what the Spirit is doing in us.” I don’t know what to say. That’s the best news I’ve ever heard, even in church.

Sad. Now I don’t know what to say.

So, I don’t need to search my heart to see if there’s any wicked way in me?

You’re out of your league if you do that. Those who trust God’s action in them find that God’s Spirit is in them—living and breathing God!

Then it really is finished. He doesn’t expect any self-improvement efforts from me?

How can you improve on a plan that cost God the life of His Son?

You’re right. I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope.

The perfect place to be. Maybe it’s time to let go.

It’s been a pretty lousy rope, now that you mention it.

This resurrection life you received from God is not a timid, grave-tending life. It’s adventurously expectant, greeting God with a childlike, “What’s next, Papa?” Like I said, a new power is in operation. God’s Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. We know Who He is, and we know who we are: Father and children.

When I look inside at me, I forget who I really am. That’s where the downhill slide begins.

God knew what He was doing from the very beginning. He decided from the outset to shape the lives of those who love Him along the same lines as the life of His Son. The Son stands first in the line of humanity He restored. We see the original and intended shape of our lives there in Him.

So, when I focus on Him, then I’ll see the real me?

The real you.

Even on my worst days?

Even then.

I’ll still be His?is

Still.

So, what do you think? With God on our side like this, how can we lose? If God didn’t hesitate to put everything on the line for us, embracing our condition and exposing Himself to the worst by sending His own Son, is there anything else He wouldn’t gladly and freely do for us?

No, I guess not.

And who would dare tangle with God by messing with someone who belongs to Him? Who would dare even to point a finger? The One who died for us—Who was raised to life for us!—is in the presence of God at this very moment sticking up for us.

That’s not exactly what I’ve heard from the pulpit, either.

Maybe you’ve been facing the wrong pulpits. Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us?

Well, now that you ask . . .

There’s no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not threats, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture. None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us.

I guess I didn’t look at it like that.

I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us.

Not even if I get in His way?

Seriously?

Right. I guess that covers it.

It covers it, heals, renews it, settles it, transforms, empowers, secures, and holds it.

Nothing can get between me and God’s love for me—not even me.

Not even you.

So, the best thing to do when the accusations start . . .

And they will . . .

Is just be still?

Every single time.






A conversation with Paul in Romans 8 (via The Message Bible) and the bold promise of 2 Chronicles 20:17.

Thanks to Al Levine for the use of his photo of this frayed rope. The original photo can be viewed at https://www.flickr.com/photos/cogdog/26240804093/in/photolist-6VFVAJ-LvDypq-pEDbEm-3adyAF-oZhG4u-64oSDk-Tn93Sb-cePW8S-FYNYQM-aSKssM-71NkLC-2pSgZz-9xMavz-5rQ313-aURRp4-mqJhv-PH8Tg-2ehya2z-EagMd-7LzVG9-y8bkpY-KW2GdR-3Qzy2-4xPcae-3ky4Y-o5L1Wg-6NWd32-cJJtr1-nd6CTz-23vh7E-7DVbfs-3ePfSp-aRpG1i-8ie4tL-8rurbu-7wJwuR-88xVkL-4E5tXw-n6UY9z-5hN2Fa-BtFzgD-7ckqvQ-aEyX2H-27YR3V-QpZLmg-QzR4i7-J5Jsxp-bYFtQ-ot51xR-dNpXFG

The Gardener

My daughter is a gardener. She grows things. Things like chickens. And kitties, even though she hates birds and is only a little less fond of cats. But she overcomes her fear of feathers and felines and takes care of them anyway. In return, the chickens lay eggs and eat the scorpions that haunt her farm, while the cats keep rodents at bay. It’s a win-win as long as nobody gets too touchy feely.

Kate grows vegetables and fruit, too. Really well. Right now, an explosion of zucchini is threatening a coup on the cherry tomatoes, while a lazy, serpentine flow of watermelon vines shade the melons so they’ll be lusciously ripe when the Fourth rolls around. Volunteer kale showed up this summer, after a three-year hibernation, just to say “hello.” And, I assume, “eat me.” Katy gardens some things without even trying.

Both of my kids are great gardeners. I’m not sure where they got their agricultural gene, but it’s not in my DNA. The only green I’m good at growing lives on the cheese in my refrigerator. My son lives in Kentucky where good soil and abundant rain makes growing your own food so successful, it’s almost a sin not to do it. He’s mastered okra, tomatoes, jalapenos, carrots, green beans, and a host of squashes. A couple of years ago, he grew so much corn at his place that the local squirrels threw a party in his backyard and helped themselves to half his crop. There may have been some squirrel stew in the freezer for a while that summer. He never said.

Katy and Lee shine in their gardens, but there are other tender things they care for, too. Like the hearts of their children. They keep a close eye on the flow of influence in their lives, knowing that invaders can spring up like unwanted visitors at any time. Which is what I would call kale if it showed up in my non-existent garden. Just saying.

There are a lot of marauders when you’re the caretaker of a garden. You’ve got to be on high alert for freeloaders like wildlife and weeds. Come to think of it, weeds are probably the reason I pay other people to grow my food—I just don’t want to deal with the little trespassers. But if you don’t deal with them, they’ll steal all the water, light, and nutrients from your plants, and stunt the growth of your peppers. Some of them don’t just compete for space, either. Some are so toxic they’ll kill your carrots outright.

Here’s what I think is unfair about the whole thing. Sometimes, no matter what we do or how many books we study or how big our magnifying glass is, Weeds Happen. And when they do, we have three choices.

Ignore them. You know, play like an ostrich and stick your head in the sand. Maybe when you come up for air, the weeds will be gone. Let them grow however they want to and deal with it later. Or never. Maybe if you ignore them, they’ll magically disappear. But what if they don’t. Will they grow so big they make even overachiever zucchini plants look like almost-rans?

That leaves option two. Salt the garden bed. Shake your finger at the little interlopers and let them know in no uncertain terms that there will be no bad weeds popping up in this garden patch. Absolutely not. You won’t allow it. Go for the gusto and baptize the entire bed with a Costco-sized bag of salt. There isn’t a weed on the planet who could live through an assault like that. Of course, there aren’t any healthy plants who’d survive it, either. Afterwards, carpet the ground with some artificial turf and silk strawberries and your garden will be the envy of all your neighbors. It’s a poser, but no one will judge you for having weeds anymore. How could they? You cleared the ground of anything real and substituted life with fake plants. From the outside it will look visually perfect, this completely bogus, dead garden. But if appearance is what matters, this is the path to perfection.

I know. I’m frowning now, too. As hard as it is to face, the only way to protect your garden and deal with a weed is to pull it out. This takes daily work and an acceptance that there will be weeds. The best thing to do is yank them early and throw them away completely. You don’t want them to re-grow or infest your neighbor’s garden bed.

When I was a kid, one of my chores was to pull weeds. Probably the reason I don’t plant gardens today. It was emphasized, strongly, when the Weed Police showed up later to examine my work, that every weed I pulled had better have its roots attached. No yanking off the top just so the ground looked clean. Grab that baby at the base, loosen the dirt with a spade, and Get.Out.Every.Root.

So, you’re wondering, as you munch on a few carrot sticks, what does any of this have to do with parenting? Whether we’re cultivating a garden or a child’s heart, sooner or later we’re gonna have to do hand-to-hand combat with weeds. Don’t pretend they don’t exist. Look that little trespasser right in the face and yank it out. If there are thorns, put on gloves. In other words, arm yourself, but get down in the dirt and face it.

It’s exhausting. Thankless. Time consuming, sweaty, constant work. At the end of the day, we may become so frightened by the world our kids are growing up in we’ll be tempted to go to the extreme to shut it all out. Ditch the television, for example. Run background checks on their friends—and ours. Or even sell everything and move to Antarctica where you’ll never have to see another human being again.

But isn’t that the equivalent of salting your garden? If we want the future generation to have successful, life-giving, fruit-producing gardens, we’re going to have to show them what weeds look like so they can recognize the difference between crab grass and crops. We’ll even have to keep a watchful eye on our own lives, put on our gloves, and get face down in the dirt to pull out weeds of our own.

I am often tempted to run away. The worse the world becomes, the more I research the whole idea. I’ll admit it—I am an ostrich, with a tendency to either run or hide. But if I do, all that means is the weeds win. I don’t want the weeds to win. I want to be healthy. I want you and all your children to be healthy. And I want to enjoy real tomatoes, even if they do come from a grocery store.

I think we need to give ourselves a break. Weeds Happen. There’s no need for Gardener Guilt here. Being a healthy adult and raising healthy children, just like healthy plants, means weeds are going to pop up. You can count on it. Is it your fault? Not at all. Maybe the presence of weeds is even a good thing. The truth is every weed is an opportunity for you and your sprouts to learn what is good and noble and honest and true, and, by comparison, to remove from the garden everything that is not.

All of this is very hard work. But if you’re raising young gardeners who’ll one day be responsible for their own food, they have to be able to recognize a weed when they see one. They can’t do that if they spend their childhood hiding in an ice cave in Antarctica.

It’s exhausting. I know. Growing seasons are long and the day-to-day effort is often thankless. So, I’m here to offer my gratitude on behalf of your tender sprouts. You’re gifted. Courageous. Devoted and fearless. You are capable and fully up to the challenge.  You are enough. I’m praying for you. No one else can bring in this harvest like you, the caretaker of your garden.

I know you’re tired. I know you worry whether you’re doing too much or too little. I hear it in your voices, read it in your Facebook posts, and I remember. I remember wondering if my little crop would survive all the weeds I overlooked. All my fellow former gardeners remember, too. And we’re rooting for you. You’re not only your children’s hero, you’re ours, too. But none of us is ever in this alone. There’s a Greater Gardener Whose hand is securely on yours, watering and nurturing and protecting. He believes in you, too.

Happy Gardening, my friend. I believe in you and your crop. I know you’ll bring in a harvest to outshine the best of them. After all, I'm a big fan of yours. I’ve got a front seat view, right here in the produce aisle, and I’m cheering you on. Just sitting here, munching on somebody else’s cherry tomatoes and saluting you with a fresh, imported pineapple.

Once a gardener, always a gardener.







With thanks to j arlecchino for the use of this sumptuous photo of tomatoes, my favorite fruit and vegetable. You can find the original photo by following this link: 
https://www.flickr.com/photos/116797173@N07/15166693956/in/photolist-p7egHo-dr18RQ-seZZeA-nLLXr6-eUT957-9ArdEW-gPWmwX-o3pKQD-dpD55G-8nTrxB-efA732-8eNBD4-ajbeiC-cPRzhu-dWNTQw-9k6PW7-afffgB-j6UekJ-qT2Lmn-g92ek1-eX3GRi-c6N3m1-8rFGK8-53zQSY-ooUMzx-6sjzV3-nsMC8y-bPLBT6-cz9pEN-akUTRY-eiN3Xn-4EyfBS-gnEEof-axFpfA-oicE5S-3cCXZq-pKCXy6-d56GP7-iwLKFD-o2CFqC-6Rvncx-5JRAoC-cDU1s1-gFDPL8-agyThP-gxTQfe-EwU28Y-d8xd5u-2JpWDa-agvGfr

Perspective

There’s this mountain.

I’ve loved it most of my life. Massive and solitary, it seems to rise up out of the desert floor, looking like a battleship. I think they should have named it Battleship Mountain or maybe  . . . no, that’d be the perfect name for it. Instead, somebody gave it the moniker Superstition Mountains, or to the fit hikers who traverse its many hidden trails, it’s simply called the Supes.

There are legends surrounding this iconic mountain with its mysterious sounding name, mostly dealing with a gold miner named Jacob Waltz who reportedly found the mother lode back in them thar hills near Apache Junction, Arizona, in the late 1800’s, but never disclosed the location to anyone. After he died in 1891, the hunt was on and, over the years, it’s been reported that many people died under mysterious circumstances in their quest for the gold there. Probably should have stuck to qualifying for the Olympics—it’s safer.

You might recognize this range if you saw it in an Arizona calendar. In some photos, the front of this igneous formation seems to slope up and backward like a ship’s bow, while the rest of the mountain, naturally higher than its bow, leans back like a cruiser powering its way across a dry desert floor—like a ghost ship on the horizon. Every once in a while, when the snow level drops to two thousand feet or less, the entire length of this mountain turns white, and the clouds that hover above it look like white smoke as they roll back away from this rock ship’s stacks. That’s my favorite view of the Supes—when nature goes overboard with the props that enhance its battleship illusion.

How’s that for a solid perspective? But even though I live southwest of this mountain where the profile I see everyday is the one I just described, the Superstitions aren’t one dimensional. They are multi-dimensional. I’ve viewed this wilderness area from the sky, from the north, from its base, and from a few other locations I’m incapable of explaining because I basically have little to no sense of direction. But trust me when I say that my favorite perspective of the Supes is still only one side of them.

There are other sides. And if you were to drive me blindfolded to one of those other sides without telling me where we were headed, then ask me to identify what mountain I now faced, I don’t think I could do it. Because that range is not a battleship. It only looks like one from where I live. Which, as I said, is the side I prefer to admire.

But what if someone lives north of the Supes and never once sees what I see from my perspective? Whose view is the right one? Is there a right one? Or maybe it takes each of us, looking at as many sides as possible, to really discover what makes up this unique mountain.

I can be very passionate about my point of view. I’ll bet you are about yours, too. It can be challenging to put my views on hold long enough to listen well to the perspective of someone else, but it’s worth it. I don’t have to change your point of view. You don’t need to change mine, either. Maybe I’ll drive around and explore the north side of the issue sometime and, if the time is right, I may even find that I like that view better. But even if I don’t, it’s becoming clear to me that there are good reasons we all have our points of view. Right now, I simply live on the south side of the Superstitions, which explains why I think it looks like a battleship. And there are good reasons why someone else may describe it as a cluster of rugged pillars. Or the open mouth of a dinosaur. It all depends on where they’re standing now and where they’ve stood before. There’s no reason for me to feel threatened by another point of view. We’re just telling one another what we see and how we perceive things from that position.

I have friends who are fond of saying that my perspective is a hundred per cent accurate all the time. They also say theirs is accurate a hundred per cent of the time. Which I thought was confusing until I considered this mountain. But now, I think I get it. The point isn’t for me to win you over to my side, or you to win me to yours. The point is for us to listen well, comprehend someone else’s point of view, and above all, respect the place where we each stand.

That’s what I think, anyway. It’s just my perspective from this side of the mountain.

Shock and Awe

Three days. Three women. Two silos. One road trip. No itinerary.

Men hate trips like that. They want to schedule everything. No deviation, no surprises. Just one big plan—drive straight through with no bathroom breaks. Well, we made a plan. It looked like this. “Drive to Waco and . . . dowhateverwewant!”

Plans are for architects. Serendipity is for women. And we serendipitized Waco. Shock and Awe. It was the no-plan plan. I am still in shock.

The truth is, this was my third trip there. My sister Lynette and I first saw the majestic, gleaming twin icons of the Silo District together two years ago. We were so starstruck during that experience, we even asked the college girl behind the counter at Magnolia Market for her autograph. We ate cupcakes at every meal for the whole weekend, hogged the giant grown-up swing in the courtyard for about, oh, forever, and went home with bruises from pinching ourselves so much. “We have to come back to Waco!” we exclaimed when the trip was over.

My husband, who admits to giving up his man card to watch girl TV with me sometimes, enjoys fixer upper shows.  Merely an appetizer before the main course of golf tournaments and zombie movies, still he watches them. He wanted to see Waco, too. So, at the end of a road trip last spring, we stopped by. It was . . . disappointing. Screaming hot the afternoon we arrived, the line at the bakery was a mile long as was the line at the newly opened Magnolia Table restaurant, so we skipped both. The next morning, typical of the Midwest (“if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute”), temperatures fell to forty degrees and rainy, we spent the day freezing to death, and I came home with a cold. “I’m not that impressed by Waco,” my husband said. He’s not really a cupcake kind of guy, so I understood.

I, however, am smitten by this town. The only way to enjoy it, though—forgive me, Baby—is with girlfriends. It’s the truth. Shopping is a sport for women. Just like I don’t enjoy feeding worms to smelly fish for hours on end in case I snag something I don’t even want to eat, men don’t enjoy wandering through a room full of things they never knew they needed. It’s that whole itinerary thing again. I’m not looking for anything in particular, but I’m pretty sure I’ll find it anyway.

Pam—my sister from another mother—and Lynette and I are professional shoppers. When that weary patrolman pulled us over in Alamogordo, Pam explained our rate of speed by telling him, “There’s a shopping crisis in Waco, and we’re the Shopping Crisis Management Team.”

He blinked a couple of times, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay. Drive safe.” I’m pretty sure that guy is a married man.

We hit the ground running our first full day in the District. Ignoring the smell of fresh pastries and caramel corn in the air, we burst onto the busy scene inside Magnolia Market and immediately lost track of Pam.

Engulfed by hundreds of people in the two-story converted cotton gin, it was easy to do. One minute you’re inspecting a bouquet of stems covered in cotton bolls, and the next thing you know your sister has disappeared, too. There’s no point in searching for them, though. All aisles lead to checkout and if there’s one thing I know about women shoppers in Waco, it’s this—you gonna buy somethin’.

We met up with loaded bags, went outside, and immediately realized we were on the verge of starvation. All those food trucks lining the perimeter of the marketplace told us so. We found a picnic table in the shade of the Silos, dumped our treasures, and one by one zoomed in on our lunch options. Alabama Sweet Tea in take-home Mason jars, macaroni and cheese, chicken salad on croissants, and—drum roll, please—CUPCAKES.

I would drive all the way to Waco, Texas, through one thousand miles of cops and desert and dinky, deserted towns just for one chocolate cupcake piled high with white icing. And I did. And I will do it again. Unequivocally, Silos Baking Co. has the best cupcakes I have ever put in my mouth, and sister, I have put some cupcakes in my mouth. If you aren’t an icing lover, you will completely disagree with me, but you will no longer be my friend. Just hand over your cupcake and have a nice life.

My husband knows how much I enjoy shopping with my sister Lynette. He also knows Target and World Market have a picture of Pam and me posted on every store they own in these lower forty-eight. Not because they admire us, but because they fear us. In particular, they fear Pam. In particular, I also fear Pam and my husband Rob knows that. His bank account knows it keenly. 

He warned me to be careful. “You know how she is with shopping carts,” he said. I know only too well. And that’s the reason I had a secret conversation with my sister. “No matter what Pam does, you have my back, right?” The little liar held up her Girl Scout hand and swore she did. It was just an empty promise. She was never a Girl Scout.

Last year, while Pam and I were touring the aisles of World Market, I had a shopping cart and Pam had a shopping cart. That was my first mistake. From now on, I will always put my crap in her cart, and here’s why. When I got home and Pamela was safely on her way back to Tucson, I emptied my bag of goodies on the kitchen island and discovered a four-dollar cookie cutter of a nekkid man that I did not buy. Not on purpose. Immediately I knew who to blame.

Did you put a cookie cutter in my cart? I texted my sticky-fingered friend.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
You’re lying.
Okay, I did.
You owe me four bucks!
Whatever.

She still owes me four bucks. And every time we go shopping together, by the time I end up at the checkout counter, there are always weird things I’ve never even seen before in my cart. Usually, I catch them before I pay for them. But, I’m getting old. And tired. And Pam is younger than me and works out. I need my own shopping cart. I also need a security guard to keep her from throwing things in my cart while I’m reading the ingredient list on a tube of toothpaste. That’s why I enlisted Lynette to watch my back. She promised. Don’t forget that.

I know, we were the Shopping Crisis Management Team. But Pam has a secret motivation for shopping—she is a peculiar kind of kleptomaniac. I don’t really know what to call her disorder. It’s not that she steals things—she doesn’t. She’s as honest as the day is, well, she has a great smile. And she’s as devoted as they come unless she’s shopping with a friend. Then she’s sneaky. And I’m a slow learner.

While we were in Waco, I needed a couple of things from Target. While Pam parked, I grabbed a cart and ran into the store before she could follow me, leaving her and Lynette to their own devices. But I felt safe. Lynette had my back. I breathed a sigh of relief and leisurely searched out the three or four things I needed. Suddenly my phone lit up.

           Where you is? Pam’s about to page you!
          Don’t let her do that.

Pam has had me paged at least three times over the years, usually calling me Red or Mike over a store’s intercom. I’d refuse to respond but it always cracks me up. I mean, who does that? Once, after we’d been shopping together, we were in separate cars and went through a Starbucks drive-thru on our way to the next store. When I reached the drive-up, the nervous barista shoved my drink out the window, eyeing me suspiciously as I reached for it. “The car in front of you paid for your drink,” she whispered, pointing at Pam’s departing Cadillac. When I met up with Pam later, she said she’d told the girl I have mental problems, that she felt sorry for me, and for the teenager to be careful when she gave me my beverage. I’ve never returned to that Starbucks.

My phone lit up again.

She’s looking for the bathroom! But she’s thrown stuff for you in my basket.
Dump the basket. I’ll bring you another one.
Ok! I don’t actually need one-I only have 2 things.
Just walk away. She’s some twisted kind of claustrophobic.
What? You mean kleptomaniac?
Whatever.
I’m headed to the bathroom now. Pam’s alone and on her own.
Genuflecting as we speak.
But you’re not Catholic!
I am now.
Run!!!

It was too late. Pam found me in cosmetics, and by the time I found what I needed she’d filled my cart with sprinkler heads, cauliflower, a family size pack of toilet paper, and disappearing ink. I scooped it all out and left it on an end cap, but I had to go down one more aisle before I could make a run for the checkout lanes. Lynette showed up just as Pam put one arm on the counter in aisle seventeen and in one swift swoop slid everything on the shelf down into my cart, doing a high five with herself when nothing fell on the floor.

That’s when I gave up. Defeated, I dropped my head and my arms and stood in the middle of the vitamin aisle like a bird-pecked scarecrow, useful to no one, harassed to the point of exhaustion while Lynette held a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter. Pam had won. She quit throwing bandaids in my cart and grinned in victory at my undoing.

I plucked it all out, tossed it randomly on the shelves, and pushed my humiliated cart to the courtesy counter where a wide-eyed pubescent clerk stared at the three of us with our matching renegade baseball caps and asked, “Did you find everything you need?” Pam whipped a bag of plastic Easter eggs out of her back pocket and handed them to the confused kid while I shook my head.

“No,” I told him. “I don’t want those eggs. What I need is a pair of handcuffs to control that lady, but you guys don’t carry those.”

He handed me my receipt, wished me a nice day, and disappeared into a back room. I grabbed my bags and glared at Lynette.

“I thought you had my back.”

She laughed and said, “Well, I can’t be everywhere.”

Later that night as I checked my Target purchases in the hotel room I shared with Lynette, a pair of yellow rubber gloves fell out of one bag. I picked them up and stared at my sister.

“You just stood there while I paid for these?”

“No, I stood there and watched while Pam paid for them and then put them in your bag.”

I went to Pam’s room and threw them on her bed. Three days later when I unpacked my suitcase, the rubber gloves reappeared. I texted my sister.

            You’re fired as my bodyguard.
            Why, did you find the gloves?
          You said you had my back!
            I say a lot of things.
          So, you’re nothing but a double agent!
            If the rubber gloves fit . . .

I haven’t decided if I’ll take either one of them with me the next time I visit Waco. You think you know who your friends are, but in a free-wheeling sport like shopping, you can’t trust anybody. Especially women.

I bet men never lie to their friends like that about fishing.








Thanks to TripAdvisor for the use of the cupcake photo. I was in a feeding frenzy and forgot to photograph my dessert ahead of time.