Forty Lives

When I was about 5 and my sister, Karen, was 7, I got in trouble.  I don’t remember what I did, but my father was pretty angry with me.  Daddy was a very loving, gentle man, but he was also stern with his discipline.  I knew that I was in for it.  Karen knew that, too, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.  The typical older sister, she took on the role of leader and protector.  As Daddy moved closer to deliver the inevitable spanking, Karen instructed me to climb under the coffee table.  She stood between my father and me and said to him, “You spank me instead of Suzanne.”  He was so moved that neither of us got punished that day.

Isn’t that just like our Savior?  He covers our sins, provides a bridge to our Heavenly Father so our relationship can be restored.  How blessed are we that we are offered the opportunity to commune with our God – to pray, sing, and worship knowing our sins are forgiven and there is nothing left to distance us from Him.  How beautiful that this bridge to our God came to us in the form of a precious, tender baby.

O Lord, Thou didst show favor to Thy land; Thou didst restore the captivity of Jacob.  Thou didst forgive the iniquity of Thy people; Thou didst cover all their sin.  Selah.

I sing with an ensemble at church.  I enjoy sharing in the musical creativity, but last week I skipped out on rehearsal.  I got a phone call a bit later because there were only two singers there, and they were working on a song that really needed three-part harmony.  So, I went to rehearsal.

By the time I got there, the other two ladies had worked out their parts.  I added the third part, and it rounded out the sound of the song.  It was easy for us, almost effortless.  Each of us just seemed to know where the other vocals were going.  And our voices blended.

Guess we’ve learned the secret in that group.  We listen to each other.  Each one of us is mindful of the other singers.  We don’t want to overpower the others.  We just want the overall sound to be beautiful rather than showcase our own voices.

Every member of my family has a voice that can be heard (o.k., we’re a bit loud).  Many times in our home, I find that we’re struggling to get our own words out, our own point of view.  And it can quickly get out of control as our words and tempers escalate.  Seems we haven’t learned that ensemble secret.  We don’t listen. 

In our ensemble, there are times when one of us sings lead.  And the rest of us back off during that time.  If we all tried to sing solos at the same time, the result would be chaos.  Occasionally at home, we’re all singing lead and tripping over each other.  Rather than feeling like our voices are heard, we end up feeling alone.

I think it’s time for a change in our household.  Time for us to stop running around, pushing our own agendas, and just stop.  Time to hear when Ethan asks a question about his favorite president (Ulysses S. Grant) or when Daniel wants to recount every play of a UNC basketball game.  And time to share details about our dreams of living near the ocean.

Thankfully, there are moments when we get it.  Like when Daniel taught Ethan the names of the planets the other day.  Or when we cheer Daniel on at a basketball game.  Or when we work together in the yard under the gorgeous spring sky. 

We’re learning that – while we each have different parts to sing – we can be supportive by truly engaging in each others’ activities.  We can share dinnertime conversation about everyday occurrences at school and work.  Hopefully, with enough practice, our conversations will become true moments of sharing and produce a lovely, harmonious sound.

Last night was a tough one for my 12 year old.  His Tar Heels lost to Kansas, so they won’t be going to the Final Four.  During his own basketball game at a friend’s party, he scraped his knee pretty badly.  Then they ran out of pepperoni and cheese pizza before he made it through the line.  Finally, someone told him the ending to “The Hunger Games” before he had a chance to read it for himself.  Rough night.

How do you help a child understand that “this too shall pass”?  It’s hard enough for me as an adult to get past disappointment and truly believe that life will be good again.  But – at his age – there’s not enough history to draw on, not enough memories to instill in him a trust that things will get better.

So maybe I have to tell him my stories.  Stories of a miscarriage, the loss of my father, and the passing away of many of my husband’s family members.  Perhaps he needs to hear that my heart has been broken before or that there have been times when I couldn’t figure out my place in the world or even the right career path.  Perhaps we could take a walk through my wildflower garden to see the green that is emerging where cold, hard ground existed just weeks ago.  And I could remind him that God has always brought us through the darkest times into joy, just like these flowers will bloom again and again.

It’s one thing to believe God’s words “I will never leave you nor forsake you”.  It’s another thing to live them out, see them in action.  My son is almost there, and it’s our job as parents to help him recognize the presence of God as he rides the waves of disappointment.

We did what we could last night.  My husband cooked him a pizza.  I cleaned his wound and put ointment on it.  Our son finished reading his book.  When his head hit the pillow, there was a peace about him.

And this is what God does.  God nourishes us with his Word, cleans our hearts and applies the salve of grace to our wounded spirits.  Then we have the strength to finish what we started.  Eventually, even the most bitter of disappointments must give way to the blessed, nurturing, life-giving peace of our Creator.

I attended a wonderful seminar about a week ago.  Being in an environment surrounded by people who write and feel passionate about their message was invigorating.  I also got glimpses of the personalities and hearts of several of the other attendees.

 One young couple gave me a lot to think about.  They discussed how their words seemed to shape their reality.  In the early days of their marriage, even flippant negative comments about each other’s behavior slowly but surely built a barrier between them.  And then they got me – pointing out I had said several less than positive things during our short conversation.

 Matthew 12:34 reminds me “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”  If that’s the case, my heart could use a little work.  If I expect the worst, I shouldn’t be surprised when that’s exactly what I get.  But if my words reflect an optimistic future, my mind can’t help but follow.  And putting hands and feet to my thoughts will eventually make good things happen.

 I’m not suggesting a denial of reality, and I’m a far cry from Hayley Mills’ Pollyanna.  But I can take baby steps.  Last night after a long day at work, I decided to transplant some flowers in my garden.  I had to dig deep in the dirt, and with every movement of the shovel, I felt my weariness.  I said out loud, “I’m exhausted”.  Hearing my own words, I decided to take a different approach.  As I worked the ground, I said “Turn the soil.  Dig the hole.”  I said this over and over as I cleared a 6 foot row then planted the flowers.  Somehow focusing one step at a time on accomplishing the task at hand rather than my physical limitations made it work.  It wasn’t easy, but I got the job done.

 And then there are the words I speak to my family.  My 4-year old was very proud of all the things he did to get himself ready for bed last night.  And oh, how he did beam with joy when we praised his efforts.  Too many times I find it’s easier to focus on stopping poor behavior rather than encouraging good behavior, especially with my children.  That one may take a lot of practice for me to master.  But words – my words – have power.  I want my heart to overflow with kind and positive thoughts.  And I pray that my words will encourage and bless others.

 “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”  We’ve all heard it a hundred times in response to life’s tragedies or unexpected twists and turns in life’s journey.  And for some people, this belief gives them strength and comfort when coping with loss or pain.  Somehow, it just doesn’t ring true to me.

A child is abused, a friend publicly betrayed, and innocent bystander murdered.  All these events are not orchestrated by a divine puppeteer.  The God I serve gave us all free will to make choices – some good, some bad, some seemingly insignificant – that affect ourselves as well as others.  There is no “reason” when someone chooses to act outside the legal or moral fabric that grounds our society and our faith.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe that God can control everything.  I just believe He chooses to let us make our own decisions, including whether or not to follow Him.  God wants us to love Him because we truly want to, not just to ease our fears of the unknown. 

Letting go of the belief that everything happens for a reason doesn’t shake my faith but rather strengthens it.  My hope is not in a predetermined path.  My hope is in God.  My hope is in God’s love and presence.  When our lives are shattered, He is there.  The God of the universe weeps with us.

My four-year old had a nightmare last night and asked me to pray for him.  When I finished, he said, “And God and Jesus, please always be with me.”  Of one thing I’m certain…his prayer was answered before it was even asked.

“My peace I give to you”

The words came to me clearly, almost forcefully, while I was twisted up emotionally like a pretzel.  Worry about making the best choices for myself and my family while not neglecting the needs of others had me in a bit of a tizzy.  Boundaries are sometimes hard to define and even harder to maintain once the line is drawn in the sand.  And I had drawn that line.

“My peace I give to you”

But there it was, settled on me.  Peace.  I had done my best, and there was nothing to be gained by worrying.  I had learned my lesson…for about eight hours. 

“My peace I give to you”

The worry came back with a vengeance.  And like a rabbit in the spring it had multiplied.  What had been anxiety about one family member became concern about several family members.  God had given me peace, and I had given it back.

“My peace I give to you”

So I did the only logical thing.  I stopped, and I ate almonds covered in Godiva dark chocolate chased by sips of English Breakfast hot tea.  Savoring every nuance of flavor, I lived fully in that moment.  And in my chocolate-induced clarity, I took the words to heart.

“My peace I give to you”

It’s not to be taken lightly – this peace.  It is to be embraced, savored, consumed with a thankful heart.  This gift of peace must be nurtured.  Worry can chase it away, but pure faith and trust are the water and sunlight it needs to blossom, grow, and share its gentle strength with others.  This gift – blessed gift of peace – is one I now receive with an open heart. 

“My peace I give to you”

This blog is supposed to be about spiritual things – learning the nature of God, forgiveness, reaching out to help others – all the things that supersede the ordinary.  But today it’s about football.  In a couple of days, my team, the LSU Tigers, will play for a national championship and undefeated season.  May not seem all that spiritual on the surface, but I remember another season in 1997 that was filled with football, God, and saying goodbye to my Daddy.

My Dad was not well for many years.  The man who had the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever known had a weak heart that just couldn’t hold on forever.  We knew the end was near in the fall of 1997.  Daddy was in and out of hospitals, and he chose to live out his final months at home.  I travelled back and forth from Tennessee to Louisiana to spend as much time as I could with him and my Mother.

And on those Saturdays – those precious Saturdays – we’d watch football.  Between spectacular running plays, dropped passes, and kicks that stayed just inside the uprights, we’d talk.  Dad dispensed career advice, and I spoke of the baby I hoped to have…bittersweet as we both knew he wouldn’t be there when it happened.  We talked about my wonderful husband who loved football, too (Go Mountaineers!).  And we did laugh.  Daddy never lost his quick wit.

James Earl Jones had it wrong in “Field of Dreams”.  It wasn’t baseball but rather football that was the binding thread running through our family.  And on those days we shared many special moments.  We listened to the LSU/Akron game on the radio (Tigers 56, Zips 0 – no pun intended).  We watched Tennessee’s difficult SEC Championship victory over Auburn with Peyton Manning at the helm.  And we got a little choked up hearing Bob Griese call his son Brian’s Rose Bowl victory over Washington State, earning Michigan a share in the national championship. We connected over football in these moments, the time marked by first downs like hands on a clock.

And then he was gone.  How he would have loved to see LSU take on Alabama Monday night.  He would have rooted for the Tigers with all his might but would also have been proud of the SEC for having both teams in the championship game.

Guess I’ll just have to cheer extra loudly for him.  I’ll watch the game on TV with my family, wear my lucky LSU hat, scream like a crazy woman, and wish that he could be there.  And those memories, divine in their simplicity, will be with me.  Here’s hoping my boys will one day say the same thing about being with their Mom and Dad – watching football – and being a family.

Most people love the Christmas season. They delight in the excitement in the eyes of children as they anticipate Santa’s arrival on Christmas Eve. Then, amidst scattered wrapping paper and packaging all over the living room floor, they rest in the joy of Christmas morning while “A Christmas Story” plays on the TV in the background.

For me, one of the most magical days of the year is December 26th. I can sleep late on Christmas (if my boys will let me), but I awaken wide-eyed and energized the next day. Once the festivities are over, I can get down to the business of de-cluttering, organizing, and planning how I’ll be a better person in the coming year.

I become Chuck Connors’ “The Rifleman” with my Dymo LetraTag Labelmaker holstered at my side. Plastic bins, empty shelves, and tiny containers open a world of possibilities for organizing, categorizing, and sorting. Like a tornado, I tear through the house with such force that my husband and children wonder if I’ll slap a label on them or shove them into bins.

I’ve only recently realized this is about control for me. After the chaotic weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas are over, I’m ready to regain some command over our household. I start with recycling and move from there to conquering the clutter, anything that will help me reclaim – inch by inch – our space, our home, our peace of mind.

I find that many times throughout the year I’m possessed by this driving force to organize. Worrying about a friend suffering loss, struggling with forgiving someone who has hurt my son, dealing with work and family issues – all of these are invitations to get to work on my environment. If I can control my surroundings, surely I can handle the emotional aspects of my problems and gain some clarity.

But I’ve decided, starting today, that I will take a different approach. I’ll still organize. After all, that is my nature. But every time I’m printing out a label or storing away boxes, I’ll remind myself to let go just a little bit. Maybe I’ll whisper the serenity prayer a time or two. And in letting go of control, I just might gain the peace of mind I’m looking for.

I met Debbie Runions at a writing class.  She was the instructor, with a round, smiling face and a calm demeanor that belied the energy bubbling underneath.  The class was “Writing for Magazines”, but it morphed into 1/3 magazine writing, 1/3 therapy, and 1/3 spiritual journey.  That was Deb.  She didn’t compartmentalize her life.  She was at once a writer, mother, widow, seeker, believer, and teacher.

Debbie immediately honed in on my specific abilities and brought out the best in me.  She helped me improve my writing – not just technically – but also emotionally as she pushed me to write about deep experiences and feelings.  Even after completing several of her courses, I remained in contact with my friend through a writers’ group.

It was one evening at a meeting of this group that I noticed something was wrong with Debbie.  She said, “I’ll share it with you soon.”  A couple of weeks later, she faxed me (yes, this was several years ago) an article she’d written.  She called asking me to read it before she submitted it for publication.  I read it, tears streaming down my face, and couldn’t choke out the words to talk to her about it just then. 

Deb was HIV-positive.  Her article, entitled “Healing Aids”, was so typical of her.  Her words of hope still resonate today “I choose to view my HIV as a gift to help me live life abundantly in the heart of love.”  She continued her new path by writing a fairy tale “Sabrina’s Gifts” and by serving on then President Bill Clinton’s HIV/AIDS Advisory Council.  Rather than letting her disease cripple her spirit, she let it give her wings to touch others and facilitate change.  Her body eventually gave out under the weight of the disease, but her soul remained strong through it all.

In her own gentle way, Debbie made a significant difference in my life.  Her mentoring helped me find my writer’s voice, a priceless gift.  Her faith – though different from mine – challenged me to view the spiritual with different eyes.  And her incredible spirit remains today, teaching, always teaching me to drink deeply of the blessings of this life.

My church has a prison ministry with a pen-pal program and Sunday morning worship service at a maximum security prison.  It gets a lot of attention and support from our congregation.  I myself have not gotten involved with it at all.  I’m thankful for those who support it, but I focus my energies on ministries that are closer to my heart.  I’ve somehow managed to convince myself that I have little in common with the prisoners there.  But I’m having a change of heart.

I got a letter from an inmate at this prison last week.  He read “Forty Lives” and wanted to thank me for its message.  He readily admits his mistakes and is struggling to forgive himself for his past.  Consequently, there’s one paragraph in the book that touched him the most.  It’s a realization of one of the characters about atonement – that while we do all we can in our power to atone for our wrongdoings, the fact is Jesus has already taken care of it.  Accepting that and letting go of guilt can be a challenging road in itself.

 Funny thing is, that’s the very paragraph that surprised me when I wrote it, tears streaming down my face.  Throughout the writing of most of the book, I thought I identified most with Anna, the woman trying to learn how to forgive rather than Eddie, the man seeking forgiveness.  When I got to that part, the truth hit me – forgiving myself is much more difficult than forgiving others. 

 So it turns out that we’re not that different – this man sitting in his prison cell, surrounded by walls and steel bars, and me sitting comfortably in my home surrounded by a loving family.  We are both loved equally by God.  We are both called to serve God and others.  And we are both forgiven – and by God’s grace – are learning how to forgive ourselves.