Dirty Jobs

No one likes the dirty jobs. Cleaning my circa 1951 oven is an unpleasant task. Scrubbing bathrooms infested with boys also tops the list. When I was a kid, I hated cleaning the trap in the sink after washing dishes.

My friend's young son, Paul, has figured out how to get through life without doing any of the dirty jobs: he is going to marry a woman who works full-time and lets him stay home, but only AFTER the kids are all potty-trained. None of that messiness for him, by golly!

We all understand the disdain of the disgusting; the odor, the filth, the nastiness make us turn our eyes the other way and hope someone else will step up to the plate.

I love fungi. I think they are beautiful. Their colors are bright spots in dull brown expanses. Walking along a leaf-littered path, small, red spots of color grab my attention. Bright, happy buttons of mushrooms melt into the landscape doing their work without fanfare or recognition.

Without fungi to decay organic materials the leaves, grasses, and dead animals would pile up and overcrowd our world in no time. Yes, that spore-filled cloud of mushrooms is doing all of the dirty work. You walk by not noticing the important work going on right under your nose, because the fungus at your feet has already removed the odor.

So many people in our lives are faithful fungi. They pick up the dirty laundry that falls around us, take out the trash that is heaping in ever-growing mounds, and mop up the mess of someone else's problems. They are largely unnoticed, but their bright beautiful colors bless me when I take the time to discover the difference they are making in the world.

A Gift of Light

The college students are back in town. The traffic is slower, yet more dangerous. You never know when a new-to-town driver will bolt across a couple lanes to get where she needs to be. Horns honk, and impatience rears its ugly head.

I'm walking on the greenway, enjoying a quiet evening. Runners race past me, and cyclists whiz by on their way to somewhere important or on their way to nowhere important, only enjoying the strength of a young body.

I cross over the wooden bridge and continue following the peaceful path. My shoes clop, clop, clop creating a rhythm that mimics the one inside me. A slow heart, a quiet, calming thud-up, thud-up, drives the frantic feelings and thoughts from my mind.

Passing the yellow "Caution: Blind Curve Ahead" sign, I see that the bench overlooking the river is free. Sitting down for a few moments, I swat absent-mindedly at the buzzing insects. The mosquitoes, multiplying quickly during this very wet summer, are looking for a tasty meal. I hear the traffic crossing the highway bridge over the Tar River. The locusts and cicadas shriek their high-pitched summer songs, and more people race and ride past my quiet spot.

I watch as the river slowly flows past me. Small sticks float on top the water while tiny ripples of movement can be seen in the dusky evening light. This river has come a long way from the trickling mountain streams of Virginia. Soon it will slide into the waters of the Pamlico River and then sift into the Pamlico Sound. Finally, the Atlantic will embrace the fresh water, sending it northwards to recreate the cycle again.

Sometimes it is hard to close out the sounds of runners, cyclists, road traffic, and pesky summer insects. Listening to the inner rhythm is often impossible as outside noises speed up and magnify their own self-importance. But the longer I sit here, basking in the solitude of one among many, the quieter the evening becomes. The longer I watch the slow-moving river, the more my heart and mind meld into one slow river of peacefulness.

Finally, I begin to feel God's presence. I begin to hear his faithful voice whispering to me. Silence is the loudest when God walks by. He sits on the bench and gazes at the river's gentle strength. He reminds me that he has been there the entire time, waiting for me to join him, to listen to the still, small voice within that beckons to a steady rhythm.

Time passes; the night begins creeping along the tree-covered walk, and I reluctantly rise from the bench. Walking back the way I came, I pass only a solitary gentleman. He nods his greying head at me as if to say, "You chose the better way."  I glance to the right of the path as one last gleam of sunshine finds its way to a clearing in the trees. A green clump of swamp grass glows in this last of the day's light. That is the gift, the voice whispering, "Time with me will let you see in the darkness. Night will not fall while I am walking beside you."

"You are my lamp, O Lord; the Lord turns my darkness into light." 2 Samuel 22:29

Dog TV

“A television can provide all important mental stimulation for dogs and help prevent boredom behaviour”,
PIAS (“The Petcare And Information Advisory Service”)

When my children were little, they would ask me if they could watch a video or a half-hour PBS children's show. They knew that I would fall asleep while they were watching, and then they could watch for even longer.

But I tried hard to not let them watch too much television. The Pediatric Association recommended no more than two hours a day at that time, and I think they recommend even less now. Your child can keep himself busy: playing, eating, talking, talking, talking, and other things that little guys do. But dogs are different.
When dogs are left alone they make messes, chew up pillows, eat ten-dollar bills, poop on the floor, leave dog hair on the couch and bed where they don't belong, and other things that puppies plan. So the authorities that be decided dogs should watch television. This is real!

DOGTV is the ideal babysitter for “home alone” dogs. Research shows that dogs feel better in the company of television, especially when the right content is on.
DOGTV provides television for dogs with three types of programming offering relaxing and stimulating content as well as positive behavioral reinforcements. Dogs that are left alone tend to become anxious so the calming sounds and music in the relaxing segments on DOGTV were created to keep them peaceful. Many dogs also suffer from a lack of stimulation, which becomes acute when their parents are away. The stimulating segments provide dogs with invigorating images, animation and exciting real world sounds to keep them up and running.

DOGTV’s television programming meets a dog’s typical daily routine and helps prevent mental fatigue, depression and boredom.

The thing is, we have a classroom in the house and can't have the television on during the day. Instead our dog sits outside watching birds, goats and cats. He digs holes under the tree and at the end of the porch. He barks at cyclists that go by. He watches unyieldingly for the neighbor's dog, Morgan, his evil nemesis.

In the evening, when we watch television, the dog comes into the living room and falls asleep. So somehow, the television that is bad for kids actually keeps them awake and alert, while it puts adults and dogs to sleep.

I think children are actually the ones in charge of television productions.

Can I Have It Back?

"Pick three items out of my box. Any three."

My young students peeked into the magical box of goodies, pawing and pondering which items would be best. A magic wand, a ribboned baton, a silly straw, all were coveted items. But two girls, sisters of course, argued over who should get the duct tape covered, plastic binoculars. Finally the six-year-old won.

I went on with the Bible lesson and then said, "Ok. Now I need an item back. You can pick whatever you want to turn back in, but I need to have some of these things back."

The six year old tossed in her silly straw and contentedly continued looking through the binoculars. Going on with the lesson, I read some scripture, told a story, and then dropped the next bomb.

"You know what? I'm going to see some other kids later today, and they are going to want some toys to play with. Would you put in one more thing?" I asked.

Sadly the six-year-old handed over her ribboned baton, and I kept on talking about helping others and what all of us can do to teach others about Jesus. But I noticed that the little sister slid the binoculars under her long blond hair.

You know where I am going with this just as well as the six-year-old did.
"Class, I need that last item back as well. Yes, I gave it to you earlier. Yes it was yours, but now I am asking you to give it back. Will you let me have it back?"

"Can I still look through the binoculars when we are done?" she asked as she hesitantly picked up her hair from the nape of her neck.

"Yes, you can still look through them when we are done. But right now I would like it if you would let me have them back," I explained.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled the binoculars over her head and handed them over.

It was painful. It was sad. It was so very personal.

God has asked me to give back all of myself to him. He asks for my money, my time, my gifts, my life. And some I gladly toss back into his box, happy to help. But others. . . Others I hold on to more tightly.

"Can I have it back when you're done?" I ask, tears brimming in my sorrowful eyes.

And God, softly laughing to himself, answers yes. He knows some day I will grow up and see how worthless my little toys are, but for now they are treasures, and I am his six-year-old still learning.

Moms Aren't Real People

There is an empty building I pass several times a week. It used to be a gas station, but after Sheetz moved in the competition was too fierce, and they closed. I like the building, and the location not far from home has had me contemplating opening a coffee house. The area is filled with college kids who love a cup of joe and a friendly atmosphere. Our growing city has little in the way of places to meet and chat with friends over a cup of something good, so I think the market is there for it.

I've talked it over a few times with Matt, but I haven't done anything about it yet. The life of a preacher always makes me a bit nervous about putting down too many expensive roots that might have to be pulled up and shipped over to the bankruptcy department if I had to suddenly move.

As I passed the building again on Sunday I mentioned to the boys that I had talked to their dad about putting in a coffee shop there. They asked if I am really going to do it, and I explained my hesitancy. Then, Jonathan piped up from the backseat, "I didn't know you had plans."

"You didn't know I had plans? What do you mean?"

"I just didn't know you had plans. You know, the book. . . a coffeehouse. Plans," he stumbled.

Amos laughed at him from the front seat and asked what he thought I was going to do. Jonathan just murmurred that he didn't know I planned on anything and then looked away.

He doesn't see me as a person yet. I am still just his mom, his caretaker, cook, laundress, teacher, chore giver, scolder. I remember that stage of life, when parents were just parents and didn't have lives. When you couldn't imagine them as people with ambitions, goals, or heaven forbid- feelings.

Right now Jonathan's world is small, and for the most part he is the center of it. I don't mean that he is self-absorbed or conceited. Actually, he is compassionate, caring, helpful, but he doesn't see far beyond the horizon. Soon he will discover, though, that no matter how old people are, they still dream. They still have plans.

Surface or Destination?

 We didn't know what we were getting into. We knew we wanted to hike. We knew we wanted to go up Mount Greylock, elevation 3,491 feet.
Our plan was to drive nearly to the top and then to hike around and have a little picnic. The problem was that the park hadn't opened all of the trails yet.

 
 So we decided on a three mile trail that would lead us up to the mountaintop. The trail was on the map, offered as a suggestion by the park ranger. No one and nowhere did it say the hike was in a river bed. Sometimes, the trail would follow a footpath through the woods, but most of the hiking was along or in, a mostly, but not quite, dry riverbed.

 It was rocky. It was muddy. It was slippery. It was dangerous. And it was UPHILL. All the way. The entire 3,491 feet!

 But we knew where we wanted to go. We used the map. We took suggestions from other hikers. And we lifted our eyes from the trial of the trail.

 Great beauty surrounded us. A peaceful alpine lake curved through a marshy mountain of moss.

Hope led us to our destination. Cool breezes blew across our sweat streaked faces as we gazed on the vast beauty laid out before us.

I know where I want to go. I have a plan of what the path should be like. I have a map and the encouragement of other hikers. Sometimes the road is paved and easy, and sometimes it is rocky, slimy , and dangerous. The road only leads up, all the way. But the hope of a view beyond compare will keep this hiker going.

Toddler Tears

A two-year-old boy made me cry. Toddlers just aren't what they used to be. Toddlers used to be dirty diapers, sleepless nights, crying ear infections, and patience vacuums. But they also used to be hugs and kisses. Mommy I love yous. Pudgy little cheeks, impish little grins, and the reason for living. This little boy was that kind of toddler, sitting behind me in church speaking his loud whispers and playing with his Noah's Ark toy, making me cry.

 I didn't put my boys in car seats before church that day. I didn't even drive with them in the car that day. I left before them. They got themselves ready and drove to church. Without me.

 I only have a year left to hold this family tight in my arms. To scold again about the milk lid, to urge again about studying hard, to encourage again to put God first. I only have a year to make sure he remembers to unroll his socks in the laundry, puts gas in the car when it's empty, brushes his teeth before bed. But I also still have a year to grab hugs as he passes by, listen to his witty remarks, and absorb all that is him.

 He will go away to college, and like a dog left on a rope at the picnic, I will wait for morsels: his calls, his texts, his I need money, where's that paper, what am I supposed to do. I will lick them up, relish every crumb, because it will be all I get.

His place will be waiting for him when he visits. And I will be across the table waiting as well.

Where Have All the Christians Gone?

 When I was a kid growing up in WV, I saw lots of rocks. They were everywhere. I stubbed my toes and bruised my feet on them running barefoot in the summer. I climbed on them and played King of the Mountain. I dug them out of the garden, every single year. I stacked rocks, followed rock fences, skipped rocks, and gashed my knee on a rock one summer at camp.

 But now, living in a different time and place, I rarely see rocks. They don't seem to be as plentiful as they once were. In fact, I have to intentionally look for them.

 But once my eyes adjust to the new lighting, the new terrain, suddenly I start noticing rocks where I never noticed them before. Some rocks are out in the open for anyone to plainly see, while others are hanging out on the side of the path instead of under foot.

 Sadly, some of the rocks are tangled in roots unable to be released, while some just barely show through the leaves and debris of the surrounding forest.

The rocks are still there, holding the earth together as best they can. They are strong, they are tough, but they are disappearing. Finding a rock still sticking out of the soil, I rejoice.

Morning Has Broken

 Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

 Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

 Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God's recreation of the new day.

 Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word

Words by Cat Stevens

Holy Knowledge

I have a message from God in my heart
concerning the sinfulness of the wicked:

There is no fear of God
before their eyes.
In their own eyes they flatter themselves
too much to detect or hate their sin.
The words of their mouths are wicked and deceitful; they fail to act wisely or do good.
Even on their beds they plot evil;
They commit themselves to a sinful course
and do not reject what is wrong.

A friend told me last month that he didn't know he was sinning before he knew Christ. He knew he wasn't to kill or steal, but the other things, the human things, how could those be sin? He didn't know God, so he didn't know what God wanted, what God was like, what holiness is.

Jim may not have known what sin was but he also didn't know what love was. He didn't know forgiveness, deep, satisfying joy, goodness that asks nothing in return.

Your love, Lord, reaches to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the skies.
Your righteousness is like the highest mountains,
your justice like the great deep.
you, Lord, preserve both people and animals.
How priceless is your unfailing love, O God!
People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house;
you give them drink from your river of delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
in your light we see light.

Once we know God, then we really know what it is to live. Then we experience true goodness, see beauty clearly. We understand holiness, and we reverently bow in its presence, determined to be holy as well.

Psalm 36

Memories

I gathered the eggs the other day and instinctively put them in my hat. My father walked into the kitchen and laid his hat full of eggs on the counter.
I sang Barbara Allan recently, and Great-Grandma Phillips dipped some snuff in her lip and sang along.
I slipped my feet into new slipper shoes, and Ted, my childhood neighbor, grinned from his armchair where Mrs. Johnson laid his grey slippers.
My arms clasped behind me, Papaw walks down the lane to his house for dinner.
Memories of a life blessed. Simple everyday acts sewn together into a patchwork connecting past and present with threads that cannot be broken.

What memories make you who you are?

Perfect Hospitality

When Matt was a grad student at Westminster, I participated in a program for the wives called Women Of Westminster (WOW). We gathered as future ministers' wives to attend lectures by our spouses' professors, discuss topics of interest to the group, and suggest books to read. One book suggestion I took was Open Heart, Open Home by Karen Mains.

I read it with great interest, and put much of it into practice. Karen tells her story of being a hospitable Christian, and gives ideas of what you too can do to welcome people into your home and life.

One anecdote I remember is Karen making a plate of cookies for the neighborhood kids seem special. She placed a white doilie on the plate before inviting the kids over. It seems like an innocent, easy thing to do. I even did it several times when we lived in Texas with a neighborhood of rambunctious children.

But then, a couple of years ago, I was told that people don't relate to me and Matt because we are "perfect." Evidently we make people feel uncomfortable because we have a super marriage and great kids, home school said children, raise chickens, and make bread. It seems people like the ideal in theory, but they don't want to see it practiced.

I was stunned.

Fast forward several years after reading Open Heart, Open Home. I had a church ladies' breakfast at the house last weekend. They were invited at 9 a.m. for muffins, juice and coffee. I also managed to make some egg casseroles. I met my first three guests with a towel wrapped around my head. I had just gotten out of the shower.

The kitchen was still a mess, dishes were not out and ready, dust and dog hair were certainly present. The dirty tablecloth that I gathered up before the guests arrived still sat on top of the buffet. Karen Mains would be appalled. But perhaps she wouldn't be.

People were welcomed. My time and attention were completely given to these women. We left knowing each other better, and relationships were stronger. Perhaps "Perfect Hospitality" is the kind that lets your imperfections show as well.

Black Strappy Shakespeare $1

These are my new summer sandals. I got them back in June while I was visiting WV. I made a trip to my favorite Gabes, and there they were. Black, strappy, wedge sandals with just enough whistle to grab my man's attention, but not enough pop-your-eyes-out flair to be "off-preacher's-wife-limits." On top of that, these sexy beautes were $1! Yes, only ONE smackaroo!!

 I grabbed them up right away, along with a cute $8 dress that would show off my gams. Some of you will now look up the word gams and discover it also refers to a herd of whales. My sons are not allowed to make comments here. I also would advise everyone else to hold their tongues.

 Anyway, back to the end of my gams- my feet. Just before I left for that trip to WV, where I found these amazing shoes for ONE DOLLAR!, I fell off the end of the porch into a hole that the lovely, innocent dog had recently dug. I thought for sure I had broken my ankle. The x-ray does not show a break, but since the accident my feet have looked like this. Ugh and Gee Whiz! How can a girl wear black, strappy sandals with that wrapped around her foot?

 Well, a girl can try, but it just doesn't have the same effect. Instead of whistles, I get guffaws. Instead of sweeping me off my feet for passionate kisses, my husband laughs until he falls off his own feet. It's down right distressing to have these stretchy, sexy sandals sitting in the closet unused.

I tried wearing them one day a couple of weeks ago. I took off the brace, slipped on the cute dress, donned some leggings, and slid my sweet feet into my desire. I made it through church, came home and kicked them off, and have been unable to wear them since.

Every woman, yes every single woman, wants to be attractive. She wants someone, sometime, to notice her, make a fuss, tell her how great she looks. William Shakespeare didn't seem to get that message. Read his Sonnet 130 below and tell me that is a man who understands women.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

If I were Mrs. Shakespeare, Mr. Shakespeare would be sleeping on the couch! I would slip off my black strappies and knock him upside the head with them! But then he ends the sonnet with this:

   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.


So Willy saves the day, or the marriage. He doesn't care if she isn't a goddess who turns every man's head. He knows her inside and out, and he loves her anyway.

So my shoes will sit in the closet a while longer, and I will sit on the couch next to the man who loves me, even in socks and a brace. Well, we live in the South; I may get to wear the black strappies yet. You didn't think I was going to be completely content, did you?

Only $1. I still can't believe it!

A Convenient God

A few weeks ago I had lunch with some church friends. We were discussing the absence of some people from worship and wondering what would help them make it to church on Sunday mornings.

"Do you think it would help if services were later? Not everyone is a morning person you know," one remarked.

I couldn't help myself. "If you really know who God is, you will do what it takes to be there to worship him, no matter if you are a morning person," I said.

I wasn't rude or belligerent. I wasn't trying to be "holier than thou." I was speaking truth about my Lord.

When you really know who he is, you want to be with him. You want to worship, to sing, to praise, to rejoice. You long for an opportunity to enter his presence.

I wasn't talking about people who don't know God. They aren't there yet. For them, God must be a convenience can with a pop-top lid that flips open whenever you are ready.

But for those of us who know, who have experienced, who have entered the Holy Place and been hushed by reverberating, awe-filled silence: it was of those I spoke. To get to that God I would hammer nail holes into the can and drain the holiness out the side.

But I recognize that my God has already been hammered and drained. And I can't help but worship.

A Parent's Tough Love

This peaceful tree-lined road no longer exists. I have felt like The Lorax is being played out in my life for the last few weeks. The trees have been uprooted, cut into lengths, and loaded onto trucks. The debris left behind has been bulldozed into piles.

 I spoke to one of the farmers who owns the land. He is sad to destroy the wooded area. He too enjoyed the shady coolness of the tree covered road. He has family stories of the bear that frightened his grandchildren. He hates to see the desolation of the once beautiful wood.

But that farmer also knows that the trees were sick. Some of them have been dead too long to even be sold as lumber. The forest was dying, even though it was still beautiful and useful. The terrible pruning had to be done.

New trees will be planted when the cutting is finished. A new forest will grow in the old one's place. And one day I will again enjoy the quiet beauty of a shady walk.