I’ve always believed in miracles. I’ve known some really big ones in my family.
Big miracles are like the fireworks on the Fourth of July — they make an instant impression amid the ooohs, and ahhhs, and the jaws that drop. Small miracles are different; they give us joy when life is easy and good, and peace and comfort when things aren’t quite going our way.
Our small miracle this summer has been in these flowers. In April, I planted my usual three to four flats of impatiens, in red and white; caladiums, fuschias, New Guinea impatiens and some ferns. In May, we had to cut down a huge tree in the middle of our yard, the very tree that provided the shade for my flower bed. As my once-shady spot was now receiving several hours of full afternoon sun, I held out little hope that my plants would continue to flourish.
I’ve been proven wrong. Here’s Exhibit A. In these 99 – 100-degree temperatures here in South Hell Memphis in August, these babies have somehow survived. In fact, they’ve done better than my tomatoes, which are withering in the heat. This container is at the back corner of the bed, and gets the most direct heat. And now, in mid-August in Memphis, they still bloom. I’m going with miracle. These flowers are not supposed to be alive, let alone blooming.
These impatiens are the ones who have borne the brunt of the July and August afternoon sun. A little leggy, but I think they’re doing darn well considering.
This is the shadier side of the bed, but these plants still get more sun than they like. And still bloom.
It hasn’t been the best of summers for us, but this yard remains, as always, a sanctuary from stress and struggle. A quiet place where the birds sing so loudly you sometimes wish they would tone it down a bit. Where our dogs run and chase sticks and the other dogs they hear behind the fence. On our (at least) 10-year-old patio table I’ve set many a glass of wine, numerous books, and held too many outdoor work sessions on my laptop to count.
See the hanging ferns? They just do not do sun. At least not normally, but this year, in my garden …
It’s not perfect by any means; Southern Living won’t be scheduling the photo shoot any time soon. But it’s ours. And, really, impatiens in afternoon sun in August? Miracle.
The day winds down as Jim puts chicken on the grill.
Don’t believe in miracles? That’s your prerogative. As for us, we’ll just keep enjoying our garden.
As a life-long churchgoer, mother of two adult daughters (22 and 26) who were raised in church, I share my perspective on young pastors and all pastors who work with young people.
Most of the pastors who have influenced my girls have been young. Student pastors are always young, because that’s who junior high and high school students relate to. Which is great, because these leaders understand the kids’ music, their tastes, likes and dislikes.
There’s a down side.
Here are a few things that I’ve experienced with young pastors that I imagine (hope?) they must someday look back on with embarrassment. I’ve wanted to write this for years, but felt that I needed to be farther removed from the experiences.
Be careful how you speak about childrearing. If your kids are under five, you’re not an expert yet. You can talk about “training up” your children, which is great. And easy when they are five and you have total control. But don’t assume that your training up ensures that their choices will always reflect that training. I’ve got news for y’all — they often don’t. I know scores of parents (some pastors) whose children who have strayed far from the values they were raised with. Yes, you can and should train up your children, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that’s a guarantee. It isn’t.
Don’t judge parents whose children make poor choices. This doesn’t mean they didn’t do everything you’re doing right now with your precious two-year-old who already knows 10 Bible verses from memory. Just wait ’til you hit the teenage years and then let’s chat, OK?
Don’t talk down to parents. I once sat down with a youth minister – not a parent – who acted as if I knew nothing about teenagers. The fact that I had two of them in my home 24/7 apparently taught me nothing. Yes, I know you see a different side of them, but don’t discount what the parents know. After all, we’ve lived a little longer than you.
Don’t reinforce the idea that parents aren’t cool. Kids don’t always think their parents are as uncool as they let on. When you roll your eyes or make cracks about “uncool Mom & Dad,” you encourage disrespect. And I can guarantee that attitude will not facilitate a good relationship with your kids’ parents.
Don’t be unrealistic about spiritual fads. When my girls were in junior high and high school, the anti-dating movement was in full swing (Remember I Kissed Dating Goodbye?). While the young pastors ate this crap up with a spoon, most of us parents understood how ridiculous and unworkable it was. My girls’ dating lives began under this roof, under our watchful eyes, and with our approval and respect for the young men they brought home. I shudder to think of them going off to college never having dated. Also, one of them is happily married to her high school sweetheart now. So you never know.
Don’t be cliquish. I’ve watched kids who really needed mentors and leaders in faith be disenfranchised because they aren’t into basketball, football, or whatever the leader’s favorite sport is. Sure, it’s a great way to connect, but there are other ways than sports. Mathletes are just as important as quarterbacks.
Don’t belittle their interests. Both my daughters were cheerleaders and competed on the national stage. They enjoyed it, and we had some great family times traveling for cheer. One of my girls had a leader who told her that “Cheerleading is stupid, and you should quit.” Seriously.
Male pastors, stop talking about your “smoking hot wife.“ Seriously, is this how you’d want your daughter’s husband to refer to her? You know the message you’re sending when you say that? Pretty is important, girls, and boys, be sure your wife is pretty and value her for that more than anything. Why not talk about how capable and intelligent your wife is, and teach young boys to respect a woman for more than her looks?
I know this sounds negative, but, we’ve had — and been witness to — some pretty negative experiences with church and young people. Much of it comes from the arrogance of a young pastor fresh out of seminary who believes there really are new things under the sun.
Like a stupid urban legend or bell-bottom jeans, by the time a parent arrives at their kids’ teenage years, we’ve seen and heard a lot of this trendy nonsense come and go at least a couple of times. Let parents be a resource. Listen to them. Respect their wisdom and experience and be willing to learn from those who have been around the bends you haven’t yet arrived at.
This isn’t addressed to any particular young pastor; it’s a composite of the ones we’ve known over the years.
I’m taking a deep breath now. The way you would inhale right before you jump out of an airplane (which I’ll never do). While I won’t take a physical leap at 10,000 feet, I’m taking a bit of a psychological one here, because I’m about to express an opinion on a highly-emotionally-charged subject, and I’m pretty sure I’ll alienate some folk.
I’m going to tell you why, as a Christian, I cannot support the death penalty.
I used to. Right after Jim and I were married, we were held up at gunpoint in a parking lot late at night. In a nice part of town, in case you wondered. The robbers took all my jewelry and made Jim lie spread-eagle on the very cold asphalt before speeding away with our brand-new wedding rings.
To say I was traumatized is to grossly understate the terror I felt nearly all the time. Around the same time as our robbery, several brutal, seemingly random home invasion robbery-homicides occurred. One poor woman went out to get her mail and the robber accosted her in her driveway, forced her into the house, and shot her in her own bedroom. These things became connected in my mind in the midst of my post-traumatic stress, and for several years I lived in fear. I was afraid to walk out to get my mail. Afraid to be alone, even during the day. Terrified of parking lots. I was afraid to take a shower when I was alone in the house.
My life was ruled by fear. And so were some of my opinions and beliefs.
They caught the person responsible for the robbery-homicides, and I wanted him tried and fried. I wanted to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t kill me or anyone else I cared about.
Enter the senior pastor of my church, sometimes in the late 90s. He was a man whose theology and life I admired then and still do. Until one day he talked about capital punishment. And he was against it.
When someone I respect presents an alternate point of view, I think it’s worth it to consider their argument. Maybe I’ll end up agreeing, maybe not, but I always consider it. This time I changed my mind. A 180.
I realized that other than escaping immediate physical danger, no wise decision is ever made from fear. I wanted the man to die out of my own fear. Fear stokes the flames of racism, bigotry, and a refusal to respect anything different than what we believe. The time had come for me to stop being ruled by fear.
I became ashamed of my arrogance. How is it my right to judge whether another human being, made in the image of God, should live or die? And how on earth do I reconcile my sense of vengeance with anything Jesus taught?
For me, there was simply no way to square the death penalty with my faith. It is God’s place to say who will live and who will die. His, and His alone.
Some of you would say, “Well, they took a life, they chose the sin, they were cruel, brutal, tortured and terrorized a person.” Yeah, many of them have. But I’ve sinned, too, and, no offense, so have you. I’ve been unkind, selfish, prideful, and I’m guessing you have, too. None of us are without wrongdoing.
It’s ironic to me that some use the Bible to justify capital punishment. The story of the Bible is God’s redemption of our souls, not His condemnation. Don’t we realize that we are just as culpable as the murderer? And yet, God chose to send His Son to atone for our sins, and for those of the ones we would put to death. To put another person to death is to say that they are less deserving of His atonement and redemption than we are. And friends, that’s prideful.
The only One who is perfect and fit to judge shows us infinite mercy. We who are imperfect, rather than choose to imitate Jesus, prefer death over mercy for a brother or sister. I’m thankful that my Heavenly Father’s mercy is greater than my sin, even if it means His mercy is also greater than the sin of the murderer.
One last thing. Nothing that is devised and mediated by humans is perfect, and that includes our justice system. I started to look up the statistics on how many prisoners have been executed and later found not to have been guilty of the crime. I started to, but I didn’t. Because, for the purposes of this post, it doesn’t matter.
It’s weird when my birthday is on Thanksgiving Day.
My birthday is the one day each year when I give myself permission to be a little selfish and indulgent. I get control of the remote, choice of meals, and I don’t do dishes, laundry, or any other housework. I love reading the birthday greetings on Facebook, but give myself permission not to do any work. My mom makes homemade chicken and dumplings for me and my entire extended family gets together for a big meal.
I hate how this sounds, but the truth is, my birthday is about me.
Thanksgiving is about everything but me. It’s about being thankful for how richly I’ve been blessed; beyond what I need, what I deserve, or anything I’ve earned. The good things in my life have nothing to do with any goodness in me; they are all gifts that God, in His generosity, has bestowed on me.
To consider Thanksgiving on my birthday is a bit like Dr. Doolittle’s pushi-pullyu, a “gazelle-unicorn cross” which has two heads (one of each) at opposite ends of its body. When it tries to move, both heads try to go in opposite directions.
It’s tempting to think about gratitude in the days and weeks that lead up to Thanksgiving Day, forget about it in the Black Friday madness, and wrap ourselves up in Christmas preparations. Birthdays don’t give us that option.
Yesterday was my 55th birthday. I’m still 55 today, and I’ll be 55 until I’m 56 this time next year.
I also hope that I’ll be just as grateful throughout the year as I have been for the past few days.
My birthday isn’t about being 55 for a day; yesterday I became 55.
The dictionary definition of become is
to come, change, or grow to be.
I hope that through my 55th year, I will continue to grow to be more grateful for the extravagantly blessed life I enjoy. I hope I’ll think more of others and less of myself, and that by the next birthday I’ll be less focused on my own comforts and pleasures and more resolved to improve the lives of others.
Tuesday, February 19, about 8:45 a.m. Just a bit more than nine months ago.
I was about to leave for work when my phone rang. I recognized the number as Jim’s old cell number and wondered why on earth he was using it to call me.
The answer came when I accepted the call. His work cell phone was no longer his, nor was his office. The CFO had informed him that due to a reduction in force (RIF), his position as vice president, software applications, was being eliminated. Along with 24 others, including one additional vice president, he was ushered out of the building by security and told to return on Saturday to clean out his office.
Somehow we both managed to get in touch with our girls, our families, and others who needed to know. I decided to stay home from work that day just to be with Jim and offer support. But there was no need.
Jim wasn’t coming home just yet. He had already planned two coffee dates with people from his network and would visit several recruiters before the day was done. When I came home after work, our dining room had been converted to what we jokingly referred to as The Office of Transition. The centerpiece was replaced by an aging iMac, and the table was already littered with papers, business cards, notes with phone numbers, and numerous unfamiliar items that had formerly lived in his office. By the end of the first week, he had already found several good job leads in Memphis. Not bad for an introvert.
The higher you go in management, the fewer positions are available, and we knew this would be a long process. After a few months, we prepared ourselves for the possibility of moving away from Memphis for the next opportunity.
We decided to think of it as an adventure in empty nest living. Maybe we’d live in a small miniscule downtown condo in Chicago; a rambling stony house with a beautiful pool in a Houston suburb; Minneapolis, where we would finally get enough snow for my taste; a home within walking distance of the beach in Jacksonville, Florida; or maybe in a city like Roanoke, Birmingham, Atlanta, Louisville, Nashville, or … St. Louis. I could almost hear the crack of the bat in Busch Stadium, where we’d have season tickets.
Having Jim home each day was new for me, and we began to develop routines. In the late afternoons, we’d both take a break and watch Gilmore Girls together. Some days I’d work from home and we’d head to the patio to work and enjoy the outdoors. Many mornings he made coffee, and I loved waking up to the smell. We counted the days until the opening day of baseball season, and the Cardinal games meant we always had something to do in the evenings. When Sara Ann moved back in with us, he was here to spend time with her and help her move, and he enjoyed taking walks with the dogs.
There were times that it felt like too much, as if the house would fall on us and we’d be left standing in the midst of fallen walls and shattered windows. When our girls were small and they were afraid, I’d tell them that nothing is as scary as God is strong. In their childlike faith, those words were comfort; in our adult doubts and fears they brought peace as we realized we were not alone. Over these months we were reminded that faith is more than just church on Sunday morning and a check in the offering plate. We learned anew that beyond every disappointment there’s a bit of new wisdom and that God is always, always faithful. I knew I’d grown when, after a particularly difficult no on a potential position, I realized I wasn’t upset or angry, but confident that the right opportunity would come, and excited for something better that must be in store.
From the moment I caught my breath after that phone call in February, our faith gave us an underlying peace, as we knew that God was with us, He was in control, and that the important things in our lives are not things. As the hymn reminds us, morning by morning new mercies I see. And we did. Some large, some small.
Jim’s old iMac, which should have long since stopped working, is still going, though frustratingly slow. His car needs $1200 worth of work, none of it critical, and will likely be done by whomever we sell it to after the holidays. My freelance work picked up so much that for a while I had no downtime. We were taken to dinner too many times to count, and spent long hours lounging in my sister’s pool. In May, my mother treated me to a incredible trip to New York, and in October my sister and brother-in-law took me to a World Series game in St. Louis.
Family “picnics” after church in a meeting room we borrowed. Some of the best-tasting peanut butter & jelly sandwiches ever.
But most of all, God gave us four seasons of faithfulness: spring flowers, home-grown tomatoes, beautiful sunsets, cool breezes, and fall leaves of every color. There is nothing that He cannot use for good, and He has outdone himself in our lives. Growth and learning always follow adversity, and to have faith is to be assured that divine good will ultimately outweigh earthly struggles.
The happy ending
Last week, Jim began a fantastic new job at a Memphis-based company. It’s essentially a raise, a promotion, and carries the added perk of an I-240-free commute each morning. Next week I’ll celebrate my 55th birthday. Yes, in my kids’ eyes, and probably many of yours, that’s old. But I like to say that no cancer survivor ever complains about getting older. Each year is another year of life that cancer didn’t take away.
Another year of wisdom — and 365 more days of new mercies.
Y’all are going to think there is something wrong with me.
So a few caveats are in order before I tell this story:
I’m an intelligent, educated woman, and have, in the past, supported myself quite well.
I am not a backwards ninny who has to ask her husband’s permission to do things.
Jim and I are equal partners and everything is an open book. Passwords, text messages, email and all the analog stuff.
When Jim was RIF’d* a couple of weeks ago, he was handed a large envelope just before he was escorted out of the building. In the envelope (and I’m speculating here) were some papers he had to sign, insurance information, and an outline of the severance package.
Of course, I was eager to know about the severance, and that’s one of the first things I asked him when he got home that day. He told me he hadn’t looked at it, and wasn’t ready to. I respected that and decided I’d let him just do that on his own time.
A couple of days passed, and he hadn’t mentioned the envelope, so I didn’t either. I wanted to know about the severance package, but still wanted to respect his timing. After a few days, when he didn’t bring it up, I started to ask him, then realized something.
It doesn’t matter.
Our security is not in the number on that check. There is nothing in our lives that really matters that can be taken away by anything that’s on — or not on — that check.
Jim knows the number and, more importantly, God knows the number.
In this post, I talked about how I think it’s cool that this happened during Lent. So I decided to give up my need to know about the money for Lent. Not just my need to know, but my need to try to control, to get things done under my own steam. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in la-la-la denial land. We’re not spending a penny on anything other than necessities and I’m working as hard as I can and have several freelance projects lined up in addition to my job. Jim is doing his networking ninja thing that he does ridiculously well.
What I will not do is stress and worry about it.
Because all we can do is all we can do. The rest we cannot control. It is in the hands of the Wise One.
So I still have no idea what the severance package is. I know that I can ask Jim any time and he’ll tell me, but I’m not going to. I’m going to remind myself that:
Who we are, how we are and where our hearts are have nothing to do with dollars.
Though we don’t know how and we don’t know when, God knows every detail of the next opportunity. He’ll tell us when it’s time. So not asking Jim about the check is practice for waiting on God, which my often-impatient self surely needs.
Wherever He takes us, we won’t be alone. If it’s a great new job, He’ll be with us. If it’s … not, He’ll be with us there, too and wherever He leads us, there will be goodness. His goodness, not necessarily human goodness.
Now, that does not mean we can’t use your prayers, and we certainly appreciate a heads-up on any opportunities you may know of, or folks he should talk to.
But if you think we’re smiling more than we should be, it’s not because we’re faking it, or just too dumb to know better.
It’s because God is very, very real and He knows far better.
*Remember, that’s an acronymn for reduction in force, as the kids are calling layoffs these days.
We’re about two weeks into the unemployment and, of course, there are big changes around here. Some good, some not so good. I wrote about it last week.
Bad news first:
We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. That means no extras; no restaurants, no clothes shopping and no hair appointments. Very first-world-problems. I know. Almost ridiculously so. In fact, I’m a little ashamed.
Good news:
The smell of coffee in the house in the mornings. I love the smell of coffee — just don’t make me drink the stuff. Jim loves coffee and does the whole bean grinding thing and it smells heavenly.
More time together. It’s kind of nice having him around more. We have more time to just sit and talk. He’s available to do things like come with me to hear me speak to a class about my work.
We get to work together. There’s really not much I can do to help him, except use my gifts and abilities to do things that enhance his networking abilities. Which includes helping him write a cover letter, and putting up this website to highlight his experience and qualifications. And I’ve taught him about things like Dropbox and Google Drive, which is kinda fun.
The next opportunity is going to rock. We’ve been through this before and ended up with a much better position with much better pay. We’re confident that this time it’ll work out for the best as well.
We’re in only-spend-money-on-necessities mode. Yeah, that’s also good news. It’s not a negative thing, especially during Lent, to contemplate what we truly need, rather than what we want. I wish I could say that by our own choice, we’ve stepped back from the daily luxuries we enjoy, but we needed some … encouragement.
Notice there’s only really one bit of bad news, among so much good. And that bad news is also good news. The positive outweighs the negative, and when you strip away the extras, what’s left are the things of true value — people, relationships, time together and all that we will learn from this experience.
We really do believe Romans 8:28:
We know that God works all things together for good for the ones who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose.
We believe that means all things; not just the ones we think are good things, but all things.
Irritated at myself for flooding the bathroom floor, I mopped up the standing water with towels from the hamper and hoped that it wasn’t raining downstairs.
As I ate my oatmeal, checked Twitter, Facebook and Google Plus, and packed my bag for work, I got a phone call that made the bathroom floor irrelevant.
It was Jim. His job had been eliminated. As of … now. Just so you know, official 2013 corporatespeak for this is reduction in force (RIF). It apparently even has its own hashtag. There were about 16 other folks at Jim’s company who met with the same fate.
Nothing like a huge punch in the gut to make you wish for a minor irritation like a wet bathroom floor.
It’s tough when your perspective is adjusted. Even tougher when it happens in an instant. Whiplash.
Time to rethink the word necessary.
We love dinners out and lunch after church. But for now, dinners will be in and Sunday lunches will be hot dogs on the grill or a picnic with homemade sandwiches instead of Central’s BBQ nachos. My gray roots will be covered by me instead of my ridiculously cool and talented master colorist who gives me these highlights. More evenings in, fewer nights out. Alter the jeans I already have rather than buying new ones.
Rethink necessity during Lent? Not a new idea.
This year, I think we’ll observe Lent in a whole new way. Not by giving up chocolate or Facebook, or Muddy’s cupcakes, but by really thinking about living simply and sacrificially. I wish we were disciplined enough that we might live this way on our own, but we’re apparently not. Now that we’ve been somewhat forced into it, I think we’ll embrace the discipline and be thankful for what it teaches us.
So, for those who would ask how we are, I’d say we are good overall. Still reeling a little — shocked, anxious, a little pissed if we’re honest. But beneath it all is peace.
This peace is born not of our strength, but of our faith. Our faith in a God, the evidence of whom is as real in our lives as the problems we face — and infinitely more powerful.
We’ve been here before and God has been faithful. So, even though I wrote these words in 2006, they are still true today just like He is.
That’s the story. The fire is hot, but we’re not alone.
Pray for us, send positive thoughts, let us know of any awesome opportunities. Worry about us? Don’t even think of it.
As much as I love writing, there is writing, and there is … writing. I was asked to write an obituary for my beloved 95-year-old grandmother, who passed away a few days ago. I consider it an honor to have known her, to have loved her and to offer this final tribute.
I wish I’d had more time to find the words that would do justice to her memory, but words aren’t enough anyway. Here’s my effort:
Virginia R. Dohogne, 95, of Jonesboro, died Friday morning, January 28, 2011, at NEA Baptist Hospital in Jonesboro. She died peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, who celebrate a long life well-lived and a legacy of love, grace and dignity.
Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Mrs. Dohogne lived much of her life in Paragould before moving to St. Bernards Village in Jonesboro 11 years ago. She was a homemaker and a member of Blessed Sacrament Church. Mrs. Dohogne was a member of the Arkansas Methodist Hospital Auxiliary while living in Paragould.
She was preceded in death by her husband, Linus E. Dohogne, her brother, Robert C. Ranney, and by her son-in-law, Dr. James Gramling.
Survivors include one daughter, Martha Gramling of Jonesboro; one daughter-in-law and son, Sallie and Ranney and Dohogne of St. Louis; five grandchildren, Beth Sanders, Sara VanScoy, James F. Gramling, Jr., Carrie Croy and Greg Dohogne; and seven great-grandchildren: Elizabeth Sanders, Will VanScoy, Sara Ann Sanders, Joseph VanScoy, Sam Vancoy and twins Madeline and Annabel Gramling.
She was wise through age and experience, yet blessed with a youthful spirit that resisted the indignities of advancing years. An expert bridge player with a colorful, coordinated fashion sense well into her nineties, her sharp mind, sense of humor and compassionate concern for others made her a blessing to all. She led a full and active earthly life filled with loving friends and family who miss her profoundly, yet are comforted in the confidence of eternal life.
I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.
Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.
Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.
When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.
I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.
But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.
Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.
The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!
This morning as my husband, Jim, and I got ready to leave for church, I put on my coat, scarf and gloves to stay warm in the 20-degree weather and single-digit windchill. I had to decide between brown gloves to go with my pants or black gloves to go with my coat; cloth or leather, solid or pattern …
I thought of those who have no warm home to turn on the heat, no hot water to make a cup of tea, no hat, gloves, scarves or coat against this bitter cold. So on a whim, I threw an extra pair of gloves in the car. We had bought them last year and they still had the tags. As we left for church, I said a prayer that I’d find someone who needs those gloves.
We go to church in a wealthy neighborhood in east Memphis and we live in Germantown, an affluent suburb. So the likelihood of seeing a needy or homeless person between our home and our church … almost nil. In fact, I’m not sure I ever have.
Until this morning. As we drove home from church, a man was walking down the street wrapped up in a blanket. There was no place to pull over, so we had to circle a block or two, then come back around and find him again. As we turned back onto a major street, there was a homeless man at the intersection holding a sign. Jim and I gave the man what cash we had in our wallets. He already had gloves, so we kept going and found the first man in a parking lot, wrapped up in that ratty blanket — with no gloves and very cold hands. It occurred to me that if the first man had been at any other point on our route, we’d have been able to easily pull over and would never have seen the second man. Coincidence? I’m going with no.
Beginning with the rest of Advent, I’ll commit to pray this prayer every day: Help me to keep my eyes open for those in need. To go looking instead of just waiting for them to come to me. I’m going out today to buy some gloves, hats, scarves and maybe a blanket or two to keep in my car. I’ll pray that God will show me someone in need, that I will not just give and serve when it’s convenient, but that I’ll go looking for opportunities.
Because if He can place two needy persons in our path between Laurelwood and Germantown at that moment in time … what greater impact can we have if we actively seek to serve?
I’m not waiting for opportunity — I’m going knocking. Come with me.
What is the one thing you are least likely to do? Jump out of an airplane? Go camping? Run a marathon?
There is no skydive, no tent and definitely no 26.2 in my future, but if you had asked me this time last year what I’d be less likely to do than any of those … it would be get a tattoo.
So nearly a year ago, when my youngest daughter started talking about getting a tattoo for her 18th birthday, I tried to pretend I didn’t hear her. She already has about six ear piercings, so I’ve grown accustomed to her unconventional look and am far less concerned about her outer appearance that who she is on the inside. But a tattoo is so … permanent. And she’s only 18.
As I listened to her, I realized that she didn’t want it for the purpose of rebellion; she’s a lot of things, but rebellious isn’t one of them. She wasn’t interested in the impression it would make on others. She wanted a tattoo because she wanted a visible symbol of her faith in a place where she, and others, would see it every day.
So I began to warm to the idea, accept that her preferences and tastes may be just different than mine and respect the fact that her faith is something she wishes to carry with her in a visible way for the rest of her life.
Sara Ann’s dove, on her right wrist
Then the other shoe dropped.
“Mom,” she said. “For my 18th birthday, I want to get a tattoo and I want you to get one with me. I want it to be a mother-daughter thing. I want us to do it together.”
What? No way. You have got to be kidding.
But …
She kept asking. She was not joking.
And I realized something. This was not another hole in her ear. This was forever. Visible to all. For her, it was a profound moment. The moment she would put a symbol of her faith on her body in a way that all would see. Irrevocably. And she invited me into that moment.
One thing I’ve learned in 21 years of parenting: When your teenager asks you to be a part of a significant moment in their life, it’s a high honor, not to be taken lightly or scoffed at. So, at 51, this suburban housewife got inked.
It brings to mind this:
Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.* Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (*emphasis mine)
My cross, duplicated from a silver cross necklace Jim gave me years ago
In ancient days, observant Jews bound what is believed to be these verses to their bodies in leather boxes called tefilin, translated into Greek as phylactery, so the idea of having a visible reminder of the faith attached to the body is not a new one. Perhaps in the same way, the dove that will now always adorn her wrist will remind her of the Holy Spirit’s constant presence in her life.
I know that the cross on my left shoulder blade, the same side of the body as my heart, will ever remind me of the sacrifice of the Cross, the grace of the Cross and the glory of the Cross.
And a sacred moment between mother and daughter that took place late at night in a funky tattoo shop in downtown Jonesboro, Arkansas.
