Unbalanced Scales

I could never work behind a deli counter. Too much uncertainty.

Too much uncertainty?

Sure. Four slices of muenster cheese make a quarter pound but it takes five slices of lemon-pepper chicken to equal the same. Virginia baked ham? You can never get it to equal exactly a quarter pound. Factor in the fact that several people are sharing the same equipment. What if one of them should change the thickness of the slice? No, too many chances to get it wrong for people who expect you to get it right. Precisely right. Every time.

The people, their expectations, are the biggest uncertainty. How can you tell if that kind faced older woman or that distracted young man are going to suddenly erupt because you didn't give them the exact amount they requested? You can tell by the way any extra is hastily removed that the usual reaction is not good. No one is being robbed here or asked to pay for something they don't need. Guess that's why it is unusual to see the same deli workers for very many weeks in a row, even if you shop on the same day of the week.

Too much uncertainty.

Yet, that is the state of the souls of most who follow the majority of the world's religions. They never know, for sure, if what they are doing is enough. Until it's too late to change the outcome, anyway.

That's a terrible way to spend a lifetime, to choose an eternity.

Which is why God the Father sent God the Son to earth. To be the Son of Man so he could be seen with human eyes showing the heart and mind of the Father for mankind. Not so we would quit trying, but so we could quit striving. So we could rest in what He accomplished for us because He knows, has always known, that we could never do it on our own. No matter how many times we got it right, there would be times when we got it wrong.

 Christmas evening, while explaining why Jesus had to come, I asked our grandchildren how many days they would have to get it right to make up for a really bad day where they did something terribly wrong.

"Forever." they answered.

They understand the problem. They also understand the solution to the problem. This is good news that is welcomed news. But it is not new news. God has been telling the same story throughout the Old Testament, preparing our understanding to recognize the solution when it was provided.

The prophet Isaiah reminded the people of his day and the people of all days that, "All our righteousness is as filthy rags;" Yes, we can agree that compared to an eternally holy God our sin is pretty rotten stuff. But wait a minute. It says our RIGHTEOUSNESS - the good days, the unselfish acts, the kind words, the generous gifts - those are as filthy (beyond dirty) rags. We are without hope if it depends on us.

Except for The Plan, set in place before that first great Fall from all the perfect good God wanted for us. God's Son would be The Price to pay the debt of our trespasses.

Because of Jesus we can be forgiven, set free to choose differently, live a life in line with what God had wanted for us all along.

And we can be certain.

Accidentally, On Purpose

‘What a great guy,’ Sam remarked, slowly putting down the yellow legal sized paper with the unfamiliar handwriting. The letter had arrived earlier that day, the return address not known to us. From an early age, all our girls recognized the delight, and today the intrigue, of a handwritten envelope.

The letter was one of gratitude. Months earlier Sam had stopped to act as a witness to an accident at a busy intersection on his way home from work. He knew it would be hard to determine who was at fault without an unbiased observer. If he had been involved, he hoped someone would wait for an officer to arrive; do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Because Sam was willing to be inconvenienced, the letter writer was not charged with the accident and he was spared the five hundred dollar deductible to repair the damage to his vehicle. The letter continued by offering if there was anything he could do to be of help, please let him know.

                                          ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

A small group of ladies met in the secondary kitchen/meeting room of the large church where our whole family was very involved. A new lady arrived and joined in the discussion readily, confidently, and delightfully. ‘Please don’t let her be someone who is just visiting,’ I whispered as a silent, sincere prayer. ‘Please let her be someone who will stay.’

Afterward, after introductions, we quickly discovered we had many friends in common through a non-denominational Bible study I had been involved in and where she was acting as a substitute teaching leader. Small world, big God! What a wonderful gift to meet Leah, then later her husband Steve and their two children.

As hoped, their whole family quickly became involved and integral to the church, using their many and varied gifts to the glory of God and the joy of the people.

Months later, our associate pastor announced the move of his family to a camp ministry for the denomination. His wife and I had been praying by phone together weekly for over a year for the needs of family, neighbors, and church. The Sunday that the move was announced, Leah came to me hurriedly after the service and said she’d like to be my next prayer partner.

‘All my prayer partners always move, eventually. (But not before our hearts are lovingly entwined, I neglected to add.) Are you prepared to move in the next couple years?’

 ‘My extended family is all here. We’ve been here for many years.  I’m not going anywhere,’ she boasted.

Hmmm. We’ll see.

When, how, where should we meet to pray together?  Our children had youth and children ministry meetings on Wednesday evenings, so we decided that would be most practical. The only available space was a small copy room in the church office, so that’s where we knelt and prayed on the behalf of many and ourselves.  We marveled at God’s blessing and goodness. We also discussed openly our befuddlement at the many inexplicable circumstances of life where we found ourselves and loved ones. Determined, we held each other accountable to be hopeful and watchful for a way to be opened for resolution.

Praying for someone is a way to care for and love them, even if you never meet in person. Praying with someone is a way to cement a friendship for a lifetime, no matter how many miles separate you or how many years pass between conversations. That is the friendship we began forging, week after week, not knowing then the quality of what was being built.

Steve used his wonderful music skills to help with worship in the youth ministry and acted as a wise counselor. Soon he was either bringing our older daughters home after youth group, or we would meet him at a designated place near their home, which was on the same north end of town but still ten minutes or more from our home. To our delight, our whole families became friends with one another.

One Sunday, when their family was at our house after church for lunch, everyone scattered into various pairings for conversation as the final preparations for eating were accomplished. The men, who both traveled in their jobs, shared tales of traffic and traveling woes with one another.

Steve began sharing about an accident he had been involved in at a local busy intersection. ‘It was with an orange Mercedes, wasn’t it?’ Sam exclaimed. Steve shook his head slowly in astonishment as Sam finished the story. ‘I was the one in the car behind you who waited to give the cop my card as a witness. You even wrote me a thank you letter later! We still have it!’

Small world, big God, indeed.

I’m not a mathematician, but I know the odds for this meeting again so many years later are astronomical. And providential. And not coincidental.

Seeing God, the Arranger, at work so up close and personal in our lives made it slightly easier to say good-bye to them a couple years later when they moved to the west coast of Florida, despite Leah’s earlier adamant predictions to the contrary. Once she met me halfway, in Lakeland, when the burden I was bearing was so great that only a face to face conversation with a dear friend who would not only tell me the truth but also remind me of the Truth would suffice.

We remain friends though they are now in the northeast and we have only seen one another twice in the last five years. We don’t talk on the phone or e-mail regularly. But I’ll rearrange my life if I can visit with her for a few minutes on a layover in an Orlando airport or if she has a few spare hours when she is in town visiting family.

How wise is Leah? She once quipped that she is skeptical of reading the writing of authors who haven’t been dead for at least a hundred years! Yet, she introduced me to wise women writers as varied as Amy Carmichael, Carolyn James, and Anne Lamott.

How flexible is Leah? On the cusp of letting her nursing license lapse, she instead went back to school, eventually getting her doctorate in palliative care and teaching at a northern university. Living in Pennsylvania makes seeing the families of her beloved children and grandchildren infrequent. She longs to be nearer and to be a more ready presence in their lives.

How faithful is Leah? She has a list of ‘prodigals’ that she prays for regularly, even though only one of them has returned home to faith and family in many years. Still, she prays. Still, she hopes. Her continued regular prayers for me have mattered more than she will ever know as she trusts Him to help me avoid the sins ‘such are common to man’ and to make a difference in the sphere of influence where I live.

'You are constantly in my heart, frequently in my thoughts, and regularly in my prayers,’ was the closing of  a recent correspondence. How truly rich I am to have a friend like her.

And it all started accidently.

On purpose.

 

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Mother's Happy Day

We stopped counting after the twentieth outpatient visit to our mother’s local hospital. The staff nodded, waved, or smiled their greetings of recognition as we walked the same path each time through the lobby, admissions, and various levels until we reached our therapy destination. As predictable as the coming of a full moon, we came every four to six weeks, sometimes sooner, but never later.

The week of our first daughter’s wedding, she had an open heart surgery, made more tenuous because of a history of several ongoing health issues. Thankfully, she made it through surgery and had recovered just enough to sit quietly at the back of the church to observe her granddaughter’s wedding. Unfortunately, what had been good for her heart was bad for her lungs. A painful, slow buildup of fluid now had to be drained for release and relief.

We would learn what a pulmonologist was for and wonder why so few of them were practicing in our large urban sprawl. Timely appointments were hard to get. Fortunately, a doctor’s orders were not necessary for each procedure after he confirmed this would become part of her health routine.

A strong, feisty woman who had been turned gentler and submissive by the loss of her husband and her better health, she now went quietly to doctors to be told what would happen next. Still, as an intelligent and widely self-educated woman, she could still muster a clear, ‘no’, to medicines that made her hurt and diminished, or to diets and regimens she knew she would not stick with for long.

Today we carried x-rays from the previous week’s pulmonology visit showing the lungs were half full, the pressure building and the deep breathing capacity diminishing. We walked slowly from the parking lot, carrying the confirmation of her self-diagnosis in a large labeled envelope, acknowledging as we went the friendly welcome of the many staff that recognized us as familiar strangers.

I handed the technician the films of my mother’s lungs and watched her gentle care as she guided her to the room where the procedure would take place. A large needle would be inserted between her ribs on her back. As much as a liter of fluid would be withdrawn. Just thinking about it made me squeamish. Wisely, I was never given the option of accompanying her into the treatment room. She rarely revealed the pain she was in, her growing stillness, gathering her resolve to be brave.

I settled into a chair and pulled out a magazine from a book bag I kept packed ready for waiting rooms in doctors’ offices.

After five minutes, the technician returned. “I’m sorry. We won’t be able to drain your mother’s lungs today.”

“But we have an appointment,” I responded, walking towards her, confused.

“She doesn’t have any fluid in her lungs.”

“B-B-But… the x-ray. The doctor said…” I stammered.

“There is nothing to drain today,” was the emphatic response.
 

Arm in arm, happy tears streaming down our faces, we slowly retraced our steps back to the car, stopping to inform the staff and anyone who looked like they wondered what had happened to us that Jesus had healed my mother! The answer to a multitude of prayers had been “YES!” today.
 

Our voices were incredulous and full of the shock of an unexpected generous gift as we could not keep quiet about the miracle of divine restoration we had witnessed that morning. We walked as in a dream, periodically shaking our heads, and laughing with joy, marveling together at God’s goodness towards us.
 

Almost six weeks later, we were back for another lung draining procedure. Yet our confidence and trust remained high. We knew God could and had healed my mother, although only for a season. Because He had, we knew He might again. We were reminded  in an unforgettable way that He hears us and knows not only what is best for us but when is best for us. We could trust Him. And we did.
 

Months later, the pulmonologist would coat the inside of her lungs with a film of talc, a carcinogen. The powder would stop the painful procedures for a projected twenty years. The potential risks deemed less than the potent realities in her advancing years.
 

I try to remember the lessons learned that day when a situation in life is inexplicably difficult for an inexplicably long time. Always, if I will pay attention, there is some confirmation somewhere that there is reason for hope, that my pleas and prayers have been heard, that help is on the way, if only for a season.
 

For centuries the wise and devoted Julian of Norwich has been quoted by those who wait in difficulty, “All shall be well…”
 

For decades I have observed her words to be true - all shall be well - indeed; in due course, eventually, in the fullness of time…”all shall be well.”

 

 

 

Uncertain

“The terrorists are FROM that country. They don’t terrorize their own country!” she responded brightly.

This was supposed to be reassuring, a counterpoint to the enthusiastic announcement that she would be leaving for the Middle East in weeks. However, it was less than five years after the 9-11 tragedy and security alerts and tensions were still high.

Sigh. Deep breath. Adjust.

Her newlywed husband had seen the reasonableness of it. The baby nestled inside her was beginning to announce his presence in a new baby bump, barely visible, but setting a boundary on when she could be out of the country. “I would never travel there with a small child in tow. My dear friend is studying there and has fallen in love with the people, the culture, and the architecture. She’s so smitten, she may never return here. If I’m going to go, now is the time.”

Sigh. Think. Wonder.

“The LORD will watch over me. The Bible says all my days have been planned before the foundation of the earth. If I’m supposed to die there, I will. If I’m not supposed to die there, I won’t.” The words we had taught them about a biblical worldview being echoed back to us.

Sigh. Beg. Trust.

“When do you leave?”

Soon.

We prayed fervently for her adventure. Fortunately, her layover was in a familiar city, London. The next morning we woke to news from the BBC about several London bombings on public transportation. Not knowing how to contact her, we waited for news. Exhausted from traveling on to her final destination, it wasn’t until the next morning that we received an email informing us of her safety and the sobering news that she had been traveling on those same vehicles on those same routes only twelve hours before the explosions.

Now, colorful marketplaces, breathtaking scenery, new aromas and flavors, wove a vibrant memory on her audacious undertaking with her friend. The only real physical threat was the dehydration possibility as summer temperatures soared in the Arabian landscape. The time passed too quickly as places she had only read about were places she now was enjoying.

Then she was home. Full of excitement, stories, and pictures, she returned eagerly to her homemaking tasks. Rushing outdoors to sweep the front porch of their home before the arrival of an afternoon thunderstorm, she didn’t notice the film of moisture already covering the smooth concrete from a sprinkling earlier in the day. Her feet slipped out from under her and she landed hard on her back on its damp surface.  An emergency ultrasound confirmed that mother and baby were still doing well.

Sigh. Relief. Rejoicing.

These events were very instructive to me as a mother. Frankly, I wasn’t praying specifically for our daughter when she was in London, nor did it occur to me to pray for her safety in her own home. I thought those places were secure. My concerns for her were the uncertainties of traveling in a faraway country.

I was wrong. The very places I assumed predictable, proved most dangerous. The very place I assumed most dangerous, proved predictable.

Nevertheless, her Heavenly Father, always aware, always present, was paying attention. His purposes and His plans for her could not be thwarted.

Tomorrow is the beginning of a new year, 2014. Be glad that in the times where you have not read the situation correctly, when you are feeling vulnerable, unprotected, or exposed, your Heavenly Father is still watching. His plan for you may be protection and prevention. Or it may not.

His purposes and plans for you cannot be thwarted. Trust Him. He is trustworthy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sowing and Reaping

“I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid.” I repeated softly, lying to myself as I approached the chain link fence and reached for the gate latch.

It was a technique taught to me by my father when I was a little girl after my first face-to-face encounter with someone’s ferocious dog. “They can sense your fear and it makes it worse. You have to control your fear,” he had advised. I practiced this method on numerous occasions and was sure that the distracting fib had been helpful in the past.

However, today’s encounter was not with a growling pet, but with a growling human – my neighbor of many years, Mr. Keirnan. And I was not a little girl, but a grown woman with four little girls of my own.

I knew his name because it was routed onto a wooden board with lettering painted black for contrast that announced: “The Keirnans” from the front of his home. It was one of those signs you can have custom made at a booth at a craft show or flea market. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. He kept to himself, sitting alone on his front porch, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and smoking cigarettes. Occasionally, he was found painting ceramic figurines in bold colors and lining them up to form a border along a forgotten flower bed – they were colorful sentinels watching the world go by with him as they sat together day in and day out with little change in their routine.

His front yard was fenced and it had a large expansive gate that he had to get out of his car to open and close as he came and went. The fence helped keep his little dog in, but from his demeanor everyone believed the fence was also to keep everyone else out. And it worked. There were tales of lost balls mistakenly tossed in his yard never to be returned. Other tales of gruff encounters, which were embellished with repeating, had everyone in the neighborhood afraid of him, even the adults.

So what was I doing broaching the NO VISITORS zone on this day? Trying to put the faith I preached to my daughters into practice; trusting God to help me see a way to find a way to build a relationship with someone who needed Him. The priority of caring for my growing family left me with limited time to develop friendships outside of church. This man lived across the street. He was the one I would practice on.

“Hi,Mr. Keirnan. I’m Mary. I live across the street. We have four daughters and we went to Plant City this morning to pick strawberries. I thought you might enjoy them. They are delicious!” He seemed surprised at the sound of a different voice. He set his paper aside and reached for the red fruit mounded in the basket as I thrust it towards him and abruptly turned to leave. “I don’t need the basket back. You can keep it,” I added as I hastily retreated to the gate and quickly latched it behind me.

Whew. I did it. I broke the ice. Not just with him, but in me.

It wasn’t a start that made much of a splash as I dove into this friendship. It was more like dangling a toe into the water to see if it was too cold to jump in all at once. But it was the start of a commitment to paying attention and looking for opportunities to get to know and minister to him so he would trust me. It was as simple as a hand waving across the street or stopping to talk over the fence barrier when walking past.  Cookies from our kitchen, fruit from spring pickings or vegetables from backyard gardens were simple offerings that were easily given and easily accepted. And slowly, in an intentional, intermittent, and ongoing way we began to know each other.

He had been married almost forty years. There was a daughter who was married with two young boys and an unmarried son. While their mother was alive they had come by more often. They still came by, though less frequently and for shorter visits. He sat so much because of a back injury while working for a national retailer. Numerous visits to numerous doctors had brought little relief, so he limited his activity to limit the pain. Growing up in Chicago brought stories of a different time and place. He beamed as he shared that his father’s pride and joy had been owning  a car that had once belonged to the infamous gangster, Al Capone. Like a cistern collecting rain to be put to use another day, conversations and kindnesses collected, shortening the distance between our home and our lives.

It was on a late night run for a gallon of milk when the headlights of my car illuminated an unexpected sight in Mr. Keirnan’s yard. I turned on the brights as I made a u-turn around the large oak tree that divided the lane between our homes. There were four small pineapples dangling above the thick, spiky moat that grew along his chain link fence. I laughed at the irony of this symbol of welcome growing in the yard of someone who was considered a stranger and unfriendly.

As we talked plants the next day, he shared that he would bring back the pineapple tops from his regular weekend trips to the flea market. Most of them grew from their shallow planting and the whole process from rooting to fruiting took two years. We marveled that they could be sold so reasonably with such a long time investment. Together we monitored their growth as our friendship also grew.

Sprinkled throughout our conversations were references to God’s provision, protection, and purpose in our lives. My family’s lives were on full display to him as he sat everyday on his front porch, watching the comings and goings of our lively brood. He could have easily guessed that we were religious people based on the Wednesday evening and Sunday morning activity. But we wanted him to know that the activity was because of a relationship with the living God, and he could have that relationship too. It was natural to speak of Jesus to him because speaking naturally about Jesus was a habit practiced in our home as we celebrated the many and varied ways He cared for our needs.

One day, I received a call from a neighbor who lived a couple of houses down. The voice on the phone was filled with concern. “Mary, you need to check on Mr. Keirnan. There are several days’ newspapers piled up in front of his gate. I haven’t seen him out. You need to find out if he’s okay,” insisted Ms. Ruby. As I hung up the phone, crossed the street and reached for the latch on the gate, the apprehension I felt was different than on that first day when we met. On that first day, I was afraid of him. Today, I was afraid for him.

It took several minutes for a response to the loud knocking on his door. The sounds of movement in the house were a relief. He looked terrible from fighting a flu bug, but he didn’t need anything since his son was coming later that day. He thanked me for checking on him. The great tenderness I now felt towards him caught me by surprise.

Meanwhile, the pineapples continued to grow and ripen. It was a great delight to him to harvest and eat the first of them. “I ate almost the whole thing – it was so sweet!” he joyfully announced to me one morning. A few days later the second pineapple was cut and brought inside. I would have hinted at tasting one of the two that remained, but it took so long for him to grow them. We were friends, but I didn’t ask when he didn’t offer.

The following week I walked over to visit after sweeping our sidewalk and driveway. The last two pineapples were gone. I asked if they were as delicious as the first two. “I don’t know,” he responded, his voice thick with emotion. He pointed to a sandy spot in his front yard where they laid with their tops hacked off and the yellow flesh of the fruit exposed and spoiled in the dirt. No, he didn’t know who or when. “I will find out who did this,” I promised, fighting back angry tears.

It didn’t take long to find out from the children in the neighborhood that the perpetrators were two older boys who lived on a connecting street. The relationship between them and us was not strong. There would be no apology. But the children on our street caught my outrage at the meanness of the deed. It was a turning point. Now the children began to wave and talk to him as they passed his home. He had been unfairly treated, something they could empathize with. They too, began to reach out to him.

Most days, our conversations were short and gently passed the time. On this day, he casually uncovered a small white box from under the newspapers stacked beside him. “I was doing some cleaning up and found this. I don’t have any use for it and I thought you might like it, or maybe your girls could use it for school,” he said. It was a small solar calculator like the kind that is used as a free gift to get you to purchase something. I thanked him and realized the act of friendship it represented on his part. In the weeks that followed, he offered a small alarm clock and a pen and pencil set, always discovered while he was cleaning and under the premise that I was helping him by accepting them.

Then one day, he pulled out a beautiful porcelain box. Painted in different shade of mauve and pink it was gilded on the edges and on the carnations that decorated the top. It had been done by his wife, a gifted artist. She and her daughter had run a small ceramics business for many years before she died. It was a cherished treasure that surely reminded him of her and maybe had even belonged to her. I hesitated to accept but he insisted.

Then came the day when I was able to offer him a real treasure. I told him the story of how God’s love found me when I didn’t even know what I was looking for. The promise of heaven wasn’t as important to me as a twelve year-old girl as being loved unconditionally. God loved me so much that He sent his Son, Jesus, to die for me and for everyone else who would trust Him to forgive their sins. I told Him how that love had changed me and the way I treated others. It could do those things for him also. I didn’t press him for a response. I did not pray with Him. I waited to see if the Good Seed would grow in the soil that the Lord had been lovingly cultivating.

Over the next several weeks whenever I was outside sweeping or doing yard work, I could hear the small radio that Mr. Keirnan sometimes played and listened to as he sat and read. Now the station had been programmed to a Christian radio station. Whenever he noticed me outside, he would turn it up so loud that I could hear what he was hearing – gospel music, powerful preaching, others telling the same story I had told him.

                                        ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

“You can’t cut down a tree in someone’s front yard without asking them first!” my husband Sam responded to the request to use his chainsaw to cut down the tree in Mr. Keirnan’s yard. “But I know he wants it taken down. He can’t afford to pay someone to do it. I know he will be pleased,” I replied. “If you’re sure,” Sam cautioned, giving me one more chance to back out of my plan.

The tree was tall and willowy and was easily felled. We dragged the limbs to the wood chipper parked in front of our house. While Sam finished stacking what could be used for firewood, I got our mower out and started on the tall grass. There were a couple balls hidden in the overgrowth. I was reminded of when we misunderstood why they were never returned. None of us realized then that he couldn’t walk very far without assistance. I was embarrassed at our wrong conclusions.

When we finished, we put the tools away and waited inside our house, peeking through the blinds to watch for his arrival. Before long they were home and Mr. Keirnan stood in his front yard looking up, incredulous, at where the tree had been. Was he glad?

It wasn’t until the next morning when there was an unexpected knock at the door that we knew for sure. Mr. Keirnan stood there holding a pair of porcelain figurines. “Thank you,” he said with tears in his eyes, “I want you to have these.” The boy and the girl painted in earth tone colors and in alpine dress, looked like Hummels. He turned to leave and started the walk home. It was only the second time he had crossed the road to our home in the many years we knew him. The figurines had been exquisitely painted by his wife, perfectly matching the colors and shadings of the real Hummel figurines.

The days blended into weeks, then months, then years. His son moved in with him when he lost his job. Soon there was another job and he stayed so his father wouldn’t be living alone. I hadn’t spoken to him for over a week but I noticed that he had lost a lot of weight. “Mr. Keirnan, you need to get your son to take you to a doctor to see if everything is okay,” I said. He told me he had an appointment for later that week.

The news was not good. He had cancer and he was not going to treat it. He would just stay at home and handle it. His wife never came home again after she went to the hospital. He would not make the same mistake. But less than six weeks later, an ambulance and paramedics were at his door, taking him to the hospital. The doctor who had diagnosed his cancer called them when he didn’t return. The choice that could not be made by those who loved him had been made by a stranger.

It was just before Easter and our schedule included many commitments at church during this time. I called and spoke to the nurses. He was very sick but he was resting comfortably. If they could stabilize him he would be moved to a nursing home the following week.

It wasn’t until Easter Sunday afternoon that I was finally able to see my friend in the hospital. I carried a potted plant of blooming flowers and we made awkward small talk. The silences said the things that neither one of us could bear to say. I held his hand and prayed for him and then turned to leave, promising to come back. The nurse called the next day. Mr. Keirnan had died early that morning. I’d like to believe he had waited for me to come before he left.

Is Mr. Keirnan in heaven with Jesus? I am not absolutely sure. I believe he is. But what I do know for sure is that he experienced a little of the unconditional love of God through a neighbor God used to show Mr. Keirnan His kindness.

 It was for Jesus’ sake. And it was for Mr. Keirnan’s sake. And yes, it was for my sake, too. 

 

                                        ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

 

Author’s note: Mr. Keirnan’s name has been changed but his story is true. It happened in our neighborhood many years ago. Friendship is a reciprocal thing with both people giving and both people receiving.

This is also a story of cultivation. Our youngest daughter recently reminded me that the Parable of the Sower is Jesus telling it like it really is: If you want your Good Seed to grow, you prepare the soil if you want a healthy harvest. Don’t forget to take care of the needs of the young plant so it can thrive and reproduce!

Rebirth is always God’s doing, His way, His timing, His glory. To be able to watch the process is a miraculous gift, a harvest in the life of the one who believes and a harvest in the life of the one who sees.

 

                        The Dance


                        
                  Hope
                            and
                                    Reality

          Unlikely partners in the dance -

                                 until

                                     you

                                       hear

                                           the

                                             music...

                              the haunting strains of

                                      Unexpected.

                                      
                                     Reality leads,

                                     Hope submits

               leaning against the strength of her partner,

                                anticipating the moves

                              that seem choreographed

                               while in Reality's arms...

                                          ordered,

                                      premeditated,

                                             not

                                       Unexpected.

                                          ~ ~~

                             The music keeps playing.

                                     Reality tires.

                                           The tempo changes.


                                "No, this is not what I thought,"

                                  Hope reads in Reality's eyes.

                                                   It is not

                                                   Familiar.


                            Strengthened by Reality's faltering,

                                      Hope assumes the lead

                           with a confidence that warms Reality.


                                           Reality relaxes

                               and leans into Hope's softness,

                       l       unable to anticipate her moves

                                         because they are

                                                 daring,

                                                creative,

                                                   not
                                               
                                                Routine.

                                                 ~ ~ ~

                                        The music changes

                                yet the dancers scarcely notice.

                                         Reality is refreshed

                               as he gazes into Hope's radiance.

                                               Hope blushes

                                   at Reality's steady approval.

                                  And they both become strong,

                                             they both yield

                                             to each other...

                                             ...to the music.


                                 Observers savor their delight -

                                        two unlikely partners

                                                 dancing

                                                     as

                                                    One.


                                         Unlikely,

                                              until

                                                    you

                                                        hear

                                                             the
            
                                                                 music...


                                             A glorious rendition of

                                                         Trust.


                                                          ~~ ~


                         Lord, teach me to hear the music of Trust,

                                         its melody is so faint

                               against the booming resonance of

                                                Unexpected.


                                                Teach me,

                          so that there might be joy in the dance -

                              that it might be wondrous to behold.


                                                    ~ ~ ~


                                                 





                                     Penned by Mary Whited

                                              dedicated to

                                            Karen and Susan 

                            whose dance with the reality of cancer

                                    has been wondrous to behold

                                                     1994

                                          Copyright (C) 2013



                                  










                                                     





                         





                                              

                                 
                                      



             


                    
                                            

Mile Markers

I didn't know it then but the yelling over the next few hours would leave me voiceless for several days. We arrived in small groups and spilled out of vans to take our positions in the unexpectedly bitter cold of a Florida winter. The damp January air jabbed icy fingers around us in the stillness shortly after dawn. We huddled quietly as we scanned the horizon for the first of the other group to crest the hill. Surely they would not be expecting us to be waiting in this lonely place so far from where they had begun.

What happened that morning would add much information and confirmation to what I was already practicing regarding the power of encouragement. A decade later I still marvel at what I saw that day.

The event was the Walt Disney World Marathon and we were being compensated generously with admission tickets for our participation that morning. The race was just over twenty-six miles and we were positioned where the runners had most of the race behind them and only three or four miles left to the finish line. Our job was to cheer them on to complete the race, no matter where they ranked among the runners. Though the incline we observed was a hill, it could hardly be called a heartbreak hill except this point in the race was when the body would be protesting loudest at the demands made on it and begging to quit.

The first arrivals glided swiftly by alone or in pairs, their conditioned bodies barely breaking a sweat as they slid by effortlessly in a regulated cadence to finish in the top group. Then it was quiet again until clusters of runners glided by, raising their arms in response to our cheering. Hands were clapped vigorouly to create warmth and to energize the runners for the last leg of a challenging race.

The runners came in all colors, shapes, sizes, ages, physiques and preparedness. They came from all over the country, their hometown or states proudly proclaimed on their t-shirts. Many tops bore the name of the runner. Other jerseys were  the same color and style on friends who had traveled to the race together. Still traveling together, they dribbled at various pacings down the hill towards us.

Without exception, we were rewarded with a smile when we called out their name or cheered, "You're almost there Minnesota!" Even those who were walking down the hill picked up the pace to a light shuffle with a spring in their step as they got within eyeshot then earshot of our cheerleaders. We stayed for several hours, shuffling ourselves as it remained cold, not letting anyone who had made it that far go unnoticed.

We left reluctantly, knowing we had made a difference and wondering how many finished who might not have just because Disney had the wisdom to place some fresh enthusiasm at a critical place in the course. No one who wanted to finish would feel invisible.

It didn't matter that we didn't really know Abigail when we shouted that she was doing great. She was tired and had been at this for a while. She knew she was too far behind to be a prize winner but nevertheless, she had prepared, traveled, sacrificed to be there and she wanted to finish, to finish well. What she heard the most was that someone knew she was still in the race and she was still running, though slower than others. That and the encouragement that it wasn't much longer until she would see the finish line.

Life has often been compared to a marathon race. Nearing sixty, this close to the finish line, my favorite race to run in doesn't look like the race I signed up for at the beginning.  What happened at heartbreak hill? So many I was running with have dropped out of the race or just gotten off course and walked onto some other course where they didn't feel invisible. At the critical point, was there no one there who knew their name or where they were from? Did no one see that they had run the race to that point well? Where were the cheerleaders encouraging them to finish?

You can be a runner AND a cheerleader! As a runner, are you letting yourself be known, who you are and how you got there? Are you counting the cost, pacing, and training to cross the finish line of a long race? As a cheerleader, are placing yourself at a crucial point for those in the race, looking for some way to meaningfully connect, and keeping them on a course to finish? Are you willing to be inconvenienced, helping  a stranger, and cheering until you lose your voice?

In what race are you running? Who might you help cross the finish line?