Off Again

            Walking up the driveway, I hear the crunch of tires behind me.  It’s the electric golf cart.

            Mom quickly overtakes me.  It’s a good thing I’m out of mud puddle splash range.  She zips around at the end of the driveway, making a U-turn to pick up the empty garbage can.  I catch up and grab the mail from the mailbox.

            She speeds off back down the driveway, and I admire the gold-colored hubcaps.  Her cart is a vintage Mercedes or Lexus of the golf cart world, but it desperately needs a hosing down.  Her blue nameplate, “Priscilla,” adorns the back.  On the front is a classy eagle ornament.  On top is the fringed roof covering.

            At the driveway “Y,” she stops.  It takes a while for me to catch up. She leans out and asks which way takes her closest to our house.  “Straight ahead!” I say cheerily while I mourn this most recent loss of memory.

            She accelerates, continuing her trip down the hill.  Just before she reaches the shop, she stops suddenly.  I see her peering into the woods.  And then, I am grateful that I have stayed on the side of the drive (as opposed to walking down the middle) as she abruptly backs up--full throttle--to get a better view.   She doesn’t seem to notice me as she flies past. 

            A few minutes later, she comes into the house, asking what she had planned to do.  “Well,” I say, “you just brought the trash can in from the road.  I don’t know if you unloaded it, though.”

            “Did I?” she asks.  Then she is off again.

Ambush

            Just before lunch, fatigue ambushed me.

            I wasn’t watching out when it hit without warning.  Between the high tree pollen count of spring and my brother’s cold germs inhabiting our shared air space (the kitchen), I should not be surprised.

            An hour-long nap did not dispel this weariness.  My afternoon trip down the driveway to get the mail was a stroll rather than a power walk.  I’m camped out on my memory foam bed, supported in a semi-upright position by my memory foam wedge pillows, with my new laptop perched on my lap.  My goal is to laze around this afternoon in order to store energy for tonight’s flute choir practice.  And, hopefully, ward off any enemy viruses.

           

Meditation on Suffering

If you suffer for doing good and you endure it, this is commendable before God. To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you. –1 Peter 2:20-21, NIV

It’s better to suffer for good than to suffer for bad. However, any suffering has the potential to draw us closer to Christ.

I’ve suffered because of my own sins and because of the sins of others. I’ve suffered for no apparent reason. I’ve suffered because of chronic illness. I’ve suffered for doing the right thing. Sometimes I have endured, and sometimes I have not. But no matter the suffering, it is the flip side of joy.

Suffering builds character if we face it. Most of us spend our lives running away from suffering. We don’t want to feel the dreadful pain or have discomfort nag away at our souls. So we run, and there are many ways to run: alcohol, drugs, food, anger, workaholism, codependency, sex are just a few. There are many ways to avoid ourselves. There are many ways to mute our suffering. We are experts at avoidance.

Suffering builds character when we embrace it, when we face hard lessons and work through pain. Sometimes as Christians we mistakenly believe that having negative emotions is a sign of moral weakness. We forget that we are human and that our emotions can uncover our pain. We think we should always have the “right” emotional response to every situation and bully ourselves over what we really feel.

It’s when I am truthful with myself and God that healing comes: not always quickly but always eventually. I might as well live in whatever honesty I am capable of instead of actively trying to deceive myself into ever-sunny feelings. God helps me become real so he can really work with me.

When we’ve known suffering, we appreciate joy at new levels. We don’t take joy for granted anymore. It is a fresh surprise.

However, we don’t want to suffer with a martyr complex: “Look at how noble I am in the midst of my terrible suffering.” That attitude often indicates fear. We are afraid to change ourselves or change our circumstances. We are afraid to admit the part we play in our own suffering. We get comfortable in having people feel sorry for us. We may even want to set ourselves up as a role model for Christ-like endurance. Pretentious piety like that makes nonbelievers want to puke, and rightly so.

We like to think we understand reasons for suffering. We like to explain the inexplicable away. We lay blame on the sufferer, or we say trite sayings that make us feel good. We pretend to know God’s purpose and have an explanation for everything.

It is better simply to enter into others’ suffering: cry tears with them; admit we don’t know why; listen; love. Empathy is risky. Suffering hurts. But God has promised joy in the morning. And he can even give us joy in our mourning.

Road Trip

            We are entering the Red Apple grocery store in Coupeville when I notice Mom digging in the pockets of the spring jacket I gave her a couple Christmases ago:  a tan Land’s End classic.  Weeks, if not months, often go by before she wears it.  I am always the one to suggest it, and she is always delighted to discover she has such a fine coat.

            It takes a couple minutes before I figure out what she is snacking on:  a fortune cookie stowed away in her pocket.  “Fortune cookies don’t ever really go bad, do they?” I think to myself. 

            We make our way through the store to pick up the few items on my list:  mini cinnamon rolls, eggs, and coffee filters.  Mom stops every few steps or so to peer at a display and exclaim over how high the prices are.  She is having a grand time.

            On our drive back home, I suggest we take the scenic route: down a winding road to Ebey’s Landing, up a steep hill, on through the farmland looking out at the Sound and Olympic Mountains, past Fort Casey and the ferry, and on back to the highway.  The blue sky and sunshine are what inspired this foray, after all.

            As we travel along, Mom leads on with the same conversation we have every time we drive somewhere:  the exceptional cloud formations, the trees growing up so tall, the fact that she gave up driving five or more years ago, and the reminiscences of when she used to drive all around on Whidbey Island.

            Her desire to go on drives is fairly recent.  She used to spurn errands, preferring to work on some outdoor project.  Now she wistfully asks most days if we are going somewhere.  Tomorrow is our monthly trip up to Burlington to get cat food and shop at Costco.  John will drive his big diesel truck, I will sit in the uncomfortable middle spot reserved for those with short legs, and Mom will work her way through the familiar topics that are first-time conversation for her.

            One thing will be different.  She will probably wear her old blue coat.  I think she keeps M & M’s in those pockets.

           

Birth Order

            I haven’t even read the WebMD article yet, but the title (“Does Birth Order Dictate Your Lifestyle?”) sets me to thinking:  I have some Lussmyer answers to that question.

            Firstborns (that is, my late sister Anne) are brilliant research technicians who do unspeakable things to mice in the name of science.

            Middle children can take two different tracks.  Seconds (that is, me) are mild-mannered educators who enjoy the arts.  Thirds (that is, Bob) are entrepreneurs who take both business and family seriously.

            Babies (that is, my burly brother John) are laidback software engineers who love big cats.

            There, now that I have that settled, I can read the article and see if it agrees with me.

Benjamin

            Big blue eyes sparkle through big blue glasses.  A trail of drool reflects light off his chin.  Wispy light red hair crowns his head.  Blue hearing aids blend in, and the picture is complete:  there is smiling Benjamin.

            Bubbles of joy rise up within my soul, popping into smiles.  My heart seizes up with great love and longing as I consider the beautiful boy Benjamin is.  How I am blessed by his being in this world.

            Through my grandson God is teaching me about unconditional love by letting me experience it.  We are all Benjamins to God—full of promise, treasures to our King.  Our value is not in our accomplishments but in our being.  God counts each life as sacred.  Each of us reflects a bit of His image.

           

Not Me

            I’m working so hard and sounding so bad.  There is no resonance to my tone no matter what I do:  adjust the head joint, reposition my flute, relax my throat, pay attention to my embouchure.  The thin, reedy sound in the upper register and airy resistance in the lower notes exasperate me. 

            Practice is going so badly I decide it is counterproductive.  My throat hurts a bit, so maybe, I reason, inflammation is constricting my airflow.  I take apart my flute.  As I swab out the long middle section, something fluttering down to the table catches my eye.  What is it?  I pick up the two-inch-long cloth tag, black fuzz clinging to the back of it.  “Knapp Music Co,” it proclaims, just as it always has—except it is supposed to be securely fastened in the case lining, not floating around inside my flute.

            I start to laugh and put my flute back together.  I resume practice, relieved that this time the problem was not me.