Not My Best Moment

            It was not my best moment.  As I handed over the empty peanut bag to the airline attendant, a dry shower of powder fell onto my neighbor’s tray and into her glass of diet Coke.  The attendant scowled, the man in the aisle seat quickly wiped his girlfriend’s tray clean, and I sputtered an apology.  At least she received another Coke.

            It’s been a day like that, quiet and awkward.  I’ve traveled in silence today, the old shyness shutting me away from the rest of the world.  I’m very weary despite the lovely week I just had with daughter, son-in-law, and grandson.

            I was a window watcher today, rewarded with a glorious clear view of the Grand Canyon shortly before we landed in Las Vegas.  The other memorable view from this trip was the Great Salt Lake last Wednesday on the first leg of the journey.  I was fascinated by the large areas of distinct color:  pink, blue, green.

            I was a people watcher, too. On the trip in, I noticed the couple with two out-of-control children and lifted them to the Lord.  I prayed for the young woman who was silently shedding tears as she boarded the flight to Seattle this afternoon.  I marveled at all the diversity of people and thought about how God knows and loves each one. 

            And now I sit, waiting for the shuttle in a spot that has become very familiar to me:  the waiting area by door 00.  I purchased my end-of-trip treat: an  Odwalla Vanilla Al’Mondo Protein drink at the newsstand down in the baggage claim area.  I am ready to be home even though I already miss my sweet grandson.  He will get his own page.

            This morning, Mom forgot that she washes the kitty dishes for John every day.  Tonight, she recited the first four lines of a Rudyard Kipling poem.  Intrigued, I looked it up on the Internet and read it to her.  I love the poem’s imagery and message.

When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted

By Rudyard Kipling

1892

When Earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets’ hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

Too Much of Me, Too Little of Him

            Words came slowly.  I wasn’t sure where I was going (what else is new?) but this time the writing felt forced.  I finished the first rough draft, which had strayed far from its original title, “One at a Time.”  Who did I think I was, anyway, to write about my Lord?  There was too much of me and too little of Him in my words.  Discouraged, I saved and closed the file.

            The next day, Thursday, I received Sunday’s bulletin via email and read through the parts I would be responsible for as  lay assistant:  responsive readings, prayers, and Scripture.  The prayer of confession ended with these words:  “We too easily slip out of your ranks and permit ourselves to be shaped by society, trading your peace in our hearts for public approval.  Forgive us, O Lord, and renew us in your witness and your service.”  And then, in the prayer of dedication after the offering were these words:  “Use us, O Lord, to live and speak Christ’s name against the dark forces of injustice and self-serving that rob the poor, starve the hungry, abuse the wounded, and steal peace from those whose lives are in turmoil.”

            Dumbfounded, I turned back to the abandoned rough draft from the day before.  There I read the same theme in different words—our call to follow Christ in ministering to the least among us instead of seeking the admiration of the crowd.  Encouraged by evidence that the Holy Spirit was affirming what I had struggled with writing the day before, I started the task of revision: slashing cumbersome sentences, tightening up phrases, and searching for a way to end the piece with a return to its beginning.  I finally found a better title, too: “Were you there?”

            But writing was not all God had in mind for me.  He had an object lesson as well.  To write passionately about following Jesus and loving others is much easier than actually doing it.  I was looking forward to a little break on Friday afternoon:  stopping by the Freeland Library and maybe cruising through a thrift store or two.  Thinking Mom was out in the garden, I wrote her a note:  “I’ll be back soon.  John is home.”  I was energized by the thought of escape.  As I came out the door, I heard a voice:  “So what are you up to?”  There she sat, almost hidden by the towering flowers around the bench in front of our house.

            “I’m headed to the library,” I said.

            “Then I’ll come along.”  There went my plans.  One of Mom’s favorite activities now is riding in the car.  Evidently it even trumps working in the garden. 

            “I’ll go tell John that we’re heading out,” I replied.  Honestly, I was kind of hoping she would forget the whole thing in the couple minutes that would take and wander out to the garden.  As I walked back across the yard, I was begrudging my compliance to her wishes.  Then it hit me:  wasn’t this exactly what I had been writing about? If Jesus asked to ride in the car with me, I would be more than happy to take him.  So shouldn’t I extend the same courtesy to my own mother?  After all, in Jesus’ book, loving and caring for my mother is the same as loving and caring for Jesus.

            Evidently, it is not just the words that come slowly at times.  My actions and my attitude lag far behind:  too much of me and too little of Him.

           

Were you there?

            The crowd roars in anticipation.  Hands reach out to touch.  Every eye is trained on the spotlight.  Tomorrow the question will be, “Were you there?”  Anyone in attendance will feel that swell of pride that comes from a brush with the rich and famous.

            I had a very tiny taste of fame once.  I was the guest speaker at a Stonecroft Ministries luncheon.  As we were waiting for the food to be served, introductions were made by our table hostess.  The woman next to me was surprised and impressed to be sitting next to the speaker.  I was surprised that she was impressed.  After all, it was just me.

            I wonder how many of us look for significance via association.  Our culture idolizes the famous.  Most of us will never achieve fame.  We live our lives within relatively small spheres of influence, though some gain visibility within civic organizations or careers or church.  We sometimes lose sight of the most important association of all:  relationship with Jesus.

            It’s easier to see Jesus in people we love and admire.  It’s harder to see Jesus in those who are different or poor or needy.  In fact, we often want the spotlight, imagining ourselves co-stars to the Son.  Instead of reflecting His glory back to Him by loving unconditionally and selflessly, we want the misplaced adoration of the crowd. 

Someday Jesus will ask each one of us, “Were you there when I needed you?”  And then we will remember some seemingly insignificant moments when we had the opportunity to show love and care for another human being and, perhaps, share our hope in Christ.    Jesus shows up in the most unlikely people and situations.  While our eyes are trained on the famous, he is ministering behind the scenes to each person in this earthly crowd.  He beckons us to share his love with the least of these.  That is where we will find Him.

           

                       

A Momentary Lapse

            “Tomorrow morning, remember, you and Joseph are coming to church with me.  I’ll be playing in a flute ensemble.”

            “What?  Are you a guest?  Where do you go to church?”

            “The Presbyterian Church in Oak Harbor.”

            “I thought you still lived in Kansas,” Mom said as we walked into the house.   She was very surprised when I gently reminded her that I have been living with her here in Washington for three years.

The First Thing I Noticed

            The first thing I noticed was the slow cooker base—the part you are NOT supposed to immerse—half-filled with soapy bubbles and sitting in the sink.  As I bustled about to put together a slightly late lunch, I opened the cabinet door to get the multipurpose spray so I could wipe down the table.  That was when I saw the pool of water.  Two bath towels later, it was mopped up.

            I opened the dishwasher and found a full load of dirty dishes, the Cascade powder emptied from the soap trays into the machine.  A top-rack-only item was on the bottom rack, so I did a little rearranging.  Then I shut the door and started the cycle.

            At some point I spotted an armload of dirty laundry neatly rolled up on the kitchen counter, so I delivered it to the clothes hamper in the bathroom.

            And when I tried to rinse off a peach, I discovered the source of the leak:  the sink now dispenses its water rather forcefully out from the faucet base and down into the cabinet below rather than through the faucet.

            Finally, Mom and I sat down to our simple meal:  egg salad for her, peanut butter for me, fresh peach slices for us both.  I guess she was pretty busy while I was at my flute lesson.  At least now I have an excuse to get a new slow cooker.

Lavendar Joy

            Lavendar, spinach, and three tiny new potatoes:  those were Mom’s offerings laid out on the kitchen table when I returned from doing errands.  Add the three snap peas I picked, and you see what kind of garden harvest we are having this summer.

            I put the overgrown, bitter spinach leaves aside.  The potatoes went in a pot with a few larger store-bought ones.  Each of us enjoyed one pea pod, raw.  You’ll be glad to know that I supplemented this meal with a salad and a pot roast.

            The lavender, I found out when my brother came over for dinner, was a gift from friends Steve and Coletta.  That information solved the mystery—Mom assumed she had picked it, and I could not remember seeing lavender anywhere on our property.  Its lovely purple and heavenly fragrance grace my bedroom, our living room, and the kitchen.