July Two, Thank You

 

                My eyes open and I say, “Thank you, God,” sometimes deliberately out of a gladsome heart and other times on autopilot.

                This morning, July 3, I started out on autopilot.  I remembered what my grandson Benjamin used to say when he was a baby: “blah, blah, blah.”  It’s a “blah” day. My joints creak and my muscles ache. For two years, I’ve had very little of the fibro aches and pains, but now they have resurfaced, sapping both energy and motivation.  I’m getting tired of social distancing and staying at home.

                I need a pick-me-up, so after getting ready for the day, I head out in my car with a short list of yard sales in hand.  Along the way, I’ll treat myself to a Starbucks cold brew.  It feels good to leave the house.  Driving alone often unleashes spontaneous song-prayers, and today is no different.  Remembering that I don’t have to pretend cheer for God, I don’t.  I say it, I sing it that I’m kind of depressed and ask for his presence.  I don’t feel it, but that is okay.  Gradually, over my lifetime, I am learning that faith is not based on feelings.

                Yesterday (July 2)  I picked up Benjamin from summer school to take him home. Our routine never varies. The teacher’s aide brings him outside, and I take his hand to walk to my car.  He is happy, thumb pulling up his shirt as he wags his hand in front of his face.  (Benjamin, now eleven and still nonverbal, has a dual diagnosis of Down Syndrome and autism.) I have the back door open for him, and he pauses at the window, waving his hand on the glass, before he climbs on his booster seat. I buckle him in, he moves his head toward me, and I kiss his forehead.  He makes a happy sound and grins, wagging that hand in front of his face while I close the door.  On the drive home, I sing to him, a blend of songs he knows and songs I make up just for him.

Thursdays are the day seven-year-old Joelle has commandeered as her special time with grandma, so after I spend a little time with Josiah and Ava while Benjamin eats his late lunch, she leads the way to my car.  She buckles herself in.  In the family van, her job is to buckle Benjamin in, too.  We head out, and she is full of questions, starting off with “What are we going to do today, Grandma?” She keeps a constant commentary going as I mail a letter and use the drive-through at the bank to pick up a couple check registers.  Every little action spurs questions and conversation.  I ask if she would like to go walk around at the mall, and she is delighted.  “Can we go to the girlie store?” she asks, and I rightly guess she means Claire’s.  We walk, hand in hand, and browse “girlie stuff” in Claire’s and toys in Goody’s. After ice cream and a sojourn to my house, we’re off to home again. 

                My “blah” day has taken a turn now that I’ve written about yesterday’s time with my grandchildren.  “Thank you,” I say to the One who always listens.  “Thank you for reminding me of my many blessings.”

               

Dear Anne

Today I found a letter I wrote on this date in 2014. Because it still speaks my heart, I've updated it for 2020.  

June 19, 2020

Dear Anne,

            I miss you.  Tomorrow would have been your 67^st birthday, and you’ve been gone almost eleven years already.

            I miss your hearty telephone greeting:  “Janis!”  I miss your overbearing personality.  I miss your tender heart carefully hidden beneath a gruff exterior.  I miss your sense of humor and verbal word play.  I miss your hand gripping mine and your piercing gaze.

            I still count those 66 days with you at the end of your life as a cherished yet profoundly difficult time.  I am so grateful that I was able to be your support and advocate.  Those long hours at your bedside taught me the ministry of presence.  So human and so holy, that time bound me to you in your suffering.  I learned the tiniest fraction of Christ’s sacrificial love.

            Anne, far more than I feared you as a child (you really were the older sister from hell!), I love you and miss you.  I’m glad you found the missing true love of your life, Jesus, at the very end. 

Love,

Janis

In a Jam

          “Joseph!” I called. “Can you bring me the screwdriver? I’m stuck in my room!”

          Thankfully, Joseph was awake and heard me.  Thankfully, I remembered where I store the screwdriver and was able to explain it to him.  Thankfully, since having the thick carpeting removed and the red oak floors refinished before I moved into my house seven years ago, I’ve never had the doors and baseboards lowered to be flush with the floor. The chunky screwdriver slid right under the door to me.

          I’m an expert procrastinator when it comes to home repairs. That’s because I’m all thumbs when it comes to fixing anything.  The doorknob had been difficult to turn for a long time, and I had dutifully put off the inevitable replacement.

          Getting it off, though, did not get me out of my room.  The mechanism inside was jammed.  Fortunately, after fruitless attempts using brute force, it occurred to me to have Joseph re-insert the doorknob from his side, which activated the mechanism.  I escaped.

          Later in the day, I bought a doorknob at Lowe’s and hoped I would be able to install it.  Somehow, taking things apart is easier than putting them back together.  But at least I had experience: about 25 years ago, I had replaced the doorknob to the front door of another house.  It only took a few hours, and I only discovered the little mistake I made in the installation when I was locking up the house for the night:  the keyhole was on the inside, and the lock was on the outside.

          Amazingly, the new doorknob to my bedroom fit, and I was able to put it on rather easily.  Well, except for one little mistake: after inserting the inside mechanism and securing the plate, I wanted to make sure it worked before I installed the knobs . . . so I closed the door, locking myself in my bedroom for the second time today.  Joseph again came to the rescue so I could finish the job.

          You might wonder why I didn’t have my son perform this supposedly simple household repair.  The answer is quite simple: I raised him.  He had no opportunity to learn how to do all the things I don’t know how to do. However, he’s a great back up when I get myself in a jam.

What Sugar Does

            Soft serve ice cream in a waffle cone.  Hershey’s chocolate nuggets.  Bakery monster cookie.  Concrete (vanilla custard with cookie dough).  Delicious, right?

            Yes, and for me, deadly.  Since stay-at-home and social distancing started seven weeks ago, I’ve been turning to sugar for comfort.  When my son and I venture out for essential errands, somehow a fast food stop has become part of our routine.  I need an occasional treat during this stressful time, right?

            Occasional probably would be alright.  But somehow, occasional has morphed into daily, at least since I foolishly purchased a big bag of Hershey’s nuggets.  The remarkable self-control I exercised for an entire year followed by less remarkable self-control for a second year has vanished.

            Two years ago, I radically changed my eating habits, majoring in fresh, non-starchy vegetables, lean protein, and heart-healthy fats while completely cutting out processed foods, refined carbohydrates, and sugar.  By completely, I mean completely: no packaged foods with more than five ingredients, none of which could be sugar, flour, or artificial ingredients.  The motivator was a whole-body breakout of eczema.  Steroids had made me very sick, and I could not face the next line of treatment (oral chemotherapy), so I decided to try an elimination diet.

            The eczema very slowly faded away over a period of months.  However, most of my fibromyalgia pain and fatigue disappeared in a week.  I felt better than I had in over twenty years.  Gone were exhaustion and malaise.  Gone was most of the daily pain that had plagued me for over twenty years.  Feeling so much better kept me supremely motivated to stay on my new way of eating . . . for the first year, at least, in which I effortlessly shed twenty pounds.

            I began breaking the rules during a lovely twelve-day vacation at my brother’s place on Whidbey Island back in July 2019.  Still maintaining a healthy diet, I felt no ill effects of the sugary treats I enjoyed that week.  When I returned home, it was harder to stay on the wagon, though I did for the most part.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  My eating standards relaxed more as the year went on.

            And then came the pandemic.  My unhealthy way of coping with stress resurfaced with a vengeance, and my self-control disappeared.  At least I retained my cooking at home healthy habits, but verboten* treats kept finding their way into my grocery cart, and drive-through ice cream treats became the rule instead of the exception.

            Yesterday, my routine check-up with my primary care provider revealed just how much weight I have gained back.  You would think that would put a brake on my consumption of sweets, but no.  A large soft-serve waffle cone followed my appointment that afternoon, and an undisclosed number of Hershey nuggets closed my evening.

            This morning was the worst yet.  My body felt like aching lead.  All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed . . . and I did, after a healthy breakfast.  (Here I must admit that the crawling back into bed has become a daily habit.)  My brain feels sluggish.  Even caffeine does not kickstart my afternoon.  My jeans are tighter, and if it were not for a Zoom meeting that starts in an hour and twelve more research papers to grade in the next few days, I would go back to bed.

            When I finally got up late this morning, a title popped into my mind: “What Sugar Does.”  The sudden appearance of titles usually means it is time to write.  Writing is a stress reliever for me, so if more blogs start to appear, it likely means that I’m turning to blogging rather than sugar to help me through the day.  Let’s hope that will be the case.

*German for "forbidden"

The Egg I Have in Mind

The Egg I Have in Mind

            Nestled in a white egg cup, a 44-year-old eggshell sits on my dresser.  Purchased in Prague, Czechoslovakia in 1976, the egg has traveled far over a lifetime.  At the minimum, it has resided in Freiburg, Germany; Douglas and Lowell, Michigan; Greenbank, Washington; and Bartlesville, Oklahoma.  If my memory serves me right, it spent many years in my mother’s china cabinet.

            I don’t know much about egg decorating, but this hollowed-out egg is clearly the work of a talented artist.  A small hole on the top and bottom indicate that the yolk and egg white were blown out.  Then, I imagine, the artist painted the entire surface in black.  The floral designs and intricate borders appear to have been etched, showing up as the original white of the shell. 

            The etched egg caught my eye in one of the stores that our tour group visited.  We were American students studying with the Institute for European Studies at West Germany’s University of Freiburg.  Before our semester began, we traveled to Czechoslovakia, which at the time was a communist country and had a depressed economy.  The stores we entered had sparse displays and the items were expensive in the nation’s currency.  However, the exchange rate with the German mark was excellent, so the purchases I made in various shops—the etched egg, a hat, a tenor recorder made of pear wood—hardly created a dent in my wallet.

            Looking at the egg on my dresser, I am a little sad.  Week before last, I accidentally let go of a decorative box lid, which fell back and broke the top off the egg.  Imagine that: after its safe travels by airplane, automobile, and moving truck, it gets broken when a small, light lid falls on it.  The last move it made, from Washington to Oklahoma via professional movers, it managed to survive even though the packers made a grave mistake—it lay, unwrapped, on top in a large packing box filled with carefully wrapped china. 

            I think I will keep the egg after all, even though the hole on top is much bigger and the small scattered pieces still adorn my dresser.  For some reason, I can’t seem to throw the fragments away, either.  There must be some lesson to my egg’s survival through perilous circumstances only to meet its end in a supposedly safe place, but all I know is that it remains the egg I have in mind.

When I'm 64

        Those of us at a certain age remember the Beatles’ hit, “When I’m 64.”  As a teen, I could not imagine being so old.  But now, 64 does not seem old at all.  Besides, what I longed for and prepared for since my late thirties has finally come to pass.

        This year, my August 4 birthday fell on a Sunday and, as usual, I was happily engaged in the morning worship, singing in choir, and fellowshipping with others over coffee and snacks after church.  Our part-time interim pastor asked to speak with me about a matter we had discussed over the phone the previous week.  I was ready with my answer.

        It was a difficult opportunity to turn down.  Ray was looking for a program director/pastoral care person.  I had to tell him that I was not a good pick for program director:  creating programs, managing them, and advertising them is something of which my nightmares are made.  No, seriously, that type of work would stress me to the max.  However, pastoral care would make my heart sing.  Sadly, I turned down the part-time paid position because of the program director part.

        Ray surprised me then and asked me if I would take on the pastoral care role.  He was willing to split the position in two!  Happily, I said yes.  He offered a small salary, and I asked when I should start.  August 1, he said.

        My ministry title:  Interim Director of Pastoral Care.  I even have an office and business cards.  I should also mention that I am a Commissioned Lay Pastor in the Presbyterian Church USA.  Everything sounds so official, but all I do is what I’ve always wanted to do.

        Besides preaching one Sunday a month, I visit with people:  at church, over the phone, in their homes, in the hospital.  I help serve communion to shut-ins once a month.  I remain on Session (our local church board) as an ex-officio member. And, so far, I have assisted in one memorial and conducted one graveside service.

        Since August, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know more people in our congregation than I did before.  I’m doing what I should have been doing all along but didn’t.  I guess I needed permission—the ministry title—to step beyond my shyness. 

        There is much more to do:  more people to visit, a Bible study/support group on death and dying to develop, local nonprofit agencies to learn about and possibly collaborate with, a May conference for commissioned pastors to attend.  It is all joy that, I hope, will extend to and beyond my 65^th year.

A New Wardrobe

 I've been preaching instead of blogging on a regular basis since the spring.  Here is today's sermon:

        On June 10^th, Bible Gateway’s verse of the day was Colossians 3:12.  It appeared on my Kindle screen in The Message translation:  "So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline."  Immediately, I jotted down the reference and a few brief notes, recognizing that this verse was going to give birth to a sermon.

The first word I jotted down was dreams to remind me of a particular recurring dream in which I suddenly discover a closet full of beautiful clothing—a whole new wardrobe for me!  I happily choose an outfit . . . and then I wake up, disappointed that the dream is not reality.

I like the imagery of God choosing a wardrobe for believers.  Whether you are a fashion buff or not, clothing is important.  It helps us live comfortably when we dress according to the season.  Imagine how uncomfortable we all would be clothed in winter attire today!  Clothing also makes a statement about who we are . . . or what we can afford.  Other people form opinions about us based on what we wear.  Yes, clothing styles are radically different than in the Apostle Paul’s lifetime, but his use of analogy still strikes home today.

I wonder what would happen if every morning we intentionally reviewed God’s wardrobe for us.  And what would happen if we made daily efforts to try it on?

Getting dressed in our own wardrobe is pretty automatic.  I mean, once you have chosen your clothing for the day, it goes on easily.  Unless, for example, you are working with arthritic fingers that don’t manage small buttons the way they used to.  Or unless you are a toddler just learning how to get dressed.

I think of my grandson, Josiah, who is bound and determined to tackle the problem of dressing himself.  He regularly practices with any stray piece of clothing he can find.  I’ve seen him put dirty socks on over his clean socks, pull a larger shirt over his head, and struggle with the mystery of winter coat sleeves—the coat zipper always ends up at his back.  He is determined.

I’m not exactly sure how to apply Josiah’s determination to clothe myself in God’s wardrobe, but I daresay it involves motivation and practice over a lifetime. 

As with any analogy, this one breaks down after closer examination.  Putting on God’s wardrobe of “tenderhearted mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience” is very different from getting dressed for the day or, in Josiah’s case, trying on random garments.  For instance, have you ever said to yourself, “I’m going to be patient today,” and utterly failed? 

Putting on the Christian virtues is impossible on our own.  If we could, then we would not need Jesus Christ.  Christian virtues get developed in our lives as a result of an ongoing relationship with Christ.  As we spend time in prayer, Bible study, and other spiritual disciplines, our inner lives are gradually transformed.  As we get more connected with the reality of God’s undeserved and generous love for us, we want to know him more.  As we choose love for him as our guiding light, he teaches us how to love each other.

You see, God has chosen our wardrobe.  In fact, he is the source

 of it.  You might say that he is our wardrobe.  Galatians 3:27 says,

“And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have put on Christ,

like putting on new clothes.”

Putting on Christ is, I think, the key to understanding.  If we grit our teeth and try harder to put on a single virtue—let’s go back to everyone’s favorite, patience—it does not work.  But if our desire is to love Christ, to serve him, to be obedient to him, then his character—his virtues—rub off on us by association.  Spending time with him and admiring his wardrobe—in other words, worshipping him, praising him for who he is, and thanking him for everything—puts us in the position of being transformed by him.

I think we have all heard the words, “Be careful of the company you keep.”  The people we are around, the ones we do life with, affect us.  If I keep company with Christ, he is bound to affect me.  In fact, he promises to transform me.  And how I long for exactly that.  That long, slow process of transformation requires my cooperation.  I need to keep company with him.  I need not give up because of my failures.  Like my grandson, I need to persevere.  Then, someday I will throw open that closet door and find, to my delight, that God’s wardrobe fits and is not just a dream.