Spider Victory

            I didn’t even hyperventilate.  But I used a phone book followed by two Kleenexes to do away with the daddy long legs.

            A couple nights ago, I noticed I had company:  a daddy long legs above my bed right where wall meets ceiling.  Amazingly enough, I calmly decided to let him hang out there—though I did sleep on the other side of the bed so I wasn’t directly underneath him. 

            You see, I have a bit of a phobia about spiders in general and daddy long legs in particular.  Two memories from childhood stand out.  First is the neighbor girl when we lived in the trailer in the country near Charlotte, Michigan.  She, my sister Priscilla Ann, and I were crouched down in the yard in front of our trailer.  The girl told us scary stuff about spiders (what, I have no idea).  From that time forward, my sister and I were terrified of spiders.  A few years later, when I was around eight, our family was on vacation and walking down a hiking trail.  Suddenly, I was surrounded:  there must have been at least two daddy long legs on the path blocking my way.  I guess they eventually skittered away:  otherwise, I would still be standing there, paralyzed by fear.

            Let’s go back to the ceiling in my room.  Two whole nights I slumbered soundly despite the spider on the ceiling.  I didn’t want to try to kill him because I was pretty sure he would escape my attempts and land on my bed.  This morning, finally, he was gone:  I assumed he found a better spot to hang around.  After my coffee and computer time, I went to make my bed.  I started on the side directly below the spider’s spot, pulling up sheet, blanket, and summer quilt.  When I walked around the bed to do the same for the other side, I was startled:  there stood the daddy long legs on my hot pink sheets near my pillow!

            Thinking fast, I grabbed the South Whidbey Telephone Directory and smashed him.  He didn’t even leave a mess, just rolled over and crinkled up like dead spiders do.  One Kleenex would not offer sufficient protection, so I grabbed two to pick him up and throw him away in the wastebasket.

            I didn’t scream, I didn’t hyperventilate, and I didn’t even break out in the cold sweat of fear.  (Okay, I’m exaggerating:  the cold sweat break-out was very minor.)  My sister would be proud of me.  My son—well, when I tell him about this spider victory, he will probably remind me of the time we found a tarantula in the house.  But that is another story.

Unflinchingly

            I may have flinched as our pastor started today’s reading from Matthew 18.  Not only have I never understood these verses, but I have also seen them used to justify judgment instead of work restoration:

¹⁵“If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one. ¹⁶But if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. ¹⁷If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector. ¹⁸Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. ¹⁹Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. ²⁰For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”

                As Dave read the last half of verse 17, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector,” new  understanding suddenly flooded me.  I considered these verses in the light of Jesus’ life.   He continually surprised the religious leaders of his day by his treatment of the outsider.  He even said on at least one occasion when asked why he was eating with sinners and tax collectors that he came for sinners, not the righteous (Mark 2: 15-17). 

                Think again about how Jesus treated Gentiles and tax collectors.  He reached them in the mess of their lives and loved them to repentance and faith.  He fellowshipped with those considered incorrigibly sinful and utterly unclean.  He never compromised Himself:  He stood for Who He Is.  He is Truth; He is the Light of the world; He is God’s own Son.  But how can the Holy hang out with the unholy?  Because of His sacrificial love:  “God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

                So how are we to treat the Gentiles and tax collectors among us, those who are hardened by their sin and unwilling to listen?   We treat them with the love of Jesus.  We treat them with His heart of mercy.  We reach out to those who have stumbled or fallen, knowing that we, too, have stumbled and fallen time and time again.  We share the wideness of His mercy and full gratitude for His grace.    That does not mean condoning or joining in others' sin.   It does not mean a smug self-righteousness and quickness to condemn.   It DOES mean opening our hearts and our lives.  It means coming alongside the strugglers and stragglers as fellow pilgrims and sharing our journey of faith—unflinchingly.

               

The Benjamin Page

            Benjamin laughs his machine-gun sputter as Dana sings the lullaby he has recently decided is funny.  He laughs as Shawn swings him through the air.  He grins when he gives you five.  He is the picture of delight as he flips the pages of his peek-a-boo books.  He loves playing catch with Grandma.

            He takes off in his army crawl to get to his musical toys.  He carefully studies his train that plays a tune as it moves three balls up and down.  He sits in the splits and leans forward, swinging his legs back as his face touches the floor.  He reaches and grabs the object of his interest, pushing himself back up into a sitting position.

            He loves to eat, eagerly anticipating each spoonful and picking up anything spilled on his high chair tray.  He is angry when mealtime is over but eventually accepts his cup of diluted juice.  His favorite, though, is soymilk with chocolate Reliv (a powdered nutritional supplement).

            He hates being restrained for doctor examinations and does not wake gracefully from anesthesia:  cry, scream, thrash, cry some more.  Eventually he quiets down and cries the last bloody tear from his surgery on his left eye.  Leaving the hospital makes him happy.

            Benjamin is blessed by having wonderful parents, though he does not always appreciate the important training and discipline that are critical for any child, and especially a child with Down Syndrome: his extra chromosome not only encourages a sheer joy in being but also a stubborn resistance to change.  Fortunately for him, his parents persevere, and this grandma is gradually learning to be firm when firmness is needed.  But she still is a very soft touch, and he still has her wrapped around his little finger.

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.