Lumps

     Lumps aren't always a bad thing, they may be unappetizing in gravy (although I always tell my family they are chunks of meat) and are terrifying in a breast exam, but it is the lumps of shortening in pie crust that make it flaky and it is the unmixed lumps that keep cornbread and muffins from falling apart.  "Over beating makes things fall apart" seems like a good life motto to me, but there is something to be said for leaving life a little lumpy too. Most parents want their children to have an easier life than they did, but we have seen the disastrous results of parents trying to smooth all obstacles from their child's path.  The children grow up spoiled, unappreciative and unprepared for the demands of an adult world.  God approves of lumps.  He has, in fact, promised them, but only for this life. Heaven is smooth sailing.
     As much as it pains me to say it, I used to envy one of the women in my Bible study.  She came from a wonderful, Christian home, married a wonderful, Christian man who used to surprise her with things like a new car or trip to Hawaii.  They had two wonderful, Christian children. Their teenage son had an outspoken testimony for Christ in public high school.  She had never even lost anyone she was particularly close to.  Her life seemed perfect.  Years later she divorced her husband in the middle of his chemotherapy; I don't know what has become of her.  I know nothing of the circumstances that led to her divorce, but I can't help but wonder if her perfect life left her unprepared for the imperfection that is life.
     Although it is still a mystery to me, the Bible says that Christ was made perfect through suffering and there is an intrinsic value in it for our good.  Suffering is not Satan's tool to disrupt our lives, it is God's tool to perfect us.  I would not have chosen a childhood like mine for myself or my own children, but I can see how it has shaped me into the adult I have become, and how it prepared me to follow Christ who is shaping me into something far more perfect than our human ideas of perfection.  Some of the hardest lumps touch the most helpless, both young and old: lack or loss of health, home, family and independence, but even at our peak, we will never be without lumps in this world. God's recipe for perfection doesn't call for beating us until there are no more lumps. I'm grateful for that. The same lumps that batter us, make us better batter.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

     "Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot and Never Brought to Mind?  Oh how I wish they could.  There are many like me that are visited at the holidays by the Ghost of Christmas Past, memories of bad experiences, or in my case, not memories of specific incidents but of feelings of the past.  To have the feelings return without the memories they are attached to, is even spookier.  Some are haunted by good memories of loved ones now gone.  Some of us had family members for whom instability was a holiday tradition.  We remember these times more than the other bad times because holidays are a focal point for memories.  A similar tragedy may have occurred on another random day but, unless it was connected with a birthday or other significant date, the memory isn't triggered at any particular time of year.  The other reason these bad memories are so vivid is that expectations are higher at Christmas.  In spite of the breakdown of traditional homes and values, there is still something in us that clings to the dream of happy children, loving parents, miracles and wonder.  When the reality is emptiness and disappointment the dream falls all the farther.  In these days of single moms, absent dads, abuse, homelessness and poverty, many will not have any good Christmases to balance out the bad.  My heart aches for them.
     I will close with a poem that expresses my experiences with the Ghost of Christmas Past and the hope that all the haunted will someday find peace on earth.

                 To All the Ghosts of Christmas Past

            To all the ghosts of Christmas Past,
            whose vivid memories yearly cast
                 their shadows on my joy,

            As winter nears, I feel your touch
            and, from the rear, your talons clutch
                and drag me to the past.

            I close my mind to the memories
            but, like disembodied spirits, these
                feelings still remain.

            Despite the many happy years
            of Christmas with my children near,
                  the haunting goes on yet.

            I wonder if I'll ever be
            old enough to be set free
                and send the ghosts away,

            to stand unshadowed near the tree
            and feel the peace God meant to be
                part of Christmas Day.

Spare Sons

     I have been putting off this story because it is long and the ending is somewhat sad, but perhaps it is time.  Christmas is coming, that focal point for memories, I cannot help but look back.  Toward the end of my forty ninth year God made me a mother again--eight times.  My husband and I had been heading, with some trepidation on my part, toward an empty nest.  Only our youngest son, nineteen year old Tracy, was still living at home.  It was not unusual for Trace to have friends spend the night for extended periods, but when Andy had been with us for several weeks, we felt compelled to ask about his long term plans. Though Tracy complained in his teens about his horrible home situation, he began to notice some of his friends had no home at all. Andy was one of those.  He had many relatives, a mother in New York, a father and other extended family in Kalispell, but none who wanted him.  Trace had an unusually compassionate heart, he asked if Andy could live with us.  He wound up sleeping on the couch in our family room.
     Then came Lance.  He showed up on our front porch early in the morning one fourth of July, looking for Tracy.  I figured anyone who knew Trace would know he wouldn't be awake that time of day, but Lance was from out of town and thought it would be alright. He had just got a job with a paving company in Bigfork and planned to camp on his family's property on Leisure Island, but the mosquitoes were bad that summer and we were afraid he might be sucked dry by morning and, after all, there were two couches in the family room.  He had planned to get an apartment but, in November would begin serving ninety days in jail for aggravated assault.  All of his potential roommates drank, which would violate his probation so, even before he asked, we decided he could stay.
     That is how it started, the first two were friends of our son, the next two were Lance's friends, then friends of those friends until eventually we housed eight boys, though no more than three at a time for anywhere from one month to two years.  When new acquaintances asked how many children we had, my husband and I didn't even know what to answer.  We had rules for living in our home, if they were willing to abide by the rules, they could stay.  While they were with me I was their mother.  They considered us houseparents.  One of the rules was that, if they were present at dinnertime, they were expected at the dinner table.  Most of them had never experienced anything like that and, in every way, they ate it up.  Mackenzie and Justin wanted to party so only stayed two months.  A.J., Andy's brother, left after a month when I said the word "rent".            
     Another A.J. showed up on our front porch injured.  That was a truly Samaritan experience since I barely knew him, but I cannot do that story justice here.  After he recovered I drove him to two fast food jobs for a month until he saved enough money for bus fare to Colorado.  Loren was a friend of Lance's living in his truck in the Kmart parking lot, he came to us knowing the rules and wanting to live here anyway.  He lived with us for about a year and returned to the small town he was from. David was our token Christian boy from a stable home, a son of friends from college who wanted him to live and work in Kalispell for five weeks that summer.  He was a novelty.
     Lance, however, was the one God branded on my heart.  He bonded me to Lance with the same fierce love I felt for my own newborns and I didn't know why until days later when he got in trouble with the law.  Lance was a tattooed, alcoholic felon; he was polite, respectful, helpful and he was irresponsible, impulsive, unpredictable. He had lots of drinking buddies, a parade of girlfriends and a couple real friends. He didn't fit anywhere in my family, friends and life, but he fit in my heart perfectly.  He met my deepest need--someone to see me without my competent mask on and know what to do.  He also awoke my greatest fear--abandonment.  I knew even before hearing his life story that he was the kind that walks away, but I couldn't help but give him the love God had given me for him.  He left two years ago.  I have never heard from him, but God gave me the assurance before he left that I had completed the part I was to play in Lance's life and that Lance would be okay.  I cling to that.
     For the season of the spare sons I was able to do what God has always commanded us to:  feed the hungry, clothe those who came with nothing, take care of the sick, visit them in jail.  My life was filled with boys, noise and joys, but it also opened a deep inner sorrow that the mother's love I gave to them was one I had never known from my own mentally ill mother.  Despite the spiritual and emotional upheaval I was in, I was able to talk to each one about knowing the Lord.  I was able to plant the gospel, like a time bomb, in their minds.  I pray everyday for each of them.  I would like to know how they are doing, but these are not the sort of boys to have cell phones or internet access on a regular basis, so I must content myself knowing that I served God's purpose for that time in my life and He would take it from there.  I have never been more challenged or blessed in my whole life as at the season of the spare sons.  I hope they can say the same.

Panic as a group activity

     I have had private moments of panic, like when someone pulls out in front of me on an icy road, or missing my freeway exit in a big city or family crisis like my son getting chicken pox days before our Disney World trip. But I'm not a fan of panic as a group activity. Some Christians might be disappointed that I refuse to join them in panicking over the political/economic/world situation.  I have no intention of boning up to be a well informed worrier by watching hours of FOX news. Some believe those of us who refuse to join the panic are idealistic or uninformed.  I prefer the words hopeful or trusting.  I believe that of all the people living on the earth today, Christians should be the most hopeful.  We are, presumably, the only ones who know God is sovereign.  I believe we are called to be good stewards of the lives and planet God has given us, but He is its King.  Therefore, I refuse to worry until God decides to stop being sovereign, and since God is also immutable, I don't expect to be worrying anytime soon.
     I enjoy writing about the sin of worry because it's one I'm not particularly good at, and it's lots more fun to contemplate other people's sin. One of the things I learned at BSF is that worry, at its core, is a statement about God; it is saying either God is not good enough, or God is not powerful enough to take care of me. The current Christian paranoia is like a generic version of the sin of gossip, only instead of running down individuals, one can run down entire groups of people like liberals or environmentalists, etc. I don't think we  dilute the sin of disdain by expanding its borders. That is one of the reasons I don't follow what I call PNN, paranoid news network, I am already arrogant enough without media reinforcement.  
     Patrick McManus defined two forms of panic, Blind Stationary Panic, which is done solo and involves jumping up and down while flapping your arms and Full Bore Linear Panic, which is more suited for a group activity and consists of running flat out until you hit something and veer off in another direction.  That leaves me to define the Christian form of panic, I choose to name it Righteous Indignation Panic, partly because many Christians consider their paranoia and pessimism to be righteous indignation, and partly because the abbreviation would be RIP.  I think that's cool. Many cite prophecy to reinforce their dismal outlook, but I don't think God gave us prophecy to make us frightened or cynical.  I think one of the reasons He gave us prophecy was to reassure us that, no matter where we are in history, He knows what is happening and is in control of the situation.
     It is right to be indignant at the sin and stupidity in our world as long as we start with the sinner in the mirror.  We need to remember that what separates us from the misled masses is grace, not intelligence. If the best Christians can offer to change our sin ravaged world is cynicism and worry, I would rather join ranks with the liberals who believe that an idea that hasn't worked in any nation in which it has been tried, will still work in ours.  You have to admire that kind of optimism.  So for now I will stick with private moments of panic like realizing there are no rest stops on a long stretch of Montana road, or can't find my boarding pass at the airport or hear what might be a growl while walking alone on the island.  If you're recruiting for a group panic, prepare to be disappointed, never mind, you already are.