Holy Spirit Junior

     At our small group the other night, I said something about wanting to be Holy Spirit Junior in my husband's life and one of the other wives started laughing. She told me later that she had literally considered that her job until a recent mentoring Bible study. I still struggle with that desire, even though I know it doesn't work, because my desire to say something is stronger than my desire to be helpful. To remind myself when to shut up, I have come up with the following jingle:

  Tune is the chorus of "Battle Hymn of the Republic.

I'm my husband's Holy Spirit

just in case he will not hear it.

He might miss God's will or fear it.

I'm sure God needs my help.

     The "it" in line two does not refer to the Spirit, but His message. I'm not a heretic. But I am making progress because I want to be a good wife to Reed and he already has a Holy Spirit who, unlike me, know how to change men's hearts. The best I could do with my encouragement/nagging is temporarily alter an outward behavior. What I often pray for my husband is that another man will help him grow spiritually, because through decades as a Christian, I have learned the best way to reach a man, is with a man. 

     So the other night, when I was bothered about a spiritual practice that I do religiously, but rarely see him do, I asked him if I could say something "preachy". He was okay with that, so I stated how much I rely on ________, and that I don't know how he is making it through the hard times we have been having as a family without doing ________. By asking his permission first, it caused him to really listen, and by making a statement about me first, I did not come across as someone who has spiritually "arrived" trying to help out a lesser being. That "Why can't you be perfect like me?" attitude. As far as I know, nothing has changed about _______, but it was good to know something has changed in me. For those who still like to give the Holy Spirit a run for his money, the jingle can be adapted to other relationships:

                                                          

I'm the Junior Holy Spirit

to the ones who will not hear it.

They might miss God's will or fear it.

 God really needs my help.

Life Sentence

    Today is our 40th wedding anniversary. At this point, we have officially been married two thirds of our lives. Makes sense. I have lost two thirds of my strength and energy. I would like to think I've gained a third more wisdom, but my memory is going, so I don't really know. I know I've grown a third bigger in the non-brain areas, but Reed has been thoughtful enough to grow with me to make it less obvious. Through the years we accumulated many things--3 houses, 10 motorcycles, 17 vehicles, an undisclosed (by Reed) amount of guns and tools, two dogs, four cats, three children and one grandchild. Of course we have not had all those things at the same time, like houses, or kept all of them. We plan to keep the children but, since they are no longer children, we keep them in other houses. If we live long enough, they will have to figure out where to keep us. The circle of life.
     When you are young and in love, you do not think your love could ever grow stronger. But, through the years, the freshness of love transforms as it sinks deeper inside you until it becomes as familiar as your own heartbeat. Which makes sense because, eventually, a couple shares the same heart. Marriage is not losing yourself to another person, it is finding your best self through them. At least, if you are married to the right person, it is. So what do I want after 40 years of marriage?  A life sentence.

A New Old Lady

     In the past 10 months I have lost both my old ladies. I do not mean old lady as in mother. My mother has been dead four years now and I would never have referred to her as old lady. I know some men refer to their wives as their old lady, but I'd better not hear it from my husband--about me or his mom. By old ladies I mean just that, old ladies. I have always had a special place in my heart for older people and usually have at least one as a special friend. Jean, who passed away in August, was my home health client for five years. When I stopped working for her because of her smoking, I stayed around as a friend. I was privileged to be with her, holding her hand as she breathed her last. I wanted to be friends to the end and I was.
     DJ, who died last Saturday, had been my friend for 20 years. She was neighbor to our friends the Scharas, and when Dorothy needed someone to mow her lawn, she hired my son. Since Will was 12, I was the driver. The lawnmower rode in my trunk. The first time, I sat in the car while he mowed and I gave him some cake to give her when he finished. But Dorothy was hungrier for a visit than for cake, so I began going in to visit while Will mowed. When Will moved on to bigger and better jobs, my youngest son took over. Then DJ needed hip replacements, and I started officially working for her as a personal care attendant. She kept me on for years after I was needed, paying an agency for the privilege of my friendship. When the money ran out, another friend helped her with her bath and cleaning and I started doing her grocery shopping. Every Tuesday after Bible study, I would pick up DJ's list. I would buy her groceries and something for our lunch.
     I did that for many years until compression fractures necessitated she move into assisted living. Though her hearing was spotty and her memory began to fail, our time together every other week was still comfortable and enjoyable. Friendship does not require conversation. By her 93rd birthday in April, she was failing noticeably. I brought her favorite candy, Sees chocolates, before we left for Gig Harbor. By then she had moved from a walker to a wheelchair. Despite being a child-sized chair, she looked tiny in it. So when her niece texted me in Seattle that "Aunt Honey" was in hospice care, I was not surprised. Reed's work in Washington ended a day early and I was unhappy that our delayed start caused us to arrive at home at 1:30 a.m. Saturday. But because we did that, I was able to sit with DJ Saturday afternoon, hold her hand, and say goodbye. She was asleep, but again, friendship does not require conversation. Though her vital signs were good when I left, she died three hours later. Friends to the end, again.
     So I am in the market for a new old lady. Though perhaps, now, that friendship will be with our own elderly parents, the greatest privilege of all. And, who knows, maybe some other geriatric lover has their sights set on me. 

Shakes on a Plane

     It has taken me months to be able to write of the traumatic event that happened to me in January. It took place on the jet that took us to Dallas for Reed's aircraft school. Flying wasn't the problem, I love to fly. The problem is the bathroom, airplane bathrooms. They're small. They're scary. And they're much in demand. It takes a certain amount of skill to calculate the ratio of passengers to potential bathroom users, total flight time versus "seatbelt" time, when you're not allowed to get up, and the length of time the beverage cart will block the aisle versus the post beverage service bathroom rush. Humility not being my strong suit, I consider myself quite good at pre-planning peeing. I could give seminars. I also refuse a caffeinated beverage on a plane, even when I am sleepy and would kill for a Diet Coke, because I might as well pour it directly into my bladder. That would throw off my whole schedule.
     So I chose my moment. I sidled out of my window seat, walked down the narrow aisle, checked which tiny toilet said vacant, and went inside. But as I did what I came in for, I noticed the seat felt unusually cold and damp. That is because I was not sitting on the seat. The seat was up. I SAT ON AN AIRLINE TOILET WITH THE SEAT UP! I wanted to sterilize my legs or, at least, shower. But I was in an airplane bathroom. There was nothing I could do but go back to my seat as if nothing had happened and contemplate all the toxic things that could be crawling on my skin. It was too traumatic to talk about, and there are no support groups for survivors of toilet terror. I just had to shake it off. Next time I will add to my careful calculations--MAKE SURE THE SEAT IS DOWN!
    

Two Fisted Salvation

   There are many reasonably reasonable Christians who do not believe in eternal security, perhaps because it sounds too good to be true or because of an inflated view of man's role in his own salvation. But the Bible is clear, salvation begins and ends with God. We are no more capable of maintaining our salvation that of obtaining it in the first place. We recently studied a passage at church that makes this clear--John 10:28, 29.

     "And I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall anyone snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me is greater than all; and no one is able to snatch them out of my Father's hand."

     Despite those unsure of what the meaning of "is" is, there is not a lot of wiggle room in these verses. Most believers agree that Satan cannot snatch us away from Christ, but some believe Christians can still wriggle themselves out of Jesus' hand like a sinful, slimy fish. One problem with this view is that it would require humans to be stronger than Satan, which is not the case. It would also require eternal to mean temporary, never to mean sometimes and all and no one to mean some and someone. That takes a lot of liberties with the language.
     An even greater problem in this passage is that salvation is two fisted. Even if we managed to squirm between Jesus' fingers, there is another hand holding us--the Father's. No saved sinner is that slippery. Satan cannot sabotage our salvation and neither can we. But he can undermine our testimony when we succumb to temptation and that is his specialty. And one might just remember when we choose to soil our lives with sin, that we are still sitting in our Savior's hand. He may, if He chooses, close that fist uncomfortably tight.

God Gave Us Rainbows

God Gave Us Rainbows

God gave us rainbows

in the first place

so we would not panic

every time it rains--

thinking it is the end of the world.

Not only that,

but He tells us about

the end of the world,

just so we don’t get confused

 or deceived.

After all these years

lived in the sunshine

 of God’s love,

why do I still panic

every time it rains?

When the storm has passed,

I stare sheepishly

at the things

made more beautiful

by the rain.

How often I forget

the rain is not

the end of the world,

it is the beginning

of the rainbow.

Poor Pattern Recognition

   I often tease my husband about his poor pattern recognition; I once had to help him take a personality test about his own life. But lately I have realized how poor my own pattern recognition is. This afternoon as I was sitting outside the hotel reading, I realized that I have lived most of my life at a level of safety and comfort unheard of in most of the world. I have never had to worry if I would have a warm place to sleep, food to eat or clothes to wear. After all the years of knowing the blessing of God's care for me, why do I doubt Him whenever things get hard?  Have I not recognized the pattern by now?  Will an omniscient God forget me? The omnipotent One drop me? Can an immutable God suddenly lose interest in those He claimed as His own?
     I am not sorry for asking for prayer when things at home got hard last week, but I do feel stupid for doubting God's plan again. This trip, which I was afraid would be ruined by our change in plans, turned out to be more enjoyable because of it. I am relaxed in a way I never could have been if God followed my plans instead of His. God's way works again. Who knew? Well, I should have, if I didn't have such poor pattern recognition.