And Molech Smiles

     I did not want to write this particular poem. There is no reason such dark thoughts should come to me while sitting in the sunny, comfort of a corporate aircraft lounge, knitting a baby blanket. Knitting a baby blanket. Maybe that was why. Abortion in America displays the tragic dichotomy between what we know about unborn babies and how we treat them. And it reveals the darkness of human nature remains unchanged, regardless of the idol, apart from God's light.

                                                And Molech Smiles

                                            Long before the time of Christ,

                                         babies were sometimes sacrificed.

                                         Rolled on Molech's waiting arms

                                         into the idol's fiery tomb

                                         for a better crop, a bigger herd,

                                         future success by blood insured,

                                           or a father's whim to kill his child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                            There were other ways

                                          in those barbarous days,

                                          babies died inside a womb

                                          ripped open by a warrior's sword.

                                          One less enemy to fight.

                                          But all in war is justified.

                                            One less mother, one less child.

                                                    And Molech smiled.

                                             We know the truth in modern times, 

                                           scan the unborn, so abortion finds

                                           its tiny target. Deaths the fiercest savage

                                           might scarcely comprehend.

                                           Dissected by a healer's hands

                                           with a smaller sword, of cleaner steel,

                                              we claim the right to kill our child.

                                                       And Molech smiles.

Recalculating

     I was born needing a GPS. It's amazing I found my way of the womb. I had trouble finding my way home on my first day of school. We lived a block and a half away. Before GPS, when I drove in a big city, I would study maps and driving would be my test. Oh, how I hate story problems. Then I would make notes with turn-by-turn directions. (At least driving is an open book test.) But no matter how detailed I tried to be, I would forget something. I found the right exit, but when I needed to decide whether to turn right or left at the intersecting street, I inevitably chose the wrong direction. That was not a big problem in a city like Boise because there were lots of lots (parking) where I could turn around and head the right way. However, in places like Portland, where exits lead to different bridges, and towns, I did not even attempt driving.
     But I had one advantage--I learned to drive in Missoula. Big cities have more cars and they move faster, but none of them are laid out with street names that end and reappear at random intervals and directions like they do in my hometown. Missoula's traffic planners appear to have sent a rat through a maze with a marker tied to its tail and used that as a template. In some cities, streets are named for states, types of trees, even alphabetical. Names that fit together in some logical order. Notable exceptions to the logic method are Dallas where, whether from kindness or greed, streets are named in honor/memory of the rich and famous, and Atlanta where all downtown streets are named Peachtree, but differentiated by St, Ave, Blvd, Ln, Ct, Cir, etc. Your GPS cannot sort that out for you.
     I think GPS is one of the greatest inventions of my lifetime because it not only helps me find the right exit, but gives me plenty of warning before I get there, and then tells me which way to turn at the end. My favorite GPS function is "Recalculating" because even if I miss my turn, it finds me another way to get where I'm going. I wish life had a Recalculating option. Then when I did or said something stupid, a non-judgmental voice would tell me what to do to get back to where I need to be. Amazingly, God's will has, from human perspective, a recalculating function. God is not so unforgiving as to give us only one chance to get things right. He is always willing to help us find our way.

It Didn't End Well for Aquiel

     If my grandchildren ever ask me to tell them a story about when their mom and dad were young, I will definitely share this one because it illustrates what the Bible says about sin. We used to have an aquarium. My mother-in-law offered us one she had used it for a Sunday school class but didn't want  at home. We had aquariums when I was growing up, so I knew it is kind of relaxing to watch fish swim. We set it up and the kids named each goldfish, mostly after TV characters. But it was my daughter, Britten, who came up with the most original goldfish name--Aquiel. Aquiel was a fast swimmer. Speed is not usually a prerequisite for life in an aquarium. It's not like they have far to go. But Aquiel did not seem to know that, and swam as if training for the fish Olympics. One night, before we went to bed, we noticed her zipping faster and faster from glass wall to glass wall. Aquiel was amazing.

     The next morning, we found Aquiel dead on the floor. As it turns out, Aquiel was not racing around the aquarium just for fun. She had a plan. (If it was a she, hard to tell with goldfish.) An escape plan. Aquiel had been practicing building speed so that one night she could escape the confines of the aquarium and jump for her freedom. But the freedom she worked so hard for only led to her death. The aquarium hadn't just confined her, it kept her safe. The parable is obvious. The aquarium is like our lives when we follow God's ways. Sin promises us that escaping from God will free us, but the Bible tells us sin leads to death. It certainly did for Aquiel.

 

Fast, foolish Aquiel. 

                                                      She found her freedom,

   but it didn't end well.

A Tale of Two Listeners

     I help with our church Awana program on Wednesday nights. I am a listener. My job is to listen to the girls recite their memory verses.  For that I only need to attend the last half hour of Awana. But the last two weeks I filled in for a missing leader, so I was there for the teaching time also. The long time lecturer gave a couple engaging personal stories about wisdom before he spoke about the Bible's wisdom books--Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and Song of Solomon. I had heard him speak before, and noticed he has a tendency to teach concepts and ask questions that are either over the student's heads or so vague that, even I, struggle to follow. When I was not busy redirecting an ADHD girl in my row who was not just wiggling but seemed to be pantomiming a debutante putting on makeup, I found myself only half listening. I was thinking of telling the problem child to channel her excess energy into counting chairs in the choir loft--like I was.
     Later, while the girls were playing games in the gym, I visited with Natalie, the leader I usually assist. She was so excited about the wonderful lecture we had just heard. She asked if there was any chance it had been recorded (no), because he had condensed an important principle into just a few words, but she couldn't remember the specifics. Natalie told me she had been praying to hear the teaching through the ears of a child, as if it were all new, and every lecture seemed to speak directly to her. Meanwhile I, the listener, had tuned out after the illustrations.
     I know we were at the same lecture, she sat in the row behind me. But only one of us had listening ears, and it was not me--the one who has "Listener" printed on my name tag. This is my confession and, unfortunately true, Tale of Two Listeners. It would make an engaging personal story if I ever need to explain the concept of irony.

Treasure Within a Treasure

      My daughter is expecting a new little one in May. I had hoped to be able to write a poem for this grandchild as I did for big sister, Brie, and Will & Emily's, Jules. Today the idea came together. I don't think my daughter likes rhyming poems, but perhaps she'll appreciate this one.

     

Treasure Within a Treasure

Where are you my well loved child?

Treasure within a treasure.

Deep within your daughter’s womb

Almost too small to measure.

What do you do there in the dark?

How do you spend your hours?

Growing and changing cell by cell,

designed by God’s own powers.

What do you think of while you wait,

when the whole world’s unseen?

My world is in your daughter’s womb,

that is what fills my dreams.

When will I see my grandchild’s face?

Who tells you when to go?

I do not choose the time or place.

That is for God to know.

I will wait patiently then, babe,

dreaming of you with pleasure

safe in the womb of my firstborn,

treasure within a treasure.

And One in Heaven

     When people ask me how many grandchildren I have, I am now saying two and a half. Two beautiful granddaughters and a grandbaby in the early stages of production. But the truth is I have four--two born, one on the way, and one in heaven. My first grandchild, the one I call Peanut, miscarried at three months. But that is not the kind of reply you give to a casual question about grandchildren. Three is my equivalent of "fine" when someone asks how you are, but don't really want to know.
     But there are those few that do want to know. You recognize them because they share the healing grief/joy of having children or grandchildren in heaven. It is sad to have little ones you never got to meet, but it is sadder to have no one to share that with. Those little rosebuds that died before they bloomed wait in heaven for us and we will have all eternity to spend together. They are growing up in the most joyful, perfect place possible. We miss them now, but only for now--the ones in heaven.

Three Murderers and a Bible

     How many murderers did it take to write the Bible?  By my reckoning, three. Moses wrote the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Old Testament, the foundation of our faith. David wrote most of the Psalms--the Bible's hymnal, the default source of comfort for believers through the ages. Paul wrote most of the New Testament epistles, the church's instruction manuals. Not that being a murderer is a prerequisite to Bible authorship, but neither is it a hindrance.
     Moses was not held responsible for the lives of those who died in the plagues, drowned in the Red Sea, or he defeated in battle. But he killed an Egyptian who was beating an Israelite, and for that, even his fellow Jews, considered him a murderer. David killed many men in battle, but the death that made him a murderer was not even committed by his own hand. He murdered his mistress' husband, Uriah, by arranging for him to be killed in battle. Murder by remote. Treachery was the drone warfare of the ancient world. And then there is Paul, whose ritually clean Pharisee hands were complicit in the murder of Christians he persecuted. I wonder how many people in the churches he started and ministered to, lost a loved one because of Paul.
     Why does it matter that three of the forty men who wrote the Bible committed murder? Because we let the guilt of our past sins limit our service to God, and God is bigger than that. He does not condone our sin, but He uses, even that, for His own purposes. Even to do something as magnificent as writing the Bible.

"Caper"nick

    I am starting to have kinder feelings toward Colin Kaepernick, the NFL player who took a stand against police bias towards hyphenated Americans, by taking a knee during the national anthem. That would be like . . . I struggle for an analogy because the action has absolutely nothing to do with the cause. I guess it would be like the French overturning and burning cars to protest . . . everything. But for all Colin's misdirected principles, at the end of the anthem, he stood up and played football. In contrast to that, we have a group of anti-Trumpers who have taken a knee for, by football reckoning, three quarters of the game. Not only that, but we are forced to buy the tickets that pay them, whether  we want to attend their investigation/impeachment games or not. I am pretty sure even Democrats would like them to spend a little time doing the job for which they were actually elected or appointed.
    Kaepernick was disappointed to discover that disrespecting the country that gave him his opportunity and the patriots that paid his salary, resulted in losing his job. The fact that this surprised him, indicates that standing on his knee was more of an opinion than a conviction. Those with convictions know there will be consequences. Unfortunately, the political world doesn't run by the rules of a regular workplace. Those making a career of protesting Trump have job security that negates the need to prove their point, tell the truth, or do their actual work. And those kind of condoned capers can bring our nation to its knees.

Fit Bit Fit

     If someone were to ask me to prove that Americans are health obsessed, with apologies to those who wear them, my answer would be "Fit Bit". The fact that people who are not in compromised health feel the need to continually track their activities, heart rate, calories burned, sleep, etc. seems to indicate one of Americans' main goals in life is to make that life longer and healthier. While there is nothing sinful in those desires, Christians seem to be have lost sight of the temporary nature of human life. Our time on this earth is limited. Fit Bit and kale notwithstanding, the Bible says our lifespan is appointed by God before we are even born Ps. 139:16 "Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." And when Jesus said in Mt. 6:27  "Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" (NIV), it was not because Fit Bit hadn't been invented yet.
     Just as Christians are called to be good stewards of the planet God provided for us, we should also be good stewards of our bodies, especially as it relates to sin, as in sexual sins, gluttony and laziness. But God has not promised us long, healthy years on Earth, that promise is for heaven. The persecution and martyrdom of Old Testament prophets and New Testament disciples illustrates God's servants are not in it for the health plan.
     A friend of mine recently broke her wrist hiking. From her Facebook posts, hiking is the passion of her retirement years. But it seems to me that it uses a lot of time and energy for little spiritual benefit. Admittedly, walking is not my thing. After I have walked for a while, my ADD knee forgets what it is supposed to be doing, and starts letting me down--literally. I tend to exercise and/or knit while watching TV in the evening so the time won't be totally wasted. Still I can't imagine that when I settle accounts with God over my use of time, that He will be impressed with how much effort I put into maintaining a body destined for dust. So I thank God every morning for my strong, healthy body, but I do not plan my day around it, and I certainly do not want to plan my life around it. Not when I could be wasting time writing rants like this. Fit Bit, for me, is just not a good fit.

I Always Wondered, the Sequel

    My sister, Robyn, friend, Diane and I have a tradition of going to a particular craft show together every November. This year, we had barely started looking around before I noticed someone looking at me. It was MacKenzie, my granddaughter for the three years Tracy was engaged to her mother, Amanda. I saw Amanda urging her daughter forward, probably because she didn't remember me well. Four years is a much longer time to a nine year old than it is to me. I always wondered what I'd do if I saw MacKenzie again, now I know. I hugged her, probably too tight, and said, "I missed you so much." I told her how big she'd grown, but I did not look too closely, because my eyes were threatening to overflow. So I spoke only a little, hugged her mom and went on my way.
     Letting go of MacKenzie was one of the hardest things I have ever done. The summer before they broke up, I watched MacKenzie two days a week while her mother worked. After she started pre-kindergarden, I picked her up from school once a week and took her to dance lessons. Tracy and Amanda had a troubled relationship before she got pregnant. Losing their baby finished it off. We lost our first grandchild, and then we lost MacKenzie. Eventually I was able to move her school picture, a craft she had made for us, and the sonogram of "Peanut"  from the top of the nightstand to the bottom drawer, and months later to the cedar chest.
     I wrote my sorrow into posts and poems. I asked God for the strength to let her go. And it worked because this year, when her picture popped up on my Facebook Memories feed, I did not even cry. Seeing her in her dance clothes posing on our hearth with the jack-o-lantern we had carved together, evoked a warm memory instead of pain. As with Andy in the previous blog, I was relieved to find I didn't say anything to make Amanda feel guilt or pain, or dishonor the Lord I am supposed to represent. So I suppose I can trust Him if someday I see Lance, the homeless young man God allowed me to have as a son for two years. I always wondered what I'd do.
   

I Always Wondered What I'd Do

     I always wondered what I'd do if I saw Andy again. As it turned out, I said, "I thought you looked familiar. You stole our car." Technically, he didn't steal it. He just bought it and didn't pay for it. But because there was a verbal agreement between us, the lack of payment was not police business. Perhaps I should backtrack. Andy was the first of the homeless boys Tracy invited to stay with us. He was 17, had lots of family in the area, and no one who wanted him. His parents had split up and found new significant others who decided Andy and his brother were insignificant, so the parents set their teenage sons adrift in the world. One of conditions for staying in our home was having a job and paying something toward expenses and Andy was not ready for that. So I asked him to contact his mother in New York and see if he could stay there. She eventually sent him bus fare, but later he returned. He left as an overweight teenager and returned as a slender meth addict. Tracy wanted to help him out. Andy needed a vehicle and we had an old Eagle for sale for $1200. We had no intention of taking payments or giving him the title until he gave us some money, but Tracy assumed we would be willing because we knew Andy. He promised to pay $75 a week (from the job it turned out he had lost a couple days earlier). Tracy gave him the title. We didn't see a payment, the Eagle, or Andy again. Until last Saturday.
    We recently had another car for sale. This one in even worse shape than the Eagle and priced accordingly, $300. Reed called from the airport to say a buyer was coming for the Mazda. I was surprised he hadn't warned me the buyer was Andy, or even that they were willing to sell the car to him but, as it turns out, they didn't know either until they saw him in our driveway. Reed and Tracy had little to say while they readied the car. I visited with Andy's girlfriend and her daughters. Andy has four daughters but those were not his. He looked too good to be on meth and he told me daily AA meetings were a condition of seeing his daughters. Much to my own surprise, I gave him a hug before he left and told him I was glad he was doing better. Although I was also glad when I found out he had had two cars stolen from him recently. What I forgot to tell Andy was that I had prayed for him all these years.
     I had just prayed that morning that the dented, transmission impaired Mazda would somehow be a blessing to somebody. Very few people would be desperate enough to consider that particular $300 car a blessing. For hours after he left I kept double checking with God about His bizarre answer to my prayer. One thing is for sure, we were not going to feel bad if the Eagle expired shortly after the sale. I always wondered what I would do if I saw Andy again and was relieved to find out the few words I spoke were kind and that I reflected, in a small way, the God who has faithfully forgiven me. And I was able to see a partial answer to my prayers in Andy's sobriety. The following Saturday, God answered the same question in another, more painful, situation.