I came to know Christ as a teenager so the people involved in my salvation were also teenagers. The first was Calvin. Calvin was a friend of my older brother. He had a round, acne prone face, a pear shaped body and somewhat effeminate mannerisms. He was, of course, extremely unpopular at high school. Calvin attended a teen Bible study to which he invited my brother, Clell. Clell, who had been raised in the Mormon church like me, started inviting me to the monthly parties for the teen group. I attended some of the parties, but began to feel guilty for not attending the Bible studies on Thursday nights. My brother seemed to believe what was being taught and I was in a spiritual gap between the Mormon church, in which I believed but no longer attended, and the various theories popular at the time: evolution, the lost continent of Mu, ancient astronauts etc. Like many people, I was creating my own beliefs combining whatever spiritual elements I found most compelling.
Then I encountered the book of John. The pastor of the small, Baptist church was leading the teens in a study of the book of John. As a Mormon I was taught to believe the Bible, it was one of our articles of faith. "We believe the Bible to be the Word of God, as far as it is translated correctly. We also believe the Book of Mormon to be the Word of God." Somehow, when the Bible conflicted with the teachings of the Mormon church, I believed the Bible. Though I didn't know it at the time, this was God's grace working in my life. In Mormonism, as in all other cults and most other religions, salvation is a result of things we do: baptism, church membership, attendance, obedience, service etc. In the Bible salvation, is the result of what Christ did for us by dying on the cross to free us from our sins, our only role is to believe and trust in that. I found this interesting and, mentally, I agreed with it, but I wasn't ready to admit my sin and ask Jesus to save me.
That is where Donna came in. Donna was a friend from grade school, a fellow "smart" girl and in my homeroom. I never discussed spiritual beliefs with Donna, Donna impacted my life by dying. We were 15 and sophomores when she started acting and talking strangely. Somehow Donna knew she was dying before she knew she was sick, she had even written about it. By the time she was diagnosed with hepatitis, it was too late. She died on my mom's birthday, March 14th. Suddenly I needed to know what happens after we die. It was not enough just to have ideas about it, I needed to be certain of what I believed.
Still I resisted trusting my life to Christ. I realized it would be unfair of me to ask Him to save my soul without offering to give Him my life after all He had paid for it. And I desperately did not want to give up control of my life, or the illusion of control we humans have. My childhood had been controlled by my mother's mental illness and I didn't want my emerging adulthood to be spent controlled by someone else, even someone like Jesus. I wanted to hold the steering wheel. So I resisted, even through the altar calls to come forward for salvation that the pastor gave at the end of every service. I stood gripping the pew in front of me until my knuckles were white, fighting the inner urging of the Holy Spirit to go forward and give in. I resisted until October 1972 when, after hearing a speaker at our church harvest dinner, I went home and asked Jesus to save me from my sins.
That night changed everything. Looking back I could see hundreds of events that brought me to the place of believing. It was my mom's paranoia that got me out of the Mormon church, it was Calvin's invitation that brought Clell and then me to Bible study, it was Donna's death that forced me to decide what I believed. They were the most unlikely guides to God you could imagine. When I wonder how God could possibly use me to serve and bring others to Him, I need to remember the unlikely creatures He used to guide me.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Memorized Moments
I have stated previously that I am not an observant person. I don't notice what vehicles my acquaintances drive, what they are wearing (with the occasional exception of earrings) or a weight loss/gain of less that 40 lbs. I pay more attention to how people seem to feel than how they look or even what they say. This is a blessing as well as a curse. I may not notice your 10 lb. weight loss, but neither do I notice your stained clothes or bad hair day. I am unobservant but also untroubled. But there are moments I try to memorize. Mostly these occur when we are traveling but not usually in the picture postcard places you would expect. This is especially important to me when I need a sustaining vision to get me through the dreary days of winter. I store these impressions in my memory, paying careful attention to the sights, sounds and feel. One of these stored memories is of being in Phoenix in January many years ago, sitting with Reed by the pool of the Residence Inn with my legs in the water, warm and content, looking up at the stars and deep blue twilight I can't edit out the sound of airplanes because the hotel was near the airport, but I can call that moment into my mind, complete with soundtrack.
Another memorized, magical moment was in the Bavarian themed town of Leavenworth, WA at Christmas time. Christmas music was playing, the shops were decorated and the lights on the large plaza trees were reflected by the snow on the ground and softened against the twilight blue sky. It was all the magic of Christmas in a mental snaphot. I believe I will have it forever.
Today I am in Port Orchard, WA. We left behind subzero, January weather. After the morning fog burned off, it was sunny and in the mid 50's. Our hotel is on the bay and I walked from here to the waterfront park and marina. I filled my eyes with boats, water and the green plants that I won't see in Montana for months. I listened to the sound of the water lapping on the shore, the call of gulls, barks of seals and mournful boat whistles. I wore the expensive red wool jacket that Dad bought as a love gift for Mom and she rejected. I had chili and chai tea in a diner, aptly named "The Hideaway". I was the only customer and there was a television in the corner tuned to soaps. I stood by the water and memorized the mildness of the moment so I can keep it with me in years to come, and I am journaling it here for myself, if no one else.
Port Orchard was discovered by Captain Vancouver and originally named Sidney, after the father of the man who platted it. In the early 1800's canoes were the most convenient way to travel and trade from here, sails and rudders made the trips faster and allowed more passengers, this led to fleets of steamships whose comparative speed got them the nickname "Mosquitoes". Roads made the little boats obsolete, but there is still a foot ferry to Bremerton from here.
The town appears old. There are multistoried houses of all ages and conditions perched on steep hillsides with roads that would be impassable in the winter in icy weather. Except for being on a bay, it reminds me of old mining towns in Montana. This was what I call "a day like a cup of tea", warm, satisfying, perfect. Why am I so surprised that God knows how to make me happy, that He gives me these comforting, memorized moments?
Another memorized, magical moment was in the Bavarian themed town of Leavenworth, WA at Christmas time. Christmas music was playing, the shops were decorated and the lights on the large plaza trees were reflected by the snow on the ground and softened against the twilight blue sky. It was all the magic of Christmas in a mental snaphot. I believe I will have it forever.
Today I am in Port Orchard, WA. We left behind subzero, January weather. After the morning fog burned off, it was sunny and in the mid 50's. Our hotel is on the bay and I walked from here to the waterfront park and marina. I filled my eyes with boats, water and the green plants that I won't see in Montana for months. I listened to the sound of the water lapping on the shore, the call of gulls, barks of seals and mournful boat whistles. I wore the expensive red wool jacket that Dad bought as a love gift for Mom and she rejected. I had chili and chai tea in a diner, aptly named "The Hideaway". I was the only customer and there was a television in the corner tuned to soaps. I stood by the water and memorized the mildness of the moment so I can keep it with me in years to come, and I am journaling it here for myself, if no one else.
Port Orchard was discovered by Captain Vancouver and originally named Sidney, after the father of the man who platted it. In the early 1800's canoes were the most convenient way to travel and trade from here, sails and rudders made the trips faster and allowed more passengers, this led to fleets of steamships whose comparative speed got them the nickname "Mosquitoes". Roads made the little boats obsolete, but there is still a foot ferry to Bremerton from here.
The town appears old. There are multistoried houses of all ages and conditions perched on steep hillsides with roads that would be impassable in the winter in icy weather. Except for being on a bay, it reminds me of old mining towns in Montana. This was what I call "a day like a cup of tea", warm, satisfying, perfect. Why am I so surprised that God knows how to make me happy, that He gives me these comforting, memorized moments?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Hitching
I can remember vividly every experience I've had hitchhiking because it only happened once. I was with my husband so it was more like a blind double date. In the passionate poverty days of our early marriage, we bought an ancient, but reconditioned washer and dryer. We were ecstatic. We invited our poor, washerless friends over for dinner and laundry. Unfortunately the washer malfunctioned. Fortunately, the place we bought it from would fix it. Unfortunately, that place was in Missoula. One of our other acquisitions that second year of our moneyless marriage was an ancient, unreconditioned pickup. Reed and I were born in 1956, the Chevy was born in 1954. I didn't distrust it merely because of its age, I was taught to respect my elders, but because you could see the pavement through the floorboards, it wandered all over the road if you managed to exceed 55 m.p.h. and it listed to starboard. But it was a pickup and could hold the washer so we headed from Helena to Missoula.
About 45 miles from Helena the truck started to die. We pulled into a rest area so we could either give it cpr or pronounce it dead. Actually it was the coil that was dead and apparently vehicles need them so we headed to the highway so we could hitchhike to a town and buy another one. We were picked up by a couple in a car that I, with no mechanical ability, could diagnose as having no muffler. The young woman up front turned around looked at my blond, bearded husband, then turned to me and shouted "YOU don't look like a hitchhiker." Apparently I had "virgin hitchhiker" written all over me.
It all turned out well. We got the part, hitched a ride back to our truck with a Wyoming cowboy who had a Stetson rack built into the head liner of his pickup cab. You've got to trust a guy like that. The pickup ran, the washer got fixed, happy ending. Similarly, we haven't picked up many hitchhikers but we have picked up a couple, memorable stranded motorists.
Returning from a trip to Billings a couple years ago I was reading the paper and Reed was looking at the road, which was fortunate because he was driving. The highway was slick with snow. Reed noticed tracks heading into the median, then noticed an SUV lying on its side. We turned around at the nearest "Authorized Use Only" access and stopped at the side of the road. Reed climbed up onto the passenger side of the upturned car and saw a young woman sitting on the inside door. He asked if she wanted to get out. She did. Being uninjured she climbed out, jumped to the ground and sat in our car to get warm. Her jacket and belongings were still in her vertical vehicle so I gave her my coat. The accident had already been called in by other passers by so we waited together for the highway patrol. When we learned Sarah was a student at the U of M in Missoula, we offered to take her there after her car was taken care of. Missoula wasn't on our way home, but neither was it too much out of our way. There were many accidents that morning and we waited for the tow truck for over an hour when the patrolman finally sent us to a truck stop in town. I talked to Sarah's tearful mother on the phone and promised to do for her what I would want someone else to do for my daughter in a similar situation.
In the end Sarah decided to wait for the couple she had been visiting in Wyoming to pick her up and make repair arrangements for her car. We left Sarah in the care of the Town Pump cashier and a nice young man we met at the truck stop. She e-mailed us after she got back to Missoula to arrange to return my coat but we never saw or heard from her. It didn't bother me that I didn't get my jacket back because I had given it to her, she could do with it whatever she pleased.
Our other road refugee was Sean. We were on a little used shortcut near Helena, returning from a trip to Boise when we saw a van with the hood open at the side of the road. The driver was standing next to it, forlornly holding a pair of jumper cables. We turned our Chevy around and Reed jumped his battery. The van started but we noticed in our rearview mirror that it was going very slowly and finally died. We jumped the van again and this time followed him to make sure it kept running. We repeated the process a couple miles further down the road. But the three strikes rule must have applied because it finally died and could not be restarted; we offered him a ride. Sean was working in Helena but lived in Bigfork and had bought the van for his daughter. Reed and Sean pushed the dead van further off the side of the road. Sean grabbed his backpack and the gun he had bought for his son and locked the van.
Even in Montana it's a little odd to let a hitchhiker bring a rifle with him, but it was still in the box and he laid it on top of a rifle Reed had just bought in Boise. If he wanted to rob us he was the world's most inefficient thief, not many people give you three opportunities to get it right. He dropped the rifle at a friend's unlocked, unoccupied home and we dropped him off at a casino to wait for a ride. He thanked us. We wouldn't have left anyone on that deserted stretch of road.
I have a unique perspective on situations like this, helping stranded motorists or homeless boys: I would rather take a loss once in a while than live my whole life as if I already had. Despite opening our vehicle and home to strangers, we have never been robbed or harmed. It is hard to balance being good stewards of the blessings God has given us, with the tendency to guard them so closely that they are unavailable to bless others, to walk the line between safety and selfishness. For now, I choose to be willing to take a risk to make a difference.
About 45 miles from Helena the truck started to die. We pulled into a rest area so we could either give it cpr or pronounce it dead. Actually it was the coil that was dead and apparently vehicles need them so we headed to the highway so we could hitchhike to a town and buy another one. We were picked up by a couple in a car that I, with no mechanical ability, could diagnose as having no muffler. The young woman up front turned around looked at my blond, bearded husband, then turned to me and shouted "YOU don't look like a hitchhiker." Apparently I had "virgin hitchhiker" written all over me.
It all turned out well. We got the part, hitched a ride back to our truck with a Wyoming cowboy who had a Stetson rack built into the head liner of his pickup cab. You've got to trust a guy like that. The pickup ran, the washer got fixed, happy ending. Similarly, we haven't picked up many hitchhikers but we have picked up a couple, memorable stranded motorists.
Returning from a trip to Billings a couple years ago I was reading the paper and Reed was looking at the road, which was fortunate because he was driving. The highway was slick with snow. Reed noticed tracks heading into the median, then noticed an SUV lying on its side. We turned around at the nearest "Authorized Use Only" access and stopped at the side of the road. Reed climbed up onto the passenger side of the upturned car and saw a young woman sitting on the inside door. He asked if she wanted to get out. She did. Being uninjured she climbed out, jumped to the ground and sat in our car to get warm. Her jacket and belongings were still in her vertical vehicle so I gave her my coat. The accident had already been called in by other passers by so we waited together for the highway patrol. When we learned Sarah was a student at the U of M in Missoula, we offered to take her there after her car was taken care of. Missoula wasn't on our way home, but neither was it too much out of our way. There were many accidents that morning and we waited for the tow truck for over an hour when the patrolman finally sent us to a truck stop in town. I talked to Sarah's tearful mother on the phone and promised to do for her what I would want someone else to do for my daughter in a similar situation.
In the end Sarah decided to wait for the couple she had been visiting in Wyoming to pick her up and make repair arrangements for her car. We left Sarah in the care of the Town Pump cashier and a nice young man we met at the truck stop. She e-mailed us after she got back to Missoula to arrange to return my coat but we never saw or heard from her. It didn't bother me that I didn't get my jacket back because I had given it to her, she could do with it whatever she pleased.
Our other road refugee was Sean. We were on a little used shortcut near Helena, returning from a trip to Boise when we saw a van with the hood open at the side of the road. The driver was standing next to it, forlornly holding a pair of jumper cables. We turned our Chevy around and Reed jumped his battery. The van started but we noticed in our rearview mirror that it was going very slowly and finally died. We jumped the van again and this time followed him to make sure it kept running. We repeated the process a couple miles further down the road. But the three strikes rule must have applied because it finally died and could not be restarted; we offered him a ride. Sean was working in Helena but lived in Bigfork and had bought the van for his daughter. Reed and Sean pushed the dead van further off the side of the road. Sean grabbed his backpack and the gun he had bought for his son and locked the van.
Even in Montana it's a little odd to let a hitchhiker bring a rifle with him, but it was still in the box and he laid it on top of a rifle Reed had just bought in Boise. If he wanted to rob us he was the world's most inefficient thief, not many people give you three opportunities to get it right. He dropped the rifle at a friend's unlocked, unoccupied home and we dropped him off at a casino to wait for a ride. He thanked us. We wouldn't have left anyone on that deserted stretch of road.
I have a unique perspective on situations like this, helping stranded motorists or homeless boys: I would rather take a loss once in a while than live my whole life as if I already had. Despite opening our vehicle and home to strangers, we have never been robbed or harmed. It is hard to balance being good stewards of the blessings God has given us, with the tendency to guard them so closely that they are unavailable to bless others, to walk the line between safety and selfishness. For now, I choose to be willing to take a risk to make a difference.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
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.
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.
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