Fickle Faith

     In this week's Bible study we read Genesis 27, the chapter in which Isaac tries to trick Rebekah and Jacob by giving Esau the blessing God had promised to Jacob, then Rebekah and Jacob trick Isaac into thinking Jacob is Esau. When the deception is revealed, Esau wants kill Jacob. This ancient story has all the makings of a modern soap opera, and the surreal twists and scheming of, so called, "reality" shows. The essence of the story is fickle faith. Isaac believes in the promises, but thinks he can control who inherits them. Rebekah and Jacob believe the promises, but not that God can give them to Jacob without their "help". I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if they hadn't interfered. I assume that the reason Rebekah didn't just admit to Isaac that she had overheard and remind him of God's prophecy, is that he had become an unreasonable old geezer.  I also assume the reason Jacob didn't object to the wrongness of the scheme was because deception had become an accepted part of the family dynamic.
     What Isaac seemed to have forgotten from his Moriah moment and Rebekah from her problem pregnancy prayer, is that God is perfectly capable of speaking for Himself. He could have told Isaac no. Isn't that just like us? When I was a young wife, I believed God could save my eternal soul from hell but wasn't sure He could help us pay the electric bill. Which one of those is harder?  I used to advise God on ways He could answer my prayers--just in case He was out of ideas. I also had suggestions for how God could bring about a friend's salvation or a family member's spiritual growth.  It is easy to think that if the people we care about could just attend my church or Bible study, if they could just hear this sermon or read this article, then they would know and grow in the Lord. The Lord may lead us to invite to any or all of the above, but it is important to recognize that compliance with those outward things is not the same as responding to the Spirit.
     The day I realized I am not the Holy Spirit was probably the happiest day of my husband's married life. The reason I stopped giving God pointers in how to answer my prayers was the slow dawning realization that He had never used any of my suggestions. He answered those prayers for salvation and spiritual growth through means I would never have thought of.  My fickle faith believed he would answer, but not without my help, often in the form of lectures. God has appointed both the ends and the means. It is a blessing to be part of the means of God's working in someone's life, but insisting that I am the means is just unbelief dressed in church clothes--fickle faith in finery.             

Divine Doings

     Oh the depths of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
     How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out! 

   Romans 11:33

     It is easy to believe that God is omniscient because it is a lofty sounding, theological word, remote from our every day lives. What is hard for us to believe in the daily grind of life, is that God knows what He is doing. The problem is, daily life feels like a series of random choices and events. My trips to Boise affirm that it is not. From my perspective, the timing of this trip was determined by my husband and the needs of the airplane. From my Father's perspective, the trip was a carefully timed event. For one thing, on the best of years, under the best of circumstances, I need to get out of Dodge (Kalispell version) in the winter. I suffer from seasonal affective disorder, current fancy name for the winter blues. I am ready to leave Kalispell 1/2/every year. Since I had a knee replacement mid-December, this January was neither the best of years, nor the best of circumstances. Although the weather on our first two weeks Boise bound was about the same as back home, (record setting cold for Boise) phase two of the trip has been mostly sunny, and it is always less humid here. For that reason alone, my knees have been happier.
     A more important aspect of divine doings is that while staying at the hotel, without even my marginal attempts at housework and errands, I have lots of time to exercise and state of the art equipment with which to do it. I was exercising at home, but with the machines here I can measure my progress. I have been exercising two to three hours a day. That, and picking where to go for dinner, are my only responsibilities. Only God could intersect the sale and C-check of a jet with the needs of His winter suffering, knee rehabbing daughter. There is nothing random about the timing or events in the life of a Christian, regardless of how it looks from our perspective. From where I sit, God looks wise and loving and perfect, and the best exercise I can do is to praise Him.

Three Steps Ahead

     Until my recent knee surgery, throughout all of our 35 year marriage, Reed has walked three steps ahead of me. This is not so he can protect me from dangers on the trail, as in frontier days. When we were hiking on our honeymoon, I believed that by walking ahead of me, Reed thought I was well able to manage on my own. Eventually I realized he wasn't thinking of me at all. He was hiking alone, I just happened to be in the vicinity. This gait gap is not limited to hiking in the woods though, he walks the same distance ahead whether we are in our hometown, a sizeable city of questionable safety, or crushed in the crowds at Disney World. He walks at a pace that is comfortable for him, it is just a little too fast for me.
     Admittedly, I am not a fast walker. I am not a fast anything. All my life, regardless of how many people are dining at the table, I am usually the last one done eating. Back in the days of typewriters, it took two years of high school classes to get my speed up to 65 words per minute. Some girls in my shorthand class could type 120 w.p.m. That is talking speed. I don't know why they were bothering to take shorthand. I took it so I could take notes in class without falling hopelessly behind, because I was also a slow writer. Even at the time I was in school, shorthand was being phased out in favor of recorded transcription, but I use shorthand to this day to take notes in church and BSF. The only thing not slow about me is my wit and, unfortunately, my tongue. I can snap out a zinger response in the blink of a brain.
    Besides my natural tendency to be slow, since childhood I intentionally avoided walking quickly because my left kneecap had an inconvenient tendency to dislocate when my leg was fully extended. Even after surgery tethered the tendon, arthritis made walking quickly uncomfortable, especially downhill. So a couple months ago, I had the arthritis amputated and acquired a new knee. Since then, Reed has been walking faithfully at my side. It has not been a rapid recovery. Since my right knee had not fully recovered from arthroscopic surgery before I had Lefty replaced, neither knee has been happy. I did not realize until we got to our hotel in Boise, how much I had been relying on the natural hand holds of my home:  furniture, counters, doorways etc. to supplement the strength and coordination my legs lacked. Also, both knees developed the disturbing habit of trying to give way and, although this sensation was a good cardio workout, it made even the simplest walking stressful. So my steadfast husband steadied me by buying me a cane, which I hated--but used. With the cane one one side and Reed on the other, I could finally outpace a geriatric turtle.
    My long lost legs are, at last, starting to feel strong. They are moving from the liability to asset column of my walker ledger. Soon I will no longer need my cane for walking (although I might use it to beat Reed for making me buy it). Then my beloved permanent partner and temporary escort can go back to walking three steps ahead. . .but I will miss him.

A Moment With God

     Today is Valentine's Day, a holiday most associated with romantic love, which I have in abundance for the man who did me the honor of making me his wife, but I find myself overwhelmed with a different kind of love today, the worship kind. I am having a moment with God. I live in a culture where worship equals music, and music can help you get there, but true worship is when you get face to face with God and realize how wonderful He is, how much you love Him, and what a privilege it is to be loved by Him.  Worship celebrates God. On Valentine's Day I do something special for my husband to recognize that his love, which has become as familiar and comfortable as my own heartbeat, is a special thing not to be taken for granted. I remember what my life was like before Reed. I can't even imagine life without him.
     My moments with God are the same thing on a spiritual level. God's love, which has become the center of my life, is a special privilege which I could not earn and would not have wanted before He invaded, and changed, my heart. God planted in my heart the ability to love Him back. Though I wanted some sort of god watching over me, it was against my nature to love God as He really is. The older I get, the less I understand why God loved me and sought me out for His own. It seems to me an inexplicable lapse of judgment and, at times of worship like this, I thank Him for it and marvel in it. I remember what my life was like before He found me, how empty it would be without Him, and I take a moment to celebrate God.

The Trappings vs the Truth

     I have never been a big fan of Christianity as a marketing niche, like the product registration cards where you check Bible study under "Hobbies and interests" and then get bombarded with catalogs of Christian books, music, jewelry, stationery, etc. I understand the need for Christian media, what is now acceptable in our culture is rarely appropriate for Christians, I just think it marginalizes our faith into the Christian Interest corner of life. There is more to be be enjoyed in art than a Biblical scene and/or a verse.  Reading only "Christian" books can save me the effort of vetting authors myself, but there are great works of literature that are not overtly Christian.  And despite those who claim to know what the Bible doesn't say about what kind of music is pleasing to God, there are many types of music to be appreciated and enjoyed. God gifts are too numerous to confine to the Christians Only club. Bumper stickers, necklaces etc. are trappings of our faith, transformed lives are the truth.
    Christianity at its core, is the act of God in replacing a heart of stone with a living, spiritual one. If our bumper sticker is a better testimony than our behavior, we'll have to wear it on our backsides. My desire is to have a home that is welcoming and gracious enough to provide opportunities to talk to guests about Christ. My hope is that I will be recognized as a Christian because of my peace and joy, not my T-shirt. When I worked at the hospital, I could tell when I walked into the room of a Christian by the peaceful atmosphere. Even the shut in for whom I shop, with no apparent spiritual understanding, tells me that something about me makes her feel relaxed and happy. This is not unique to me, I can usually spot a Christian even when she is a total stranger.
     You will find many Christian books in my home, but more humor books. I have only two verses hanging on my walls, and those were gifts. Most of my pictures are of wildlife.  We do not have bumper stickers on any of our vehicles. I am not opposed to those things, but I do not feel the need for them to help me focus on God. The view from my windows does that, my quiet time does that. God has imbedded Himself so deeply in my heart that I see Him everywhere. Trappings can be left behind in our closets and cars and houses, what we carry with us is the truth.

Shrinkage

    By shrinkage I am not referring to the "Seinfeld" version of a male appendage encountering cold water, I am not anatomically equipped for that. The shrinkage that afflicts me is what happens when my bladder encounters a movie theater. I have been blessed that, despite my age, I don't have to get up at night to use the bathroom. Supposedly the bladder functions more efficiently at night, hence the need for master bathrooms. Mine functions most efficiently in the morning. I can't swallow my own saliva without having to go to the bathroom multiple times in the morning.  My schedule mostly cooperates with my bladder peculiarities, except on Tuesdays when I go to BSF. I can seldom survive those two hours without a bathroom break. Some of the women I pass coming and going complain they shouldn't have had that second cup of coffee. Second cup of coffee--I forego cereal on BSF mornings because of the half cup of milk.
    On mornings when we are on the road, my befuddled brain begs for caffeine but my butinsky bladder bullies me into abstinence. Afternoons and evenings I can go for hours without a potty break--unless I go to a movie.  Somehow, even though the bladder is a sightless organ concealed within the body and, in my case, well insulated by fat, my bladder can detect when I have entered a movie theater.  That is when shrinkage occurs. The same bladder that is content during eight hours of sleep or six hours at work, shrinks to the size of a raisinet so that I cannot make it all the way through a movie. It is not the movie's fault. I can watch the same movie at home on dvd where I have plenty to drink, leisure to pause, a bathroom mere steps away and not need to go.  Shrinkage occurs only at theaters, where I have to descends stairs, walk down a hallway and miss part of the movie. I'm proud to say I can do all that in record time in the  middle aged woman category.
     I am also getting pretty good at guessing when the slow times are in movies I haven't see before, but I missed the only scene in "Thor" in which Chris Hemsworth had his shirt off and the scene that explained why the new Bond film is named "Skyfall". However, calculating the length of the movie, anticipating potential unimportant scenes and appeasing the raisinet, diminish my enjoyment of the parts of the movie that I get to watch.  I have to wait for the dvd to come out to see what I missed because there, in the comfort of my own home with a beverage in one hand and the remote control in the other, (I hope the washing instructions author is not offended by my revision)--some shrinkage may not occur.

Ready or Not

     You tell yourself you will be ready. Fifteen years ago we brought home a puppy. Garth is a mutt, or more politically correct, mixed breed, very mixed breed, but looks mostly like a small black lab with curly hair. He grew to be a 50 pound dog and, as such, according to the veterinary charts, we could expect him to live about 12 years.  Fifteen years ago that sounded like a long time. We walked many a mile together, going to and from the island. And he had a regular route through the neighborhood where he knew he could get pets and dog treats. His legs are not strong enough to make it to the island now, even a walk to the bridge leaves him raspy and gasping.  A tossed treat is no longer enticement enough to get off the floor, although he will stretch his tongue a long ways to reach one. But he still dutifully follows us from room to room in the house. We tell him not to, but he has never been particularly obedient and is now deaf.  When he first became deaf, he looked embarrassed to be caught sleeping when I came home unexpectedly but, in whatever way animals keep track of our schedules, when we come home at our usual times, he is awake and watching out the window to make up for not hearing the garage door. One benefit of his deafness is that he doesn't bark every time friend, foe or family come to the door but, when he does, it's a muted, deaf sounding bark. He no longer bursts through the dog door when I pull into the garage because his hind legs collapse going through it and on the wood floor of the laundry room to get to it.  He mostly stays on the carpet. And sometimes, even there, he scoots with his front legs until his hind legs are strong enough to put him upright. Someday, he will not be able to get them up at all.  That is the day when the companionship of having a pet becomes the sorrowful stewardship of saying good bye and putting him down.
     At our house that involves a quick shot to the base of the skull because, however gentle the vet may be, he is terrified of the vet's office and I don't want him to spend his last moments on earth afraid. But as long as he is not in pain, enjoys his food and can get in and out of the house, we do not care about the "no longer" part. We have seen this coming for a year now, known it for 15 years. You tell yourself you will be ready . . somehow, magically, you will be ready. But you never are.