Night, Night Monkey

    I waited many years to have a playmate/grandchild. Since she is not yet two, our play has mostly been me helping Brie learn how to use her baby toys, like how to move the buttons on her pop-up toy or turn the dial on the toy radio (which I'll explain to her when she can understand the concept of antiques) But my favorite game so far is "Night, night monkey".  When she was pregnant, Britten gave me a stuffed monkey that played a recording of Brie's prenatal heartbeat. Hearing the heartbeat of my unborn grandchild, holding a toy about the same size as a newborn baby, was the placeholder until the real deal granddaughter came along. When I found out my daughter-in-law, Emily, was pregnant, I retrieved the monkey from my closet shelf and displayed it on my dresser, a reminder to pray and dream once again. Since Friday's ultrasound, it is wearing the pink ribbon Britten had on it when she gave it to me. Emily is having a girl in October. Since my sister and I are both October babies, we think this is excellent.
    Because the monkey represented Brie before she was born, it seems only fair that she should get to play with it now. After all, I had a long turn. But the monkey is closely guarded lest the dogs assume it is their toy. If the dogs found it lying around, the heartbeat would be silenced in no time. Their toys have short and tragic lives. At first, we wrapped Monkey in a scarf just to make her look pretty. From there it morphed in the wordless way of playmates, into covering the monkey with the scarf/blanket and laying her down for night night.  When the heartbeat goes off, Brie says, "Monkey!" in the same scolding, but patient voice my daughter uses when Brie is being uncooperative. I am not showing her how to play with something, we are pretending together. It is only a taste of adventures to come, and it is a sweet taste.

   We share a time that I can keep

deep in my heart where memories sleep--

Night, Night Monkey.

Easter Expanded

     As I was trying to arrange our family Easter celebration this year, I was frustrated that my grown kids were making attending Easter dinner contingent on a roofing project also planned for that weekend. Admittedly, it was the only weekend in the near future that would work out for all our kids to help. And they were volunteering all of the labor and part of the cost. And the beneficiary was my friend, not theirs. But Easter celebrates the most significant thing that has happened in the universe since creation--the payment for our sin accomplished by Christ's death, and the defeat of sin and death accomplished by His resurrection. Celebrating of the root of Christianity versus shingling the roof of a modular. Which is more important?
     It all worked out because the weather was rainy the days before Easter when the tear off needed to be done. Also, I had begged them to delay because I saw no way to keep my husband out of the action, and he was fighting his diverticulitis, which flares up when he is overtired. Praise the Lord for providential poor weather.
    But the Lord spoke to me while I was at our church service pondering the miracle of Easter, "It was just as certain before it happened." Yes, the accomplishment of our salvation is worth celebrating, but the date we do that is not so important. Salvation was certain from the moment God formed the plan. After all, Christ told his disciples He had overcome the world before the crucifixion (John 16:33). God was not waiting around to see if Christ would really be crucified or hoping He would be able to raise from the dead. He knew. And now I know--our salvation is not secure because of what happened at Easter. It rests secure, as it has since the beginning of time, in our Savior's hands.      

Eat My Dust

     The title has nothing to do with my driving speed. I'm referring to my house. Our yard is basically silt with grass on top. Easy to dig in. No rocks to slow the dogs' excavation efforts. This year we went directly from snow covered to dusty. One day we're scooping poop out of the snow at our annual winter's end Soggy Doggy Doo Do, the next day the dogs are kicking up dust clouds as they run around the yard. This would not be so bad if both dogs had short hair like the Husky mix, Odin, but Baldr, the Malamute, is essentially an enormous powder puff and dust clings to his fur like Democrats to Russia collusion. My air purifier has as little chance of clearing the air as a "Me Too" accused. Pardon my waxing political.
     Banning Baldr from the house would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. As the poet said--Tis better to be loved with dust, than never to be loved at all. (And because I altered the wording, that is neither a quote nor plagiarism.)  So the dust devil duo are here to stay and dust is taking over my house. Buying a Norwex dust mitt was mostly a symbolic gesture. Housecleaning makes me want to punch something. The dust mites win. I concede defeat. I may use a tablecloth to hide the dust on the dining room table, but I get my revenge. I eat it.

Thanks for Coming

     My granddaughter is nearly two and growing more verbal, so I have been waiting to find out my Grandma name. So far it seems to be "Tum", and I think I have finally figured out why. When my daughter comes to pick her up at the end of  "grandma" day, she tells Brie, "Thank Grandma for watching you". Then I say, "Thanks for coming." This week Brie answered, "Bye, bye, Tum". Since she sometimes mixes up "c" and "t"--Cat is cat, but corn is torn, I think she is trying to say "come".
     I thought of that during communion yesterday. As I reflected on the reality of Christ's death on the cross for me, the richness of his resurrection, the rejoicing at His soon return, the best I could think of to say to Him was, "Thanks for coming."

But Then I Remembered

     As this health crisis with my niece has reminded me, I am thankful to live in a time and place of good medical treatment. In years past Amanda would have died, if not from the lupus, from the MAS that was destroying her blood cells.

•   But then I remembered, I would not have known about Amanda's disease before irradiation and thyroid supplements because I would have died ten years ago from Grave's Disease.

•   And then I remembered, Amanda would not have been born at all before Caesarean surgery because her mom would have died in childbirth with Alex.

•   But then I remembered, Robyn would have died or been severely handicapped before the blood transfusions she had at birth were available, because she had the same blood incompatibility our brother Roddy did.

       Our nation is in a time of anything goes immorality, constitutionally sanctioned murder of the most innocent among us yet, ironically, seeks legal protection from any perceived insult, including conflicting points of view.

•   But then I remember it is also a time of life saving medical technology. 
•   And then I remember God's plan is not limited by time or culture and this is the time He has chosen for Amanda to live, so she could live, and I could live to see it.

Holy Spirit Junior Strikes Again

     I have been struggling recently with critical thoughts. Since I have had victory in that area for some time, I wondered what had changed. Particularly, what had changed in me? Yesterday the Lord let me know in the gentle way He convicts me--although, He seems to find it necessary to repeat it several times, as if I'm a slow learner. I had retaken my role as my husband's Holy Spirit Jr. Part of the conviction came through that day's Family Life Today reading about "booing" your husband instead of cheering him on. The rest of it came through my Bible study in Proverbs. Wouldn't you know it would be chapter 31? Verse 11 says, "Her husband has full confidence in her." How could my husband have full confidence in me when I keep reminding him I don't have confidence in him? Verse 12 hammered the point home, "She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life." I had transformed our home from the haven God intended, to a home version of the principal's office.
    So where did I go wrong? Las Vegas. But what happened in Vegas didn't stay in Vegas. While we were there, we live streamed Sunday's sermon from our home church. Through that message from Proverbs, my husband was convicted about something I had hoped for a long time that he would change. So far, so good. The Spirit initiated his decision but, unconsciously, my flesh decided to nag him the rest of the way to the goal, even though Proverbs also has much to say about nagging. Holy Spirit Jr., my favorite part time job.
     So whenever my husband did not follow through with his new priority, I would be silent or sullen. When he talked, I found myself listening for openings to drop little hints about what more he should be doing. Then the Lord gave me the aforementioned spiritual spanking, and I realized how much I would resent it if Reed "listened" to me that same way. I was not treating him with the grace and patience God continually shows me. I was doing him harm, not good. And I was booing him. When I gave up trying to be the Holy Spirit's little helper and confessed it to God and Reed, it was like a weight lifted off. I was free to just enjoy his company as we share the blessings and burdens of life together.
    Why do I think that the lecture loved ones to the Lord strategy that would never work with my children, is still appropriate for my husband? I'm sure he must wonder how he got to be so lucky. The same God to whom I've entrusted my children, and many others, will be faithful to grow my husband just as He has me. In His time. With His words. In His way. NOT MY WAY! After 42 years of marriage, one would think I could figure that out, even if I am a slow learner. It is the Spirit's job to convict people of sin, He has been doing it since Eden, and He is very good at His job. And when I stop trying to be the Holy Spirit, the critical spirit goes away.

Beauty for Ashes

 

     We mostly missed out on the Mt. St. Helens explosion. We lived in Denver in 1980, out of reach of the early darkness and inches of ash the Northwest experienced. But the volcano is only an hour away from Portland, where Reed is working this week, so we spent Sunday at Mt. St. Helens National Park. Most of the sites for tourists are blocked by snow, but the visitor center is still open. One of the displays lets you drag your finger forward through the decades to show how life gradually returned to a landscape scarred by destruction and ashes. I thought of the following verse:

          Isaiah 61:3      To console those who mourn in Zion,
                                  to give them beauty for ashes,
                                  the oil of joy for mourning,
                                  the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness,
                                  that they may be called trees of righteousness,
                                  the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

     Life did not return with drama like the explosion that destroyed it. Creatures that survived because they live underground, gradually crept out. Plants took root, even if they had to grow new ones to do it. Life returned slowly, one day at a time. It is a good illustration of spiritual life. When we see a loved one living in destruction, we want a Damascus road change. We want it to happen right now, if not yesterday. We want the ashes swept out and sturdy trees of righteousness growing in their place, but that didn't even happen to Paul after the original Damascus road. Paul spent three years being taught by Jesus and ten years serving in the church at Antioch before God called him into missionary service. To endure the imprisonments, beatings, shipwrecks etc. Paul needed deeply rooted faith. What we humans keep forgetting is--God is not in a hurry. Spiritual renewal, like nature's cycle, comes in its appointed time. Barely noticeable, beneath the ashes, God is planting beauty.