Sunday, April 28, 2013

Which Way?

~
I'm sitting here, at this red light...again.

I eased behind her in the left hand turning lane.

All was still, no traffic. She inched her car to the right, and sat precariously across two lanes. The light stayed red. She sat for a moment, must have changed her mind, and tried to turn back to the left, and then inched forward straight and ended up sitting with the front half of her car in the middle of the intersection.


Reverse lights lit.

I was glad I’d kept my distance when I had stopped. She backed to the place where she started, only a little crooked.

Reverse lights stayed lit.

I rested my hand on the shifter and stared at her backup lights. Should I toot the horn? Tell her she’s still in reverse. My other hand hovered over the horn. But, she might get scared and hit the gas and smash into me.

The light turned green. She hit the gas and took off—backward—right at me.

Really glad I had kept my distance.

Just before I kicked it in reverse, her brake lights lit. Reverse light went off, she sped off.

The light turned red. I sat alone at the light—red light, again. I watched her tail lights fade and wondered if she knew where she was going. I know how she feels, help her find her way, I pray.

Ever been there? Wondering which way to go—right or left or maybe straight? And then, when you finally decide to go, you wind up going back instead of forward?

Ever been here? Sitting longer than you should because someone couldn’t make up their mind and got you behind?

~

In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths. Proverbs 3:6



Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6-7 (NLT)


If you need wisdom, ask our generous God, and he will give it to you. He will not rebuke you for asking. James 1:5 (NLT)
~



Friday, April 19, 2013

American Patriots—here on holy ground

 ~
“Got it?” he asked, teeth clenched around a carpenter’s pencil.

I held the wood steady against the mark he’d made, and nodded, “yep, looks good.”

He pressed the nail-gun against the board, I braced for the blast…but Glenn walked up and stood beside his friend.

Glenn’s mouth started to quiver. “Dick, will you…or let me?” He lifted his sunglasses and wiped watery eyes with the back of his hand. “Yours is—” his voice broke, “ripped.”

Dick looked at the flag tucked tight under Glenn’s arm. Instead of pulling the trigger, he pulled the gun, off the board, and set it on the ground. All work on the remodeling project stopped. A more important work had begun.



I leaned the corner piece against the porch rail and we walked, it felt more like a march.


Glenn is eighty, Dick is seventy-nine.



In the front yard, thirty feet up, the flag flew. I couldn’t see it at first, but near the bottom edge there was a three inch tear.


Somehow during the march the two men changed. As they stood at the bottom of the pole—they were no longer silver haired snow birds, but soldiers. American Patriots stood strong and tall.


A holy convocation had begun and I could feel it in the atmosphere. I swallowed hard. The whole world stopped—and stood at attention. The only sound was the cadence of the flag and its clasp, tapping out TAPS. The changing of the guard had begun. The soldiers’ eyes locked and Glenn gave an almost undetectable nod. Dick started lowering the flag from a sky that had never looked so blue.







I watched the stars and stripes

with the little tear 

lower to the men

with the big tears.

                                                                                       

Careful

not to let either flag

touch the ground,



the precious cloth

 passed from hand

 to hand.













I couldn’t breathe

 as Glenn

saluted

the new flag







and the men shook hands for a job well done;

a handshake that held years of blood and sweat and tears; and hearts filled with honor and integrity and love for God and family and country.

I knew right then and there
 I was standing on holy ground,

and that true patriots are still alive and well.  

 
God bless America.
~

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

The Color Of Crisis

~
What's the color is crisis?


Is it red? for blood in the street

Or blue? for the broken heart

Or black? for the darkness

Or white? for the lack of any color, red or blue or black or…

Perhaps neither, or all,

or a mixture of two

Say purple? A mix of red and blue

With a shade of grey—white and black together


Perhaps the color of crisis is

two colors mixed—red & blue

two hands joined—black & white

United—in prayer.


The clock still ticks, the sun still rises and sets, so why do the mundane, the normal and typical seem so out of place?

Such is the uneasy feeling of crisis.

How do we respond to a loved one or a friend or an acquaintance or a nation in crisis?

How do we do more than ‘like’ or ‘share’ a facebook post?

Can we actually do something that makes a difference.

When we click on a ‘PRAY FOR…” this or that, do we?

Do we really stop and ask the One who can make a difference, if He will? The God of All Comfort is able and willing and wanting to hear—and heal.

Prayer is calling 911

and then doing our part

doing what we see

to help with the need

If all you can do is pray

Then, pray well

Prayer activates The Balm

That relieves the bomb


If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.

2 Chronicles 7:14 King James Version (KJV)
~
ipray4u
.

Memory Full

~


The house where she used to live sits empty. The For Sale sign perched in the snow says it all.

I sit in the truck and stare at the house, my last visit to Ma’s place.

Lots of memories were made here. I’ll bet laughter still echoes in the walls. Tears stain the wood floor…along with a thousand spills from kids, and other things I won’t mention— but they came out of Charlie, the dog.

But…no more. No more memories will be made from here.

Oh, there will be laughter, there will be tears and spills...but not from us, not from her, at least, not from here.

I bite my lip, and close my eyes to squeeze back a tear—but it escapes and rolls down my face.

What’s going to become of our family now? She was the glue, this was the place. We gathered here. We loved and played and fought and forgave—right here in this place.

But now she’s gone. How will the family carry on? This place will be sold to someone we don’t know. No more kids running around in the yard, while Uncle Mark grills enough food for a small army.

No more stopping by just to say hi.

No more poop on the floor from Charlie.

The thought that keeps running through my mind as I stare at the house, that used to be a home is, no more memories will be made here.

The house and sign fill the viewfinder. Perfect shot I think and click the shutter.

Instead of, Picture saved, a different message fills the camera screen.

My first thought thinks it’s funny, so that’s why they call it a smart phone.

But my second thought knows it’s profound, as I stare at the message:

Memory Full


And right then and there, my heart finds peace knowing that Ma’s memory making days were full. Her life was well lived, and it was time for her to go.

And in that peace, we find joy. And in that joy we find strength—strength to carry on and make memories of our own.

~

Saturday, April 13, 2013

The lost key...or me

~
They were gone.


Five times I retraced my steps. Five times—or more—I peaked in every window of the truck—they were nowhere to be seen. How could a set of keys just vanish?

I asked the receptionist at the main hospital entrance—nope, no keys. She phoned the emergency desk near the security guard office—same answer.

She did however, have a hanger. The wire bendy kind; and she let me borrow it. “Bring it back. I keep it here for stuff like this,” she warned.

I tried. My pregnant daughter Kayla tried. Two of my sons, Travis and Josiah, tried. It was cold outside. Finally, I gave in and called out, a locksmith. I brought the hanger back and asked again. No keys.

I told the kids to go be with their sister who just gave birth to her first child. I scolded myself as I scoured the parking lot, again, and asked the receptionist, again. Walked over to the emergency desk by the security office and asked in person—nothing.

Where could they be?

I walked back to the truck looking at the ground. Walked back to the emergency entrance and waited, because that was closest to the truck, and the spot I told the locksmith to meet me.

He got lost. Couldn’t find the hospital—and could hardly speak English. He drove while I talked to him on the phone. I told him the exact address. Told him exactly where I was standing.

He acted like I wasn’t where I said I was. “I am here, but you are not.” He said.

“I’ve told you the exact address and exactly where I’m standing, I don’t know what else I can tell you…” I was about to tell him to forget it and I’d get someone else. But he pulled around the corner in a silver Toyota. He motioned for me to get in the little car. I did. I was cold. And hot. As I sat in the passenger seat a bumper sticker on his dash board stared at me. IRAQ.

I showed him where the truck was parked and he pulled up beside it. We got out and he pulled out a receipt book.

He opened his trunk and started to fill out some information on the receipt. “This will be $85.00 for service call and $100.00 for emergency; $185.00 total.

“I’ll break the window out before I’ll give you $185.00.” I told him. I’m not proud of this, but think I was about to forget I was a Christian.

“Then how much you give me?” He blurted out, disgusted.

“I’ll give you $100.00 that’s it or forget it,” I said.

“Cash?” he asked.

“Yes.” I said, disgusted.

He scribbled in large letters across the top of the receipt book, “AMERICANS” and handed me the receipt book. “Put name, make, model, license number on here.”

Wish I wouldn’t have, but I took it. The pen was cold and didn’t want to write—neither did I. But, I scribbled some information, and handed it back to him.

He stuck a plastic pad in the top of the door and pumped air into it. The door spread open about a quarter of an inch. He stuck an aluminum tube, which resembled the kind on the back of an air conditioning unit, through the opening and placed it under the latch and lifted. The door opened. It took about as much time for him to open the door, as it did for you to read how he did it—ten seconds or less.

I handed him a hundred dollar bill and jumped into the truck and searched for the keys—everywhere. They were nowhere.

Now what am I gonna do…Dear Jesus—

The timing couldn’t have been more imperfect. I sat back in the seat and watched my hundred dollars drive away, and then, saw the sticky note under the wiper blade.


“YOUR KEYS ARE AT SECURITY. FOUND IN PARKING LOT”

The words kicked. I was relieved and mad all at once…then guilty.

My mind flashed back to a couple hours earlier, when I was searching for a parking spot. Every row had signs prohibiting parking unless you were a doctor or employee. Up and down until I reached the far end against a snow bank. I parked and got out and started toward the door. But a sign caught my eye.

NO PARKING. Violators Will Be Towed At Owners Expense.

It wasn’t directly in front of where I parked, but the arrow indicated it applied to where I was parked. A snow bank covered another sign. I spun around and did something I rarely ever do. I swore. I said, "D---this parking lot." (psst I've haven't told anyone that part of the story yet--you're the first, so keep it quiet ok?)

I drove to a spot that had to be a hundred miles away. And then, my dash to the door is how I lost the keys.

I remembered running and feeling the empty pocket where the keys used to be. I thought I should turn around to search, but I didn't.  

I remembered about an hour earlier, my son Travis telling me I should check with security, but I didn't.

Cursing the lot cost me a lot—a hundred bucks, I thought.  

~

This is a follow up to the prior post: The Walk.


~