Resolution of Respect

A couple of weeks ago, our good friend John died. He was in his fifties and left behind a wonderful wife and two young children. He was a pillar in our community who literally built most of our town. And we are all in mourning for him.

When I was growing up, our church had a wonderful tradition for times like this. Someone in the church was appointed to write a Resolution of Respect about the person who had died. It would be read with great solemnity before the congregation and then put into the official records of the church. Eventually it would be published in the church paper, as well.

The resolution was not a eulogy exactly. It started out with words that went something like this, "Insomuch as it has pleased our gracious Heavenly Father to call home to glory His faithful servant, John Emerson..." And it ended with something like this, "be it resolved that we will bow our knee in humble submission to His will."

And so the resolution was mostly about those of us who stayed behind. It was about us resolving in our hearts to treasure the memory and to honor the legacy of the one who had gone on. It was about bowing our will to God's - even when to do so broke our earthly hearts.

Be it so resolved.

Twenty-thousand of Our Closest Friends

We're throwing a party in our neighborhood this weekend. Local officials estimate 20,000 people could show up over the entire two-day event. That is a pretty big deal since only about 200 of us actually live here.

Our community is famous for being strange. Fifteen years ago, our town was a cornfield. Then a local boy who had made good with his insurance company decided to use his fortune to help people get a fresh start in life. It started as a small project on his northeast Missouri farm and has now grown into a real town with a church, school, and several businesses.

The neighbors have been a little nervous about this town rising from the fields. Especially when we started importing foreigners to work here and opening up recovery centers for men, women, and children. We had the audacity to believe Jesus is the Answer to the world's problems, and we even wrote it on our milk trucks.

They've been warming up to us these past few years, though, and we hope this Fourth of July picnic will help break down a few more walls. We're giving away free food and free fun including a rodeo and a huge air show. And we'll have lots of entertainment and games. And we'll find time to tell a few stories of lives that have been changed and families that have been restored through the mercy of God. And, maybe, when the weekend is over a few of the 20,000 will decide we're really not so bad after all.

The Problem with Numbers

I once read that Albert Einstein didn't know his own phone number. He said it was a waste to crowd his brain by memorizing information that could easily be found in a book. I'm pretty sure that is an urban rumor. But I use it a lot to cover my own ineptitude with numbers. For instance, I never remember the exact ages of our grown children. I mean, I know what year they were born (most of the time) and if I have a calculator handy, I can figure it out.

I realize some people do not suffer with this problem. My friend Barb once had the entire church phone directory memorized - home, work, and cell! Nobody bothered looking anything up; we just asked Barb. I, on the other hand, inevitably transpose two random digits in every phone number I jot down from the answering machine.

This is a great occupational hazard for the part of one's job that entails returning phone calls.

So, after I blogged about Charity's birthday, people kept asking me how old she was, and I'd just mutter, "twenty-something." Finally, in the evening, I decided to figure it out. Fortunately my sister was in the room at the time, and two of her children bookend Charity in age. Unfortunately, she never remembers how old her children are either.

And that is the great thing about sisters. They can always make you believe your wackiness is actually normal. So, here's to sisters. Mine just drove across the country for the birth of her fourth grandchild following the engagement party for her youngest son. I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember how old anyone is today, and I doubt she even cares.

Say it Loud

I've always been a strong beleiver in saying things out loud to put them in perspective. This can be dangerous, of course. My husband has been known to take shelter occassionally because he fears losing a limb in the mine-field of my emotions. The thoughts swirling in my head at any given moment can lanch me to giddy heights or plunge me into dark despair. And sometimes the dark despair ones get a foothold if I'm not careful. That hasn't happened much in the last several years, but this weekend, they got me.

Nothing terrible happened. I just let myself get a little too tired and a little too busy and a lot too negative about little details like my writing career or lack thereof. Isn't that awful? I have the greatest life in the world. Even the things I was sad about are a zillion times better than most people's circumstances.

But I'm never rational at a time like this. So, my wise and exceptionally brave husband waited until things got quiet in the house and then said, "Okay. Come over here and tell me what you are thinking."

We sat on the sofa and I tried to put words around the emotions, which is never easy when one is actually in the pit of despair. He listened. And asked questions. And didn't tell me I was being silly. And then he prayed.

This morning I woke up to dark clouds and rain outside the window. But I felt sunshine in my soul again. Somehow, speaking all my fears out loud broke their power. (plus the prayer thing). I don't pretend to understand everything about spiritual warfare. But I know the enemy of my soul is real, and I know he works in darkness. And, I know my Redeemer lives, and He operates in Light. When I say things out loud, His light makes the darkness flee.

Thanks, Hub.

A Reminder to Stop Grumbling (to me, not my readers)

This morning I was reading about Moses going back to Egypt to tell old Pharaoh, "Let My people go!" I was struck by one sentence I had never seen before:

... when they heard that the Lord was concerned about the sons of Israel and that He had seen their affliction, they bowed low and worshiped. Exodus 4:31

I'm pretty sure that hasn't been my response so far this week. I know God is concerned about me. So concerned He sent His Son to die for me in the really big scheme of things. And so concerned He took care of the nasty cold that was bothering me in the terribly small scheme of things.

Basically, God shows His concern for me in so many ways every, single day that it's a wonder I can even get up off the floor to do my chores. I ought to be lying prostrate saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you" all day and all night long.

Instead, I tend to grumble. About my cough. About the weather. About the crowded conditions in my lovely and profitable office. So, when that little phrase stuck out to me this morning, I was pretty sure it was a gentle reminder from Heaven to do less grumbling and more bowing.

And, thus, I shall.

Chocolate Milk and M&M's

Once upon a time in my life, I directed a day care center with about forty-five preschoolers enrolled. They are all grown-ups now, living productive lives and blessing may heart every time I hear from one of them. Hearing from one is what prompted me to tell this story, for which I did ask permission.

I had just grabbed my purse that morning and was headed out the door to run errands. I knew it would take a couple of hours, and if I left immediately I could get back in time to help with lunch. I was standing up to leave when Emily appeared at the office door. Her big brown eyes were snapping, her little jaw was set, and she was poised to resist whatever she was about to encounter with everything in her four-year-old soul.

By this time in my career, I had earned the sad title of "The Spanking Lady." We tried to limit the use of such corrective behavior. A well-placed swat on the derriere was always used as a last resort, and only the Director was allowed to administer it. I could see from Emily's face where we were headed.

I don't have any idea now what the original infraction had been, but I know willful disobedience had been the root. And we had a rule about willful disobedience. What's worse, Emily's dad had a back-up rule: If Emily earned herself a trip to my office, she had to take my correction like a lady.

I took another look at Emily and knew things were not going to go well. Then, an unexpected thought flitted through my head. Before I could think it over, I said, "Emily, do you want to go for a ride with me?"

We stopped at the gas station first. Emily was still silent and apparently braced for the scolding to come. It was almost morning snack time, so I bought myself a Diet Coke, and I got a bottle of chocolate milk and a bag of M&M's for my little charge. She smiled.

I don't remember what we talked about on that drive twenty years ago. I only remember the pleasure of riding down the road together, sipping our drinks and sharing our M&M's. I have thought about that day many times. Especially on occasions when I think God must be looking at me, shaking His head, and saying, "I know she needs a good spanking right now, but I'm going to give her My mercy instead."

So, here is to Mercy. To chocolate milk and M&M's. To sweet Emily. And to not always getting exactly what we deserve.