Another Step in the Journey

Sunday morning as we wrapped up praise team practice, it was time for Sunday school and the seniors were starting to trickle in for their class in the sanctuary. Last Sunday I remember going over to Carol and asking her how she was. Found out she was scheduled for this heart cathaterization last Wednesday, and was scared half out of her mind.

This morning was such a different picture. Carol had come in, put her Bible down, and hobbled to the front in fast motion. She was on a mission, and that mission was ME. She came up to me and said, “I want to THANK you for praying for me,” which is what I had done. Others prayed, too, not just me. That way nobody gets credit but God, eh?

So Carol said while she was getting this cathaterization she felt the prayers of all these people. She also said she had prepared for her ordeal by getting together a list of scripture she could say from memory while it was going on. As they started the procedure she started her scriptures. They finished before she did. “We're all done.” She said, “It's over? I'm not finished!”

But the really cool part is this: when they checked her out a while back she had a 45% blockage. Wednesday she had NO blockage. None. She went home with a clean bill of health, at least on her heart. Now she's going to be able to get her knee replaced, which is why they were checking the health of her heart. No more hobbling ANYWHERE on a mission. So we'll be praying for Carol June 18th, which is when her knee replacement surgery is scheduled. I'm also praying, BTW, that knee replacement will be rendered unnecessary.

As I went out into the entryway to go downstairs, I gasped. Kenny was there, greeting people at the door just like he always does. Kenny loves to welcome people in, hand them a bulletin, shake their hand, be the first to give them a smile on a Sunday morning. But, see, we buried Kenny's wife Thursday. Nobody would have thought any less of him if he'd stayed home today. Here he was, giving me my bulletin, and even mustering a smile, and I looked him in the eye, not to pry, but to connect with him today.

It happened really unexpectedly. Last Sunday after church, after that glorious service where I soared on wings from person to person, I got a prayer chain email that Marilyn was in trouble, that her colon had shut down, and she needed urgent prayer. I prayed for her. I know a lot of people did, but Monday she was gone.

This morning there was a big hole in the church. It was right there next to Kenny, where Marilyn always sat. His door job done, he stood through the songs, looking different than I've ever seen him. He looked a lot older today, and sad. It's not that I was staring at him or anything, I just kept looking for Marilyn.

Later we went around for our greetings, and I went and spoke to Carol's husband. We rejoiced for his wife's good news. Then I crossed the aisle and hugged Kenny. He got a lot of hugs today. It's hard to say whether they helped or not. I remember when my dad died hugs helped a lot.

* * *

Almost two years ago we started realizing my daughter was not crossing her eyes on purpose, just for fun. It had gone from the occasional crossing to a pretty steady thing, and it was severe and scary in an older child like that.

Ever had deja vu? My daughter told me way back then that she felt like something that had just happened had happened before. I explained deja vu to her, and said maybe that's what she'd had. She had the experience again a few days later. Then she was experiencing it every day, then several times a day. One time I remember she'd just experienced it, and she said, “I guess I'm just the deja vu kid.” I had to hold it together for her, but I was terrified and I wondered what was going on in her brain that was causing the constant stream of deja vu and a severely crossed eye. I hugged her a lot during those days. I remember hugging her and thinking no amount of hugs today would make up for the lack of them if they ended tomorrow; but I hugged her anyway.

Then an MRI ruled out anything neurological and we went from terrified to practically dancing in the street. My rabid medical goggling produced some hits regarding the deja vu. You see, in those days both eyes were still trying to work. When our eyes focus, they focus together. In a kid like my daughter, when one eye focuses and then the second, the first eye causes the brain to register that something happened. Before the brain has a chance to “time-stamp” the event, the second eye focuses on it. With no time reference, her brain just tells her this has happened before—sometime. Deja vu.

So then a time came when she wasn't experiencing deja vu anymore. We just forgot about it; but recently it's started up again. Which is good news, because now her eyes are both trying to work again. Her weak eye is fighting its way back. Tough little eye; tough little kid. It's an uphill struggle. She has to do her exercises, she has to patch, she has to get plenty of sleep. We go one day without any one of those elements, and there's a huge slide backward. But we slug on, and I pray every night, and I can't think of anything I've wanted so badly. I've chosen my battle and the hill I'm fighting on is my daughter's healing.

So two weeks ago when I pulled a muscle in my back, I asked for prayer and went to bed. My friends prayed for me while I slept and in the morning the pain was gone. Dude, it was amazing. I'm thankful to God. No fuss, no muss; somebody prayed, God healed me, and I got up the next day and did 17 minutes of mime routine. This old mime was putting a little postscript on things, resurrecting a career that ended years ago. That's all. But God healed me and graced me like Samson to minister one last time. And yet this little kid who wants to dance, but can't be trusted in a roomful of dancers not to bump into somebody, that little kid struggles for her healing.

It's a trust thing, really. Some people take up their beds and walk. Others struggle with pain. I don't pretend to understand it, and the story isn't all written out yet. I guess if God healed us all every time the earth would be populated with the elect from the beginning of time on. What a pile of mess THAT would be. I think for each of us there has to be the one healing that doesn't happen—for now.

But does God tell us to pray for our sick? Yup, right there in the Bible. So that's what I'm gonna do. Whatever He wants to do, I'll leave to Him to sort out. For the stuff that's yet to happen, and for the stuff that HAS happened, I lean heavy on grace.

'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

* * *

In a sense this journey that I'm on is about nothing bigger than seeing my daughter healed. In another sense it's way bigger than that. Unexpectedly, I'm changing.

I led worship at a little tiny church in the mid 1980's. That was my first experience at it. When I started I led like some anointed cheerleader, trying to get everybody on the bandwagon; we were worshiping God, and everybody better fall in line. God's grace was on me and I wasn't booted from my job. There came a time of epiphany when I realized that if I wanted to lead worship, then all I really had to do was worship. Like a train leaving the station, all I had to do was say, “All aboard,” and anybody wanting to join me on our “day trip to the throne room” was welcome to join. Just go and they'll go too. It was wonderful and freeing and so refreshing as I just worshiped, and lots of people worshiped too.

Yesterday as I led worship I realized the model has changed again, and I didn't even know it. As I led yesterday I started singing without a word, began to connect with God, and yet I was connecting with people in front of me. I'm falling in love with this group. There was Kenny, of course, and a big hole there next to him. And as we sang “Glory to His Name!” I saw Carol all glowing as she sang from her heart. On Amazing Love I saw O., this guy who came back to the church after a failed attempt at suicide. “Amazing Love, how can it be that You my King should die for me?” O. was tearing up with the perpetual headache for which we pray, and his wife was crying with her head on his shoulder, connecting with God as we sang about the amazing Love that drove them both back to church. Their whole family is struggling, and I found myself praying as I connected with God there. And around the room I was tiptoeing in spirit, not intruding on peoples' time with God, but praying over them as I connected with God and the good words and music—and with people.

So I'm reconnecting with people in worship, not as a cheerleader, but with this new element of compassion. And I don't know whether that element of compassion is changing the way this congregation worships, or if the change was already there and I just didn't notice. People really are connecting with God, just the way we pray they will, and we will. We've gone from being those upstarts who brought in those newfangled choruses—to the people who worship with them. We sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs, and we tell God how much we love Him, and we beam at each other as we share our communal experience.

“And as I wait I'll rise up like the eagle. And I will soar with You. Your Spirit leads me on by the power of Your Love.”

* * *

Sunday afternoon scores of us converged on Deborah's house, armed with our invitations to the annual Deborah G. Memorial Day fish fry. I've been trying for a long time, now, to capture in photograph what it is about that place that's healing. This time I think I got just a little taste of it.

After visiting and eating too much I went around some of her property, armed with nothing more than my little hp camera.

It's really hard to capture, and I know I didn't get all of it. It's more than just the trees and the pond.


There's something indefinable here. Deborah has been praying here for a long time, and she has a true gift of hospitality. She entertains armies of people, giving of herself, cooking huge main dishes and relying on the rest of us to bring a veggie or dessert dish to pass. She mingles and enjoys every person there. Then she lets you go on your own, no pressure, no self-absorption, just go on and have a good time with my little slice of heaven here on earth.

So I went off on my own, quietly scoping the perimeter of the house, looking at the flowers she's planted, the landscaping, the parts she's left wild. Coming around to the front porch, I captured the rockers.

I've been to Deborah's parties where these were filled with people relaxing and chatting while watching the kids play on the front lawn. Today, despite the gorgeous temperature, the rockers were strangely empty. At that moment I heard a faint sound of music—harmonies rising and falling in waves from far away, and I remembered.

Years ago I was singing one Sunday and envisioning heaven. In my imagination I pictured myself walking outdoors in heaven, drawn to the door of a gathering place. There was a faint sound of singing coming from in there, and I cracked open the door quietly and went in. I was in the back of a church-like meeting, and people looked around and smiled at me. Puritan costuming, down in time to hoop skirts, right on down to the Great Depression-era clothing my grandparents used to wear. These were my mom's ancestors, and mine. All drawn together to praise God, with one thing in common—these were the seed of the righteous who had been mighty on the earth.

Centuries ago one righteous puritan came over to America – a puritan before the puritan movement went so horribly bad. He undoubtedly shared the odd belief of many of those old puritans—that all their descendants would be Christians forever. Right or wrong, one good thing came out of this strange belief. They prayed for us. Centuries ago this Puritan stranger was praying for me, that I would know God. And not all of us did, but every generation there was a remnant who believed.

There's this church down in south Georgia that's been standing there since colonial times, and many of this righteous puritan's descendants ended up there after leaving New England in the aftermath of the witch trials. They built the little Midway church, settled in as a community, and out of that tiny church came the mighty on the earth. Signers of the Declaration of Independence, U.S. Senator, numerous state-level officials, pastors, missionaries, an unusual percentage of Godly leaders. Theodore Roosevelt had ancestors that came from that church. Today the little church stands empty most of the year, and the descendants are scattered all over the country: scientists, internet pioneers, pastors, missionaries, moms and dads like me. Once a year they have a reunion at that church, and many of the sons and daughters go back. I've never been. The internet connects us now in many ways, though.

So here I was in my heavenly imagination, all those years ago, at the back of this meeting, and these heavenly people turned and smiled and I, wayfaring stranger on earth, felt welcomed and a part of this imaginary group. And it was over in a flash, and I was back in my own congregation singing I forget what song. (I have a vivid imagination sometimes. I'd like to be a writer someday.)

But as I stood looking at those rockers on this porch, I was drawn again by singing, and it was “Amazing Love,” the song we sang that morning in church. I went looking for the source of the music, and found a happy group singing and playing in Deborah's basement.

I was absorbed into the group. I found a spot on the sofa and added my harmonies to the ones already floating up out of the underground room.

And I, wayfaring stranger here on earth, I felt welcomed and a part of this group. I kept choking up as I sang, living the experience on two levels:

Amazing love, how can it be that You, my King, should die for me? I was singing to God at the Deborah G. Fish Fry.

And on a second level, I was with this group, singing together, sitting next to a lady who is going through a heartbreaking divorce, but for today her face was beaming, she was experiencing a refreshing she'd JUST told me she needed, and we were together celebrating God's love that died for us and made us better.

And that, I think, is another part of how God works on earth. We share His outpouring as a community. We are not separate. We are welcomed and part of God's family.

Angels, Outpourings and Such

(Note: I originally wrote this blog a week ago. I didn't plan to post it, but it turns out it's part of a larger story, so here it is.)

In recent weeks I've been drawn to faces. Faces in places where I usually make a point of avoiding them. In the grocery store—I usually go there to get what I need, look around, check out, look the cashier in the face, maybe chat with him or her, check out the face of the person who runs a cart in front of me—we may interact a bit. Here in the Midwest those kinds of encounters are usually fairly cordial--”Oh, I'm sorry.” “It's okay, no problem.” And people know how to put on their “cordial” mask.

So here lately I've been sneaking a peek at faces when people don't expect you to be looking at them. And let me tell you, it's left me aware that the human race has settled for living with a tolerable level of misery. Faces are generally sad, or angry, maybe bored, grouchy—these are the norm. The cheerful face is the exception.

I'm sad for people—and at the same time, they must think I'm absolutely off my nut when I go in there. It's hard not to glow sometimes. I feel like I kind of owe it to God to not try to hide what He's doing in my heart. It's just going to show on my face sometimes. So I go wander around at Walmart, and look at stuff and smile and look at faces and pray that God will bring revival or something so that fewer people will have to walk around with misery etched on their faces.

* * *

Here's an update on the prayer for my daughter's eyes. They do continue to improve, I think. Every night we do eye exercises. AND every night we pray for her eyes.

I've heard there's a healing revival thing in Florida. First response is to try to figure out how to get down there with my daughter to get her in a healing line, just in case it's the real thing. Second response is, what's that all about? Is it real? And if so, why does God choose to heal in one spot—a city in Florida? So I check scripture and find that the idea of healing in one spot has biblical precedent. Remember the story about the guy who was stuck by the healing pool? Every now and then an angel would come along and stir the water and the first person to jump in would get healed. The Bible doesn't say they BELIEVED an angel came along...it says an angel came along—it's more than an old legend. For some reason God had an angel assigned to this pool and the sick people that came there.

But with Jesus came a more blanketing grace for healing. I mean, it seemed everyone who came to Him got healed. In fact, He went to that pool and healed a man who couldn't get into the water fast enough. So at that point all you had to do was get to Jesus and you could count on a healing. That was during Jesus' lifetime. During the apostolic times there were many healings, too. Then things tapered off. So nowadays—what about it? If scripture says, by His stripes we are healed, how come physical healing is not as automatic as forgiveness of sins? I suppose the answer is probably complicated by details about the spiritual world that we don't know.

So I can't get to this healing revival thing, but then I hear about people being healed while watching the services on GODTV. Well, I don't get GODTV. But with the internet being what it is, it doesn't take too much Googling to find bits of services on Youtube, and then there's a podcast you can subscribe to....so I downloaded a few things to listen to, and maybe understand more about why God heals more quickly in some situations than in others—and maybe there's healing for my little girl.

I listened to a bit of a podcast. There was talk of angels assigned for healing, and cities with healing angels waiting to be assigned to them. And I thought, well, that's it. My little town isn't worth assigning a whole angel to it. It's not strategically where you would want to assign such a thing. And all this talk of angels with jobs and healings and heavenly strategiesies has started to seem overwhelming. Really, I want my little girl to be healed. Could I possibly get some runoff while God runs the strategy room? And among all the things that were making my head spin was one question: “God, why DO You heal?”

I was thinking all these things on my way to church Sunday morning. I remember asking Him, “God, You do great things, things that don't make sense, when people pray and ask for them. How about a big dose of You for my church, too?” And God said, I kid you not, “Okay. Let's try it this morning.”

Well, that shut my mouth. I was quiet for that last couple of blocks to church. I was going in early to pick out music and get ready for the song service. I just drove on, dumbfounded. When I got there I noticed the van of one of my dearest friends, Deborah, the prayer warrior. What was she doing here this early? The door was unlocked, so I went in. All was dark. Was she here or not? Had the door been left unlocked? That wouldn't be good. I was relieved to see my guitar had not been stolen; I grabbed it and headed for the front of the sanctuary, where I'd last seen my book of songs. I heard a quiet voice...”Hello.” And there she was. The Lord had sent her in early to pray, she said. My heart skipped a beat. Was this a heavenly plan coming together? “I'm SO glad you obeyed God on this,” I said, and explained just a little bit about why. We shared our amazement for a moment, then I went to look for my book. Couldn't find it. What I DID find was a medley we do sometimes, a medley of songs specifically about honoring God. Well, I thought THAT might be appropriate, dontcha think? God's showing up and we might want to honor Him.

There was a spot between songs, and as the group practiced before church, I knew I was going to say something in that spot. And here's the talking point:

“We have a special guest here this morning. I just wanted to let you know, because I'm SURE you're going to want to get around to greet him and talk with him. I'm sure he's going to want to talk with you as well. It's Jesus Christ. And every time we gather, that's exactly how it should be. The next few songs that we do we're going to specifically honor God.......”

So as practice ended and Sunday School was set to begin, the seniors class was gathering in the sanctuary, and it was time for us to head to our classes. There's tension between me and these seniors. No offense to the senior readers of this blog, but I know there's tension because, even though we sing hymns, we've introduced choruses and an active seeking of God's presence and it's left many of the seniors sometimes tense and suspicious.

I scanned the room as I was getting ready to go downstairs. My eyes lit on Carol. Now, Carol is a sweet lady. She keeps up with every birthday in the church, and sends each one of us a card. Quite a gift, and it's not always appreciated like it should be, I think. I smiled and greeted her and she smiled and greeted me, looking no different than usual. But instead of moving on I stopped, looked her in the eyes, and that's when something remarkable happened. I asked her how she was doing--and I really meant it. She must have somehow known I meant it, because she told me. Turns out Carol's scheduled for a heart catheterization Wednesday. She was pretty scared. So I let her talk about it for a minute and let her know I cared, would be praying, and then went downstairs. And you know, the funny thing is, I really cared. Not like we care in a general way a lot of times, but I wanted to cry for her and her family and the fear they must be feeling for her.

After Sunday school I went back upstairs and started this weird thing, walking from person to person, scanning faces, looking past the smiling church masks, really looking them in the eye and asking how they're doing. I usually tend to be pretty wrapped up in my task, praying, seeking God's presence, and maybe kind of greeting people, but this morning my official greeting mask was down and I was connecting with people. And people were responding differently. It was a most enjoyable experience. I was greeting a lot of the seniors that way. The tension just wasn't mattering. I went over to some people who come from a group home for disabilities. We have about three different groups like that who come (I always find it a positive sign in a church, when they attract people who are “different”). So I went over and greeted them, not just saying hi and shaking hands. I asked names, looked them in the eye if they looked back; we were talking about their names, my name, and I just stood and chatted a minute. Then it was off to more seniors—I kept coming back to the seniors for some reason. And as I swept past the doorway into the sanctuary I saw a face I hadn't ever seen before. I said, “I don't think we've met—I'm Connie,” looking her in the eye in a way that, I think, told her I wish we HAD met—I wanted to know her. She responded like a friend instead of an uncertain stranger. She was Jamie, she was new to the area and was looking at churches. So we chatted a bit and I welcomed her in and helped her find a seat.

And so it went. Now, you have to understand, I am no social butterfly. I hold my own, but I'm about average when it comes to the social scene, and it took some work to get to average. But it was as if Someone with a better handle on social propriety had come along behind me, wrapped His arms around my arms, and was doing the work with me. My feet were propelling me from person to person, my mouth was opening to speak, but Someone else was looking at them with compassion, and was speaking to them, asking them all the right things, and they couldn't help but respond. It was such an effortless, exhilarating experience.

We sang our set, I said my thing about Jesus, and it was time to go around and greet people with a handshake. Yippee! I was soaring around the room again, having some fun. It was kind of like flying.

The pastor came by and asked if I could go greet someone new. Her name was "Jamie"....(already on it, pastor)..... and she was the wife of the new town planner....(Well, I won't hold it against her--having spent more than twenty years in the media, I've come to find celebrity to be a little irritating)....and she was Lutheran (Now I was impressed. We're a Baptist church. What was a big-time Lutheran doing on this side of the spiritual tracks?). Oh, well. Whatever her reasons for being here, I'm glad she showed up the one Sunday I would not be scared of a stranger.

So that's about it. No heavy sense of the presence of God that drove us to our knees or to the floor. Healing? Maybe. I don't know. Nobody shouted or anything. Not even a testimony. So was God's presence there? I put the question to Him, and rather than a word for word answer, I got this impression. God is within me. I went to church. I allowed Him to move in me and through me. And yes, since I was there and obedient, He was there. And He was there in the heart of each individual in the room who knew Him. And as we allow Him access to us, He delivers compassion where compassion is needed, comfort where comfort is needed, hospitality where hospitality is needed. Yes, He was there.

On the way out to my car I found myself walking along with my friend Deborah again. She said, “Why have I never seen those scriptures in Galatians (from the sermon) before?” (Deborah has read Galatians more times than I have, probably.) So out of my mouth popped this response: “Because the Holy Spirit was tapping you on the shoulder, saying, 'Your Teacher is here.'” After an affirming pause I asked, “So do you think God showed up this morning?”

“I'll say,” I think, was her reply.

This morning Deborah needed a teacher. Carol needed reassurance. "Jamie" needed to be welcomed to a new place. We each needed something, and God was there to help us each find the thing that we needed. And you know, while I was busy saying hello to people, I think I got a piece of an answer to my question, “Why does God heal?”. When He was here physically He healed because He had compassion on the multitude. He heals today and meets our needs because He has compassion. He just cares. Sunday He walked the room, touching this one, speaking to that one, teaching Deborah, welcoming Jamie, and teaching me how to care about people.

Did He show up? I'll say.

A Bruised Reed

Breakfast in bed—that staple of Mother's Day, the inconvenience we endure to show our kids we appreciate their appreciating us. So far I've escaped. First the kids were to young to think of it. Then they just hadn't thought of it yet; but yesterday my youngest child informed me I was to stay in bed. It had come to this. I was overhearing tall tales of the fabulous breakfast to be prepared for me. Unfortunately, I know how late this child likes to sleep; and on Sunday I prefer to get up early and read a little Scripture with a cup of coffee. Knowing how late she likes to sleep I took my Bible to bed with me. I set my one-cup coffee maker ready to go nearby and went to bed. I awoke to the sound of....nothing. No alarm. In fact, no time showed on the clock at all. Electricity was out. So I went in search of a battery-operated clock. There was plenty of time for a chapter of Scripture. Coffeemaker wouldn't work, so I boiled water for tea on the gas stove. Couldn't go back to bed. I needed daylight with which to read, so I found a window, settled in with tea and some good reading and waited.

One thing I'm pleased my daughter is learning is to relish a good day. The thing she hasn't learned yet is that things don't have to be perfect for you to have a great day. She woke up with an awful sense of a day gone awry. She wailed on about how it was a terrible, bad day. How can you make toast without a toaster? And toast, practically speaking, is really the extent of her culinary skills when she's on her own. And furthermore, what's breakfast in bed without bed? So I laid back on the sofa and told her that what I could really use is a granola bar. I mean, what's in granola if it's not oatmeal (porridge for the British readers)? And how about a banana and an orange to go with my granola bar and tea? So she scurried around, happily fetching items for a makeshift breakfast.

How did the tradition of breakfast in bed for Mother's Day get started? I don't know, although I suppose I could Google it. I remember feeble attempts to create a feast for my own mom, and maybe she made breakfast for HER mom. I don't know. Funny how traditions grow and change, sweeping us along as a generation marches through its allotted time, departing and making room for the next.


* * *


Lately I've gotten on this weird kick—odd facts from the Bible. There really is some interesting stuff in there that people overlook. For instance, anybody who's spent much time around the Bible knows that people lived almost a thousand years before the great flood; and even after the flood people were living a good deal longer than we live. Five hundred years Shem lived after the flood. And they kept living that way, five hundred years or so apiece, until this guy named Peleg came along and at that point lifespans were cut down to a trifling 200 years. Don't know what that's all about. But it's there for anybody to read, and people read it all the time as they go through Genesis. The thing is, though (and this is where it REALLY gets weird), we tend to read this stuff as the short-lived vapor people we are. Most of us will probably get to see our grandkids. Some lucky people will see great-grandkids, but it's very unlikely that you will see your great-great grandkids.

But if you get to live 500 years and you have your first child at around 30 (which seems to have been the norm back then), then when your great-great grandson comes along, you get to be there to celebrate. In fact, you'll be there when HIS son comes along, which is exactly what happened to Shem. In fact, Shem's great-great-great grandson Peleg started the trend for a shorter life, living a mere 200 years and then dying. After that Shem lived a bunch of years celebrating the births of his descendants and mourning their deaths, because he lived on and on, a relic of the pre-flood times enduring in a broken world.

So it was a whole different kind of world right after the flood. The patriarchs, as we call them, Abraham and Isaac, happened to be on earth at the same time as a guy who was here before the flood. People wonder where the Jewish people would have learned the story of the world's origins, but the answer is right there in scripture if you do the math. Going by the time line you read in Genesis 11, Noah himself would have been around about 50 years after his righteous descendant, our own Father Abraham, was born. Did they know each other? We don't know. Could they speak the same language after the tower of Babel? In fact, since apparently Noah and Shem were probably around in the time of the tower of Babel, what language did they come out speaking? If Noah spoke the language of the line of Shem, he could have passed on some good life lessons and Godly heritage to Abraham and his family. What a weird world to have lived in, where Abraham shared the earth with many of his post-flood ancestors.

I've also been reading bits of the Apocryphal books. My church tradition does not view them as inspired Word of God. Neither do I, but I'm reading them to know what people were reading and being influenced by when they were writing down scripture. I imagine there were some very good and some very bad non-inspired books out there, just like there are today.

Jude quoted the apocryphal book of Enoch, by the way. Doesn't mean Enoch is inspired, although the particular passage Jude quoted is apparently inspired, just by virtue of the fact that it's in the Bible now.

Still, I was surprised when our pastor quoted an apocryphal book last week. Something about a physical description of Paul. He explained that this particular piece of literature was written early in the 2nd century AD, so it's quite possible that this was an accurate description of somebody's memory of what Paul actually looked like. Well, that was interesting. Maybe it was an accurate description and maybe it was not. The “maybe it was” made it worth a listen, so I listened.

According to this writer, Paul was short. (Hmmm. I can relate to that.) Hair was scanty. (So is my husband's.) Legs were a little crooked. (Bowlegged guy, sounds like.) Knees projecting. (Bummer—bowlegged and knock-kneed. Makes you wonder if he got through rabbinical school without having “kick me” scrolls taped to his back.) Large eyes. Okay. His eyebrows met. (EWWWW....unibrow! Guess razors weren't in fashion yet.)

But one thing he had going for him in this – um – “challenging” description was this: “full of grace.”
So this is the guy who tried to kill all the Christians until he got knocked down and found Christ—and found a purpose. He was constantly getting beat up and thrown in prison. In spite of all this he started churches all over most of the known world. He also had some kind of “thorn in the flesh,” which every theologian has tried to decipher. What was it? A bad joint? Walking from town to town with knee problems could have been his thorn. I've even heard people suggest a nagging wife. Something bothered him enough that he kept asking God to remove it. And instead of taking it away, God said, “My grace is sufficient.” Not exactly the happy ending one looks for in a good story.

It's plausible that the thorn might have been his looks. I mean, it can be hard to have a commanding presence with a strong handicap in the looks department. It's unfortunate but it's true. So if that's the thorn, here's a cool scenario my pastor played out:

You have a guy starting out life short, bowlegged, knock-kneed, bulgy eyes and with one big eyebrow. He finds Christ. He proceeds to change the world, because that was his destiny and his calling, to drive right through the personal challenge he faced.

So after he finds Christ, what do you have? A guy short, bowlegged, knock-kneed, bulgy eyes, now he's gone bald, unibrow.......and FULL OF GRACE. And it was enough. It was enough to change the world, to expand Christianity into the Gentile world, and write many of the books of the New Testament.

While this sermon was going on, I was relating in all kinds of ways. Wow. Thorn in the flesh. Needing something. Asking God for that something. That something is not here. So what do I have? GRACE. I was so into the message that I didn't stop to think about what my thorn in the flesh was. But at some point I stopped to wonder why this particular message was hitting me so profoundly. What was that thorn? OH Yeeees.....my daughter's crossed eye.

I have asked and asked. I have asked from the bottom of my heart. I have asked in effectual, fervent prayer. I have asked regularly. It improves slowly, but still when I get up in the morning and wake her up, she looks at me—and it's still there.

This is not my thorn, I know. It's hers. But since I'm asking in faith, and I haven't received my answer yet, in a way this IS my thorn. And I do ask in faith when I ask. I believe He plans to heal her.

In the meantime, “full of grace.” What is the good that is here, and might NOT be here were it not for the crossed eyes? Hmmm.

When my daughter was in kindergarten she was quite possibly the most popular child in her class. She was the only one who could turn a real cartwheel and do a back flip. She was the only girl who could hand-walk the monkey bars from one end of the play equipment to the other. She could run faster than the boys, and at that age they all loved her for it.

You know those snapshot memories you have that stay with you? Well, I have a memory of walking past the lunchroom during lunch hour the day every child in class got an invitation to her birthday party. The class was abuzz with the upcoming social event, and she was surrounded by red-faced, excited five year olds, one little girl holding court in a fog of popularity. The words floated out into the hall where I was walking by: “I invited ALL my best friends.” And the kindergarten class cheered.

Then at the beginning of her next school year the eye started to cross. We got her under an eye doctor's care and found glasses to be completely ineffective. Surgery was suggested. We've settled into a plan of eye exercises combined with diet and rest, and in the end if she still needs it she'll get the surgery. In the meantime we pray every day and wait for God to reach past the doctors and touch her wandering eye. She never does cartwheels on the playground anymore. She has no depth perception and is prone to falling. She sometimes sees double, and because her eye turns in she has almost no peripheral vision on that side. And, of course, she's fallen out of favor with her class.

As I've said, we have her do these eye exercises. In one of them she puts on these 3D glasses, one lens red and the other green. Then she is supposed to color with a red crayon. If she only uses her strong eye (covered by a red lens), she can't see what she's coloring at all. If she switches and uses her wandering eye she will see what she's coloring, but it will be black. If she uses both eyes together she will see red. This exercise seems to be the most effective one the doctor gave her and so she does this one every day. At first she thought it was great fun to color every day, but it didn't take too long for her to tire of it. So a battle of the wills ensued. Then I realized—hey! Every computer has a paint program. Why don't we let her color on the computer? That made all the difference—for a while. Then she tired of THAT game and the fight was on again.

That was before I got the bright idea of reading to her. So now every day she paints for a while and I read to her from an interesting story book. Then when I finish a chapter I try to get her to stop painting while she begs me to keep reading. Sometimes I comply. Sometimes instead we talk about what's going on in her eight year old life. We've come into some nice bonding times talking while she paints red on the computer.

I've watched her deepen as a person while we talk about the playground politics which plague the lives of little girls. She's fallen out of favor, of course. It happened quickly and without much fanfare when she turned up at school with glasses and a crossed eye. Kids just kind of gravitated to the next girl on the totem pole. But you know, I've watched her deepen as a person while she learns to navigate life from ground level. Some of the politics are pretty tough this year and she watches her friends fall into and out of favor with the popular girl. And my daughter is just kind of quietly there for them when they fall out of favor. Part of me says she would never have been that mean if she had stayed popular, but who knows? I'm glad she's been spared that possibility.

So she's been graced to deepen as a person, and her mom...

I never knew anything but an adversarial relationship with my own mom. We make peace when we visit these days, but there were some hate-filled years when I was young. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. So part of me has waited for the day when my girls turn on me and start the hate cycle for another generation. I've tried to make things better for them by being reasonable but firm, and by being a friend, but part of me waits for the rejection I heaped on my own mom.

Fortunately, there's grace. Grace for my mom and for me as we rebuild things, and grace for my own girls. Sometimes my older daughter joins us and we sit on the floor and all talk while the youngest does her exercises, and we're building something special. Maybe it will last. Maybe it won't, but they'll remember and cherish it, I hope. It's a grace. A grace that maybe would not have been there if my daughter had not been tied to a computer doing boring eye exercises.

So this morning I laid back on the sofa, playing the part of the mom of leisure while the little one scurried about bringing me fruit and granola. I looked at her eye and it still turned in. I will still pray. Firmly, insistently, and with faith I will pray. But for today she's still a little clumsy, sometimes sees double and the poor kid has no peripheral vision. And for today, we are full of grace.


“Isa 42:3 A bruised reed will he not break, and a dimly burning wick will he not quench...”