Katherine decided it was time to have that talk with Dad. Way past time, actually. She had stayed with him a long time, working along side him on the farm, cooking, cleaning, watching over the finances. It had all started the year of her high school graduation when Mama died and Judy, Katherine's sister, came home for the funeral--pregnant. Two weeks later Judith gave birth and disappeared two weeks after that leaving Dad and Katherine with an infant girl. So began 30 years of reasons Katherine could not leave.
But now it had to stop. Katherine pulled her chair up beside Dad's in the darkening room.
She cried a little and then began, "I'm sorry I haven't ...I know I've had a bad attitude..Please forgive... forgive me for not talking to you sooner...I hope you can...forgive me. I've been resentful of staying here. I've blamed you for the decisions I've made, and I never...I never talked to you about that. Until now...And I do love you. I...I've never told you that before either."
She paused. "I'm ashamed to admit that...that I've felt...trapped...and sometimes I've even thought I'd be glad if you died. I know it's a wicked and shocking thing to say and I'm...so sorry."
A knock at the door interrupted her confession.
"Please come in," Katherine said to Velma from Dad's church. She accepted the casserole Velma had brought and placed it on the counter.
Velma looked uncomfortable as she began, "I'm so sorry, Katherine. I couldn't make the funeral yesterday, but I wanted to pay my respects. You know your father was a fine Christian man. So respected in the community. He often spoke of you at church, you know. 'So smart and such a hard worker and good with money and really good at everything. Better'n any hired man!' I heard him say more'n once. Yes, he thought the world of you, girl. Thought the sun rose and set just for you," she smiled kindly at the memory. "I know you'll miss him terribly."
"Yes," Katherine answered quietly, "I will miss him. I do miss him...terribly."
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
The Christmas Card
Marian bent to enter the one-room hut where she would eat Christmas dinner. She had not wanted to come, but Joseph, her teenage assistant at the dispensary, was bursting with excitement when he asked her. "Mama will fix a FAT chicken, and we want you to come!"
Marian knew that no matter how fat the chicken, it wouldn't go far among 9 mouths, and hers would make 10. But she could not disappoint them, and so she said she would come on one condition. "It's an American tradition," she said. "I will come only if I can bring yams." And so it was decided.
She had wanted to stay in her own home and imagine their Christmas back at home in Iowa. Christmas without her. She didn't want to admit that she was homesick, and she was resenting this place. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and she wanted to talk to someone who spoke English! And she wanted cold, the kind of cold that felt as if needles were piercing your legs. And she wanted turkey and dressing and pecan pie and divinity candy and a Christmas tree and poinsettias, and well, she wanted the whole American Christmas.
Now in the hut her eyes began to adjust to the dimness in the room--no electricity in the Belgian Congo in 1955. She saw the Christmas cards proudly displayed around the room. Mama's was in the place of honor as a centerpiece for the table. Others were adorning the walls. Little Nicia clutched hers in her two hands.
"Merry Christmas, Nicia," Marian said as she sank to the floor and sat by the child. She looked at the card. It was a recycled American greeting card depicting the nativity. The ladies of the church back home had cut off the face of the most beautiful cards they had saved from Christmas 1954 and had carefully glued red, green, or gold paper to the back of each. Marian had written personal messages on each one though most of the people could not read.
"Tell me again about the baby Jesus," Nicia asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" Marian answered.
The child hesitated and began in Swahili, "He left his beautiful home in heaven and came to live with us. He was born in a barn, and they wrapped him up tight, and they laid him in feedbox." She looked intently at the card. Then she looked at Marian for a long time before she continued, "Was it like you leaving Iowa and coming here to live with us?"
Marian felt the tears coming, and she could not stop them. She was strong; she could run the dispensary by herself, and she could even fix the generator when it broke down, but she could not stop the tears. She was humbled and ashamed. Ashamed of her own selfishness. Ashamed of how little she really knew of God's love. At that moment she came to realize just how much God loved these humble believers, so simple and unspoiled.
When she could finally talk, she put her arm around the little girl and said, "No, Nicia, I'm afraid I'm not very much like Jesus. But I will tell you this. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you."
And it was true.
Marian knew that no matter how fat the chicken, it wouldn't go far among 9 mouths, and hers would make 10. But she could not disappoint them, and so she said she would come on one condition. "It's an American tradition," she said. "I will come only if I can bring yams." And so it was decided.
She had wanted to stay in her own home and imagine their Christmas back at home in Iowa. Christmas without her. She didn't want to admit that she was homesick, and she was resenting this place. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and she wanted to talk to someone who spoke English! And she wanted cold, the kind of cold that felt as if needles were piercing your legs. And she wanted turkey and dressing and pecan pie and divinity candy and a Christmas tree and poinsettias, and well, she wanted the whole American Christmas.
Now in the hut her eyes began to adjust to the dimness in the room--no electricity in the Belgian Congo in 1955. She saw the Christmas cards proudly displayed around the room. Mama's was in the place of honor as a centerpiece for the table. Others were adorning the walls. Little Nicia clutched hers in her two hands.
"Merry Christmas, Nicia," Marian said as she sank to the floor and sat by the child. She looked at the card. It was a recycled American greeting card depicting the nativity. The ladies of the church back home had cut off the face of the most beautiful cards they had saved from Christmas 1954 and had carefully glued red, green, or gold paper to the back of each. Marian had written personal messages on each one though most of the people could not read.
"Tell me again about the baby Jesus," Nicia asked.
"Why don't you tell me?" Marian answered.
The child hesitated and began in Swahili, "He left his beautiful home in heaven and came to live with us. He was born in a barn, and they wrapped him up tight, and they laid him in feedbox." She looked intently at the card. Then she looked at Marian for a long time before she continued, "Was it like you leaving Iowa and coming here to live with us?"
Marian felt the tears coming, and she could not stop them. She was strong; she could run the dispensary by herself, and she could even fix the generator when it broke down, but she could not stop the tears. She was humbled and ashamed. Ashamed of her own selfishness. Ashamed of how little she really knew of God's love. At that moment she came to realize just how much God loved these humble believers, so simple and unspoiled.
When she could finally talk, she put her arm around the little girl and said, "No, Nicia, I'm afraid I'm not very much like Jesus. But I will tell you this. There's nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you."
And it was true.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Bridge
Imagine that you are lost in the mountains. You come to a deep ravine across which is a rickety footbridge. You are exhausted and scared and hungry. You are terrified of heights, but there seems to be no choice but to try to cross. And so you decide it's your only hope.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
You take a few cautious steps onto the bridge; it shudders and swings slightly. Your every nerve screams for you to turn back, but you are frozen with fright and cannot. Against your better judgment you look down feeling sick and dizzy and your skin tingles. Panic nearly keeps you from breathing. Finally, you lower yourself onto your hands and knees and inch your way toward the other side.
You have nearly reached your destination when you hear footsteps running toward you across the bridge. You can't bring yourself to turn around to look, but you know by the sounds and by the violent swinging of the bridge that someone is coming. Suddenly a group of three joggers thunder past you and land safely on solid ground just ahead of you. Feeling foolish, you complete your creeping journey and meet the waiting runners.
You are safe and they are safe. On what did your safety rest?
Sometimes I am creeping through this life, full of fear and panic. This is when I must remember that my peace does not depend on the strength of my faith but on the eternally trustworthy Object of my faith. Surely it's better to inch fearfully through the Christian life than to remain immobile, but how much better to run with confidence because the Bridge will never fail.
Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith...
Hebrews 12:2
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Grumpy Old Man
Grumpy old man...or woman. No one wants to be one. I think anyone can avoid becoming one, but you have to start NOW. Whether you are young or old, you are becoming an old person. I don't mean to discourage you, but you are aging. And unless you die young, and we all hope that doesn't happen, you will one day be an old man or woman.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
I was reminded of this recently when a friend from long ago called. I'll call her Irma. It was rather late in the evening, and frankly, if I had recognized the number, I wouldn't have answered. For over an hour I listened to a sad story. Everyone, or nearly everyone, who had ever crossed her path had done her wrong from her sisters to the government and everyone in between. Social Security and Medicare don't work; doctors won't listen to her; lawyers close up shop and vanish with her money; the real estate people lied to her when they sold her the house; workmen cheat her; the family beat her out of her inheritance; churches don't visit the shut-ins any more. People in this country, who TRY to do right and make the world a better place should not be TREATED like this. AND NO ONE EVER CALLS HER. Imagine that!
It was exhausting. Then over the week-end the phone rang, and this time I did recognize the number, and I didn't answer. I listened as the answering machine recorded the sorrowful message, "Please call me." So Sunday evening when we didn't have church because of the weather, I said to myself, "I better call Irma. Set a mental timer and get off in 20 minutes." And so I did. Call her that is, but so much for the 20-minutes rule. For an hour I listened to the same old thing once again. Some of the complaints go all the way back to the 70's!
If you are feeling uncomfortable that Irma herself may read this someday, I assure you there is little chance that she ever will. But if by some freakish accident she does, well, maybe she won't call me any more. I'm feeling cold even as I write this, but it takes so much emotional energy just to listen and occasionally try to interject some note of hope!
By contrast I think of my Uncle George who is 90 years old and suffering from cancer. My mother, who is a very positive lady, told me just last night how cheery he is. "Just like always," she said.
What makes the difference? I really can't say, but I know I would much rather end up like Uncle George than like Irma. I do call her my friend because in the past she was a real friend to me. That was more than 30 years ago, and as I recall, she was negative even in those days. It seems that the "abuse" she suffered began a long time ago. But now the complaining is much worse. I remember hearing a preacher say once that you will be the same kind of old person that you are young person--only more so! I do believe the truth of that.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Dark December?
"I was walking through Marshall's the other day, and I saw the Christmas displays, and I began to feel that familiar dread." Someone said these words to me recently, and I knew exactly the dread he spoke of. He mentioned the pressure of buying gifts for everyone. "You don't know what to buy; you don't know what they want or need; you don't know how much to spend. If they appear to spend more on you than you do on them, you feel cheap. It's this big guessing game, and it's not fun! Then on Christmas day when everyone is saying, 'Isn't this GREAT," you envision the cash register!"
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
We all know this is not how it's supposed to be. Satan has highjacked Christmas (Thanksgiving too, but I'll save that for another day.) To be honest, I'm not exactly sure why I feel the holiday gloom. But I do feel it. As the days begin to get shorter, and I hear the inane "45 days 'til Christmas," or some other idiotic comment, I begin to notice the anxiety. Actually, I don't have exactly the same pressures my friend expressed, but somehow I have a hard time feeling festive. For one thing we have simplified in recent years. We haven't continued traditions that weren't working. But still...there always seems to be too many places to go, too many things to do.
I was whining to myself about this all week-end. After all, all this talk about black Friday and gray Thursday and cyber Monday is enough to send anyone into the abyss! And would you believe some over-achieving smart aleck even sent us a Christmas picture already!
So yesterday I took my place at the organ. We sang, "Emmanuel," and I was barely aware of what we were singing. Then we turned to "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus," and I began to think about all those masses of faithful people who for all those centuries trusted God to keep His promise to send a Redeemer. My heart began to soften a little. Then came "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "Let's Worship and Adore Him." Still, I was only vaguely aware that God was trying to nudge my cold heart. Then the choir began to sing "Our King Has Come," a song I had never heard. They soared to lofty heights to "REJOICE, REJOICE! and quieted almost to a whisper as a reminder that our King has indeed come. I felt my throat tighten and the tears collecting behind my eyes. "Stop this, Barbara; think of something else; you know your nose gets red and you get a headache when you cry, so cut it out!" But I couldn't help it. The Holy Spirit was reminding me that shopping and gift-giving and Christmas cards and black Friday and cash registers and busy schedules were all so much foolishness. I MUST not let these things that don't matter, absolutely do NOT matter, steal the sheer joy that I should feel when I realize that God Himself came in the flesh to live among us. But not for the purpose of giving us a holiday to celebrate. No, He came to offer Himself as payment for a debt that I could never pay. And then He went to the trouble to draw me to Himself, to show me that I am a sinner totally unable to rescue myself, and offer me that supernatural gift of eternal salvation. Now THAT is a thought to banish the blues! REJOICE!
Monday, October 21, 2013
Perspective
A little girl at church last night was wearing a hat like the one pictured here. The hat belonged to her dad, and he had worn it when he was an active-duty Marine. I started to say when he was a Marine, but as everyone knows, there is no such thing as a former Marine.
Anyway, it occurred to me that she must think the hat a prehistoric relic. After all, it's probably at least three times as old as she is. Maybe more.
But isn't that how kids think? One of my childhood memories is that my dad had the necktie which he had worn for his wedding hanging in the coat closet. We called it his "married" tie. I remember thinking that this tie came out of ancient history, somewhere about the time the Mayflower landed. Yet, it was probably about ten or twelve years old. Now that I'm considerably older than ten or eleven, ten years seems like a very short time.
My theory is each of us marks time beginning with our own birth. For me, World War II seems like distant history. But think about this, I was born in October of 1946, and though hostilities had ceased, it was nearly a year before the Treaty of Paris was even signed! And the first time I saw the Vietnam War mentioned in a history book, I thought, "That's not history; that's current events!"
No wonder the Bible warns us about pride. Our very world view is ego centered! God surely knows this about us, hence His many warnings about being "puffed up." Not a very pretty mental picture, is it?
For
I say, through the grace given unto me, to every man that is among you,
not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to
think soberly, according as God hath dealt to every man the measure of
faith. Romans 12:3
Friday, October 4, 2013
Thelma
Thelma died this morning. You know Thelma, Irene's roommate. I went to pick her up for the Bible study, and they told me Thelma had passed early this morning and that Irene had moved upstairs. So I went upstairs and found her. And we talked. About life and eternity. We say life is short, and we know that it is, but somehow when we're going through it, it doesn't seem short.
I told her about an illustration I heard once in which someone explained that we see life in a linear way--like one long line reaching all the back to Adam and progressing to now. But God sees life as a horizontal plane stretching to the horizon in each direction. He looks down on the history of mankind, and He sees us all populating the universe at the same "time."
It does give us an empty and helpless feeling when someone we care about is just gone. I prayed with Irene; we talked some more; and then she said, "I'm looking forward to being in heaven, it's just the getting there..." Ah, yes, I know what you mean, Irene. I know what you mean.
I told her about an illustration I heard once in which someone explained that we see life in a linear way--like one long line reaching all the back to Adam and progressing to now. But God sees life as a horizontal plane stretching to the horizon in each direction. He looks down on the history of mankind, and He sees us all populating the universe at the same "time."
It does give us an empty and helpless feeling when someone we care about is just gone. I prayed with Irene; we talked some more; and then she said, "I'm looking forward to being in heaven, it's just the getting there..." Ah, yes, I know what you mean, Irene. I know what you mean.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)