Too Late For Tulips

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There’s a house in our neighborhood that has a gorgeous display of spring beauties: daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips of every color.  When I’m out walking, I just love going by this yard. As I stroll back to my house, I try to imagine a lavish flower bed bursting with color and fragrance outside my front door.  In my reverie, there is a lady walking by, envious of my display of spring beauties. …

But when September and October roll around, I’m not thinking about planting tulips.  By then, I’m wishing I had planted a pumpkin patch.  I’m dreaming of cattails and Indian corn and gourds: things I should have planted in the spring.

But when spring rolls around, I’m not thinking about pumpkins….

So the vicious cycle continues.  I can’t buy sweaters in May and tank tops in October.  I just can’t do it.  I know it’s the wise and frugal way to go and I am part Scottish, so that truly appeals to me.  If it’s right, then why does it feel so wrong?  Christmas in July?  My mind refuses to go there.  But on December 15th, I’m enticed to start crafting intricate holiday decorations and gifts.  Time runs out, of course.  As the 4th of July fireworks fill the sky, the last thing I want to think about is the quilt I’ll be piecing as snow fills the driveway in January.

I’m not exactly a “live for the moment” type, either.  I plan out my menus every week, have a schedule for paying bills, and never miss appointments; I have a retirement plan and even know what songs I want sung at my funeral.    How’s that for planning ahead? 

But it never fails.  Every spring I knock myself on the head and say, “Darn!  Too late for tulips again this year.”

The Cold War

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The Cold War is supposed to be over, but it’s still going strong at our house. 

Every year about this time, the battle over the thermostat begins.  Finally, the winter temperatures climb out of the negative digits and spring into something more reasonable.  I wouldn’t call it “hot”, not yet.  But a welcome warmth is definitely in the air.  The furnace is shut down, the space heaters in the bedrooms are shoved into a closet, and the gas fireplace goes on summer vacation.  In the midst of all this loveliness, wars and rumors of war are brewing.

I am married to a fair-haired Norwegian who thinks sixty degrees is balmy.  I am a fair-haired-due-to-highlights English-Scottish-German-Cornish gal who basks in eighty degree heat.  Thus, when PB walks by the thermostat, he sets it low; I follow close behind and crank it back up.  If I go to bed before he does, I will inevitably wake up in the night shivering, having had a nightmare about Antarctica.  If he retires first, the bedroom is, well, toasty, and he is thrashing about dreaming of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. 

Sometimes we go to great measures to ensure our temperature of choice.  For instance, we might be going somewhere so I’ll get in the car because he is taking his time in the bathroom.  He comes out to the car with a little grin.  “Hmmm,” I think.  “Honey, I forgot something!  Be right back!”  I come back out and his grin is gone, but I’m whistling a little tune.  This can go on for a while. 

It’s not a big deal; we’ve lived with each other for thirty-one years.  If this is the worst of our battles, we’re doing ok.  I’ll just keep the electic mattress pad plugged in.  And he will just have to keep the ice cube trays filled.  Maybe we can meet in the middle, like at seventy degrees.  Brrrr.

“I know all the things you do, that you are neither hot nor cold. I wish that you were one or the other!”  Revelation 3:15 NLT

Pandas

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For someone in my position (Christian Education Director at a church), there are two major defining moments each year: the Christmas Program and Vacation Bible School.  Over the past six years that I’ve been doing this, we’ve had some pretty memorable performances in December.  The kids work hard and start memorizing songs and lines in October.  We do it up big with staging and lights and costumes.  On the day of the program, the place is packed with parents and grandparents.  The kids inevitably rise to the occasion and the congregation always gives them a standing ovation.  It’s a glorious feeling of accomplishment for the young folks.  (See December 20, 2010 post)

VBS, however, is a whole different thing.  For this event, adults are the ones who work for months to pull off a big 4 day party for the kids.  In January, we begin scouring thrift stores and sale racks for decor that fits the theme.  We put out a call to start collecting whatever the craft person is going to need in abundance, whether it’s toilet paper cardboard tubes or empty tin soup cans.  We go all out to make sure the kids who come through our doors have a blast at church.  (See June 29, 2010 post)

This year’s theme is “Pandamania: Where God Is Wild About You”. We will be creating an Asian bamboo jungle, with lots of panda bears.  At first I thought this was going to be tough.  I have no stuffed pandas in the storage closet and no bamboo growing in my backyard. 

But it’s amazing what happens when you begin looking with an eye for something specific.  At the Dollar Store, lo and behold: a whole crate full of little panda puppets and stacks of Chinese lanterns.  At Goodwill, whadya know: a pile of 6 foot tall fake bamboo.  In my own sewing cabinet, voila: fabric that will make a great waterfall.  Suddenly, I am seeing this stuff everywhere!  It’s like my mind is directing my eyes to see what I normally would overlook. 

I think the same thing happens with God.  Going through my day without an awareness of God, or “an eye” for Him,  I am more likely to be oblivious to His wondrous activity all around me.  When my focus is on pandas, they seem to show up everywhere.  When my focus is on God, He does, too.

Listening In

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I used to get a kick out of listening in on my kids’ conversations when they were little. (“You be the mommy and I’ll be the daddy.”  “Why can’t I be the daddy?”  “Because you have longer eyelashes.”)   As they grew older I perked up less for the entertainment value, and more for the information I was hoping to glean.   (“Don’t tell mom and dad, but you know that girl in my class with the long eyelashes…?”)

Reading the gospels is kind of like listening in on Jesus’ conversations with people.  And I’ve noticed something recently.  Jesus didn’t talk the same way to everyone.  He figured out where people were coming from first and then geared the discussion around their frame of reference.  For instance, when he talked to the woman at the well he used words like water, thirst, drink, spring.  But when Jesus faced the teachers of the law, he chose different words: valid testimony, execute judgement, witness, evidence, investigate, proof.  In John 5:24 he said, “I tell you the truth,” or “Verily, verily, I say unto you.”   Translation: “I’m telling you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me….Me.”  Then He went on to present three witnesses to validate His claims,  as required by the court of law (v. 31-37).  After giving the testimony of the witnesses, Jesus shifted from being the defense attorney to the prosecuting attorney and rung them up on charges (v.38-42) before wrapping up with His closing argument (v.43-47).  The carpenter from Nazareth finished with an incriminating question to which there was no reply.  Silence.  He schooled the big-shot lawyers.  Bam.  I rest my case.

The Master didn’t talk about living water to the lawyers; He didn’t use legal jargon with the woman at the well.  Many times He answered people when nothing had been asked.  And sometimes He didn’t answer a straight-forward question with a clear answer, but told a story instead.  Quite often He answered a question with another question.  No formulas; no tracts; no step-by-step programs.  The best thing for us to do is listen in and learn from a real Master.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Inheritance

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You are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus…If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.  Galatians 3:26, 29

Back in February, I started listening to an online Bible study series taught by Beth Moore called “The Inheritance”.  I took ten pages of notes and highlighted the key verses.  I was familiar with most of the scriptures; I knew most of this stuff.  I planned to put my notes in a file labeled “Inheritance” and move on to the next study.  But something happened on my way to the file cabinet.

I found myself sitting in a lawyer’s office reading my dad’s Last Will and Testament.

Suddenly, those ten pages of study notes jumped off the paper and into my heart.  My dad left me something, even though I did nothing to earn it or deserve it.  Just because I was his daughter.  I contributed nothing to the family business; in fact, I went and married a preacher!  I didn’t call or visit dad as much as I should have; I didn’t take time to get to know his deepest joys and fears.  But no matter.  A portion of what he worked for his whole life was left to me.  I walked out of that lawyer’s office with tears streaming down my face.  I began to comprehend the significance of those Bible study notes.

So, it has made me wonder: Why don’t I wake up every morning and weep with joy over the stunning realization that I am a real live heir of God and co-heir with Jesus Christ?  Why am I not overwhelmed by the incomparable, unsearchable, immeasurable riches of God that are mine simply because I am His daughter?  Why do I not stand in utter awe at the portion allotted to me, my delightful inheritance in Christ?

Sometimes it’s a long way from the head to the heart.  But when the truth strikes, it is absolutely breathtaking.

Pick Up!

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I’ve been camping out in John 5 (see April 19 post: “Get Up!”).  It just thrills my soul to know Jesus told the man, “Pick up your mat”.  How many times have I quoted that very scripture (with variations)?  You know: pick up your shoes, pick up your room, pick up your sweaty, smelly  jersey, pick up your cereal bowl with the milk that has curdled and stinks to high heaven…..well, you get the picture.  During all those years of raising four kids, I didn’t realize how spiritual I was sounding.  (Neither did the kids, I’m sure.)

Jesus told a lot of people to “get up”, but He was also big on “pick up”.  The paralytic in Mark 2 didn’t get to waltz out of that house with his new legs.  Oh, no.  Come right back here, buddy, and pick up that sorry old bedroll before you leave.  And the disciples were told to pick up the leftovers after every one of those crowd-sized meals.  Five thousand people could probably leave quite a pile of fish bones and bread crusts.

Jesus didn’t ask anyone to do what he wouldn’t do, however.  This Easter I was reminded once again of my favorite “pick up” story in the Holy Book.  The risen Savior was in the tomb, about ready to bust out of there, when He stopped, picked up His face cloth and folded it neatly, leaving it on the slab of rock. (John 20:7)  What a Man!

The only thing that amazes me more is that He also picked me up.  As the Psalmist wrote, “He picks up the poor from out of the dirt.”  (Psalm 115:4 Message) 

April Foolishness

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This is what we put up with here in Wisconsin in the springtime:

 

Early in the week…..

 

 

…and a couple days later.

I remember a snowstorm on April 24th when I was a little girl.  I recall the date because it was my big sister’s birthday.  I also remember that particular storm because an elderly gentleman showed up at our door that night.  His car had gone into the ditch out in front of our house and he had trudged his way up our driveway in a blizzard.  I watched as my mother helped him into the living room and tenderly took off his wet shoes and socks.  I remember being fascinated by his socks; they had batteries built into them to keep his feet warm.  I’d never seen anything like that.  My mother warmed up some supper for our unexpected guest and made up a bed on the couch.  It was a bit unsettling going to bed that night, knowing that a stranger was sleeping in the house.  I don’t remember him leaving the next morning or getting his car pulled out of the ditch or ever hearing from him again.

 Mostly what sticks in my memory is how my mother made an old man feel so welcome and comfortable in our home during an April snowstorm.

Get Up!

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Then Jesus said to him, “Get up!  Pick up your mat and walk.”  John 5:8

Sometimes we need to be told to get up off our rears, clean up our messes and take a step in a new direction.  Jesus told people to “get up” all the time.  For instance, He said these words to a paralyzed man (Matt. 9:6), a dead 12-year-old girl (Mark 5:41), a boy in a coffin (Luke 7:14), and a man who had been crippled for 38 years (John 5:8), just to name a few.  How in the world were these people supposed to “get up”? 

It’s a good question for those of us who get stuck on our mats from time to time.  Like the man in John 5, I can get paralyzed by circumstances and lie around hoping for someone to come along who will lift me up into a place of healing.  It can be a long wait.  If I’m not careful, I can begin to get comfortable on my mat. 

I’ve been there the past two weeks.  Partly from the recent death of my dad, partly from reliving the loss of my mom (I was 13 when she died of cancer), partly because I’ve had a miserable head cold, and partly because it’s April and it’s snowing.  But this morning I heard a voice say, “Get up” and it didn’t matter if I felt paralyzed, crippled or even dead, there was enough power in the words themselves to get me on my feet and moving.

It helps knowing that the man who spoke to the cripple (and to me) is the same One who got Himself up out of the tomb.  As Keith Green wrote,

“Jesus rose from the dead. 

Come on, get out of your bed.”

“…so that you may know his incomparably great power for us who believe.  That power is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead.” Ephesians 1:19-20

Congestion

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Congestion:  1) overcrowding; clogging  2) an excessive or abnormal accumulation of fluid in a body part.

I am congested.  Stuffy nose, sore throat, pounding head, aching sinuses, ringing ears.  I have an excessive and abnormal accumulation of fluid in every cavity of my head.  Ugh.  It is a fitting picture of what is in my heart today as well.  So many thoughts and memories, reflecting and remembering: my mind is clogged and overcrowded.  Words don’t come easy right now.  So I’ll rest my weary head and heart, let the healing do its work and wait for the day I can breath again.

Reading the Obits

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Last week, my dad’s obituary was in the State Journal.  I’ve never paid much attention to that part of the paper.  But when my loved one’s smiling face was on the newsprint followed by several paragraphs that summarized his life, it made me pause and soak up every word.  On that particular day, there were maybe fifteen other obituaries listed.  I read every word of every one, just out of respect.  They were real lives, after all; they were all people who had loved and worked and struggled and celebrated.  The few paragraphs allotted to them couldn’t contain their entire stories, but the words gave a glimpse into the lives they lived.  Everyone has a story.  Everyone’s story deserves recognition.

I am reading the obits every day now.  And at the end of each one I say, “Thanks, Lord, for this person you created.  Good job.”