Temptation # 8

Some people don't like to identify with a popular person because they are ashamed of something about that person: some feature or past behavior that has social or moral repercussions. Others feel that identifying closely with a public figure will cause them to lose their individuality. They may be seen as an extension of someone else and their own uniqueness is lost: they will be evaluated by their connection to that individual. Even the way they are approached often is in reference to the other.

That happened to me once in a most frustrating way. I took a job where a relative worked--a relative who was as different from me as night can be from day. He had a rather bawdy sense of humor and I was often approached by people who intruded into my sensibilities with vulgar language and dirty jokes: neither of which I appreciated but that my relative liked. Clearly, I was not seen as an individual in my own right because no one took the time to find out who I was on my own. I hated it. Who I was on the inside never seemed to be able to see the light of day. My relationship to this prized relative was what was valuable about me, not who I was as a person. I ended up feeling the shame of contagion: I didn't want to be associated with him in any way.

There are few feelings worse than shame. Webster defines shame as "a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety" or "the condition of humiliating disgrace or disrepute." (Webster, 1988). Jesus knew that shame of association would be a great temptation for His disciples. Jesus was viewed by some as a maverick teacher. By others, a wretched, poor, uneducated charlatan. The political machine of the day saw Him as some sort of criminal revolutionary who threatened the status quo. After Jesus' ascension the disciples became moving targets for the derision of others, often having their homes plundered and losing all their earthly goods for the sake of connection with Jesus.

If the disciples wanted to distance themselves from Jesus, shame would probably be the reason. Shame leads to distance, and distance from Jesus always leads to disaster. Pray that you enter not into temptation, Jesus instructed. Shame would interrupt the ties of loyalty and compromise the cohesiveness of the disciples who tried to carry on the Kingdom of God. In a word, shame destroys.

There is an ongoing debate in Gestalt therapy about the reality of shame. Some theorists believe that it is an emotion all its own, while others believe that shame is part of something larger: self-conscious emotions. Whatever the case, Gestaltists agree that when therapy clients reveal facts about themselves for which they feel shame, inevitably, they lose contact with the individual with whom they are speaking. They may jiggle their feet, or seem frozen in their seat. They may leave the room or begin to cry. But most often, they look down and away from the therapist--the person who they hope can help them. By looking away they shut themselves in a world of catastrophizing and begin to surmise that the therapist thinks the worst of them: I know she thinks I'm scum now. He'll think I'm a criminal now. I'm really sick and she's going to talk to me like I'm beyond hope. As anxiety rises, the tendency to maintain eye gaze diminishes until the client is in an isolated world all their own--a world that feels more hostile and less hopeful by the second. Soon, the only way to feel better seems to run from the person who is waiting. So one cuts and runs, or finds some excuse to wriggle away from the other, either by acting defensively or trying to hide. This is what shame does to a person.

I felt this way once with a therapist. I don't remember what personal flaw I had confessed to, but I found myself wishing that I could shrink into a piece of lint and disappear into the couch. I felt an odd shakiness in my chest and my shoulders become tense. I sat, waiting for the moment of truth when he would tell me how horrible I truly was.

"How are you feeling right now, now that you've told me this about yourself?"
"Hideous."
Long pause.
"What do you think I feel about you now?"
Uh-oh, there it is. He wants me to be the one who points out how disgusting I am so he doesn't have to tell me.
But as I took a few moments and thought about it, I couldn't imagine what he might think. "I don't know."
Long pause.
"Would you like to look at me and see what I think?"
Perish the thought: he'd see me even more or something if I looked at him.
"Not really."
Very long silence.
The longer I sat looking inward, the worse I was beginning to feel. It also seemed that he wasn't going to press me, only wait for me.

I looked. When I saw his face, I didn't know why I hadn't looked before. Shame cannot exist in that warm sort of kindly eye contact. He knew, he understood, he liked me still. He liked me very much. I felt regret over my revelation, but not shame.

It seems that when we feel shame about being Christians--being mocked for our focus on the value of people rather than on material possessions, or because we adhere to certain moral standards rather than being popular, or whatever it may be that causes us to feel chagrin--that what we need is to st0p and look right into the face of Jesus. Shame cannot exist there. It is that look of inexpressible love for us that makes us forget everything else and rush forward to wherever He calls, just to be near Him.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus

Look full in His wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim

In the light of His glory and grace.

(Helen Howarth Lemmel)

Temptation # 7

The Sleep of Sorrow

"Jesus got up from praying and went over to his disciples. They were asleep and worn out from being so sad." (Luke 22:45, 46). The King James version reads, "...and they were sleeping for sorrow."
The disciples were overwhelmed with all the talk about the last supper being the very last supper; about Jesus being given into the hands of evil men; of someone who would betray Him; and of dying. There had been an increasing intensity in Jesus' words and acts over the last week, and there was something ominous in the air--a premonition about something awful that was soon to happen.
As the disciples followed Jesus into the familiar garden of Gethsemene, they were done in. Jesus told them to pray that they wouldn't be tempted, then went on further into the garden alone. From where the disciples sprawled on the ground, they could hear Jesus groaning as if He were in great pain. His cries to God were interspersed with gut-wrenching weeping. They probably didn't know what to do and were incapacitated from their confusion and weariness. They slept for sorrow while the battle for their souls and that of all creation, was being waged only feet away from them.

Sleeping for sorrow is not only a spiritual construct. There is a disorder called hypersomnia, which means too much sleep. People can sleep for 12 hours at night and then need naps during the day; who are always sleepy and for whom sleeping more doesn't help. People with sleep apnea or narcolepsy are like this. But in the mental health field, hypersomnia that isn't caused by these physical causes is a major symptom of depression. Usually depressed people lack energy and have some type of sleep problem--either insomnia or hypersomnia. They may wake up tired, shower and dress, and go back to bed, exhausted. Grieving people don't feel rested after sleeping and have that "wiped out" feeling for weeks. Yes, people indeed sleep for sorrow.

When I first started thinking about the temptations of the disciples, sleeping for sorrow didn't jump out at me as a test or temptation. It was evening and they were tired and overwhelmed. Their tiredness seems justified. But now it seems that perhaps Jesus' admonition is for us today, in this world with so many things that cause sorrow.

I had a middle school teacher who was unbalanced. I'll call him Mr. Carter. He was an anxious man, with a shock of reddish curly hair and a thin moustache over his pinched mouth. There was nothing joyous about him: he was intense and his eyes darted back and forth across the classroom most of the time. Mr. Carter had a number of conspiratorial ideas about the government, the Catholic church, and comunism. He was the only teacher who used to make us practice getting under our desks for the air raid sirens we never heard. He lamented numerous times that we didn't have a bunker at our school. This was in the late sixties and few people were still having bomb drills like we were.

Mr. Carter was sure it was only a matter of time before we would be a Russian colony. His theory was that as soon as our own government stopped minimizing the Russian threat, there would be anarchy and we'd probably need a bunker just to protect ourselves from our own people.

But the thing that really troubled me was his frequent talks about the threat of the Catholic church. One morning he played us a fifth- or sixth-hand recording of a nun with a heavy accent talking about how she had found dead babies under a convent someplace in a big city. She regaled her listeners about the hush-hush activities of the church and the subsequent threat to her life. At the end of the static-filled reel-to-reel narrative, Mr. Carter ceremoniously turned off the recorder and unleashed a volley of anti-Catholic propaganda. The class was almost breathlessly aghast, taking in the words spilling out of Mr. Carter's mouth, his face now tomato red.

All of this was unsettling to hear, at the ripe age of 12. As if this weren't enough, about this time a visiting pastor preached a good old Jonathan Edwards sermon that scared me stiff. It was right out of his Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God sermon:

You have offended him infinitely more than ever a stubborn rebel did his prince; and yet it is nothing but his hand that holds you from falling into the fire every moment. It is to be ascribed to nothing else, that you did not go to hell the last night; that you was suffered to awake again in this world, after you closed your eyes to sleep. And there is no other reason to be given, why you have not dropped into hell since you arose in the morning, but that God's hand has held you up. There is no other reason to be given why you have not gone to hell, since you have sat here in the house of God, provoking his pure eyes by your sinful wicked manner of attending his solemn worship. Yea, there is nothing else that is to be given as a reason why you do not this very moment drop down into hell.

I was beside myself with terror, sitting in church, fearful of even looking sideways knowing that I could be forever consigned to hell for whatever unknown sin was lurking within me. Over lunch that day, my father announced that that sermon was "hogwash." Neither he nor mother seemed to think much of it, but I worried that maybe some of what the pastor said was actually true and my parents just didn't know it.

Another terror existed in my young experience. My church teaches that there will be a time of tribulation, or time of trouble before the second coming of Christ. Many evangelical and fundamentalist denominations hold this belief. It is based on such Biblical passages as Daniel 12:1, Matthew 24:21, and Revelation 16. Scriptures are quite clear that difficult times are ahead. But without balancing this with the clear teaching that God will protect and uphold His people, such a doctrine can wreak havoc on small children and new converts. This brings us to the temptation of sleeping for sorrow. When people are terrified, depressed, feeling avoidant of reality, they sleep--physically and spiritually.

Due to this frightening beginning, I was terrified of the future clear into my late 30s. Even though there were and have always been voices within my church and Christianity at large, pointing out God's love and ability to spare His people, I could not hear it. A part of me was sleeping for sorrow. I couldn't hear the hopefulness or the freeing part of the Gospel of Salvation--it was about fear and trying not to think about all the things that could happen. I recall many occasions when I begged God to just let me die of cancer or an accident so I wouldn't have to face the unknown sufferings of the future. I was not suicidal, nor have I ever been. But in my terror, I was unable to take in much more than foreboding and daily anxiety of what would happen to me physically and spiritually. No one knew about this--it was my own private time of trouble.

I am grateful that this did not last. God placed a man in my path who for seven years demonstrated through his actions how God cherishes me. Seeing my need, he did not step away until I began to reach for awareness and a new grasp on God's grace. As the warmth of his understanding and sympathy started to melt the paralyzing dread I felt, I began to stir from within my spiritual and emotional somnolence. It was only then that I could recognize that I hadn't been fully awake for all those years.

Pray that ye enter not into temptation. Sorrow, fear, depression, foreboding--all of these make part of us sleep. It is not God's will for any of us to bear such burdens, or to put ourselves to sleep spiritually, just to avoid our fears.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11

...for he who touches you touches the apple of His eye. Zechariah 2:8

And I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; neither shall anyone snatch them out of My hand. John 10:28

That sense of hopeful delight, abandoned joy, and optimistic daring--things that are needed both to make our lives worth living and to be effective ambassadors of God's love--these are gifts God waits to give us. We will not know to ask for them if we are asleep for sorrow.

Wherefore He saith, Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light. (Ephesians 5:14).

Temptation # 6

Being trapped in an earthly perspective on life is a significant temptation. It seems to underlie some of the other temptations already mentioned. We may have committed ourselves to God, be attentive to the practical things that need to be done, and seek God every single day. And we may also view life only from the lens of one looking up, rather than the One looking down. Unfortunately, because of the way this world is run, we often stop looking up altogether. After awhile, it's nearly impossible to consider anything as reality except what is directly in front of us.

I believe that there is an evil force--Satan, the devil--who actively keeps us focused on the minutiae of life so that we cannot look up to God, much less, view the world and its happenings as God might. Ever since he tricked Eve into looking at him and considering the fruit on the Tree of Good and Evil, he has been drawing attention away from God and the power that is in Jesus Christ. As the father of all evil, he also has been part of every effort to limit perspectives to his domain: this world and the evil in it.

Amnesty International once became quite concerned with the issue of how captors broke down their prisoners. The strongest, most belligerant, powerful men and women could be reduced to helpless, powerless individuals whose perspective became so skewed that they even formed strong bonds with their prison guards. How could this happen? If this phenomenon could be understood, some preventative measure could be instituted for those whose work took them into such places.
Researchers interviewed people who had been political prisoners in South America to find out what had happened to change them from strong, clear-thinking people to cringing, brainwashed victims. A list of prison tactics were drawn up. It is called Biderman's Chart of Coercion. Sadly, this is the mechanism that abused intimates endure in domestic violence:

1. Isolation. Separation from those who could point out that this relationship is problematic, and who would urge the victim to get out quickly.

2. Monopolization of perception. The abuser continually accuses or makes mean comments, often calling a woman sexual names. This leads to introspection and preoccupation about why this is happening and what behaviors s/he has had that warrants these judgments. Tunnel vision develops.

3. Induced debility and exhaustion. One of my friends used to be married to a man who, upon coming home from work, began a tirade about her supposed infidelity, that usually lasted until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning. She then had to get up at 6:00 to get their children ready for school. In this sleep deprived state, the idea of getting away was light years away from her pressing need just to survive that day.

4. Threats. Many victimized intimates face daily threats of losing their children, threats of harm will come to family members, or threats of physical harm or death--if they don't comply with the abuser's demands. All efforts in life are focused on avoiding anything that could be considered worthy of punishment.

5. Occasional indulgences. Research shows us that the most difficult behavior to extinguish, or get rid of, is the one that sometimes gets a reward: intermittant reinforcement. This is what gambling is all about. People keep playing the slots because sometimes they win. I remember reading about the treatment of the POWs in Vietnam. On Christmas, they were allowed out of their cage-cells and given a traditional American Christmas dinner. There was music and everyone was pleasant. At other times, a guard would suddenly give a prisoner a packet of letters from home that had been withheld. The captives began to think that perhaps the guards weren't as mean as they had supposed. After all, they provided this wonderful experience. This kind of thinking leads to compliance and diminishes the possibility of getting away.

6. Demonstration of 'Omnipotence.' One woman I worked with used to tell me about the video cameras her husband claimed to have placed throughout their home, and the telephone-computer connections that recorded her every conversation. I asked where they were and she didn't know. I asked how did her husband have the technological skill to do this (I knew he didn't know how to do these things, nor did he have the resources to do them), but she maintained that the cameras and microphones were all there. She was not delusional--she had been brainwashed by this man whose fearful outbursts convinced her that he could and would do anything to keep track of her. He was omnipotent in her eyes, and she gave up resistance of any kind.

7. Enforcing trivial demands. In the movie, Sleeping with the Enemy, the wife is punished and brutalized for not keeping the cupboard products in alphabetized order, or of other minor "rules" that have been broken. Such ridiculous demands leads to tunnel vision so that the victim is focused on the avoidance of doing anything that will produce a blowup.

8. Degradation. Some abused individuals are forced to eat their food on the floor like a dog. Others are forced to wear either unbecoming, baggy clothes, or provocative, seductive clothing. A high percentage of women in these abusive relationships are sexually assaulted, yet few victims report these things. It is simply too shameful. Secrecy rules the day, and the victimizer feels s/he can do anything because the victim is completely broken.

As I think over this list of controlling behaviors, I recognize the great deceiver's handprints in every single item:

Isolation--being upset with someone at church to the point of not going, and avoiding the Christian community entirely. Who attends prayer meeting any more? Who prays with colleagues or friends? We live lives of spiritual isolation more often than not.

Monopolization of perception--Called the "opiate of the masses," television actually slows down our brain waves until we are nearly comatose. While we are in this altered state, images, ideas, and messages are delivered to us that limit or challenge the heavenly perspective.

Induced debility--just live the "earthly" way and see what happens: drug and alcohol abuse, STDs, obesity, broken relationships without end, violence of all kinds, illness and death.

Threats--the devil threatens us constantly that if we live according to the guidelines God has laid out, we will be financially ruined, never have a satisfying relationship, will be hungry all the time, will miss out on all sorts of status-improving oppportunities, ad infinitum.

Occasional indulgences--it is fun to sin, most of the time. It feels so good and we slide into it without feeling pain, that many of us have fond memories of sinful things we've done. We know firsthand, that some of the things the devil promises are nice and feel good: social status, wealth, belongings, good sensations. After all, we don't exactly die immediately when we do what he says.
Demonstration of omnipotence--one of my friends told me about a couple who struggled with infertility for a number of years and who finally gave birth to a child. She had Down Syndrome. Soon thereafter, as they were driving behind a logging truck, the logs suddenly came loose and one crashed through their windshield, just missing them. A couple years later, their house burned to the ground and they barely got their child out of the house in time. They've just had a second accident with a logging truck, and for a second time a log has crashed through their windshield, just missing them. They are exhausted and overwhelmed. It appears as though evil has triumphed--as though no matter how they seek God, horrible things happen to them.

Enforcing trivial demands--there are certain things that we just have to do in life: have a new car, wear certain clothing, have certain friends, portray ourselves in a particular, flattering way to others. These are all trivial demands. From God's perspective, these things don't even register on the radar screen.

Degradation--we are becoming a society that will do anything for money or status. Just watch the sitcom, Fear Factor. After seeing people retching their way through a glass of cow bile, swimming through manure, or chewing a plateful of glistening giant slugs, one wonders what has become of the dignity of being created in the image of God.

We live in a world in which it is very easy to look elsewhere rather than at God. Being immersed in the swamp of human misery and degradation, and beset on all sides with the images and pathetic circumstances of people over whom Satan has power, often limits our ability to see the world and life as God sees it.

Corrie ten Boom used to recite the poem of Grant Colfax Tullar, about the piece of embroidery that looked like a mess: knots, darting threads--an incomprehensible amalgamation of mistakes. Or so it looked. But as the poem states, "I in foolish pride, forget He sees the upper, and I, the underside."

There are two major perspectives to life: the way it looks from down here, and the way it looks to God with His perfect knowledge and plans. Satan would keep us from ever seeing it as God does, because if we could get a glimpse of the goodness of God and of the things that He has prepared for us, we would never view this earth in the same way again.

Oh Lord, may I not succumb to the earthliness of life on this planet. But by looking at the glory in your face, may I look into eternity and measure the value of every earthly thing in comparison to who You are and what You have done for me.

Temptation #5

For those of us with lots of energy, optimism, vision, and personal power, it is easy to try to forward the Kingdom of God by human means. Taking God's things into our own hands and feeling that we can positively impact His will and Kingdom with our unsanctified efforts, can be a huge temptation sometimes.
The disciples thought of Jesus' life and purpose in terms of an earthly kingdom right up until He was crucified. They had not yet caught on to the idea that a new spiritual dispensation was about to begin and that it had nothing whatever to do with the establishment of power or earthly treasure. This is perhaps why, in the garden of Eden, Peter rushed forward to defend Jesus and slashed off the ear of the high priest's servant. Blood gushed. There was an odd drafty feeling at the side of the man's head. The servant looked, wide-eyed at his ear lying on the shadowy path. Jesus said to Peter, "That's enough. Put away your sword." He stooped down and picked up the severed ear and instantaneously, reattached it. One would think that this act alone would give pause to those who were convinced of His threat to earthly powers. The Kingdom is about something that can only be accomplished through the power of God in the life of Jesus Christ.

When I was a child, I heard sermon after sermon about how we humans are responsible for forwarding God's work on this earth. Church members were held up for emulation--those who boldly strode up to strangers on the street and tried to convince them on the spot that Jesus died for their sins. More often, they talked about their conceptions of correct living--a real draw for people trying to get to their appointments or carrying groceries to their cars. I was turned off by those stories and I continue to be. This activity was touted as hastening the Kingdom of God.

There have always been folks who try to attract people to God through legalistic efforts. The idea there is that if you live a circumspect (read austere and unpleasant) life, then others will see Christ (read we will feel that we have accomplished salvation by our own efforts).

While a college student, I was invited to attend something called "Health Weekend." A number of the more influential students on campus had been invited to this all-expenses-paid weekend up in the country at a camp. We had been selected because we were going to be taught how to eat healthily so as to ready ourselves for the coming Kingdom of God. We would then be expected to go back to our campus and share this insight with other students. Without this knowledge, it was intoned, none of us would see the Kingdom of God.
Well, we were a captive audience and most of us were in fact, concerned about our salvation. So we threw ourselves into the experience.

We were served healthy meals, whilst a speaker shared spiritual facts with us about why it behooved us to change our eating habits. After our meal, we would have another lecture, a walk, and then on to the next meal.

Our first dinner was some sort of vegetable soup. Bread was served with some type of non-dairy pimento and cashew spread on it. Bland and odd, but not unpleasant. Breakfast the next morning consisted of whole wheat bread with peanut butter that had been diluted with orange juice. This was to aid digestion. There was no beverage. Breakfast--well, not everyone eats it, and I didn't really mind that it was strange. I felt pretty good. There must be something Life-giving to this diet, I thought.

Lunch was enough to turn me into a cursing infidel. We were served home made whole wheat lasagna, served without any cheese products, and very little tomato sauce on it. The "lasagna noodles" were no less than half an inch thick, and were as heavy as lead in my stomach. There was a smear of some type of pimento concoction over it and tomato garnish. As I sat in my chair watching the other students trying to be enthusiastic about this culinary atrocity, and listening to the emaciated leader discuss the virtues of this kind of food, I began to entertain the idea that the fires of hell may be preferable to a lifetime of eating this fare. How this food and preoccupation with being perfect could commend anyone to God or Christianity or health, was beyond my imagination.

God does not require us to become ascetics in order to please Him. He does not need these puny efforts to forward His Kingdom. He does say "Without Me, ye can do nothing." And all the rules of His Kingdom are inside-out from what we think befits a kingdom: "His yoke is easy and His burden is light." It is the land of the still small Voice, where kindness and warmth rule the day, not power.

We have many notions of how to "help" God with His Kingdom issues. However, it seems that any effort to do the work of God in our own strength becomes laughable at best and harmful at worst. In His great mercy, God allows us to be heirs of the heavenly Kingdom. When we get there, we will not be standing around, eating fruit from the tree of life on the sea of glass, smugly talking about how effective our work has been in forwarding the Gospel of Christ. We will cast our crowns at Jesus feet and say, "It was Jesus who called me, Jesus who enabled me, Jesus who saved me, and Jesus who did the work in spite of me."

My hope is that we can cling to Jesus, abide in Him and focus on Him, so that He and He alone, will be the Power who draws all humankind to His Kingdom.

Temptation #4

Sometimes it feels better, more comfortable, to avoid the looming mission that we have been given: to be Christ's ambassadors to the world and to do the work of God.

Simon Peter said to them, "I'm getting out of here. I'm going fishing." (John 21:3). This, on the heels of seeing Jesus in the upper room after the crucifixion. As the confused and saddened disciples wept and tried to plan what to do next, Jesus appeared to them. Thomas, the doubting one, demanded that Jesus prove his identity. He touched the scars on Jesus' hands, feet, and side. Jesus had indeed risen. What He had said was true--He was the perfect sacrifice and was now alive once again. So it would be a spiritual kingdom, after all. Jesus life was all about atonement and reconciliation to God, not overthrowing the Romans. Now He would soon ascend back into heaven and leave the disciples for good.

It must have been too much for Peter to take in. He had gone from denying Christ, to weeping his heart out, to the shocking revelation of Christ in the flesh. Overwhelmed, he fell back to the thing that gave him the most comfort and that was a sure thing, before Jesus had turned his world upside down. A fisherman, he climbed into a boat with other disciples and put out into the sea.
Scrambling about on a fishing boat over undulating waves, was soothing in its predictability and familiarity. Put out the nets, wait until they fill with fish and pull it into the boat. After months of trying to figure out how he was to follow Christ, how he was to conduct himself and what all Christ's stories and instruction meant, I imagine that it was wonderful to go back to the sea. He was a master at his work here. There were no questions about how to respond to crowds, no anxiety about what to do with the conniving Pharisees and endless people who tried to trick Jesus. He would go back and pretend that the previous three years hadn't even happened.

His lack of education made no difference now, as he rode out the waves and felt the spray on his body. He was free from the city life he had never quite gotten used to. It had been hard to move from place to place. His father had fished on these waters, and so had he. This was home to him, not all those far flung cities he had visited with Jesus.

Yes, he adored Jesus and had never felt so good ever, anywhere, as he had when he was walking along the dusty roads next to this Man who had befriended him. But right now, it all felt like just too much. Like all of us who are overwhelmed, he went home--to the sea.

Suddenly, there was Jesus, calling out to the disciples from shore. "Have you caught anything?" No. "Try on the other side of the boat." What? Through the fog they couldn't see who had made this suggestion that seemed to trivialize their efforts. There was nothing to show for being cold and wet all night long. Had they lost their skills? What were they missing? Why, when other fishermen were making large hauls, had they caught nothing? Why not? Minutes later, as his companions hauled in the enormous catch, Peter flung himself into the lake and swam to shore. It was Jesus, who had built a fire and was waiting to cook them breakfast.

"Do you love me, Peter?" Yes Jesus. You saw how fast I got to you when I realized you were here. Nothing could keep me from you, not even our fish. The fish that will pay for our home and families' needs. I would have been happy to lose it all in the water, just to get to you.
"Then feed my lambs." My lambs are the ones who know of me and are left without a Shepherd, now that I am going back to my Father.

Oh. That. Plunge back into an itinerant lifestyle, rubbing shoulders with the arrogant Jewish leaders, who will probably be out for my neck. I could probably do it for awhile.

Jesus sat back, watching His beloved friends eating breakfast, wishing that He could somehow impress on them how much He loved them. Only His eyes could say it.
Peter saw Jesus looking deeply into him.
"Do you love me, Peter?"
Oh no. He thinks that I don't love Him because I disassociated myself when it got hot back there in Pilate's hall. He turned and looked straight at me and saw into my heart. He knows how scared I was. How could I have ever abandoned this, my Friend? And he remembered the agony spilt in his tears when he had rushed from Pilate's hall into the embracing darkness.

Jesus was still looking at him with those warm, knowing eyes.
"Oh yes, I do love You."
"Feed my sheep."
Those eyes. That face. We've been through so much together. He still loves me. So much that I can't say no to Him. If I could just remember this moment, I could probably do anything, even if it means going back to the crowded city life that I'm weary of.

Jesus motioned for Peter to follow. They began walking down the beach, in the moist strip where the water met the sand. Just the two of them, slowly walking close together, feeling that this was perhaps the last time.
"Peter." They stopped next to Peter's fishing boat, where the net, bulging with fish, spilled out onto the sand. Jesus stood, looking at him again: deeply, warmly, earnestly. Jesus stooped and picked up a wet fish, its gaping eyes and mouth in an expression of perpetual surprise. "Do you love me more than these? Do you love me more than the comfort of the familiar? Do you love me enough to leave the predictability and tangible gains of your livelihood? Do you love me more than these fish, these fishermen, these lakes?"

But this is where I'm the happiest. This is where I am the most genuine--the most authentic self that I can be. This comes to me the easiest--it's what my father and his father, and his father have done all their lives. It's my life. I like doing this. It's who I am. Leave this?

Peter was grieved at this line of questioning. He has always loved Jesus, even though he didn't feel cut out for a life of stringent discipleship. And yet, here was Jesus, calling him back into that unpredictable life of service, sacrifice, leadership, and eventually, martyrdom. There is just no way I can live as though Jesus didn't walk into my life. He called me once and He's calling me again. He must feel that I can do this.
"Peter, do you love me more than these?"
Peter looked at Jesus boldly then, and for a long time. If I can just remember His face as it is right now.
"You know everything. My heart: my wants, my acts, my weaknesses and fears. You know it all. You know that I love you."
"Feed my sheep. When you were young, you dressed yourself and walked wherever you wanted. But when you are gold, you will stretch out your hands and someone else will carry you where you don't want to go." (John 21:18).

That face. Those eyes. He loved me then and He loves me still. I can do anything if His face is always before me. Peter would not say no to the One whose love warmed and comforted his soul. He would go back to the city.
Jesus, smiling, said, "Follow me again, Peter."
And Peter did. All the way to a cross of his own.

Temptation #3

When Jesus said, "Watch and pray that ye enter not into temptation," He had already watched them succumb to this particular temptation. In the upper room where the final supper was to take place, the disciples were fresh from bickering about who would be the greatest in the new kingdom. They were so focused on their ambitions that they failed to notice the practical things needed to be accomplished at that moment. There was no servant to wash the dust off their feet and prepare them for their meal. They could have been so preoccupied with their interpersonal controversies that they didn't realize something was missing and necessary. Or, they could have all noticed that there was no servant but felt that it was the sign of the most undeserving of advancement to stoop and do the thing that held up the meal. I wish I could know which it was--Jesus knew and He noticed.

During His life, Jesus seemed to move from one task to the next without a lot of discussion about who should do what. The need was present, so He did it: healing the sick, changing water to wine, teaching in the temple. The work ethic He learned working with Joseph in the carpenter shop, served Him well in His work with people and spiritual matters. "Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might." (Ecclesiastes 9:10).

For many years I worked in a teaching hospital. As the new interns came onto the floor in September, the staff used to have conversations about who was "good" and who was not. Some strode about with lordly bearing, uttering great scientific truths about various disease manifestations. There were always nurses who enjoyed debating with them, and equally as many for whom these clear pronouncements seemed to provide a crisp counterpoint for their romantic ambitions.

Other interns were particularly personable and friendly with the nursing staff. They spent adequate time with their patients, but the majority of their time on the units was spent conversing with the nurses. There was often a fair amount of joking and storytelling, many times with risqué comments and sexual innuendo. These relationships helped with staff morale, actually.

Occasionally, interns and residents came through our unit who didn't divide up patient care into your work and our work categories. If a patient told them they were uncomfortable, they didn't call for the nurse. They helped them get comfortable by turning or repositioning the patient themselves. Everything about the patient's wellbeing was important to them--not that they performed every patient care, but the patient's concerns about their family were just as important as deciding medication dosage or starting a vassopressor infusion.

Our chief of staff used to routinely walk through the unit on rounds, picking up little bits of paper and threads on the carpet as he went, never scolding anyone that they were there, but just as part of his duties. As one might guess, he was a meticulous surgeon who noticed cleanliness and order wherever he went. Another physician was concerned about the job satisfaction of the housekeepers and always had a kind word with them on her way through.

The director of the ICU once found himself in a room in which a medical "train wreck" was occurring. Opened cartons of medical instruments and monitoring devices were strewn across the empty bed and floor of the room. Chest tube containers, contaminated gloves and blood-soaked gauze was everywhere. There had been a mad scramble to save this patient's life. After being sure that the medical aspects of the patient's care were addressed, he spoke with each of the nurses to help them debrief. Then he gathered up the trash from all over the room and took it down to the trash chute. Not only did this act give the nurses time and focus they needed, it relieved them of work that would prevent them from keeping up with the rapidly changing status of the dying individual. As the director was leaving the disposal area after dropping off the trash, someone stopped him in the hall to ask where they might find the patient's surgeon. The director gave that information and then the patient's family member asked who he was, since they had seen him back in their loved one's room, working alongside the nurses and residents. He sweetly said, "Today I'm doing lots of things. Right now, I'm the housekeeper."

There are so many things I'd like to accomplish before I die--so many issues to which I'd like to add my voice, programs to design and direct, people to lead, lives to be touched. My hope is that while I am pushing toward my goals, I will not fail to notice the practical, unglamorous, humble things that need to be done. I want to embrace all that falls across my path: glorious and menial, honorable and simple. Because in the final analysis, it's not all the great things that I've accomplished or not, it's the quality of work, and my performance within the scope for which I am responsible that is important. I would like to hear those words from the lips of Jesus: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of my rest.

Temptation #2

At the end of His life, Jesus instructed the disciples to pray so that they wouldn't give in to temptation. Here is the second of eleven temptations or tests they, and we, face in this life.

2. The organization is more important than the mission. Getting caught up in the politics of personality rather than focusing on the end goal.
This stems from grappling over who will be the greatest. The greatest in what sphere? Some sort of group or organization that has meaning to the individual.
The disciples were thinking about the Kingdom of God, which they supposed, would be an earthly kingdom, complete with power and jurisdiction over their enemies. As they watched Jesus perform miracles, silence the Pharisees and gather popularity with the people, it was only natural that they should begin to plan how they would fit into the picture. Especially since they comprised the inner circle.
Judas seemed to have more clout than the others because he managed the money they had in common. John, who in his Gospel called himself, "The one the Lord loved," felt a particularly special bond with Jesus and perhaps some entitlement from that. Peter was an active figure in the Gospels. There are stories about Peter that make us roll our eyes: trying to walk on the water, anxiety-driven jabbering at the Transfiguration, slicing off the ear of the high priest's servant. There were James and John, the "Sons of Thunder," whose mother was pushing them to succeed with this new Galilean teacher.
But there they were, arguing about who would be the greatest and trying to exert power and influence over their colleagues. It was easy to become blind to the purpose for which they were called and focus on trying to create something more concrete and practical.
It's interesting to note that the disciples never did move ahead toward their mission until they let go of their focus on the "who's who" of the organization--a lesson that is particularly salient in my life just now. Perhaps my issues are a bit different, but the end result is the same.

It has been very easy to criticize the organization in which I find myself. It is an organization that purports to be more healthy, more spiritual, and more correct than other such entities. I used to view this organization with undimmed admiration, grateful for my place in it. Then I became a therapist and started seeing the seamy underside of major players in it. It was devastating: people abusing their children; clueless administrators placing employees in harm's way; overt obstructions of justice; racist and sexist practices; hackneyed explanations for unhealthy and outdated procedures; affairs between high-powered leaders--you name it--it's all there. In this confusing and disappointing whirl, I began looking at the organization and stopped looking at the mission. It was only natural, and it was maddening.

In fact, I cut ties with the organization for close to a year. I felt that lack of association would remove all traces of the abuses of the system from my psyche. It didn't. It made me bitter, isolated, and inaccessible for two long years.
To trace my path from that point to my current landing place would bore Freud. Suffice it to say, I am now working at a place I said I never would, working with people form whom I said I'd never work, and part of a larger organization that I resented and disparaged for a very long time. And there has been healing of a magnitude that I never imagined possible.
However, my workplace has been a swirl of conflict and sleight of hand; an angry hotbed of passive-aggressive behavior, back-stabbing, sweet trickery. My indignation at the disparity between the espoused ideal and reality kept me focused on personalities and the organization. Partly to survive. Partly out of shock.

Jesus was frustrated with the way the disciples behaved: their lack of faith, foolish questions, spiritual ineptitude. Yet He stayed with them, redirecting their attempts and molding them into God-focused, mission-focused people.

Pray that you enter not into temptation. It seems that focusing on the mission of my organization and the spiritual goals for my life, is what Jesus would want for me: a steady look up at Christ and out at the world. What can I do here? How can I serve? Who can my actions and words bless? Am I able to relieve distress and point someone else to look beyond the fragile human experience long enough to recognize that our lives are about God, not about what we see here? The organization can be a tool to achieve these ends. But if, for some reason, it is not, the mission still exists and is mine to follow.

Lord, give me eyes to see beyond my daily life circumstances, and a heart that is so in tune with You that the oddities and troubles of earthly life will not obscure my real purpose on this earth.

Ten Temptations From Gethsemane

Garden of Gethsemane

Jesus said, "Watch and Pray that ye enter not into temptation" (Luke 22:40, KJV). Other versions state, "Pray that you not are not tested, overwhelmed or tempted," won't "fall into temptation" or "give in to temptation."
When I read this, I began to wonder exactly what temptations or tests the disciples should be praying about. If they needed to pray about issues in their lives, living Christ's presence, we certainly do, centuries later.

A close reading of the Gospels helped me to identify 10 issues over which the disciples repeatedly stumbled. Even though Jesus addressed the disciples, there seems to be something in His admonition for Christians in 2006.

1. Who shall be the greatest?
When I think of disciples, I conjure up the image of unshaven, sweaty, loud, overgrown boy types. The bull in the china shop type of men, who can't seem to get anything right. The Bible certainly doesn't portray them as men of refinement or intellect. So it is not surprising to read that during the last meal they were to share with Jesus, they were arguing about who would be in the position of leadership in the New Kingdom. Or, perhaps, they were setting up some type of disciple pecking order. In any event, the Gospels record this type of exchange between the disciples several times.

Mark 9 is the story of Jesus freeing a young man from an evil spirit. The disciples were there, watching. As they left, Jesus told them that He would be killed and that He would rise on the third day. Even in the face of these thought provoking events, the disciples began to argue about who would be the greatest as they walked on their way.
When they arrived at Capernaum, Jesus asked them what they were arguing about. They were silent in embarrassment. Jesus pointed out that achieving stature in the new kingdom meant serving the most. Then, as if to quash the images the disciples were forming about community service campaigns for the purpose of becoming the greatest, Jesus picked up a small child and held her in His arms. "When you welcome even a child because of me, you welcome Me." (Mark 9:37, Contemporary English Version).
At that moment, power and political esteem ceased to be the standard by which people judged their importance. In fact, importance had nothing to do with being seen and known by God. Warm inclusion of the unimportant people in the world was the new standard. There was no use for any high flown self conceptualizations. A child judges whether they are received and accepted by the look in one's eyes, the tone of voice, and an attitude of warmth. And it is precisely those things that are more valuable to God than any position of leadership or social standing.

I believe with all my heart that God has given gifts to all people on the earth, and that those gifts vary in type and amount. They are for us to enjoy and bless the earth with. I have been inspired and comforted by the leadership others have demonstrated. Some people are visionaries, dreaming up all sorts of maverick ideas. Some have built empires on personal power and their ability to communicate with others. Others have accomplished amazing feats of faith by creating organizations out of nothing. But the people I have felt the closest to, and who I try to surround myself with, are those with whom my heart feels at rest--people with the kind faces and gentle dispositions.

Jesus was a leader who built an organization out of nothing. Reading over the Gospel record of His foresight and wisdom, how He negotiated the Pharisees and Saducees, leaves me amazed. The miracles, strength in resisting the devil, and responding to trick questions, are all things I admire and would like to be able to do. But when people talk about Jesus, it is usually His warmth and kindness, grace and mercy, and love for imperfect people that are the most attractive about Him.


The elucidation of this first temptation is not for the benefit of readers. It is for me. I like being admired for being smart, articulate, or for having wonderful ideas and drive. However, these are not qualities that necessarily make a person feel closer to me or more valuable in the whole scheme of things. The comment made by a nine-year-old boy more closely hits the target: "You treat me like I'm real, Barbara."

May I learn and aspire to God's standard of greatness.

Snow Rollers

A couple years ago, I woke up to find snow rollers all over the hillsides around my house. These giant, tumbling snowballs, were the product of high winds and wet snow. They are formed during only very specific (and rare) weather patterns. All of the wide open spaces in town were littered with giant balls of snow. Snow rollers can be as small as a beer can and as large as a travel trunk, depending on wind velocity. The one in this picture is about the size of a basketball. It's just another of nature's interesting phenomena.

Absent Minded Professor

It finally happened. This morning as I was getting ready to leave the house I paused to look, really look, at myself in the mirror. My hair seemed a bit chanticleer-esque and I'd forgotten to put on lipstick. The top button on my shirt wasn't all the way through the buttonhole, but I was gratified to see that the shirt at least hung straight. With a start, I realized that my pants were highwaters--something I'd never noticed before, even after wearing them many times in the last few months. When did that happen? And the toes of my shoes were scuffed. These are the shoes that are so sensible that I wore them through Europe two summers ago and can't bear to part with them. So on rainy days I have an excuse to wear them. My trouser socks were navy and I could see the blue in them against the black of my pants.
I had thrown on my raincoat--one I found at an outlet mall at least eight years ago. I found myself looking critically at it to see if it was out of style or not. I couldn't tell. Besides, I like that coat.

Suddenly I started laughing. My mind went back to those long nursing lectures at Cal State, where Karen and I sat with eyes glazed over, trying to pay attention. One thing that frequently occupied our attention was the game we played in Dr. X's class. She had recently moved from a Midwest state and had a stunning reputation as a researcher. But she looked like she couldn't dress herself, and her hair was a picture. It was thin and mousy, clinging to the sides of her head. She didn't wear makeup at first or dress up very much until apparently, someone whispered something to her. She suddenly started wearing bright-colored suits and heels. But her hair never did much of anything positive for her. Karen and I used to sit at our desks during her lectures, studying her features. On the side of our notes, we'd draw hairstyles that we thought would be good for her to try. Some were ridiculous, like beehives and French Twists, while others were cute little flippy styles. There were times that we were nearly hysterical with laughter from the comments and pictures we produced on this theme.
From Dr. X's class, we went into our stats course with Dr. P. He had such a heavy accent that we could hardly understand him--and I'm good at understanding accented English. His hair was pasted to his head and he wore highwaters. One pant leg was higher than the other, and we could see stitches on the outside where someone had roughly basted up the hems. It was almost more than we could bear, day after day, with that brilliant but incomprehensible, bedraggled little man. One religion professor never buttoned his shirt sleeves--ever. They flapped about as he spoke, sometimes working up to his elbow on one arm, whilst the other hung limply almost down to his fingers.
We passed our classes with flying colors, but we often talked about people who were so smart that they could hardly tie their own shoes.

When I looked in the mirror this morning it struck me that perhaps this had happened to me! Ten years ago I would have rather died than look like I did this morning. I used to be such a clothes horse. I love dressing to kill, but rarely have I thought that my clothes caused pain!

My sister recently told me that she loves being the eccentric oddball professor, sweeping into her office in a black coat that almost touches the floor, and with a black hat pulled down over her head so that she looks like a rabbi. She says that every time she looks at her dissertation and what it costs her, she feels that deserves to be whatever kind of mad professor she chooses to be.

Me, too. I shall glory in the remaining fashion sense I possess and try to look my best every day. Hopefully the fashion statement I make will be a victorious declaration and not a yelp.

Home

I miss my house. My house. We sold it over a year ago. It was full of sweat equity--new bathroom, all newly painted rooms, carpet torn up to show hardwood floors in the bedrooms, painted basement, landscaped yard and tons of demolition and tree removal in the back yard. This house was right across from a middle school, where we could walk on the track. Our street was nestled between two impressive boulevards full of beautifully maintained Victorian homes. We walked up and down those streets almost every day.
It was ours. I really miss my house that felt like home.

Not all there

I had a medical procedure on Tuesday. It was a big deal for me, since I just hate it when I have to be bothered with the inconvenience of hospitals, tests and doctor visits. The nurse put an IV in my hand and wheeled me into the procedure room. It was like diving into a blue-green pond: cold, dark, and very subdued. I got positioned on the table and the doctor chatted with me for a couple minutes while he tried to push the medication into my IV without my knowing it--as if I would get that warm, heavy feeling for no reason at all!
Anyhow, it felt just absolutely marvelous--warm, heavy, soft. I commented on how wonderful it was. The nurses and doctor smiled knowingly. Wanting to add a superlative, I began to say more but midway through the sentence my brain gave out and my subconscious took over. "Wow! That's better than eggnog!" The last thing I heard was the nurse cracking up and saying off in the distance, "I've never heard that before!" I woke up in the recovery room. Funny thing though, I don't like eggnog.
That wasn't the first time my mouth engaged without my brain. I once worked a double shift and came home to drop into a deep sleep. My friend, Sarah, planned to call me at 1:00 p.m. to see when we could leave for a shopping trip. That would give me five hours to sleep before our outing. When she called, I was aware that the phone had rung and woke up enough to answer it. She wondered if she had wakened me and I protested that in fact, I had been awake all along. I don't know why, but I've always done that when I'm awakened out of a deep sleep. As Sarah began telling me which mall she should like to visit, the "lights" went out. She must have asked me something then, like, what time would I be ready for her to pick me up. I don't remember what she said, only that there was a silence and I felt compelled to respond to an unknown question. I have a vague recollection of saying, "I don't think I can go; I have to get all my teeth pulled this afternoon."
There was a stunned silence. In a voice full of concern and consideration for my altered state, Sarah reassured me that we could go shopping another time and that perhaps I should just rest for awhile.
I don't remember hanging up the phone but five minutes later I woke up with a start as I realized what I'd said to her. I have no idea where this thing about teeth came from, but there it was.
I wonder if this kind of mental disconnect is what people feel like when they have brain surgery or strokes. I recall taking care of a man, fresh out of brain surgery, who responded to all my inquires with, "Whining, twining...whining, twining." This was all he said for two days. It was as if he had some broken links somewhere--which, I suppose he had. At first he had no idea his words were inappropriate, but by the second day he was in despair. The third day dawned and he could say his name, "Yes" and "No."
Our mental wiring never ceases to amaze me--even though there are days when mine is loose.

Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer

Today is Miss Sawyer's birthday. Although she died at least 20 years ago, I think of her every year on January 3rd. You see, Miss Sawyer was my first teacher and she was not someone that one could easily forget.
People I grew up with in Upstate New York, who are 20 years older than I, were taught by Miss Sawyer. And they thought she was "ancient" when they had her. I was in her last class before she finally retired. She was ageless. One would have to be to teach grades 1-4 in a two room schoolhouse for 30 years in a little town with few social outlets for a single woman.

Anna Sawyer came from a family in rural Maine and had a bit of a twangy "Nah-easten" accent. She grew up on a farm with a horse named Old Nell, who, she reported on more than one occasion, could run a mile a minute. We all wished we'd grown up on a farm and had such a swell old horse and buggy.

Miss Sawyer never married. She was a bit awkward and standoffish, and definitely a no-nonsense woman, but I looked forward to seeing her every day. When I got the mumps in October, she came to the house to bring me my homework and I cried when I saw her. I think I made a scene in front of my mother because I wanted to be allowed to go back to school to be with Miss Sawyer and all my friends. There is no substitute in all of life for that trusting, unabashed admiration a child feels for her teacher.

Our school was really a remodeled two-story house. Grades 1-4 were upstairs in the room with the slanted ceilings and the coatroom that was like a dark little cave. We had wooden floors that creaked, so we couldn't sneak to the bathroom when Miss Sawyer's back was to us. Besides, the bathroom was right in the front of the classroom, even though it had a little partition in front of the door for privacy. We never cared about that. When we could watch Jodie or Berniece pee their pants right in their seats, privacy did not carry a high premium.

We had a huge lawn to play on. It was an entire city block. On one side of the schoolhouse it was all grass where we played Dodgeball. On the other side of the schoolhouse was where we played baseball and two-hand touch football--at least, that's what the older students played. We played on the grassy slope.
Miss Sawyer used to become quite upset when the town doctor's boxer dog got loose and chased us around the playground. He was a randy sort, humping on any child's leg who stood still enough for him to get ahold of. Within seconds, Miss Sawyer would fly out of the schoolhouse brandishing a carton of ground black pepper. Her theory was that if she could just shake some of it on his nose, he'd receive enough negative reinforcement that he'd stop harrassing us. Instead, Boxer would go loping off in circles around a red-faced Miss Sawyer running in high speed behind him, her dress rippling in the wind against her long spindly legs as she ran. We would laugh and imitate her expression of righteous indignation and her ridiculous appearnce charging across the lawn. Boxer thought there never was such a fine game as being chased by Miss Sawyer. I don't think the pepper ever connected with his nose.

She was, I suppose, what some would call a classic old maid. She was abrupt sometimes, and a little off, socially, and she kept to herself a lot of the time. Miss Sawyer wasn't good with students who were out of the mainstream: she taunted my brother, who has a learning disability, and with her yardstick she often threatened a thin, sickly boy who always fell asleep in class. She slapped my face one time when I couldn't recite the colors in the rainbow, even though I was probably one of her favorite students. By today's standards, she would have been fired. I know my parents had words with her about my brother. But in those days, given the values and expectations for teachers, she was still considered a good teacher, and there was something about her that made me love being in school.
I remember hearing women in our church comment on her hair. She had hair--that was all that mattered to me as a child. Apparently though, she had a perm but never combed it out or styled it. So her head was a collection of discrete grey corkscrew curls with no sense of organization, plan, or collaboration. She wore long filmy light-colored dresses with nude colored stockings, and in her bosom she always kept a handkerchief with which to blow her nose.

There were two parts of Miss Sawyer's body that I admired like few other things in my young life at that time: her nose and her upper arms. With one smooth movement, she could reach into her dress for her handkerchief and blow her nose with one hand. As she blew into the handkerchief, she would twist her nose first to one side and then to the other, as if it had no cartilage in it whatsoever. Paul and I tried to do it once at recess and he got a bloody nose.
Miss Sawyer's upper arms had a most arresting swing to them when she wrote longhand on the board during penmanship. They fairly danced to and fro, happily jiggling with every loop of cursive writing she produced. Nancy, Olive and I had contests to see whose upper arm could jiggle like Miss Sawyer's but we never could do it right. It's only now that I recognize that unfortunate quality in my own arms.

My favorite thing about Miss Sawyer was that she loved Jesus with all her heart. And I knew that because of the stories she used to tell us for our devotional first thing in the morning. When it was time for Bible class, she would teach us things about the Bible and God.
I have an indellible image of her in my mind's eye--one that I see whenever anyone mentions her name. She is standing there by my desk, holding the huge Webster's unabridged dictionary in her hands and telling us about how everything we do is written in the books in heaven. And how one day when Jesus comes, He will open the books and see if our sins have been blotted out. If they are, we will go into heaven for eternity (Daniel 7:10). And here is where Anna, the spinster teacher from Maine, became an actress without equal.

"And Satan will say, "She can't go into heaven. I got her to pull her brother's hair and disobey her mother. Look in the book--it's all there."
And Jesus will open up the book (she opens the dictionary and holds it aloft, her finger pointing to something on the page. We all strain our necks to see what she is pointing at) and He will say, "There's her name, right here. And it does say she did those mean things.""
We hold our breath, awaiting the fearful pronouncement that we had lost heaven forever.
"Jesus will turn to God and will show Him the book. And there, right over her name is a drop of blood from Jesus that shows that He died for her sins. Her sins have been blotted out! He'll show God the nailprints in His hands and say, "My blood, Father, My blood." And God says, "Your sacrifice is sufficient." And He turns to you, Barbara, and says, "Come ye blessed into the kingdom prepared for you.""
And Miss Sawyer's eyes would swim with tears and we could see that she meant what she was telling us more than anything else she had taught us in school--ever.

So today is really a special day, one that I never expected to remember for the rest of my life. But it is my teacher's birthday. Now that I'm a teacher myself, I know how it matters to be remembered.

Happy Birthday, Miss Sawyer.
His sacrifice is sufficient for you, and your gift of love and service for us was more than sufficient. Rest well until He comes for you. Then we shall both hear, "Come ye blessed into My Kingdom."
I'll be waiting for you.

Happy New Year

This morning at 12:10 a.m., the neighbor kids started shooting off Roman Candles about 30 feet from our bedroom. I realized quickly that I'm a lot older than I thought I was.
This morning, rolling my tired, middle aged body out of bed, I wondered what the most important thing might be to write about on this auspicious day. This entry will be brief--just one comment that I want to make. What came to mind was a statement by one of the founders of my church: "We have nothing to fear for the future except we forget how the Lord has lead us in the past." I hope that I, and anyone else reading this, will recognize and not forget God's goodness, leading and blessings they have already enjoyed. Many blessings to you on this new beginning of our New Year.