The Little Red Hen

Have you ever heard of the Little Red Hen, the fluffy and efficient little momma with a list of things to get done? Well, I can relate to her on many levels.  As I recall, she had a nest full of little beaks to feed and woke one day to find that there was no food.  Did she wait around for the farmer?  No.  She got after it and started making the food herself.  She gathered the wheat, threshed it, ground the grain, mixed up some batter, and baked the best bread her kiddos had ever tasted, and she did it all by herself.  The illustrations in this Little Golden Book insinuate that the chicks tried their best to help, but we all know that the efforts of tiny chicks don’t always add a lot. 

All throughout the process, the Little Red Hen gave other animals an opportunity to help her and share in the reward of fresh-baked bread for breakfast.  I believe she asked a cat, a cow, a pig, and a dog for some help and all refused, giving excuses about being too busy to help.  The rooster is never mentioned in the story, and I can only assume that he was out of town on business or would have been right by her side every step of the way.  J  In the end, the Little Red Hen pulls a large, warm loaf of wheat bread from her little brick oven without scorching a single feather or breaking much of a sweat.  As she and her little chicks sit down to enjoy the fruits of their labor, the cat, cow, pig, and dog come sniffing around looking for a handout.  The Little Red Hen turns them away, and she has every right to do so.  They didn’t help; they shouldn’t share in the reward.  Still, they get frustrated and huff away, selfish creatures.

And yet, I’m ashamed to say that I can relate to them, too.  The Bible talks a lot about the fields that are ready for harvest and fishing for men, tasks that followers of Christ are called, or commanded, to take part in, and yet, time after time, I find myself giving weak excuses for sitting an opportunity out.  It’s not that I don’t think this collection effort or that food or clothing drive or that mission trip are worth the effort or that I don’t think that they will be fruitful undertakings, it’s just that I’m lazy sometimes, a selfish creature.  I’d rather sit around and think and talk about what God is doing in the world than take part in it because that would interrupt my routine.  I might scorch a feather or break a sweat.  I make myself feel better by reminding myself of the endless opportunities that lay ahead, things that I will take part in if the conditions are just right at the time they roll around. 

The trouble with this kind of thinking is that loaf after loaf of bread is being baked by the Father and his kiddos, and I am missing out.  When I don’t pitch in, when I make excuses, when I wait for someone else to fill my spot so that I can sit back, watch, and evaluate their efforts from a distance, I rob myself of the opportunity to celebrate with my brothers and sisters in the end.  Sure, I can clap for those who helped, feel pride in what my spiritual family has accomplished, and tell others what the Father is up to with enthusiasm, but I don’t really get to revel in the harvest like those who were available and obedient when the work was being done.  I don’t get the chance to taste and see that the Lord is good, and that’s only fair.  

Air Force One

Recently, I watched a documentary on Air Force One, the President’s airplane.  I was impressed by how much thought and care goes into preparing and caring for the vehicle that carries this important man as he fulfills the diplomatic duties of his office.  I was equally inspired by the evident pride that the Air Force One crew takes in anticipating and meeting the President’s every need.  For instance, they have all of his favorite snacks on hand and available in every room of the aircraft and turn down his and the First Lady’s beds at night, leaving mints on their pillows.  They even go so far as to shop under cover for the groceries that are used in preparing all of the meals that the President will eat while on foreign soil to protect him from contaminated food. 

I understand why they do these things and appreciate the fact that they do, but I don’t see why it is necessary for the airplane to be waxed by hand.  It takes five or six experienced, decorated military pilots hours to buff the 1700 plus square feet of airplane before each flight.  Why?  So it can be shiny?  Who’s going to see it before it gets all gunked up again from the flight?  Birds?  Bugs?  The ones that get close enough won’t live to tell anyway, so why bother?  

And, did you know that there are actually two equally equipped airplanes at the President’s disposal at all times?  If anything unforeseen happens to one of the airplanes, the other stands at the ready to enable the President to carry out his plans safely without missing a beat.  However, I was surprised to find out that neither of the two customized airplanes is actually named Air Force One.  

Apparently, any airplane that the President boards becomes Air Force One the very moment that he steps on board, whether it’s a shabby old stand-in used in an emergency when there’s nothing else available or one that has been endlessly customized and meticulously simonized.  His presence alone changes an airplane’s identity and gives it worth. I was still wondering why they don’t just use a power washer on the airplanes and be done with it when I witnessed one such moment. 

President Bush and Laura Bush were boarding one of the planes to embark on a diplomatic mission to Africa.  From the belly of the plane that would become Air Force One, a woman with a headset waited and watched via security camera as the President and First Lady waved goodbye to the media and stepped into the airplane. Smiling, the woman took a deep breath, sat up a little straighter, and announced to the crew with authority, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have the President.  We are now Air Force One.” 

I don’t know if it was the slight quaver in the woman’s voice or the emphasis that she placed on the word “now” that got me, but her announcement gave me chills from head to toe.  Suddenly, I understood why experienced and decorated military pilots would take the time to wax an airplane by hand. 

From time to time, I get discouraged in my walk with God.  I want to please the Father so much, but it seems like all I ever do is make mistakes, big ones. Sometimes I mess up within moments of stepping away from a great Bible study and prayer time with Him, and I wonder whether I’ve made any ground at all.  Am I any more like Christ than I was yesterday?  Last week?  Last year? Why does He even bother with me? 

Because I am His.  Sure, there are people who have got it all over me in spiritual maturity, giftedness, looks, intelligence, and a hundred other things, but that really doesn’t matter.  Whether or not my wax job is shinier than anyone else’s and whether or not I’ve gotten all of the details ironed out, I have worth, not a worth that comes from myself, but a worth that comes from my relationship to God.  

When I was just a little girl, I asked Jesus to step into my heart, wipe away my sin, and take control of my life, and He did.  In that moment, my identity changed forever.  I became a daughter of the King of Kings.  So now, even when I feel like a shabby stand-in airplane, unable in and of myself to live out my calling or to do anything of significance at all, I keep working at it.  I find peace in knowing that I have the Father and His presence alone makes my life something very special. 

All Along

Have you ever watched a daddy toss his infant up in the air and then catch her?  It’s a scary thing to watch, but fascinating at the same time.  Will he catch her?  Whew.  Yes, he did.  Will he catch her?  Yes. 

It used to drive me nuts when Todd would do this with the kids.  I remember that when he did that with our oldest, Hunter (who did survive, by the way, and is almost sixteen now), my heart would squeeze with panic, and I would protest loudly that the baby was getting scared. 

“Doesn’t look scared to me,” Todd would laugh and continue to toss our chubby little redhead up in the air over and over.  On the way up, Hunter would squeeze his little eyes shut and squeal as he sucked in air.  Pulling his soft little arms in against his sides, his fists balled up, Hunter would smile in anticipation. On the way down, though, Hunter’s smile would fade and he would start to panic, reaching for something to grab onto. 

Once, when I thought that Todd had waited too long to catch Hunter, I remember that I screamed.  Unshaken, my husband reached out and grasped Hunter around his middle like a quarterback grips the ball before he reaches back to throw, long fingers spread wide, his grip firm.  

“Honey, I had him,” Todd smiled, never taking his adoring eyes off of his son. Only when Hunter was sure that his daddy had him did he give into hysterical fits of giggly, slobbery laughter, his eyes bright with adoration and trust for his daddy, who never, ever let him fall.    

Sometimes, I feel like a baby on her way up.  My tummy in my throat, I feel set free by my faith.  When I sense that God has launched me into a new phase of life, a new adventure, or on a new mission, my heart pounds with anticipation.  All I can do is suck in air and smile as I wait to see how high the Father and I will go together. 

Lately, though--more often than not--I feel more like a baby on her way down.  I know from experience that the Father will catch me, see me through the trials I face, and help me find my way without shaming His name, and yet I wonder, Will He?  Sometimes the drop seems to go on forever and I falter.  Panicky, I reach out for something to hold onto.  Finding nothing, I brace myself just in case.  Will He? All the while, I tell myself that this is just an exercise in faith, something God allowed to teach me to trust, Isn’t it?  He will catch me, Won’t He?     

And, yes, He always does.  Again and again, the Father catches me.  And even when my panic is slow to subside and my heart struggles to find its regular beat, I feel His arms around me, strong and sure.  Inevitably, joy replaces fear.  He’s had me all along.

Wagon Wheels

Growing up, one of my favorite things about watching Little House on the Prairie was watching how the Ingalls family met challenges and chased after goals, both as individuals and as a family.  Watching Pa work late into the night on someone’s wagon wheel so that Laura could get some shoes or Mary could buy a train ticket did something to my insides and made me want to go after something important.  It still does. 

I get the same feeling when I watch Danielson wax two dozen old cars for Mr. Miyagi so that he can learn karate and beat that mean old Johnny in the tournament.  I also get it when I watch Akeela practice for her spelling bee with her neighborhood people.  The funny thing is that it’s not really the moment in these stories where the hard work pays off and the antagonist wins that charges me up; it’s when they are just flat out working hard, the outcome uncertain.  Commitment.  Passion.  Those are the things that inspire and drive me, not success. 

Of course, I like it when hard work pays off and the audience applauds, but I find that God tends to give me a lot of behind the scenes jobs to do instead.  I’ve fixed a lot of “wagon wheels” alone in my metaphorical barn, and I’m pretty sure no one is going to base a hit series on my efforts.  But, here’s what I’m hoping.  I hope that, years from now, when people that I’ve spent a lot of time with, my family, my friends, my youth group kids, and my students, are on the edge of accomplishing something worth cheering for, they go ahead and finish and maybe even win big because watching me work on “wagon wheels” did something to their insides way back when.