Before They Swallow

Friday night, the Sanders four trekked up to Stillwater to take part in Oklahoma State University’s Walk Around festivities, a time-honored tradition.  It’s similar to a giant parade, only the floats are stationary and the people are mobile.   Before hitting the streets, we stopped to eat at Eskimo Joe’s, another OSU tradition.  Apparently, everyone else had the same idea, but the night was young (when we arrived) and we were willing to wait (for a while). 

About thirty minutes into our two-hour wait, having already browsed the sale racks, we found ourselves huddled at the doorway separating the T-shirt shop from the restaurant, surrounded by parties of four to six with identical glassy stares. 

Desperate for a little diversion, I began to people watch.  The party of eleven to our right was just the entertainment I needed.  Two little girls--cousins, I think—bedecked in orange and black from their feathery ponytails to their sparkly shoelaces cruised laps around a large, square coffee table in the center of several benches.  As they walked their hands around the table, they jabbered to an equally bedazzled yet bedraggled woman holding a hot pink diaper bag in her lap, kiddie cups with bendy straws in either hand.    

For the longest time, the woman listened and responded to the girls absently, her wide eyes fixed on a portrait and framed letter from Laura Bush just inches from my head.  Suddenly, she blinked and refocused on the girls.  They had stopped moving and were arguing over something, a giant cup twice as big as theirs.  Slurping eagerly, the oldest held the other off with a jutted hip, her face a study in concentration.

“Wait!” The woman shouted over the roar of the crowd, “That’s not yours, Hallie!” 

Hallie kept slurping, both hands holding the giant cup.  The woman quick-scanned the table as only a mother can do and gasped, “That’s not MY cup either!  Hallie, where did you get that?” 

The commotion got the attention of a man sitting near them.  When he saw what was happening, he sat up straight and grabbed the cup away from Hallie, terrifying her in the process.  As blue-eyed Hallie backed against her mother, the woman questioned the stranger, “What was in that cup?” 

He didn’t answer, but shook his head and made a face as if to say, You don’t want to know, and went back to playing games on his phone. 

Unsure what to do, the woman let out a little groan and looked at Hallie with concern.  “THIS,” she whined, holding out one of the kiddie cups, “THIS is your cup!  YOU drink out of THIS!”  But it was too late.  Hallie had already swallowed, and I felt sorry for the woman who would lie awake all night hoping the little girl was okay and wishing she had kept better watch.

Not ten minutes later, I got a shock of my own.  My almost eighteen-year-old son Hunter and I were sharing a doorjamb, leaning at adjacent angles, our heads just inches apart.  

“Oh, Mom,” he began, making small talk, “I read something interesting the other day.”  I turned my head his direction to hear him better and settled in for one of our chats, still perusing the crowd.  

With passing interest, he told me about an interview he had read.   A minute or so into his monologue, my brain snapped back into focus.  I realized what he was saying and panicked like the woman with two toddlers and a diaper bag.  Suddenly, I lost all interest in the parties around me. 

My son was expressing an interest, passing though it was, in a very worldly philosophy of marriage, that it was a burden and possibly not worth the commitment.   Though he hadn’t been swayed by what he’d heard, he had retained the information and was obviously still processing it days later.  My heart pounded in my chest, and I tried not to overreact. 

Surely he can hear himself, I thought to myself.  Surely he knows that the junk he’s currently swilling around in that brain of his is toxic.  Surely he won’t swallow.   

I didn’t wait to find out.    

With all the grace and finesse of someone performing the Heimlich on a fat man, I opened my mouth and promptly slapped the world right out of the boy with my tongue.   I don’t remember what I said, but I know that I left no room for doubt…or further conversation. 

For the next little while, simmering in Hunter’s silence, I went back and forth between being frustrated with myself for losing my cool and feeling justified in my response.  On one hand, I know that I’ve got to let go of Hunter at some point, trust God to remind him of the Truth he’s been taught, and trust Hunter to make God-honoring decisions.  On the other hand, he’s not gone yet.  The apron strings may very well be cut, but you’d better believe if there’s a fin sticking out of the water, I’m going to yell, “Shark!” 

Next year, Hunter will be on his own, a student at Oklahoma State University, establishing traditions of his own and forging his own path.  I may not be able to keep watch every minute.  At that point, I wouldn’t even want to try, but in the meantime, I can make sure he knows which cup is His.    

Just Because

I am a writer, minister's wife, and English teacher, so it's very hard for me to read or process anything without picking it apart, putting it into lesson form, or grading it.  As much as I hate to admit it and people will hate to hear it, I do use a red pen in my head when people talk.  Compulsively, I reorder misplaced and dangling modifiers, correct double negatives (more people do this than you might think), and force subjects and verbs to agree. 

On that topic (sorry...can't help myself), when deciding whether to use the words "there are" or "there is (there's),"  look at the noun or pronoun following the verb.  If it is plural, use "there are."  If it is singular, use "there is."  For instance, there is (there's) a bird on the roof, but there are birds on the telephone line.  Please don't tell me there's birds in the tree.  That's free. You're welcome. 

I also analyze sermons, force television shows into plot diagrams, and bullet-point casual conversation in my head. It's weird, I know, but I'm just wired that way.  More and more, I think I was put on this earth to communicate the abstract, to bring order to chaos, and to teach and equip anyone who wants to learn what I know--which isn't always a lot! When I'm doing these things, I'm at my best, full of energy, purposeful, happy, but there is a down side.  It's hard to turn off even for a little while. 

I would love to be able to watch a movie without looking for anachronisms or have a conversation without wondering whether the flow is inductive or deductive.  I'd especially like to have a personal Bible study without wondering what might be the best way to teach the passage I'm reading to children, teenagers, then adults and what illustrations and/or analogies might really drive the point home. 

I know there's a good chance that I'm the only one that does these things, but I feel pretty confident that I'm not the only one who finds myself approaching Bible study with distant objectivity from time to time.  If you've ever thought to yourself, "That'll preach," "So-and-so needs to hear this," or "Well, maybe I'm just a three-point Calvinist," then you are a little more like me than you might realize. 

Sorry.

No, really, I am.  I'm sure that you, like me, are a little jealous when you hear people talking about their quiet time as if they just had coffee with God.  I'm sure that, every once in a while, you'd like to hang out with Jesus, too, and just enjoy His company like other people do instead of feeling like you are studying for a test or packing your bags against impending doom and destruction every time you pick up your Bible. 

If so, let me encourage you.  Now, this won't seem like a big deal or anything new to those of you who have been blessed with the ability to "let go and let God" with minimal conscious effort, but you type A personalities (and ministerial types) might benefit from the recent breakthrough I had. 

Some friends of mine recently lost their son to leukemia (it's actually a much longer story than that).  Their pain is too great and too profound for me to even attempt to capture it in words, so I won't try.  Anyway, the daddy of this sweet child mentioned in a Facebook post that he had been listening to a voice message on his cell phone over and over just to hear his precious son's raspy little voice again.

Reading this, I felt my friend's pain--at least in part--for a split second and bawled like a baby.  

I get it.  There's nothing more comforting than hearing a loved one's voice.  When my husband Todd is out of town, I wait for his call like a teenager.  The pictures on my phone are not enough.  When my kids are sad or struggling, I have to hear their voices to know if they are really okay.  When I'm upset about something and trying to be brave about it, my mother's voice is my undoing.  I have dozens of pictures of my grandparents, but the occasional dreams in which I hear their voices are treasured gifts. 

What I really want is to hear God's voice. 

I know He's near as surely as I know the ground I'm standing on is solid.  I feel His presence.  I see His reflection in the world around me.  I have no doubts. 

But I want to hear His voice. 

I've been told that the Bible is God's love letter to mankind, to me.  Now, I could argue against that statement if I were feeling ornery, but I won't.  It's a nice thought, and, on some level, it's true.  However, I realized that I've been approaching my Bible like a textbook, a horoscope at times, and I've been missing out. 

So, I'm trying something new.  Throwing my normal Bible study habits out the window for now, I've started picking up my Bible and reading it just because, no daily reading requirement, no list of questions to answer, no writing project or Sunday school lesson in mind.  When my writer, minister's wife, English teacher self shows up,  I tell her to hush and take a seat.

In doing so, I've experienced in a fresh way something I already knew to be true.  Did you know that the ragged, twenty-year-old study Bible that's traveled with me to school, camp, church, etc., the one I read every day is, in fact, the inspired Word of God?  I'd almost forgotten.  In essence, it is a printed recording of my Heavenly Father's voice.  When I open my heart and allow the Holy Spirit to bring it to life, I hear God's voice, feel the vibrations of it in my soul much as I imagine a deaf person experiences the voice of a loved one by placing his fingers gently hands on their throat and watching their mouth move. 

A miracle, really.

While it's true that His words are sometimes difficult to accept--like everyone else, I need a lot of correction--I love the feel of my Father's voice and welcome anything and everything He wants to say to me, pleasant or unpleasant though it may be to hear in the moment.

He loves me, and I trust Him. 

Like a lullaby, God's Word soothes my soul.  Like affection, His voice thrills my heart.  Lately, I can't get enough, and I keep reading just because.