If I Had a DeLorean

I am not a Star Trek fan, but an episode caught my eye last night as I was flipping channels.  Lieutenant Worf had accidentally slipped through some hole in the time-space continuum and needed to get back to his reality where his son was waiting for him.  Now, I grew up in the eighties.  I have seen Back to the Future countless times, so I totally get the fact that the time-space continuum is not to be messed with.  Whether we like it or not, the choices that we make today do affect the future, ours and everyone else’s.  If we aren’t careful, we could accidentally jeopardize the well-being of our loved ones, present and future.  We could even give the enemy a leg up without meaning to. 

On that topic, my thoughts turn for the hundredth time to a student who told me last week they would be moving to a private Christian school very soon.  Although the announcement made me very sad, I get it.  At least, I think I do.  I have many friends whose children are either home-schooled or attend private Christian school.   As I understand it, in each case some or most of the following factors played a big role in those parents’ decision to seek alternative schooling for their children:  safety, quality of education, social influence, curriculum, family time, children with special needs, and flexibility.   If those friends are reading, I apologize if I missed any of the reasons you have stated. 

While I don’t agree with every criticism that I have heard about public schools, I admit that many are valid to varying degrees, depending on the specific school system being discussed.  However, as a public school teacher whose children both attend public school, I am tempted to answer such criticisms with an extensive list of the benefits of public education.  I am also tempted to raise questions of my own concerning alternative schooling, but I don’t and won’t because I want to avoid the whole “Which is best, home-schooling, Christian school, or public school?” debate. 

The only reason I am bringing up education now is to ask a simple question.  What would public school be like today if no Christian family had ever pulled out of it?  What if, instead of withdrawing, those early parents had resolved to influence the world through education, taking leadership positions within the public school system as teachers, administrators, volunteers, committee members, and board members? Would those who currently feel compelled to home-school or send their children to private Christian school even feel the need to do so? 

I don’t think so, not if the Christian kids that I have had in class are any indication.  For the most part, they are brave young men and women of integrity, imperfect, as we all are, but correctable and eager to be a part of what God is doing in the lives of the non-Christian kids around them.  You know, I wonder sometimes what it would be like if the many home-schooled and private Christian school kids in our area were to suddenly enroll in the surrounding public schools.  The thought gives me chills, and I imagine the relief that my Christian students would feel would not be unlike that of weary soldiers when new troops arrive.  Of course I can’t speak to that reality for sure.  I’ve not lived it. 

But, I wish I could.

In fact, I wish I had a DeLorean like Doc Brown’s so I could go back in time and talk to the first Christian families that ever pulled out of public schools.  I would try to change their minds so that I could return to what I believe would be a better, stronger United States of America, where Christian kids made up a large percentage of the student population and no one had taken prayer out of schools or Bible verses out of textbooks. 

On the other hand, if I did have a DeLorean, I’d be tempted to peek into the future, and I don’t think I want to see the world my grandchildren will live in if Christian families continue to withdraw from public school, the place where most of the next generation are actively forming their opinions, developing their convictions, and becoming who they will someday be.  One thing is for sure, DeLorean or not, time is passing, and, sooner than we think, we will arrive together in the future we have created. 

Keeping that in mind, may we be ever so careful and prayerful in making decisions for our families that have the potential to affect others.  Let’s not give the enemy a leg up without meaning to. 

The Bride

I don’t love weddings the way some women do, but I enjoyed myself immensely at a wedding last Friday night.  It was a simple, yet elegant affair, an intimate gathering of people who truly enjoy one another’s company.  We hugged.  We talked.  We laughed.  We ate wedding cake and caught up with old friends.  At the end of the night, we were in no hurry to leave.  Even after the bride and groom dashed for their car through a shower of tiny bubbles, we lingered, reluctant to say goodbye.  

On the way home, the kids asleep in the back seat, I thought about the ceremony and remembered happily the bride and groom at the altar.  Holding hands tightly and making can-you-believe-this-is-real faces at one another, they had taken their vows and become man and wife before God and everybody.  I was encouraged by the genuine affection and enthusiasm I had seen in the bride’s smile.  Because we care so much about the groom, I pray that her smile never fades.

I know that it happens.  Sometimes women forget to stay in love with their husbands, letting familiarity and routine cloud the wonder of intimacy with another human being.  To fill the resulting void, they turn to things that are not bad in and of themselves, hobbies, fellowship with friends, career, food, and entertainment.  The dose makes the poison, though, and too much of what could be a good thing can actually rob a person of God’s best for them, in this case, fostering selfish autonomy and damaging the marriage relationship until it’s difficult to tell by watching and listening whether a woman is married or not.

Sometimes I fear that this very thing is happening to the Church.  More and more, it’s difficult to tell who does and who doesn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus.  Word by phrase, individuals within the body are adopting the language of the world and laughing at what God calls detestable.  Bite by drink, they are consuming things they could do without and abusing the freedom that is theirs in Christ.  Having lost the wonder of their salvation, they’ve developed itching ears and flattering tongues, exchanging accountability and growth for empty religion and shallow fellowship.

Though there are many who still seek His face in earnest, setting themselves apart for Him and showing others the way, on the whole, the chosen and beautiful bride of Christ seems to be loosening her grip and pulling away from Him.  I know that it happens.  I’ve read the Old Testament.  But, even so, it breaks my heart because I love the groom. 

A Kid Again

Last week was one of grown-up frustration, unexpected bills to be paid, challenging relationships to navigate, and difficult decisions to be made, the kind of week that leaves me feeling shaky and unsure of myself.  So, at the end of it, my eyes burning from lack of sleep, my heart tight with unshed tears, I did what I always do when life gets to be too much.  I tucked my head up under my husband’s chin and tried to get lost in his strong, head-of-household embrace.  As always, his steady heartbeat brought mine into rhythm, and his softly spoken words of encouragement cooled my nerves like a balm. 

Still, in that moment, I wished I were a kid again.  When I was a little girl in my parents’ home, I didn’t worry about money.  I didn’t lose sleep over relationships gone messy, and I didn’t spend too much time worrying about the consequences of the decisions I made.  Why?  Because, ultimately, my parents took care of those things.  They were not of the “sink or swim” school of parenting. They made sure that I always had food to eat and clothes to wear.  They were there for me when friendships went sour, and they helped me make big decisions. My daddy used to say, “Angela, I will make all of your decisions for you until you start making the right ones,” and, true to his word, he did. 

When I was a child, I was at peace.  Why not now? Well, over the years, I have developed a destructive habit.  I worry.  Instead of trusting God—the same God, incidentally, who set me up with the amazing parents and wonderful husband that I have—to take care of things, I hang on to my troubles, mulling them over and over again in my head as if doing so will make them go away, but it doesn’t.  All it does is rob my loved ones of my time and energy and make me ill in the process. 

So, what to do? 

My daddy once taught me this verse.  “Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7.  When I was a teenager, fending off the enemy’s first real attempt to cripple my faith, I claimed this verse and waited for God to restore my joy.  He did.  When I was a college student, making important decisions that would determine the course and quality of my future, I claimed this verse and waited for God to show me the path to take.  He did.  When Todd and I were newlyweds, I claimed this verse and waited for God to literally fill the refrigerator, which he did, time and time again.  God has never given me any reason to doubt Him, yet, somewhere along the way, I stopped casting and started worrying. 

Well, I think it’s about time I started acting like the child of God that I am once again.  After all, God is not a “sink or swim” kind of Father.  He never intended for me to handle things on my own.  Through His Word, He guides me.  In my obedience, He protects me.  Through His Son, He forgives me.  Through it all, He loves me.  Knowing this to be true, I think tonight, though health concerns nag and uncertainty continues to mock, I’ll tuck my head up under the Father’s chin where it belongs and get lost in His vast King of Kings embrace.  Casting my anxiety on Him, I will choose to rest.  In His strength, I will let the reality of His unconditional love bring my troubled heart into rhythm and the Truth of His Word change my worry to calm.     

 

Forever Changed

I wish my kids could meet my Pepa, but he passed away before they were born.  Hunter came close to meeting him, though.  Within touching distance, actually.  The week before Pepa passed, I went to see him, ultrasound video in tow.  I was only two months away from delivering his first great-grandchild, and I wanted him to get to share in the excitement.  Weary from his struggle with cancer, Pepa wasn’t moving around or speaking much at that point, but spent his days quietly on a long, blue sofa, so I settled in on the floor as close to him as I possibly could, my back to the sofa, so that we could watch the ultrasound video together. 

I tried, at first, to interpret for Pepa what we were seeing on the video, but realized pretty quickly that I didn’t really know myself.   Laughing at my own ineptitude, I turned to share a smile with Pepa and locked eyes with his.  Large in his sweet, tired face, his dark eyes were tearful and sad.  My own eyes brimmed in response.  Smiling, he reached out and smoothed my hair back from my face. That was when I first realized that Pepa might not be with us when my baby boy was born.  Gently, I took his hand and placed it on my belly right where Hunter had been kicking just moments before and prayed silently that it would happen again.  It did. For a full minute or so, Hunter twisted and kicked and stretched as if trying to meet his great-grandfather, but it wasn’t to be, not in this life anyway.      

Pepa is with Jesus now, and I’ve done my best to bring him to life in the minds of both of my children, telling them stories about the gentle and generous man of steel and velvet that I knew as a child, one of the strongest branches in their family tree.  Mema and my mother have certainly helped.  Recently, my mother showed us a display that she’s created in a large, black hutch in my parents’ living room.  A miniature museum of sorts, it is full of black-and-white images of my grandparents and great-grandparents.  In the center, a small cedar box holds family mementoes and keepsakes. 

Though I knew the faces in the photos, at least by name, I was stumped at first by some of the trinkets in the chest, a piece of lace and some oddly shaped pieces of tin.  Anxious to share some family history, my mother explained that the lace was from Mema’s wedding dress and that the pieces of tin were trench art valentines that Pepa had etched for Mema while stationed in New Guinea during World War II.  I was touched by what I saw and read.  The etchings were lovingly and painstakingly done, one depicting a lonesome soldier outside his tent under the stars.  “Missing you,” the caption read, the note beginning with “My Darling Wife.” After giving us time to examine the valentines, my mother drew our attention to the photo of a very young Mema standing by a vase of roses.  With pride, my mother explained that Pepa had arranged from New Guinea to have the roses sent to Mema on their first wedding anniversary. Pepa was a true romantic, and I smiled at the reminder.

As my mother talked, I grew wistful, imagining scenes that never did and never will play out in real life, Hunter and Hope running from the car into Pepa’s waiting arms at Christmas, Pepa telling my thirteen-year-old daughter over and over again that she is “just beautiful,” and Pepa teaching my son how to dream big dreams and chase them, all things that I was blessed to experience myself.  My eyes began to sting.  At the end of our visit, my children left my parents’ house encouraged and inspired by what they had heard.  Feeling good about life and family in general, they tucked their newly acquired knowledge away and went about the rest of their day as usual, but the ache in my heart remained.  It’s one thing to hear about a person and another entirely to know them.  Though Hunter and Hope probably feel as if they know Pepa pretty well by now, they still have never met him. 

These days, it seems that people are quoting scripture and talking about prayer like never before, and that is wonderful.  Scripture and prayer are things we desperately need, but I can’t help wondering just how many people are walking around feeling as if they know God pretty well when they’ve never actually met Him.  Christians and non-Christians alike draw encouragement and inspiration from reading the Bible, but reading—even believing—the Bible and knowing God personally are two completely different things.  God has given His Word to the world so that those who don’t know Him can find Him, but salvation and subsequent intimacy with God are only available to those who put their faith in Jesus Christ to forgive them of sin and rescue them from eternal separation from God. 

Understand, God is not our cheerleader; He is the one and only Hope for this lost and dying world.  To meet Him is to be moved beyond encouragement and inspiration.  To know Him is to be forever changed.    

Not Quite

Growing up, I was a Mema’s girl, and why not?  She always made me feel as if I were the most important person in the world, buying all of my favorite foods when I came to visit, drawing bubble baths for me, and waiting patiently for me to get my quarter’s worth out of the mechanical horse at the grocery store.  What’s more, she is the only person ever to announce my entrance into a room with, “And now, the one, the only, Angela Dee!”  Understandably, I got homesick for my Mema quite often when I was little.  I still do.

One Sunday morning when I was about seven years old, my Mema, who lived almost two hours away at that time, appeared unexpectedly in the hallway outside of my Sunday school class.  My heart did a happy little flip.  Without hesitation, I dropped my Sunday school artwork and Precious Moments Bible and ran toward her, arms outstretched.

“MEMA!” I cried.

She hesitated for just a moment before squatting down to my level, though, and even as I embraced her, I knew something wasn’t right.  Though she had blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and wore plenty of gold jewelry, this Mema hadn’t smiled or called my name.  This Mema was too small in my arms, too bony.  I froze.  This Mema wasn’t hugging me back.  Heart pounding, I pulled back just enough to look into deep, violet eyes that were not quite my Mema’s.

It’s fascinating to scroll through Facebook and Twitter feeds these days.  People are very open about their personal lives, and I am encouraged to see how many people are really trying to make a difference in the world, praying for the sick, giving of their time and money, and reading and quoting their Bibles openly.  These are all good things in and of themselves, but I really wish that I could scroll through hearts as well.

I would love to know for sure that these people I know and care about are doing good things because they belong to Jesus and are living to please Him.  I hope with all of my heart that He is the source of their apparent passion because, eternally speaking, good works and good intentions count for nothing outside of a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  What a nightmare it would be to run into eternity with confidence only to find that what you had embraced here on earth, though worthwhile and good, was not quite Jesus after all and, therefore, not quite salvation. 

My Heart Bouquet

When my daughter Hope was in the second grade, she started bringing me wildflowers from the school playground.  Every afternoon, smiling proudly, she would run to the car, a tiny, purple wildflower pinched delicately between her thumb and forefinger. 

“For you, Mommy!” she always announced as she climbed into the backseat.  As soon as we got home, we always put the tiny blossoms in a cup of water.  However, as wildflowers tend to do, thy almost always died by morning, putting a damper on Hope’s spirits. 

After a few weeks of this routine, I told Hope that she didn’t have to pick the flowers to give them to me.  I told her that she could find one she liked at recess and then point it out to me when I picked her up.  I promised to collect them into a bouquet in my heart that wouldn’t ever die.  Reluctantly, she agreed.

That summer was our first to spend on grounds at Falls Creek youth camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma.  I’ll never forget the look on Hope’s face as we wound our way around the mountain on the high road into camp.  “Look, Mommy!” she said, pointing to the wildflowers that covered the otherwise rocky landscape.  I smiled.  The cacti were in bloom, the dandelions were plentiful, and tall, dry stalks shot out from between the rocks, topped by purple flowers that looked that suspended firework explosions. 

“Those are pretty, Mommy,” Hope almost squealed. "I’ll get you some of those.”   

I reminded her that she didn’t have to pick them to give them to me.  When she discovered that the cactus blooms came with sharp needles and that the stems of the purple flowers oozed sticky, milky goo, she was glad not to pick them and embraced the idea of a heart bouquet with new enthusiasm. 

That was a fun summer.  Looking for flowers to add to my heart bouquet became a sort of quest for the two of us.  Every time we found a new kind of flower, Hope would point triumphantly.  “That one’s yours,” she would announce with a smile.  By the end of the summer, my heart bouquet was huge, full of cactus blooms, dandelions, crepe myrtle blossoms, baby’s breath, and other flowers that we didn’t know the names for. 

The funny thing about my heart bouquet is this.  After all of these years, I can still see it clearly in my mind.  What’s more, I can also see the sweet, soft face of my beautiful thirteen-year-old daughter as the exuberant, carefree, tender-hearted second grader she once was.  I can hear the excitement in her voice as she points out wildflowers and feel the heat of her summer-flush cheeks against mine as I hug my thanks before we continue our walk.  The memory makes my heart squeeze and my eyes sting.  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to live that summer—or just one day in it—with my little girl again. 

I was thinking about my heart bouquet as Todd and I drove around Falls Creek today.  Everywhere we looked, kids were getting along, having fun, and proclaiming their faith easily.  “Jesus loves you!” we were told at least a dozen times as we passed group after group of happy, T-shirt wearing teenagers.  We visited the Icee Hut, Boulder Springs, and other land marks before passing the cabin that I used to stay in as a teenager.  In that moment, it wasn’t hard to imagine myself thirteen again, discovering for the first time that God had an amazing plan for my life that required my full surrender; sixteen, struggling to make “level paths” for my feet; or eighteen, resolved to let God lead my heart where He would, whatever the cost. 

It’s no wonder that so many adults have such precious memories of church camp, some so vivid that they squeeze their hearts and cause their eyes to sting.  Just as kids still do, those adults once went to church camp open to the prospect of meeting with God, eager to experience something brand new, and willing to receive Truth with the power to change their lives forever.  Without pretense or thought to consequence, they gave themselves over to His grace and mercy and experienced in that moment true intimacy with the Creator of the Universe.   That doesn’t happen every day, you know.  But it should. 

I can’t help wondering what would happen if we approached every day the way we used to approach a week at church camp when we were kids, open, eager, and willing to experience God without pretense or thought to consequence.  What if we made a habit of looking for His activity in our lives and then lived our lives in worshipful response?  Personally, I think that we would find ourselves with a heart bouquet of significant moments with God so big, beautiful, and fragrant that we would never again be tempted to let it die. 

His Point of View

Our across-the-street neighbor is a curious old man with the enthusiasm of a child and the body of the Abominable Snowman.  I know this only because he rarely wears a shirt.  No matter the season, he rarely deviates from his bill-cap, back-brace, and cut-off shorts uniform. Most days, he sits in a frayed blue lawn-chair in his drive-way and waves to each and every car that drives by Hitler style.  Cluttered garage on display and blue-grass blaring, my neighbor putters constantly.  As my next-door neighbor puts it, “It seems he’s always busy, but rarely accomplishes anything.”

Personally, I’ve watched him whittle, simonize, plant, prune, and polish lots of things, and, over the past four years, I’ve probably watched him take in and put back out close to four dozen plants and trees.  And still, though I’ve never actually seen anything take shape or grow as a result of his focused attention, I’d say the old man is onto something.  He sees things I don’t, and I mean that quite literally.

Recently, I ventured into Abominable’s lair to let him know we’d be out of town for a few days.  I figured there was no one better to keep an eye on things, as he spends most of his time gazing in the direction of our house anyway.  Our burly friend was pleased to help and told me so with a lippy smile.  Anxious to get back home, I turned to leave, but my feet stood still.  Met with the most beautiful panoramic view of the Tulsa sky that I’ve seen to date, I suddenly forgot what it was I needed to hurry back and do. Fluffy, cumulonimbus clouds slid across the turquoise sky like frothy bubble bath, their bottoms heavy with rain that would fall soon enough somewhere else.     

“Wow,” I muttered.

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled.  Leaning back in his lawn chair, he sighed, his hands, one holding an oozing bottle of furniture polish and the other a rag, resting against bare thighs.  Watching the clouds with me, he continued, “Just don’t want to be inside when I can be out here, you know?”  Suddenly I understood. In my neighbor’s eyes, life isn’t about the task, but the view.

We who truly seek to follow Christ must look like crazy people to the rest of the world, talking to an invisible God, giving up what seems to be ours for the eternal good of others, treating people right only to be mistreated.  To those with their eyes set on the tangible and temporary, we must look like busy people who rarely accomplish anything.  If only they understood what we understand, that this life is but a breath in the grand scheme of things, that a rich inheritance awaits those who surrender their hearts to Jesus, that true joy is found only in sacrifice, then they would understand why live the way that we do, our eyes constantly on the Father, our hearts set on things above.  They would want for themselves what we have because life finally makes sense when you see it from the Father’s point of view.