Yesterday and I wrote about a teacher I had in eighth grade who truly made a difference in my life. Now it’s your turn!  You can all be guest bloggers today on Thankful Thursday, and tell your own story.

Who is your favorite teacher and why are you thankful for him/her? What grade did he/she teach? What subject? Where? What did he/she do or say that encouraged you and made a difference in your life? What words did he/she say that are still ringing in your ears? What other details do you remember about that teacher and/or that school year?

It’s easy to leave a comment and you can even choose to be anonymous if you like. Just click on the word “Comment” at the bottom of this post. This will take you to a simple little typing area where you can put in a few words, type your comment and then simply click “Submit Comment.”

Let’s reminisce today,

They are the caterpillar years. Those awkward years between childhood and adulthood when we’re no longer the adorable little kids we once were, and aren’t yet the cool grownups we will be. The caterpillar years are often marked by growth spurts, acne and sudden (or perhaps I should say sullen) personality changes that make parents uneasy. Those years are often pivotal in people’s lives and I know more than one person who remembers the junior high school years as the time they made the choices that steered them toward success or failure in future years.

In the Midwest, children in the caterpillar stage attend what is called Middle School. Where I live now, Middle School used to mean seventh, eighth and ninth grades, then was changed several years ago to include fifth through eighth grades. In Southern California it was called Junior High School, and when I attended, it meant just seventh and eighth grades.

At Traweek Junior High School, I experienced a lot of firsts. It was the first time we moved from classroom to classroom for our different subjects. It was the first time I had a locker. It was the first time we had P.E. (Physical Education) and had to change our clothes for it. It was the first time I went to a school dance. And because several elementary schools fed into this junior high school, it was the first time I was in classes where I didn’t know most of the other kids.

I also remember every single one of my teachers. In Kindergarten, Mrs. Staton played the piano and daily gave us graham crackers and a small carton of milk. I remember that in first grade, Mrs. Weber tsk-tsked at me and gave me a C in Deportment. In second grade Mrs. Lokken taught me to say “Rabbit!” and told my father at parent conferences that I had real potential. He told me, and I thought maybe things would be okay after all. In third grade, one of our fifty weekly spelling words was our pretty teacher’s last name: Giauque. In fourth grade, Mrs. Migdal taught us how to make dioramas to illustrate books we read. In fifth grade, Mrs. Rorex kindly let me wear a pair of her shoes when mine got drenched on the way to school as I walked through the dew-soaked soccer field. In sixth grade Miss Curry taught us about poise by example and Venezuela by text.

In seventh grade, when I wasn’t even aware that over the summer I had turned into a caterpillar, I had several teachers: Mr. Wade, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Rose, Mr. Neely, Mrs. Kiger (who taught P.E. and weighed and measured us all the first week – I was 5’7″ and 95 pounds) and Mr. Boyd. We had left off our beloved hopscotch and turned to hanging in the halls in what we thought were cool clumps. The days of playing foursquare faded into days of figuring out how to wear eye makeup and how to dance to Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” and look like we’d been born doing it.

By the eighth grade, I knew girls who “went steady” with new boys every couple of weeks, but I was getting taller and ganglier, and I was never one of them. I remember a boy I had a crush on from a distance, and how blissful I thought life would be if he would cast a glance my way. In the wisdom that comes from hindsight I can see that if my prayers had been answered about him, I would probably have ended up a motorcycle mama or at the very least a disillusioned and lonely young woman.

Enter Mr. Fred Contreras. In eighth grade he was my teacher for two classes each day – English and Social Studies. I was surrounded by brilliant students who could do advanced math in their heads and probably went to M.I.T. and are now wearing pocket protectors and working for NASA. I was just a tall, freckled and skinny thirteen year-old who liked swimming and books, in that order. School had largely been a pleasant experience for me and I had done fairly well, but Mr. Contreras was a different kind of teacher, and broadened my little world in a way that still plays out thirty-eight years later.

Perhaps the most striking thing about having Mr. Contreras as a teacher during those angst-laden caterpillar years, was that he treated us with respect and without a hint of condescension. Last time I checked, junior high school students were in the running for the most annoying humans on the planet, but an observer in Mr. Contreras’s classroom wouldn’t have gotten that vibe from him. I’m sure each morning he looked out at the blase, pimply-faced, short-skirted group of us and saw an ungainly bunch of caterpillars, but I also think he saw what we could become. He knew we were in transition and these were hard years for many of us. But he also knew we were capable of a lot and that someone needed to ask us to step to the plate. He did, and we stepped up.

His was not a classroom where crowd control was needed. Author Frank McCourt wrote that his first momentous words uttered as a teacher were “Stop throwing sandwiches!” In his whole career as an educator I doubt if Mr. Contreras ever had to issue that command. His serious, quiet manner carried an air of authority that we understood meant we were there to learn.

We read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, and Shakespeare’s Macbeth (out loud) and Steinbeck, and suddenly Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew seemed like cartoon characters in comparison. I still like the older Nancy Drew books, but back in eighth grade I recall thinking, “Does he expect us to actually get this stuff?” He did expect us to get it, and with his help, we did.

We all sensed that he cared about us as human beings. Our class loved and respected Mr. Contreras so much that when we found out the date of his birthday, we all conspired with his wife Kathy on how to surprise him with a classroom party. Taking donations so we could purchase for him the six-inch thick The Complete Works of Shakespeare was effortless – every student wanted to give. We all signed our names inside the front cover, to convey to him that the way he had treated us and taught us, really meant something. We also learned that he liked the song “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” so gave him a CCR record. We might have been just another class of thirteen year-olds to him, but he was not just another teacher to us.

After many years passed I started teaching my three daughters at home, and I pondered how much books had impacted our lives. I wrote a letter to Mr. Contreras about what a wonderful teacher he had been. I often think nice things about people and fail to tell them; I decided not to go that route with him. Since then we have exchanged e-mails and occasional phone calls, and now that I’m fifty-one I guess I should call him Fred. It doesn’t roll off the tongue easily, because I still think of him as Mr. Contreras.

When my father died in late 2007 my husband and I flew back to California to attend his funeral, and we were so grateful to also be able to have dinner with Fred and his wife Kathy.

We check in with each other now and then, and still talk about what we’re reading. Fred is retired now, is still married to Kathy, and is the father of three grown children. He and Kathy have a granddaughter they delight in. He fights the same disease my husband does – Parkinson’s – and he’s been an encouragement and help in freely sharing about his journey with us.

I don’t think my metamorphosis from those awkward caterpillar years has resulted in me becoming a butterfly – I’m more of a moth sort of woman. I’m not a spectacular specimen and I do a lot of unnecessary and unproductive fluttering around. But I am attracted to light, and spend most of my days wanting to draw close to the One who called Himself the Light of the world.

Once in a while a marvelous teacher steps into our lives. I have had excellent teachers throughout the years, in school buildings and in the school of life, but Fred Contreras is the one who stands out in my memory the most. If you asked him he would probably modestly claim to only have been doing his job, but for me he did more than that. He let us know he cared. He opened a door for us to an amazing world of literature. He looked at us and paid attention when we spoke. He treated us like the people he knew we could be, not the insecure geeks we thought we were. He was a pretty serious man, so when he smiled or laughed we noticed and took it in.

When I graduated from eighth grade at Traweek Junior High School I asked Mr. Contreras to sign my yearbook. In keeping with who he was, he wrote (in strong and beautiful handwriting) a short but sincere and very encouraging note to me, which I cherished and half-dared to believe. He made me feel like I could really succeed at whatever I put my hands to.

There are still things I would like to do before I die, but some days I really doubt that I’ll ever be able to accomplish them. Then I think of Fred. And I can still picture him standing at the front of that Southern California classroom, looking out at all of us and fully expecting us to succeed.

I’m so thankful to be able to share about Mr. Contreras. Everyone should be blessed with a teacher like him.

On a frigid fall night in 1984, I was playing tag in the house with my three young daughters. Daddy was on his way home from a fishing trip. Sharon was seven, Carolyn was five, and Sara was two and a half years old. Soon I sat on the couch to rest and watch them chase each other and giggle. Within seconds our fun turned to near-tragedy when my youngest daughter Sara slipped on the carpet as she rounded a corner, and came crashing down on the edge of the coffee table with nothing to cushion the blow but her front teeth. Blood poured from her mouth and she screamed for me. I quickly looked in her mouth and her four upper front teeth were gone. In just a few seconds her upper lip began to swell.

I clawed the carpet in hopes of finding the teeth, but to no avail. I grabbed a kitchen towel with ice to apply to her mouth, directed my other two daughters to keep the doors locked and to tell Daddy what had happened, and then I rushed out into the cold Minnesota night to drive Sara to the emergency room a few blocks away.

Inside the hospital Sara was calmer and the bleeding had stopped, but I was heartbroken over her missing teeth. I thought, she is only two! Will other children make fun of her as she grows up without her front teeth? I mentally kicked myself for allowing the girls to run in the house.

After checking in and giving our insurance information, I was told that all the doctors were occupied, so we were encouraged to go to the waiting area where several people were seated. It was a busy night in the ER. I stood against a wall and held Sara on one hip, and she laid her head on my shoulder while we waited.

By then I was composed enough to finally notice what surely everyone else had observed by now. In my panic and haste to locate Sara’s missing teeth and transport her quickly to the hospital, I never thought about my own appearance. Now, in the emergency room of our local hospital, I looked down at myself and blanched.

Not only was I barefoot and without a coat on a very chilly night, but I was dressed in an old, thin, torn nightgown, with nothing on underneath. Being of the buxom variety of female, I realized with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that anyone who had seen me that night had caught an eyeful. I had run out of my house carrying Sara to the car, parked down the street from the ER, and run to the entrance. I had spoken to two receptionists and now I was standing inappropriately dressed in front of several strangers, not to mention that I would soon have to see a physician about my daughter’s missing teeth.

I made a lightning-fast decision right then in the ER waiting area. My daughter was most important. Her health came before my vanity. I would lift my chin, focus on why we were there, and pretend that I was fully dressed. I would not even apologize to the doctor for the way I was (or was not) attired. I would be the Empress in her new clothes and I would not concern myself with what the peasants were thinking.

Thankfully, Sara’s suffering was short and her little teeth were not gone forever. They had been shoved up into her gums, but in time all four of them re-emerged, strong and undamaged.

Today she is a lovely 27-year old with perfectly straight teeth and a captivating smile…

…and the bottom drawer of my dresser is crammed with ankle-length, thick flannel nightgowns.    🙂

If I had my druthers…

…this would be our village…

…and this would be the road to our house…

…and our new friends would come to call…

…and there would be a little barn on the property filled with these…

…and at night we would warm ourselves by this…

…and each morning I’d feel so rested and hopeful that I’d go outside and do this…

…but that’s only if I had my druthers…

We have a few toys at our house, stashed in a laundry basket underneath an old oak church pew in our living room, and our grandchildren often head straight for them when they visit. We also have a “grandchildren’s drawer” in our kitchen that I try to keep things in for them. The latest treasures I placed in there were a Slinky, a Lightning McQueen car, a new book, and a stuffed baby bluebird who plays an actual recording of the Eastern Bluebird’s song if you squeeze her, ahem, tail feathers.

One of my oldest granddaughter’s favorite toys is something she picked from the dollar bins right inside the entry at our local Target store – a brightly painted plastic dinosaur she named Penny. Penny is a Pachycephalosaurus, an odd and rarely-heard-of dinosaur whose body is painted various shades of neon green and whose head is painted a dull industrial gray.

I think Penny fits right into our household, because of what kind of dinosaur she is. From the Greek, pachy means thick (remember thick-skinned elephants — pachyderms?) Cephalo means relating to the head. And saurus means lizard. So a Pachycephalosaurus was a thick-headed lizard. And while I have never been called thick-headed, I do recall the word stubborn being bandied about a few times over the years; I think they might be synonyms.

In some places online this dinosaur was actually called a “bonehead” – its skull could be up to twelve inches thick in places, and was used to ram its enemies.

Anyway, I was surprised that six-year old Clara chose the strange Pachycephalosaurus from the dollar bins, and even more surprised at how maternal she acts toward Penny. Right off I wanted to find a way for Clara to remember how to say this polysyllabic word, and as we strolled through Target I finally settled on a method.

I said, “When you go on a trip you need to pack some things, don’t you? You get out your suitcase, and you pack a brush, you pack a nightgown, you pack a pair of shoes, and if you take your dinosaur with you, you “pack-a-SEFF-a-lo-SORE-uss!”  That did it – it created the place in her brain that a word that large could hang on, and she smiled up at me from her seat in the cart and said flawlessly, “Grandma, I’m going to name my Pachycephalosaurus Penny!”

Penny the thick-headed lizard enjoys a lot of tender loving care when Clara comes for a stay at Grandma’s. Penny gets to take baths in the big whirlpool tub. On top of a heating radiator, Penny stays warm in her own little dinosaur garage that Clara made out of felt, construction paper and copious amounts of packing tape. How appropriate is that? Packing tape for the Pachycephalosaurus.

And when it’s bedtime, Clara carefully lays Penny down near her pillow, and covers her with my McIntyre plaid woolen scarf, purchased in Edinburgh, Scotland. Clara croons at Penny and takes great care to make sure she’s comfortable for the night, before turning to her own pile of books she quietly reads before nodding off.

And now for an abrupt segue: we have a winner for this month’s bloggy giveaway!  I so enjoyed reading about your first cars and thank you all for commenting. The seventh person to post a comment was Rob F., and he will receive a gift certificate to amazon.com, where he can purchase anything from books and furniture to kitchen tools and plastic dinosaurs. Maybe Rob will leave another comment soon to tell us all what he bought with his gift certificate. 🙂

We are finally warming up here in northern Minnesota. It’s supposed to be thirty-seven degrees (above zero) today, and that means no mittens, no hat, no boots, no scarf, no warming up the car before driving.

I’m thinking spring…

In early September of 1973, two things happened. I turned sixteen, and I became a car owner for the first time. My first car was a 1973 Opel station wagon. Back then Opels were sold at Buick dealerships, but made in Germany. You don’t see them anymore, unless you go to foreign countries.

When I turned fourteen, I started working at our local school district office after school and full-time during the summers, and saved my $1.65 per hour paychecks with the intent of buying my first car in two years. I had saved enough for the down payment by my sixteenth birthday, and my dad went and picked it up, driving the brand new car to my house with a huge red ribbon tied around it. I still remember him coming down the street with the basketball-sized bow affixed to the roof of the car, and the ribbons blowing. To say I was excited is rather an understatement.

The cost of my brand new, first car? A whopping $2800. After the down payment, I made monthly car payments of $75 per month for almost three years. 

Here’s a photo of my little blue Opel. It had a 4-speed stick shift and an eight-track tape player with nice speakers. I used to listen to Bread, Chicago, Linda Ronstadt and The Guess Who. I drove it to and from school and work during my junior and senior years in high school. My friends and I drove to the beach a hundred times in my little Opel, and later I even had a California vanity plate for my car that said JULIET. Oh brother. That’s one of many parts of my youth that has caused me to mutter in my middle age, “What was I thinking?”

When I was almost twenty years old, married, with a baby girl and living on Beale AFB in Northern California, I traded in my little blue Opel wagon at a Volkswagen dealership in Sacramento. My husband and I were headed for three years in Germany and we bought another German car — a 1978 VW Rabbit.

Years later when I was back in SoCal, I was driving my green Rabbit one Saturday on the San Diego freeway. One lane over was a light blue Opel wagon that looked identical to the one I had owned. It even had the same dealer’s name on the back license plate holder. It had a dent in the tailgate and looked a little shabby. I knew there was one way I could tell — I pulled closer and glanced over at the passenger dash board to see if a small blemish (from some goofball who touched the lighter against the vinyl years before and slightly melted it) could be seen. It was there. This was my first car, years later, being driven by a strange woman. Many memories, good and bad, came flooding back, and I watched a little wistfully as the car drove on past. I’m pretty sure I actually said aloud, “Ohhhh, Opel…”

So this brings us to the February blog giveaway! What was your first car? Tell us the make, the model, the color and the year. How old were you when you got it? How much did it cost? What did you like and dislike about it? What are some interesting things you could share about your first set of wheels? Inquiring minds want to know.

The seventh person to share a comment on this post will win this month’s bloggy giveaway. I am still deciding what the gift will be, but I promise it will be nice. 

Vrrrooom,

I’m in a women’s group called The SAGs. It’s an acronym for The Saving Graces, which certainly is what the other three women are to me. We have made it a habit to memorize scripture together over the years, and we all take turns choosing what verses we’ll work on each month. Then we get together at various local restaurants, laugh until our sides ache, cry until the tears fall on our food, listen as if our lives depended on it (they sometimes do) and recite our verses for the month together.

It was Lorna’s turn to choose the location and the scripture this month. We had dinner together at The Brew House, and here’s the memory assignment she gave us, from Habakkuk 3:17-18:

17 Though the fig tree does not bud
       and there are no grapes on the vines,
       though the olive crop fails
       and the fields produce no food,
       though there are no sheep in the pen
       and no cattle in the stalls, 

 18 yet I will rejoice in the LORD,
       I will be joyful in God my Savior.

As I’ve pondered these two verses and worked on hiding them in my heart, it struck me how much a person must know and trust their God to be able to choose to rejoice in circumstances like these. In modern day terms, these verses might be loosely translated:

Even when every bit of my earthly provision dries up, and there’s no more job that brings a paycheck every two weeks so I can buy cereal and milk and chicken and apples and carrots for my family; even when there’s no longer a reliable vehicle in the garage, even when everywhere I turn something is broken and needs repair, even if there are holes in my shoes and creditors ringing my phone, even if my faithful pet dies and loneliness has never been so constant, I will still praise my God, and in faith, rejoice in the riches He gives me.

I wonder what it’s like to know God like this, to have experienced Him and believed His words and character so deeply, so completely, that when everything else is stripped away, one could still rejoice in the Lord.  This would truly be living by faith and not sight. (2 Corinthians 5:7)

This is the way I want to live. At the present time I do have “olives on the vine and cattle in the stall”, but if these uncertain times ever change that, I want to be a woman who will choose to rejoice in the Lord. I’m glad Habakkuk says, “yet I will rejoice, I will be joyful in God my Savior” and does not reference any feeling or particular emotional inclination to rejoice. It would be a choice, an act of the will, in circumstances like these, to rejoice.

I’ve been told more than a few times that I’m strong-willed. I pray that the Lord will continually mold that will of mine so that no matter what happens in my life, I will to rejoice in Him.

This is the help and hope from Habakkuk I’ve recently received. What about you? Have you made praise and rejoicing a regular part of your life? Do you remember a time when you decided to praise God in a difficult situation? Have you ever known someone who lived this way? Would you be willing to share about it and possibly encourage a reader today?

This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it…

It’s Thankful Thursday, and once again I’m so grateful for friends. It’s most often through the love of friends that I’m reminded of God’s love for me. Sometimes our friends have brought entire meals just to bring a little relief to our days. Sometimes our friends have fasted and prayed for us in times of extreme need. Sometimes they just call to see how we’re doing, and their words talk us down from the ledge. Other times a card will arrive in the mail, with just the right thoughts to soothe our hearts. And sometimes our friends help us laugh, even in the midst of our sorrows.

A dear friend of mine made me laugh out loud the other day. After she read my blog post on Slaying the Dragon of Selfishness and the condition I’m sometimes afflicted with (Witchinson’s), she e-mailed me to tell me she too, has occasional bouts with a buffeting affliction.

My friend has:

Bilbopenia (bil-bo-pee-ne-uh)  n.  An inherited disorder characterized by abnormally low levels of love in the heart.  In extreme cases, it may be followed by abrupt personality changes. [New Latin, from Greek penià, poverty, lack; see (s)pen-in Indo-European roots.]

I knew exactly what she was referring to, and if any of you have seen Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, you’ll no doubt recall the hideous picture of evil and greed on Bilbo the Hobbit’s face when he and Frodo are together again, and Bilbo snarls and lusts for the ring. It was a scene in the movie that made hearts pound and viewers startle in their seats.

So while I do battle with Witchinson’s, I wonder now if I also have Bilbopenia. **Sigh**

Do you have Witchinson’s and/or Bilbopenia?  No?  What do you have then?

Have you ever been in God’s Waiting Room? I think most of us can identify with having been there at one time or another, when we’re praying and waiting and trusting that He will move His mighty arm and intervene in the people and situations close to our hearts. My husband and I considered ourselves nearly permanent residents in God’s Waiting Room as we prayed for a loved one for over twelve years. I lost hope more than a few times, but Michael never did, and God did move and did answer our prayers, and there isn’t enough praise on the earth to express the wonder and gratitude I have felt for His power and faithfulness in that situation.

But then along comes another trip to the waiting room, and instead of diligently calling to mind what God did in our lives while we waited on Him before, I am kicking at the walls and pounding on the door and wanting out, now. I’m tired, and don’t want to be here. I’m having a hard time remembering how God sustained us when we were here last. I think this new room is smaller and has fewer windows than the one we knew before. There also seems to be an electrical problem in this waiting room because the lights don’t always work. Sometimes I sit here in total blackness.

So when I recently read an account about C. S. Lewis and his conversion to Christ, I was encouraged. I have long been a fan of Lewis. I think his work Mere Christianity could convince any person honestly seeking the truth about Jesus. And The Chronicles of Narnia will always be some of my most beloved books.

While I’ve read most of Lewis’s writings, I have yet to read Surprised by Joy, where this quote comes from. Lewis writes about how quickly and without notable fanfare he went from not believing that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, to believing that Jesus is the Son of God.

“I know very well when but hardly how the final step was taken. I went with my brother to have a picnic at Whipsnade Zoo. We started in fog, but by the end of our journey the sun was shining. When we set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and when we reached the zoo I did.”

C. S. Lewis was riding in the sidecar of a motorcycle, and while on the way to the zoo, he believed. And 20th and 21st century Christendom has been powerfully impacted because on the way to the zoo, Lewis believed.

So sometimes God does a magnificent work in a short time. Perhaps this stint in the waiting room might not take twelve years. Maybe not even twelve months. Only God knows. But what might happen if I keep praying and believing on the way to the grocery store? How might God move in the hearts of those I love as they load the dishwasher? What miracle might take place as they’re putting on their shoes?

If C. S. Lewis can quietly become a follower of Christ while riding in a motorcycle sidecar on the way to England’s Whipsnade Zoo, then God can certainly perform lasting and cosmic works in me and in those I love in a relatively short period of time. Of course I don’t know how long it will take for Him to do His work. His ways and thoughts are not my ways and thoughts. But I do know that He is good and He can be trusted. I don’t always keep that in the forefront of my mind…when I’m clawing at the walls of this waiting room and kicking at the door and screaming to get out, I guess I’m not patiently trusting Jesus and casting my burdens on Him as He wants me to do. But I’m trying. Some days are better than others.

In the meantime, I’m thinking of what happened to C. S. Lewis on the way to the zoo. And praying that God will do even more wondrous things for our families on the way to the grocery store. And on the way to the gas station. And on the way to work. And on the way to school. And on the way to bed. And on the way home…

A little over three years ago my dear husband Michael was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. He was only 56 years old, and we certainly did not see that one coming. Our family doctor thought he saw a slight stiffness in Michael’s walk and a lack of facial expression, and referred him to a neurologist. Of course we were stunned when the Stage 2 diagnosis came, and we wondered how this would change his life, and our life together as a couple. Indeed, it has changed almost everything in our married life.

Michael doesn’t have tremors like the majority of Parkinson’s patients, but he has the other classic symptoms: severe joint stiffness, tiny handwriting, an occasional shuffling gait, a blank look on his face, debilitating exhaustion, and a loss of volume in his voice. Everything he does and says is slow and deliberate, and he looks like a man living tentatively.

One of the most difficult things for me personally has been the loss of conversation between us. He can barely raise his voice above a whisper sometimes, and then only for three or four words. I spend a lot of time saying, “What? Pardon? Can you try to say it louder?”, and he gets as frustrated as I do. There’s a lot of silence now. But we have a wonderful love between us. Our marriage has been a gift from God, and even though our aging years are apparently not going to be filled with the familiar, companionable verbal sharing I had pictured, we have touch, we have the knowing way we connect with our eyes, we have humor, we have our 28-year history, and we have Jesus.

Witchinson’s

One day as we were driving home from a neurologist’s assessment in Minneapolis, we were both reflecting on all we had learned. The speech therapist who worked with Michael showed him on a computer monitor how his voice wasn’t even coming close in decibel level to that of a typical speaking voice. She kindly but firmly said to him, “It’s your responsibility to raise your voice so that people can understand you.” So as I drove along on the interstate with traffic noise around us, I was having trouble hearing what Michael was saying. I had to keep my eyes on the road and couldn’t easily study his mouth as he spoke, and I kept saying, “What? Louder.” and finally I raised my voice and said, “The speech therapist just told you that you’re the one who has to make yourself heard! Talk louder!”  I was crabby. He said, “Never mind,” which of course made me feel terrible. I apologized to him for being so witchy and intense. And then this is what I said, and we’ve used this terminology and laughed about it ever since: “Michael, you have Parkinson’s, and I have Witchinson’s.”

I couldn’t find the definition of the word Witchinson’s in Webster’s dictionary, but it’s listed in my own personal dictionary, and here’s what it says:

Witchinson’s– wi’ chun suns – noun – (orig. unkn.) 1a – a condition that causes impatience: restlessness or shortness of temper, especially under irritation, delay, or opposition.  2a – being concerned excessively with oneself: seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage, pleasure, or well-being, with less regard for others.

Now that we’ve established the official definition of Witchinson’s, here’s the official portrait of what it looks like:

But God’s Word has a remedy for every malady – even Witchinson’s, because His Book is like no other.

For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.  Hebrews 4:12

It’s the only book we’ll ever hold in our hands that’s living and active, and powerful enough for any mountain in our lives. Next time you have your Bible nearby, just take a long look at it. It may look much like any other book, but I believe if we could see it through God’s eyes, we would see the pages brilliantly lit and shimmering with power, and we could feel it vibrate with the very life of God. But He has told us to live by faith and not by sight, and we are to take Him at His Word, even when we don’t yet see all that He’s going to do. So my Bible does not shimmer and pulse, but if we could see it with spiritual eyes I believe we would hungrily pick it up and read many times a day.

So while my kind and humble husband is losing mobility and needs help with his shoelaces and with cutting food, I have gone through an inner battle with some disappointment. This last year has been full of unwelcome changes around every corner. As Michael’s abilities have lessened, it seems that my life has gotten smaller. I’ve had to let go of some activities that felt like they were life-giving to me, in order to keep up with the increasing demands of our work, and of my husband’s needs. And even if I don’t always show it on the outside, Witchinson’s rears its ugly head too often on the inside. With every impatient sigh or roll of my eyes, or wave of self pity that comes, I know that God can see my heart, and wants me to be different. More like Him. It isn’t that my heart doesn’t break for what my formerly active and strong husband is suffering. It’s just that in my own weariness, sometimes I’ve allowed self-pity and selfishness to govern my thoughts instead of the Word of God. And unfortunately, there have been times when I’ve been more businesslike with Michael than servant-hearted. There’s a lot to accomplish on any given day, and I can be brusque and task-oriented rather than gentle and people-focused.  I’ll bet some of you reading this relate to what I’m sharing, even if your husband isn’t sick. Some of you are overwhelmed with your own struggles – challenging children, inattentive spouses, financial hardship, precarious health issues, loneliness, secret battles, or just plain tiredness. You know the feeling of starting each new day with firm resolve, and ending it with the confession of your failures.

Because I long to walk closely with the Lord and bring a smile to His face, I’m always crying out to Him about this issue, asking for His help and strength. I know He’s able to bring to completion the good work He has started in me, but I’m dismayed at how quickly my selfish nature surfaces. I can’t give an exact formula of how to slay the dragon of selfishness in our lives, but I can share how God is consistently moving in my heart and hope that someone will be encouraged.

Epiphany

A couple of months ago, as a group of us were driving to the Twin Cities to attend the CBS Leadership Conference, my dear and wise friend Sue R. and I were talking in the front seat. She shared with me about her father and the inevitable changes that aging has brought to his life, how he doesn’t talk as much as he used to, or have as much energy. She quoted something she had read that made her think of her dad, and it was something like this: “Just his presence was enough now. He had passed on his strength and character to the next generation.”  Just his presence was enough.

And with those words, I sensed the Lord begin to speak to my heart about Michael. Just his presence is enough. And it was as if a few scales fell from my darkened eyes. For months I’d been thinking, “Is this how my life is going to turn out? No meaningful conversation? No more adventurous travel? Just me taking care of the multitudes and no one taking care of me?” Oh, that dragon creeps in and turns our thoughts to ourselves and what we think we deserve, and how sorry our lives are, doesn’t he? That real dragon, the enemy of our souls, is always lying in wait, always crouching at the door, sniffing for an opportunity to assist us in getting our eyes off of Jesus and onto ourselves.

Then, the whole theme of the conference we attended was about being a servant leader, and how our lives are truly found when we give them up for His sake and for His purposes.  One of the scripture passages mentioned repeatedly by the different speakers was Philippians 2:3-8:

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be  grasped, but made Himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to death, even death on a cross!

This is absolutely impossible to do without God. It’s absolutely impossible to even want to do without God. But with God, all things are possible. As I pondered my struggles of the last year, I could see that most of them were rooted in pride and selfishness.

I’ve read these verses from Philippians countless times. But at the CBS retreat God quickened them to me and I knew He was asking me to take them to heart, and begin to serve my husband differently. He was asking this because He so dearly loves Michael, and He so dearly loves me. He only asks of us what will be best for us.

Michael’s presence is enough. His presence is a blessing, a gift to me from my heavenly Father. And as I sat there and drank in what the Lord was pressing on my heart, I knew that with God’s supernatural equipping, I could go home and begin to make my husband’s life heaven on earth.

Now I know there’s a limit to that. This earthly life isn’t heaven and it’s not meant to be mistaken for it – and Michael is accountable for his own choices. I can’t take away his Parkinson’s, but I can let him know every day that I consider his very presence enough, extravagant, even. He may not have many words for me anymore, but that doesn’t have to affect how I love and serve him. As I have asked God to give me creative ways to bless Michael in this new season of our marriage, He has been faithful to do it. We all need new and creative ways to walk out the lives we’ve been given. We can ask God. We can go to Him, humble ourselves, tell Him we’re willing to obey, and He will show us what to do.

Real Life

I couldn’t wait to get home from the conference to put into practice what I felt that the Lord had spoken to me. But I sort of didn’t want to tell Michael too much about it, because I knew I’d eventually fail. And I have failed. Miserably. Again and again. For me, slaying the dragon of selfishness is sometimes a minute-by-minute kind of effort. And many times the arrows I shoot fall to earth without even getting close to the target.

To keep it real, I’ll share a recent failure at making our home heaven on earth for my husband. He’s having a hard time turning over in bed these days, and not long ago I woke up as he was struggling to do just that. Edith the Schnauzer was curled up behind his knees, the covers were twisted around his legs, and I could hear him trying to do what you and I take for granted: turn over in bed and cover ourselves. So I sat up, moved chunky Edith away from him, gently positioned Michael on his side, and pulled first the sheet, then the blanket, then the warm comforter up over him so he would be nice and warm. I didn’t know he was half asleep. As I was making sure the covers were right up under his chin he mumbled (petulantly), “Stop it.” And I aimed some daggers from my eyes at him there in the dark and promptly said, “Fine. Do it yourself then.” So much for heaven on earth.

The next morning I apologized right away for my attitude, but he didn’t remember a thing. When I told him what had happened he laughed, and I was thankful for a new day, with new mercies, and a powerful and patient God who enables His weak and needy people to do the impossible by living on His love and strength.

But I’m finding that just making up my mind to do this isn’t what helps me do it. It’s going to God. It’s sitting with Him, searching His Word, and asking Him how He wants to bless Michael through me that day. I have failed way more often than I have succeeded, but on good days I cry out to my Savior in utter helplessness and trust that He will give light as the day progresses.

A couple of years ago I was standing at the kitchen sink as Michael was saying something to me, and as usual I had a hard time understanding him. After asking him to repeat himself numerous times, he finally spoke loudly enough to be heard. Irritated, I said, “Why don’t you speak that loud the first time? It can’t take more energy than repeating yourself five times!” Michael calmly looked into my eyes and said quietly, “Julie, the Lord is using me to refine you.” And as he walked away I stood at the sink and the tears fell, because I knew he spoke the truth.

I’m still disappointed that our lives aren’t turning out as we had dreamed. We had talked of traveling during our retirement years, of a cabin on a lake, of missions trips, and more. Sometimes the days seem horribly dark to me, with our choices getting more limited and our future so uncertain.

But I would rather have God in the dark, than to be in the dark without God. One day in His presence is better than a thousand elsewhere.

Gratitude as a Weapon

I have not slain the dragon of selfishness once and for all. It seems that it’s something I need to do again and again. Just this morning as I was waking up in the chill and dark of our bedroom, I thought I saw the thin, sulfurous streams of breath exhale upward from two ghastly nostrils. That dragon is waiting for me to whine and complain and sigh and despair each morning even before the sun comes up. But I have the quick and sure arrows of God’s truth in my quiver, if I will use them.

I can either be led stupidly into the dank and hideous lair of the dragon of selfishness, or I can stay and dwell in a spacious place, a light and wide open space of freedom and joy.  (He brought me out into a spacious place; He rescued me because he delighted in me. — Psalm 18:19)

Today I choose the spacious place. I choose the life God has given me. I don’t have to fully understand His ways to trust Him.  Today I plant my feet, reach back over my shoulder and take from my quiver the golden arrow called Thankful. I carefully place the arrow into position on the bowstring, close one eye to aim, draw it back in perfect form, pause, and let it zing, flying straight, far and true…into the heart of the dragon of selfishness.

Today this is what I will do.