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Misjudging Motives

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“Dad, can I have a few more gallons of gas for my pick-up? I’m almost completely out.” My 16 year-old son has had an old 1976 Chevy pick-up since he was 12, and has driven it around our little North Dakota farmstead for a while now. Country kids often do these kinds of things on the family farm, and my son has enjoyed driving this old truck to the back woods of our property for years.

Recently though, he had begun to ask for fuel to put in his tank. He was short on cash but still wanted to be able to drive the old pickup around the property…and so I allowed him to remove some fuel from the stash that we kept in the garage for mowing our lawns. Upon the third time that he requested gas for his truck, I found myself getting a bit annoyed. He had been driving his truck every night to the back woods at sundown, and I began to privately question his use of petrol when he clearly didn’t seem to be accomplishing much on the property on his nightly excursions.

“What are you doing in the woods that would cause you to need to go up there every night? I’m not made of money ya know, and unless you’re doing something really important with that truck, I’m wondering why you need that gas so regularly.” As my cynical words rushed out carelessly, my son looked at the ground. “Seriously Michael, why are you going to the backwoods every night at around the same time?”

My son fidgeted, his hands stuffed in his jean pockets as he kicked at the dirt in the driveway. He spoke so softly that I had to strain to hear his quiet reply. “Well Dad, I go up there every night to watch the sun go down and I spend time praying.” My eyes immediately filled with tears and I couldn’t stop the lump from forming in my throat. My boy was spending time with His Creator every night in a holy place that was all his own, and I had misjudged his actions as merely wanting more gas to drive through the woods in his pickup.

There are so many times in my life when I have misjudged others that I have lost count. I have jumped to conclusions about peoples’ motives, have discredited their actions, and sought to justify my self-centered indignation about what I thought they were doing. I had done the same thing with my only son, and my heart ached to think that I had even opened up the conversation when this soft-spoken young man had made his trivial request. My boy was using the fuel for a higher purpose, and although he could’ve walked to the backwoods, driving his pick-up was part of the spiritual routine of connecting with his Heavenly Father.

I smiled through my tears as I put my arm around his shoulders. “Son, I had no idea you spent time with God every night. I’m sorry that I even questioned you about it. Take all the gas you think you’ll need.”

Michael Temple writes from North Dakota.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Love Wins

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The Apostle Paul was pretty radical and smart. He points out again and again that love is the best means to any end. He actually is quoted saying that the only way we can overpower evil is to do good. This word good—agathos—actually unpacks itself to mean tangible acts of favor. It was a descendant of the ultimate word for love, agape, and was all about literal, audible, seeable expressions of love. It was dropping off a pie, washing a car or sending nice cards.

And what a brilliant idea! Your boss treats you like dirt and tries to get you fired and you send her tickets to the game and her favorite cookies. You do it for real and mean it. You get her coupons for a car wash and you go out of your way to show kindness. You are relentless. Who could stand up to that? The tyrant in all of us would eventually crumble. I figure that people either die on the hill for love, think Jesus, or for themselves, think Judas. Usually, given enough time, mean people crumble down and start returning the favor, when loved. Remember the Titans? Whatever the response, love is going to win out because love is stronger than death itself.

I think one of the reasons we don’t see so much of love winning the day is because most of us are not fully committed yet. We waffle on whether love is truly our best bet. Think about the last time you were given a dose of hate. It was civil, but you knew what it was. So did you meet it with gifts and gentle respect? No? It seems to me that if we stayed the course and trusted love to be the way out, we’d see more beautiful endings and have more beautiful stories.

Back in the seventies Jim Elliot, Nate Saint and a few others flew down south in a little plane and dropped gifts out their windows to a tribe of people who didn’t know Jesus. Their plan was pretty simple. They’d show that they were friends with all these gifts and then land their plane and share the great news about love and Heaven and everything else. I don’t remember exactly how long they flew over before they finally landed. It was probably several months.

Well when they touched down all excited to meet their new friends, their new friends rushed out of the greenery and took them down. I can’t even imagine it. There they were arrowed down with their wives and kids listening in on the radio back home. It was printed up as this huge tragedy. They were all very young and very good citizens. It was also just the beginning.

This story is beautiful because Nate Saint, the pilot, had a sister who decided that all these people needed was a little more loving. Defying instinct she found her way down to this very tribe that had murdered her brother and moved in. And who could stop her? And what would you say to the lady who was insistent on being your friendly neighbor after you killed her little brother? It was over. Those tribal people were busted. They couldn’t argue with that kind of love and they caved.

What’s even better is how they all carry on, even to this day. My sister went to hear Nate Saint’s son tell the story. She said that he brought this tribal chief up on stage next to him. She said they hugged and then the chief said that he had been there when the plane had landed and he was actually the one who had given the order for Nate to be murdered. Yes, and then with this big grin on his face he called Nate’s son his son, and Nate’s grandchildren his grandchildren. They were family thanks to Jesus. You could have heard a pin drop.

And what if we hung on like they did? And what if we kept passing out the love no matter what?  I think Jesus would have more of a chance at saving us all, and I think we would all be better for it.

I think that this could be revolutionary. I think that if every person who claimed Jesus to be their Savior made it to loving like this or beyond we would all have to take a few weeks off work each year just to celebrate. What would actually happen is we’d experience something very close to Heaven on earth and we’d feel things we’ve never ever felt before.

Think about it. Every time you have been shown love when you were on the hate of the chart, it inspired and even stretched you towards loving back. And the more profound their love to your hate the more dramatic you changed. Love works in all directions. The more I bestow good on you, the stronger I become. And if it’s crazy hard because you killed my parents or something gruesome like that, the more I will be changed for loving.

This is our power. Love wins.

Clarissa Worley Sproul writes from the Pacific Northwest.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Navigating Transition

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I enjoy a variety of interests so it’s fairly easy for me to become involved in groups and issues. One of my latest adventures is joining an alliance of mental health providers who are interested in maternal/baby wellness. Postpartum depression and anxiety have become more recently recognized in the popular media as worthy of our attention and the need for support and possible treatment. I have had a personal interest for many years since I experienced a period of postpartum depression after the birth of our last child. Our group is just starting to figure out mission and goals but it’s really all about helping new mothers avoid postpartum mood disorders. Having a baby is a life changing event—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I have always maintained that a lot of those issues involve grief and loss. Births involve change or loss of the former identity; change in relationships, finances, location of home; and change in body image and health, etc. Sometimes there is even loss of a grandparent, parent, or baby around time of the birth.

After our last alliance meeting I also received a phone call from a young colleague. She has been employed as a consultant for helping professional athletes transition out of their careers into “civilian” life. She is taking on a new job with the military where she will be involved in helping soldiers with the same kinds of transitions. We talked about her concerns regarding a retiring athlete who is having adjustment problems.

I immediately remembered a former client who was a semi-pro athlete and his struggles, including the need for in-patient treatment. Later I recalled when I worked with a retired career military man who transitioned to educational employment. His military expectations didn’t always align with the way things were done in a different setting. The distinct cultures for those who have made their careers inside a particular profession can result in a difficult time for creating the “new normal.”

I am seeing some similarity between postpartum grief and life transitions grief. Don’t many of us really experience periods of “postpartum?” Word origins of postpartum can mean “bringing forth” or “to bear.” Similar issues of loss and grief can occur when people finish, leave, or retire from a position within a very distinct culture (think language, uniforms, schedules, jokes, worldview!). It calls for a new birth of reorganization of support, daily schedules, and changes to relationships when that time has been fulfilled and a new identify must emerge.

Many people look forward to a new position, completion of a project, or to retirement. In another year my spouse may enter into a career transition that will mean changes for both of us. We will soon become part of a large generation dealing with “retirement” issues. I am increasingly aware that life phases can seem fearful, daunting or discouraging for some people. Acknowledging what we have accomplished or lost often helps us to more clearly see the path and possibilities forward—along with strong social support and faith for our futures.

Questions for personal journaling or group discussion:

1. What losses and gains have you experienced in a recent life transition?

2. If you could retire tomorrow, how would you like your life to change? Do you need to wait for some of those changes?

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

My Journey Out

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I write music; always have. Since I was four years old and teaching my sisters the lyrics to my first hit, “sister came and popped a wheelie,” I’ve been writing and arranging songs here and there and everywhere. Have a bad day, write a song, have a good day, write a song. Miss my family, write a song, sister gets married, write a really, really good song. No matter what, I always had music to keep record of things.

What’s funny is that I never really started sharing my music with the people outside of my bedroom until I was finishing high school. Even then it was maybe once or twice a year—like for graduation or something. Being a very private person on the inside, I guess I felt music was my way of talking to myself and sharing that would be terrifying.

All through college I sang and wrote. I’d go to the chapel in the dormitory I lived in after evening worship was over and I’d play and sing and sing and play and write and cry and grin; on and on for hours at a time. It was a most cathartic and freeing tradition. And for all my love of music none of my college friends ever guessed I could even carry a tune.

After college and then Seminary and then ten years of working hard, I decided it was time for me to drag myself out of my little hidden music world. I quit my job and downsized my little apartment so I could take voice lessons and record some of my music for at least a year or so without having to get a job at one of the five Starbucks in my neighborhood. I was elated, scared to death, but mostly determined.

Singing my own music publicly was not fun at first. I had so much fear. I had so much insecurity. Most times I’d end up not singing like I did when I was alone. Instead out would come a sound I’d heard on the radio down through the years or worse yet, a sound I hated because it didn’t sound like anything at all—what I came to call my beige-voice.

Basically I had to bring myself out in pieces, performance by performance. Sometimes I’d rock the song with my natural voice, only to forget the words I’d written or the arrangement I’d practiced a million times. Other times I’d get all the music out as planned but with the emotion of a mud puddle. It seemed there was always a part of me that refused to show itself. This made me feel bad, ashamed and defeated—even if everybody was clapping and smiling. I was sure they could see I needed encouraging—oh, those generous people.

But then, alas, there came the day when all of me showed up at the same time. I sang, I felt, I played and all at once. A few weeks later it happened again. Then again and again. This was the most wonderful place to be. No more pulling the carpet out from under myself onstage. I could actually plan on the music being what it was—and then see it through. Exhausted by my own very public version of Russian roulette, I was relieved. I could actually count on myself no matter what the venue, the sound system or the audience might throw at me. None of me was hiding.

I’ll never forget the day this realization sunk in. I was on stage belting out the second verse and pounding (yes pounding—my weakness) on the piano, when suddenly it was like I was watching myself play in my mind. And I was watching the people in the room and seeing their emotion and thinking about how simple and real this all was and how connected I felt. I don’t even remember finishing the song. I had moved beyond it, after all, to experience its purpose.

And in those moments where I hung suspended in time, I could see all the way back to me singing alone in the woods or scribbling rhyming words down in a book. I could see how far I had come. And even more than that, I could see for the first time how the journey out of isolation and hidden-ness can play out, what it will cost, and that it is really, very worth the effort.

So how about it? I don’t know what your journey is. What part of you is hidden or unknown—maybe even to you, but I do know that it’s your birthright to explore and express all that God has put in you so you can share it with the rest of us.

Clarissa Worley Spruill writes from the Pacific Northwest.

The post My Journey Out appeared first on Answers for Me.

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Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

Wasp Attack

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My husband and I were enjoying a warm summer evening and talking about the trip to Steamboat Rock State Park we were planning for the next day. The park has warm water, sandy beaches, and a protected swimming area. It was the perfect place for a day outing with family.

Even though my husband told me he’d find them, I went to the shed to get the lawn chairs. I had seen them several weeks earlier, so I knew where to look. As I headed back to the house, I disturbed a couple of wasps and two of them stung me on the arm.

We live on a small farm and I’ve been stung numerous times; in fact, I’d been stung just 10 days earlier. But this time I hadn’t taken more than a couple steps when I felt sick to my stomach, and thought, Wow, that’s strong venom.

I set the chairs by the back door and went into the kitchen to wash the dust and cobwebs off my hands which had begun itching. As I did that, I started getting lightheaded. Then I noticed my stomach was covered with a faint, almost invisible layer of hives.

Realizing that something was wrong, my husband said, “I’m taking you to the hospital” and hurried into the bedroom to grab his wallet from the dresser.

By the time he had walked the 20 or so steps back into the living room, I was losing consciousness. I remember him calling 9-1-1 and telling me, “Keep talking. Keep talking to me, Nancy.”

I mumbled a few words but couldn’t form coherent thoughts, so I prayed aloud . . . and as I prayed, I remember being amazed that I was able to form words . . . and then, nothing.

My next memory is a hazy impression of men surrounding me, and a calm voice saying, “Hi Nancy. Do you know who I am?”

I opened my eyes to see a paramedic I knew squatted beside me.

My husband tells me they came in two teams, four minutes apart: the first responders arrived three minutes after he called 9-1-1, and the paramedics rushed into the house four minutes later.

The paramedic gave me a shot of adrenaline, and while they waited for me to become alert, he told me the first call he received was that I was conscious, but less than a minute later, another call came through saying I was unresponsive. He said his unit reached me in seven minutes, a drive from the station to our house that would have taken a car 15 minutes. When they arrived, my heartbeat was 40 and dropping.

They loaded me into the ambulance, started an IV and sped off to the hospital, leaving their equipment scattered around our living room. Once I was in the emergency room, they went back to retrieve their equipment.

The doctor explained that rather than the throat swelling and breathing difficulties many people associate with anaphylactic shock, I’d had a cardiovascular event where my blood pressure and heart rate plummeted – similar to what happens when someone cuts themselves severely and is bleeding out. Without medical treatment, in a few more minutes, I would have gone into cardiac arrest.

The doctor gave me an anti-venom shot, then kept me in the emergency room most of the night, as it took hours for my vital signs to stabilize.

Until I get to heaven I won’t know why I went into anaphylactic shock or, for that matter, why I survived. We also don’t know how people at the brink of death will react. I prayed. God is the most powerful force in our world, and I called on him in my hour of need, and I know He heard my prayer because, “This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us” (1 John 5:14, NIV).

Nancy Lou Semotiuk writes from the Pacific Northwest.

The post Wasp Attack appeared first on Answers for Me.

Read more at the source: Wasp Attack

Article excerpt posted on en.intercer.net from Answers for Me.

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