On Giving Birth to a Book

With eyes half-open, I rolled over to check the time. My clock showed it to be a little past 4 in the morning. That’s too early, I thought. Hoping to get a bit more “shuteye,” I retreated back into my curled-up-fetal-position.

Unfortunately, while my body wanted more rest, my mind had gone from a barely roused mode to one of “full speed ahead!” The thoughts began to rumble through, enough to grab my attention. Some of my best ideas appear in the early morning hours, so I didn’t want to miss them.

Death had entered my realm in the past couple of weeks. A former gardening client passed after a long struggle with debilitating conditions. Two days later, the recurrence of a cursed disease took the life of a fellow writer. Then, not much after, some of my family members lost their beloved dog. I wonder if things really do happen in threes. That was always my Mom’s assessment when it came to unfortunate circumstances, such as death.

My mind continued its early-morning activity. I’ve been working on a book for the past six years. There are many reasons, aka excuses, why it has taken me so long. Only one of them carries any real validity: the ill health and resulting death of my partner a year and a half ago. Providing support and care for another didn’t leave much room or time for writing.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop. That’s the rhythm I have been in for the past six years when it came to getting serious about “the book” and about being a writer. That is, until my Heavenly Father went on a walk with me, and things bottom lined. They are waiting. Either. Or. Either accept the gift I have given you . . . or walk away from it.

It was time. I returned from my walk with a resolve and commitment to finish the task He has given me. And to fulfill one of the many roles for which He created me—to be a writer.

Besides being a solitary task, writing is hard work. I know it doesn’t seem like it should be, but as I rewrote my manuscript in preparation for editing, my eyes hurt, my head hurt, and my patooty hurt⸺hour after hour, day after day. Finally, I finished and sent it off to my editor a few weeks ago.

Once the editor has it in hand, the really hard work begins as she leaves no stone unturned. Every punctuation mark is noted, placement of footnotes and their sourcing, awkward composition, the correct usage of words and tenses, on and on.

Mary is stellar in scouring through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb. “This feels awkward. You’ve used this same scripture three times. These words are synonymous and redundant. Did you say this before you did such and such, or after?”

I honestly feel like I’m back in my senior high school English class, waiting for Mrs. Wilshire to return an assignment she has marked up, noting room for improvement with a poor grade. The ego can take a hard hit, tempered with the sincere desire to improve and create the best end product possible. I had received the final draft from Mary the day before, and I went through it yet another time, polishing it up even more and clarifying ideas. My early morning thoughts went to the manuscript when I remembered some more changes I needed to make. And so, I crawled out of bed. I can take a nap if I need to.

I made the corrections I had thought of while in bed and sent the manuscript off, hopefully for the final time. I knew Mary wouldn’t be doing any work on it, because it was Sunday, but I told her, “I know this sounds silly, but I just feel like it’s in a safe place when it is with you.” While typing, my fingers tend to have a mind of their own sometimes, deleting whole paragraphs. The fear is real. She serves as my safety deposit box.

The manuscript is headed for its final edit, completing a long process. Several of my friends have read it, offering their impressions and thoughts by writing endorsements. I’ve written the author biography and blurb (a new word in my vocabulary, meaning a description placed on the back cover or in a promotion), come up with an author photo, and will soon finalize and accept the final, final draft. The finishing details remain⸺the formatting, the cover, the design of the cover, putting it all together and, of course, the printing. 

I am in the process of giving birth to a book, similar in some ways to birthing my children. This book is a part of me. It has come from my innermost being and would not exist but for God. It is alive, because God breathed life into it. An ordinary book, it almost feels sacred. From its conception, Sermons from a Soapbox bears the mark of God. I must say, though, the delivery feels long past overdue.

May it accomplish His purposes and bring honor and glory to Him.

On Being a Representative

representative: n. Someone who represents others as a member of a legislative or governing body.

represent: v. To stand or act in the place of; to perform the duties, exercise the rights, or otherwise act on behalf of.

The thought was a simple one: Stop by the local grocery store, purchase a bouquet of flowers, and take them to a friend dealing with a reboot of cancer. I didn’t need to visit; her body, mind, and soul are spent. I would leave the rays of sunshine at her front door to be discovered long after I had come and gone.

For myself, I know the source of these thoughts and ideas. As a person of faith, my Heavenly Father sends them my way. I can choose to act upon them . . . or not.

Mission accomplished! My heart went out to the recipient, her incalculable needs, and the bright joy sent her way from the mind of her Heavenly Father. I searched for the words to thank God for including me, for letting me in on His secret surprise. I had none.

Some in religious circles apply the phrase “being used by God.” I stumbled over those words. “Being used” has such a negative connotation, far removed from the character and nature of our Creator. He is anything and everything but--a user.

Finally, I had the words to thank Him: Thank you for choosing me to be part of your plan. Very quietly, He reminded me that He whispered years ago: “I have chosen you to represent me.”

When we think about representatives, our mind goes to those in our government we have elected to a position of power and authority. Their primary role is to fulfill the will of the people, not of self. However, being a representative can be found in other areas besides the world of politics. Consider the meanderings of my mind.

I feel people everywhere fill that role. You may represent someone or something. Perhaps it falls into the category of a philosophy, an ideology, a value, a point of character, a cause, or any number of other things.

For example, I may be a proponent of the second amendment with a personal arsenal of guns and ammunition. It would be fair to say I represent that cause. Perhaps I plant my garden with shrubs and flowers that are native to my particular area—it could be said I represent an earth-first philosophy. Do you advocate hard work and accountability? Without a doubt your life represents those qualities. The lives of many represent the results of a bad choice or decision. Others might represent a life filled with greed, pride, and decadence. I represent those things that are important to me, evidenced in the way I live my life.

For those of faith, you who have chosen to live with God, He has, in turn, chosen you to represent Him—to be His voice, His hands and feet. Represent Him well—in your home, with friends and family; at work; in the presence of people you know and those you don’t—so that He might be seen in this world. And, as in the world of politics, remember that, as His representative, we are to fulfill the will of the One we represent . . . not of self.

You are God’s representative. You could ask for no higher calling. Nor could I.

 

 

 

On Looking Back

A basic fact exists in life: It is physically impossible to look forward and backward at the same time. It cannot be done. A person can see one direction or the other, but the eyes can’t take in both at once.

The same fact applies to one’s inner vision. When you spend time focusing on the past, living it over and over again with guilt, regret, and “if only,” you expend all your energy there. The past becomes your home, your dwelling place. You live there—in the past.

The result resembles being sucked down into an eddy or a whirlpool. As you spin in circles, its force renders you powerless and immobile with no chance or hope of ever getting out and moving forward.

While letting go of one’s past may seem easier said than done, hanging on to it weighs a person down in the most literal sense. The past becomes a heavy burden to carry, with no real payoffs--unless you’ve made qualifying for martyrdom your goal. God’s plan and desire for us emphasizes living in the present. Setting up residence in the past serves no purpose.

Living in the present, ever moving forward, occupies a place of importance in order to live a viable, productive, complete, and satisfying life. How do I know? I come from a place of experience. My Creator taught me this as a first lesson.

Valuable principles like these establish a foundation, the base for other spiritual building blocks in a person’s life. In my opinion, this one holds a place of great benefit and worth.

 

But I focus on this one thing:

Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.

Philippians 3:13 nlt

On Being Grounded

grounded: adj. Confined to stay inside, typically by a parent, as a punishment; in aviation, not allowed to fly. Well-balanced and sensible.

discipline: v. Train (someone) to obey rules or a code of behavior,; using punishment to correct disobedience. 

 

Mom and Dad delivered the verdict to the almost-thirteen-year-old— “You're grounded!” As her punishment, she had to choose between missing out on a friend’s birthday party or relinquishing her cell phone for thirty days. She, along with her group of friends, had anticipated the ice-skating party for days. However, the prospect of giving up her phone, the social connection and lifeline for a pre-teen, for thirty WHOLE days felt daunting.

Her parents were not cruel nor abusive. They set a standard of honesty and forthrightness in their household, and when she didn’t meet that standard, consequences followed.

For many generations, a common form of discipline for children consisted largely of corporal punishment. A parent or an authority figure, perhaps even a teacher or coach, often caused physical pain or discomfort to a minor child when he/she displayed undesirable behavior. They struck the child on his/her bottom with an open hand or implement such as a paddle, deemed “the board of education” in some homes. Fear of the punishment, which would hopefully deter any future miscreant conduct, served as the base premise for this approach.

In my own life, Mom had a wooden paint-stirring stick as her paddle. When I pushed her beyond frustration, Dad took over when he got home from work. I imagine the final straw occurred when I ran from her to avoid being spanked, putting my hands behind my back to protect my behind.

Dad took me to the woodshed—literally—where he paddled me with his bare hand. The size of his hand seemed enormous. While I have no doubt this involved pain, I don’t remember ever feeling I did not deserve the punishment. I always knew my actions warranted a response from my parents. I highly suspect my sassy mouth and need to have the last word brought the discipline.

Children enter a family and home with a blank slate. The parent’s role is to nurture and guide, to train and teach the values and principles that will serve as a moral compass and spiritual foundation for them throughout their lives.

In the home they learn, both from example and daily experience, how to interact with others. In that safe space, they are taught the difference between acceptable behavior--and unacceptable. They also learn the importance and meaning of discipline. Parents should mentor, not control. Everyday incidents provide teaching tools to encourage development, maturity, and the growth of self-control.

The form of punishment for children has undergone a transition over the past several years. Grounding, the restriction placed on a child from an activity or favorite object, has become a preferred method used in discipline and training, instead of exacting both physical and emotional pain by means of a spanking, for example.

God represents the epitome of a loving parent. A clear correlation can be drawn between that of earthly parents and our Heavenly Father. 

The innovator and master of instruction, He utilizes everyday life to teach us a better way to live. At times the experiences become quite difficult and harsh, but only because of our bullheadedness and refusal to work with Him and allow Him into our lives. We often ignore wake-up calls and leave Him no other option than to apply more pressure.

God operates in the long-term, not short-term. He wants only the best for us and does not choose a crunch situation as His first option. However, if stubbornness rears its head, we leave Him with no alternative. His tough love comes from the base: “If there was any other way . . . Eternity is a long, long time.”

In aviation a grounded pilot is not allowed to fly. That same term applied by God simply means I have “clipped wings;” He places me in a set of circumstances I have not chosen—nor one I particularly like. That process reshapes the life I had planned. The experience can manifest as mundane as weather conditions delaying a trip or as dramatic as retirement plans being altered because of an illness, a stock market shift creating financial losses, or a natural disaster.

As a young woman, I had life as a mother all planned. I decided my family would be complete with two children, and I would determine when that would happen. Nothing went as I intended. God introduced Himself to me in one of my early adulthood experiences by grounding me when infertility ruled my life. Eventually, I realized He simply did not allow me to have my way. In His way and in His time, I was given four children—blessings from God. And that sums up the point and purpose of discipline at the hand of God. His way is a better way.

I questioned my grandgirl about her experience. I asked if she felt the punishment was effective and what she learned from it. “I have never lied since,” she said. “I do feel that it taught me something. (It) taught me a lesson to never lie, always tell the truth . . . because (lying) can get you in trouble, can hurt someone’s feelings.”

Mom and Dad’s grounding appears to have made its point; the thirty days my grandgirl had no phone was a constant reminder of her unacceptable behavior.

The terms discipline and punishment have such negative undercurrents attached to them in today’s society that those in charge have a reluctance to apply them. However, when they come from a base of love and wisdom, nothing can replace their value or necessity.

If you discover you are grounded, remember this: grounding at His hand results in one becoming grounded. Everything in life has a point and purpose—even discipline. And you may quote me on that.

 

It is never fun to be corrected. In fact, at the time, it is always painful.

But if we learn to obey by being corrected, we will do right and live at peace.

Hebrews 12:11 cev

On Unbelief

 

unbelief: n. An absence of belief.

belief: n. Mental acceptance of a claim as true. Faith or trust in the reality of something; often based upon one’s own reasoning, trust in a claim, desire of actuality, and/or evidence considered.

 

I wonder if he knows I’m the one who feeds him.

I heard him before I saw him. I’ve learned to recognize the click-clicking sound of my resident hummingbird. He frequents a feeder filled with sugar water hanging on my back patio. Many hummers feed while poised mid-air, beating their wings. This little guy plants himself on the perch of the feeder and guzzles away—often for long periods at a time.

Today, while I dug in the soil, seeking renewal of my mind and spirit, he sat, like a sentinel, atop the highest branch of the nearby lilac bush. Typically, hummingbirds appear to be in a non-stop flight mode, vaguely resembling miniature bombers as they flap their wings up to four thousand times per minute. Not so, this little guy. He knows how to have his “down” time.

I head for the outdoors and fresh air when claustrophobia sets in. Winter has just officially started, but weeds have already begun to cover any bare soil with bright green vegetation. Several industrial-sized garbage bags filled with leaves waited to be spread on my garden. It was late in the day and quite cool. Dressed in warm clothes, I responded to my garden’s beckoning.

These kinds of tasks create the opportunity for hands-and-knees kind of thinking. No one interrupts, and the mindless work frees up my mind for thought. The moist soil allowed the weeds to come out easily. I cleared an area to stack with leaves that would compost, enriching the soil.

 Periodically I glanced up and noted my feathered friend was still sat on his observation post.  Occasionally he did dash away to some very important appointment but quickly returned to his station. When I’m in this pensive frame of mind, I don’t keep track of time. It was just God and me—and the hummingbird made three.

I have carried a heavy heart recently. Relief and peace evade me in these troubling times; worries and inner turmoil plague me as I seek the “peace that passes all understanding.” 

The hummingbird’s presence served as a reminder: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” ^[2] I cannot deny the love and care God has given me throughout my life. He deserves far more trust and respect than I am giving Him.

As darkness approached, I gathered my tools. “Help my unbelief,” my heart cried as I went inside to the welcoming warmth. The hummer flew off to settle down for the night as well.

Christ’s ministry on earth lasted three years. It began with His ordination by the Holy Spirit when John baptized Him. It ended with His crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension into heaven.

During this time, He called twelve to walk with Him. These ordinary men left their lives and families to follow Him and to be taught. They became part of an extraordinary event taking place before their eyes, one that would be chronicled as a pivotal point in the history of mankind.

The Scriptures tell about three of the disciples--Peter, James, and John—going with Christ to a mountaintop. There, God Himself verified that Christ was His beloved Son when Jesus visibly changed into His heavenly form before their eyes.

Masses of people followed Christ wherever He went during His time of ministry. While the four were on the mountain, a crowd formed below and waited. A father who brought his demon-possessed son to be healed was part of the large throng. I can only imagine the disappointment and heartache he experienced—going from the highest hope to the lowest low--when none of the disciples there could free the young man. In that emotional devastation, doubt most certainly overwhelmed him.

When Jesus came back down from the mountain, the father told Him of the circumstances in his young boy’s life: An evil spirit caused his son to be deaf and mute, brought seizures, and tried to destroy him by casting him into fire or water. He begged Jesus for help. “All things can be done for the one who believes,” Jesus responded.

As tears rolled down his face, the dad cried out, “I believe; help my unbelief!”  With that Jesus rebuked the foul spirit and ordered it to come out of the child and never enter again.

Later, the disciples privately asked why they couldn’t cast the demon out. “This kind can come out only through prayer,”[3] Jesus answered.

The world is in a state of upheaval. I live in a divided nation--brother against brother, one way of governing in direct opposition to another. A global pandemic that threatened lives while altering our freedoms has left an aftermath of fear, regulations, and unanswered questions. Riotous destruction without consequence rages through many cities as pervasive lawlessness reigns. And it transpired in what feels like the blink of an eye.

I have been living like a yo-yo recently. I’m up. Then I am down. I am a person of faith, and I know in my heart that nothing happens that is separate from God, including right here, right now. I can relate to that father and his dichotomy--the appearance of a contradiction of faith.

How can I believe and still have unbelief?

Doubt is the leavening of unbelief. It may come in a torrential flood or silently move in like a stifling fog. The underlying goal of doubt never varies. That goal is to challenge the validity and strength of one’s faith. Care must be taken to keep doubt outside the door instead of allowing it to walk in and take up residence.  

Living life with God is a process. There is nothing magical about it. Much of that process requires digging deep, grinding out the nitty-gritty of things. Unbelief falls in that category. Its presence cannot be willed away by mind power and needs to be dealt with---by God and in His presence.

“I do believe. Help my unbelief.”

I am at His mercy. As are you.

By the way, I read that hummingbirds do recognize people. Although they are territorial, I believe my resident hummer knows I am the one who feeds him. He has been given to me by God and offered support as two very different types of gardens were dealt with—my outer physical garden as well as my inner.

I am blessed.

 

 

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[1] Phillipians 4:7 JUB

^[2] Matthew 6:26 niv

[3] Mark 9:17-29

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On Being Human

human: n. A person.^[1

This past week can only be described as “one of those weeks.”  Some are harder than others. I found myself at every turn feeling that I either said or did something stupid, intrusive, or out of order. “Open mouth. Insert foot” could have easily qualified as my theme song.

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? Why did I do that? What was I thinking? Right—I wasn’t thinking!

This sort of behavior shoots me off into second-guessing myself—continually. Instead of readily flowing, I become hesitant, then apologize for things I have said or done. God has not taught me to live this way, but nonetheless that’s where I’ve been—in a state where I heard myself say as I awakened in the morning, I’m so tired of being human.

When I first began my spiritual walk, in innocence and naivete, I had an unrealistic picture of life. I felt I was something special—a bit (a lot!) better than others. My pious, “spiritual” attitude became my virtual sidekick, my humanity clothed in self-righteousness. When anger, doubt, impatience, or fear manifested itself in the reality of living everyday life, I readily spun off into a tailspin of self-condemnation.

 One particular time, I shared a “failure” with a friend. I hadn’t lived up to my expectations of what I thought I should be like or how I should be living. Her response: “What are you expecting? You are human.”

Boy! Am I ever!!

Even though I have a lifetime of experience with my loving, kind, Heavenly Father, I struggle with finding peace. I wrestle with doubt. I question myself. I criticize aspects of interaction with others.

Life brings with it adversities and challenges. There may be a health issue with a parent, a child struggling to find their way. The bottom might drop out of personal budgets as a costly automobile or home repair comes out of nowhere. Family dynamics may become toxic with no ready resolution available. Patience comes easily when stress or pressure doesn’t prevail. Being kind and caring is a piece of cake when all is well with--and in--the world. Difficult circumstances reveal the truth—of our character and our faith.

My walk with God began decades ago. He has continually pushed me beyond my limits, shored me up, and ministered to me. As a bona fide old lady, I can attest to His presence in every aspect of life.

I am human—with more than enough flaws, warts, and foibles to confirm that. That fact also places me on the same plane as every other person in this world. I am no better . . . I am no worse. If anything of any value manifests in my life, it is the result of His work--not mine.

I am human and in good company—that of the person of Christ. He laid aside His cape of glory, replacing it with the rags of humanity. While He never succumbed to “The Three S’s—Satan, Sin, and Self,” He knew and understood the human factor—and now intercedes on my behalf before God. While walking this earth, I wonder if He ever awakened with the same thought: I’m so tired of being human.

God knows my heart. He loves and accepts me in my present state and condition. Self-acceptance, including my humanness, is of utmost importance.

God’s universal message of love, repentance, and renewal resounds with the truth and hope that He neither judges nor condemns us for being human. We do that to ourselves.

 

And the Word became flesh and lived among us… .

John 1:14 NRSVUE

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^[1] American Webster Dictionary

On Some of the Things I Learned While Turning Eighty

My birthday is right around the corner. I am going to be eighty years old. The big 8-0. Eighty. Yes, eighty. If it sounds like that fact confounds me, you would be correct. How in the world did I become “elderly?’ It must have happened while I was sleeping, because I certainly would have put the brakes on if my eyes were wide open. 

I have a January birthday, but ever since I hit the Social Security stage, (another steppingstone on the way to “getting up there in years”), I began a mental preparation every August. Thus, I’m almost eighty, has been my mantra for the past several months. By reminding myself in advance, I have never been taken by surprise that I have become a year older. 

I’m finding, however, that turning eighty is a completely different story. While I have tried to prepare myself for this pivotal birthday, it appears to be all in vain. Becoming eighty is unnerving, daunting, and fraught with uncertainty. Many of my peers concur. We agree that “at our age,” we view time in a manner far different from former periods in our lives.

The reality exists-- the amount of physical time left is at a premium for those of us who are eighty . . . or almost. As one friend described: “Being 80 is weird.” Who knew we could spend an hour—or longer—conversing on that subject? My physical future does not consist of decades, nor necessarily even years. The timeline of my life is drawing to a close. And that is the black and white fact.

“They” say that with age comes wisdom, though I wonder who “they” are and who gave “them” the authority to make such statements. Over the years I have learned a whole lot about a whole lot of things. In fact, the more I know, the more I realize how little I know. The wisdom part? Not so much.

School was easy for me, and I received good grades. One thing I learned, though, is that getting an A is not the same as having good judgment, character, or common sense. Memorizing facts for a test is not a substitute for intelligence, creativity, motivation, or success.

I have learned you can “step out.” Or you can “stay put.” I have also learned sometimes you are “pushed out,” even though you want to “stay put.” It is the equivalent of childbirth. No one gets to stay in a comfortable fetal nest. The truth: Life happens outside the comfort of the womb, beyond our comfort zones. Scary? Absolutely! Hard? For sure! That’s probably why we have no memories of that physical process. The pressure must have been enormous for all of us.

I have learned there are two ways to learn—the hard way and the easy way. I don’t think I need to expound on that point.

I have also learned there are paradoxes along the way. The support of family and friends is valuable and important, but I still have to go through life and the learning process alone. It is absolute truth that I came into the world alone. And I will leave it alone. So, too, the living of life in between those two events.

I learned I am responsible for myself, my decisions and choices . . . and no one else’s. Conversely, no one else bears responsibility for mine.

I have learned money is a tool, but it has no purchase power when it comes to my health, peace of mind, relationships, or happiness.

I’ve learned that laughter is a gift and is the best medicine. A little bit of kindness goes a long way. Holding onto a grudge or offense is equivalent to carrying a heavy load and is not worth the space it occupies in my being or my mind.

It is important to “Stop and smell the roses.” Nurturing living and growing things matters, whether that is in the form of providing food for a hummingbird, tending a garden, or caring for an animal or neighbors.

Grandchildren are a gift and God’s surprise reward in this lifetime. 😊 

I’ve learned that joy comes at unexpected times in unexpected ways and places. And at the age of “almost” eighty, surpasses any physical, monetary item.

One lesson has carried me through most of my life and some very difficult times: Faith is not the same as church or religion. The one is a relationship with a person, my Creator. The other is an activity

As I stumble into my eightieth year, I continue to learn that attitude is crucial. I am thankful and grateful—another thing I’ve learned— “Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” [1]

My life is rich in ways money cannot buy. I am blessed with a wonderful family and many friends. And as I look ahead, my future, just like my life, is not mine. I placed it in the hands of God many years ago, and in His faithfulness, He will see me through—not to the end, but to the beginning of the rest of my life—in eternity.

 

 

 

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[1] I Thessalonians 5:18 NLT