"On Gathering Together with Charlie"

“Charlie.  Charlie Owens,” he said, attaching a name to the twinkling, dark brown eyes and flash of a grin.  I had gone to the local mail center to purchase stamps so I could mail the July invoices for my gardening business.  Since it was well into September, it was time.  He had come in to have copies made on the copy machine--"three of them."

Walking cautiously with a cane as he placed his feet with care, it was apparent at a casual glance that he lives with--and knows--pain.  His stature indicated God declared him to be perfect when His creation was completed at a little over 5’ in height. 

The Summer of 2017 brought unprecedented devastation to my home state of Oregon in the form of fire.  Its lush green growth and forestland was ravaged, replaced by blackened tree trunks and desolation.  It is not an exaggeration to say the state was ablaze with no end in sight.  Lack of rain and very hot weather conditions exacerbated any efforts to bring the forest fires under control. 

Glorious, sunny summer days with blue skies were replaced with a grim smoke cover. The sun and moon took on a red hue. Hazardous breathing conditions were prevalent due to the pollution in the air.  "Stay indoors" and "Wear a breathing mask if going outside" were the advisories given.  There was no place to escape the blight of fire.

I completed affixing stamps to envelopes, and the gentleman paid for his copies when the two of us began talking about the long-term damage of the fires to the timber industry. He was a former employee of a large timber company. We discovered we had a mutual acquaintance, a family member of mine who worked for the same company.  That was when he introduced himself, with the request to pass on greetings.

The mail center wasn’t busy, so we stood and talked for quite a while—of the current ruination affecting our state, of family, of faith.

Our conversation revealed we shared values and personal spiritual beliefs. He told of being an altar boy, his marriage to the “perfect” woman, and respect and love taught by his father.  We agreed God needs to be the base of life and all else springs from that.  And that mankind needs to “look up” instead of focusing on the catastrophes taking place. 

 

 “I’m short,” he said with a smile on his face and a chuckle in his voice as he lifted his eyes skyward.  “There’s no place for me to look but up.”

At the age of sixty-nine, he and his wife have eighteen children, two of them still at home. The family prays together twice a day--as the day begins and as the day ends.  Any who gathers around the table with this family is encouraged to share their day and to pray as well. Charlie explained the needs, concerns, and the daily experience of each person matters, and all benefit from that contribution.  "What a gift of faith you are giving your children," I said.  "Of faith and hope."  

Heading out the front door, we continued visiting.  “You are a delight,” I told him.  “I am so thankful to have met you.  And this, right here, is just one of the reasons I believe.”  Charlie nodded in agreement, his bright smile and demeanor touching me.

“I know,” he said.  “I thought I was just coming down to have three copies made, and He had other plans.”  

 

 “He is the great choreographer,” I added.

A strong case is made for church attendance and membership by many, citing this scripture:  “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”  Matthew 18:20 KJV

Charlie Owens and I would have never met in a church; we would have never shared our faith and our lives.  The encounter was not announced in a church bulletin, and it didn’t take place on a Sunday or a Wednesday, pre-determined and organized.

And yet there we were, in the middle of a Pak-Mail office, the “two gathered together.”    

   

"On an Anniversary"

anniversary: n. A day that is an exact number of years (to the day) since a given significant event.

My socks have holes, was my thought. I need some new ones. If I had been thinking I would have asked for them for Christmas.

The heels on my SmartWool socks have worn through, evidence of the use they are given. Having proverbial “cold feet,” I love my warm socks, putting them on as soon as I wake up and taking them off at bedtime, washing them in between.

It is December 18 today, and this particular pair has served as a constant reminder of that day a year ago.

Visiting my Idaho family for an early Christmas, the family had gone on a shopping trip in downtown Boise. Two carloads’ worth, we spread out as we trekked along, all ten of us, checking out the local stores. While not a shopper, I felt I was in heaven when I discovered a store that carried SmartWool socks. A previous gifted pair had been worn until they had no life left in them, and I was thrilled to find a store that sold them and made my purchase.

It was cold.  As I walked along, I stuck my hands in my coat pockets. The light at the crosswalk said I had nine seconds left in which to cross. Rushing to beat the signal, the lugged sole on my Ugg boots caught the top of a raised area, probably designed to give traction in icy, snowy conditions. The fall was with such force a daughter walking along behind me thought I had been shot.

Remembering milestone events--anniversaries, birthdays, dates of the passing of loved ones. —is not something I do well. I know the dates of my children’s births and those of my grandchildren, and that’s about it. I do remember this particular date, though, and I certainly won’t forget the experience.

One year: One broken jaw, five replacement crowns, an injured finger (note to self: Do not walk on uneven surfaces with your hands in your pockets), a fat lip and scuffed up knee, but not a single stitch.

There is point and purpose to everything. All things are at the hand of God. This is my belief, my conviction, and how I live my life.

There was a time in my life when I had a “la la la” fairy tale image of spiritual life. My perception was that not only was God even better than Santa Claus, He was a magical force that kept me safe and protected in a bubble.

As He began revealing Himself to me, I learned He doesn’t keep me from difficult situations or circumstances, but He does promise to walk through them with me.

As humans, we tend to categorize happenings in life as “good” or “bad.” My position is some things are harder than others, but that doesn't make them bad.

I remember lying in bed that first night after a visit to the emergency room—actually, I was sitting upright on a beanbag to alleviate pressure on the broken jaw—asking God what I had done wrong, why the “splat” had happened. He did not answer.

Time is a healer; it also brings with it perspective.

One year later, I can attest to God’s faithfulness. Every single step of the way, my Heavenly Father has been with me—from the very beginning.  What could have been a life-altering event was more of an inconvenience.  That I had such minor injuries given the force of impact is testimony of His hand upon me.

Christmas is a week away. I’m not sure what the menu plan is for Christmas dinner, but I guarantee it is going to be better than what I had a year ago. I can’t recall what it was exactly, but it was liquid, ingested through a very small straw.

My son-in-law has asked me to see if the oral surgeon could repeat the extreme banding procedure which stabilized the broken jaw. Making it quite impossible to talk, he says last year was the quietest Christmas the family has ever had.

God is good.                            

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” Psalm 23:4

"Now What?"

The Winter Christmas program was spectacular. As a proud Gram Gram, I sat in the audience grinning from ear to ear as I watched the 12-year-old grandgirl dance. A lover of dance since she was tiny, the local dance company has been a place where she can thrive as her dancing skills continue to develop. Dance suits her.

Driving back home, however, unease settled back upon me once again. Only recently, a dark cloud of depression had enveloped me, hanging around long enough before lifting to remind me of a state of life I had lived in for many years. A thought worthy of consideration, a friend mentioned that often there is a letdown after the completion of a large project, not unlike the experience of some after Christmas has come and gone.

By the time I arrived home, I was in an inner whirlwind.  “Help me, God.  There is no peace.”

This blog was created almost five years ago. I cannot say when the seed of an idea was planted to compile its entries into a book—perhaps two or three years ago—but bringing that idea to fruition has consumed me ever since I made that decision.

The process has been time-consuming, painstaking. I began by printing out the almost 200 posts. Establishing a layout came next in order to make them cohesive and viable, with flow. Decisions were made as to which entries should remain and which should be eliminated. Next was the process of editing and rewriting each of those chosen to be a part of the manuscript. Hour upon hour was spent laboring over words and sentence structure, making certain the message was presented well and with clarity, the message that our Heavenly Father desires to have a relationship with us, His creation.

A time frame was placed on it; it needed to be completed by the end of this year.  It seemed inconceivable that deadline would be met and yet it was, and the manuscript was sent off to the publishing company two weeks ago.

It felt like a very long pregnancy, with delivery and the arrival of an independent being taking place. Only time will tell if “the writing” can stand on its own, if it has life or if it is just empty, dead words.

Now what?

Perhaps you may have been involved in your own undertaking as well, one which required focus, energy, and time—lots of time. It may have been providing care for and making decisions for an elderly parent where you became the parent, the parent the child. Perhaps it was a cross-country move, relocating to a new job, home, and school for your children; the start-up of a new business; settling the estate of a parent or a spouse with its financial and legal responsibilities.  Upon completion you may have been left with “Now what?”

The parent/child relationship is an accurate comparison. As a parent, the welfare and care of that child is your concern from the moment of conception.  Their health, their activities, their emotional, physical, and spiritual development are your focus.  And then they reach the point you have been preparing them for all those years, that time of independence when they step out on their own. 

Some call it the “Empty Nest Syndrome.”  In reality, it is “Now what?” What am I going to do with myself, my time, my energy, my life? It is a time of adjustment, a time of transition.

That is what I have been feeling these past two weeks. Without the book to focus on, I have been discombobulated, restless, unsettled.

And so that was my question asked of God:  “Now what?” The answer: “Just keep going.” And that I am. 

I felt there was too much material to place under one cover, so I made the decision to have a second volume. That project will begin after the first of the year. My same friend commented, “Isn’t that kind of like deciding you want another baby while you’re still in the delivery room?” I can’t argue with that.

The restlessness has abated, however. I am at peace. 

 

"On Projects--Unfinished and Completed"

project:  n.  A planned endeavor, usually with a specific goal and accomplished in several steps or stages.

The rocking chair has been a part of my interior landscape since my first grandchild was very small. For me, rocking her was an important part of being Nana, and it was purchased with that specific purpose in mind. She is now nineteen, and all five of my grandgirls have been held and rocked in that chair. It is one of the first places I go to after waking up in the morning.

The navy upholstery became a dated eyesore and didn’t match my red couch, so I bought some gorgeous fabric with reds and golds in it.  The intent was to reupholster the cushions.  I made it as far as the seat cushion.  I have draped the remaining fabric over the back cushion, but the project is still not completed.

Then there was the decision made several years ago to update my bathroom, top to bottom.  The paneling work on the ceiling is beautiful, and I had spent hour upon hour creating a mirror-like finish on the paint job. The tile backsplash is unique, the heated tile floors lend a sense of luxury, the sink and its fixture modern and attractive, the color choice for the wall perfect.

The cabinet for the sink was made in the 70’s of high quality materials, and I chose to not replace it but to strip the old paint off and repaint it. And that is where I stopped. The paint is stored in the garage, dated and useless by now, I’m quite certain, and the cabinet stands bare in its stripped, unpainted state. I am one step away from finishing it.

Organizing my household has been a project on my to-do list for years.  Spurts of motivation come and go so areas, corners of my home are pristine, in order but never the whole. The task is never fully done.

Yesterday, around 10:00 in the morning, I found myself needing—not wanting—but needing a nap, even after a good night's rest.  Lying down in my go-to place, a double recliner that fully reclines, covered up with a favorite blanket, I told my Father: “I am spent.  There’s nothing left in me.  I am done, completely drained and exhausted.” This lament had nothing to do with a need for physical rest but was directly connected to the submission just that morning of a manuscript to a publishing company. I felt as though I had been emptied. 

Projects often begin with a single thought or suggestion, and they either develop from there, or they disappear with the wind. 

“The writing” began with one single thought placed by a friend years ago; the idea of writing a blog the result of encouragement from other friends and former classmates.  I cannot tell you when the consideration to compile those entries into a book entered my mind, but at some point it did.

Early yesterday morning was the culmination of that project as I sent the manuscript, the submission form, and copies of the images to be used to Flo, the contact person assigned to work with me as I self-publish.

There is no way to convey the amount of time spent not only poring over the words but before God with the quest for clarity of message and a final product which will point to Him and not self.

He gave me an illustrator who captured the message and the spirit of the writing in a manner that is touching. He gave me an editor who refused to settle for less than excellence at a point in time when I had stopped caring.  Just when I thought I was finished, she said, “This needs a bit more work.” I could not disagree.

While driving later in the day yesterday, I was thinking about the fact that I, who have a habit of unfinished, incomplete projects, had finished and completed a book. My editor’s comment, “God is” describes it perfectly. 

“Tidbits and Pearls—A Book of Essays on Living Everyday Life with God” has been His project, at His hand and His alone. I would not want it any other way.

I awakened from my mid-morning nap rested and ready to tackle Volume II after the first of the year. When I told a friend, her comment said it well: “That’s like wanting to have another baby while you’re still in the delivery room.”  Apparently there is more to be said. 

I think I'll take my rocking chair cushions to an upholsterer and hire someone to paint my bathroom cabinet. I doubt it would take a professional more than a couple of hours. Organizing my home--That's another story, but I'm not giving up.