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| The Beauty |
My transportation of choice the past two days has been a gorgeous, gas-guzzling 2014 Chevy Tahoe, the kind of SUV red-blooded males drool over, discussing horsepower and God knows what else. This is unlike the reaction my '97 Ford Ranger pickup evokes, which would be none at all.
In all honesty, I can't really say it was my choice; it was the only vehicle available on the car rental lot. They rented it for the same price as the compact car I had reserved, but I'm certain when I refill the gas tank to return it, that savings will disappear.
It won't be long before the guy at Avis, the rental lot, and I are on a first name basis. When I walked through the door yesterday morning, he commented, "Is your truck in the shop again?" He nailed it. When problems occur with my pickup, I still need transportation for work, and that is how our relationship has developed.
While heading home from a job the other day, I found myself thinking about the recent blog post about surprises. My thoughts were rolling around the fact that we don't know how our day is going to unfold or what is going to happen, how little control we have over occurrences or our lives. And then it happened--my very own surprise!
It was rush hour traffic, so I was driving with all my senses in gear. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed it. It was the light. If I didn't know differently, I'd say my little truck was participating in the Christmas-before-Halloween thing, as the "check engine" light shone brightly. Nothing seemed amiss, so I headed on home, knowing a call would be made to the mechanic the next morning, with whom I am on a first name basis.
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| The Workhorse |
This red truck has been a part of my life for almost 12 years. I have never named it. I couldn't decide whether to attribute a male or female label, so I call it my workhorse. I've clocked over 140,000 miles on it, with a current odometer reading of over 225,000 miles. That means the two of us have spent a lot of time together--a lot of time. You could say we have an on-going relationship, and it has become an old friend. Though an inanimate object, I have learned a lot from it, much of which is applicable to those of us who ARE animate, alive and well.
An important lesson is that, just because a lot of highway has been covered and a lot of miles traveled, it does not mean it has no value or worth. Granted, my truck isn't capable of participating in a NASCAR race, but there is something to be said about meandering the back roads of life, taking one's time at a leisurely pace, absorbing and enjoying one's surroundings rather than doing laps at break-neck speed. Yes, it is old, but it's not ready for the scrap yard yet. It still has a lot of life left in it.
Nothing about this truck is perfect, including its exterior, its interior, and under the hood. Each dent and scrape has its own backstory. The gouge in the interior roof liner took place when I was trying to put my hedge trimmer in, and the angle was wrong; the scratches on the paint are from branches inadvertently scraping; then there's the dent on the side where Sophie backed out of the drive across the street and didn't turn in time. I heard it when it happened.
The same can be said of me. While I don't carry wounds of war, the perfect body of infancy has been replaced by scars, each one a reminder of the incident that caused it. The scar on my knee takes me back to second grade and a fall off the teeter-totter at school; the crown on a chipped tooth, the result of playing chase on the merry-go-round and coming up the loser; a scar on an eyebrow, caused while being the catcher in a ball game and learning what happens when standing too close to the batter and her bat. Scars that comprise the story of my life, a virtual non-fiction book.
My truck is well maintained. Oil changes are performed regularly, belts and brakes are checked, tires rotated. I do what I am told to do, when it needs to be done, by the lube-it place, the tire shop, and the mechanic. I have learned, however, that, even with maintenance, parts wear out with time and need to be repaired or replaced. Isn't that so true when it comes to us humans too? Sometimes the body just breaks down, despite being nurtured and well taken care of.
That brings me to the most important thing I have learned from my little red truck: When the "check engine" light goes on, it must not be ignored. As Nick, at the shop, puts it, "It won't repair itself. It never gets better."
We are in that same category. While the body does heal and repair itself, there are those areas deep within that don't, those which aren't visible to the physical eye. Ignoring them doesn't make them go away, they don't disappear, and they never get better. They need to be faced, acknowledged, and dealt with. Perhaps a hurt, an offense from childhood is still being carried; anger and frustration over an unresolved family situation; a fissure in a relationship and the resulting pain; grief due to the loss of a friend, be it a person or a pet.
As humans, it sometimes seems easier to push all the feelings inside as deeply as possible rather than confronting them or having them confront us, getting them out in the open. That is never the easier way, nor is it the better way.
While we don't have a "check engine" light that shows up, there are usually indicators of such problems. As with my truck, ignoring them is not a solution. Getting them out in the light of day, laying them out on the table is a good start. God cannot heal what isn't acknowledged.
When the time comes for that 1997 Ford Ranger pickup to be set aside, I'm not sure how I am going to feel. I have been holding on to it for quite a while. As with the rest of my life, though, I have no doubt that I will know when it is time, and I will be ready. My suspicion is it will coincide with the completion of this gardening gig. The allure of A/C in a replacement vehicle will no doubt help with the transition.
Thank God for Ford Ranger pickups with their longevity and endurance. This experience has been enough to convert me into a "Ford man"--or make that "Ford woman." Add that to the list of "The Things I Have Learned From My Truck."
While cleaning a house today--an awareness, a recognition, a sense:
"Everything I have has been given to me by You.
Everything I am I owe to You.
Please don't let me ever forget."
surprise: something not expected
"The writing" has been a surprise. Being able to share my life and how I live it, it is something I neither trained for nor what I expected to be doing at this time in my life. In fact, had you asked me a year ago, let alone decades ago, if I thought I would be writing as I neared 70, I would have probably laughed, the idea being ludicrous. It isn't that I haven't tried before; it's that the paper always came up blank.
What fun it is to surprise children, planning first experiences of wonderment for them, working out the details of adventures in secret, then plopping them in the lap of an unsuspecting child. Holidays and birthdays, summer vacations, and week-end treks provide opportunities to fill a child's life with surprise. But I contend there is that same child within each of us, regardless of the number of years we carry. Who doesn't like being given a gift or a treat, one that is unexpected and prepared especially for us? Large or small, they leave a smile on our face and joy in our heart.
I've heard some say, "I don't like surprises," and yet life never goes as planned and is filled with the unexpected. Some of those surprises bring great joy, others great sorrow, and still others great frustration and complication. Each and every day of life is an unknown. How often do we find ourselves thinking and saying, "I didn't know that was going to happen."?
As much as we would like to think we are in charge of the planning and the preparation, the future is hidden from our eyes; we watch it unfold as it happens, either as participant or bystander. In essence, isn't that what the news is--reporting the surprises of the day?
Forrest Gump's "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get," says it well.
As one who views life through a spiritual lens, I have been thinking about this element of surprise, the unexpected. My Creator is a Master at seeing I am prepared for living life. It is not His goal to have the surprises of the day wipe me out or immobilize me, but to walk me through them, having given me the capability of "rolling with the punches," flowing, and moving forward.
Car problems, scheduling conflicts, a weather event, a trip to Urgent Care, the report of a test result from a doctor, surprises ad infinitum. Some require a simple adjustment in the day, others turn one's world upside down. For me, that is when I reach out and place my hand in His. Naive', simplistic, childlike? Perhaps--but it is how I live my life.
My Heavenly Father has given this child a gift, a treat when He gave me "the writing." He has given me my voice. Isn't that something each of us, regardless of our age or our gender unconsciously seek, that of being able to express our thoughts, our feelings, our beliefs, and opinions? Being heard is a bonus. It brings me great joy, a deep gratification to share myself with you.
A lovely surprise especially prepared for me, it is uniquely individual, suiting me and fitting like a glove. May your life and the lives of those you love be filled with the same kinds of surprises--at His hand.
"No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no human mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him."
"Every good and perfect gift is from God. This kind of gift comes down from the Father who created the heavenly lights."
Upon awakening this morning, before my eyes had even opened, the nudgel was in my mind. I have an appointment with an editor today; she has been reviewing some of my writing. She is also one with whom I shared my musical enterprise, that of returning to the piano after half a lifetime. I had not thought of it before, but I will give her a CD I had made of a compilation of several compositions.
My life, my world is filled with these, and I love them. As soft as butterfly wings, yet as persistent as true grit, they will not be ignored. I would have to deliberately reject them, and that I do not want to do. They might be the result of a "What to do, what to do?" outcry or, as this morning, something I've not considered before. I have learned to recognize this as the hand of my Creator in my life, His "still, small voice." Unlike other thoughts, a process of critical thinking, they come from a deeper place within.
In searching for a descriptive term, I have always come up empty--until now. The word nudgel does not exist in our English language. However, in the same way certain nicknames suit individuals, fitting like a glove, I feel it is apt; it even makes sense.
nudgel: an experience of direction, guidance, insight, knowledge; understanding imparted within from God, without words; knowing something never known before
This past week I was at a client's home, one who is away for some time. While cleaning, I opened up a window to let some fresh air in. "Note to self," I thought, "make sure the window is shut before leaving." I finished and had gone on to another job when the nudgel presented itself. Had I closed that window or not? Upon returning I discovered that I had, indeed, left it open. Some will say such happenings have nothing to do with God, that it is just the way our mind works, reminding us. I understand that reasoning, that position, but I disagree.
I don't know other's lives. I only know mine, but I suspect you have each had your own nudgels over the course of your life, those experiences or thoughts that are beyond your own mind, your own thinking--reminders or, simply, "knowing."
It seems there is an unwillingness to identify them as spiritual. Called "luck, a gut feeling, intuition, instinct, sixth sense," there is a reluctance to identify them as spiritual, a hesitancy on the part of man to correlate God to one's personal life. Perhaps that idea has never been a consideration before so it isn't a part of man's perspective.
This much I know: He is present, He is a factor. And we can call that whatever we like, whatever we are comfortable with and whatever suits us, but that still does not alter the truth. Mankind is fortunate that He cares, and we are fortunate that He places nudgels within--if we just pay attention.
By the way, I need to get that CD out of the closet now.
"A rose by any other name is still a rose." And so it is with God.
Whenever I hear of or think of someone who has passed away, I find myself wondering, "Where are they now, what are they doing, what did they find in the next life?" Some may find that grim, macabre even; I find it realistic. I am of the belief that life does not end when a final breath is taken on this earth but continues on in another realm, another dimension, that which is spiritual yet actual. This life is temporal, short-term; the next is eternal, lasting forever.
The afterlife, as it is often called, is conjured up in the minds of man to be almost fairytale-like, where the life left behind on earth continues on, filled with ethereal scenes and all things grand and glorious. The possibility and probability of it being as man thinks is certainly remote. Our imaginations are natural, a human response to deal with ideas and concepts which are larger than life. After all, how can we begin to conceive of that which we've never seen?
There are those who have had "Near Death Experiences," ones where the body has shut down, and the occupant of that body is taken into the realm of all that is eternal and then returned back. They each have a similar, recognizable experience to recount, and the common theme is the sense of being unconditionally, overwhelmingly loved.
For the most part, however, it's not like a tourist site, a cruise ship, or hotel accommodations where friends go and then return with their critiques, their recommendations or lack thereof.
Man spends an inordinate amount of time planning and preparing for situations and circumstances in life: the evitable and the inevitable; the foreseen and the unforeseen; the what-ifs?, the emergencies. Then there are the events: the births of children, birthdays, holidays, graduations, weddings, education, vacations. Retirement, healthcare concerns, end-of-life issues, funeral planning, insurance protection--In our culture we do everything possible to make certain no stone is left unturned, that all the bases have been covered, right up to death. But what about preparation for the next life?
The average life expectancy in my home state of Oregon is listed at 79 years of age. Think, for a moment, of the amount of preparation given to the needs of a physical life that may expire before the age of 80. And there is a major problem--None of those plans and preparations are transferable into the next life. They have no value there. This brings up a question for serious thought and consideration. Since eternity is, well....., it is a long, long time, wouldn't it be prudent for us to prepare for that life with the same perspective, importance, and intent as we prepare for this earthly life? It seems to me it would be a good idea to make certain we are ready when it is time for that transition to be made. There is, after all, no turning back and no do-over.
How DOES one prepare for eternity? While that question has, indeed, been raised, I do not have a go-to, a how-to answer. There is no pamphlet or brochure which lists the steps and the processes for that. The reason is because man cannot prepare himself to meet God.
This much I know: The first step is the acknowledgement that God is and of the need to be made ready for the next life, as that life will either be with Him or without Him. There is nothing more we can do. The rest is in His hands. I also know that He will not turn away anyone who comes to Him with sincerity, a genuine desire, and a pure heart. All it takes is a simple request: “Prepare me to meet you, God.”
Being prepared and living in the knowledge of that preparation is a gift, a treasure. Not a single one of us knows when this physical life is coming to an end so, in my thinking, time is always of the essence. For me, I don't want to go into eternity with regret.
There--I am at the end of my post. Why do I feel the need to share this and ask for your consideration of this matter? Because "Eternity is a long, long time," and each one of you matters.
"Life does not consist of an abundance of possessions." The story is told of a certain rich man who had an abundant harvest. He said to himself, "You have plenty of grain laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink, be merry." The response of Christ was, "You fool. This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself? This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.
The bank is covered with ivy and blackberries, and it is my annual task to cut back the blackberries so the ivy is encouraged to take over. Since it is one of my least favorite gardening activities, I tend to postpone the job, and this year was no exception. It had been a while since Lynn asked me to deal with them; it was on my to-do list. Finally, I made the decision to tackle them. I headed up the bank with pruners in hand and began snipping the blackberries back to the ground.
"It was bound to happen sooner or later." That is the thought that has been playing over and over in my mind. The whole idea wasn't foreign so when it did occur I really wasn't that surprised. A person can't go traipsing through the brush and dried vegetation like I do without expecting to run into the nasty buggers. "What?" you may ask, was I more-or-less expecting. That would be another encounter with wasps. It is, after all, that time of the year, the end of summer, when wasps become very aggressive, anti-social, and just down-right mean.
Learning about wasps was never on my need-to-know list, but learn I have. And they are wasps, rather than bees. Ron, another of my clients, specializes in moths, and when I tangled with them a year ago, he gave me that information.
What I have learned is that by the end of summer, the beginning of autumn, the worker bees have nothing left to do. They have fulfilled their mission of providing insects to feed the young grubs back in the nest. Their food of choice is often decaying fruit, rather than the protein they eat early on, and they handle nature's wine in the same way many humans do. They become mean drunks. In addition, the queen has stopped producing the hormone that keeps the wasp colony within the nest. They are on a final binge, as these worker bees die when the weather turns cold. And they are not nice.
Recently I wrote of my experience a year ago when I dug my weeding tool into a bee's nest tucked away in the ground. My body reacted to the angry bees quite significantly. Ever since that post and the recollection of that incident I have been on a kind of red alert. While Al Qaeda and Isis are definitely terrorist groups, these teensy, tiny, little black and yellow flying, stinging critters have the capability of striking their own kind of terror. Just thinking about them causes me to cringe.
On the ivy bank, I had clipped two or three blackberry vines back when I felt something bothering my foot. Looking down, I saw several of my least favorite insects flying around my feet. My eyes glanced up, and it was then I saw the hole in the ground and the wasps swarming out of it. Given my past experience, I am amazed at how calm I was. Another tidbit I have learned is that when one swats at them or stirs them up a chemical is emitted, a signal of distress, and those in the nest respond. They swarm, attack, and even chase. Wasps are able to sting repeatedly as well, so the potential is a recipe for disaster.
I calmly walked down the hill--yes, calmly. When I was a distance away, I killed the two left on my feet. One was trapped between my shoe and my sock, so he was stinging over and over again. I got in the truck, where I have a bee sting kit, and headed home, conscious of my breathing and physical response.
I'm certain you have heard situations described in terms of "good news, bad news"; however, this experience is only "good news, good news." Yes, I was stung, but part of the good news is that my body did not go into shock. While I have no desire to meet up with a family of wasps again, it is good to know that I was able to continue breathing, and I did not break out in hives. My response to the initial assault was a gift. Typically, I would become hysterical, swinging for all I'm worth. Additional good news is that I did not step on that nest. It was less than a foot away. Had I gone up the hill at a different angle I would have walked right on top of it.
My life is not in my hands. Once again, I was being watched over and taken care of by my Heavenly Father. While I continue to be apprehensive when I even think about wasps, and my foot swelled like a football, not a morsel of this encounter was a negative, only positive. I did end the day with "good news, good news." It goes without saying that the blackberry briars are still up on that bank. I think I'll wait for cooler weather. That, and for Lynn to have the nest destroyed.
Dragging my feet, procrastinating, digging my heels in--any way I phrase it, I have been taking my sweet, sweet time getting off to work. I know I'm in slow mode when I hear myself pleading, over and over again, "Just get me going, just get me going. Please." I talk to God a lot. As I made a detour to check the raspberries and graze, the thought occurred to me: I'm in "granny gear." It made me laugh as that description is so fitting and on more than one level.
For those of you who learned to drive with a stick shift, you know exactly what I am talking about when I use that term. And is there any other way to learn to drive than with a stick? If you have only driven with an automatic transmission let me explain--"Granny gear" is the lowest of low gears in a vehicle with a manual transmission. I doubt one can go more than a couple miles per hour when in "granny gear."
When I was 8 years old, my Dad set me up on the tractor and showed me what to do and how to do it. My task was to steer the giant tractor through the hay field, pulling a trailer, stopping periodically for my brothers and Dad to load the baled hay. There isn't much to run into in the wide open field, other than bales of hay, so it was the perfect place to learn. Plus, operating in granny gear, the lowest speed on the tractor, meant I was virtually crawling. I wasn't particularly dangerous or threatening to anyone or anything.
And so I am, all these years later, operating in granny gear once again. In thinking about it, it feels as though slow motion has been my modus operandi for several months now. This gardening season has been an unusual one for me. Getting into a real work rhythm has been elusive. When I am operating full throttle it is not unusual to be on the job site by 8, returning home 10 hours later. This year, I find I am puttering around the house, taking my time, and I am fortunate if I make it to a job by 10. At the other end of the day, there is always a variety of reasons aka excuses to call it a day and return back home.
When I am able to put circumstances in my life into words, when they can be described, it is as though I have turned a corner. Situations that have been troubling me are brought into focus, there is clarity. I have been bothered a great deal by my lackadaisical approach to work and have judged myself as being lazy. The "granny gear" description is perfect, not only as it applies to my slow rate of speed, but the granny part as well, for I am that, five times over. Pleading the Fifth Amendment to avoid incrimination isn't going to work. I am guilty.
There is no explanation for nor understanding of my work habits this season; I don't have to know why. What I will do is "just keep going." And that is a whole other subject for a whole other day. Besides, even in granny gear a person can end up covering a lot of territory. It may take a while, but it's better than standing still. Remember the story of "The Tortoise and the Hare?" Point made.
