On Being Human

 

human: n.  A person.[1]

 

It has been one of “those” weeks. Some are harder than others. At every turn it seemed I found myself either saying or doing something stupid, intrusive, or out of order—at least that was how I felt. “Open mouth. Insert foot.” has apparently been my theme song for several days.

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 has me second-guessing myself—continually. Instead of just flowing, I find myself hesitant, then apologizing for things I have said or done. It is the antithesis of what God has taught me, 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. The attitude of "being spiritual” was my virtual sidekick. When anger, doubt, impatience, or fear manifest itself in the reality of living everyday life, I was easily set into a tailspin of self-condemnation.

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

Boy! Am I ever!!

Even though I have a lifetime of experience with my loving, kind Father, I struggle with finding peace. I wrestle with doubt. I question myself, criticizing 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 his/her 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. It’s really easy to have patience when there is no stress or pressure. Being kind and caring is a piece of cake when all is well with--and in--the world. Difficult circumstances are revealing.

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 than…I am no worse. If anything of any value is manifest in my life, it is His work--not mine.

I am human and in good company—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 in 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 as I am. The great importance is that I accept myself and, in that, accept my humanness. The universal message and hope for all who walk with Him is that He neither judges nor condemns us for being human. We do that to ourselves.

 

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…” John 1:14

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[1] American Webster Dictionary

Why?

  

The street I live on is quiet this morning with very little activity. There is no hum of traffic; the sidewalks are empty. The only sound is that of birds beginning their day with songs. No clues are left to indicate what took place less than twelve hours earlier.

Last night presented a completely different scene. I was minding my own business when I heard and saw it unfold. First came the sound of a torrent of police sirens; second, a display of pink and blue flashing lights visible through my translucent blinds; third, the sound of a crash. The whole thing took place in a brief period of time, directly across the street. Cop cars kept coming, the immediate night sky filled with their flashing color. I raised my blinds and opened the window, cognizant something serious was taking place.

The car chase came to an abrupt halt. The recalcitrant driver’s vehicle was met by a police car outfitted with a push bar, a heavy-duty front bumper guard. His truck was pushed into a grassy space next to the sidewalk, the vehicle rendered undrivable. The tire had come off the left rear axle; the one on the left front was barely hanging on. The driver wasn’t going anywhere.

“Raise your hands and get out of the car!” The arresting officer repeated it a second time, then a third, each time louder and more emphatic. The final time an expletive was inserted as he bellowed: “RAISE YOUR ******* HANDS AND KEEP THEM UP!!” Peering through the open window, I sensed the gravity of what was happening and moved away. I had given no thought to the possibility of the driver having a gun. The police knew he left his home with one.

The miscreant was escorted to my side of the street. With his hands secured behind his back, he sat on the sidewalk curb while the necessary process of documenting and questioning took place. The scene drew a crowd of locals from the neighborhood—including me--while traffic was detoured due to the street being blocked.

Cop cars were stacked up everywhere. I counted at least eleven with fourteen or more officers on hand. A fire truck was on site plus two tow trucks. I watched him as he sat, and the police engaged him.  How did this happen? How did a man’s life come to this point? He was heading for jail on a warm, lovely Spring night, something I doubt he expected when his day began.

He was in a state of compliance and didn’t appear to be resistant. There was no sense of danger as I watched, a bird’s-eye view of a real-life TV cop show. The officers checked him out to see if he had been injured in the crash. He was treated with dignity—the result of his concession, I suspect. I heard one officer talk with him about the choice he made that resulted in the current state of affairs and offer other options.

As things wound down, the one responsible for the current scenario was escorted to a waiting police car. It was dark outside, but the inside of the car was lit up. I saw his face as he sat quietly in the back, and the car moved out slowly. His fate--for this night at least—was determined. He would not be going home.

Law enforcement presence began to diminish as cars and officers left the scene. The tow truck with the disabled vehicle in tow was the last to go.

Out my window I saw a water bottle left on the curb. Other than the tire marks left in the grass where the truck landed, it was all that remained of the event. The officers had given the offender water to drink and doused his head as well, because the evening was warm.

The water bottle is gone this morning, probably snagged up by someone walking by.

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It has been several days since excitement landed at my front doorstep. The images from that night play out in my mind at random moments. I find I am struck by the fact that shared experiences are, at the same time, so personal, private, and solitary. A group of people may be present and witness the same scene, yet each person’s observations and responses are individual.

As I sit at my computer, I look out the window and see, in my mind’s eye, the image of a man--a stranger to me—sitting on the curb. I doubt anyone else present that night carries that picture.

Life has gone on since then. I have worked in my garden, planting brussels sprouts and a Mesclun lettuce mix. I sowed pea seeds and carrots. I could never survive on the fruits of my garden as my father did, but that never stops me from trying.

The local kids will walk to and from school today, passing by the perch occupied by a man just days ago who, in a drunken, enraged state, left his home with a gun after punching holes in the wall. Traffic passes by, oblivious of the “lights of Vegas” atmosphere previously present.

No one will know, other than those who witnessed the scene. That happens over and over, day in and day out, as stories of life play out in microcosmic spaces.

One of my beliefs and convictions is that there is a point and purpose to everything. I believe that all things are spiritual, and nothing happens in my life that is separate from God.

What was the point for me, personally, as I was eyewitness to a single act in one man’s life?

This morning upon awakening, his image was present in my thoughts. Let Your will be done, Father.

I cannot state with certainty, but perhaps that is the reason--a single prayer of intercession offered to God on behalf of another.

I won’t forget him. And God won’t either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the Heart and Salvation

 salvation: n. The process of being saved, the state of having been saved (from hell).

 

Do you know what a midden is? Do you understand and can you explain crop rotation or stock futures? How about symbiotic relationships or drying out? Just as each human fingerprint is unique, every line of work, endeavor, or interest has its own vocabulary. If you don’t know the meaning of the words, you might as well be listening to a foreign language.

Schooling encompasses teaching the language, its definitions and practical applications. This applies to any field of activity, whether physical in nature or intellectual. For example, an electrician will talk about circuits or amperes, insulators and hertz, whereas an archaeologist may speak of artifacts, grids, or a midden—an area used for trash disposal. Medical terminology is the jargon the medical world uses to describe the body, what it does, and the treatments they prescribe. In sports, the banking and real estate industry, the world of politics, parenting, education—every aspect of life has its own specific terminology.

Religion and all things spiritual are no exception. Salvation and the heart of man, eternal life, righteousness, fruits of the spirit—What do they all mean?

I was raised in a conservative home and an evangelical church. I have no memory of life before church. A base teaching of my childhood religious education was of my need for salvation. I was taught that was accomplished by inviting Jesus “into my heart.” As a youngster, I often reflected on how that could be. I mentally peered into my inner self, trying to locate my heart and ascertain—How could Jesus dwell there?

Much of religious life takes place in the head. Doctrines are presented as the gospel truth. Religious peers and superiors expect obedience as proof of being faithful. Christianity is often laid out in a few, easy steps, followed by an offering plate. The list of accepted and required behavior can be quite long, often with more “don’ts” than “do’s”.

Spiritual life is not the same as religious life. The one emanates from the heart, the other from the flesh.

Body. Soul. Heart. Mind. Humans are a complex creation. We share the commonality of these as they coordinate with one another in living life.

The body is our physical house. It is flesh and blood. The soul is the essence of who we are. It is our personality, our make-up and consists of unique, individual traits. My soul is me. Thought and reasoning take place in the mind. That is where we process ideas, make judgments and assessments, come to conclusions. It is where we make decisions, in concert with our soul.

We have been created with both a physical and a spiritual heart. The physical heart is a muscular organ that pumps lifeblood through the body, flowing to the brain and other vital organs. Many tend it through exercise and health in an effort to extend physical life. There are specialists who are even able to replace a faulty heart with another—a heart transplant. When the heart stops beating, life as we know it comes to an end.

Where is the spiritual heart and what is it? It will never show up on an X-ray or MRI. There is no instrument to check its pressure or rate of beating. And yet we all have one. And the way we live our lives is an indicator of whether it has been touched by God’s hand. Or not.

All of humankind was created with the knowledge that God is. The spiritual heart is the seat of an awareness and consciousness of God, our Creator. “In reality, the truth of God is known instinctively, for God has embedded this knowledge inside every human heart.”[1]

When Adam and Eve disobeyed God in the Garden of Eden and ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the heart was cursed as well and in need of redemption. “For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders, thefts, covetousness, wickedness, deceit, lewdness, an evil eye, blasphemy, pride, foolishness. All these evil things come from within and defile a man.”[2]

When we acknowledge God and the provisional sacrifice of His Son, the heart is cleansed from its state of depravation and made new. It is a work only He can do. If that does not take place, it is left in a condition of rot and decay. “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.”[3]

I have discovered where my heart is. My spiritual heart. It is in the very core of my being and its depth is not limited by my physical stature. You could never tell by looking at me, but my spiritual heart is deep within. It certainly cannot be touched, harmed, or damaged by any foe--human or spiritual.

The Spirit of God dwells within me there. It is where He fills me with His presence and His knowledge; it is where He teaches me and gives understanding.

In the same way my physical heart pumps life-giving blood through my body, God’s spirit pumps life into and through my spiritual heart. A renewed spiritual heart is the ultimate heart transplant. It is eternal.

And that is salvation.

May each of you have the eternal, life-giving experience of a renewed heart.

 

“For it is by believing in your heart that you are made right with God, and it is by openly declaring your faith that you are saved.”

Romans 10:10 NLT

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[1] Romans 1:19 The Passion Translation

[2] Mark 7:20-23

[3] Psalm 51:10 NRSV

On Saying Goodbye

 

goodbye: interjection. A concluding remark or gesture at parting.

 The sadness wasn’t overwhelming. It wasn’t the kind that buckles a person at the knees. I wasn’t even brought to tears. Instead, I noticed it hanging around the periphery of my being. It was kind of like when you notice an odd smell in the air and are unable to identify its strangeness or where it is coming from.

 It first came upon me last night while lying in bed, awaiting sleep. Why am I feeling sad? I feel like I’m saying goodbye. The thoughts, coupled with the sadness, nagged at me. Goodbye to whom? To what?

The sensation was foreign as there was nothing extraordinary or outlandish taking place in my very ordinary life. That is, unless I consider the fact I retired a little over six months ago, and I’m still in the throes of adjusting. It has been a drastic change—I am no longer at the beck and call of a clientele to tend their gardens or clean their homes.

I logged twenty years in my self-employed gardening business. My personal vehicle was also my company vehicle. I owned two Ford Ranger pickups during that time. I called the first one, a snazzy red,  “My Workhorse.” It gave out at 250,000 miles and was replaced by another, the pretty blue one currently in my possession.

I spent hours in my truck driving to and from job sites. The majority of the over 200,000 miles I drove were solo, with no companion. The radio was set to my favorite radio station, the seat positioned just for me. The driver’s seat was a place of meditation. I spent important time there, often while at a stop light during rush hour traffic, communing with God.

The pickup accommodated my tools, the mower, fertilizers, plants, soils, and all other sorts of things connected to a gardening business. Backing a trailer has never been my forte’. I needed a truck to maintain my work schedule.

May 31, 2022 marked the end of “The Traveling Gardener.” It passed without fanfare, balloons or celebrations. I just stopped going to work. Other people were called in to fill my place. I was raised with the belief that work has a moral value, making me a person of worth. Adjustment has not been easy.

Time—and timing—are gifts. Summer arrived and with it the opportunity to work in my own garden. For all those years, the landscape on the corner of Echo Hollow Road and Wilhi Street was the picture of “The cobbler’s children have no shoes.” After a long day of gardening for others, I was too tired. It shouted “Neglect!”

It took a while, but I was finally able to mentally wean off the internal schedule I had for years: Monday was always Lucille's day, Wednesday was for Barbara, and every Sunday found me at the law offices. Old habits die hard. Life began taking on a sense of freedom.

There was one glaring problem: the odometer reading of 152,000 miles on my blue 2008 Ranger. The truck felt unreliable. While working, I drove around a confined area, within range of a tow truck and my mechanic. I wasn’t comfortable driving it far from home.

I wanted a vehicle that gave me the freedom to go beyond a very small radius--and the space to accommodate more than a single passenger. Decision made. I purchased a newer SUV with a warranty. And a back seat.  

Selling my truck outright rather than trading it in was a practical decision. The car dealership offered me less than half of what they would sell it for. I wear a variety of hats, but being a used car salesman is not one of them. A friend who is a savvy car person agreed to broker a deal for me.

After living life as a gardening vehicle, the truck needed a thorough washing and cleaning--a task at the top of my “Things I Do Not Like To Do” list. Two young men washed and detailed it for me so it would be presented in its best light.

I gathered maintenance records, the title, and proof of insurance and then drove it to my friend today, never to see it or drive it again.

Coming back home with my personal Uber driver, the sadness settled upon me again. This time I understood. The truck represented a large part of my former life. The work provided a means of financial support after leaving a marriage, making it possible for me to pay my bills and be self-sufficient. It also filled my days with activity and social contact.

I left the final remnants of that phase of my life behind today. It was a “Goodbye”—not only to an old friend, my daily sidekick, but what was. What was is no more.

It is physically impossible to look forward and behind at the same time. I walked away both literally and figuratively. I’m not looking back.

What lies ahead? I have no clue, but I am moving forward. And I’ll be doing it in a spiffy-looking car that doesn’t drive like a truck.

 

".,,but one thing I have laid hold of: forgetting what lies behind

and straining forward to what lies ahead..."

Philippians 3: 13 NRSVUE

On the Lowly Traffic Light

Traffic light: Traffic lights, traffic signals, or stoplights are signaling devices positioned at road intersections, pedestrian crossings, and other locations in order to control traffic.

          The car ahead had not moved through the traffic light quickly enough to suit the driver. The light turned orange, then red, forcing him to stop rather than move on through the intersection. His impatience was apparent when an expletive escaped under his breath.  

I was in the passenger seat and smiled, thinking--Humankind really doesn’t know. You’ll move forward when you are supposed to.

One of the first lessons I learned at God’s hand was of His control of every detail of my life. He used traffic lights to teach me.

Traffic lights are one of those things we take for granted and never give much thought to until there is a malfunction, and they aren’t working. As with so many things, then we notice their value and purpose. They fall in the same category as a light switch, water faucet, or automobile brakes. They are mundane, ordinary, lowly implements that are purely mechanical.

While we think of them as modern traffic control, they came into existence long before automobiles were invented. The idea began in the 1800’s. They made their debut on December 10, 1868 when the first gas-lit traffic lights were installed in London outside the Houses of Parliament. They were implemented to control the traffic of horse carriages and to allow pedestrians to safely cross the streets.

The original ones were manually controlled by a police officer during the day using semaphore arms. (As a point of reference, the up-down barrier that drops down at a railroad crossing to block traffic is a type of semaphore arm.) At night, gas-lit red and green lights were used. The red signaled carriages to stop, and the green meant to proceed. To this day, the colors and what they stand for have not changed.

By 1914, the first electric traffic light was installed in Cleveland, Ohio. They were still manually controlled, but by 1920 they transitioned to being automatic.

In the 1960’s, computers entered the scene, and traffic lights started to become computerized. Over time, the traffic of a city could be predicted and controlled. And they are. We now live in an age where the lights operate on timers or detectors that detect vehicles stacking up at an intersection. The goal is to facilitate traffic flowing easily and smoothly, especially during rush hour for those commuting in the morning and evening.  

While their design varies from one country to another, traffic lights are used, understood, and accepted in most places in the world. We have all learned what green, yellow, and red represent.

How did God use the lowly traffic light to teach me His principle of love, care, and control? Many years ago, I pulled up to a red light and stopped. God very quietly pointed out to me He was the one who controlled my comings and goings—not any mechanical light. I waited, taking note I would move forward at the precise moment He intended.

Since then, whenever I come to a traffic light—whether it is red, green, or yellow--I acknowledge His precise Hand on the direction, speed, and tempo of my life. He knows where He wants me to be, and when He wants me to be there. My destiny is altered and changed at traffic lights—“Stop. Stay for a while longer. Now go.”

Consider this truth the next time you find yourself impatiently waiting for a red light to change because you have important things to do—and so little time in which to do it. The Great Choreographer oversees the timing of all things. Not a moment too soon. Not a moment too late.

Where Is God?

 

personal assistant: A personal assistant is someone who handles the day-to-day errands and activities of another person.

 

Typically, it occurs while I am lying in bed—when I first crawl in, and I’m trying to shut down and go to sleep; during the middle of the night when my eyes pop open, and my mind runs full-speed ahead; when I wake up in the early morning.

I am reluctant to call it worry, though the “worrywart” description given by my mother when I was a child would probably still be appropriate. There are spiritual versions—“lack of trust, having no faith, trying to be in control.” Those are applicable as well.

It really matters not what words are used. Those are the times I spend trying to figure out what is going to happen. What am I going to do tomorrow? How am I going to do it, and when? The degrees of concern vary, depending on the schedule in my very busy social life. (Sarcasm applied here.) However, I have been known to fret over things as insignificant as the eyelash on a fly.

One of “those” times was coming up. I had offered to drive a friend to a medical appointment. I’d not been to the office building before. I didn’t know the parking arrangements. I had no idea where the office was in the 6-story building located in a busy part of town. Those three unknowns were enough to set me and my imagination in motion. I always say that firsts in anything are the hardest. This was a first.

It occurred to me, in a very matter-of-fact way, that God knows and oversees my tomorrow. I don’t have to figure anything out. Sleep and rest were my friend.

There is a paradox in this. While I am the one having the experience, I can also watch and see what happens. I was going to watch and see.

My friend is quite particular about being late to anything, so we left with plenty of time to spare on appointment day. “Just in case we run into traffic problems or an accident.” We had done a trial run the day before, so the question of where we were going was taken care of.

Pulling up to the building, I moved into the correct lane that led into the parking garage. The entrance was on the ground floor level. As we crawled in, it was apparent the lot was full. Wait!! There was an opening in the second row, just a few cars over. We later discovered parking was available on every level, including the very top. We had been spared the process of circling up and circling back down, searching for a parking spot.

The next step was to find our way into the building from the parking lot. At the same time, we needed to orient ourselves so we could find the parked vehicle when we came back out. Sometimes confusion takes over in a dark parking garage, with no point of external reference. Note to self: B1. That was the level and area we parked in.

Finding the entrance turned out to be easy peezy. But where was the office located in this menagerie? Just then two nurses got off the elevator. “Could you please tell us where ****** ******* is located?”

“The third floor. Get off the elevator and you’ll see it on your right. You can’t miss it.”

Another nurse joined us as we got in the elevator, heading for the third floor. She assured us the office was easy to find and getting back to the parking lot wasn’t going to be a problem.

I have had first-time experiences where I was like an airplane, circling the elusive airport, trying to land. This was not one of those.

The elevator nurse was right. Finding the office and finding our way back to the truck was a piece of cake. I was smiling as I spotted B1 on the pillar post and my familiar blue pickup.

People of means often hire personal assistants. They are the ones who take care of the details of daily life, enabling their employer to come and go freely and smoothly. They go ahead, leading the way, making certain there are no surprises, roadblocks, or messes.

I have my own personal assistant—God. He is teaching me and reinforcing the fact I don’t have to try to figure anything out. He really does have my tomorrow—and my today—taken care of. 

"What a bunch of rubbish!" you might say. "This is petty, insignificant, and of no consequence. How does this compare to the tragedies taking place in the world right now?"

Yes, this was a "little thing." But it was a stress-free experience, one of convenience. If God cares enough to micro-manage the details of my life, I can trust Him to take care of me in the tornadoes that might await me around the corner. He is the ultimate choreographer.

 Blessed be the name of the Lord. And blessed are those who allow Him to be in charge.

 

Where is God?

If our eyes are never opened to see God in the “little things,”

we will never see Him in the “big things.”

On Looking Back

 

It is physically impossible to look forward and backward at the same time. It cannot be done. You are able to see one direction or the other, but your eyes cannot take in both at once.

It is no different with one’s inner vision, that place within your being, mind and soul. When you spend time focusing on the past, reliving it with guilt, regret, and “if only,” that is where all your thoughts are. You expend your energy there. It is where you are—in the past. The result is like an eddy or a whirlpool. Going in circles, you get sucked down and become stagnant. You are rendered powerless and immobile with no chance or hope of ever getting out and moving forward.

While letting go of one’s past is sometimes easier said than done, hanging on to it weighs a person down in the most literal sense. It becomes a heavy burden to carry, with no real payoffs--unless you are trying to qualify for martyrdom. Living in the past is the antithesis of God's plan and desire for us.

Living in the present, ever moving forward, is important in order to live a viable, productive, complete, and satisfying life. How do I know? I am the voice of experience. It was one of the first lessons taught me by my Creator.

Valuable principles like these are foundational. They are the base for other building blocks in a person’s life. In my opinion, this one is especially worthwhile.

 

“…but I focus on this one thing:

Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.”

Philippians 3:13 NLT