On a God Joy

 

Please allow me to share a God Joy with you. “What, pray tell, is a God Joy?” you might ask.

Well, according to someone I know quite well (and that would be moi), a God Joy is a personal experience planned and initiated by our Creator. You may be an observer or you might be a participant in the follow through. It does, however, bring such joy that you are filled to overflowing and are compelled to pass it on to others—the joy of God, His love, and care.

Before I got on my hands and knees to scrounge under the bed, I knew I would only find rolls of Christmas wrapping paper. I had to look anyway. A search in the hall closet revealed the available gift bags were either Christmas or feminine in nature. I knew that too. I settled on some plain white tissue paper and found some brown ribbon to hold the two packages together. I wanted the gifts to be “just right,” but banked on the fact they were for a little boy who probably wouldn’t even notice—or care.

Over the years, I’ve noticed a Grandpa, two doors down on the other side of the street, waiting for the school bus with a little guy in tow. He waits for him at the end of the day as well. With no personal knowledge or information, I assumed he was a grandfather, raising a grandson.

School is out. There are no neighborhood children his age for him to play with. The thought entered unannounced and very quietly: What could I gift him that would make his time alone more fun? As the idea settled in, I became more and more excited. I genuinely enjoy being part of a surprise, and I could feel the potential for this one.

It has been a while since I’ve been around little boys. What is the current trend? What does he even like? What are his interests?  I wanted to give him something that would suit him and that he would enjoy.   

Legos! Legos are brightly colored plastic, interlocking building blocks that can be used to create 3-dimensional figures. The possibilities are limited only by one's imagination. I haven't met a boy yet who didn't love Legos.The odds were this little boy would too.

I did an online shopping search and came up with two items: a spaceship and a dinosaur. They were 3-in-1 sets. Instead of creating just one sculpture, there are enough Legos to make three variations of a spaceship and three of a dinosaur. I placed the order and waited. Delivery was made today, and I immediately wrapped them so I could gift them.

Package in hand, I went to the front door and knocked. I already knew what I was going to say: “My name is Ladonna. I live right across the street from you. I’ve noticed you have a little boy as your roommate. I have something for him.”

The grandfather answered the door, and I delivered the message. The little guy was inside, away from the door. Grandpa motioned to him to come forward. He introduced me as “the neighbor who lives across the street.”

“Are you my neighbor?” he questioned, his face askew as he processed the information.

“Yes. This is for you.”

His dark brown eyes went huge behind his dark-rimmed glasses. “Is it for my birthday?”

“No. This is a ‘just because.’ When is your birthday?”

“Friday!” Two days off. What are the odds?

“How old are you going to be?’

“I’m going to be eight.”

“Well, this is an early birthday present then.”

Grandpa instructed him to thank me, which he promptly did. I told him he might want to open the gifts before thanking me, as they might not be to his liking.

I was correct about the wrapping paper—it didn’t matter as he excitedly tore it off. First was the spaceship. “Legos!! I love Legos!” Next was the box that held the dinosaurs. Holding it next to his heart he proclaimed, “I LOVE dinosaurs!” MY heart was filled.

As this was taking place, the grandfather shared he had been raising Jarron since he was one year old. “I never expected I would be 70 and raising an 8-year-old, but here I am.”

“Thank God he has you. God bless you.”

“It’s better than foster care.” It’s apparent this loving grandfather could not allow his grandson to be turned over to the system. And he didn’t.

With a broad smile spread across his face, Jarron eagerly commented that maybe I could come to his birthday party at his aunt’s house. He had already readily welcomed me into his circle.

I had only been there a few minutes, but as I turned to leave, his grandpa asked if he wanted to give me a hug. Oh. My. Heart. This little almost-eight-years-old boy hugged and squeezed me with all of his might. I melted.

I headed back across the street to my home overflowing with joy. And that is the God Joy I want to share with you. May you be as touched by the perfectly planned, coordinated, and timed act of God as I am.

I am of the feeling that personal God experiences are just that—not to be publicly broadcast. However, I am also learning that some need to be shared, because in the sharing His nature and His love are made apparent to others. It is a source of encouragement and building up of faith.

 Today’s encounter with a little boy is nothing about me; it is everything about Him.

May you, too, listen to that very still, small voice and experience God Joys in your life that you are able to share with others.

 

  

 

 

 

It was a Day--a Good Day

Today was a day, just an ordinary day--but it was a good day. It was even a Thursday. What is truly eventful about Thursdays?

As evening came around, I looked back on this day—as I often do—thinking about activities or happenings that have taken place. It is my habit to mull over the day and acknowledge God’s Hand in my daily, routine existence. I maintain I’ll never see Him in any otherworldly events if I can't see Him in the mundane of everyday.

I awakened at a reasonable hour, refreshed and void of antagonism directed toward my neighbors over their dogs barking during the night. “Thank you. I appreciated getting a good night’s rest” was the text message I sent. I meant it. The last few nights have been rough.

The temperature outside was reasonable today, unlike the God-awful 90 degrees registered over the weekend. I’m a bit like Goldilocks—it must not be too hot nor too cold. It must be just right. 

The pest exterminator came around noon. I had been wondering if it was time for his quarterly visit, as I’ve seen more than a couple of the furry, black, hoppy-skippy-jumpy spiders that send me through the roof. They are sly as they avoid capture. Their intelligence is a bit mind boggling. I’m glad I have pest guys come regularly. They at least give me a sense they’re dealing with them.

A walk to the grocery store was in order, as I was almost out of my beloved muesli, my main breakfast food source. Walking the distance doesn’t match the number of steps I put in behind a lawn mower, but it works. I am grateful for the fresh air and the physical movement.

The quiet (in spite of the traffic) gave time for introspection as I considered learning—finally—how to not allow my mind to get caught up in things I have no control over, that have nothing to do with me or my life and accomplish nothing.

It’s simple—the good ones always are. I cannot do a thing about the thoughts that enter my mind. They are often old habit patterns of thinking that are negative and create a vortex effect. I realized I can choose to entertain those thoughts--or I can choose to send them on their way, out the door of my mind. Easy peezy!

Yesterday I purchased the creme de la crème of shrubs for my front garden bed. One glaring space was vacant and unimpressive, but I didn’t know what to plant. A trip to the grocery store found my feet heading for the plant display out front and resulted in the purchase of a Gaura. It is a perfect perennial for the area. It was given its new home today.

That’s what I call two-for-two: The right plant. In the ground. I can see it from my spare room where I am sitting at the computer.

A walk-through appraisal of all things growing resulted in watering a few that aren’t on the drip system, addressing a spider mite issue, AND picking strawberries. I do not have an abundance, but they are ripe red, sweet, and juicy. It has been a long time since I could graze in my own garden.

I am thankful for the life I have been given. It isn’t fancy; I’m not a world traveler; I don’t even have a bucket list. At this point in time, though, I wouldn’t trade it for any other. 

There is a slight breeze outside. My eyes are getting heavy as nightfall comes. Bedtime is around the corner. Are the dogs going to bark tonight? Time will tell.

Life is brief. I am finally learning to live in the present instead of worrying about the road that is ten miles ahead. I am thankful for this day and everything that was in it.

May your days be good days as well—ones where you experience and recognize God’s Hand in your life.

 

“O taste and see that the Lord is good;

happy are those who take refuge in him.”

Psalm 34:8

 

 

 

On Tending and Time

tend: v. To look after; to be attentive to; to note carefully; to attend to. 

time: n. How much of a day has passed; the moment, as indicated by a clock or similar device.

           My garden has never looked better, although applying that word to my outdoor space is still foreign. I grew up a country girl. We had yards, not gardens. I started calling them gardens while working for city clients. Whatever the terminology, it is more pleasing to the eye than it has been in years.

The apple tree was pruned at the proper time; the developing apple clusters thinned to two or three. I did not go crazy with the pruners on the smoke tree in the middle of summer. The better way was to bring it under control in winter, while dormant. Forsythia, lilac, quince, and lorapetalum—all were clipped back and shaped right after blooming, necessary as they set next year’s blooms immediately. Previously, I had not given them any attention for several years. They were massively overgrown.

Instead of wearing blinders as I allowed the weeds to take over, my constant battle with them has become an active effort to control. A drip irrigation system, monitored by a timer, was installed, which means the veggies and flowers are receiving water at a consistent rate.

The flowers and plants I purchase locally are planted almost immediately, avoiding the withering and dying of potential dreams. Spent blooms are dead-headed, aphids are discovered and dealt with, slugs meet their demise.

What has changed? I didn’t call in a crew of young guys to prune and haul off the debris. I have not called a landscape company to come, wave a magic wand, and do a makeover. I didn’t even convert my outdoor space into a bare minimum of low-maintenance shrubs and rock-covered landscape fabric.

What happened? I retired one year ago from my gardening business and was given the gift of time—time to tend my garden. That is what changed. I went from working seven days a week in the gardens of others to working in my own. Prior to that my garden was the poster child for “A cobbler’s children have no shoes.”

I often thought I was lazy and slothful as the shrubs in my garden became overgrown and the beds overrun with weeds. In the past year I have come to realize tending a garden takes time. Time was something I didn’t have.

Tending is a pro-active word. It requires involvement and action. It doesn’t suggest supervision; it does require participation.

Tending a garden requires an eagle-eye approach as you are always on the lookout for menacing insects or pests. Is there a trail of slime, evidence of a sightseeing slug seeking out dinner? You may notice a little white moth flitting around in innocence. Experience teaches it is not innocent but is looking for a place to lay its eggs on your broccoli, cabbage, or brussels sprouts.  These very quickly turn into fat, green worms with voracious appetites, decimating a crop. Aphids, whiteflies, spider mites—the list is endless as a garden becomes a war zone with the credo “Get them first.”

Is that plant getting too much water or is it thirsty? Would fertilizer help?

Tending anything requires a personal undertaking and, with that, a commitment of time. I often visit the childcare facility in the church next door, and there is no question those children are being tended and well taken care of. There are some in the medical field who still provide one-on-one care to their patients instead of just watching them pass through the doors. Some, not all, pastors nurture and take care of the flock given to them. Their parishioners are more than a potential financial contributor.  

Tending is personal. And it takes time.

My Heavenly Father sets the standard as He tends to me. Nothing escapes his eye. He has a plan and a direction in mind for my life. When I refuse to cooperate, He sets up roadblocks to deter me from taking a path that heads for a cliff. When I am “gung ho” to go it alone, He allows me that freedom while waiting for me when things go awry. He takes note of my attitude as He places a mirror in front of me—“Ugly doesn’t become you,” He suggests.

In the same way a garden left to itself is overcome by weeds, the flowers wasted away and dying from lack of water, so too humankind. If it wasn’t for the Master Gardener tending the garden of my life daily, I would either implode or explode, destroying the very fabric of myself.

God sees that I am watered, nourished with spiritual food, and pruned when necessary. He gives me sunshine; He walks me through storms. He takes note of the quality of my spiritual soil as He encourages and promotes deep roots. Weeds are never allowed to get a stranglehold in this spiritual garden.

My physical garden bears evidence of being tended. As I work in it, neighbors in the area stop and comment on its beauty. One thing I never forget--I do not create the beauty. I only tend it.

It is my hope and desire that my spiritual garden is given the same notice and acknowledgement of God’s Hand.

 

"…do you not know..that you are not your own?

For you were bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body."

I Corinthians 6:19-20 NRSVUE

 

 

 

 

 

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.

_________________________________________________________

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