On the Things I Can Change

fret: v. To chafe or irritate; to worry.

tutorial: n. Something that provides special, often individual instruction, especially.

I don't like to call it worry. That's so harsh sounding, the opposite of being at peace. My mother called it fretting. I choose to call it being concerned, thinking about, or caring. Words don't change the truth, though. It is worry. 

Of course many of the things I worry about are out of my control and have nothing to do with me. But my mind has this swivel thing that pivots, a virtual neck, and I find myself  focusing on the yards of others instead of my own.

I know all the scriptures. Worry has no place in my life and walk with God--at least it shouldn't. So why am I fretting my life away as I find myself fixated on this crazy world and the people in it? And that doesn't even begin to include those in my personal space. 

I do not have an answer as to the why--spiritual, analytical, or otherwise. What I have is a God-given tutorial, a very simple, concentrated one to deal with it. As each concern (and they are genuine concerns) enters my mind, I hear: What are you able to do about it? What can you change? I am then forced to sincerely evaluate what role I can play in making any difference in the state of things I am uneasy about. 

Over and over again, I bump into that base questioning. (I had no idea how consumed my life had become over the lives of others and the state of our nation.) The flat fact is that I am unable to change much of anything. I may change my clothes, the furniture arrangement in my home, or my hair style, but that's about it. I cannot change the direction of another's life; I can no nothing to change physical maladies; I am unable to alter another's temperament, disposition, or will. And, most certainly, I cannot change the state of my country or the world.

Slow learner that I am, I am still going through it, but here's the point of this exercise: I am unable to bring about change, but I know the One who can. So, I am learning--step by step. When Worry enters in-- whether through the front door or the back--I can offload those concerns onto God, who is able and capable. 

What can I change? I can change the irrigation, but I am unable to change myself, let alone another. 

"Give all your worries to Him because He cares for you."  I Peter 5:7 NLV

"Humanly speaking, it is impossible. But with God everything is possible."                            Matthew 19:26 NLT

                                                                                                                                     

  

 

On Serving

serve: v. To be a servant, to work for. Religion: to obey and worship. To attend, supply the wants of.

What does it mean to serve? More specifically, how does one serve God? 

Traditional religion has a tendency to categorize service as anything that has to do with its function. Therefore, for example, a minister or priest is viewed as being in service to God. I would suggest true service takes place in the mundane and ordinary, invisible acts and actions of everyday people in everyday life.

Recovery was difficult—to say the least. Complications from the “routine” surgery were many, exacerbated by a base terminal condition.

He was unable to eat, rejecting anything ingested, including liquids. When an attempt was made, his body, with its newly acquired surgical wounds, was ravaged by the vomiting.

He didn’t register a temperature but the body’s core must have been on fire. The only respite was the application of washcloths soaked in ice water, wrung out, then placed on his head, chest, feet, arms—any area of exposed skin. Not long after their application, the cloths were turned over, the side exposed to the body no longer icy cold but hot to the touch.

The nurses kept a plastic container filled with ice so the cold compresses could be easily created.

Family members took turns preparing and applying the icy cloths, swathing him with coolness, They then sat by his bed, holding his warm hand with their ice-cold ones. “Aah, that feels so good,” he would comment.

The story of Jesus washing the feet of the disciples was an ongoing reminder as the scene played out—over and over again for days on end until he passed.

Jesus was preparing for the fulfillment of His purpose on earth, His sacrificial crucifixion on the cross, when He met with His disciples. He began by washing their feet, a lowly task typically performed in those times by a servant for his master. When Peter resisted, insisting he needed to be the one washing Jesus’ feet, He explained its importance. He was foretelling a picture of being spiritually cleansed, the result of the soon-to-be resurrected Messiah. 

The Master is not greater than the servant.

To serve is not about me. It is about others. And it consists of seemingly inconsequential actions and deeds done silently and privately in daily life.

Cases in point—Jesus washing the feet of His disciples; the comfort of ice cold washcloths placed on one who could not do it for himself.

In a parable, Jesus explained who would inherit His eternal kingdom: “I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me. I was naked and you gave me clothing. I was sick and you took care of me. I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

The parable continued as the question came up, “When did that happen?”

“As you did it to one of the least of these, you’ve done it to me.” Matthew 25:34-37, 39, 40

An act of service needs to be natural and unplanned rather than predetermined and laid out. As with all things of God, it needs to come from the heart, not the head.

How can we serve God? By living life with Him, in His presence. That is when His love, care, compassion, and concern emanate from within. Serving God is about others. It is never about me. Or you. 

"Where Am I?" and Other Questions

          Grabbing my shoes from the car where I left them, I sat down to put them on so I could go for a walk. Where am I? Where am I going? What am I going to do? The thoughts caused the emotions to well up from inside of me and stick in my throat as my eyes “began to leak,” a description used by my “bud” for crying. As you well know, men don’t cry.

Two weeks ago tonight—has it already been two weeks? —I sat watching one who had become a best friend, my partner of six years, die. The nurses at the hospice house prepared for the event as best they could—explaining the stages and the process of dying. But then there was the reality of the final day, hour, minute…and breath.

I’ve been watching the demise of this warrior for several years--from the time he was given the diagnosis of a very rare form of bone marrow cancer with “no treatment and no cure.” I watched with an eagle eye as blood tests revealed the need for transfusions as his hemoglobin count was diminished. I watched as anemia, a result of the condition, took over his once-strong, robust body, robbing him of stamina, energy, and strength. I watched as he was unable to do the things he most enjoyed in life—a casino trip, hunting, or working in his vegetable garden.

Ironically, it wasn’t that cancer that took him out, but a routine surgery to remove a kidney overtaken by cancer. I overheard two seasoned doctors discussing the ensuing complications outside his hospital room: “This is the worst recovery I’ve ever seen.”

After two surgeries and twenty-six days in the hospital, he made the decision to enter hospice. Eight days later my friend and partner passed peacefully in the middle of the night.

I was at the hospital and hospice every day—my choice. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It became my routine and my way of life.

Then there was preparation for a funeral—my role was to write the obituary and eulogy. The service was three days ago. My friend’s body is at rest.

And now what? The unanswered questions pushed me out the door to walk in the fresh air. I needed time alone to think.

The little boy’s dad was hosing off a plastic children’s table as I walked by. Bright-eyed and smiling, he waved at me and said, “Hi. What’s your name?”  I checked with the dad out of the corner of my eye to see if he was comfortable with the little guy engaging with a stranger.

“Hi. My name is Ladonna.” His face indicated it wasn’t a name he was familiar with. “That’s kind of a big name, isn’t it? What is your name?”

“Juan.” His name was Juan.

“How old are you? Are you four?” I asked, checking with Dad. Juan tried to tell me he was six but was quickly corrected. By then I was smiling.

I asked him if he was going to school and what he was going to learn. “To read? To do math?”

“To play with toys.” I laughed.

As I continued walking, I had to smile. My partner always made fun of me when I went out and about, as I came back with tales of conversations with people I do not know and have never met before. “Did you make any new friends today?” he would ask.

“Yes, I did. His name is Juan."

I have no definitive answers to my questions, but I came back from my walk with some general ones.

Where am I? I am right here, right now—at the moment in a reasonably sane state of mind. 😊

Where am I going? I cannot begin to answer that, but I am following the lead of the One in charge of my life. He has never failed me.

What am I going to do? I am going to live my life—every single day of it. That is what my partner would want. That is what I was created to do. There are plenty more new friends like Juan waiting for me.

My time as caregiver was brief compared to many others. Children, spouses, friends, and any others who selflessly give of themselves have my utmost respect. They are the silent, often overlooked heroes as they support and care for their loved ones.

 May God richly bless you. And may you be given the answers to those questions as well when you come to the end of your role as caregiver.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.