"On Gathering Together with Charlie"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 “He is the great choreographer,” I added.

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

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

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

   

"On an Anniversary"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God is good.                            

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

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

"Now What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

"On Projects--Unfinished and Completed"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

  

"Where Have I Been?"

manuscript:  n.  A single, original copy of a book, article, composition etc. written by hand or even printed, submitted as original for (copy-editing and) reproductive publication.

book:  n.  A long work fit for publication, typically prose, such as a novel or textbook, and typically published as such, a bound collection of sheets.

"So, now that the book is coming to completion, are you going to begin writing the blog again?" The question posed by my niece set me to thinking. It has been a long time since I  placed an entry in the blog. Perhaps you thought I had fallen off the face of the earth. Where have I been?

"What's the difference between a manuscript and a book?" my daughter asked. "Sometimes you call the writing a manuscript; other times you call it a book." My personal analogy is that a manuscript can be compared to a pregnancy where the fetus is an unborn child. It is no less a baby, but it cannot be held nor can it live on its own. Upon reaching full term development, birth takes place. And so it is with a manuscript, and a book is born.

Many years ago, I was given a small hand-written slip of paper. A prophetic statement of sorts, one of the things written on it was that I would become a writer of psalms. Tucking it in my wallet, I carried it with me until my purse, along with the wallet, was stolen. It had become worn, the penciled writing faded, but occasionally I would pull it out and read it. Its loss saddened me more than anything else that had been taken.

Over the years, I made an attempt at fulfilling those words, but, alas, I found I had nothing to say. Finally, I stopped trying.

Several decades later, probably four or more, the need and desire to share a message, that of God's love for HIs creation and His desire for relationship and friendship, began to develop, and this blog was born. I never connected it to that quiet message from years gone by, but perhaps there is one.

Essays have been the means of expression as I happily wrote away, sharing the experiences of God in my daily life. My intent and desire is not to tell anyone how to live their life but, rather, to promote thought, for questions to be asked, for life to be considered in a spiritual, eternal light instead of just a physical, temporal one.

After quite a number of posts had been written, the thought entered my mind--What would happen if I made a compilation of these entries, creating a book? It seemed like a simple, practical idea, that of placing the essays under a single cover. 

I began by taking several sample entries to a local editor. Her response was encouraging and unexpected as she supported the validity of the writing, suggesting I self-publish. The first task was to print out all of the posts from the blog, almost 200 of them. Working from that stack, a format began to develop.  

This should be a piece of cake, I thought. After all, everything is already written, and all I have to do is just arrange it in a readable manner. I was in for the surprise of my life. And that is where I have been.

Writing, editing, and rewriting is solitary and time-consuming, but I wanted it to be done well and done right.  Hour upon hour has been spent with pencil in hand, going over the entries time and time again. I'm not sure how long it has taken, but it correlates to the scarcity of new blog posts. 

Self-doubt has come like a tsunami, receding, then returning again, as I am not a trained writer. My writing and what I write about is raw, a personal exposure of me and my life.  Vulnerability is ever present. At times I withdrew, the process and project too daunting.  

Several months ago, I sensed a deadline and, with it, subtle pressure. Time is always of the essence, and timing is everything. I was asked to make a commitment to complete what I had begun. And that is where I have been.

Needing an illustrator for the cover page and chapter inserts, I asked my Heavenly Father for one. She had been right under my nose all along, my son-in-law's mother. I could not have asked for any better as she has captured the message and the spirit of the writing to a "t." They are beautiful, and it is my honor and privilege to share them.

Needing an editor as well, my own search was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Google and its resulting choices and options were overwhelming. I asked my Heavenly Father for one, and He delivered. While plodding along, I received a message out of the blue from a childhood friend saying she was "just wondering if you are looking for help" along with the name and recommendation of one. "Yes! Yes! Yes" was my response, "an answer to my prayer." The connection was made and the push was on toward completion.  

The manuscript was sent intact to the editor very recently. She is thorough, competent, and just plain good. Her kindness is evident as she presents her assessments with objectivity. The final revision is near completion, and there is the possibility it will be delivered to the publisher next week.

This is a self-publishing project, as I feel it is important that I am the one who decides the message I want conveyed and how that is done. A publishing package was purchased many months ago, an incentive to keep moving forward. When I spoke with the publishing company last week I was told there is a turnaround time of two to three months after they receive the manuscript until it is delivered as a book.

The emotions, the feelings run deep as the things I write about are so personal. How will the book be received? Will it be overlooked as just another feeble effort of an amateur writer? How well am I able to deal with criticism and ridicule? Of course, I have no way of knowing, but it has not stopped me in the journey or the quest of reaching the finish line.  

The desire of my life has always been to make a difference, not only for this life but for all eternity. If only one person is touched, then it will have been worth the time and the effort.

After what feels like a very long pregnancy--a very, very long one--I have the sense birth is taking place. The manuscript is becoming a book. It must stand on its own; I am neither propping it up nor supporting it. It is either a living work, or it will simply fade away.

And that is where I have been. Thank you for your patience.  

I will let you know when I am able to introduce you to "Tidbits and Pearls--A Book of Essays on Living Everyday Life With God." 

             

   

    

  

     

"On Lifechanging Events"

Part I--The "Flood of 1964"

lifechanging:  adj.  Having a significant effect on the course of one's life.

Life is a very personal, individual matter; lifechanging events even more so.  When such an event takes place not only is the outer of one's life touched and affected but the inner as well--emotionally, mentally, spiritually.  While making physical adjustments and compensations, an inner turmoil, an upheaval often follows; settling into a place of peace, rest, and reconciliation may not take place for quite some time, if ever.

A bad hair day or the fact that, ever since I had some ignition work done on my truck, there is a ding when I open the door whether or not the key is in it does not constitute a lifechanging event.  Those are annoyances, nuisances.  A vacation when the weather was not cooperative or those three or four days which kept everyone housebound because the snow was a foot deep does not qualify either.  Lifechanging events are those times in our lives which create an emotional tornado, an earthquake which shakes our very core.  They are those times when everything is turned upside down and mark a turning point in time, the ones we use as a "before" and "after" marker in the timeline of life.

It was Christmas time, and the "Flood of 1964" was that kind of an event for my young family and me.  Several hundred miles away, a warm Chinook wind hit an early snow pack in the Cascades, melting it.  That snow melt ended up, literally, at our doorstep.  The low-lying areas of the small coastal town where we lived were filled with water, and that is where our home was.  Almost everything we owned was wiped out by an unusual set of circumstances.  Newly married, with a 1-year-old son, we had only recently moved into the area for a new job.  We had no resources,  The move and purchase of a mobile home had taken all the money we had.  When the water subsided we found ourselves homeless and broke.

Our lives had been completely altered; and yet, life continued on.  I can still remember trying to set up a household afterward  in the small motel suite provided for us by the Red Cross.  Our worldly possessions had been condensed into only those things which weren't affected by water.  We were starting from scratch.  The flood was lifechanging.  While the whole community was affected, I was dealing with my own singular, private loss.

I suspect many of you have had your own lifechanging event and can relate to my experience.  Perhaps it was a fire, a vehicle accident, a difficult medical diagnosis and prognosis, a business failure--lifechanging events are varied and uniquely individual.  And always personal.

This much I know and believe to be so:  I am given three choices when life hits me full on.  I can turn to my Creator, I can turn on Him, or I can turn away from Him, denying the fact He even exists and cares.  In my life I opt to seek Him and His help.  Life is hard enough as it is.  I prefer not doing it by myself when I don't have to.

I am also of the belief that nothing is happenstance, that there is purpose and design to my life.  Four months after that destruction we found ourselves on two acres of country property, the site where we raised our four children and were able to give them "the best childhood any kid could ever have."--their quote, not mine.

The "Flood of 1964" was lifechanging on many levels.  Spiritual growth and maturity comes at a price sometimes.  While often extremely difficult, it is invaluable.  It is how change takes place.  

Part II--The Rest of the Story

The "Flood of 1964" resulted in the loss of my family's home and almost everything in it.  We were one of the fortunate who were covered by flood insurance.  Our home at the time of the flood was a mobile home and, since it had wheels, was given the same kind of coverage as an automobile.  While not a huge amount of money, it was at least something.  Those who lived in regular houses were not afforded any protection or compensation at all.

Housing in the area was in short supply due to an influx of population which had come to man a newly built paper mill, so we had no real options other than to replace the mobile home.  Excitedly, we placed an order for our new home, unsure where it was going to be set up.

In my refusal to return to the mobile park where we were flooded, there was only one other setting in the small town which would accommodate the all-electric feature.  We made the decision to have it brought to the alternate park even though it was a very crowded space.  Having grown up in the country, being squeezed in on all sides didn't set well, but there was no other choice.  My husband was working the midnight shift, also known as the graveyard shift, and was to stop on his way home from work to place a deposit.  Anxious to get home and get some sleep, he forgot three days in a row.  Because we hadn't secured the site it was given to someone else.

We had the pending delivery of a new mobile home and no place to put it.  As we wrestled with the situation, my husband said, "Let's go find some property to put it on."  Now that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

We got in the car with our son and headed out with no thought or direction in mind.  Heading up a winding, twisting road we had never driven before, I was quite certain it led nowhere.  The road followed a creek, and 2 1/2 miles in, we discovered a plot of land, and I was proven wrong.

We had a whole $100 to our name, which we used as earnest money with the promise of $900 for the down payment.  It turned out we were able to claim our flood loss on taxes and that $900 came just in time to finalize the deal.  We had a place to bring the mobile home to.  Talk about timing!

Our home up Scholfield Road was a gift.  I loved living there.  The mobile home was replaced with a house as the family grew, and it was a gathering place for people of all ages.  It was where my children grew up, and I would not trade that place, that space, that 

time for anything.

Do you wonder, do you question why I live my life the way I do?  The One who made me has taken such good care of me and continues to do so.  He is the reason why.

"We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose."  Romans 8:28

"On Wasps in the Garden"

Part I:

“Good News, Good News”

The bank is covered with ivy and blackberries, and it is my annual task to cut back the blackberry briars, encouraging the ivy to take over.  Since it is one of my least favorite gardening tasks, I tend to postpone the job, and this year was no exception.  Procrastination, however, does reach its limits, and I finally made the decision to tackle them and headed up the bank with pruners in hand.

It is bound to happen sooner or later was the thought that had been playing in my mind over and over.  A person can’t go traipsing through the brush and dried vegetation like I do without expecting to run into the nasty buggers.  “What are you talking about?” you may ask.  I’m talking about another encounter with wasps.  It is, after all, that time of the year when wasps become even more temperamental, aggressive, antisocial, and downright vicious than usual.

Wasps and bees are not one and the same.  Their similarities begin and end with the fact they are both flying insects with the capability of stinging. 

Honey bees are mild-mannered and social, living in large colonies.  Not only do they pollinate 1/3 of the food we eat, but they produce honey in their hives for themselves and for human consumption as well.  If one is stung by a honey bee it is a defensive reaction, never an offensive one. 

  

Wasps, on the other hand, are naturally a more aggressive predator.  There is nothing passive about them.  Whereas honey bees use pollen as a source of protein to feed their offspring, wasps provide meat for their larvae, classing them as carnivores in my opinion. 

By the end of summer, the beginning of autumn, the workers 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 manner 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 workers die when the weather turns cold.  To say they are not nice is a gross understatement.  Behaving with a definite spirit of aggression, they have no problem expressing themselves in an attack and conquer fashion.

Wasps have the advantage.  Their nests are often hidden, tucked away underground, invisible to the naked eye, a virtual landmine, and they know where we humans are long before we find them. 

  

Last season I drove my weeding tool straight into a wasps’ nest buried in the ground.  Instantly my hand and forearm, my ankle and lower leg were covered with them as they stung ferociously.  When one swats at a wasp, a chemical is emitted within 15 seconds, a signal of distress, and those in the nest respond.  They swarm, attack, and even chase.  Unlike honey bees which sting once then die, a wasp can sting repeatedly so the potential is a recipe for disaster.

My body reacted to the sheer quantity of venom.   My breathing wasn’t affected, but my heart was pounding and, within a matter of minutes, I had a full-blown case of head to toe hives. 

I recovered from that onslaught, but it was not an event I wish to repeat again.  While Al Qaeda and Isis are definitely terrorist groups, these tiny, black and yellow, flying, stinging critters have the capability of striking their own kind of terror.  The mere thought of them causes me to cringe.  Fear sat on my shoulder as I set off to do the necessary work on the bank. 

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.  Glancing up, 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 composed I was.  

I walked calmly down the hill—yes, calmly.  When I was a distance away, I killed the two left on my foot.  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.”   This experience, however, is only “good news, good news.”  Yes, I was stung, but part of the good news is 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 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 at the thought of wasps, and my foot swelled like a football, not a morsel of this encounter was a negative, only positive.  The day ended 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 my client to have the nest destroyed.

Part II:

“A Return to the Scene”

It had been three weeks since I mowed.  After encountering the wasps’ nest on the bank of blackberries and ivy, I had postponed the mowing job as I was uncertain what kind of nearby activity might set them off.  My client had called in a professional to dispose of the nest, and she notified me she had checked several times, and there was no sign of them. 

As I unloaded the mower from the truck I found myself thinking that I was returning to the scene of the crime.  While no crime had been committed, I was returning to a scene, one which evoked unpleasant memories.

I found myself checking out of the corner of my eye as I mowed past the place where the nest had been located.  I’ve seen several wasps flying around the past few days, and the cooler weather has dampened their nasty dispositions, so the threat of an attack is past.  And yet the memory lingers.  I still have not tackled those blackberries up on the bank.

Experiences from our past, some of them from decades ago, have a way of sneaking into the present, influencing not only the way we think, but how we live, holding us emotionally and mentally hostage.

The mind is a tricky beast to try to control.  In fact, I’d place it on an equivalency with the tongue when it comes to the degree of difficulty to exercise control over.  That’s probably why people spend so much money on seminars, books, and videos in an attempt to gain better control over their thoughts and subsequent reactions and responses to those thoughts.  Oh, that it was that easy to simply train one’s mind.

Experiences which have caused pain, sadness, turmoil, or grief have the potential of being springboards.  Even though that time in one’s life will probably not be repeated, the memory and thought often is enough to taint the present.  It’s as though we return to the scene each and every time a similar situation occurs.  I suspect that is why “they” say when you get bucked off a horse, just get back on again, stressing the importance of not allowing a single incident to define one’s future.  Sometimes that is possible; other times it isn’t.

A dental experience, involving drilling without being numbed; three very serious bicycle accidents involving my family; a drive on a logging road with the potential of ending horrifically; my family swimming in a river, a deadly end averted—these are just a few of the springboards in my life.  I know you have your own.  Anyone who has lived life does.

So how does a person live in the present, not allowing the past to color it?  Personally, I haven’t stopped going to the dentist, and I have not forbidden my grandchildren from riding bicycles or swimming, though I don’t take any sight-seeing tours through the mountains on logging roads.

How does one live without being affected or influenced by those experiences from our past, dealing with a mental recurrence of a difficult time, a return to the scene, as it were?  There is no easy answer, as each individual and each situation is unique.  My personal experience, however, attests to the effectiveness of dealing with a great one-on-one counselor, my Creator.  He knows me better than anyone else, and healing is possible.

In reflecting on these things, I realized I have an abundance of experiences to draw from in my life which make me an advocate of this approach.  More than a few situations in life already lived have the potential to ground me, bring me to a screeching halt, but for the work of the One who made me.  There are many things from my past which no longer touch me or affect me or my life because of God—His hand, His touch—in my inner psyche.  It all takes place in the mind and the inner being, you know.

We--He and I, aren’t all the way through the wasp thing yet.  I will say, though, that I made it through this season with nothing more than a swollen foot and a bite on the neck.  I am, however, considering skipping next August and September when the wasps go on their rant.  Thank God He walks me through these things.