On Relationship: It Takes Two

 

relationship: n. Connection or association; A way in which two or more people behave and are involved with each other.

  

"I know you are refusing to talk to me. And that's OK. You can be angry or whatever with me....It did not have to be this way. You've made your point. I will not communicate with you anymore."

 I feel stupid. Really stupid. How do I get over this feeling of being so stupid?

The feelings and thoughts were plaguing my mind, and I couldn’t get rid of them.

It’s the kind of stupid you would feel if you were walking down the sidewalk and recognized the person coming towards you. There is no question they see you too. You speed up your pace to greet them, but they turn their head as they pass by, ignoring you.

It’s that kind of stupid feeling, an icky residue after laying yourself out only to be treated as though you don’t matter or exist. 

New neighbors moved in next door almost two years ago. I was delighted when I found there was a set of twin girls, around ten at the time. Kids in the neighborhood!!

Animals moved in too. There were more than just a few as the owners tried to establish a farm on a city lot. Initially there were six or seven chickens, four rabbits, and three dogs. Over time, a dozen ducks were added.

The lady of the household is the one who fields all communication. My relationship with her got off to a rocky start when one of the rabbits appeared in my garden, heading for my strawberries. I explained rabbits and my garden would not co-exist, and they needed to be kept penned. She appeared to understand my point.

Our relationship got rougher as time went on when it became apparent the animals were not properly contained. The rabbits got out repeatedly, heading for my garden. The chickens were allowed to free range in my flower beds and the ducks did their “duck thing” not far from my back door. When I opened my blinds every morning, I was never sure which animal might be “visiting.”

Issues arose regularly over the poorly caged animals. The city requires owners of urban farm animals to house and properly contain them. I felt the situation could be resolved without involving the city. I told the neighbors of my stance from the beginning.

I communicated often, usually via text. “Please keep your animals penned up.” It was my single request. That did not happen. The final straw was when the chickens tore up my flower beds with their scratching and digging and their owner challenged me, “How do you know my chickens did this?” Frustration over the stench resulting from their ducks being housed adjacent to my backyard fence sent me over the edge. I contacted the city over my neighbor’s obstinate refusal to comply after over a year and a half. 

What if I am the only representation of God in their lives? Have my neighbors seen anything in my life that would point them to Him? Those have been personal questions of concern. I have no answer, certainly not a “Hallelujah!” one.  

I have a core belief there is a point and purpose to everything that takes place in my life. I have learned a great deal about myself through this. I learned I am not as patient as I thought I was. I am neither kind nor do I turn the other cheek. Mercy does not fill my being, I can be downright mean, and I feel no love for those causing grief in my life.

God has also revealed facets of Himself. He has a limit when it comes to His tolerance, what He allows and what He doesn’t. He is longsuffering, but He will neither be abused nor taken for granted. He allows ample time for us humans to reckon with the truth of ourselves. But when we refuse to do that, then “Time’s up.” When He’s done, He’s done. Period.

I decided it was a good time to walk to Bi-Mart. I needed to get outside and move. It’s quite a distance away, almost three miles. My optimistic hope was I would make it there and back home in one piece. I had my list—daffodil bulbs, orchid potting mix…and licorice. I had confidence time spent trudging along in the fresh air would help clear my mind.

I have been texting my neighbor. She does not respond. I know she reads the messages, but she is silent. The repeated lack of acknowledgement felt like a slap in the face. That was when I started feeling stupid. Why do I continue reaching out, only to be ignored? How stupid is that?

While walking and mulling over my “stupid” situation, God reminded me of a scripture. “I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”*

The mental picture I had was of my Heavenly Father knocking at a door. He waits for an answer and there is none. He knocks once more. He doesn’t leave but continues to wait. He knows someone is inside, but no one responds. He knocks again and again. There is only silence. No one answers.

What is He to do?

I asked Him if He felt stupid like I did.

 “No. I feel sad.”

It takes two to have a relationship. You cannot have a relationship with someone who chooses to not respond. I have walked away. Time’s up. I am done. I will not lay myself out anymore, only to be ignored.

I would have been a good neighbor to you and for you, W*****. It is your loss. It didn’t have to be this way. It makes me sad.

And, from God’s point of view, He cannot have a relationship with someone who chooses to not answer the door and invite Him in when He knocks.

If you are one who puts off the “still, small voice” of God…or chooses to ignore Him when He knocks, remember this: There comes a point when “Time’s up,” and He is done.

Humankind cannot have things both ways. We cannot live life as we choose, on our terms and oblivious to God, then expect Him to know us when we enter eternity. If we want nothing to do with Him, then that is what we are given. It is on us, not Him. Think about that.

It takes two to have a relationship. 

                                                                                               

                                                                                                           *Revelation 3:20

It's the Little Things

 

           I did not display the four heart-shaped plates in my China hutch alongside Mother’s “good” dishes. Perhaps, unconsciously, I felt their mundane appearance didn’t warrant that kind of treatment. I really never gave it any thought.

I didn’t “save” them to be used for company or holidays. They didn't have a Spode or Wedgwood mark on the bottom; they certainly weren’t in the same category as Waterford crystal or Fostoria glassware. Rather, they were made of that durable material called Melmac, the stuff that lasts forever and doesn’t break unless you run over it with a semi-truck.

For the past several years, I’ve kept them hidden from view, tucked away on an upper shelf in my kitchen cupboard. I once considered giving them to a nonprofit organization as I no longer use them. I couldn’t bring myself to do that, though. They carried too many memories.

When my four younger grandgirls were little, they often begged for a sleepover at Neighbor Grandma’s house. For me, that entailed gathering enough activities, crafts, games—and food—to occupy them. My theory was if I kept them busy, the chances for confrontations were less likely.

I kept containers filled with crayons and paints, color books, activity books and colored paper. Legos, books, puzzles, games, and crafts were always available. In fact, I still have the remains of yesterday in one of my closets, a reminder of precious, priceless times.

The remains of yesterday. That is exactly what the four heart-shaped plates were.

           For the cousins, breakfast at Grandma’s after a sleepover was predictable. It never varied. I always prepared a fruit smoothy with the help of the little girls. And cinnamon toast—served on heart plates. I doubt it was the only time they had cinnamon toast. It was, however, a tradition when staying with Grandma, including the plates.

These four grandgirls are no longer little. They are now young women, ranging in age from sixteen to almost twenty. The sleepovers stopped when two of them moved out of state and the other two moved to another town.

While digging in my cupboard a while back, I discovered the four plates. I decided I needed to disperse them to each of the “sleepover” grandgirls—four plates, four girls.

The opportunity arose when three of the four happened to be in the same place at the same time. I told them I had something for them, so they stopped by, and I gifted each of them a plate. One was sent home to the absent grandgirl via her sister.

“Someday,” I told them, “You might want to serve cinnamon toast on them to your children.”

“I’m not going to wait for that,” I was told.

The comment didn’t register until I received a picture on my phone of cinnamon toast on a red heart plate. Not long after I received another picture of another grandgirl's breakfast--cinnamon toast on a red heart plate. Oh. My.

“I use mine all the time,” each of them tell me. My heart has melted.

It’s the little things.

So often we, as parents, friends, or family members want to create a lasting memory or have an impact on the lives of others. We spend money buying gifts, sometimes quite extravagant ones, with the hope we make a lasting impression. I suspect the underlying concern is that, after we have passed, we will be forgotten.

Recently I was in the grocery store checkout line behind a young man and his mother. The mother was living her life in the only way she knew as her adult son, hyped and revved up, was unable to stand still for a single moment. My impression was he was high on meth, though that may not have been accurate.

At any rate, I found myself sending a message to all my grandgirls: “DON’T. DO NOT. NEVER. EVER. Mess with. Dabble in. Experiment. Test or try out. Drugs of any kind. In any way shape or form." We did the pinky swear thing.

 I promised them if I pass away and find out they have even so much as considered it “just for the fun of it,” I will come back, hunt them down, and haunt them. The thing of it is, they may have believed me.

They know I love them with all my heart. And four of them have a reminder. They have their own heart plate.

It is the little things—wherever we are or whoever we engage with. Ironically, we may have grandiose ideas and thoughts as to what is important, things that will be remembered and make a difference in another's life. In reality, we have no idea as to what that might be.

 It is the day in and day out, everyday way we live our lives that makes a difference and matters.This is true not only with our family but those we meet along the way.  

Live honestly, without pretense or motive, in sincerity and love.  

It is the little things. And nothing could appear to be more insignificant than four, red, Melmac, heart-shaped plates.

On the Perception of Self

 

 

perception: n. Conscious understanding of something.

 

The tiny, elderly lady was in her driveway, getting out of her car. I approached her and introduced myself: “I’m Ladonna, and I hope it isn’t inappropriate if I ask you a few questions.” Continuing, I explained where I live in the neighborhood. "I'm in the duplex up on the corner.”

“I know where you live,” she commented. “It’s the house with all the flowers.”

I did the nervous laugh thing and kept talking. In all honesty, I was wanting to find some “dirt” on my next-door neighbors. Their home adjoins this neighbor’s property opposite mine, on the other side of their back yard. My neighbor’s desire to have a back yard farm has been a source of personal grief since they moved in. Most recently I took issue with their housing ducks in an unsanitary manner, and I filed a complaint with the city. I was hoping I could add these neighbors to the list, giving support to my cause.

We visited for a while as she shared their own animal issues with the neighbors. I had brought contact information for the city with me and left it with her. 

I headed back home. The house with all the flowers?? What an inglorious way to be remembered. Truthfully, I was kind of hoping my legacy would be one of “Wise Woman in the Neighborhood” or something more refined and wonderful sounding.

God and I have been wrestling for a while. Rather, I have been wrestling with God. It’s about the same as a toddler trying to grapple with his physical father. The winner is apparent from the start.

’Change me. Please change me, God.”

“Why would I do that? Why would I change you from the person I created you to be?”

“I talk too much, God. I need to shut my mouth and be quiet.”

I have always been a talker. I envy those who sit quietly as they listen and observe. It isn’t that I don’t like who I am. I just have this perception a better "me" would be more placid and less boisterous. All I'm asking for is a tweak in my personality, a minor makeover.

Tucked away in the files in my mind is a list of personal criticism and judgements directed against myself: I am a knee-jerk reaction person, one who is unable to hide my emotions or reactions. Just this afternoon, while working in my garden, I yelled across the street at two young boys who were arguing over an abandoned grocery cart. “Stop fighting! Stop fighting!!,” I shouted out spontaneously. “Whatever you’re fighting over, it isn’t worth it. Get along.” Surprisingly, they stopped their battle and headed on down the sidewalk.

Of late, consistency has not been my forte’. From one day to the next my mood may range from cynical to hopeful, somber to joyful.

Since I am unable to change myself into my perception of a new-and-improved "me", I have attempted to coerce my Heavenly Father into accomplishing that feat for me. I have not been successful.

Decades ago, I was in a world of hurt. I wanted another child but was unable to become pregnant. An eating disorder had overtaken me. The ensuing depression was an additional debilitation.

Where are you, God? Where are you? In the midst of such a state there is no hope. Daily living is difficult, often torturous. Sleep offers no reprieve. And it begins all over again the next day, with no end in sight—ever.

I remember every detail when He whispered to me. I know where I was. I know what I was wearing. I know what and how I was feeling--abject hopelessness. Our family had gone to a spot upriver where the kids could play in a creek with friends. I carried my devastation, a constant companion, with me.

 God spoke: “You are exactly as I want you to be." I understood that to mean not only me, but my circumstances. I can guarantee you I did not jump up and down for joy. My idea of perfection was a far cry from His reality. But I did hear Him, and I have never forgotten. In fact, He often reminds me: “You are exactly as I want you to be.” This is one of those times.

I may have a perception of what I think I should be like, but that is all it is. It is my perception. The clay is not in the position to tell the potter what the finished product should look like.

Right here. Right now. I am exactly as God wants me to be. And that includes the "talker" and the "just a little bit crazy, you never know what to expect old woman." If I need to be changed it will be at His hand and not according to my perception.

God pointed out that, after Creation, He placed Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden to tend it. I am in good company if the lady up the street knows I live in “the house that has all of the flowers.”

 

Yet, Lord, you are our father. We are the clay, and you are our potter;

your hands made us all.

Isaiah 64:8 NET