Get to Work!

One of the tenets of Christianity is that belief in Jesus Christ, not works, secures our salvation. This comes as a big relief to me personally. Over my lifetime, the Oh, nos! have far outnumbered the Atta girls! If God were keeping score (which thank heavens He isn’t), I wouldn’t get a toe inside the Pearly Gates. I am all too happy to read Paul’s message in Ephesians 2:8-9, “For it is by grace you have been saved through faith … not of works …,” and breathe a huge sigh of relief.

BUT … there are those other verses that let me know, I can’t just claim this promise and go happily on my way. For example, if you read further in the second chapter of Ephesians, verse 10 to be exact, you’ll find there’s a proper response to accepting this incomparable gift: “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works…” And in James 2:17, the author essentially tells us faith without accompanying good deeds “is dead.” 

My blog posts, while often having an inspirational message, aren’t usually quite this “preachy.” But an event this past weekend at my church inspired me to reflect on the relationship of faith and works. For the past three springs, New Covenant Methodist Church has organized an activity called Sent Out Saturday. Members devote a Saturday morning to helping with various needs around the community. Usually this involves performing a lot of manual labor—cleaning, repairing, painting, sprucing up—for organizations or persons incapable of getting it all done themselves. 

Just look at this impressive group!
And they're all smiling ... at eight in the
morning...on a Saturday!

When this program began, around thirty people gathered to be “sent out.” This year, over ninety showed up to help! What a thrill to see this growth—to see so many give up a Saturday morning to help people they didn’t even know. And what thrilled me even more was that many of these volunteers were families with children of all ages. By example, moms and dads taught their toddlers to teens that if faith is genuine, it will reveal itself in love and concern for others. 

No, task was too big...and no worker too small!

Okay, I’m just going to go with the preachy thing and make a suggestion. Even Christians can sometimes find themselves in the doldrums. I certainly do. If you find yourself in such a state, help someone. It doesn’t have to be in a big group or with a lot of fanfare. Just look around … in your family or at your workplace or in your neighborhood. A need, however small, will soon present itself. To steal an old milk slogan, helping others truly “does a body good.” And sharing the good news of Christ doesn’t get any more effective than this!

If you need proof that serving others can make you feel good, check out these smiles.

How many volunteers does it take
to open a bucket of paint?

A pretty mother/daughter duo!

More teamwork!

Some jobs are best tackled alone.

There's always a need for good organizers!

Men and tools--an unstoppable combo.

Taking a little time out for fitness.

Sprucing up the Exodus House courtyard for spring.

Getting ready for the summer campers at Shiloh Camp.

And mulching at Shiloh.  Volunteers also sent to
the homes of Meals on Wheels clients and helped
with cleaning and repair chores.

     

Sometimes It Takes a Funeral

You don’t have to remind me. I realize that in a January post (just three short months ago) I blatantly proclaimed “joy” as my focus word for 2018. I still claim that word, and I still strive to obey the Apostle Paul’s command to “be full of joy in the Lord” (Philippians 4:4). But sometimes that joy in the Lord must struggle to overcome my human proclivity to slip, for no identifiable reason, into the doldrums. Not mad or deeply depressed. Just in need of an attitude adjustment. 

Thankfully, this doesn’t happen often, but I had such a morning a few days ago. Maybe my dour mood was the result of a restless night. Or maybe it was brought about by a return of winter temperatures that had worn out their welcome. Or—to paraphrase a great line from Steel Magnolias—maybe it was because the elastic in my pantyhose was shot. Whatever the source of my malaise, I needed a strong dose of encouragement to lift me out of it. 

I got it from a very unlikely place.

On my schedule that day was a memorial service for a former assistant pastor at my church. Marvin had overseen congregational care and nurturing and, in my opinion, was the perfect person for the job. We weren’t really what you’d call close friends, but we often exchanged greetings and handshakes at church. No matter how brief those exchanges, I always felt good after they occurred. Marvin always—and I mean always—had words of encouragement to share. At over eighty years old, he was one of the most gracious, positive men I knew.

From the messages and testimonies at his service, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Because that’s what Marvin was—an encourager. The trait was second nature to him. In fact, one of his eulogizers referred to him as “a Barnabas”—that early church leader who was nicknamed “Son of Encouragement.” 

Marvin had planned much of his own funeral, and to use one of the phrases he often bestowed on others, it was “the total package.” Marvin’s life had not been free from pain and challenges. He had dealt with job frustration, depression, and divorce. Yet the music and the singers and the messengers he selected to participate in his service all gave testimony to God’s power to lift us from our hurts and  problems—even the doldrums—to a life of hope and joy in Him.

My heart ached for Marvin’s close friends and family who certainly were suffering a great loss in their lives. But I also was uplifted. A man who had encouraged so many people while alive continued to do so from beyond the grave. I left that service determined to be more encouraging in my own words and actions—an area in which I often fall short. On a day when I really needed it, my spirit had been refreshed with  a sense of gratitude for people like Marvin and for all that is good in this world.

As I said, sometimes it takes a funeral to give us a renewed outlook. Not a tragic service in which the departed left this world far too early or unprepared. But one that is truly a celebration of a life well lived. 

          How about you? Have you ever found inspiration in an unusual place or circumstance?

First Runner-up: Expectancy

Last week I blogged about joy, the word that would direct my mind set for 2018. I explained in that post I’d decided upon the word during Advent when I read in Philippians 4:4 that uplifting command to "Always be full of joy in the Lord. I say it again--rejoice!” 

...an intriguing combination
of allegory and analysis

Until that time, I’d had another strong contender: expectancy. I’d begun considering it early in the fall, after reading Allen Arnold’s The Story of With: A Better Way to Live, Love, and Create,  

While reading this book, a section of it gave me pause because it seemed to go against so much of what I’d been told all my life about having expectations. I’d always considered expectations desirable things. What happened to "setting our expectations high" or "living up to high expectations"? When we complete any task, we have certain outcomes we want our work to achieve. What’s wrong with that?

But while Arnold doesn’t encourage having expectations, he does recommend living with expectancy. And he explains there is a vast difference.

Expectations are what we think should happen. They lead us to think we should be in control. And when our expectations are unmet--which often happens--it leads to disappointment, disillusionment, and discouragement.

Living with a sense of expectancy accomplishes the opposite. Expectancy is being open and prepared to accept what does happen.  Living with expectancy keeps us in a state of readiness or anticipation for what comes our way—whether good or bad. Expectancy leaves room for God to take our lives, our work, our situations far beyond what we would have ever imagined.

I'll admit it took me a while to wrap my mind around this idea. But after giving it considerable thought, it began to make sense. And it gave me an entire new way of looking at the book I would soon be releasing. What freedom there was in letting go of expectations for Some Form of Grace! I sent my best writing, publishing, and marketing efforts into the world and let go of expectations for reviews or awards or financial success. I could live in expectancy of what God would do with my book. 

Both joy and expectancy would make excellent focus words for the year. In choosing between them, the struggle was real. For various reasons, joy won out, but that doesn't mean I won't be living in expectancy of what God will do with my choice. 

Sneaker Waves

Just like the calm periods of our lives,
a peaceful sea can belie threats
and dangers that await us.

While visiting the coastal town of Yachats, Oregon, this past summer, I took an afternoon stroll along a bluff. On that walk, the bright sun warmed my face, and the wind blew just enough to rustle the fronds of sea grasses. To the west, the Pacific Ocean undulated in gentle swells and sent up delicate sprays of foam when it met with the rocks below. All the elements that day combined to produce feelings of peace and gratitude and safety. Then I came upon a plaque that cautioned me to beware the sneaker waves.

People who live along the west coast are most likely familiar with the term sneaker wave—a rogue wave which appears out of nowhere and strikes with great force. If you’re combing the beach, the wave can steal the sand right from under your feet. If you’re standing on a massive rock, observing sea life in a tide pool, it can attack and sweep you out to sea in the blink of an eye. Particularly alarming, these waves come at times when least expected, at times when the sea—at her charming best—lulls you into a blissful sense of security.

The plaque I happened on that day was a memorial to two young victims of sneaker waves and a caution of the perils they present. After I read it, I continued on my walk, my thoughts occupied with the sneaker waves of life—those events that shake our emotional foundations or knock us from them with devastating force. Events such as the death of a beloved partner or child, the diagnosis of a disease for which there is no cure, a divorce that leaves one shattered. Events that come with no sign or warning and often in the happiest, calmest periods of life.

Since that day, I’ve revisited the idea of sneaker waves from time to time and considered what I might say about them in a post. The death of a dear friend this past week prompted me to finally put words to my thoughts.

Patsy was really more family than friend. She was my daughter’s mother-in-law, my son-in-law’s mother, my grandsons’ “Mamaw.” I didn’t see her often, as she lived in a different state, but I always felt a strong connection to her because of our mutual love for the people in our lives.  I couldn’t have asked for a finer person to share my daughter with or a more devoted grandmother for my grandchildren. I will deeply miss “co-grandparenting” with her. My heart grieves for all the family members and friends who will miss her gentle and caring spirit.

Almost two years ago, Patsy was hit by a sneaker wave—a diagnosis of cancer. While this news no doubt shook her world, it didn’t defeat her. She battled the disease with faith and courage. Then a few weeks ago, a second wave hit. Her chemo wasn’t working. The doctors were out of ideas.

The plaque I encountered on my walk last summer offers not only warnings but also suggestions. Among them: Respect the immense power of the ocean. An unwavering Christian whose faith radiated in all that she did, Patsy knew another “immense Power” and drew on it throughout her life. Our time on Earth can be slippery and tenuous, but the other Power that Patsy knew offers a rock solid footing. So while the final sneaker wave Patsy encountered was frightening and sad, it wasn’t devastating. She faced it with the hope and assurance of a Firm Foundation.

Cut Flowers




Roses and lilies...a favorite combination

      A lot of people don’t like cut flowers. My late grandmother-Big Mama-was one of them. I didn’t learn about this until after I once sent her a floral arrangement for her birthday. Of course, being the typical grandmother, she thanked me profusely and made a big fuss over them. But my mother later told me of Big Mama’s preference to see flowers outside in their natural state. 

      I agree with her to a point. I’m not a fan of those stiff, perfectly arranged, funeral-looking concoctions. But over the past few years, grabbing a couple of bunches of flowers at the supermarket and loosely “arranging” them has become a guilty pleasure of mine. And I don’t have to feel too guilty. I figure a few cents a day is a fair price to pay for an instant pick-me-up. Maybe if I could grow one of those lush cottage gardens with a profusion of color right outside my windows, I’d be more inclined to leave flowers in the ground. But since my thumb is more brown than green and my space is limited, I derive pleasure from nature’s beauty brought inside where I can view it often and up close and personal.    

Yellow lilies, instant pick-me-up on a drizzly day

These were growing on the side
 of my house. I saw them and enjoyed
them a lot more  when
 I brought them inside.

        It might not be normal, the lift I get each morning from walking into the kitchen and seeing an explosion of color. I love watching roses or lilies or tulips slowly unfold from tight, compact buds into large and impressive blooms. Perhaps I'm overthinking it, but I find a life lesson in how mature blossoms seem willing to open up and receive more light, becoming more lovely in the process. Talk about aging gracefully. Much can be learned from a bouquet of cut flowers.

The pleasure doubles when cut flowers
remind us of love and friendship.

                    

Circle of Friends: The Lost Wife Offers Inspiration in Midst of Tragedy

 

           A lot was special about the Friends’ meeting this past week. First, we had almost record attendance, as only two of our active members were absent. Second, we didn’t have to cook! Well, one of us did. Host Carol prepared the entire meal for us, featuring her wonderful chicken divan, which I think should be called chicken divine. She said it was her way of saying “thank you” for the support she received last fall in the loss of her husband. Third, we met on Tuesday rather than Monday night, since danger and uncertainty churned across much of Oklahoma on Monday. Relief and thankfulness prevailed at this meeting, and there was a special joy in realizing we were all alive and able to gather. But, in true Friends’ spirit, there were also sadness and sympathy for our neighbors in Moore—fellow Okies who were picking through the ruins of demolished homes and nursing the raw emotional wounds of losing precious loved ones. For Faye, one of our members, the tragedy touched very close to home. Her son and his wife lost their house and belongings.

            Our reading selection for this month was The Lost Wife by Alyson Richman. As with most

historical fiction, the story is based on an incredible yet true scenario. After being separated before World War II, a husband and wife reunite after sixty years and thousands of miles of separation. Richman takes that seed of reality and adds many more facts—some horrifying, some intriguing—about the Holocaust. She takes the reader inside the Jewish ghetto at Terezin with its inhuman conditions. But she also shows the intrepid hearts and souls of some of its occupants, particularly those who chose to fight the Nazis the only way they knew how—with their art. In juxtaposing the worst and best of humanity, she weaves a tale that is at once heartbreaking and uplifting.

            I felt this novel was particularly appropriate for the Friends this month. If ever people need to be reminded of the strength and resiliency of the human spirit, it is in times of heartache and disaster. The Lost Wife answers the call. Her female protagonist Lenka, offers valuable insight for surviving tragedy: “...not to look back, but to focus on each new day.” As evidenced by the photos below, Oklahomans excel at that.

Devastation, Moore, Oklahoma May 23, 2013

Focusing on a new day...worn by woman helping her sister
and brother-in-law salvage their belongings

Rising from the rubble

                      

It's Alive!!!

             Look closely. Do you see them? There they are! Yes, there, nestled at the base of bare stems and stalks, hiding under a protective blanket of dead foliage are the first new leaves of my hydrangea. They tell me the bush is alive and soon will be erupting in an ostentatious display of lime green leaves and gaudy pink blossoms. They tell me the bush, like me, has survived another dreary winter and is ready to celebrate the cyclic wholeness of life.

            Every year the first warm days of spring find me out in my yard, nudging aside dirt clods and brown leaves with the toe of my shoe, bending down to closely inspect what might be underneath. As intent as a child hunting for Easter eggs, I’m searching for bits of green. And when I discover that first new sprig—either sprouting from a branch or poking its pointy nose through the dirt—I’m as thrilled as the kid who finds the prize egg.

             This week my friend Sonia wrote on her blog she considers spring the prettiest season in Oklahoma, and she posted some fairly convincing pics to support her claim. But I don’t agree. For me, autumn is the most beautiful season in this state. However, even with its buff-colored grass, mercurial temperatures, and threats of violent weather, spring is my favorite season. And although I’ve now seen quite a few springs, I still get excited about another one’s arrival. After being stuck inside the house and stuffed inside heavy sweaters and coats all winter, I can’t wait to get outdoors—to fill my lungs with fresh air, to expose my bare arms and legs to the sun’s gentle rays (using sunscreen, of course), to dig my fingers into the cool, fertile soil. All my senses are whetted by the sights, the smells, the sounds. By mid-summer the early morning drone of a lawnmower will annoy me, but right now the sound is as inspiring as my favorite hymn. It informs me my neighbor is scalping his lawn and soon the dried turf covering all our yards will be transformed into lush, green carpets. 

            As the famous verse in Ecclesiastes proclaims, “there is a season for every activity” (3:1).  Fall brings relief and refreshment, winter rest and restoration, and summer...well, in Oklahoma I’m not really sure what summer brings other than misery. Just kidding. Summer brings relaxation, recreation, and red, juicy tomatoes! But spring brings renewal. It assures us that regardless of whatever season we might be experiencing in our personal lives, God is in control and there is hope. Spring reminds us God loves us enough to “make everything beautiful in its own time” (3:11). And the triumph of a delicate bud bursting forth from a dry and brittle twig tells us that God, in His abundant mercy, hasn’t given up on mankind—that He continues to offer new beginnings.

Life renewed...the message of spring

            What about you? Does spring put you in the mood to celebrate, to “wax poetic”? What is your favorite season?

   

           

 

Lately, More Funerals Than Weddings

         

            This afternoon I attended a funeral—my second in a week. It seems that I’m attending funerals much more frequently these days. I would attribute that to my age, but a much younger friend confided that she, too, has lately attended what seems an unfair number of funerals. So maybe this isn’t just an age-related phenomenon. Maybe it also can be tied to the number of friends and relatives with whom we have been blessed.   

            Whatever the reasons behind this frequency of funerals, I’ve made a surprising discovery about these most solemn of services: Namely, they aren’t really that solemn anymore. They are true celebrations of life. The few funerals I attended as a child followed a clear-cut format: sad songs, prayers, a sermon with some scriptures about life eternal and a heavenly home, a farewell to the deceased with a promise we would one day be re-united. I’m sure all of that brought comfort to the grieving family and should still be a part of every service. But at more recent funerals, I’ve noticed another element has been added—an opportunity to know the deceased in a way few of us were able to while he or she was alive. Whether it’s through a video, a display of family pictures, testimonies of friends, or the opportunity to chat with family, I have learned so much more about the departed. And I’ve learned about the “extraordinary-ness” of those who lived what I previously considered ordinary lives. I’ve learned about dedicated teachers who touched students’ lives in ways few people realized while they were living. I’ve learned of men who served selflessly in the military both during times of war and peace. I’ve learned of individuals who struggled through difficult childhoods to become devoted parents who valued family. And I’ve laughed. Yes, I’ve shed tears of laughter as friends and family recounted those funny acts, accidents, and antics that make the departed all the more endearing to us. I’ve left services such as this saddened yet uplifted, determined to appreciate life and people more.

            This post is not in any way meant to trivialize the sense of loss that accompanies a loved one’s death. Grief is painful, eased only by time and faith, and never completely erased. But perhaps the hurting can be alleviated in some small way by the realization that even in death those dear to us still provide hope and inspiration for the living.