MY NOT SO DISTANT COUSIN

Along with relentless humidity, a cacophony of words has been swirling around my head and tugging at the pliant curves of my heart all week. This unruly stew is an incongruous mixture of joy and despair. Now that I'm home, I find the mixture has landed squarely in the pit of my stomach. It is a weighty and unsettling lump. 

What a week.

I will admit I was not enthusiastic when Camden was chosen as our youth group service week destination. It is, after all, just across the river. Rather than a destination, it has been (in my limited experience) a place to avoid. Though I have lived only an hour away for 50+ years, I've been to Camden on only four previous occasions. Highway navigation is not one of my strong suits so half of the aforementioned occasions were accidental (and as brief as humanly possible). One visit involved walking to a concert venue quickly so I might avoid the stray bullets which I imagined fairly peppered the Camden sky. The last visit was to the Adventure Aquarium where I stood mesmerized by the jet propulsion movement of a transparent jellyfish behind glass. If my life is a novel, the aquarium memory could be considered ironic foreshadowing of last evening's experience.  This time I stood on the weapons-side of a panel of bulletproof glass while awaiting my brown paper sack of vegetable lo mein. I was told later that my three companions and I had ventured two blocks beyond the relative safe zone in the city. The food was cheap. And delicious.

photo credit Andrea Bauman

Nearly three decades ago, Urban Promise was born to provide a safe and caring environment for the children of Camden. They have not strayed from their promise.  They are pushing into the darkest places of the city with their brightly colored murals, their catchy songs, their nutritious lunches, and their determination to be present. Empowered by the strength of their calling and the all-encompassing love of Jesus, I'm not sure they can be dissuaded. http://urbanpromiseinternational.org/our-ministries-united-states-america/usa-urbanpromise-camden 

photo credit Mickensie Neely

The extreme heat this past week was no match for the fire in the hearts of these Urban Promise leaders. From the business office to the Facilities Team of ONE, they are a determined lot. Our lunch-maker did her job with gusto. You couldn't even get past the sun-baked crossing guard without receiving a high-five.  These people redefine optimism. They relentlessly pursue positivity in the face of utter desperation.  They are daily and methodically overcoming hopelessness by showering the poor children of Camden with the kind of unconditional love that turns hearts from stone and extinguishes discouragement in the lowest of circumstances. They are saving the emotional, spiritual, and physical lives of children. One day at a time. 

Many of the children of Urban Promise go on to be Street Leaders in the camps and some of them even become Camp Directors. An energetic and motivating man named Albert led the camp with which I was honored to serve. He was once a child in the program and now he is passionately and effectively giving back to the most vulnerable people in Camden.  He now commutes every day from Hatfield to fulfill his ministry and his determination is inspiring. The children adore him. He is the hands and feet of Christ to those kids. 

As usual, my husband boiled down all my swirling words when he said "I used to think Camden was a joke." He hit the nail on the head. We were just glad not to live there. Camden felt like the awkward cousin we don't invite to family gatherings because nobody knows quite what to say. We didn't want our friends to know we are related to her.

photo credit: Chris Worthington

Those of us on the west side of the river who have dinner every night find it easy not to consider what is going on beyond the concert venue and the aquarium parking lot. Those of us with transportation in the garages of our single homes easily forget those who have no way to get to a job when highways cut through our neighborhoods and we don't own a car.  We who've met our fathers cannot fathom what it would mean for our toddlers to have to step over drug paraphernalia when walking around in our local parks. 

Some of us spent a morning in the park playing kickball with the kids. A woman was shooting drugs into her arm in a car on the edge of the park at 10:00 in the morning. Even inside the fences, the ground was littered with evidence of addiction. Syringes and brightly colored plastic bottles. If we were to spy reds and oranges like this in our own Souderton Park, we'd assume someone had dropped a toy. The heaviness of the week just clung to me that morning until I turned my head again and recognized so many of our camper's little faces. They were having fun while we were melting in the heat. Tiny feet kicking balls, dust flying, the dirt from the field clinging to sticky brown and tan legs as the children laughed and circled the bases with our teens coaching and cheering them on. When those tiny children hugged our legs and held our hands in theirs, our hearts melted faster than the 95 degree heat could melt us. Little lips, green and blue from well-earned ice pops, giving us perspective, giving us words, placing their stories gently into our care. They shared their giggles. They shared their hopes. They shared their fears. 

Job one at Urban Promise is the presentation of an orientation for work groups like us. They do a good job but let me tell you, NOTHING can prepare temporary do-good workers like us for the overwhelming impact of a small sweet head resting suddenly and trustingly on one of our shoulders. Nothing can prepare our ears to hear an eight year old tell one of us quietly that he has not seen his mother for awhile because his sister got shot; the words whispered between bites of the bologna and cheese sandwich provided by the ministry. He had his breakfast there that morning as well. As he sipped his strawberry milk he added that he has a fourteen year old brother and four other siblings. His brother doesn't come to camp with Urban Promise, he just "walks around on the streets." 

My preconceived concept of the streets of Camden was bleak. Unfortunately bleak doesn't begin to describe the things we saw when two of the ministry leaders took our group from Blooming Glen Mennonite Church and the Souderton Mennonite Church youth group on a tour of their city. Roughly fifty of us were crammed inside an aging, sweltering, bumpy school bus. Some of us were seated three across, our hot weary bodies pressed up against each other in a damp togetherness none of us had anticipated. But compared to what was going on outside of our uncomfortable bus, we were a bunch blessed beyond reason. Street after street of abject poverty. Boarded up homes and businesses. No jobs. The stench of the water treatment facilities smack dab in the residential city;the residents too poor and beaten down to fight for their own streets. Heroin alley. "Ladies of the night" peddling their wares at 3:30 in the afternoon. Our leaders told us of the gangs, the infighting, the jockeying for position and turf, the cycle of poverty. It was positively heartbreaking to realize these were the streets on which our beloved little campers are being raised.  

We passed by the luxurious new training facility for the Sixers, closer to the more affluent waterfront and so out of step with the rest of the community. This huge facility was coaxed into the impoverished city with the promise of no taxes due for thirty years. A monetary break for the NBA. The construction project just a small way down the street from the schools at which children cannot drink the tap water because it is unsafe for human consumption. The problem is ongoing and nobody is fixing it. Let that one sink in and see if you can ever enjoy an overpriced beverage at a sporting event again.

photo credit Albert Vega

But somehow, there is hope in the city. Just when least expected, there is a ministry here, a recovery center there. There are warriors fighting for the heart of the city. Offering hope in the form of a meal, a new set of clothing, an encouraging word, an ESL class,  job training, a spark of possibility. Sparks which will hopefully become flames to purify, fire that cleanses and allows new life to grow in the most inhospitable places. Let it be so.

So this lump in my stomach feels like cautious optimism. 

I'd like to introduce you to my cousin Camden. She isn't always dressed appropriately for the party. She might say something uncomfortable. She eats foods I've never seen before and she tells it like it is. I'm pretty sure she'll make us both cringe because she's rolling her eyes at me right now. But quite unexpectedly, I found we've got more in common than I might have imagined. In fact in lots of ways, I might be more of a problem in our relationship than she is. I hope you'll take some time to get to know her too.

THE BLUE LOLLIPOP

Before I knew it, a rather cute but pushy old woman was climbing into the front seat of my car.  Seconds before, with her hand on the door handle, she asked me (one might say told me) I was going to give her a ride home from the grocery store.  Her beautiful skin was the color of a perfect cup of English breakfast tea, her magenta sari blowing in the Pennsylvania breeze. She accomplished this feat in less than ten seconds with pretty much no command of the English language. 

She was insistent on gifting me an ice-blue colored lollipop as I drove her a little ways in the opposite direction from my home.  Again, she wouldn't take no for an answer.

So what do you think, my nimble-minded friends? Who is going to end up chopped up in someone's freezer first? The too-trusting old woman who pays complete strangers in lollipops or the pushover who lets anyone who looks remotely distressed into her car?

Oh, those fruits of the spirit will get you every single time. Generosity is one of my favorites.  

Who is my neighbor?  Who am I called to love?  I believe God puts unexpected people in front of us sometimes and the choice becomes ours. 

My hope is that more often than not, I can choose to love.  

Team Francis

I admit it freely. This Mennonite lady is a serious fan of Pope Francis. 

Regardless of one's personal beliefs, his visit to our area has been a gift. Road closures and wall-to-wall media coverage are an easy trade for the kind of benevolent prodding, arresting compassion and general goodwill that man carried with him in his sporty little Fiat. 

Even from the vantage point of my couch, thousands of people sharing communion on the Philadelphia parkway was one of the most beautiful things I have ever observed. I sat spellbound with a cat on my lap and just let those unchecked tears fall. It gave me a glimpse of heaven. 

I love the gentle way this man of God turns the world on its ear, honoring the disenfranchised and reminding those in our society who are blessed (with more than they could ever honestly need) to not just remember, but respect those who have no voice. How humbling and inspiring to see the words of Jesus in action. 

In his parting words, Pope Francis asks that we all remember to pray for him. "Don't forget," he says, with a little twinkle in his eye. No worries, Holy Father. You just keep doing what you're doing. We've got your back.

Being in Love

The road to love is paved with unforeseen obstacles, sappy song lyrics, some distressingly deep potholes, and occasionally a set of counterfeit eyebrows.  Allow me to explain.

The first boy who drove me away from the safety and security of my parent’s house alone in an actual car was definitely too old for me.  I knew it, he knew it, and apparently his mother was vehemently convinced of it as well.  She spent enormous mental energy coming up with reasons a fifteen year old girl should not be dating her nineteen year old son.  My favorite (and perhaps her flimsiest) justification is to follow and why he opted to tell me his mother asked him this question, I will never know….   “Tell me dear….why would you want to date a girl who doesn’t have any eyebrows?”

You see, back in the day, I was a redhead.  My springtime pre-freckled skin displayed an impressive pallor the likes of which is otherwise only associated with things like a fresh slice of Wonder bread or maybe a tube of zinc-oxide nosecoat for the beach.  I was practically see-through. My very blonde eyebrows followed suit and though they were indeed present, without the benefit of stadium lighting my young brows were virtually undetectable to the naked eye. 

The eyebrow inquiry was a low blow but it didn’t really matter as our fledgling relationship never made it into my sophomore year of High School.  But you might be pleased to know that before we parted ways, I did seek out the opportunity to walk casually through my boyfriend’s mother’s kitchen wearing a pair of homemade black construction paper eyebrows.

Everyone who breathes has likely suffered the anguish associated with learning to love.  Teenage crushes are painful without interfering mothers and I would soon learn that making peace with my eyebrows was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  There were other boys and lots more drama as I navigated the learning curve associated with broken heartedness. 36 years later it still makes me cringe to reflect.  It is a truism that crying oneself to sleep is an adolescent rite of passage.

After several more trials and errors, I met the boy who would eventually become my husband.  He was a persistent sort and made several futile attempts to find a way to speak with me before he actually mustered the courage to just dial the phone.  Yes, phones still required dialing in 1979. There were references made to our matching hair color (he alleged that he made it a point to meet all the redheads…); there were visits to the dairy bar at which I earned minimum wage and where he ate entirely more ice cream than is advisable for a person of ANY age.  But since it was the late seventies, my clearest memory of these initially fruitless attempts involved a very loud and very jacked up green Pontiac Le Mans.  It was after school and I was on foot with an armload of textbooks; making the not-too-distant trek to my grandparent’s house.  Seizing the day, Jim (two years my senior) cruised up alongside my teenage self in his impressively noisy car.  As if his V8 engine was not purring loudly enough, the Led Zeppelin eight-track tape thumping menacingly from his speakers surely and unforgettably rounded out the soundtrack for our encounter.  My heart rate was pounding in my ears almost as loudly as his speakers.  I was panicked, thrilled, and desperately intrigued. But the spell was broken when this stirringly mysterious boy gave voice to the cheesiest pickup line in the history of the world.  “Hey Babe, wanna get lucky?” 

Somehow despite that unfortunate line, we found ourselves engaged to be married before I even left for college. Again, too young for such things; for heaven’s sake, even HIS cerebral cortex had not yet fully matured.

We were inseparable, going everywhere together and even dressing alike.  Silly songs about bushels and pecks and hugs around the neck were sung. We were disgustingly sentimental, making up ridiculous names for one another.  Worse yet, answering to them….

He was learning to program computers while I was learning to be a nurse.  His school was more than hour away from my school and yet somehow he managed to hold down a fulltime job as well.  He slept almost not at all during those years, faithfully driving back and forth to see me whenever he had the opportunity.  The “house mother” in the lobby of my school would shake her head in disapproval and concern when she’d find him sitting upright yet asleep on the couch waiting for me to finish preening and come downstairs.  “Oh, the poor boy….”  There was a lot of tsk tsk-ing. 

His mother hated it too, as you can imagine.  Though she often expressed worry over his lack of sleep she was more gracious than my former boyfriend’s mother and thankfully never played the “no eyebrows” card to coerce him into healthier patterns. 

Most of Jim’s wardrobe was in the back of his car and since he’d been doing his own laundry for several years, the majority of his clothing was rumpled and a distinct grey hue. I’m sure anyone taking a look inside his parked car would have imagined a homeless person had taken up residence. My devoted fiancé kept himself awake while driving back and forth on the highway with a practiced routine.  This routine included the exercise of changing his clothing while at the wheel…   As a health professional (or truly just any old person with a brain), I advise against this practice. I have tried many times to imagine his procedure.  His preference for manual shift cars conjures an image whereby I can assume the clutch would have made this quite a delicate process.  I’m sure there was loud music associated with his apparel transformations as subwoofers have always been a necessary staple in my husband’s cars. It is rather miraculous he was never pulled over for swerving, in fact astounding that he survived several years of this ritual at all.

Our wedding took place after my college graduation.  After four years, four months and fifteen days of a very sweet relationship, one might think we would have known what we were doing.  One might assume the drama was over. This was not so.

We loved each other, surely.  There was and still is no one I admire more. We knew how to have fun.  We liked many of the same things.  We had similar beliefs and comparable backgrounds.  We rather adored each other and were hard-pressed to imagine there was anyone else in the world better suited for a life partner. 

We did most things right but we were young and naïve when it came to real communication. Though the pastor who married us spoke cursorily about money and duty, there was no premarital counseling class about how to say what you mean and perhaps more importantly, how to listen to what you might not ever want to hear.  

Our time together was almost always wonderful.  But if there was something serious to be deliberated, we pretty much discovered a way to get around discussing it in a beneficial way.  Having uncomfortable conversations was not something either of us enjoyed so we tended to skirt issues that could turn unpleasant for either of us.  Sometimes we used silence and sometimes we used sound.  Neither requires talking. Turning up the volume of the stereo loud enough, one can almost ignore the warning sirens in one’s head.  Sometimes one of us would bake something and we’d companionably eat decadent desserts instead of dealing with what was hard. 

We worked two different shifts.  This was not at all ideal; in fact it was a terrible idea, particularly since my shift was during the night. 

If I was sad, he’d almost always find a way to make me laugh.  We are still great at laughing; in fact it got us into trouble with more than one marriage counselor.  I don’t want to suggest that humor is a bad thing because it isn’t.  It is, in fact, quite wonderful.  But laughter in place of talking about what is important can eventually make things much harder than need be. 

Sometimes we shunted our energies into caring about very worthy causes unrelated to our relationship.  We took in young stray bachelors, feeding, cleaning, and doing laundry for their sorry selves as though we were their parents.  We could skirt an issue with practiced diplomacy, putting all our eggs into our carefully crafted kindred spirit basket.  We were, after all, clearly made for each other.  Heck, we even LOOKED alike. 

Was being vulnerable and talking about things that bothered us really that important?  Apparently it was.  Being a pair who never argued didn’t help our situation.  At least people who scream at one another get things out in the open in a noticeable though sometimes publically embarrassing way.  But we preferred to sweep prickly topics under the rug.  After all, being the good kindred spirits we were, we didn’t like to upset one another. 

So three years in, we welcomed a tiny bald bundle into what appeared to be our idyllic home.  We loved our perfect son to distraction.  We were great at funneling adoration into that little boy yet our marriage continued to unravel in the tiniest and sometimes most imperceptible ways.  When we finally acknowledged there was a problem, we attempted therapy and relocated to another town.  I switched jobs.  We moved into separate bedrooms and even tortured ourselves with mediation because we liked each other entirely too much to involve real lawyers.  Bad choices were made; most of them mine.  Those choices turned into patterns and the patterns soon caused us to feel as though we were irretrievably strapped to the front of a speeding train.  The train’s destination was unclear but the promise of dark tunnels was certain.

After all our practiced sweeping under the rug and several years more of failure to effectively communicate, there was very little left at our house besides a big unfortunate lump under the rug and larger protuberances clogging both of our hearts.  So we did what anyone would do in our situation.  We assumed it was the end.

This is the part of the story where two people have grown so far apart, they decide the only resolution is divorce.  There seemed, in our opinion, not much left to salvage. 

But in a wonderfully unexpected twist, things became clearer when we took a physical step away from each other.  We discovered that the misery of being apart was remarkably more painful than the misery of being together.  This, to me, was miraculous.

With more than a little trepidation that our newfound spell of hope might dissipate, we joined forces and made a real attempt to count ourselves within the small percentage of lost causes who can eventually claim a happy ending.  We bit the bullet and departed for a weeklong crash course in communication.  We went away to a place of very expensive intense marital therapy and make no mistake, it was hell. We took testing to discover our pitfalls.  We learned to sit with our backs against each other and listen without interrupting.  We learned to say what we mean and holy buckets, to truly mean what we say.  We learned to listen to the point of exhaustion and though we did not think we could stand to hear another painful word, we learned to swallow our own retort and tenderly ask each other, “Is there more?”  We learned that there was a whole box of practical things we hadn’t even tried and that all of those tools involved being truthful, being vulnerable, laying all our garbage on the line despite the hurt, and finally learning to hear one another’s deepest pain.

Our bonus, four years later, was a beautiful baby girl.  Our family was complete.  My baby girl is nearing 20 years of age now and there are so many things I want to tell her about finding the right person with whom to share her life.  But from experience, I know that my time of influence has nearly passed.  She’s been watching me for almost two decades and her observations and opinions are essentially formed.  It is a little scary to think that the children we bear are seeing it all.  They take their cues from us, watching us interact with each other on a day to day basis when the basement is flooding, an income is lost, or when the mashed potatoes are cooking over on the stove.  They watch the way we choose to love and the ways we sometimes let frustration override our best intentions about caring for one another.  And so I pray.  I pray for my children and I pray for their someday spouses; something I have done since my children were in utero.

May, 2014. And here is one answer to those prayers - our first official
family photo with my beautiful new daughter-in-law Rebecca. 

 It has been a wild thirty-six year ride and believe it or not, Jim and I are now certain the best is yet to come.  Because we’ve discovered that real storybook endings don’t look at all like pumpkins turning into carriages.  There are no glass slippers and this is an excellent thing since I can barely tolerate a pair of leather pumps.  The romantic excitement of falling in love is in fact a poor cousin to the blessing of waking up every day next to the person who has promised to love you and upon whom you finally realize you can depend for a lifetime.  Sometimes being in love is less about a two page letter from a new admirer and more about a two second look that passes between fifty-something year old partners over a piece of burnt toast.  It is less about sending expensive flowers and more about dancing in the kitchen to a song that only the two of you can hear.

All the poetry in the world can’t measure up to the contentment one discovers on the other side of managing to stay together through the muck.  It does get easier and it definitely gets better. We need to start telling newlyweds to expect the worst because hard times are coming.  If we cared, we would tell them to anticipate that there will be days these handsome young men will not even LIKE their wives, let alone want to spend another minute looking at them. Mistakes will be made and those mistakes will be excruciating.  There will be weeks she will want to toss that annoying guy out on his ear and never look back.  The very mannerisms she found so adorable in those first weeks of dating are the things that take her to the brink of insanity when she faces them every day.

But during those difficult years, if they learn to hear one another and remember the promises they made when they were young and optimistic, their elusive love will return in a new and much more genuine way.  Investing decades in a mutually caring relationship is smarter than investing in any 401K.  Adopting a few basic habits and doing the hard work will pay dividends in trust and constancy because money doesn’t buy happiness, but a little daily effort can buy a truly irreplaceable partner. 

There’s no rocket science here; the tools are simple.  Wake up every day and choose to love your spouse.  If he is being a pain in the neck, has failed to read your mind AGAIN, has forgotten to bring home the milk you asked him to pick up FOUR TIMES and is sitting in front of the television snoring with a snack on his chest, love him anyway.  Ask yourself what you can do that very day to show him you are putting his needs above your own.  It sounds counterintuitive in this age of ME but it is positively the way to loving and being loved.  Because if you’ve done the work the two of you need to do, when he wakes from his ESPN stupor with unsightly cheese dip on his nose, he will be asking himself the same questions.  “Am I putting her needs above my own?”  When he answers that question, there is pretty much nothing that can sabotage the foundation the two of you are building.  It’s messy sometimes but it is worth the sweat.

I’ve always been a fairy tale kind of woman.  I thought I needed the knight on the white horse.  But it turns out knights and noble steeds have nothing on the man I married.  Who knew it could be so fulfilling, FUN even, to fall into the rhythms of aging with someone who loves me?  A person who can tolerate my irrational outbursts, a man who can overlook my favorite sweatpants, who shares decades of wonderful and terrible memories, and who has chosen, after all this time, to be with me.

I’m sure Jim would like for me to clarify that he never fell asleep in the cheese dip.  And from the very fullness of my heart, I would like to say that my construction paper eyebrows and I never imagined we’d have it so good.

GONE

My nest is empty and I've suddenly become sympathetic to bereft mother birds everywhere. Seriously, somebody needs to take up a collection for some lovely birdhouses where these poor creatures can meet to weep together, share seeds, and flap their feathers in shared grief.

My children were born just over eight years apart. A perfect boy and his equally perfect little sister. It was wonderful, the bookends of our experience allowing each of them to live the spoiled idyllic life of an only child yet with one magical decade in the middle where the four of us enjoyed one another immensely. No measurable sibling rivalry, an adoring built-in babysitter for Aubrey, a little girl who thought (and pretty much still believes) her big brother is the greatest thing since sliced bread, only one horrible FAFSA form at a time, and two very content parents. Truly blessed.

Though reasonably tall, my daughter is a slight thing. The waist of her jeans more like doll clothing as I processed her laundry these past years. (An observation while folding which often spurred me to dream up ways to add more protein to her vegetarian diet.) But let me just say, her itty-bitty frame deceives. Because since this little girl departed for college last week, she has left a hole in our home which feels more like a giant sucking abyss. 

It is an ache which recurs in the most unexpected ways. Realizing there is no reason to be quiet as I catch myself habitually tiptoeing to the shower in the morning... finding a partially-used bottle of her hazelnut coffee creamer in the refrigerator...consoling the despairing cat as she paces the floor howling mournfully and races up to my daughter's abandoned bedroom AGAIN to look for the girl who has devotedly loved her furry face for twelve years... emptying her hamper for the last time until fall break (I ask you...who would have thought this could be sad?)... passing by the stupid red-hatted Travelocity gnome in the front garden - a ridiculous inanimate gnome which Aubrey has inexplicably named "Javier."...

Don't get me wrong, Aubrey is precisely where she needs to be. We are so proud of her.  She has gone off to do exactly what we've raised her to do. We wouldn't have it any other way. But here in our home, at least for this season, the absence of her laughter is near deafening. 

Twenty seven years of kids in the house is a blessedly long run and I am thankful for every minute. Stacking those years alongside the brief three married years Jim and I spent before we were expecting Isaac, it is suddenly obvious that we are sorely out of practice at being alone together. There will be a learning curve for sure; but I am optimistic. 

I've said it before and it bears repeating. It really is a good thing we still like each other. So...Though I despise outdoor adventures involving tents, insects, and campfire smell in my hair which doesn't wash out for a week, maybe we'll start brainstorming about buying a camper. We can torment both of our children by driving wherever it is they finally land, parking an over-wide camping monstrosity their driveways, and hooking up to their electric and water for months at a time! Perhaps I will start enjoying the mind-numbing game of football or Jim will unexpectedly realize he's been mistaken all these years and he LOVES watching cheesy chick-flicks and emotional dramas which heretofore have made him want to puke. Maybe in the next decade or two we'll discover we adore playing Scrabble, watching birds, or learning to ballroom dance.  

In spite of my pitiful state of nest-grieving, today I am taking time to thank God particularly for two marvelous things. The first is FaceTime, which makes it seem as though my daughter, son, and daughter-in-law are in the very same room speaking with me.  BEST FUN EVER. And the second is the guy with whom I still share this roomy nest. That man who thankfully took the time to be a kind, loving, and supportive husband while he was still in the thick of being a wonderful father. 

All in all a pretty good start as we begin testing the bold notion that the best is yet to come.

NOT IN CHARGE

It happened again today.  The timing was perfect; the unexpected happening undeniably composed by the master musician.  He is singing over me, even now.  

You call it coincidence but I must heartily disagree.  When these things transpire, I can practically feel the trembling quality of the air around me.  Undeniable movement as God sweeps his mighty hand across the disarray of my day.  

Truth be told, it hurts sometimes; this pruning business. Yet the tiny blonde hairs on my arm stand on end as he rearranges the things I cannot yet see into the patterns he chooses for my ultimate good. 

While I am too tired to muster appropriate thanks, he remains loving and almighty. While I question and even wince at his methodology, I cannot doubt the way he cares for me. 

I’m so glad he is in charge and I am not.  

THE DREADED EARLY MORNING PHONE CALL

The Travelers

My phone rang early and unexpectedly this morning.  I hate when that happens.  I was prepared to ignore it, getting on with pouring my granola, when I saw the name on the caller ID. 

The name which the voice feature on my phone was now trying to pronounce made my heart pretty much stop.  It was the name of a man I met through my husband’s employment.  I’ve known of this nice man for years without really knowing him at all. 

Having recent concerns about my husband’s blood pressure, specifically in relationship to his work, my hands began to shake as I crossed the kitchen to pick up the phone.

“Brenda?  This is S.B.”  (He obviously said his whole name, but for purposes of this story, let’s just use his initials.)  He sounded like he had something important to say and I had a sickening feeling in my stomach.  About the time I was gripping the counter-top for support; my racing mind began remembering that S.B. no longer works with my husband.  In fact I’m pretty sure he left the company years ago. 

Before I had a chance to stop imagining my husband in an ambulance and suck in a reviving breath, S.B. launched my emotional surfboard onto a new wave of worry.  “I got a text message this morning from Emery.” 

Okay, now my hands were in full-Parkinson shake.  Emery is my father’s best friend and he attends church with S.B.  I’ve been feeding cats for the last week because my parents are on a cruise with Emery and his wife.  This could only be terrible news. 

S.B. continued.  “I got your phone number from Steve Shelly.”  Steve is my brother-in-law and in my addled state of apprehension, my immediate thought was something like “Why the heck didn’t my brother-in-law call me or better yet drive the 2 miles between his house and mine to deliver terrible news?” 

But S.B. was to be the bearer of the tidings.  “Your mother needed to get a message to you.”  All of my anguish zoomed in on my father.  He always attends overseas trips and cruises with reluctance.  Though his wife is an ambitious and tireless globe-trotter (and he can’t stand when she goes anywhere without him), his heart is really back in Pennsylvania watching golf on television, an appreciative cat on his lap. Dear Lord no, I’m not ready to lose my Dad.

And then S.B. dropped the other shoe.  “Your mother thinks she might have an appointment scheduled on Friday morning for a haircut and a facial and she wants you to cancel it.” 

Seriously?  This one minute early morning phone call which had doubled my heart rate, shot my adrenalin levels to remarkable heights and sent my impressionable brain on a circuitous route through terrors like emergency rooms and ship doctors was going to end at the Classic Hair Salon in Trumbauersville?  I was effectively reduced to a pile of jelly.

It took ten minutes for my hands to stop shaking.  There had best be something better than a My Parents Traveled the Seven Seas and All I Got Was this Lousy T-Shirt in my mother’s luggage.