The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink. I write to remember.
Months ago, when our daughter asked me to give a speech at her wedding reception I was both surprised and honored. I decided to record it after the wedding (this time sans tears) to share with you.
You will hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a piano piece our son, Marcus, gifted his sister.
Such a beautiful wedding.
Congratulations, Lauren and Alexander.
@marcuscouchmusic
I miss you much, Sweet Girl.
It hurts, that loss of shadow by my side, the clicking of your nails on the hardwood floors. It is painful to see only one dog wagging, rather than two when I return home, grocery bags in hand.
I catch myself singing out: Hey girlies!
And then I remember.
Your physical pain had twisted noticeably; the few steps off the porch into the yard might as well have been an arduous mountain descent. You did not complain, but oh, how it hurt to see you declining.
The second to last morning before you died, I said my quiet goodbyes, unrehearsed and fervent, in the early morning hours, the birds singing as a lump rose tall in my throat. I cupped your head in my hands and kissed the spot between your eyes, my words falling desperately short of everything I felt. You listened patiently, tail wagging, eyes cloudy but steady, soulful and true.
I cried because you trusted me, a tender fact that made my decision both resolute and painful. After you died my neighbor texted, compassionately reminding me I made the right choice. A bit of healing ointment for my crumpled heart.
You outlived every dog we have had thus far, and your next birthday would have been your twelfth. A faithful life, a quiet dog. Many of our other goldens have been wildly rambunctious, but never you. You were a low-key puppy from day one, playing and sleeping peacefully, even amid thunder and rain.
In fact the only noise that frightened you was our smoke detector’s shriek whenever the battery was on the fritz. At that, you trembled, quaking like a frail leaf, and I realized then that every man and beast is vulnerable, scared of something.
Molly girl, you kept my thoughts safe under lock and key, listening as I read and reread freshly written chapters aloud from my desk, as I endeavored to make syllables sing. You heard my book before anyone.
Faithful love is sticking close to your people, you taught me, always welcoming them home, never complaining, but rather living each day with gratitude for life’s simple pleasures: food, love, and a soft bed.
//
We cried as you drifted to sleep, the IV drip flushing cold into your leg. We stroked your head and whispered goodbye, knowing you would never wake on this fallen earth. The veterinarian was soft-spoken and kind as our family wept, our arms cradling you on the soft purple blanket.
And then?
You were gone.
It is the end of an era in expansive ways. Many exhilarating changes stand beckoning on the horizon, calling my name, and I lament that you, my sweet shadow, are no longer by my side.
I loved you, Molly, which is why I let you go.
The Bible does not say if I will see you again, but I see no reason why not. God created you and saw that it was good, and therefore I have great hope that you will run to me in heaven, eager to be scratched behind the ears, your eyes clear and bright.
If so, let’s plan to take an amble through the woods, you and me, for old time’s sake.
Whoever is righteous has regard for the life of his beast,
but the mercy of the wicked is cruel. ~Proverbs 12:10
Summertime is for flip-flops and barbeques, sandy beach towels and magnificent sunsets. Evening fire-pits and spontaneous car rides ending in ice cream. Sun pulses against evening shadows, turning to morning rays tapping through the blinds early; awakening the birds who trill the beginning of another dawn.
Summertime is also for weddings.
I remember one pretty summer morning, twenty-seven years ago this August. My maid-of-honor and I had whispered late into the night, dreaming of our long anticipated futures: grown-up lives and handsome husbands and future children, with nary a clue of the complexities of real-time marriage: the newness, followed by the permanency of our vows, followed by shadows of our own sins pressed up against a fellow heir of Christ with his own shortcomings. All of it intricate and beautiful and crushing…this becoming one. A slow dance requiring a lifetime of learning, loving, forsaking self, forgiving, and growing. It is never what one imagines; but far more weighty; made richer through sacrifice.
Any two may properly answer the questions posed during the finest of premarital counseling, in addition to reading all of the books, but still. It is like researching and daydreaming of swimming: proper techniques and strokes and breathing; the rhythmic arm motion and kicking. At some point you can only learn to swim by letting go and jumping into the water.
But on that breezy, blue-skied August morning decades ago, I knew none of these things, and my first order of business was to join my bridesmaids, each of us fresh-faced and tan in our umbros, soft t-shirts, and wedding shoes. We danced the driveway and laughed, performing the twist as we intentionally scuffed the bottoms of our slightly heeled shoes so as not to slip while later walking the aisle to Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring (them) and Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntaire (me).
That scuffing did the trick; it gave the shoes solid traction for wedding day festivities. It altered the shoes for the better, and although no one could see the ugly pavement marks, hidden beneath our feet, they remained. We each survived the long, lilting walk down that brilliant aisle to the front of the sanctuary.
//
I recently heard of a couple who has been married a handful of years, claiming to have never once argued. Pardon me? I nearly choked. This seems so impossible, that I am left wondering if one of them is void of opinions? Have they both reached an impossible perfection?
I am not suggesting to go home, cantankerous and spoiling for a fight, but in any real and honest marriage some scuffing up will happen, and if weathered for better or worse, will produce a gradual change in this merging of two distinct people: one man, one woman. It is the staying, the dogged determination to see this promise through, without optional exit ramps, but frequent: I am sorry and will you forgive me pleadings that result in something beautiful and lasting and God-honoring.
There is a glorious triumvirate in a Christian marriage: God…husband…wife. Through the scuffing and scars and suffering, your footing will become more sure, only if you first bow in obedience to God. Ephesians 5:21-33 has taken Jon and I years to practice and learn. It is the simplest and most difficult formula to flesh out. But it works. Dying to selfishness and sin, plus continually striving to outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10) is no cheap trick. It is costly, as is loving your neighbor as yourself (Mark 12:31).
A spouse, as it turns out, is our closest neighbor.
//
This is what I do know: as pretty as cut flowers gifted by my husband and perched tabletop appear, they pale in comparison to the truly costly. Who knew that Jon’s filling up the truck with fuel, or taking out the bulging trash bag, working so hard to pay unexpected bills, bringing me ginger ale and saltines when I was down for the count, or patiently rubbing the back of our sick children in the middle of the night would have stitched my heart to his? The grit of life. These are the selfless acts that make a velveteen rabbit marriage: soft and worn and a bit threadbare, yet beautifully blended and cherished and deeply good.
Love is kind.
//
Many years ago we took the children and our dog to romp at the park, where we played for hours: football, swing sets, slides, timed races. It was lively and it was fun.
As we drove away, I looked down and gasped: my diamond setting in my engagement ring was gone.
We returned and combed the park, which was of course futile: acres upon acres of field and sand, and we had played upon it all. As we drove home, it was quiet in the car until Marcus, age six, whispered: Mommy, you and Daddy are still married though?
I laughed, and the sadness fled. We pulled into our driveway and I scooped him up and reassured him, and myself, that a diamond is just a thing, not nearly as important as the husband and wife in covenant.
Oddly enough, within a year, I was slicing apart frozen chicken, when the knife in my right hand slipped, cutting a fast and angry gash above my wedding band. My finger swelled faster than I could remove the ring, which left a helpless choking sensation in my left hand.
Jon rushed home and we raced to a walk-in clinic, where a doctor sawed the band off. The relief was immediate, followed by tears. Hadn’t it been enough to lose my diamond? Now I was holding a crudely broken wedding band. But then I remembered: it was an object. We had each other.
Ultimately, we paid a jeweler to repair it, and I wear it now. We persevere: a circle of gold, without end.
//
This August, soon after celebrating our twenty-seventh year of marriage, we will embrace our first grandbaby. This circle of life looks much like our worn wedding bands. As our children begin their marriages, promising their own vows, Jon and I will cheer them along. God treasures marriage.
I sometimes study the familiar silhouette of my husband, and remember all of the love and fun, sacrifice and hardships, disagreements and differences, and then marvel at the kindness of God. Those scuff marks have formed us, sometimes in the furnace of affliction, while enabling us to step down the aisle of life together. Not in perfection, but with strength and love, inching forward still, holding our covenant high before God.
The journey of a lifetime.
(I wrote this piece three years ago, and am posting it again in honor of our daughter’s wedding this Saturday.)
When our four children were young, and I was in the throes of homeschooling, I followed a strict inner compass. There were a few things that I was bent on teaching them, and it had nothing to do with worldly recognition, high grades, or prestigious awards.
Mainly, I wanted them to grow and mature in godliness. We sang the books of the Bible together, memorized Scripture, and read God’s Word daily. It was also my aim to teach them to be kind. Academically, I strived to help them become proficient readers and able writers–skills needed for all of life.
Read-alouds reigned supreme, and that is what I miss the most: diving into the good books, together. The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Pilgrim’s Progress, Shiloh, Caddie Woodlawn, Where the Red Fern Grows, Summer of the Monkeys, Owls in the Family, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, Lad: A Dog. I still recall how much we all looked forward to our read-aloud times.
Then there was math–a necessary evil, (in my opinion) because, well…college.
I received much outside help for higher mathematics, given the fact that geometry gave me nightmarish flashbacks to my freshman year of high school. My teacher, Miss O’Neill, of frosted hair, coral lipstick, and smoker’s voice, was as thin as a wisp, gaunt really, which made her appear older than she likely was. She spent the entire class fuming at anyone who did not pick up on the finer details instantly, which was pretty much all of us. Tapping her heeled toe and rolling her narrowed eyes, she tossed up her hand with an irritated: Come on people!
When the bell finally rang, she flung her heavy purse over her shoulder and made a dash for the cement stairwell, landing in the parking lot for a quick drag on a cigarette before next period began. I never fully understood proofs, (still don’t) which is why I did not teach geometry to my children but farmed out those painful lessons. Obtuse, scalene, acute, intersecting, congruent, isosceles? What in the world?
Algebra was far better, thanks to Mr. Munroe. Excellence in teaching is a sweet gifting, isn’t it? And just because a person understands a subject does not mean that he or she should be teaching it. Patience and kindness and classroom leadership come into play, big time.
It was of prime importance to me that my children learned to be timely, meet deadlines, complete chores, and be able to interact with and serve all kinds of people. So we worked together on these things, little by little. I knew that if they could pay attention, heed instruction, welcome constructive criticism, and read and write with ease, then they could learn pretty much anything.
During this time, my husband was pastoring his first church. From time to time, he asked the congregation to stand and read Scripture in unison.
And I was stunned.
The group was unable to read chorally.
Some were reading aloud quickly, blowing through commas as if they were green lights, while refusing to pause for periods. Others were reading so slowly, dragging behind by a good three or four words, oblivious as to the flow. It was terribly distracting, with voices all over the place, so much so that I could not possibly concentrate on the meaning of the verses, which was the entire point in the first place.
So I made it my immediate mission to teach our children the art of choral reading. I am sure they thought it was overkill, which it most certainly was, but I could not live with the notion of them growing up and lagging behind or racing ahead in church. Reading in unison was a skill, a unifier, and we worked it out.
There was another area that bubbled to the surface, mainly because it felt to me like fingernails scraping north to south on a chalkboard. It was a widespread problem: the inability to summarize.
I noticed this issue at church, the grocery store, with friends, even at football practice. Everywhere.
Our children were so, so, cute. Polite. But it was hard for them to endure a longwinded story from a parishioner as I stood in conversation. Take someone’s upcoming surgery, for example. A woman might look heavenward, beginning with the words I was born in Kansas in the year…. and fifteen minutes later she had still not arrived at the ailment prompting a surgery. I can still envision my little ones tugging on my sleeve, eyes wide, shoulders droopy, silently pleading for deliverance. It had been a long morning, church was over, and they were ravenous.
So that is when I sprinkled another couple of features into our homeschool curriculum: the fine art of patient listening, coupled with the art of summary. I had them speak and write four or five sentences to capture that entire movie plot, book, or event from sports practice. We also put diligent effort into becoming a kind and patient listener, and I might have even taught them how to slip in a question in order to break that tedious soliloquy and gently hasten the story towards its conclusion.
After years of summarizing together, I began to notice a stunning benefit: my children’s ease of encapsulating large passages of Scripture into a few sentences. In hindsight, it is simple to realize that summarizing Scripture should have been at the forefront of my mind, rather than summarizing so as not be an annoyance to others.
Monday morning-quarterbacking is real, I tell you.
And that, my friends, is the truth about homeschooling. As the teaching parent you are able to address pet peeves, and to deal with uncouth habits. I peek back in time now and plainly see the dozens of ways I could have improved as a homeschooling teacher. Time (plus a quiet house) often yields clarity, but God used even small pet peeves of mine to teach my children an important skill for better understanding his Word. Isn’t he wonderful?
Truthfully? No education is perfect because we are not perfect. God was gracious to allow me to serve him as a stay-at-home mom and homeschooling parent, and I thank him for gifting me those years.
This is the first year in forever that I am not homeschooling someone, and while it feels strange, I figure that every now and again I can encourage younger parents in the midst of their labors.
So I will offer this:
If you are new to this homeschooling venture, be patient with yourself and your children. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is an education.
Pray over everything, stick with a simple plan while keeping a routine, tell your sweeties that you love them, buy doughnuts on the first day of your schoolyear, and make sure that everyone receives a solid dose of fresh air and sunshine daily. (Teacher included.) Recess is golden. Truly.
Recess and read-alouds.
Our grandson recently turned one, and every time I visit him we read books together. His Daddy, our firstborn, likewise reads to him every night. It is part of their routine, and my heart is bursting. The love of reading has been passed down to a brand-new generation.
Our grandson’s first word was Dada. His second?
Book.
I cannot stop smiling.
His education has already begun.
Thank you, Kind Readers, for indulging me in a rerun of this previously posted piece. We are in the final countdown to our daughter’s wedding, and I have chosen to be deliciously present for every single speck of it, meaning time away from my desk.
Our son, Jacob, has returned from his overseas missionary journey to South Africa!
I warmly invite you to listen to our recent conversation, which I pray encourages you to serve God no matter where he sends you.
Even if it is simply across the street.
I was invited to a tea party yesterday. The softly carpeted floor was set with pink and teal teacups, purple plates, yellow saucers, and plenty of sugar. I had two choices of flavored tea: cheese or muffin.
I chose the cheese tea and it was delicious. The little girl who served it was smiling widely–her bright blue eyes fairly dancing as I asked for seconds, this time with a wedge of lemon if you please.
Immediately following the tea, we munched on applesauce and manicotti, with ice cream for dessert. Topped with cheese, of course.
When we had eaten our fill, she brought me her three baby dolls, and we rocked them and changed them, and patted their backs. Lauren Olivia soon declared it was time for them to sleep, so she prayed over each little one and tucked them in for the night.
Then she snuggled in my lap and smiling said, I love my babies, and I love you, Mommy.
I hugged her back and my heart overflowed.
//
Now, seventeen years later, Lauren and I are planning another special meal, a beautiful luncheon following her wedding.
I have little memory of scribbling the tea party words above, but I am happy I did.
The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink.
I write to remember.
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Upstairs, I have an old photograph, in which I am cradling our newborn. We are studying each other, our profiles etched, two upturned noses kept frozen in time, mother and son. My face achingly young, his softly brand new.
I am smiling from the shadows, dressed in my husband’s button-down shirt, the lighting poor, our camera cheap.
That old striped Oxford was my wardrobe extraordinaire in postpartum days, soft, loose. I pined for comfort as motherhood had risen to jolt, ushering in oceanic feelings, all-consuming tides. The fervent motions continued long after labor and delivery, a revolving cycle of nursing, changing, rocking, swaying, soothing, singing, crying. My muscles whimpered tender from hefting seven deliciously-scented pounds of miracle upon my shoulder.
It was 1996 and we lived humbly, with few distractions. No extra money, no internet, no cell phones. Come to think of it, no email. In hindsight, such simplicity proved priceless. My feet and mind were planted on terra firma as I pushed the stroller around our apartment and whispered to my little Caleb descriptions of everything I saw, heard, felt, touched, and tasted.
Puffy white clouds, quacking mallards, gentle breezes, scorching sun, soft blanket, tart lemonade, minty gum, I love you, I love you, I love you.
As I spoke my affection, I also begged him to sleep–the one thing he clearly did not prefer. We circled around the lake, returning home. I gentled him in the wind-up swing, cranking that contraption to a fare-thee-well, clockwise, knowing that I had precisely nineteen minutes until it would slow and stop, waking him again.
If I hurried I could fluff the pillows, spritz the bathroom mirrors, fold the laundry, and rush a steaming shower.
Most days, however, I slid into my rocking chair, gazing proudly at our stunning little bundle of sweetness.
I was now a mother.
/
Motherhood displaced my heart, which now danced and hovered outside my body.
It pulsed hard, following our little man everywhere, our baby who was soon cooing, sitting, teething, crawling, and talking. Mornings, he reached his pudgy arms skyward, calling Mama, as I plucked him from the crib into my arms, pajamas all snug.
Good morning, Bugaboo.
I nuzzled the soft spot on his neck with my nose, before kissing it repeatedly as he giggled, his small fists tangled up in my hair.
My heart, my world.
Less than two years after becoming a mother, I shook my husband’s arm. It was nearly midnight and time to drive to the hospital once again, the pains bearing down, sweeping my breath away.
Between contractions, I worried. How could I ever love another baby as much as our Caleb?
Treason!
Such heavy thoughts brought tears to my eyes.
All fear vanished by lunchtime the following day. I had been proven wonderfully wrong. The moment our second son was born, and my husband held him high, my heart lept, and doubled in size.
I was smitten as I cradled him, inhaling his newborn scent. Counting his fingers and studying his long eyelashes spun me into a sea of bliss. In the years to come, I fell hard in love two more times, with the birth of our third son and then our daughter. The togetherness of us, our familial love and laughter, was more delightful than I ever dreamed.
My heart was an inferno, on fire, and had now quadrupled in size. God had entrusted me with these four beauties, little image bearers with souls that would never die. Motherhood was my ache, my dream, a hard work soaked with gravity and laced in beauty, a serious endeavor to be cradled, gently.
Those early years of motherhood were earthy. Four children to nurture, teach, discipline, and love. Full days of wiping sticky hands and jellied tables, mountains of laundry to smooth and fold, bandaids to apply, fevers to soothe, hugs and kisses, and reams of books to read aloud. It was board games and races and hide-and-seek. Sheer physical exhaustion come nighttime, waking early to do it all over again.
Oh, how I loved the slow, long, steady life of motherhood. Tangible work, gritty and good and meaningful, fingernails caked with dirt, sweat, and love.
/
Winds of change arrived repeatedly, blowing in breezes and occasional tempests. The moment my heart had grown accustomed to the earthiness of my calling, the seasons swelled and changed, leaving me to reach for a windbreaker, rain jacket, hoodie, or heavy winter coat.
One quotidian day I realized our cradles and high chairs and booster seats and diaper bags were gone. My children were growing up with new horizons and friendships and weighty decisions, joyous victories filled with laughter, and sometimes broken hearts and tattered dreams. There were championship games and recitals, driving tests and college applications, goodbyes and graduations, engagements and weddings, moving trucks and missionary journeys.
So many goodbyes over and over and over. Changes that left me breathless.
And then the evening arrived when I set our dining room table pretty for two. Our new normal. My heart tiptoed about and then broke just a little as my husband and I held hands, bowed our heads, and said grace, our forks clinking against our plates, breaking the hush.
It’s hard, isn’t it? he said, his eyes filling.
Later, I washed the dishes as he took out the trash.
My hands scrubbed slowly, and gently as I prayed.
It was a healing balm, easing the ache a little, just me before my God, as I remembered his promises throughout Scripture. He had chosen to make me a mother and as long as I had breath, my work was not finished.
Earth, wind, and fire.
The fire?
Oh, the fire.
It burns steady, strong, and hot. Such unconditional love, my prayers rising. I am a house-on-fire, one average, middle-aged mother, on bended knee.
/
Last week I stood on our back porched and for the better part of an hour watched a squirrel building a nest–a drey it is called–out of leaves and twigs. She crawled to the end of a limb, bit off a sliver of a leafy branch, ran down to the grassy earth, picked it up in her teeth, and raced to the highest of heights, fussing and building, moving twigs and leaves every which way.
Her diligence and patience paid off. I shielded my eyes against the sun and imagined a handful of baby squirrels mewing, tucked safely in the crook of the massive tree, in the nest the mother had labored to build.
They would be warm and safe for a time, but soon Mama Squirrel would release them to the earth, teaching them to hunt and forage and in time, build their own nests.
/
My hands no longer rock the cradle, smooth back sheets, or prepare my children’s meals. (How I miss my sous chefs!) But the joy of motherhood carries on through every conversation, phone call, text, and gathering. Caleb, Jacob, Marcus, and Lauren are priceless gifts.
During the decades I spent raising our children, God was raising me. Motherhood has shaped and refined me, drawing me close to the heart of my Heavenly Father.
Thank you, God, for such undeserved treasures.
Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward.
Psalm 127:3
This one is for the writers and creators.
I understand. You have words to write, music to produce, drawings to sketch.
Life, however, has blown in on a gale, fierce winds pounding your office door.
Someone in your sphere is grumpy, bent out of shape–in a snit, and has spoken brusquely. While you cannot begin to imagine why, it is nonetheless disturbing not to mention distracting. Amid this conundrum, you recall that you have doctor’s appointments to schedule, library books to return, another meeting tonight, and guests coming for Sunday dinner. Meanwhile, assignments have begun to accumulate, and as happy as you are for the work, you are weary from scattered interruptions: a knock, a call, a text, just as your creative juices have begun to swirl.
Staring down the list of tasks, it suddenly feels like a steaming locomotive is brushing your heels. A silent whimper hovers in your throat as your canvas remains blank.
Finally, finally, you hush the distractions, but it is too late. The train of thought has left the station without you.
The seconds pass.
Tick, tick, tick.
Your fuzzy brain is tired, but your heart is thumping hard as you strive to regroup.
It’s no use. The ideas have fizzled and perished. Up and died.
The more effort you exert, the worse the situation becomes.
Tick, tick, tick.
//
I have been there and it is a sore place. May I encourage you with some ideas that have helped me return to the canvas of creativity?
That creative assignment coming due?
It will keep.
Rest your mind, tend to your soul, and busy your hands.
Walk away from your desk and breathe.
Before you know it, you will be ready to create once again.
//
May I also suggest carving out time to assess your current schedule? Are your working hours borderless? Perpetually bleeding into other commitments?
It is profitable to preserve structured hours, honoring this time as good work. Perhaps it is time for gentle conversations with yourself and others, clearly articulating your work schedule. Only you can initiate such things and yes, it is your responsibility.
Ask yourself: If I worked as a bank teller, would Joe and Suzy be calling me to chat in the middle of the work day? Or would they respect my work hours? And would I be casually answering phone calls and responding to texts during my bank hours?
Of course not.
With this in mind, watch the clock and go for it.
Create something good and true and beautiful for the glory of God.
More writing encouragement:
Twenty years ago, in the top floor of our white brick home sat a beautifully spacious room with a prominent bay window. It was a bedroom shared by our oldest sons, adorned with bunk beds and soft, stretching carpet.
One night, after the sun had set, the boys set up their Rescue Heroes and Legos to play before bedtime. The windows were inched open, begging a slight breeze of night air. Suddenly, they heard a commotion outside, in our culdesac. Peering through the blinds, they noticed our typically reclusive neighbor hollering at his dog. The boys ran to the top of the stairs, calling for us: Mom, Dad!
Jon and I jogged upstairs and flicked off the lamps, watching the outdoor drama unfold as we peeked through the blinds.
Come here! The man bellowed in the dark, pointing at the sidewalk before him, and stomping his foot. The street light glowed, casting shadows over this peculiar scene. The dog faced his owner directly, smiling so it seemed, wagging, tail high in the air as his front paws crouched low. He was ready to leap and play.
I said come here! The man shouted, lurching forward as fast as his paunchy, middle-aged self could.
The dog ran and soon circled back, just barely out of reach. Our neighbor stopped, winded, brushing sweat off his shiny forehead with his sleeve, before bending at the waist, hands resting kneecap. After a moment he ramped up the yelling and the short bursts of chase, to no fruitful end.
The angrier the man became, the more energized the dog grew, relishing such sport.
I could see the poor fellow wrestling with ideas, turning over possible ways to end this torment, such blatant disobedience. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Come here! When that command was ignored, he shot for friendlier tones, with Come here, Buddy!
And when these attempts floundered, inspiration struck.
The allure of the promised dog treat.
Treat! Come here and get a treat!
Nope.
Please! Please! He wailed, and I thought he just might crumble into a heap on the pavement.
The dog, of course, did not care one whit. He was having fancy fun provoking his master, who then circled back to the former tactics of seething irritation and loud threats. Measures that yielded nothing more than empty hands.
The dog was delighted, dashing and spinning away only to return, again and again.
This scene played out for the longest ten minutes as we giggled, albeit quietly. It was like watching a slapstick comedy. Imagine that…Barney Fife in our own neighborhood.
Finally, the man was done. Ready to explode.
Flinging his hands straight into the air, he shook his fists, yelling Aaaaagh! as he cried to the skies for help.
Met with silence, he raked his fingers through thinning hair and performed an about-face, and with one last spasm of rage, marched violently to his front door.
The four of us bent over, covering our mouths, howling at this primetime show unfolding beneath our window. It was now over, as the credits rolled.
But wait.
An encore.
Just as the man pushed open his front door, the dog breezed by, running directly into the house.
//
I have thought about the dog and the man many times over the years. When I feel myself growing weary and frustrated with people who are repeatedly toying around with God and Scripture, claiming the label Christian while digging in their heels and living precisely as they please?
I am learning to pause, pray, and walk away.
Jesus never chased people. He spoke plain truth in love, calling people to repentance and holiness, while permitting them to disregard his words and bend toward their own sinful desires. The Spirit is not at work in such people. Jesus knew this, understanding that his sheep would be different, knowing his voice and following him.
Do you have people in your life taunting you, having the appearance of godliness but denying its power?
Plant seeds by speaking the gospel truth in love. If they reject it, time and again, be like Christ, and keep moving along. Resist the urge to pull out a bag of tricks in the failing attempt to lure someone who does not want to surrender their will to God.
Pray for them, yes. But remember that changing hearts is the Holy Spirit’s work, not ours.
Be kind, let them go, and minister to others.
No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him. And I will raise him up on the last day.
-John 6:44
My dermatologist is a gem. She is friendly, and not easily spooked, a quality I deeply appreciate.
Once per year I sit in a paper gown, and she knocks, greeting me with: Hi Kristin!
She scrubs up at the tiny sink while her assistant asks perfunctory questions, manicured nails tapping the keyboard at lightning speed.
The doctor: How’s your grandson?
Ah… the magical phrase. I am happy—and surprised—that she remembers CJ, but then again he is the one who misses the mole she removed from a spot above my lip. One year later he still asks where it is.
I love that he has memorized your face, she says, bringing me back to this bright room and paper gown.
Her hands travel my back as she speaks, occasionally using her mini magnifying glass, looking for anything unusual, given my blue eyes and fair complexion, armed with the knowledge of my high school layout sessions, years of roasting in the sun, earning a tan with the help of baby oil.
Back then my brother shook his head as I fanned a long beach towel over the back porch. At high noon, of all things.
Turn me over I am done on this side, he teased.
The doctor and I continue to chat as she moves to my shoulders, then arms. I ask about her family, and she says a European vacation is in the offing.
How exciting! I say, inquiring further about Rome. We discuss their trip.
So, she says after a bit, Any special plans this summer?
I cannot hide my smile. Yes! Two big things. First, our son is returning from South Africa.
We discuss his missionary work, and she is curious, asking careful questions, her interest piqued.
She parts my hair this way and that, searching for anything amiss, before examining both ears. Looks fine. Now tell me the second thing.
Our daughter is getting married!
She claps. How exciting! Do tell.
She moves to stand before me, her eyes bright, diamond sparkling. She is paying attention and seems genuinely interested. I know that given a normal setting, we would be fast friends.
So I tell her bits about my pretty daughter and her love, both young and happy and counting the days. How my pastor-husband will officiate, with our sons as groomsmen, our daughters-in-law as bridesmaids, and our grandson the ring bearer. We will be together (with a bunch of other people) for two whole days.
Who is your wedding planner? she asks and I laugh.
You’re looking at her!
I love it! she laughs. What a time!
I nod. My daughter and I have enjoyed the hours of planning together, little by little, just the two of us.
Wow, I feel your love, she says, stooping to examine my toes, causing me to realize once again how I would never ever wish to practice medicine.
So you two haven’t squabbled while planning this? That is the finest part of all. My mother and I were hissing cats, clawing the entire 6 months of my engagement.
I am sorry, I say.
She sighs, asking me to stand before taking her magnifying instrument to the back of my legs.
You, my dear, are rich. She sighs again, pointing to a picture of her junior high daughter on the corner shelf.
I think of her, and how I want things to be between us when she gets married. But I don’t know. It takes two people to want to get along before they do get along, doesn’t it? A dash of give and take. She shakes her head again.
I nod. This is true. Give and take plus lots of apologies and forgiveness. It isn’t easy, is it?
Her eyes fill and she shakes her head and blinks. I remember saying I do. Wow! The passage of time.
And then:
You are good to go. I will see you in a year unless something pops up. Next visit I expect to hear every single detail about the wedding.
And with a wave and a smile she is gone.
I pull off the paper gown and get dressed, pausing only to look at the family pictures on the corner shelf. The stunning slopes of Aspen, the stretches of Hawaiian sand, the cruise ship extravaganzas.
And I marvel– how could this doctor call me rich?
Yes, she had dutifully examined my head, my arms, and my feet.
But I do believe she had read my heart.
Let all that you do be done in love.
~1 Corinthians 16:14
The Palest Ink 