Writers In The Storm

The anonymous sages, known only as ‘They’, say a person’s best chance for salvation is before the age of eighteen. After that, the odds rapidly descend. I find that highly ironic.

On the surface, kids seem to have less need. When we’re young our bodies are strong, energetic, heal quickly, and we have no sense of our own mortality. We can race down hills, climb trees, and skate until we collapse in exhaustion, with nary a sore muscle in the collection. We even have less sin under our belt. True, even one is a deal-breaker, but Jesus said that he who is forgiven much should be more grateful. (Luke 7:36-50)

If anyone should want some grace, it should be the elderly. The growth rings of sin wear out our body, bones, mind, and soul. We break, and it stays broke - lifted with appreciation from the comedian Sinbad. Getting out of bed requires endurance. The pains we suffer are like looking for Waldo. We know it’s going to be somewhere. And we are that much closer to coming home. Don’t we want an arm-outstretched welcome?

Kids are willing to embrace. They know they don’t know-it-all because they are constantly reminded by the rest of the world. Youth has everything going for it, except perhaps that wisdom thing. But wisdom is never a guarantee on the aging plan. We tend to think we have considered all the questions and possess all the answers. That’s the cold smack of pride.

It’s interesting that pride can keep us from God as grown-ups. Considering the frailties of age, it doesn’t seem to warrant any notions of superiority. Fortunately, God is the author of humor and will take us at any age, in any condition, if only we would humbly ask.

I have many faults. Some are irritating, some are mean, some are selfish, all land under the general heading of pride. I wish that weren’t the case, but as they say, wishes ain’t horses. My faults and I are well acquainted. When I start to lose touch, one of them quickly pays me a visit, in order to maintain the relationship.

There are a few of the faults, with the grace of God, that have been away so long that we are now strangers. When I see the fault on someone else, I may not even recognize it at first glance. I might even remark on how ugly that fault is, on that person, over there. Another of my faults.

But the Holy Spirit is always on duty and reminds me that I used to own that one too. And I remember what it was like to live with that fault, the unpleasantness, the ignorance of its true effect, the chain that held it as habit. Then I realize what it must have looked like in me.

My fault quakes open to reveal a character of sin. Those moments bring either shame or plain-old-gratitude. Shame looks back and condemns. Gratitude looks forward and steeps in the gift of mercy. I can’t imagine worshipping a god unfamiliar with mercy. I’m too constant a patron of the concept.

Once again, I’m grateful for that which I cannot earn, cannot repay, and cannot fully appreciate on this side.

As the child of parents raised during the Depression, I credit both Mom and Dad with my resilience. While my father tended to tough out everything, even some of the should-be-fun stuff, Mom offered thanks for her basket of lemons and proceeded to stir the pitcher of lemonade. A genuine Minute Maid, that one, nothing kept her indefinitely low.

This characteristic has served me well as I have journeyed up the hills and through the vales of my life. If I fell off the horse, I got back up there and rode the beast.

Tenacity. Persistence. Determination. Good stuff, eh?

But on occasion, the horse I was determined to ride more resembled a merry-go-round. Somewhere along the way my fixation on achievement, finishing a job, or seeing something through, slipped into a personal goal of avoiding failure, stubbornness, or headstrong stupidity serving only to perpetuate my continued misery. Pride blinded my judgment.

The goal, whether unhealthy, unwise, or simply out of my reach became my personal white whale. Do, or die. In these cases, my resilience served only to see just how far I could sttretttccchh. Before I-

Snapped!

I rarely ascribe my decisions to God’s will. A couple of times I have clearly felt His nudging. And when He nudged, some things took place that sure felt like heavenly grease on the skids. He can give me a run-down on the actual event later. Until then, I pray for guidance. And obedience.

It’s tough for Christians, who genuinely look to God for answers, to have certainty in every situation. Moses had a hot line to God. There was no ambiguity in what God told him. Yet, he still doubted, groused, and occasionally got it wrong.

That’s where I cling to Romans 8:28.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, those who have been called according to His purpose.

The bible has countless examples of a bumbling human trying to act only in God’s will, yet blowing it big time. I’m grateful that He watches my feeble efforts to honor Him and still, somehow, finds a way to love me. That, my friends, we call grace.

O unbelieving and perverse generation . . .
how long shall I stay with you and put up with you?
Luke 9:41

Today started like a fresh page, full of possibilities, nothing penciled in, every reason to give thanks. So I did. I thanked God for allowing me to be at home, to work, to school, to write. Once my son and I finished our lessons, it was my time.

I planned to spend most of the day writing my novel. First, I cleaned out my tote bag and found my business bank statement. Now I routinely ask the Lord for help on this task because the transactions are not easy to trace. I usually have at least three reports going to reconcile my checking account. Involved, but necessary. The Lord sees me through this every month.

Over the last two months, I had some odd transactions that needed extra attention. At the end of my first attempt, I was way off. I don’t like to be off. Not a little off. Not especially way off.

I worked on this for about four hours. It shouldn’t take that long, but each time I came up off by a significant amount. Then I spilled water all over my desk. I guess that’s why these are called “water shed” moments. I felt like shedding a few of my own.

In the throes of my mounting frustration, I remembered my sweet prayer of thanks from the morning.

The ephemeral mayfly beat its wings longer than the thankfulness of my heart.

What a maroon.

Typical of me. I laughed at my foolishness.   Then I asked for forgiveness. I know He gave it. I hope He laughed too.

So the next pass on my reconciliation, I was going to finish, no matter. In that run, I found two key transactions I had previously overlooked. And there it was. Satisfaction, from God’s hand, once again.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

And renew a steadfast spirit within me.

“Oh my, I wouldn’t have the courage to do that.”

“Better though, isn’t it?” my husband deposited the thoroughly cleaned keyboard back at my waiting fingertips.

I collected all the debris that exited the keyboard while he vigorously shook it, pounded on it and whacked it against my desk. A shred of paper, lots of bread crumbs, a grain or two of rice, several hairs, a sliver of metal…it made for a fairly substantial pile.

I was content with running my finger between the keys in my efforts to “clean” my keyboard. I had no idea so much yuck lay hidden deeper inside.

As I head into 2009, I wonder how much crud I have hiding in the crevasses of my heart. I don’t have the courage to turn my life upside-down and give myself a good thumping. It might hurt. I might do more harm than good.

But, when “those” days come (you know what I mean…the days you think will never end) I have the feeling God means to clean-out some of the messier build-up in my life. After all, no one likes a sticking “i” key. I..i..i..i..i..i…