God on a Train, the second day

On the second day of my 29 Days of Giving, the kids and I were scheduled to travel to Chicago. Randy was attending a conference; we would join him for a family weekend of museums and new experiences. Carefully, thoughtfully, we packed for Chicago.

After our suitcases were filled, we packed for the dog. Bedding, dish, food and treats... check. All ready. The guinea pig was watered, her hay strewn around and her food bowl filled to the brim.

Finally, there was the train. A long train ride requires something for children to do so we hatched a plan. The cookies we baked on the first day of the challenge would become the snack, and the gift, for the second. We made so many. Surely we could give them away to strangers, bring a little sweetness to the day. That would be an activity, along with books and Gameboy and a few small toys.

All loaded down, we drove away, dropped off the dog, and made our way onto the train. We felt lucky to secure a seat for for 4, with 2 seats facing the other 2. We settled in for the long journey. Maia buried herself in her book. James and I talked and watched for the time when we could give our cookies.

Half a dozen people rode in the car with us. We'd only traveled about 20 minutes when James was ready to get up and walk around. He took the bag of cookies and approached a couple, but they were fast asleep. Looking back for approval, he went to a middle-aged gentleman reading a newspaper. "Would you like a cookie?" His offer was declined. No one in our car wanted the cookies we had made!

James came back and sat down, defeated, and we went on with our activities until Michigan City. A the station, a woman boarded our car. Cafe' au lait skin, hair curled close to her head, she leaned on a cane as she moved slowly down the aisle. She sat just behind Maia. Then suddenly, she stood and limped back toward the train doors. By the time she got there, however, the bell rang and the doors slammed shut. The train pulled out of the station.

She looked so distressed as she inched back to her seat, mumbling and shaking her head. I wanted to offer her a cookie right then, but felt shy about intruding. When she got up to use the rest room, I decided to offer the cookie as she returned to her seat.

She gratefully accepted and sat down with a sigh, closing her eyes as she bit into the cookie. Looking up, she smiled at me, then got up again to sit next to Maia. The story came pouring out. She was on her way to take care of her mother in Chicago, who has Alzheimers. She had forgotten her cell phone, and in it was the name and number of the young man who would pick her up at the station to take her to her mother's home. She didn't know him, didn't know what to do. As upset as she was, she still chuckled at the irony of needing a cell phone when for most of her life, she had no phone at all.

Munching another cookie, she told of her siblings taking turns caring for their mother, of her son who had died and left boys for her to raise, of her daughter who joined her aunts and uncles in caring for a woman who needed attention 24/7. She sighed. She didn't know what to do.

It was simple to offer her my phone to call her daughter. Within 2 minutes, her daughter had given her the young man's name and phone number, my new friend contacted him, and it was all handled. Easy as pie. Or a cookie. She settled down and we talked more, about growing up in a 2 bedroom apartment with 12 siblings sharing one bedroom, about having nothing, and yet being blessed beyond measure.

That was the second day, the second gift. Only it wasn't a gift I gave, but a gift I received. A cookie is nothing, really. Some sugar, a little flour, a bit of chocolate. Seeing God at work on a train to Chicago, now that is a gift.

29 Gifts

My friend sent me link to a page about 29 Gifts. Go to givingchallenge.ning.com which is my personal part of the site, but it will direct you to more information. The challenge is to give a gift a day for 29 days. It doesn't have to be cost money, or be a present per se. Just give of yourself.

My friend inspires me because I think this is how she lives every day. So in honor of her, I signed up and started my own 29 days of giving. I think this is a worthy challenge, capable of changing my attitude at the very least. Perhaps the world will also be blessed, and I think that's why we are here.

My first day was simple: I agreed to bake chocolate chip cookies with the kids. For me, that is truly giving from the heart. I don't like to bake with kids, even mine. They are messy and I am task-oriented. They argue, I lose patience, and it's not fun. Ever.

This time, I gave the baking of cookies as a gift to them. I made a little plan ahead of time, Maia with her jobs and James with his. It worked better than I feared. The cookies were baked and tasted (yum). The kids were tired of the activity long before I finished baking the last cookie and putting them all in Ziploc bags.

It was evening and it was morning, the first day. Only the first day. Big deal, you say. It's not like the first day of creation. It's not that huge. Well, let me say it was also the first day I baked with my kids and didn't get upset even once about the mess. The first day I went with the flow when they got tired of baking and simply finished the job myself with great joy. The first day I didn't complain about not being able to eat them because they have sugar in them. The first day I washed dishes after a baking episode and felt like singing instead of cursing.

One day. One gift. I was the one who received it, however.

I challenge you to give a gift a day for 29 days. I will write more of these. My friend is blogging on the 29 Gifts site. You can read hers, too.

Whatever our politics, whatever our personalities, there's not one of us without the possibility of bringing light into darkness or chocolate chip cookies into a sometimes sour world. Maybe the only ones who are changed will be ourselves. In my case, that's not so bad.

Getting Organized

One of my goals for my leave, which I am gradually achieving, is organization. Doing a better, more faithful job, of organizing my time. Which also means having some systems in place to deal with all that starts coming our way with the beginning of school. I have the closet organized, the filing cabinet and several kitchen cabinets. I still have the play room, but that is a huge and all day project. In the meantime, I am also looking ahead to organize my days, to make sure I have plans to refuel in place, a system of re-creation that will fill me as life drains me.

As part of my leave, we attended a different church Sunday. Not a big deal to most people, surely, but to a pastor's family, it's definitely not a regular occurrence! Worshiping, learning, sitting 'at the feet' of another pastor - all were graces that took some adjustment to receive. God slipped a Word into my heart like a splinter. I didn't immediately feel it, but I have wrestled with its presence continually over the passage of time. It wasn't even the pastor's main point, just a transitional question. But I offer it to you, because perhaps it will give you something to think about - and it's always more fun to think together on something than just to chew on it yourself.

So here is the question: What system do you have to bless people?

I do believe one of our purposes as people who worship God is to share his blessings with the world. As human beings, we 'tend the Garden' of creation. As Abraham's faith descendants, we are to be a blessing to all the families of the earth. OK. So far so good. Our church makes a point of this, inviting the congregation to bless others through concrete acts of love and kindness. I make a point of it. I think I do. But systematically? A plan? Me PERSONALLY?

That I don't think I have one. I sort of bless others as it comes along, but I'm not terribly proactive about it.

The whole idea of blessing people dovetails with the organization of other aspects of my life. I've been receiving insights from flylady.net, a website designed to help 'sidetracked home executives' order their lives and their homes. "Flyladies" consider cleaning a 'home blessing' and invite others to look at their own tasks that way. Cleaning out my closet blesses my family. Having a shiny sink contributes to the good of the world because I feel better about life. Lack of clutter brings peace which naturally seeps out into our interactions outside the home. Flylady offers systems to make the blessings flow, so to speak.

OK, if you're into the traditionally more masculine side of things, the illustration may not hit you. Or maybe it just needs some tweaking to make the point. When I mow the yard, am I doing it to bless creation? What would it mean to do that? A neater job? A less polluting mower? When I cook supper, am I doing it to bless people? What would that look like? More nutritious food? Simpler, less expensive food that will allow me to share the bounty with others? Prettier place settings? What is my plan for blessing people? Is it giving money? Is it spending time serving somewhere? Is it creating something or recycling something or just being a little more patient with people?

I'm not sure what the details are matters as much as having a plan and carrying it out. Putting some attention in our ADD world into directing our ordinary life toward blessing others. My shopping - a blessing. My work a blessing. My rest a blessing.

What system do I have to bless people? Before I end my leave, that is a goal. I suspect it will help me say 'no' to some very good but beside the point things, and say 'yes' to God in new and adventurous ways.

Don't Try This At Home

"Why haven't you blogged in a while?" several friends have asked. Thank you, I didn't really think so many were reading it! My answer has varied from "Too busy" to "Nothing to say."

There is more to it, though, than that. This will be a long one. You might want to go get a glass of iced tea.

When I was in my early 30s, I was diagnosed with chronic depression. There's another name for it, which I've forgotten, but I was given the medication of the day and told to see a counselor. Because I was ashamed to be a pastor and have this problem, I found a counselor in a small city an hour away. I did not want anyone to see how weak I was. I did not want to be dependent on medication.

After all, my grandmothers were certainly depressed, and they survived, right? The counselor asked how they had coped. I told the story of my mom's mom, how she had been directed by the doctor to get up, get dressed and put on lipstick. That was all he had for her. I told the story of my grandpa, her husband, who had been raised by an alcoholic father and refused all alcohol because of it. When he suffered from depression later in life, the doctor prescribed (actually wrote it down) a beer every night so Grandpa could sleep. I told about uncles who drank too much, and my dad's extreme temper in the darker months of the year.

"If you could give them something to help them, wouldn't you?" she asked. "If you could provide just a simple pill that would allow them to function better, feel better, wouldn't you do it? If it was heart disease or diabetes, wouldn't you allow them the medical advancements we have made since they were alive? How is it different to take medication for depression now?" I couldn't answer. She was right. So I took the pill.

That particular medication didn't do very much that was healing and gave me a voracious appetite. I gained 40 pounds in a couple of months, but rather than go back and try something else, I just quit. I was convinced if I could just do the right things - eat better, exercise, pray more - I would be ok. Surely I, the pastor, the Christian, could solve this on my own.

All I can say is, don't try this at home.

For the next several years, I wobbled along. Sometimes I got medication (different, more helpful ones) and sometimes I gave into the idea that I didn't want to be dependent. Sometimes I saw a counselor, and sometimes I didn't. It was a struggle. What's worse, Randy and then the kids struggled along with me.

I could hold it together for most of the day, but at home, where I could be myself, it wasn't pretty. Every small thing resulted in my getting angry, sometimes enraged. I never hit, but I certainly yelled a lot. I couldn't figure out where such deep rage came from, but it was certainly there a lot of the time. I grouched. I couldn't think well, my memory blew out the window. I lost my car keys, forgot to close the car door before I backed out of the garage, couldn't recall names and faces. It was as if I was living in a fog all the time, fighting my way through a thick, sticky mess just to be alive. I blamed Randy. Or the kids. Or my job. Or God.

When we moved to Elkhart, it all came to a head. The grief of leaving close friends and a church we had come to love sent me downward. I was desperate and went to a new doctor. I told the story, gave a list of the meds that had worked and those that hadn't, and recieved the same advice my first doctor had given 12 years before: take this medication, and see a counselor.

This time, it felt like life or death. Within a week, the fog in my head began to clear. Within six months, with an increased dosage, I felt like a new person. Thyroid medicine accented the improvement a year or so later. The things I knew I needed to do - eat well, exercise, hold my temper, pray - became possible again.

Fast forward to December 2008. A new medication was released, similar to what I was taking, but with fewer side effects. My doctor tranferred me to the new one, at a lower dosage, urging me to call if it wasn't enough. I'd lost 60+ pounds by then, was riding my bike and walking for an hour a day. Surely now I would be ok, I reasoned. The old temptation to 'do it on my own' came sneaking in the corners of my mind. Call it pride, or the Evil One, or just human nature, but instead of taking the new meds, I went off them all.

Don't try this at home.

January was hell for me and everyone else. I gave up that fight pretty quickly. I filled the prescription and took the new medication, but by April, I was feeling the fog, again. My memory was gone. I was scared to leave town, it was too hard to cope with the simplest stresses. Randy asked me to turn off the coffeepot, and I couldn't remember by the time I made it to the kitchen. It wasn't just that I'd forgotten. I really didn't remember him saying it at all. I started thinking I might have Alzheimers or some other disease. My work was affected, I had to write every detail down. When my PDA phone dumped my calendar a couple of times, I was genuinely lost. What's more, I had stopped exercising and craved the sweets that only made the cycle worse.

My doctor said, "Double the dose." I resisted, once again. Another doctor said, "It's just your age." Still another offered a neurological workup. It didn't make sense to me. If the dose I was taking was making me crazy, how could a double dose help? I remember having a conversation to that effect when I admitted to co-workers that my doc was adjusting the meds.

Finally, though, in desperation, I doubled the dose. 4 days later, I could think again. I could focus on a conversation without having to doodle. I could solve a problem. I could move myself off the couch and onto the seat of my bicycle. I could avoid snapping at my kids, instead listening to them before I formulated an answer. In other words, I felt like I could be myself again.

Why am I telling you this? Because it might be you. Millions of people suffer from depression and either don't know it or refuse to get help. My ancestors, and many today, deal with it by abusing alcohol, drugs, food, sex. Anything to get the fog to clear for a moment, or to numb the pain of having to constantly swim through a sea of goo just to do the most normal things. People deal with it, but the side effects of illegal drugs and alcohol far outweigh the benefits of being able to escape from the depression for a while. Relationships continue to suffer, because alcohol and meth and 100 other things don't quite cut it.

Others just keep grouching, yelling, blaming their situation or their spouse. I am not judging, I am just saying that it's true. I see it, every day.

You can think worse of me if you want. I don't care. I thank God for the research scientists and the doctors every day when I take my little square pills. My medication helps me be a better person, not in a magic way, but in giving me the ability to think through consequences and choose the path of Christ I've decided to follow. My medication helps me be a better parent, not in a magic way, but in giving me the energy to think through responses to my kids instead of just reacting.

Far be it from me to give advice, but I do pray as I write this. If you reading this are one of those people who think it's better not to be dependent on drugs, if you are wondering if this is you, ask your family or close friends what they think. And ask yourself if you would really deny anyone all the advancements in medical science we have made over the last century?

When it all comes down to it, for me, it is a spiritual issue. It is pride that makes me think I should be exempt from the need for assistance. God have mercy on me, and make me humble enough to receive help when it is offered.

I really mean it when I say, don't try this at home.

Unexpected Blessing

We have just about adjusted to the new way of life dictated by the building of a new Six Span Bridge. Construction requires us to go about 3 miles out of our way and it doubles our travel time to work. The first few days of the change found us trying for short cuts, forgetting to leave the house early enough, and experimenting with different ways to get 'there' from 'here.' Slightly annoying and inconvenient, we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that it is for the common good.

Then I noticed something else. The stretch of road between County Road 17 and County Road 19 is almost completely without traffic. Before construction, it would have been considered one of the main ways from Bristol to Elkhart, I suppose. A good number of vehicles sped along, particularly during what passes for rush hour in this neck of the woods.

Not now. The only traffic would be from a small line of houses along the river and our small subdivision. Just beyond us, Pheasant Ridge residents that once exited south onto our road now head north out of their enclave. A whole mile of road, once too busy to walk, now invites the intrepid Kitty and me to stroll along without a care. We even have a fine view of the river for a bit, just across from a burned down barn surrounded by volunteer daffodils and crocus.

It's all ours for the enjoying, while traffic buzzes along elsewhere. It's temporary, of course. Sooner or later the bridge will be done, a new roadway cut, and cars will again speed along the fresh black asphalt. Nothing lasts forever.

So now it's up to me. Will I be inconvenienced by the perpetual detour and extra time required for travel to and from almost anywhere? Or will I be thankful for what is mine today - sparkling water, spring flowers, a safe path? When I am in the middle of a life that seems detoured, or inconvenient, or just plain not what I want, what will I choose?

Is God's will the detour? Or is God's will the unexpected blessing? Or both?

Or maybe it's this: Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. (1 Thessalonians 5:18).

Jerusalem, Jerusalem

God surprised me. If there is anything that should NOT surprise me, it's that God continues to surprise me. I'm always amazed, however. I just can't see Him coming.

When your plane lands in Israel, you are greeted with, "Welcome home." Home? I did not think it would feel that way. Oh, I expected to love Galilee again, with its tropical breezes, palm trees, and glittering water. It did not disappoint, though it felt much more like Florida than home.

Last time we visited, Jerusalem was a letdown after lovely Galilee. Too many people, too much chaos and traffic and noise to ever be 'home.' I went to Jerusalem expecting to feel like an alien, homesick for familiar comforts. Instead, I fell in love.

The souk (market) in the Old City should have been intimidating. Talk about chaos and noise! Narrow walkways defined by hole-in-the-wall shops. Merchants addressed the tourists, 'Welcome, American lady!' Meat hung unrefrigerated, whole animals skinned with the tail still attached to prove what kind of beast it was (goat, I think). Nike and Adidas sweatshirts hung all over the front of one stall. Just next door, open bins of every kind of candy tempted the passersby, but no one stole even a jelly bean. People jostled to get to wherever they are going. Prices in the souk are not fixed; haggling is expected. Cups of tea or coffee were offered to potential customers. "Looking is free, we love you anyway," we were told when we declined to buy.

The pervasive smell of cumin filled the air. We delighted in one merchant's two-foot-tall pyramid sculpted entirely of herbs and spices. A friendly seller promised 'everything a dollar' because he was soon to move to 'Texas, Houston' where he hoped business would be better.

Apple, one of the waiters at our hotel, greeted us like an old friend as we walked a street over from his shop, then invited us to come and see the beautiful silver-work of his father. When we got there, Apple's jewelry store was guarded only by a wooden bar indicating he was closed. Anyone could have walked in and taken everything. We asked him about his trust. Apple explained sincerely, 'When you are good to people, God is good to you.'

How could you not love a place like that, people like that?

We went every chance we got, buying silver jewelry for loved ones, finding treats like Nestle's chocolate and Kinder eggs, trying the Arabic version of funnel cakes (like ours, only so saturated with sugar that they are hard, like candy, on the outside). Slipping over into the Jewish Quarter to look at beautiful art and eat falafel. Mostly, the joy came in meeting interesting people who wanted very much to be kind, to be acknowledged, to live well in peace. It felt like home.

God surprised me in Jerusalem, showing me glimmers of grace where I expected only anxiety and discomfort. I learned that home is people who care about you, and I found them on the other side of the world.

How could you not love a God like that?

We are in the Holy Land this week for a whirlwind tour of every site we can possibly fit into our trip. It's exhausting and exhilarating, all at once. Galilee's warm sun, palm trees, and rippling water remind us of Florida. Because it is a resort and agricultural area, the pace is slow and the people laid back. Even the holy places there simply feel warm and rich and welcoming. You can see how people might argue with him over a cup of strong black coffee. You can't really imagine Jesus getting crucified in Galilee.

Today, however, we moved on to Judea. A trip to Bethlehem meant going through the Israeli/Palestinian checkpoints several times. The new wall being erected divides the city of Jerusalem (oddly, since the whole country is filled with crumbling ancient walls that didn't really protect people). Houses are crammed in like a creamy white lego city. People of all different stripes, cars, and tourist buses crowd the streets. Hawkers aggressively approach to sell their wares as you leave the holy sites, where churches are built on top of churches to mark certain spots in Christ's life. Palestinian soldiers with guns stand guard as the groups leave the Church, the store, the parking lot. The concierge in the hotel packs a weapon with her business suit.

Here, they might kill you. Here, you are aware that in the great wide world, little has changed since Christ walked the streets of Zion. Violence is still the method of choice for solving problems. Power still corrupts. The meek have not yet inherited the earth.

Sitting on a stone in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, one of my traveling companions wondered aloud, "What do you think Christ would think of all this?"

I don't know. I do know that the places you will find him here might not be the places on your tour itinerary. I saw him outside the church on Zion, where an Israeli mom taught her pre-schooler to count to 3 in English. I saw him in the French nun whose face lit up when Randy spoke French to her. I saw him in the way David, another pastor on our bus, always lags behind to offer an arm to one of the elderly women who has trouble walking.

The Church buildings are interesting and historical. Many still have congregations of laity or religious orders worshiping there. One thing, though, I leave convinced of: The Church of Jesus Christ is his people.