Believe it or Not

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com by the author, First Place Masters' category winner, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level4-previous.php?id=58328

The water sloshed gently over the edges of the leather bucket, spilling down and returning to the well beneath. Susanna grasped the coarse rope and hoisted the heavy goatskin hand over hand, up and over the stone edge. Lowering it to the ground, she wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her tunic. The sun was just beginning to set over Judea, taking with it the scorching heat of the day.

This daily ritual has been her task since she was a young girl, first with her mother and sisters, now a solitary one, her daughters grown with families of their own. Decades of daily trips to the ancient well was gradually chipping away at Susanna’s ambition. Forty-one years of women’s work has made her robust, but her spirit grows weary. Life feels tedious and monotonous and her burden as heavy as the water pots she carries upon her shoulders.

Susanna heard the two women talking. She had been half-listening to them while she drew water, too involved in her thoughts to give heed to what they were saying. They had finished filling their jars and were now deep in discussion about something. Susanna bent down to transfer water into the vintage earthenware jar, glancing over her shoulder in their direction. A twinge of guilt checked her spirit. She shouldn’t be listening to gossip. The Book of Proverbs warns against being a talebearer.

Finishing her task, she rose and returned to the well with the goatskin bucket to retrieve more water. Her mind begged for quiet. If those women would just leave. The well was a place of solitude for Susanna. Though she was weary from the work, the water was soothing to her mind. This was the one time of the day that she could be alone, just her and the sound of the water. She lowered the bucket into the well, feeling its descent as the rope passed between her fingers, breaking the surface of the water. Closing her eyes, she could better judge when the skin was full. It had become her time of meditation.

For a brief moment, she was in her quiet place. The dialogue behind her interrupted her thoughts once more, but this wasn't idle gossip after all. Susanna turned in their general direction. Engrossed in their discussion, the women took no notice of her. She knew these women from the village. Rizpah, a woman close in age to Susanna, spoke intently to her companion, Joanna.

“That’s what people are saying. You haven’t heard this?”

Joanna shook her head in disbelief.

“Yes, I heard about it. But it’s impossible. Why do you believe such things?”

Rizpah continued in her retelling of what she had heard, unfazed by Joanna’s unbelief.

“Resurrected, indeed!” Joanna scoffed.

“The sun is affecting your mind, Rizpah. Jesus of Nazareth was crucified. He died and he was buried. We know this. Everyone knows this! Dead people don’t come back to life.”

Susanna’s thoughts swirled. Could this be true? All of Israel was buzzing about the death of Jesus. It was common knowledge. She also heard rumors that Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead just weeks before in the town of Bethany. News from the north trickled down slowly to Beersheba, but fantastic accounts such as this one circulated quickly. Now this about Jesus being alive? Joanna was right. Dead people don’t come back to life. Susanna wanted to believe the story about Lazarus. She desperately wanted to believe that death was not the end. It was just so incredible. Unable to make sense of it, she put off deciding what to make of it.

Rizpah believed the rumors concerning Jesus, and her friend’s skepticism did nothing to dissuade her.

“I believe it, Joanna. I believe He is the Messiah that our people have been waiting for.”

Susanna turned away from the women, returning to her work. Her strong hands transferred the remainder of the water. She looped the handles of the goatskin into her sash and deftly raised the earthenware pot to her right shoulder for the journey home. The sun was dipping lower in the west, giving way to dusk and bathing the clouds in swaths of orange. As she walked, she thought, the gentle tinkling of her anklet accenting her steps. Despite the heavy load she carried, Susanna felt a burden lift inside her. Rizpah’s testimony echoed through her mind.

“I believe He is the Messiah...”

Road to Nowhere

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com by the author, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level4.php?id=58116

With all his black fur, it was hard to see what the problem was. Squinting, I leaned in closer. My son, Daniel, began to panic.

“What’s wrong with Batty?” 

I couldn’t tell exactly, and I was concerned. Our otherwise gregarious, happy-go-lucky, black cat sat awkwardly on the bed, his demeanor guarded, his right eye bulging slightly from its socket and deviating sideways. Had something bitten him? Did he swallow something poisonous? I could feel the fear digging into me as my brain scrambled to make sense of it. Just then, as if on cue, the tiny cuckoo bird emerged from his wooden house and serenaded us at the ten o’clock hour. 

I announced my intent to my husband, David.

“We need to take him to the emergency vet.”

He did not agree. 

“We’ll take him first thing in the morning. I’m too tired to drive tonight. No. First thing tomorrow.”

I, too, was tired — and irascible. I countered his argument with all the reasons I could think of as to why we should drive 30 minutes to the nearest all-night animal clinic. When that failed to persuade him, I accused him of being unsympathetic — both to the cat and our son. I was bound and determined to get my way. 

Stonewalled, he loaded Batty into the pet carrier and headed out to the car. Satisfied that I had won, I quickly slid my feet into the nearest pair of flip-flops, tossed my phone into my purse and followed him out to the car, our 10-year-old in tow. David loaded the heavy carrier into the backseat, shut the car door and started walking back to the house.

“You’re not coming with us?!”

I sounded incredulous, but I wasn’t. We were both dying on different hills now. My husband stood on the front porch, arms akimbo.

I put the car into reverse, sealing my decision. Batty let out a garbled protest faintly resembling his usual boisterous self. Concern flooded back into my heart at the sound of it, renewing my resolve. Batty isn’t just one of our cats, he’s our son’s favorite cat. I just couldn’t let anything happen to him. I was on a mission. I knew exactly where we needed to go. It was the same emergency vet we’d used before.

“Hold on, buddy. We’re gonna get you some help.” 

The truth is, I was as concerned about Daniel as I was for Batty. My gentle autistic son sat in the passenger seat, head in his hands, his chest heaving with tears of worry that his cat would die. As we got closer to the offramp, I assured him we were almost there. We took our exit and relief began to rise within me. Making the final turn towards our destination, I slowed down, scanning the buildings on the right. There it was just ahead. 

Relief had barely settled in when a feeling of dread spread through my body like black ink. The lights were out. They were closed! How could this be? They’re not supposed to be closed! Clearly, they are no longer a 24-hour pet hospital. Daniel looked at me, confused. 

“It’s fine. Everything is fine, honey. Where’s my phone? We’ll find the closest vet and go there.”

I quickly searched “emergency vet” and got a nearby result. One tap on the navigation link and we were headed in the right direction, our first left straight ahead. I made the turn and looked back at my phone. 

“You have got to be kidding me! My phone is…dead?!”

Dead as a doornail and no charger in the car. What was so logical less than an hour ago was now clear as mud. I felt alone, out of the protective care of my husband, no way to communicate, and, basically, lost. I knew I had made a mistake. Dogged, I drove around in search of the nameless vet of which I had no address, my exhausted child nodding off next to me, our pirate-eyed sick cat in the back, all to no avail. It was done. I was done. We returned home from our wild goose chase, having accomplished nothing -- but God had taught me much.

In my stubbornness I thought I could see clearly, but, really, I couldn’t see at all. David was right. I was wrong. And the cat? He is just fine.

“Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.” Col. 3:18 (ESV)

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The author welcomes Constructive Red Ink Critiques.

The Final Salute

The following article originally appeared at FaithWriters.com, First Place Advanced category winner, and Quarterly Challenge winner, and can be viewed at:  https://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57831


It was the coldest day in California in over a hundred years, numbing cold and wind-driven rain, buckets of it, coming down in a steady torrent over the Golden State. I can’t recall a single word that was spoken among us during the two-hour long drive to the cemetery that gray December morning. All I remember is the rain.

It was raining so hard, in fact, that the National Cemetery called the mortuary to confirm that we were coming. It was understandable. My father was to have a military funeral with full honors. I had never heard of postponing a funeral, but how I wish I could have postponed his passing. The heavy, unyielding rain was my voice, speaking to the world, not in words but in metaphor, declaring my grief. I would have resented the sun had it decided to shine that day.

We entered the iron gates of the cemetery, following behind the white hearse making its slow, ceremonious advance to the committal shelter where my father’s service would be performed. The expansive grounds of this sacred place spread out before us, around us, and then behind us as we traveled further and further away from the gate, a single path now branching out into a network of arteries revealing a sea of flush grave markers. 

Our caravan continued on, up and over the gentle sloping hills of the memorial park. I did not expect to see him there, the lone soldier standing off in the distance ahead of our caravan. Stationed on a hill, he stood facing in the direction of the hearse carrying my father’s casket. The scene took my breath away. Stoic, he stood, his right hand held at his forehead in a firm salute. He was soaking wet from head to toe, unprotected by the relentless rain. His gaze locked resolutely on his subject, he pivoted on his heel quarter turn by quarter turn, following the path of the decorated World War II veteran deserving of his respect. I looked back at him as our car passed over the hill from where he stood, his presence electric, saying so much more than words ever could, bound by honor. 

The Honor Guard stood at the ready as we gathered, only four in number, under the committal shelter. 
The gentleman, who I supposed to be the senior person in the Honor Guard, an army veteran, expressed his condolences. The signal was given for the 3-gun salute. The first volley of rifle fire rang out into the frigid, misty air. Duty. Then the second. Honor. And the last. Country. I sat on the hard, cement bench, looking down at my hands, the gloves I had on of little warmth. The cold in my bones could not equal what was in my heart. Joining in with the even pounding of rainfall, the lonely yet comforting sound of “Taps” filled the air, punctuating the somber occasion. 

The two-man Honor Guard removed the American flag that was draped over my father’s powder blue casket, folding it meticulously into a triangle, the three spent shell casings reverently tucked into the thirteenth and final fold. The man turned to face me, his charcoal-grey overcoat covered in beadlets of rain, his cap protected by a clear plastic bonnet. He, too, appeared unfazed by Mother Nature, motivated solely by a right sense of duty. With white-gloved hands, he presented me with my father’s flag on behalf of a grateful Nation. 

The service over, I walked out into the misty cold. I picked up a red carnation that laid on the ground and held it as I watched them return my father’s casket to the hearse. This was the final goodbye that I was not prepared for. The caretaker, a tall, strong-looking man, turned around to face me as he closed the rear doors of the hearse. He didn’t say a word. He nodded once, a silent assurance. I turned and walked away. 

And with that, the promises of Scripture assuaged my broken heart, a balm of Gilead: “Awake, you who sleep, arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.” Eph. 5:14 (NKJV)

Trash Dance

The following article originally posted by the author at Faithwriters.comhttps://www.faithwriters.com/wc-article-level2-previous.php?id=57487

I often find myself walking behind my little boy. When he was small, he would let me hold his hand and we'd walk together. He’s ten now, and when we go places, he’s sure to be at least ten paces ahead of me, innocently detached physically and socially. So many things are different when your child has autism. I've grown accustomed to it, this arrangement of ours. God has taught me a lot through the simple act of walking behind Daniel and watching him from a distance. 

This cool January morning, he walks ahead of me as we make our way to the school playground. No school today, so we have the whole place to ourselves. It's trash day and we've come here to watch the garbage trucks drive around the school. Daniel's passion for these rubbish-eating titans knows no bounds. Nothing else matters right now. Nothing. 

Positioned at his favorite vantage point, he plants his feet firmly, ears attuned to the sound of the approaching truck. It's coming. His feet move faster across the grassy field, his steps quickening into short sprints moving toward the sound of the engine. He's running now. He is joyous.

The mint-green garbage truck pulls into view through the chain-link fence surrounding the school. Daniel's excitement reaches a fever pitch as he hotfoots it across the playground, wood chips scattering around his feet. He stops for a moment, rising up on his tiptoes, watching as the metal claw of the side-loader opens to receive the green bin. The arms of the claw close around it, hugging the bin tightly as it makes its journey up the carriage to the hopper, dumping its contents with a dramatic flip. This is his favorite part. This is what we’ve come for.

He turns back toward me, pivoting on his toes.

"Mommy! Look!" 

I smile and nod, feeling his contagious joy. 

He darts off in the direction of the departing truck, keeping its silhouette in his field of vision until it disappears around the corner. His trash dance is over. It’s time to go home. I lead the way as he lags behind, reluctant to leave.

As I walk, I pray, "Lord, thank you for this special child. This is a challenging walk You have us on, but You promise to go before us, and You do. May Daniel always follow after You, his feet firmly planted in faith, and Your Word the joy of his heart."

He’s ahead of me now, and I just smile.

Proverbs 4:26 (NASB)

"Watch the path of your feet and all your ways will be established."

Heart Harvest

The sound of the children’s voices carried across the school parking lot like a melody, a wholesome blend of laughter and youthful banter. My heart is immediately lighter at its hearing as I make my way to the attendance office to sign the visitor’s log. It’s Thursday, the day our church volunteers at the local elementary school.

All checked in, I grab my visitor’s sticker with a bright-red apple on it and find our group under the flagpole. Our small band of five huddles outside the gate to the kindergarten area, praying for the hearts of these little ones and thanking God for the opportunity to be His hands and feet to “the least of these.” Closing with a hearty “amen,” it’s time to have fun. It’s time to sow seeds, all different kinds of them.

Instantly upon entering the gate, I smile at the sweet scene. Just ahead at the end of a short path of stepping stones, kindergarten children are seated at wooden lunch tables shaded by a sprawling majestic oak tree. All eyes on us, they see us coming. A group of boys sitting together at a table blurt out greetings at us in unison, all talking over each other the way five-year-olds do. I’m struck by how different each child is in appearance and personality. Some small for their age and some not. Some freckle-faced, and a few with skin like alabaster. Some bold, others shy; the talkers and the listeners. Each one of them possess the vivid, clear eyes of a child, all sharing the same beautiful innocence.

Phillip wastes no time in joining the boys. He is instantly engaging with his zany sense of humor and outgoing personality, and they adore him. Pastor Gavin takes up his usual post at the fence for a rousing game of ball throwing, surrounded by a large group of boys. Retha moves with an easy grace around the tables, helping children open milk cartons, tossing empties, quick to serve. Joey, our youth pastor, rides past me on the back of a too-small tricycle, the child driver beaming ear to ear. Seeds of kindness scatter all around me. 

Across the playground, Iris sees me. She prides herself on her excellent running skills and is eager to show them off. She runs at me at full speed, stopping within an inch of me, making sure she has my full attention.

“Look how fast I can run!”

She turns on a dime and hotfoots it in the other direction, fast and focused, arms out at her side like wings. She plops back down at her place on the bench, her impressive demonstration concluded.

I spot my little friend, Emma, a doe-eyed girl with dark-brown hair. She sees me, her face lighting up with glee, and my heart felt the warmth of it. The first time I met her, she wore sequined cat ears on her head. She instantly became my favorite. Joining her and her friend, we sat at the lunch table talking about important things like unicorns and mermaids and the color pink. Then a game of tag and two rounds of hide-and-seek. As we played, I gently tossed the seeds of love and kindness like a prayer, watching them scatter and rest upon the children. The bell chimed signaling the end of recess. 
It was time to line up and return to their classrooms. 

As I turned to say goodbye, Emma hugged me and said, “You’re my favorite person.”

My heart fluttered at her sincerity. Weeks of sowing, I am now reaping. Here was an unexpected harvest, not one I can see with my eyes, but one that I feel in my soul, the kind words of a child -- heart words. Scattering a few seeds of time, love, and energy, I have received back infinitely more. What a bounty!

The Finish Line

"Runners, on your marks!"

The athletes readied themselves in a runner's stance, anticipating the sound of the starting gun. The sharp pop reverberated through the air and the row of athletes sprinted out of their frozen poses, the sound of their sneakered feet pounding against the track. It echoed across the field and up into the bleachers where my husband and I were sitting. We watched them in reverential silence.

The young man in the lead was tall and muscular and unnaturally fast. His larger-than-life presence swallowed up the expansive track. Michael commanded attention. His voice was as verbose as his hulking presence. As he sprinted toward the 100-meter mark, he called out exuberantly to anyone who was listening.

"Feelin' strong! I'm feelin' strong!"

Michael barreled toward the finish line, a blur. A gentle giant, he was a powerhouse.

I turned my attention to Sam, awkwardly progressing down the track. A small man, wiry and ungainly, he ran, clearly unencumbered by his obvious disability. His left shoulder sat noticeably lower than his right, dramatically hunching the right side of his back. Arms tucked against his body in an effort to abate the involuntary jerking of his hands, Sam pressed on. His slight frame looked as though it could faint from the effort. My heart would have broken at the sight of him had it not been so inspired.

Mary, a little girl with Down Syndrome, slowly jogged down her lane, head down, eyes to the rust-colored track, tightly hugging a green five-foot long stuffed snake. She ran for the joy of it. Mary gave it her all. Crossing the finish line, she rejoiced at her victory, the green stuffed snake bobbing behind her like a tail. Her face beamed with pride, revealing her irrepressible spirit.

Markie didn’t run. Each step awkward because of his severe disability, he limped down the track, slowly but steadily, one leg at a time. First his left, then his right, his gait stiff and wooden. Flanked on each side by friends, his arms were supported as he journeyed on, unfazed by his slow pace. Markie's excitement was punctuated with sudden verbal utterances, loud and unintelligible. He was happy, and that much was obvious. He was pitiable and at the same time altogether captivating.

Before my eyes, they transformed into living parables. I thought about this journey of the Christian life, following hard after Christ, as it presses back against me with its many adversities. The message to my heart was clear. They persevered to the end despite everything that was against them. They did it all with joy, grit and determination canceling out anything clumsy or awkward about them.

Some days, like Michael, I feel strong in my faith, like nothing can get me down. I run like the wind. Other days, I can identify more with Sam, laboring greatly under the weight of life’s challenges. The Mary in me holds tightly to Jesus like she did her beloved friend. But most days, I am most like Markie, clumsy and unable to take a single step without support.

Not burdened with a physical impairment, I contend daily with the disability of sin. The Enemy set me up to lose, to never cross the finish line into eternal life, but because of His victory at the Cross, His death, burial, and resurrection, Jesus stands at the end of the race holding up the flag of redemption and forgiveness. Like these runners, there is no giving up. I will keep going in this marathon of faith until I reach the finish line into His waiting arms.

"...and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith" Hebrews12:1b-2a (NIV)

Forever Young

Say the word owl."
"Owl."
"Say the word play.
"Play."
"Sign."
"Sign."

Here I was, seated in a soundproof room, no bigger than an oversized telephone booth. Headphones press against my ears, just tight enough to be bothersome. Surveying my temporary confinement, I make a mental note of the dark-gray and maroon patchwork of Styrofoam lining the walls around me. Mildly disturbing, I close my eyes. 

“Say the word cool.”

More words. Separated by a small window, the audiologist feeds me more words to repeat. I get them all correct. Excellent! Maybe I’m not hard of hearing after all.

Lately, I have trouble hearing clearly if the person speaking is too far away. I’ve lost count at how many times I say “What?” in a day. A recent ear procedure hasn't yielded the outcome the doctor and I were hoping for. I can hear, but things are terribly muffled, and have been for months now. My private lament is that I’m too young to be struggling with my hearing. This recent setback with my hearing, a few more noticeable aches and pains, subtle changes in the face in the mirror, all this and more, brings one thing into sharp focus: The days of my youth are behind me. I never envisioned myself at 51 with a hearing loss. Truthfully, though, I never envisioned myself at 51, period.

I’m a skilled procrastinator, so in my 49th year, I began to mentally prepare myself for my next birthday. I was then steadily moving towards “the big five-oh,” our cultural dividing point between youth and maturity. I was soon going to be considered by some as “over the hill.” I barely saw it coming. And then, there it was, and I was over it.

A Daughter of Eve, I struggle against the effects of time. The curse of sin is now a visible one. The face in the mirror looking back at me is mine, but it’s showing signs of time. The gray hairs are coming in faster than I can dial my hairdresser. Young women walk past me at the mall, vibrant, energetic, and I forget for a moment that I’m 20 years their senior. I still feel 20 years their junior. 

Our culture does not embrace aging well. Especially women aging well. We are assailed on all fronts with social messages that youthfulness is king, and growing older should be avoided at all cost. Anti-aging serums and supplements is a multimillion dollar industry, selling a lie that we can turn back the hands of time. I guard my heart against deceit prettied up as truth, deceit that can gradually and insidiously erode my confidence in God and His plan for my life — if I believe them. 

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” Proverbs 4:23 NIV

We were made to live forever. We have eternity in our hearts. We are under a curse of sin and death, and our hearts know it very well. It was not in the original plan.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12 NIV

The wisps of smoke were still dissipating in the air from the “4” and “9” candles on my birthday cake as I thought ahead. I avowed that with God’s help, His grace, and His wisdom, I would arrive at the door of my 50th birthday with joy, not lament. And I wouldn’t knock. I would throw it wide open, inviting myself in.

And, with not a lot of fanfare, my “year of jubilee” came and went. Then 51. All along this hilly journey I’m learning what matters, like the things I can take hold of that won’t degrade, and what things God is loosening my grip on because they are corruptible and fleeting. I was made for eternity.

“For you have been born again, not of perishable seed, but of imperishable, through the living and enduring Word of God.” 1 Peter 1:23 NIV

“Say the word eternity.”

Yes, Lord. I hear You loud and clear.