Just a Bird

Two days ago Sherry and I were in New Bern, NC for a wedding. We took advantage of the trip and turned it into a lovely, much needed weekend vacation. One of the best things about the weekend was staying at the Howard House, a victorian Bed & Breakfast right in the heart of the historic district. We were able to walk everywhere, which was a real treat. One of the places we enjoyed and returned to was the riverwalk along the Neuse River just a block from our B&B. On Saturday evening after all the wedding festivities were over, we changed back into comfortable clothes, grabbed our current books, and headed back to the riverwalk to relax on a bench and enjoy reading by the water with the sound of the moving water in the background. We had a particular bench in mind, at the farthest end of the path, but were shocked when we saw what awaited us at that very spot. On the seawall right next to the bench was sprawled a soaking wet bird - possibly a sea gull or a tern, we're not sure. It's large wings were extended, hanging over the two sides of the wall. It appeared at first to be dead, but then I noticed its head move slightly, followed by the distinct heaving of its body taking a breath. It was a disturbing sight. The bird was obviously very weak and we couldn't imagine how it had ended up on that wall. It was thoroughly soaked as if it had been underwater. Had someone rescued the bird from the water and placed it there on the wall to dry out? As I looked more closely I saw that it had a fish in its mouth. The fish was hanging partly out, but there was also a large bulge on the side of the bird's neck which I guessed was the fish stuck in its throat. Why did it not swallow the fish down? Feeling very sorry for this poor bird, I couldn't simply sit down on the bench and read my book, pretending it wasn't there; and I couldn't walk away without making some kind of effort to help, even though I didn't know what the problem was other than it was water logged and had a fish stuck in its throat. It occurred to me that if the bird made any attempts to move it would very likely fall over the edge of the narrow wall into the river, so the first thing I needed to do was move it to a safer spot to dry out. I gently lifted the bird off the wall and set it on the sidewalk. Although it moved its head a bit, it put up no struggle or resistance of any kind. This bird was clearly exhausted. I couldn't imagine how it could have gotten itself out of the water and onto the wall. This bird was a mystery.

After watching it for a few more minutes I decided to pick it up and do a closer examination. When I did so I was horrified to discover that this beautiful bird was hopelessly entangled in fishing line. It was wrapped around and around its legs, up through its tail feathers and around its body. No wonder it was in trouble! Without a tool of some sort there was no way to remove all that tangled, twisted, knotted nylon line, so Sherry offered to walk back to our B&B and get a small pair of scissors he had packed. While he was gone I picked up the bird again to examine it a little more, especially the head with that fish hanging partly out its mouth. What was going on here? Why couldn't the bird get the fish down its throat when it was obviously alert and aware of what was going on? Then I saw the fishing line wrapped around its neck. Oh, dear God, the bird was being strangled by the nylon! I attempted to loosen the death string around its neck but it was impossible. There were too many tangles. This totally explained why the fish was stuck in its throat. There was no way for the bird's throat to expand for the fish to pass through. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Sherry returned with the scissors. I began by very carefully clipping and removing the string from around the bird's neck while Sherry held it up for easier access. It was extremely challenging since the string was colorless and difficult to see, in addition to being tangled among the base of its feathers tightly against its skin, but I managed to free the bird's neck and hoped that he would soon be able to swallow his fish.

Then I started working on the legs, but this was turning out to be a harder task than I had expected. While I was working at gently clipping and removing pieces of killer string, a young woman walked over and asked if she could help. With her caring assitance, we slowly removed every piece of string that was wrapped around the bird's body and tangled through its feathers. It really was easier with two of us working on removing the string while Sherry held the bird up at eye level for us to have the best possible view in the declining daylight.

We set the bird back on the sidewalk and it took a few faltering steps, but soon tumbled forward and just lay there sprawled again with its wings limp and extended. I gently lifted its head and massaged its throat just a little and it made efforts to swallow. The fish was completely inside its mouth now but was still bulging on the side of its neck. I took a picture of the bird with my camera phone and sent it to Sarah, knowing she would be interested in an animal rescue. She promptly named him Earl, and somehow it seemed to fit. As Earl was beginning to dry out I again became concerned that he was too close to the water. If he made attempts to fly, his spastic flapping could quickly launch him over the low sea wall straight into the deep river and there would be no way for us to get him out. I gently carried him up to an area that put more distance between him and death by drowning, and he continued to be quite alert. Occasionally Earl would make attempts to walk a few steps, but he always fell forward from exhaustion. This bird was clearly traumatized, but I kept hoping that if we could keep him safe from the river and safe from predators that he might regain enough strength to fly away. Eventually I noticed that the bulge on his neck was gone, so he had successfully swallowed his fish.

It was beginning to get dark and we knew we were going to have to leave soon. Earl was by now completely dry except for his under belly that hadn't gotten enough exposure to the air. He still seemed very alert, often moving his head as if he were keeping an eye on his surroundings, and this alertness gave me hope that he was going to make it if he could pull out of the shock of the trauma he had suffered from becoming so hopelessly entangled in all that fishing line. From the way it was twisted and knotted all around his body it was obvious he had struggled furiously to get free. We needed a safer spot to leave him before nightfall, so I carried him a couple hundred yards to a big open field where earlier people had been flying kites. He wouldn't be protected from predators, but he wasn't likely to end up in the river from weak flapping in an attempt to fly before he was strong enough. I carried Earl with his body pointed straight ahead and his wings almost fully extended out to the sides. It seemed to me that it must have felt good to this creature of the air to feel the wind under his wings for a few minutes. He rested in my hands while his gorgeous wings caught the breeze, and the entire way as we moved along the riverwalk he had his head turned to the side with his black eyes upon the river. I couldn't help thinking that Earl had spent his whole life looking down into that water in search of fish, and now he was gazing longingly from his position of helplessness.

We got to the field that was by now vacant, chose a spot that seemed best, and placed him gently on the grass. It was hard to walk away, but darkness was upon us and we needed to be going. As we left I took note of some nearby landmarks so I would be able to use them as coordinates to find this spot again if I chose to return in the morning. My outlook was genuinely optomistic for Earl. Unless he had swallowed a fish hook, which didn't appear to be likely, I believed his biggest hurdle was psychic trauma, and I genuinely hoped that a few hours of rest would enable him to overcome the shock.

The next morning I knew that I had to know the outcome. Although I wasn't sure the night before whether I would want to return and check on him, in the morning it was clear to me that I needed resolution. I would rather know than always wonder. So I walked down by myself to where I had placed Earl twelve hours earlier, and there was his still body in exactly the position we had left him. I lifted him a little to confirm what I was seeing, and felt the cold weight of his lifeless body. Honestly, that was not what I had been expecting to find, but I couldn't change what was, and so I walked along the river and cried. What was I to do now? Should I dispose of his body or just leave him there? For about ten minutes I walked and cried, and then I made my decision. The worst thing Icould imagine would be for a dog to find Earl and tear him up, or for a father to kick him out of the way so his kids could play in that space. A trash can seemed way too disrespectful for the remains of this beautiful creature who had struggled so hard for survival against the entrapment brought about by a human's carelessness. So I returned to where he lay, lifted him the same way I had when he was still alert and there was still hope, folded his wings in as much as possible, carried him over to the river and dropped him into the water. Let the river take him.

So why have I still not been able to speak of this experience? Why has the death of a wild bird affected me so deeply? By attempting to rescue the bird I developed an emotional attachment to it. If I had simply come across a dead bird, as has happened many times, I would have passed by unaffected. Where there is no investment there is no stirring of the heart.

I believe God orchestrated this experience to show me something. It was no coincidence that this drenched bird all tangled in nylon string was lying across the wall next to the very bench we were headed to at the very time we arrived. Earl was so wet when we found him that he had to have somehow come to be in that place just moments before we arrived. However he got there, God put him there for me. I had just been reading a section in Radical, by David Platt, about what God says in the Bible about giving to the poor. The author suggested that our hearts are not moved by the many children who die every day of starvation or from easily preventable or curable diseases, primarily because we can't see them. As long as they are someplace else, out of our sight, we can pretend they don't exist and we can continue to justify our indulgences. But God sees them, and He cares about their suffering, and He wants me to let go of some of my material blessings for the sake of the desperately poor of the world. Birds die all the time and I am not affected, but when I am the one in the role of trying to save a bird's life, the investment changes me. It shakes me up, even if for just a little while. I think God is trying to shake me up, and not just for a little while, to move me to invest in the poor of the world whether I ever see them in person or not. Meeting Earl was surely a divine appointment.

Pain

Where does all the pain go? Does God have some kind of cosmic vacuum cleaner that sucks up all the pain from the earth and dumps it into an incinerator of some kind? Or maybe he dumps it into hell for the eternal suffering of those who have rejected Him. There's probably no theological argument that could be made for such a notion, but human logic that includes the God of the Bible in its equations might make sense of it.

This week I am feeling as though I relate to a teeny tiny fraction of a sliver of a small part of God's experience in his relationships with humans. That is, although God is aware of all the pain and suffering of humans, and loves each one very much, He does not internalize our pain in a way that weakens or diminishes Him in any way. But this has nothing to do with caring or not caring. He cares more than any human can care, and yet He is fully involved and separated at the same time.

God has entrusted some big pain to me recently. For a change it is the pain of others and not my own. He has brought four women to me, each distinct and separate from the others, none of them connected to any of the others in any way. And yet God has put each of these women into my life and moved my heart to come alongside them in their pain. It is a faith-building experience, to say the least.

For nearly six decades I have bumbled and stumbled my way through my life, and I have accepted the fact that, since I have no script, that is the best I will probably ever do. But it's one thing to bumble and stumble my way through my own life, and quite another to bumble and stumble through someone else's! If I don't hear God clearly when I ask Him for direction or wisdom concerning an issue in my own life, well, I will probably learn something from my mistake. But I don't want someone else who is depending on me for godly wisdom to have to learn from my mistake!

So the first thing I'm learning from being so involved in the excruciating pain of other women's lives is that it is a very humbling role to be in. What if I get it wrong when they ask for my counsel? What if I give a wrong interpretation while trying to help them untangle the knots of a complicated situation? What if I draw a wrong conclusion about some confusing circumstances? What if I inadvertently, though with good motives, console when I should be challenging? What if I inadvertently, though with good motives, challenge when I should be consoling? Such motivation for abiding in Christ and staying tightly attached to the Vine there has never been! The only hope I have for getting anything right when dealing with someone else's pain is to be so closely aligned with Christ that I can be reasonably sure, by faith, that He will put His thoughts into my brain when I need to speak words of counsel. There is no room for excuses in my own walk of faith. If I give a foothold to the devil which leads to some type of deception in my own life, that's bad enough. But God forbid that I give a foothold to the devil and thereby lead someone else into deception!

The second thing I'm learning is that there is no room for internalizing the pain of others. It is debilitating. It will prevent me from seeing clearly. It will hinder my ability to walk by another person's side on their path of pain without becoming weakened as they are. And it can easily lead to the deception that I have some kind of responsibility to reach into that person and remove the agony from her heart. Since it is obviously impossible for me to do that since only God can heal a broken heart, to take on such a role would elevate myself in my own mind to a presumptuous level where only God has the right to reside. Self-exaltation. Bondage, pure and simple. No, I cannot carry the searing pain of another human being without it destroying me as it is threatening to destroy her. And then what good would I be to her? I have to entrust her pain to the Lord, knowing that it is in good hands and He will do what needs to be done to strengthen her through this fiery trial in her life, and ultimately heal her heart. I have to get out of God's way so He can work.

What a relief it is to know that I do not have to be God. I only have to be a friend. I only have to love, and be faithful, and be willing to give of whatever I have to give. God will do a fine job of being Himself.

Victim

If there is one thing in the world that stirs up righteous anger in me it is seeing an innocent person victimized. There are victims, and then there are innocent victims. A victim is anyone who gets hurt by someone else's bad choice or behavior. An innocent victim is anyone who had no level of responsibility whatsoever for being in the place or circumstance that resulted in becoming a victim. A woman may get hurt by her husband's bad behavior, but even though that is despicable and she probably didn't deserve it, there is still a chain of consequence that can be traced back to the fact that she chose to marry him. (At least that is the case most of the time in our culture. For a Middle Eastern woman it's a different story altogether.)

But what rationalization can possibly be contrived for hurting a child? Could a seven year old child have any level of responsibility whatsoever for an adult taking advantage of her and leaving her scarred for life? What about ten years old? Fourteen? Jesus had some pretty scary comments on child abuse. As I read it, He said that anyone who causes a child to sin would be better off being thrown into the depths of the sea with a millstone around his neck. I've seen a few millstones. It sounds like a one way ride to me. Let the creatures that clean the filth from the bottom of the sea take care of the scum.

If only it were that simple. I think my anger is justified and can be supported biblically, but at some point the anger must intersect with forgiveness. My own sin sent Jesus to the cross. It cost Him his life. And Jesus was more innocent than anyone who ever lived, including the infant who just took his first breath of air. But, in spite of his innocence, He willingly (and even gladly) forgave me of every sin I have ever committed simply because I asked him to and put my trust in him for gaining access to God and heaven and a worthy life on this earth. He did nothing to deserve that ugly death, and I did nothing to deserve his forgiveness. Quite a conundrum.

I've done a lot of thinking about forgiveness in the past few months. The concept is simple enough, and the reasons are compelling. Forgiveness involves letting go of my right to be angry or vindictive toward my offender or the offender of someone I love. I need to do this for my own well-being, lest bitterness take control of my soul and I become someone I never wanted to be. Whether or not the offender benefits from my forgiveness is a separate issue and has to be considered apart from the benefits to me. But forgiveness is not optional if I am to obey my Lord and if I am to avoid a hardening of my soul, but sometimes the path to forgiveness is filled with potholes and boulders. Right now I'm crawling out of a pothole and facing a boulder. I know there is forgiveness at the end of this path, but I'm not sure how I'm going to get there. One thing for certain, it will be only by God's grace.

One of the imponderables is that, although I am stumbling along this path toward forgiveness of someone for victimizing a child I love, I am not the child, nor am I the child's mother. Each of them has a totally different course to follow in finding their way to that necessary end if they are to escape becoming hardened and bitter. The irony is that the child has the advantage. The very one who was victimized and was utterly innocent is the one who has the greatest capacity to forgive with the least amount of struggle, providing she is given timely and godly counsel. In the same place where Jesus spoke about what the child abuser deserves, He said that we all need to humble ourselves and become like little children. A child loves without an agenda. What kind of love could be closer to the love of Jesus than that? No wonder she is held up as the role model for us to follow.

And what about the offender? He desperately needs forgiveness, though he may or may not even recognize that need yet. What hope does he have of ever being trusted by anyone again? What kind of miracle is required for him to have a life worth living from this day forward? What kind of hellish course does his sorry carcass have to travel before he finds the true value of his soul and the forgiveness that will set him free from the complexities of his deserved condemnation?

I'm glad I'm not God.

And next there's the issue of trust to contend with. {sigh}

Pets, Pets, Pets

Why must some of us be so ridiculously attached to animals? There are a thousand ways that life would be simpler if we didn't have to spend our lives dragging around pet baggage. I don't mean those silly little purses for pocket-sized dogs, or collapsible water bowls that hang from the waistband of a jogger and his pit bull. I'm talking about the blasted inconveniences that complicate and aggravate and have the potential to derail any otherwise pleasant day. It's a wonderful thing to climb out of bed in the morning and be greeted by a grinning, tail-wagging canine who appears convinced the moon was hung by you alone. But after those loving pats and the first-morning scratch behind the ears, it is all quickly forgotten when you walk around the corner and find the contents of a trash can strewn about the floor, complete with gum stuck on the rug and a big smear that looks like vomit that has been licked up.

The adoring eyes of that dog that worships the ground you walk on bring such warm fuzzies to your heart so that you can't pass by without giving a quick rub and a sweet greeting, until you enter the bathroom and discover that once again that inconsiderate, theiving interloper has managed to relieve you of another roll of toilet paper. Twelve thousand bits of evidence make it perfectly clear what has happened, and you finally resolve that for the remainder of this vandal's life the toilet paper will have to sit inconveniently on a shelf above snout reach. That cute little dispenser built into the wall next to the toilet might possibly be useful for hanging a sock to dry. But, no, the sock would become a chew toy the second it was discovered.

So much pleasure is derived from watching the beloved pets romp in the backyard, communing with nature, bonding with the smells that tell a story you can't read. Standing at the window, your heart bubbles with thankfulness for the blessing of a dozen years of sharing life with such beautiful creatures. You open the door to welcome them in where you are waiting with every intention of showering them with the affection they deserve. Their whole bodies seem to wag in their delight of simply being alive, and you begin giving hugs and throwing out words of endearment until you notice that the entire kitchen is covered in brown doggy paw prints. How did that happen? It was a perfectly sunny day outside! You run for a towel and manage to grab one old girl and wipe her feet clean, but the other is so filled with excitement that she escapes into the next room while you are occupied, so that by the time you reach her there are muddy prints all the way through the house. Was it one hour ago that you mopped the floor, or maybe two?

Dogs, cats and rabbits, oh my! Guinea pigs, hamsters and gerbils, big sigh! Lizards, birds and fish, bye bye! Chickens and mice, like a poke in the eye! We're phasing out. Down to three dogs. Down to a mere few hundred dollars a month to maintain them in the lifestyle to which they are accustomed. Down to a manageable ankle depth of hair clouds to vacuum up a few times a week. Down to a half dozen or so bones to kick our bare feet into. Down to a single water bowl that needs filling but three times a day. Down to only twelve doggy feet and a mere 54 nails to clip every few weeks. Down to an unknown, rapidly decreasing number of belly rubs, cuddles on the floor, silky neck strokes, and nights of peaceful snoring coming from the corner of the bedroom.

Sometimes I envy those who don't need pets in their lives.

Conversation with Aiden

I was emptying the dishwasher at Rebekah's house while 3-yr. old Aiden watched. He looked into an open drawer, reached in and carefully lifted out a plastic stirring spoon and said, "This is for spanking." "Ohhhh," I replied with the utmost seriousness. "Does it ever spank you?" His eyes and chin fell toward the floor as he quietly said, "Yes." "Does it spank anyone else?" "Yes," he said, more brightly. "It spanks Kyla, and Connor and Tyler." I stopped working in order to give him the full attention this conversation deserved. "Wow. This spoon spanks a lot of people," I said, meeting his eyes. "No! They're not people," he retorted with the gravity that only a 3-yr. old who knows what he knows can muster. I decided to have a little fun with him, taking care not to let him catch on that I was teasing, so as not to embarrass him. "Aren't you a people?" I asked. "No." "Oh. Is Kyla a people?" "No." "What is she?" After just a slight hesitation and a quick look across the room as if he were checking in with someone for accuracy, he replied, "She's a sister." "Oh. Is Connor a people?" "No." "What is he?" Another little hesitation, and a slight stumble as if he weren't one hundred percent sure he was about to give the correct answer, but determined enough to stand by his opinion whether or not it was correct. "He's a brother." "Oh. Is Tyler a people?" "No." "Oh. What is he?" "He's a brother. And I'm a brother." "Oh. I see. So there are 3 brothers and one sister who live here. Is that right?" "Yes." "And no people?" "No." "What about Mommy & Daddy? Are they people?" "No." "Daddy's not a people?" "No." "Then what is he?" There was a shadow of uncertainty behind the eyes, and then a shy, "He's a daddy." "Oh. Is Mommy a people?" "No." "Really? Then what is she?" "A mommy." "Oh. I see. So there are no people living in this house?" "No." "Oh. Well I'm glad I know who everybody is now. Thanks for helping me understand." And we went back to emptying the dishwasher.

On the short list of simple pleasures in life, conversations with a 3-yr. old absolutely must be included.

Nature Show

Since I had some extra time before heading to the airport this morning, I decided to spend a few minutes watching a nature show. With wonder and awe I watched a mother and father house wren take turns landing at the nesting box with wiggly worms in their mouths, the babies jamming their gaping mouths at the hole, each hoping to be the one to get the worm. After the treat had been lovingly deposited in the gullet of the ravenous chick, the parent dutifully reached further into the nest and removed a small wad of waste, flying away to drop it far from the nursery. Nearby were chickadees and finches jostling for places at a seed feeder, taunting each other, claiming perching rights, and having their fill of sunflower seeds. Below the feeder, two baby cardinals scavenged for seeds that had dropped during the scuffles above, along with a squirrel or two or three. When the squirrels weren't snuffling and pawing through the seed shells for the occasional intact goody, they were chasing one another around the tree and up the branches, leaping over each other like acrobats. A few feet above the action at the feeder, Mr. & Mrs. Bluebird were busy feeding their young at a nesting box hanging from a limb, at peace with their duties.

What a delightful way to spend a spare fifteen minutes, standing at my back window watching the nature show.

Too much sense?

I've been convicted by a quote I read in a book the other day.

Before going further, I need to explore the meaning of "convicted". Not as in being found guilty of a crime. Or maybe so, at least in part. Guilty of not doing something I know I should do. Or guilty of not being something I should be. But in any case, the part that can't be escaped is the "something I know I should" part. When I know I should do something but don't, that stirs up within my conscience an uncomfortable feeling of falling short. And that reminds me of the verse, "For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God." Since Isaiah tells me that I was created for HIS glory, then it seems totally appropriate that I should feel something uncomfortable when I am falling short.

"Something is wrong if our lives make sense to unbelievers." (quote by Francis Chan)

Ever since I read that statement I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Does my life make too much sense? Honestly, I don't think I've done more than barely scratch the surface of the radical life Jesus called his followers to live. Living by faith is what He called us to do, and that is a far cry from what most of my life looks like. From time to time I recognize in another person (i.e. a particular daughter who lives with me but who shall remain unnamed) something I call a "disconnect". A disconnect is when you don't make the connection of understanding between two things that most would consider an obvious connection. But what if I have a disconnect of my own? That's the uncomfortable feeling of conviction that won't leave me ever since I read that quote. If my life makes sense to unbelievers, then how is it different from just being a very nice person with no use for Jesus? There are plenty of those around, and I don't want to be known as one of them because it denies my Lord!

Jesus has given me everything. He has given me unconditional love, undeserved mercy, unfathomable grace, unending patience, unequivocal purpose, unspeakable joy, an undeniable identity, and a confident unquenchable hope for an eternal future that is unparalleled.

It is more than obvious to me that there is a disconnect between what I call myself - a passionate follower of Christ - and how I live my life. The closest I can come to a pat on the back (for what that's worth!) is to recognize that my life is more similar to Jesus' life today than it was twenty years ago, which means I'm moving in the right direction, albeit at a snail's pace. But there is still too much sight and not enough faith. "We walk by faith, not by sight."

"Let us throw off everything that hinders, and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race set out before us." The throwing off never ends.

And why would I want it to if it brings me closer to Jesus?

What I Want

If I were asked to make a list of all the things in life I want, I wonder what would be on it. Right now I look out the window above my computer and gaze upon the biggest crape myrtle I've ever seen, in full glorious bloom. Behind those luscious flowering branches is a backdrop of more green from neighboring trees - the kind of green that in itself is a soothing balm. And the canvas behind it all is the clear blue of sky that reaches all the way to heaven. My eyes have been blessed to see oceans, mountains, canyons, waterfalls, rainbows, wildlife and even the Great Wall of China, but none of those sights have been more satisfying than this.

At this moment there are background sounds that I can't tune out, nor would I want to. A sleeping dogosaurus on the kitchen floor snores in rhythm with her peaceful breathing, and a daughter and husband chatter and laugh together over a game at the table in the next room. There are symphonies and birdsongs and praise music that bring delight to my ears, but none are more satisfying than this.

We met some good friends at a favorite restaurant for lunch today. The meal was delicious, but no tastier or more satisfying than the meals we enjoy right here at our own table, prepared by our own hands in our own kitchen. The simple grilled chicken, broccoli casserole, Caesar salad and apple pie that graced our table two days ago have never been surpassed by any meal that has passed over my tongue, regardless of the continent or company.

Yesterday morning while taking a walk through the neighborhood I was compelled to stop and inhale the sweetness of a magnolia bloom within reach. Only the day before, I had gone out of my way to get my nose within smelling distance of a hedge of gardenias, breathing in the scent for a few blissful moments. But on occasion, when the air currents are just so, I will catch a gentle whiff of honeysuckle wafting through my backyard. Although I can't see it and don't know how far it has travelled before reaching me, the heavenly perfume stops me in my tracks. Honeysuckle may not be showy or highly sought after as a desirable addition to the home garden, but when its scent passes through, all other perfumes temporarily cease to matter.

Throughout the course of any typical week I will enjoy the hugs of a variety of people, all of whom are special to me in some way. Old friends, new friends, happy friends, sad friends, friends celebrating special events and friends just glad to reconnect. My life would be poorer by far without these friends and their hugs. But the hugs that bring the most satisfaction are the ones that take place under my own roof every day, recommitting ourselves to one another for better or for worse.

So now that I've given it some consideration, I realize I don't need to make that list because everything I want in this life is right here. The only thing that can be better than what I already have is heaven itself.

Inlets

Writing is an outlet. No clanging bells or dramatic light shows are likely to accompany that statement. But in the last twenty-four hours I've spent a lot of quality time purging bookshelves, and it has caused me to relive my entire adult life. If you are not a reader of books you may not get it, but I experienced something akin to an epiphany today as I realized that books have been the channels through which the shape of my whole life has been formed. They are my inlets.

Through books on marriage I have been presented with truths that have shaped my thinking and my decisions and my behavior in the most important human relationship I will ever have. Through books on parenting I have been exposed to principles and creative ideas that have guided me mostly unscathed through the minefield of childrearing. Books on knowing God and living out my relationship with Jesus have enlightened me, instructed me, encouraged me, excited me, convicted me, and challenged me. Books on educating children who are gifted, children who are resistant, children who have special needs, children who love to learn, children who do everything in their power to sabotage your efforts - well, as I wrote in my last blog, I made it to the finish line where retirement awaited, thanks in large part to the wisdom gleaned from these books.

Of course, the deepest and widest and purest of all inlets has been God's Word, and the truths that flow on the currents of that Living Water will always have the most immediate, profound, and lasting effects because they go straight to the spiritual veins. But as I handled hundreds of books with my life history clinging to them along with prodigious amounts of dust, I realized that there is no way to humanly sort out what parts of me came from where. The inlets run into each other. Their waters mingle together and morph into brand new life-giving substances as they wash through the unique qualities of who I am and the life I have been given to live.

If the inlets are the feeders of my soul, then I am reminded to choose carefully where I paddle. Evidence of pollution is all the sign I need to stay out. I am what I read.

Retirement

How many people do you know who were retired for six months before they realized it? Maybe someone with a serious head injury, or some unfortunate recipient of a seriously twisted practical joke, or some misguided soul who stopped taking their pills. But no. I am here to tell you that after six months of trying to figure out this strange new stage of my life, I finally realized that it's called retirement. Yes! And when the realization hit home I nearly did a happy dance! Mothering is a job that never ends, in one capacity or another, so there is no retirement from that blessed career; but Education Management Specialist is a title I am only too glad to have relinquished. Since September of 1978 I have immersed myself body, soul and spirit in that career, and in June 2009 it came to an end, like a whisper.

This was a career I had never planned for nor prepared for, but it was the path I found myself on as I took one step at a time following the illumination provided by the lamp of God's Word. Step. Looks good. Step. Wait, where am I? Step. Whoa! What am I doing here? Step. Deep breaths needed because we're too far in to turn back now. Step. This is awesome! Step. I hate this! Step. God is teaching me many new and wonderful things. Step. Where is God in this mess? Step. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Step. Did God get me confused with someone else when He started me on this path? Step. This is very rewarding and satisfying. Step. I am losing my mind. Step. Do not grow weary in well-doing. Step. Do not grow weary in well-doing. Step. Do not grow weary in well-doing. Step. How many people shall we invite to the graduation party?

And suddenly it was over. Thirty-one years of stepping along the Education Management Specialist path. Choosing a private Christian school and managing the transportation, homework, chicken pox, fundraisers, and social crises. Keeping a child home and refusing to send her back to school where she was chronically sick and unhappy, risking the consequences of a visit from Child Protective Services. Jail for Daddy? Having our child taken from us? It mattered not. When the light from God's Word shined on the path, that is where I stepped. Homeschooling! That's where the path was taking us all along, in 1985 in New York State. And, oh, the work, and fun, and exhaustion, and exhilaration, and discouragement, and gratification, and stretching, and tears that lay along that path. But every path has twists and turns, and before I knew it we were taking a fork that was called private Christian school again. My rebellious heart fought against it even as I continued taking the steps in faith. Valedictorian for one, and special ed for another. What was God thinking when He put this family together? But nothing along that career path was ever more worth celebrating than the final leg of the journey, when the last of the litter had the clarity of mind and vision to request help in completing the course. And while we all experienced a severe jostling through those last two years, causing us to hang on for all we were worth to God's grace, we reached the end and the diploma sealed the deal.

So now here I am, officially retired from teaching and transporting and juggling school calendars and providing endless pep talks. I keep thinking about what that means, and all the options that gives God with my time, and I keep stepping. Step. Step. Step. Never a dull day when God's Word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path.

Addictions

Addiction is such a bad word. So negative. I mean, when you hear the word addiction, don't you automatically think of things like drugs, and alcohol, and pornography, and Cadbury Cream Eggs? But where is it written that only destructive things can be addictive? Wouldn't the world be a better place if we were all addicted to things that make us better? Just imagine if your next door neighbor were addicted to generosity. Or if your children were addicted to pleasing you. Or if you yourself were addicted to fresh vegetables. Think how much better your life would be in some ways. Are those things totally impossible? Okay, maybe not impossible, but highly unlikely.

All this is simply a stalling tactic, as it is not my favorite thing to make confessions, but I feel compelled to confess that I am prone to addictions. Having nurtured and then thrown off quite a variety of addictions across the years, I have come to recognize the symptoms of a new one creeping up on me. The first telltale sign is that I do this thing without engaging the decision-making part of my brain, and I keep doing it even though my rational side argues that it is a waste of one of my valued resources. Money. Time. Energy. Relationships. The addictive thing doesn't respond to reason. It doesn't care about logic. It just wants what it wants. It wants a chunk of me.

The most recent addiction is trying to eat a piece of my brain. But really, seldom is there only a single resource being sacrificed to an addiction. In this case, time is also going up in smoke at the rate of an hour a day. Online Scrabble. Ooooo, it's so hard to see it in print. It makes me downright squeamish to put it in black and white where I can no longer pretend that it's just a harmless way to pass a little time now and then. Scrabble is a game that was invented for two or more people to play. A bonding experience. But what happens when the Scrabble opponent is a computer? Am I developing a meaningful relationship with a humanoid? Gross. Is my intellect getting a workout, sharpening those mental skills to stave off dementia? How would I ever know?

While I may or may not be strengthening my precious synapses, there is one sure way to identify an addiction that can accurately be filed under D for destructive. The simple test is how I react to my loved ones when I am interrupted. If an interruption prompts a calm response, then all is well and I can indulge my addiction in good conscience. But if, on the other hand, my response is less than sweet, less than kind, less than patient, less than loving, well, I'd better stop and ask myself some hard questions. Is this addiction making someone else sad? Is this addiction hurting someone else's feelings because I spoke harshly without just cause? Is this addiction bringing out the best in me, or is it feeding the side of me that should be crucified?

Sigh. Here I am again, back to my life verse for another life adjustment. Gotta throw off the online Scrabble. It was fun while it lasted. For me anyway.