First on my block...

  “Be the first…” 

I didn’t want to win this contest. It’s not “Be the first kid on your block to have sea monkeys!”

Being the first of my friends to hang a handicap permit did not carry a sense of excitement, but shame. Somehow I hadn’t cared well for the right leg. Ridiculous, I know.

Prior to the parking advantage, my husband accompanied me to a large department store. I knew I’d need him to provide physical support on my right side while I used my cane on the left. We joked about how pitiful I looked when young employees passed us and said, “You two are so cute. Thanks for shopping with us.”

Cute? Lurching across the parking lot at one-quarter of my former speed was not cute. At that moment I coveted a parking space close to the store.

I’d resisted asking my doctor to approve the application required by the DMV because I wouldn’t accept that I’m old enough, or semi-able, and needed the accommodation. When a friend suggested it, I knew it was time. 

I only went inside a drugstore if I needed a life saving prescription. For non-essentials I ordered online and personnel delivered to the car.  

Now the hurdles between parking and front doors are fewer. I’ll expand my outings to an occasional trip to TJMaxx. I can go to a Starbucks inside a grocery store. Getting inside the building won’t be the hardest part of an appointment. The walk from parking to Trader Joe’s won’t be three times the distance of the actual shopping.

Aging tends to restrict lives in unwanted ways. It's easier to give-in to a difficulty than find a way around it. The blue hanging tag is an adaptation which I will appreciate, yet hope to relinquish. 

Self-Publishing: What I Learned, What I Earned

 I’ve learned some things since Whose Fool appeared on Amazon two months ago. It launched with barely a ripple. Then sales sank. I’d read enough to expect low numbers without a marketing campaign, and that most independently published books sold less than 1000 copies. I can tell you that despite the loyal support of friends I vastly underperformed. 

However I don’t count that a failure because sales are only one measure of success. I finished a project I’d begun years earlier. Re-writing and editing ad nauseam stretched my self-discipline. My husband had asked me to finish our story, and it honored him to do so. I count it a labor of love and conviction. 

In return, you readers gave me positive strokes. One said “I didn’t know you were such a good writer.” Our pastor said it was a whirlwind ride, which I took to mean the book was engaging. 

With respect and surprise my grandson said “You are on Amazon?” For a moment, I earned cachet with him. 

Many people wanted me to sign their copies. The requests affirmed me but I didn’t understand why they wanted my little personalized notes. I’m not famous, and not gonna be. 

Remember, my goal is for you fans to give the book away to someone else. So tear out the title page I signed, or buy another copy to pass along to a front yard little library, leave at the laundromat, or give to the friend you thinks you’re a fool because you are a Christian. 

The two book clubs I addressed had lots of questions, and I enjoyed extending the conversation deeper into the book’s theme, discussing ignorance, vulnerability and faith.

The Read-A-Lattes

One friend made me laugh when she said “I’ve made some bad choices in my life, but not as bad as yours.”  We could get t-shirts, one saying “Bad” the other stating “Worse.”

I’d be a fool again to count the writing, editing, and publishing process a fruitless endeavor because I hope that someone will be encouraged to depend on Jesus and have their poor choices transformed. 

What did I earn? Amazon charges the author a printing cost per book, and takes a 40% cut. Kindle takes a larger cut because the cost per book is less. 

I could turn it into a facetious formula such as 

(Your book club members -2) + (other friends divided by 3)=number of books sold.

It sure wasn’t a money maker, but covered nearly 50% of the preparation costs.

Some fans have gone so far as to encourage me to publish others work. But I’d be a fool to gamble another thousand hours crafting a novel without a conventional publisher or professional marketer. If you know a whiz kid marketing major, send me her number, because I have characters I’d like you to meet, and whose stories I’d like you to enjoy. 

Thank you for your smiles, hugs, questions, and recognizing that Bill and I are not the people we were.

   

Devotion "I'm Clean"

But if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from everything we’ve done wrong.   1 John 1:9 CEB

When my children were small they loved to dig in the back yard. They would add water to the dirt and pat the mud into “cakes.”  At the end of the day they desperately needed a bath. Often their knees had brown dried, cracked mud on them. Their hands and arms were discolored from digging. Their was soil between their bare toes. They were too filthy to come inside so I would rinse them off outside.  Eventually I noticed the creases of skin and hidden places where dirt stuck to sweat and their skin took on a grey color. We called it permadirt, (permanent dirt.) Only thorough and repeated scrubbings removed it. 

As I have struggled with particular sins for a long time—grumbling, giving in to a quick temper—I  sometimes feel like I am covered with permadirt. I chide myself for lack of progress in overcoming these unkind attitudes. I feel they characterize me.

But the verse today reminds us that sincere confessions are followed by cleansing. There is no limit on how many times I can be forgiven, because Jesus did it once for all on the cross. Furthermore, I’m scrubbed clean.  God does not look at me, check behind my ears, under my chin and see permadirt. 

PRAYER

Lord God, I thank you that you both forgive and cleanse me. You do not see me as soiled or defiled, and I should not see myself that way either. Amen.

Voting Absurdly

Bill returned from in-person voting today and declared it “absurd.”

Not because he doesn’t value the right and privilege of voting or because he had to stand in a line looping around the block. 

But because he went into a polling place fifty feet from a secure drop-off box, and had to re-complete the ballot which the state of Colorado mailed to us last month.

 

            (The yellow circle is the drop box, the door to vote in-person is in left of the tent)

He’d listened to candidate X carry on once too many times about trashed ballots and voter fraud. He’d started worrying about vote buying, as if that couldn’t happen at the voting machine. So he decided he needed to vote in person. 

He carefully studied and filled out his paper ballot with at least fifteen presidential candidates, justices to be retained or not, eleven local ballot measures, and twelve state initiatives. The ballot is six pages long. He took it to the polling place. There was one other voter there. 

He expected to transfer his decisions to a computer.  Nope. The machines are only to assist people with disabilities. The poll worker handed him a fresh ballot, exactly like the one he held in his hand. He completed the duplicate, they marked the old ballot void, and he was on his way.  

He felt badly about the waste of paper. And he wondered why every state didn’t make it as easy as Colorado did. We have a choice of in-person, mail-in, or one of the plentiful, secure ballot drop off boxes. He decided in the end, voting in-person voting was unnecessary, and under these circumstances, absurd.

 

Jesus asks “What do you want me to do?”   

 

My eight year old students crowded around the low work table loaded with the ingredients to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Their job was to give me instructions.

“Put the peanut butter on the bread” said the first student.

I plonked the unopened jar in the middle of the loaf, denting it considerably.

“No! You have to take the peanut butter out of the jar,” several said the while others giggled.

So (with a gloved hand) I scooped the peanut butter out of the jar and smeared it on the bread bag.

They erupted in laughter. “Mrs. Glover! Not like that.”

“What do you want me to do?” I said. 

“Take the bread out of the bag and spread it on.”

I ripped the bag, took out a piece of bread and smeared it on one side and set it on the plate. 

“Now the jelly” one student said. I reached for the jar. 

“No, use a knife and get the jelly out of the jar” a quick thinker added. 

“We have to tell her exactly what we want her to do” said another.

Now that they understood good directions are not general, but specific, I sent them back to their desks to write out step by step instructions. 

In Matthew 20 a pair of blind beggars heard Jesus approach and loudly, urgently called out to him. The Greek word for “cried out”  is the word for croak, like the cry of a raven.

“Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!” 

The crowd rebuked the pair and told them to be quiet, but they shouted all the louder.  Their request was general “have mercy.” They may have thought that was enough instruction, it was obvious they were blind.

 But Jesus wanted more. 

“What do you want me to do for you?” he asked. “Lord,” they answered, “we want our sight.” Jesus had compassion on them and touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight and followed him.”     Matthew 20:30-34 NIV

A careful study of the passage reveals several important elements of prayer.  First, when in need, seize the opportunity to ask Jesus for help. Don’t put it off, don’t assume things will work themselves out.

 Second, don’t be dissuaded by the crush of voices in your own mind — discouraging, dismissive voices that you’ve already asked for your need to be met. Instead, persist. 

Third, be specific. The God who created you is asking “What do you me to do for you?”

Fourth, wait with faith.

What do you want Jesus to do for you today? Croak out your prayer right now. Ignore the naysaying voices, and tell Him what you need. He wants to know, and He will act in the way for your good. 

Pickin' on the Banjo Picker

 Bill and I were a pair of sneak-ers. Not tennis shoes, but people who sneak new treasures home and hide them from each other. For years I stashed fabrics at the back of a deep closet and Bill hid books. 

My buddy can’t sneak in his new banjos, which he buys more often than I buy shoes. He already has five banjo cases leaning against the living room wall like soldiers at ease. His wife is certain to spot an addition. He buys on impulse, and then justifies it, saying he will “probably” sell one. Or he lends one out making a little room for the next instrument.

The other fiddler and I tease him about the lack of self-control. In the south we’d say we're just pickin'. His excessive attraction to banjos rivals that of some men and fishing poles, or guns, or cars. We tell him how patient his wife is, that her tolerance deserves to be rewarded because we’d never put up with it.

 

He says he’s learned to wait for her to be in the right frame of mind before he announces a new arrival. When he told her about the latest purchase he offered her a substantial prize. I would have wanted a new fiddle, but apparently a new vacuum was on her wish list. 

I told him that sucked as a consolation prize. Yes, indeed, he said. It sucks very well. 

She came to rehearsal last week and thanked us for sticking up for her. I told her she deserved something that would give her pleasure, not an appliance. But she was delighted that it vanquished dog hair. A thrifty woman, she recounted that the bags were ridiculously expensive. As compared to a banjo? 

I figure he owes her at least 120 boxes of vacuum cleaner bags.  

Russian Lesson in the Pool

 Floating, dawdling, Russian immigrants are a regular contingent at morning swim times in our senior community.  Some speak English, but as a group they naturally revert to their first language.

One recent morning a swimmer smiled at one of the Russians and asked, "How do you say hello in Russian?" The other woman grinned and slowly said the word. The native English speaker tried it out. The Russian woman repeated, and the first woman tried it again. Apparently, from head shake by the Russian, she got close. 

The friendly woman repeated it once more, thanked the Russian speaker, and said "My grandfather came to the United States as a three year old from Russia. But he didn't remember Russian. His family were Germans working in Russia, and they left when conditions became difficult."

A second Russian woman observed the interchange, and her friend turned and translated. She beamed too.

A fourth swimmer said she'd taken Russian in high school, but didn't remember it. And I chimed in that we only remember a language if we have to use it, preferably with a native speaker, not the disembodied voice in the language lab.

Did you have lab time as part of the required foreign language requirement in secondary school or college? I hated it. The large head phones clamped too tightly and messed up my hair. I felt stupid talking to a machine, and I didn't know if I pronounced words correctly or not. 

Then one summer we hosted a foreign exchange student for a week-end. His English was better than my Spanish, but we spoke mostly Spanish. It was the first glimmer of hope I had that I could learn enough to speak with someone. 

Teaching Spanish speakers and communicating with parents, then attending a (sort-of) bilingual church kept my Spanish skills alive. A few years ago I was riding the subway in Barcelona. I got on, and a young man offered me his seat, using English. In Spanish I answered, "Thank you, but I don't want people to think I'm old." A couple about my age, sitting nearby, laughed with me. I'd been slightly funny in a foreign language. It felt great.

In all these situations, a small effort to connect with someone in their own language caused a stranger to not feel strange. Somehow, the act of humbling oneself to be bad at the language, turned an outsider into an insider. What a marvel. 

However, this strategy did not work when I learned a few phrases of Finnish off of a website. I used them at a wedding with the groom's family. They looked perlexed until one of the party unmangled my greeting, and burst into laughter, turning to fill in the rest of them. Ah well, I tried. 

Have you had a chance to "cross the aisle" linguistically, and make a stranger feel welcome?

Bites and Peaces: When our Band Hit the Sour Notes

My weekly jam with four other musicians hit sour notes when our interpersonal dynamics got out of tune.

For three years we've met, chosen songs, worked to learn them, and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. But a month ago we went on the activities calendar for a concert at our senior living community.  We buckled down to choose a set of songs, and doubled our practice sessions to refine the arrangements.

The unexpected pressure revealed stress cracks.

Our musical perspectives vary widely over genre (folk, rock and roll, bluegrass). Sometimes our different styles of how to work together set each other on edge. The most experienced musician is a rock and roller with wide experience. He can hear a chord and it reminds him of the same chord in a different song. Next thing we know, he's zig-zagging down musical rabbit trail and I feel like Alice in confusion-land.

 It drives me crazy, because my background is the high structure of a string orchestra where everyone is on the same page at the same time.  Some of our band members are adept at improvisation, while I'm a prisoner to the notes on the page, and the same melody every time. (Thankfully, I'm learning to loosen up a LITTLE.) 

I should have recognized the fault lines in our alliance when we couldn't agree on a name for our band. Thus we're still "fill in the blank" which doesn't look good on a T-shirt. 

Ten days and (two practices) away from our concert date, we were running through a favorite, familiar bluegrass tune. Our banjo player, who never makes notes to himself about our plans,  played all over the guitar player's solo. The guitar player, used to his previous bands that kept those details straight, hit his breaking point.

"That's it. If you can't remember that ending, Dave, which we have done over and over for two years, I'm pulling the song from the concert."

It was one of Dave's favorites, and best-played.  He didn't say anything but it was evident he was unhappy.  Four minutes later he spoke up. "So it's okay if you make a mistake, but if I do, it ruins everything?"

It went from bad to worse. 

In the past I have seen all of us extend grace to each other, accommodating one another's abilities and lack of knowledge, encouraging all.

But today some important strategies for peace-keeping and harmony were missing from their skill sets, such as negotiation, or letting it go. 

I hoped their impatience and frustration with each other wouldn't over-ride the satisfaction we've had in the past. A schism would be a giant loss to all of us.

At the next practice, we held our breath when we came to the pulled number. Would the guitar player just skip it? substitute something else?

What relief when he said "We worked it out" and Dave kicked off the piece. Harmony restored, our concert went well. 

Maybe we can fill in the blank for those t-shirts with "bites and peaces."

 

Blossom-end Rot spoils more than Tomatoes

 

This summer’s perfect tomato eludes me. A couple have come close. But 

my winter dreams of ripe red globes nurtured, ripened and delicious are 

ruined by blossom-end rot (BER). 

I dug in special tomato fertilizer to the planting mix. I switched to high calcium

 fertilizer mid-season.  I relished the smell of the growing plants. I counted the

 pearl-sized fruit. And as the tell-tale spots began, I added dried milk to my 

watering can.  As a last resort, I crushed anti-acid tablets high in calcium and 

dug them in around the plants. I hope they like the fruit flavors. 

Oh, fellow gardeners, you know the keen disappointment when you are robbed 

of the once-a-year gastronomic prize. 

Now I’m in rescue mode, picking fruit that shows signs of the rot. I let them 

ripen just a bit more, and cut off the browned portion. At least I’m getting a 

delicious sample if not the bounty.

I find that red tomatoes with flat brown bottoms make for apt analogies.

Consider these.                   

disagreement:friendship::BER:tomato

You have a wonderful friend. Then some disagreement or disappointment 

occurs to spoil it. Rather than give up, I try to put the conflict aside, and 

rescue the good that's left.

disease:body::BER:tomato 

A disease in a healthy body is like a rot. Preserving life may require 

bombarding it with medication, or poisons like chemo, or cutting out the 

sickness. Thus the organism can be saved, if not restored.

cancelled vacation plans:summer::BER:tomato

We cancelled our summer plans one by one because we wanted to avoid 

possible corona-virus infection. We finally threw up our hands and declared 

we’d enjoy the pleasures at a later time. The hoped for trips are postponed, 

not eliminated. We rescued the dreams. 

disappointment:life::BER:tomato

On a grand scale, life has disappointments the feel like bruises and look 

like scars. But if I cut out the festering bitterness, some of the sweet 

satisfaction can be preserved. 

What analogy could you write? Add it as comment on Facebook if you can. 

Theos Thursday: Guidebook or God's Book?

The guidebook for tourists advised it was best to ignore beggars, and warned of teams of pickpockets posing to rob do-gooders.

photo by 3 centista, pixabay

But God’s book showed me that when Peter met a beggar he said “I don’t have any silver or gold. But I’ll give you what I do have. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, get up and walk.”      Acts 3:6, New International Reader's Version (NIRV)

While traveling in Spain I maintained my habit of daily Bible reading. The first morning in Barcelona I read the above account. Great story, but I failed to see that it applied to me.

I closed my Bible, went out sight-seeing, and passed by two beggar women without even remembering what I’d read. 

The next day I reread the passage and felt the Holy Spirit pinch. I confessed my self-centeredness and devised a simple plan for the next opportunity. 

On a street busy with foot traffic I saw a clean-cut middle aged man sitting in a doorway with a sign that said “I have problems. Help me.” He looked defeated. I stooped down to be on his level and using my barely-adequate Spanish asked him what the problems were. He said he was sick, and unemployed. I asked his name. After I dropped a few euros in his can, I told Antonio I would pray for him in Jesus’ name. 

I walked away convinced God had caused our paths to cross. 

Not ten minutes later another man, rumpled and needing a shave, approached me. He also needed help, and said his name was Antonio. Really, Lord? He looked as if drinking might be his biggest problem, and I didn’t want to be generous. I briefly pretended I didn’t speak Spanish, but the Holy Spirit prodded again. I promised to pray for him in Jesus’ name, and shared more euros.

The Antonios keep coming to mind and I have prayed for them many times. 

When I first read Acts 3:6 I was just completing an item on my do-list. When God opened my mind and heart to his word, I found I could give what I had—a little Spanish, a few euros, and faithful prayer in Jesus’ name.

 

Ask God to show you how he wants you to obey him today. Maybe he’ll send you an Antonio. 

This was originally published on christiandevotions.us, where you can find daily devotions.