Cookie Crumbs for Jesus

Last Sunday my in-laws treated us to a wonderful brunch at Ettore’s European bakery on Fair Oaks Boulevard. The tough decision of the day was choosing between blueberry pancakes and waffles? Omelet or Eggs Benedict? Honey-baked ham or bacon? The waitress recognized us from the church that morning, so we enjoyed a rare privilege of being served on first-name basis. After finishing our food, we lingered for a while, savoring the fullness of the meal we just consumed and light conversation around the table. Satisfied by the former and bored by the latter, our kids wandered off and explored the restaurant, especially the bakery showcase of outrageously tempting desserts. When we finally got ready to leave, our daughter came back with an enormous chocolate chip cookie in her hand. A kind restaurant worker noticed her gawking at the display and I guess, had pity on the ‘poor starving’ child and gave her the cookie. Too full from the lunch, she took few nibbles and deposited the rest in a paper bag, saving it for later when she would be able to enjoy it more. We loaded up the car and were on our way when, at the stop light, we heard a gentle tap on our window. An old, disheveled man in tattered clothes was holding a hand-written cardboard sign,

HOMELESS PLEASE HELP NEED FOOD

We all scrambled around the car frantically, but the only food item we had was the half-eaten cookie. We asked our daughter if it is O.K. to give the man the cookie, and she shook her head in agreement.

The light has already turned green as we hurriedly handed the bag to the man, apologizing for the incomplete offering. He received the greasy bag with both hands, his face lighting up like the fourth-of-July fireworks of gratitude. The broad smile revealed haphazard array of teeth in various stages of decay. We rushed off, not wanting to delay any further the waiting line of impatient drivers stalled by the exchange. His exuberant words of thanks and blessing trailed behind us in the wind.

Impressed by our daughter’s generosity, I turned around to tell her how much we appreciated her giving spirit. But, instead of a glow of self-satisfaction, her face was contorted with anguish and washed with tears.

What’s wrong?!!! I was in shock, wondering if we might have overstepped her personal boundaries by volunteering her cookie away. Are you sad that you parted with your cookie?

Nooooo…. She wailed. I… am… saaad… I… am… sad.. that I didn’t have more to give to that man…

Her sobs continued on for several minutes, interrupting the silence that descended on our car.

Her words pierced my heart. We were still full from the tremendous bounty of God’s table. We waddled out of the restaurant and rolled into our car. At the next intersection Jesus knocks on our window, unshowered and unkempt, in need of daily food. I see a half-eaten chocolate-chip cookie handed to the hungry as a noble sacrifice, deserving applaud and affirmation. She sees the insufficiency of her offering and is broken for not being able to do more for the homeless man.

I think I deserve a pat on the back every time I offer God the leftovers from the table of my indulgences. But, when I see Jesus face to face, the grief will be not over parting with crumbled chocolate-chip cookies of this life’s goods, but over all the missed opportunities I had to show His generosity and love to the least of His brothers.


Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me. Matthew 25:40

GPS

Being the late technological adapters that we are, in preparation for our big cross-country trip, we finally broke down and purchased our first GPS. Needless to say, we all are slowly adjusting to our new, quite chatty traveling companion. We noticed that sometimes she (well, I don’t really know whether it’s a he or a she) likes to play the role of the junior Holy Spirit – especially when our driving speed exceeds the posted speed limit. I admit it takes getting used to hearing God talk to you in an audible voice,

Warning! ...Warning! But, our kids have been doing that since the day they made a connection between the number signs on the side of the road and speedometer on our dashboard.

However, there is one thing I really, really like about the GPS. It happens every time we miss our exit or take a wrong turn. After a series of simple and clear directions which, in the chaos of driving experience I managed to miss or ignore, I would expect her to starts shouting,

You dumb idiot! Are you listening?!!!! What were you thinking?!!! Which planet issued YOU a driver’s license????

But, instead, she suddenly falls silent (my father-in-law’s GPS at this time announces, ‘Recalculating… recalculating’), takes a big deep breath, and resumes in its steady, calm voice giving direction towards the destination, incorporating the unwanted detour into the journey. No judgment, no condemnation – just a solid assurance,


You are not lost… you are not lost to me. I will bring you to our desired destination, wherever you may be …


Your ears will hear a word behind you, “This is the way, walk in it,” whenever you turn to the right or to the left. Isaiah 30:21

Complete Idiot's Guide to Loving your Enemies

As far as I am aware, nobody really knows about the existence of the book (although, some, I gather, might have a suspicion or two, but fortunately they are not the blabbering type). Even though in other areas I am not a detail kind of person, here I pride myself with impeccable accounting. The book is my masterpiece. It’s the most comprehensive panoramic record of numerous grievous wrongs inflicted on my poor soul through the years. I have worked very hard at it most of my life. The book was birthed on the same day I was. Its earliest record goes back to the hospital where I was born. Hardly had I pushed my way through the birth canal when the nurse who barely caught me on the way out, whacked me as hard as she could on my back.

If THIS is my welcome, I insist on being sent back! I yelled as loud as I could, but everyone around me ignored it and cheered and applauded instead. I knew immediately it was going to be a rough ride.

The most recent entry tells of an incident that happened in the church this morning. But, I wont’ go into that.

Now, I know I am supposed to forgive – which, of course, I have done already, many times. But, guilty pleasure though it may be, I admit it is by far my favorite bedtime reading.

The Book of Grudges.

Some chapters I almost have memorized, Botox for Backstabbers, Murdering with a Smile for example.

The table of content also includes:

Gossip – the Secret Weapon of Mass Destruction
With Friends Like This, Who Needs Enemies?
Who Put YOU in Charge? The incompetent losers and places of authority
Thanks for Being Such an Ungrateful Pig!
Why Waste Time? (or, Bring Back the Guillotine!) Simplifying the justice system by becoming an all-in-one Prosecutor, Judge and Executioner

Last night, as I skimmed through the pages I noticed one particular name being repeated over and over again. The habitual offender.

I could feel my temperature rising. The more I pondered, the more furious I became. I spent most of the following day swinging from raging banshee plotting revenge to despondent, Woe-Is-Me, weeping inconsolably as the lake of self-pity around my feet grew to the size of Atlantic Ocean. I was just about to switch again when I got interrupted by a cheery,

Whatcha doin’, Big G? The last person I was in the mood to talk to today.

Hi there, King of Oxy-MORONS, I answered morosely, hoping he’ll go away if I am rude enough.

That’s hilarious! He burst into laughter. I like it! Guilty as charged! His eyes twinkled and I thought I caught a glimpse of a wink.

Although… the way you said it, he added, it sounded more like name-calling. So, whatcha been readin’, The Short History of the Universe? He was looking over my shoulder as if trying to see the book. I could tell it was a trick question. I knew that he already knew what I was reading.

Sort of…I could feel a major case of grumpiness descending on me, but I wasn’t going to let it keep me from setting the record straight.

Alright, since you asked for it! I think that THIS, I thumped my forefinger on the cover of the book now in plain view, This is just outright wrong!

I agree. His voice mingled with mirth and something else, I couldn’t quite distinguish..

I am sick and tired it! I am tired of being criticized, gossiped about, back-stabbed, betrayed, thrown up on, misjudged and misunderstood. I am tired of friends who only remember me when they need me and of enemies who have made up their minds about me without even knowing me!

He was nodding as if he truly understood what I was talking about. I decided it was time to bring it up a notch.

Something needs to be done - and I mean, IMMEDIATELY!

Oh? Like what?

When opportunity knocks on my door I sure can hear it, and I was ready to give him my piece of mind.

Well, since you inquired… You know those repeat offenders from the book…?

I know them. He answered quite engaged, almost amused, at this point

Well, they got off the hook too easily! Not to name any names, but you know who I am thinking of. It’s just not fair.

I see... Buoyed by his apparent understanding, I continued.

I want him to FEEL what he’s done to ME! Alright, to put it bluntly, I want him to suffer. And this is where you come in … you could pull some strings… you could send a bunch of chinch bugs into his lawn, for example, or a virus into his computer. A red sock could just happen to fall in his white wash, and turn all his underpants bright-pink! I was already feeling much better.

So, you want to hire me as your hit man?

I wasn’t thinking quite in those terms, but if you wish to call it that… My voice trailed off, before I continued.

I admit I haven’t really considered the payment aspect of our agreement… Perhaps, I could finally return all those overdue books to the library…? Or, I could volunteer at school, even though those bickering brats are driving me crazy…That would be right up your alley, a real sacrifice, wouldn’t it?

A shadow passed over his face.

I mean... I didn’t mean to haggle with you over the price as if we are in the farmer’s market? I promise I will not disappoint you. Somehow it felt as if I’ve just taken one foot out of my mouth only to put the other in.

So, do we have an agreement or not? I sighed. I am sure we can figure out the details later.

Yes, we have the agreement. He said, his voice firmer than usual. Now, give me the book.

What?!!!

Hand the book over to me. His voice was immovable like the base of Mt. Everest and soft like a seaside breeze

No way! Sorry, can’t do it! I clutched the book tightly to my chest, as he stretched out his hand towards me. I noticed a purple scar pulsating in the afternoon sun.

I am not going to yank it out of your hand, hon. You need to give it to me. His voice was barely audible whisper by now, riddled with pain. I paused.

Then what? What happens when and if I give you the book? I wanted to keep all my options open.

Then, you love them… He said simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. You love your enemies…

Excuse me?!!

You love your enemies. He repeated patiently, as if deaf to the mockery sputtering out of my mouth.

Love them?!!!! Are you crazy?!!! Whacking them on the head with a rubber mallet was more along the lines of what I was thinking ….Where I come from, that’s how we deal with our enemies…

And where I come from, He paused briefly, where I come from, this is how we deal with our enemies. We love them. Just as I have loved you…

But… but, what about the repeat offenders? I stuttered weakly, my hands going limp.

The repeat offenders? His eyes sunk deeply into mine, past the crusty blinders, past the festering wounds, past disappointments and shattered dreams, past losses and un-cried tears. The repeat offenders… , He enunciated every word, They are… to be loved… most of all.

I hardly noticed when the book slipped between my fingers and fell to the ground. I thought he would bend over and pick it up, but he didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on me, a category five hurricane of grace and conviction, cleansing and gentleness.

You must love the repeat offender… just as I have loved you.



Let me give you a new command: Love one another. In the same way I loved you, you love one another. John 13:34

It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost of all. And yet, for this reason I found mercy, in order that in me as the foremost, Jesus Christ might demonstrate His perfect patience, as an example for those who would believe in Him for eternal life. I Timothy 1:15,16

Copycat

Mom, look at the tree I made!

I was up to my ears in the pile of dirt and cow manure when my junior assistant gardener called my attention to what she’d been busily doing most of the morning.

Hon, you don’t MAKE trees, you PLANT them, I was about to correct her linguistic latitude, when I turned around and looked in her direction.

Well, perhaps I was wrong… I guess you COULD make trees… sort of! I thought.

For, inside our small vegetable plot there stood a tree - if one could call a tree what in actuality, was a medium size broken off and dried up branch, stuck as firmly as her tiny hands would allow into the sandy ground. I was taken aback. Nowhere in nature have I ever seen a tree quite like this one. It was impressive. It was glorious. Every square inch of its brittle branches was covered with every blooming flower found in our garden that day – there were day lilies, and passionflower, and impatience, and azaleas, and spider lilies, star jasmine, and four-o’clock,.. . I looked around the back yard. Except for the blazing tree, all the other plants and shrubs were stark naked, their every last bloom effectively picked clean, carefully transferred and attached to the dead branch.

Wow! What can I say, hon?!!! It’s… it’s gorgeous!

She admired her work for a while, then dusted her hands off and proudly trotted off into the house. Her work in the garden was finished for the day.

I stand next to the flaming bush wilting quickly under the blaze of Florida sun and reflect on my own daily work and ‘glorious achievements' in the garden of life. Part of me wonders whether the effect is much different from what my little apprentice has accomplished today. Having neither courage, nor skill nor patience required for authentic growth, I hop around life like a restless mountain goat, diligently picking clean the blooms from other bushes. Once satisfied with my exotic collection, I artificially try to attach it to the dried-up twig of my own life, in hope that the plagiarized blooms of others would cover up the impotence of my shriveled heart. For a short while my tree may look quite impressive - like a Disney cartoon on steroids! But soon enough the ruthless heat-waves of life wither it up, launching me on another quest after the phantom, now further and faster, in desperate search for other extraordinary blooms growing in other people’s yards. And all along, the grotesque irony of the vicarious blooming seem to escape my notice. By the end of the day, I have a feeling that something has just slipped through my fingers, but I am too exhausted from the chase to consider the insanity… All I can hear in the back of my tired soul is a distant echo…

…a copycat of a copycat, a shadow of a shadow…

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. John 15:4

Validation

Last week, as I was going through my daughter’s backpack to retrieve her homework folder along with the empty candy-wrappers and a half-eaten, few days old PBJ sandwich, I came across a note written on a piece of yellow pad paper:

My bro got mad at me, and called me stupid, idiot and dumb! Spelled out in neat, rounded handwriting of my fastidious daughter. Below the sentence, in a different handwriting, with less emphasis on proper spelling and grammar and neatness, read the following:

Your, bro is meam, ! stupib, idiot and dumb.

I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then to one hundred, and backward, before I called her on the carpet.

What’s this? I glared, the gathering of information not being my primary goal in asking the question.

Oh! She sensed that something might be wrong. M. asked me to write a report on my brother, she answered sheepishly. M. is her second grade classmate.

Ooooh… I responded in the now-I-get-it voice, and continued. And THIS is what you came up with?!!!

I did my best to keep the lid on my fury. Being her parent, I knew full well that the ‘report’, albeit somewhat truthful, was… well, incomplete to say the least. That there was an all-important side conspicuously missing from the meticulous reporting of my budding newscaster. Being the parent of both, I had a unique insight into the particular event that generated those angry words, I knew the instigator, the perpetrator and the so-called victim. I know where they came from and where they were going. I know the WHOLE story. The fact that in order to validate her own point of view she went to a complete stranger, painted her brother in this light and invoked the kind of libelous response from her validating ’friend’ was…well, infuriating. We had already addressed the above situation when it happened, and the apologies were extended on both sides. I thought it was behind us.

Isn’t that called’ gossip’, my blissfully unaware son chimed in, busily working on his latest LEGO project, happy that he doesn’t have to pay for the pro bono services of an in-house defense attorney.

I took another deep breath before I turned to my daughter, and spoke as gently and as forcefully as my heart commanded.

We are family, we belong to each other. When we have problems, we deal with them directly. We solve them among ourselves. We speak the truth – the WHOLE truth - and hear each side. We forgive and learn and move on. We don’t throw old, forgiven offenses into each other’s face. And we don’t go around talking to the outsiders, who neither know us nor care about us, about other members of our family!

The echo of my voice was too loud to miss…I paused to listen and let the words sink in.

Precisely My point, dear child. This is what it feels like for Me, when you and your children – when MY children go deep sea fishing for validation of their bruised feelings… running from one stranger to another, rather than coming to Me with family grievances. I am just as heartbroken and outraged when My children badmouth My other children, skewing the truth if perchance they may gather up a few broken trinkets of stranger’s validation for their injured ego. Forgetting that once for all, My Son paid the ultimate validation price for each of them – for the perpetrator and the victim who, in turn, became a perpetrator… Your validation begins and ends with Me….

The next morning, as we were getting ready for school, I noticed my daughter writing something on the bottom part of the yellow pad paper containing the incriminating message. She tore off that part and threw it into the garbage where it belongs. Then. she carefully folded the note she’d just written and gave it to her brother as they trotted off to school. That afternoon, as I was retrieving homework folder from his backpack, along with the crumbled chocolate chip cookie and empty Nerds container, I found the following note, decorated with beautiful underwater scene, a mother dolphin swimming among the seaweeds with her brood:

Dear C,

I’ sorry I wrote things that hurt your feelings. Will you forgive me?

Your sister,

T

The Munchkin Menu

Mom, do I have to order from the Munchkin Menu? I am getting a little tired of it… our nine year old son leaned towards me and whispered into my ear as I studied the entrees too good to have to decide on just one. We’ve been on the road for several days and have eaten in restaurants more often than we ordinarily do when we are at home. The kids have certainly consumed their share of French fries, hamburgers and chicken fingers and I couldn’t blame him for getting ‘a little tired of it’.

I flipped over to the “Munchkin Menu” (specified ‘for children 10 years and younger) and sure enough there was listed the standard kids’ fare of chicken nuggets, burgers and PBJ sandwiches. I could empathize with his predicament. I glanced towards his younger sister, but she seemed happy enough with more burgers and fries, the limited assortment not bothering her a bit.

What do you want? I asked.

Well, that rib-eye steak caught my eye… He answered sheepishly.

Straight for the bull’s eye, huh? I chuckled. Since the steak was on the top of the list of adult entrees. I encouraged him to look over the entire menu and make his decision after he has familiarized himself with the options. Eventually he settled on the sautéed tiger shrimp, garlic mashed potatoes and the loaded baked potato (the love affair with potatoes runs in our family).

As he gobbled down his newly acquired freedom, I savored the milestone. Growth. Just yesterday we transitioned from milk to solids, and from that day on, we steadily added variety to his baby menu. As his geography expanded, so did the foods… in Hungary, he ate goulash, in Serbia, sarma, in Bangladesh, curry, in Northern California, sourdough bread. If variety is spice of life, his life became well seasoned.

Then I thought of another menu, containing the entrees which feed my soul. The irreplaceable, never-to-grow-out-of-style, fresh, daily supply of the milk of God’s living Word (I Peter 2:2)… Even after decades of living this life of faith, the wonder of being a child of God doesn’t get old – not even when I became a parent! Especially when I became a parent!

But, as the years go by, I can’t continue to consume predigested food only… There comes a day when I want to sink my teeth into a rib-eye steak… and chew on it… and let it permeate every cell of my body and energize my muscles and blood stream… when hearing the Word of God is inseparable from doing… from being… When knowing slowly, agonizingly turns into living. The day when I leave the Munchkin menu behind and embrace some adventuresome, exotic combination of bitter herbs, fiery spices and serious protein which will give me strength and zest for the journey ahead.

For everyone who lives on milk is unskilled in the word of righteousness, since he is a child. But solid food is for the mature, for those who have their powers of discernment trained by constant practice to distinguish good from evil. Hebrews 5:12, 13

Do you know all your notes?

The last concert of the year is quickly approaching and judging by the commitment to practice and dedication to apply the weekly instructions of the violin teacher, it seems like parents are the only ones feeling the pressure to perfect the performance.

Every day I work hard on biting my tongue to keep myself from nagging incessantly. Finally, I decide that a more indirect approach might be more effective:

Does everyone know the notes of their solos and group piece in preparation for the concert? I ask my son, trying not to sound too obvious.

Yes, we all know them. He answers casually, dragging the rosin against the bow.

At least we are beyond step one, I think as I sigh a big sigh of relief. Perhaps there is hope…

Well, maybe all of us but L. He adds, after thinking a little… L. is a beautiful, tender-hearted girl in his small violin class who also suffers from a mild form of autism. Her presence and participation in the violin class has been a tremendous blessing to all our children as they learn that playing their violins together goes beyond producing the right notes at the same time. Over the years, mutual encouragement, love, grace and patience, alongside giving your own personal best have become much weightier factors in preparation for performing in a concert.

Actually, she does know all the notes, he explains, but when she plays she transfers them into different notes, and then she takes out some notes and adds new ones. But, other than that, she knows all the notes.

I stare at him in amazement, wondering at his ability to affirm beyond what is audible. For I know that I would be the first one to point out all the notes played incorrectly, to notice every missing note and get annoyed at every added note to a familiar classic. My heart is both weighed and warmed by the stark contrast and I ask God to give me the extra ear to hear what he hears, to have the grace that knows and loves beyond performance, that listens not to imperfect notes we are producing but to the longing of the heart beyond what is seen and heard.

He goes back to practicing Minuet No. 2 while in between the notes I think I can overhear a conversation, from an altogether different realm, discussing the way I play the solo of my own life:

Well… actually, G. does know all the notes, but when she plays the solo of her life, sometimes she transfers them into different notes… and she is known to forget some notes and add her own new ones… But, other than that, she knows her piece…

And grace, and patience, and love enter again along with the assurance that all the vagrant notes will one day find their home in Him.

For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth were realized through Jesus Christ John 1:17

Is That Doing Any Good?

Is that doing any good?, my Better-Homes-and-Garden poster child neighbor chirped, nail-clipping the dark green blades of his St. Augustine grass to the exact fraction of a millimeter height, while I stood barefoot in the dirt, old jeans fashionably folded up above my knees, hand-watering an ever-increasing balding patch sprawled across the front of our house.

Nah! I was tempted to say, I just derive peculiar pleasure from wasting my time, energy and resources on useless activities that accomplish nothing good. Yep, that’s me… doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, only to prove to the world that the definition of insanity hasn’t changed!

Instead, I twisted my face into a grimace that was supposed to be a replica (rather poor, I admit) of a friendly smile, and turned back my attention to the dead lawn, muttering under my breath,

Grow, damn it! Grow!!!, quoting a garden sign I saw in somebody's front yard, which captured the exact sentiment I was feeling at the moment.

I’ve been at this gardening thing for more than fifteen years and one would think that by now I should have it down, that I could almost be called a professional, based on the amount of time, money and sweat I’ve dumped into the thankless bottomless pit called our front lawn. Admittedly, during those fifteen years I have learned a thing or two about lawn and garden care - from watering to mowing, from fertilizing to pruning. I also learned more than I ever cared to know about creepy crawlies. I discovered that there is such a thing as the right time and a season for any given garden activity and, well, not so right time. I had all the 'yes-es' and the 'no-nos' of the Southern lawn tucked under my belt.

So, why in the world is our lawn at its most definite worst since we moved into our house?!!!

And why do I have this nagging feeling that my perfect-yard-neighbor might be right to question the impact of my determined efforts (annoying as it may be to me that somebody else is pointing out the obvious)?!!!

I was still holding the hose, when I noticed that the ditch next to our sidewalk has turned into a small river, running towards the drainage hole.

My golly, he is right!!! All this water is draining right off the lawn into the sewer!!!

I hurriedly turned off the water, completely mystified by what was going on. I thought of all the fertilizer and pesticide and thousands of gallons of water I have poured down the gutter and into the retention ponds and beautiful Florida lakes… and the thought made me a little queasy. A lot queasy. My lawn might as well have been a ping-pong table and everything I was doing in hope of promoting growth was bouncing right off of it! I was on the verge of tears.

I went into the garage and rummaged through the gardening tools until I found a hand trowel. Back in the yard, I started digging (or trying to dig) a small hole in what was supposed to be the lawn. The dead grass on the top was still wet from my recent watering fiasco, but once I dug a bit, the soil underneath was as dry as a bone. Few feet further, I dug another hole. Same thing. Dead surface wet; below, the soil was as dry as in the middle of a desert and as hard as rock. I discovered a tangled mess of dead roots, the remnants of who-knows-what, intertwined to create an effective barrier for any water, nutrients or bug killers to penetrate the surface and reach the roots. A wave of despair swept over me.

How did this happen?!!!! I cried out. I know that some people can grow a garden inside a pool of nitrogen peroxide. But, for me, gardening IS a rocket science. It took me years to learn each of these - regular watering; fertilizer and weed killer in their time; pesticide when activity observed; mow weekly; edge when needed; attentive presence – daily; patience - moment by moment. And, then, it took few more years to start implementing them on regular basis. By now, I knew what I was doing and I tried to do everything right… And THIS is the result?!!! The nausea and the despair wrapped their fingers around my throat and begun to squeeze.

I sat on the sidewalk with my face in my hands. The dirt from my fingers rubbed onto my cheeks, sticking to the blotchy layer of sunscreen. I thought about the days when I had so much fun rolling in the mud, frolicking in the dirt, looking like a pig while happily pretending to be a gardening queen, with nothing to lose. Every trip to my garden was an amazing adventure, so much to hear, so much to discover. I was learning to listen to the blades of grass and the earth under my feet and the wind that was calling my name. Then, somebody suggested Bonus S., and somebody else, few weeks later, Dursban. We bought a spreader and a weed-whacker, a blower and a self-propelled mower. We installed an automatic sprinkling system. Not too long after that I begun to notice that the dirt was bothering my skin, and started wearing heavy-duty gardening gloves, and long-sleeve shirt. I also added a hat to protect me from the harmful rays of the ruthless Florida sun. I was becoming more and more concerned about minimizing the dirt and the UVAs and UVBs exposure. Pulling weeds, being one of the dirties jobs in the garden, was the first to go. So, instead of getting on my hands and on my knees, all messy and grubby, I discovered that there was magic pink pixie dust that both feeds the good grass and eliminates the weeds (don’t ask me how the dust knows the difference, it’s still a mystery to me, but that’s what it says on the package!). So, the weeding became a forgotten art. To get rid of the bugs I started using magic pixie dust of a different color.

And so, little by little, a handful of magic dust here and a buzz of sprinkling system there, I effectively created a technological barrier between me and my yard, and along with weeds and bugs, I also successfully eliminated all up-close and personal interaction between me and my garden, all the face-to-face and heart-to-heart times, all the pillow talk and the mutual back-rubs. No digging and getting dirty, no dark brown soil under my fingernails, no archaic tools and activities like digging or pulling weeds. I retired my shovel to the back corner of our garage. It became my mission to discover an effective formula for successful gardening which would render heat, sweat and dirt obsolete, while producing marvelous results evident to all. I was already looking forward to the roll-out of the garden apps which would allow me to do all my yard work with a few pushes of my (still brownish) thumbs, sitting at my desk inside our air-conditioned house.

But, my garden would have none of this white-gloved, 21st century techie-gardener-
-professional nonsense. It missed ME soooo much that it got so sick, with such severe case of sclerosis of its sandy little heart, that, in order to save it, I had to go back to the sweaty and dirty work of digging and weed-pulling, uprooting and re-planting, listening and talking to the inanimate objects, a pig wearing a hat, during which process the soil of my hardened heart was getting loosened and soft along with the garden dirt which stuck to my skin and sunk under my fingernails.

And, now, as the rain mingles with sunshine,
and time,
and patience,
and rest
we both wait,
and hope,
and trust
and pray
that the good God would graciously bless and allow the growth - not only of the what is sown in the garden, but also (or even more!) of what is sown in the gardener’s heart.


For My people have committed two evils: They have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, to hew for themselves cisterns — broken cisterns that can hold no water. Jeremiah 2:13

Organic... what?!!

Would you prefer organic or regular tomatoes, Ma'am? The saleswoman answered my question with a question, without lifting her eyes.

Before making a reckless choice, I decided to cease the teachable moment and acquire a bit of education in the process. Despite being married to a Californian, the West-coast organic craze never managed to stick to my rebel roots.

What’s the difference? I cautiously responded with another question, causing a whiplash, as the lady lifted her head, looking at me with astonishment. Even though she didn’t say anything, I could see, Which planet have you landed from? and, Or, is this a trick question?, clearly spelled out all over her confused face.

I stood there without a blink, patiently waiting for the answer, appreciating the fact that the look on her face might very well make up for the cost of the overpriced vegetable.

Well, the organic means… there are no artificial additives, pesticides, and they don’t use radiation or chemical fertilizers to grow fruits and vegetables…They ripen on the vine and are not picked while still green so they can be transported easier… Also, …

I got exactly what I asked for and some… it felt a bit like being a dog chasing a car and actually catching it.

What about their taste? I interrupted before she could launch into a lecture about the use of nanotechnology in agriculture, going straight for the bottom line. What do they taste like?

They taste like tomatoes SHOULD taste. Since we got them, Ma’am, that’s all we eat.

Hey, if they are good enough for you, they are good enough for me. Just hit me with a box!

I gathered up the rest of my purchases and went home, feeling good about having made a healthy choice for our family. What greeted me when I opened the prized box was a … huge disappointment! I wanted to kick myself for not thinking to ask (and she never volunteered any information) about the looks of organic tomatoes! Part of me felt, well, superficial to be so concerned about the appearances and part of me considered going back and talking to the manager about the failure of disclosure. I couldn’t help but wonder if organic was just a euphemism for distorted, undersized and ugly.

When kids came from school, my worst suspicions were confirmed.

What’s THAT?!!! Having been raised in the world of hydroponic clones, all uniform in color, shape and size, they didn’t know what to make of malformed, bruised and esthetically challenged pile sprawled over our kitchen counter.

Children, these are TOMATOES…. ORGANIC tomatoes! I introduced the species like some long-lost relatives, secretly hoping they would exhibit the same inquisitiveness their mother showed in the produce store. They were unimpressed.

Are they like this naturally or did something happen to them?

I was on the verge of turning something – or somebody – into spaghetti sauce.

Next time, your only choice for dinner would be virtual tomatoes! I threatened.

I like the look of regular tomatoes much better. My esthetically sensitive daughter chimed in. They are very – predictable (she used the word with such flair, as if to show her brother she knows something he doesn’t) - all evenly shaped, without spots and bruises, similar in size and… pretty!

Yea, and they all taste like cantaloupe, which tastes like turnip, which tastes like cabbage! And they all share the same – nutritional - non-value! Her brother glared at her as he stomped his foot as if to punctuate his last word.

I was stunned by the war of words erupting between my offspring over the beleaguered vegetable and decided it was time to intervene.

Alright, kids… as they say, The proof is in the pudding! They both turned and looked at me, crying out in unison.

In the eating, MOM! The proof of the pudding is in the eating!


Pure and uncontaminated - organic - religion in the sight our God and Father, is this: Reach out to the homeless and loveless; stand up for the fatherless and defenseless in their plight, and guard yourself diligently against corrupting illusions which come from the godless world around you. James 1:27

You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? Matthew 5:13

When Love Stinks

Yesterday, I read the following status update on a friend’s Facebook page:

Thank you, cat, that you are a good hunter. But next time you get a mole, could you not hide it under Nico's bed until we smell it?

It might be that I am reading too much into and between these lines, but I see a wonderful love story unfolding here.

Nico obviously loves the kitty. She feeds her, scratches her belly, plays with her and lets her sleep on her bed. She even cleans the litter box after her. Kitty loves Nico back. She loves being fed, playing with Nico and the fact that she scratches her belly and lets her sleep on her bed. But, in kitty’s mind, this relationship is terribly one-sided. She really wants to scratch Nico’s belly in return but last time she tried it, her claws got in the way.

Clearly interspecies friendships require overcoming some grave communication challenges. The kitty would like to give Nico what Nico wants… the iPad2, for example, but her paws here are tied. So, she settles for the next best thing – a mole! Nothing but the best for Nico! Not some garden lizard, or an ordinary house mouse, or even that annoying fat rat that lives in the garage. Catching a mole demands patience, planning, strategy and sacrifice. But, Nico is more than worth it! So, one day, when all the stars were aligned, the kitty puts one of her seven lives on a limb, snags the prize, and lovingly leaves it as a surprise gift carefully tucked under Nico’s bed. The kitty waits and waits, already looking forward to the extra play time and some serious belly scratching as a reward for her gift. As hours turn into days and days into weeks, the kitty’s dismay becomes obvious.


What’s taking Nico so long? I think she doesn’t like me anymore...Yea, I noticed how she doesn’t play with me nearly as much as she used to…And last night she kicked me off her bed along with her covers! The tormented cat refuses to eat and chooses to sleep on the chair in the living room.

Finally, one day, Mrs. Nico’s mom goes into Nico’s room mumbling something, and then torpedoes out… screaming?!!! And these were not happy screams, mind you! Definitely NOT happy, grateful surprise screams. The kitty, both scared and offended, hides under the birou in the hallway until the commotion is over. That night she discovers a little note, in Mrs. Nico’s mom’s beautiful handwriting:

Thank you, cat, that you are a good hunter. But next time you get a mole, could you not hide it under Nico's bed until we smell it?

The kitty is confused. The note seems to send mixed signals. Even though she is admired for her amazing hunting skills (they do recognize, after all, how hard it is to catch a mole!), she still feels that her love gift is somehow unappreciated. In fact, that it downright stinks.

But, what is the cat to do?!!! How can a kitty show her love for her owner?!!!

Just then she hears Nico’s voice as she walks in, calling her name…

Hey, Kitty, Kitty! Come over here, Kitty Where aaaaare youuuu, Kitty, Kitty? C’mon, Kitty, let’ play! Let me scratch your belly, Kitty… Hey, Kitty, Kitty… Heeeey!


"We all live off His generous bounty, gift after gift after gift..." John 1:16
"All our righteous deeds are like filthy rags..." Isaiah 64:6

Lent

I am ashamed to admit that it is only this year that I have, for the first time in my life as a follower of Jesus, briefly considered giving up junk food and after-dinner desserts in feeble attempt to join millions of others who, in keeping with centuries long tradition, are participating in Lent – the season of fasting and prayer preceding Easter.

What kind of child of God am I?!!! God is worth much more than a plate of Nachos and a bowl of Rocky Road, I thought. But the thought didn’t sit well. It seemed terribly petty to think of God in such terms… as if He gets perturbed by my second helpings of ice-cream and extra cheese on my nachos and giving those up would somehow make the Celestial Calorie-Counter happy. Passing these up would do a lot more good for my waistline and my cholesterol count… but I could also see my self-satisfaction going up as these go down. In the context of Lent, that appeared, well… counterproductive.

Perhaps, I should give up socially sanctioned form of voyeurism during this time and not log into my Facebook account?

Now that would be a real sacrifice, worthy of the divinity that invented social networking, being Three-in-One. No vicarious living other people’s exciting lives in substitute for my boring hum-drum existence; no open platform for shameless bragging about great accomplishments of mine or my own; no instant ego-boost exchanges that wear off as quickly as the click of the mouse, leaving me ravenous for more…

Hmmm… now that would really hurt! I am not sure I am quite ready for that level of sacrifice yet…

Maybe instead of giving something up for Lent, I started to negotiate with myself, I should do something exceptional… like running a 5k race, supporting a worthy cause! The idea was so brilliant, I couldn’t even take credit for it! Now, that would be a sacrifice pleasing to God!

The internal debate of Lental considerations left me tired and hungry. What should I do? What should I NOT do? What should…? The swirling world of I, me, myself battered the will and the motivation out of my drained soul exposing two weary, empty hands.

Isn’t the Lent about... what He has done… and NOT about what I do or don’t do…? More about Him… less about Me…?

He must increase, but I must decrease John 3:30

Powered By...?

Mom, can cars be powered by magma fuel?

We were walking to school, and a stream of cars was passing us by, when my endlessly inquisitive son started the barrage of not-so-out-of-his-character series of outlandish question.

No, cars can’t be powered by magma fuel. I responded tiredly.

What about the geyser – can they be powered by geyser energy?

No, cars can’t be powered by geyser energy.

What about…?

Before he could continue, I interrupted and launched into a weary sermon on the nature of the obvious.

Cars can’t be powered by magma fuel. And they can’t be powered by geyser energy. And any other energy except what they are designed for. Cars must use the kind of energy they are designed to be powered by. Some are made to use fossil fuels. If diesel, you must use diesel. If gasoline, you need to use appropriate grade. If it’s an electric car, it uses electricity. You must use the right kind of energy as its source of power. Anything different can ruin the engine...

Suddenly I paused. We’d had a rough morning and all our attempts to resolve the ever-increasing tension seemed to create more frustration, which in turn, added more tension. I was drained and the day hadn’t even started.

… And God’s children, I continued, lowering my voice to a near whisper as my lungs were filling with fresh air, God’s children are designed to be powered by God’s Spirit. Trying to get power from any other source is both ineffective and can ruin their 'engine'… God’s children must get their power from God’s Spirit…


Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,' says the LORD of hosts. Zechariah 4:6

Waiting room

I could use all sorts of words to describe myself but patient is definitely not one of them. No person, except for my dad who has a gift of seeing what nobody else sees, would dream of putting my name and the word in the same sentence. Perhaps my life just hasn’t been hard enough to provide sufficient opportunities to develop this character quality. Or, for all these years I somehow managed to miss them.

Today, however, I am proud to announce that the word finally fit me like a glove. At a doctor’s office. I was the patient. Dr. T was my physician.

Patience, I was warned in advance, wasn’t optional. Days before surgery I was instructed to come ready to wait, and wait, and wait… and perhaps come back tomorrow to wait some more. Be prepared to be bored. Such was the nature of the procedure to bring me back into full health.

I cleared my schedule and suit-armored myself with no less than four books, a journal and several extra pens (struggle that it was, I did leave my laptop behind). I was determined to accomplish a lot, catch up on all the reading and fill many a blank page of my much neglected journal. Part of me, I must admit, relished the prospect of this health-care induced boredom, since it’s a friend that rarely visits my shores.

When I arrived, I realized I was not the only patient – there were fifteen or so others sharing in this Medicaid Sabbath day. Some like me brought books, others brought food, or friends or family members to help the time pass faster. We all buzzed through our surgeries rather quickly and then entered the waiting room. I pulled the first book out of my bag and stuck my bandaged up nose inside its pages.

Twenty minutes.

Suddenly a thought started to buzz inside my head like a hornet.

I wonder if I’ll have to go under the knife again?... It sure would be nice to have it taken care of during the first round… but doctor T said she would like to gamble with this one… I really don’t like when doctors gamble with my nose! Buzzzz…. Buzzzz… And what about all these people? Is this their first time? Or are they regulars? They are all so quiet! Would they rather be left alone or talk their way through the waiting? Is it politically incorrect to ask what kind of surgery they had? Or an invasion of privacy? Buzzz… buzzzz….

Five more minutes have passed.

I should try to read some more.

I returned to the book sitting idly in my lap. Two minutes. Then the buzzard started again.

We are w-a-i-t-i-n-g! We are w-a-i-t-i-n-g! WE ARE W-A-I-T-I-N-G! WE ARE W-A-I-T-I-N-G!

One more minute passed. I looked around the room, noticing for the first time the large paintings of galloping horses hanging on the walls behind quiet patients.

Alright, God! What do you want from me????? I am being patient, am I not? I am waiting. I am willing to stick it out for as long as it takes. I’ll grit my teeth through this entire day if need be. But I can already tell it’s going to be a loooong day. I sure can think of many much more productive ways to use my time... But, hey, nobody is asking me? You call the shots.

…

What?!! Isn’t that enough?!!! What are You trying to accomplish? Is this some kind of a test? I know! Of course, it’s a test! It’s a test of my faith… to see how tough my faith muscle is! Fine! I can prove…

You don’t need to prove anything.

Huh…?

Nothing to prove. Not a test.

But..., but, then, what is it about..? … If it is not a test…

Inside the waiting room, the horses kept galloping in place in their imaginary race.

Can you just be… with Me…? Just… enjoy being with Me…?

Silence filled the room which a moment ago was occupied with the noise of the galloping horses.

Enjoy? Just enjoy… being… with You? I took a deep breath. And then another one. ... I shook my head in disbelief. What a fool! What a fool I’ve been and how slow to hear… and understand! The waiting rooms of my life are not some torture chambers designed to try the toughness of my faith. They are the oasis planted by my hopelessly personal, hopelessly relational God, intended to provide a place of rest and refreshment, hope and healing for my soul as much, or perhaps even more, as for my body.... A place… a time when I can, rather than proving the tenacity of my faith, cultivate the tenderness of my heart…

I’m sorry…

Mrs. S… the nurse’s chirp jerked me out of the unexpected revelation. I am a bearer of good news!

Oh… I slowly got up, putting the book away, a twinge of disappointment coloring my voice.

Does that mean I have to leave…right away?

"In repentance and rest you will be saved, in quietness and trust is your strength. But you were not willing, and you said, 'No, for we will flee on horses,'..." Isaiah 30:15,16

Potential

Last year my gardening buddy Donna (well, I should probably make it clear from the start that Donna is not MY gardening buddy – Donna is THE gardening queen of south Orlando and I am not worthy to clean and polish her rubber clogs!) … anyway, having clarified this, let me continue… Er.. awhile ago Donna, the queen surprised me with a present. Well, sort of. I suspect that her choice of gift had something to do with a little history we share… Having killed one too many live plants she had been giving me over the years in a futile attempt to green up my brown thumb, she decided for a slightly different approach. So, instead of something alive that could be killed (and under my management one could be fully assured that it would be killed) she gave me a… potential! Being the esthetically endowed person that she is, she wrapped my potential in fancy fuchsia tulle and tied a black ribbon around it (I told you she was a classy lady!). She also accompanied the gift with the instructions which contained a photo. I suspect she must have gathered that I am not much of an instruction-reader and needed visual stimulation if her scheme was going to work. If you haven’t guessed already, inside the fancy wrapping was a bunch of seeds, four o’clock seeds, to be more precise.

Seeds…?!!! Why would she give me SEEDS?!!! I thought to myself. If I couldn’t keep ALIVE plants alive, how in the world does she imagine me coaxing anything out of some dry, shriveled up, dead seed?!!!

So, I set my potential on the counter. And, yes, you are right, it sat there. And it sat there… and it sat… and SAT… and SAT! From time to time I would look at it, and even scan the instructions with the photo of the pretty flowers tucked inside each tiny ball. I wondered how something as marvelous, and fragrant and colorful can be so neatly packed inside the ugly black seed?!!! I can’t quite say that I expected the plant to magically pop out and grow on the top of my counter inside my kitchen just from my notifying its presence there, but the thought sure sounded nice.

Needless to say, the seeds didn’t pop out on their own and no magical transformation took place. At least not as long as the seeds were sitting on top of the scratched up Formica.

Then, I remembered - duh?!!! - that this gift was about the potential! And, the only way the potential can become the actual is if it is taken out of the pretty wrapping, buried into the ground and left there to die. Then and only then can the magical transformation occur. Not on the top of the kitchen counter. Not even in the palm of my hand. But buried deep inside the soil where the mystery of death and life occur, invisible to the human eye, until the tiny tuft of green breaks the surface, giving evidence for all to see that there is a world of miracles laying dormant just within our reach.

"...The seed... is the Word of God.. .." Luke 8:11

Hibernateardening

I might have gotten a little spoiled - alright, A BIG ROTTEN SPOILED A LOT!- having lived for more than 15 years in the happiest place on Earth, in the backyard of uncle Walt Disney’s estate (well, maybe more like in an outhouse at the furthest corner of the outer pasture-lands of his Magic Kingdom!) or, simply put, in the O-town, City Beautiful nestled at the heart of warm and sunny Florida. In this place, the greens remain green year round, the winter sky is more brilliant azure than an average person can handle on an ordinary January day and the song of perpetual blooms resounds all the more loudly when the rest of the world is wrapped in snowy blankets and skies of gray. The lucky residents evidence this heaven on Earth by endless uploads of photos of outdoor swimming pools and beach scenes, thus heartlessly harassing our frost-bitten friends up north and rubbing it in with the matching FB status updates.

Life in which cold season’s Fahrenheit range goes between mid-seventies and lower-eighties creates expectations of their own. The husbands here don’t fart, and the wives don’t snore. The children, of course, make only happy noises and never ever kick each other in the face. Those of us lucky enough to live here have adapted quite nicely to the prevailing climate of entitlement to happiness and adjoining assumptions that we should be spared of the suffering common to those ordinary mortals.

So, when it happened last year we all considered it a fluke. The following summer was as hellishly hot as ever, making even the proverbial fake flowers wilt in heat and humidity. We thought we were back in the saddle, looking forward to our well-deserved winter rewards for enduring the typical summer slow-cooker when it happened AGAIN! This time it was even earlier, before Christmas, mind you! Some audacious arctic blast swept across the entire country and shamelessly infringed upon our territory. Round one. What wasn’t killed during the first freeze, died after the second; the skimpy remainder succumbed under the third. We stopped counting after that. Some time between the waves of cold, I finally gave up one of the silliest practices I’d adopted after I moved here - of covering plants with sheets and blankets during the near-freezing temperatures. This year, even plants that were covered died.

I finally hung up my tools and gloves, having abdicated all my outdoor responsibilities and descended into begrudging gardening hibernation until the arctic freeze has passed and more seasonal temperatures arrive. Part of me enjoyed (or at least tried to enjoy) this forced rest. Prying away from the work of our hands doesn’t come naturally to us workaholics, whose sense of worth is tied all too closely to the number of things checked off an imaginary list by the end of the day.

The bitter cold also created (an indoor, heated!) space for more somber reflection (equally unnatural to an average Floridian). Seeing with my own eyes how just a few degree drop in temperature could overnight reduce all my months (or, even years!) worth of hard work down to a rotting pile of stinky yard-waste was… well, quite humbling. And, the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it, was even more humbling indeed. To add insult to injury, even now there is still nothing I can do to repair the damage except to wait … and wait… and wait in hope that some day spring indeed will return. And when it does, amidst all the busy, happy work, as the warm sun is shining again and the invisible roots send out new shoots, will my grip loosen on what I know I cannot keep…? …Will I remember that I cannot ensure the permanence of what I love the most except through surrender and death of the very thing I am so desperately trying to preserve?

Now what?

I seriously considered my daughter’s suggestion that we keep Christmas decorations up until Easter. Besides a very busy January and a few items on my schedule with slightly higher priority than stashing baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Rudolph away in the attic, the idea itself didn’t seem too far fetched. In my head, you see, the two holidays go hand-in-hand. Without Christmas there would obviously be no Easter, and without Easter… well, without Easter the Christmas would leave us bankrupt, not only in our wallets and bank-accounts, but emotionally deserted and empty-handed, even while surrounded by all the trinkets and toys, disillusioned by the hollowness of the hope that, like weight-loss commercials, grossly over-promised but never quite delivered. So, I was perfectly happy to, like some devout frog, jump from Christmas to Easter and back to Christmas, trying to live off the fumes of spiritual adrenaline each holiday provides and skipping everything in between.

Today, however, without any forethought or planning on my part, spontaneously snowballed into a Putting-Christmas-Away party. It started as a creative (or, rather, desperate!) way to keep my children distracted from killing each other by having them take the ornaments off the Christmas tree. But, very quickly the cleanup party gained momentum and soon it turned into an all-out ‘reclaiming our spaces’ effort. As the nativity pieces were wrapped into tissue paper and placed in cardboard boxes, there was a clear sense of... relief? … A relief that we get our home back, undisturbed by the massive God-invasion of the last month… But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed I was breathing easier because Jesus didn’t remain frozen in time as some perpetual baby sleeping in a manger, but moved on and grew up into an inquisitive teenager, a robust young carpenter good at working with hands, in every aspect maturing under the cloak of ordinary until the appointed time.

Much of his life was commonplace – no global audience, no ‘likes’ on his Facebook wall, no blog, no Twitter, no choirs of angels applauding his every move, no wise men worshiping the ground he walked. The divine wrapped himself in a regular human flesh and quietly receded into obscurity, eating, sleeping, walking, talking, resting, playing, partying, working – just like us! And, in a strange role-reversal, perhaps by the very virtue of not shrinking from becoming human in all its seemingly boring ordinariness, he somehow breathed unimaginable dignity, worth and purposes into everything you and I might do on any given day of small things. Making it holy.

At the end of the impromptu cleaning party I stepped back and looked at our home, the tree out, the boxes up, the pieces of furniture returned to their usual spots. Everything was back in its place and to an undiscerning eye, life seemed to have returned back to just as it has always been. But, to everyone who welcomed His coming, nothing was as it used to be. Everything changed… or, at least begun the long, slow process of transformation of every detail of our life into something that God Himself inhabits.

Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart…


New Year's Resolution

So far my most successful New Year’s resolution has been to ‘watch more TV’. I admit that like all other New Year’s resolutions, it took me several years to work on it. Now, watching TV may seem like a second nature to some people, but to me, to sit down and watch other people’s worlds both thrive and collapse before my eyes meant a slow, painful death to all my godlike responsibilities of keeping the rest of the universe running. Most people underestimated the seriousness of my commitment and laughed when I answered their January 1 inquiry…

So, what’s YOUR New Year’s resolution?

I guess now it’s my turn to laugh.

Having being successful in logging in extra hours of Criminal Minds under my belt during the past several months, I decided to really get out on a limb this year and make another resolution I am determined to keep for the rest of the week… and probably renew next year and the next (if I am still around). This January I am resolved to resist all pressures and temptations – internal as well as external – at trying to improve myself. By this, mind you, I am not implying that nothing in my life needs improvement. On the contrary! Just that I have ample proof coming from years of experience that I am uniquely unqualified for the job.

And, if I am successful, next year, or the year after, I may even determine to stop trying to fix my husband.

I think he just might appreciate that.

Who is this George Lucas?

We can thank my mother-in-law for introducing Star Wars into our children’s lives by getting our 5 year old son his first Star Wars LEGO set. He ripped the boxes open and within seconds our home was invaded by the Imperial Stormtroopers and the Droids.

I was mortified.

Star Wars?!!! He is waaay too young for Star Wars!

It wasn’t the complexity of the building process I was concerned about, because that never seemed to be a problem for our pint-size engineer. What bothered me much more was a matter of introducing complex adult issues into his immature mind, and the challenge that creates for me as his parent. But, like it or not, the door was open and there was no going back. From that day on, my son turned into a miniature Star Wars maniac. So far, he’s been mostly preoccupied with recreating cosmic wars against his little sister. Along the way he somehow acquired a prodigious amount of information about the characters and the plot and various twists and turns in the storyline. He learned the difference between the Imperial and the Rebel blaster, the who’s who and what’s what of the Imperial Army and the Rebel Alliance, and all the whys and therefores of the narrative that molded the worldview of generation after generation since the first movie was released. He bought a Star Wars Visual Dictionary with his own money(!) that looks more like Encyclopedia Britannica to me.

Now, all this wouldn’t be so surprising if it wasn’t until this afternoon, years after the initial encounter, that he saw his very first Star Wars movie. Episode IV, to be more precise, which I picked up from our local library earlier today. Watching him watch the movie was as much (or more) fun as watching the movie itself. It was as if he had all these loose pieces of a puzzle, and he finally saw how they all fit together, he could finally place them in their exact spots in the larger, 4-D story-puzzle. His delight was quite contagious. During dinner, he continued chatting enthusiastically about all the fascinating trivia he picked up during the afternoon Star Wars extravaganza. In the course of the conversation, my husband casually mentioned George Lucas and what his intent might have been for the unfolding of the various episodes in a certain sequence.

George… Lucas?!! Our son muttered hesitantly… And who is this George Lucas? There was no doubt that he was utterly confused. You could tell that he was scrolling down the imaginary database of Star Wars names and faces, from Emperor Palpatine through Chewbacca and Ewoks, but there was no suitable match for the name “George Lucas”.

It was now our turn to be confused. How is it possible that with all these years of borderline obsession with the Jedi and their pecking order, Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, and R2D2 and Obi-Wan Kenobi, our son never ever heard the name George Lucas? We looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Hmm …George Lucas…. George Lucas…. Well, he is kind of like God to the world of Star Wars. Without him, there would be no Star Wars, nor the galaxy, nor anybody or anything else belonging to this galaxy far, far away. He created it all. This amazing world exists because it first existed in the mind of George Lucas.

It took several minutes for the news to settle in his shaken-to-the core 9 year old mind screaming for a paradigm shift. Until this moment of revelation he was so preoccupied with the fascinating universe which George Lucas had created that for a brief while he simply couldn’t contain the information about the existence of the creator of that universe.

There…there is a George Lucas… there IS a George Lucas and I never even knew it!

No room

It shows up every year, some time in early December. Out of the dust-covered box lying dormant on the dirty garage floor, buried under loads of other dusty boxes, untouched for eleven months. When it first appeared in the middle of our living room, years ago, my husband and I were newly married, young and quite naïve. At the time, our lives were simple and our furniture few. Happy and ignorant, we went out to shop one of those after-Christmas clearance sales. We came back jubilant, hauling in the biggest Christmas tree we could afford. The tree was beautiful and tall. When put together branch by branch, it filled at least a half of our living room, imposing its glorious presence on all this empty space. We loved our tree.

Then, a friend gave us his old TV because he was moving to Australia. Later on, we bought an armoire to accommodate our newly-acquired TV and a matching stand to hold our collection of CDs and VCRs (DVDs were not invented yet). Over the years, we kept accumulating more and more stuff – a DIY project here, and a curb-side mall find there; then came our first child with all his accompanying paraphernalia and soon afterward, another with all the mentioned paraphernalia of a different, she color. So, bit by bit, mountain by mountain stuff kept marching across our doorstep. The stuff we needed, or thought we or somebody we know needed or might need some day kept ringing our doorbell. Slowly but surely, our huge house started filling up all its empty places, obliterating the memory of the simple life we once used to live.

The tree also seemed to grow bigger and bigger each year, transforming from a beautiful symbol of everlasting life that the birth of God’s Son brought into the world, into a household monstrosity, turning our home upside down each Christmas season. Every December, in order to make room for its ever-expanding (or so it seemed) limbs, we have to move the sofa into the guest bedroom, and the keyboard with its stand into our son’s bedroom, and the spare desk into the dining room, and the bench from the guest bedroom…

Honey, where are we going to put the bench?!!!

Making room for the tree has become our number one Christmas chore…er… I meant to say tradition.

This is insane! We need to hire movers or a chiropractor to set up the darn thing. We should just get rid of it. I turned to the tree as if it’s its fault.

We don’t have room for you! No room.

The silent echo reverberated with familiarity. No room… no room… no room… in… the… inn…

With sudden realization, a mess of conflicting feelings that must have torn the insides of the Bethlehemian inn-keeper settled in my stomach. I could imagine myself standing at the door of our house, eyeing a tired, frost-bitten couple with the baby on the way…

I am so sorry, but we have no room for you anywhere in the house…. However, there is a bit of space in our garage among all the boxes, and garden tools, and discarded toys, and bicycles… if you don’t mind…

I took a step away from the tree, staggered by its quiet testimony of the clutter overcrowding my life. The space and the time. What else got pushed out by the relentless torrent of unrestrained real and perceived needs, wants, desires, responsibilities, demands, requirements? Is all my worthless junk swallowing what is really precious before my very eyes? Do I even know the difference?!!! And, how in the world did I come to resent something I used to love and enjoy?

The evergreen assayer stood still, his lights blinking brightly.

Perhaps… what I really need… for Christmas… is to just to make… a little more room… in my life. So the Life Himself can come in.

Missing

During our recent visit to my husband’s family, my sister-in-law, who is the incarnation of care and sensitivity to the needs of others (qualities which for some reason seem strangely lacking in our little family), suggested that she and I decorate Mom’s and Dad’s place for Christmas. Neither of them has the health and energy for that kind of endeavor, and it would make their home more cheery and festive during the long, and sometimes lonely holiday season. Kids jumped at the idea, looking for any excuse to get away from the grueling vacation homework drills. The decorating party got quickly on the way with moving the furniture around to make room for the tree and getting the boxes with ornaments out of the garage. The kids carefully took them out, unwrapped each of them, celebrating the unveilings as if it’s Christmas already. The process went on for a while when they came across a tiny royal looking figurine.

This doesn’t look like an ornament, announced my observant daughter. It doesn’t have a hook.

Oh, it’s a part of the nativity scene, darling, responded my mother-in-law. You know, I had that set all these years, and I never set it up. If you like it and think you can use it, you should just take it with you.

Since free offers is rarely passed in our family, the kids excitedly unwrapped the rest of the pieces – the sheep and the donkeys, Mary and Joseph, the remaining two wise men, a shepherd and a shepherdess.

Where is baby Jesus? I asked suspiciously.

Hmm, it looks like He’s missing…

We all dived into the box filled with tissue paper, but no Jesus was found.

Jesus is missing, I told my mother-in-law. How strange… maybe that’s why you never set it up – it’s defective. Imagine that, Christmas without Jesus...

My words lingered for a few moments before silence settled on the room.

Hon… you don’t have to imagine… just look around - it’s all over the place.

I sat slowly down, sobered by the thought. In real life, just like in the defective nativity scene, more often than not Jesus is missing from Christmas. We may have all the other props in place, even the sheep and the donkeys, but the heart of the stage of history remains empty. The solemn admonition of the incomplete set inched a bit too close to home.

Mom, mom!!! We found Him! I was jolted out of my reveries by the excited screams of my children who obviously didn’t give up on their search.

We found Jesus!

May you and I, like the children who wouldn’t give up the quest until it is completed, also find Jesus at the heart of not only Christmas but also at the heart of every day before and after.

Complete Idiot's Guide...

Even though nobody in our family can be described as picky, it’s still hard to find a food everyone truly enjoys. We all eat pizza, but I am not nearly as big on it as my kids are, and we all eat Thai, but my kids are not nearly as big on it as my husband and I are. We all like Mexican, but each of us has a distinct preference as to both what we want in our burrito and how it’s rolled up.

But, there is one thing we all absolutely love – and that’s sourdough bread. In our house, heaven smells like toasted sourdough with butter on it. Our love affair with sourdough might have stemmed from my husband’s Northern California roots or from my Croatian aunt’s home-made panja, and we just passed on this shared sourdough gene to our children. Call it nature or nurture, the fact remains that we can easily polish off an entire loaf in one sitting. Now, the grocery store price for a loaf of good sourdough runs approximately four times as much as regular white or even whole-wheat bread. This puts us in somewhat of a quandary and, no pun intended, feeds our passion for more.

So, several weeks ago when I stopped by our local library, it wasn’t a total surprise when with a corner of my eye I spotted Complete Idiot’s Guide to Artisian Breads, I heard it call my name.

Hey, you! You, YOU - I am talking to you - don’t act as if you can’t hear me!

I looked around to make sure nobody is disturbed and discreetly moved few steps away, towards the shelf with foreign movie DVDs.

Stop right there! Pick me! Pick ME!

Shhhh! Stop yelling! I growled. This is a public library!

Few people looked in my direction. I waited until everyone was back to whatever they were doing before I continued, this time making sure nobody is overhearing the conversation.

You are talking to the wrong person, buddy. I snarled under my breath. I am NOT a baker. I am a BURNER! I am the Killer of all yeast. I am the Destroyer of everything that crosses our oven’s door. It’s hopeless. I am sorry. Go home with somebody else.

No, no, no. You got it all wrong. You are EXACTLY my kind of a person. See, Complete IDIOT’S Guide…

I don’t appreciate being called an idiot in a public place, I whispered through my teeth.

Oh, stop being so sensitive and just take me with you… I’ll…

I grabbed a bunch of DVDs in front of me and dropped them into the basket. Then I stepped back to the shelf with the rowdy impostor, picked him up like a used Kleenex and dropped him under the pile.

Alright. Just stop barking. If you insist, I’ll bring you with me.

I used self-checkout as fast as I could and virtually ran out of the library, leaving both librarians and customers equally baffled behind. We drove home in silence. I unloaded the library cargo into our reading basket where the Guide sat squeezed between Pirates Past Noon and The Gollywhopper Games untouched for several days. One late afternoon I heard a murmur…

I-am-waiting… I-am-waiting…. I am waaaaiiiitiiiing….. I-am-WAITING!

I sat down and pulled the Guide up.

Well, thank you! He said politely. I almost got suffocated there, at the bottom of the basket.

I wasn’t going to apologize.

What do you want from me? I asked.

What do I want?!! What do you think? I didn’t come all the way from the library to sit at the bottom of your book basket and smell stinky Pirate’s feet! Let’s get the kitchen dirty! Let’s bake some bread!

We already went through this. I was tired. I am not a baker. End of story.

But all of you LOVE to eat, especially sourdough. C’mon, it’s really not that hard. Just try it.

As I opened the book and flipped through the pages in front of me a faint aroma of baked bread begun to tickle my nostrils. Sourdough dinner rolls, ciabattas, crusty sourdough boules, garlic-rosemary focaccias….

Fine! I’ll give it a try. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I know it’s not going to work, but I am willing to try. Where do I start?

Starter! You start with a starter. The Guide said with a huge grin. Clever, isn’t it?

I could tell that he was in his element.

Ha, ha. Very funny. I said grimly and turned to the Sourdough Starter page. The instructions seemed simple enough – three ingredients in all.

I think I can handle that, I said as I headed towards the pantry.

And so we begun. I fed my little ‘pet’ every day, like a brand-new parent, all worried whether I am doing it right, whether it’s too cold, or too warm, if I should feed it more often or less. We gathered around it and peeked under the lid, whispering to each other as if it’s a sleeping baby tucked under a cozy blanket.

The romance went on for about three or four days and then things turned south. At first, I noticed a slight discoloration. Then the smell. Which got worse. And worse.

This isn’t working. I told my husband. I think I should just pitch it.

Don’t pitch it! Use it. Responded my always cautious, methodical, polar-opposite mate.

Use it?!!! Are you crazy? Use it for what – rat poison? It’s bound to ruin the dough!

It’s SOUR dough, remember. It’s SUPPOSED to be sour.

I understand ‘sour’… but, this… this is… UGH!

It’s just flour and yeast and water – no big loss … it’s worth giving it a try. Whatever you make, babe, I will eat.

I looked at my taste-testing superhero suspiciously, for ordinarily I am the one in our family encouraging craziness. I savored the spot like ill-fitting shoes.

This is what it feels like to be the other person in my off-the-wall adventures. I pondered.

I got a mixing bowl out of the cupboard and looked up the Sourdough bread recipe. I mixed the flour, yeast, salt, butter and water, hesitating for a moment before I poured the gray, smelly goop in.

This is insanity! I am ruining a perfect batch... before I could finish the sentence I heard the familiar voice taking my train of thoughts into an altogether different direction.

...of plain, boring, white bread, high on air and low on substance by giving it depth and texture and character and personality you all love so much. Hon, the making of sourdough is just like the making of life. You stick with common ingredients, you get common results. But, if you take risks, embrace the bitter and the sour, mix it all well in, you might very well get an exceptional result. You make the choice.

Are you now presuming to be The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Life and Disappointments?

Oh, no. Not at all! A much more comprehensive edition of that volume has already been published long time ago. In fact, I’ve seen several copies on a bookshelf in your study – quite dusty, if I may add. And I am not referring to your housekeeping habits. Perhaps you can check it out some time… the same way you did with me…

With that, the Guide fell silent. I waited awhile, hoping with all my heart that he would say something more, challenge some other deeply rooted prejudice of mine with his grace and truth. But, he didn’t. It was as if with this his role in my life was fulfilled and adding anything else would betray his greater purpose.

I finally turned away and slowly walked towards the bookshelf.

The Bench

Call me hopelessly romantic (or crazy!), but last night, after I’ve already gone to bed, I remembered that earlier in the evening I saw my neighbors’ old wooden bench on the curb next to their house, ready for the garbage truck. I couldn’t check it out when I saw it, so I just made a mental note to come by later in the evening and see if I should engage in a rescue mission or not. Of course, I forgot all about it until, well, until I remembered. So, I got out of bed, put my clothes back on, dragged my husband along, and under the cloak of late night, we picked up the bench from the curbside and brought it to our porch.

Do you want their kitchen sink, too? He pointed at the pile of construction garbage, eying me suspiciously.

Nooo, just the bench! I chuckled, trying to appreciate his warped sense of humor.

It was too late and too dark to examine its condition right then and there. Our neighbors might have had a very good reason for getting rid of it. In daylight, the bench turned out to be quite beautiful. I discovered that the wobble we noticed while we carried it last night was actually by design, for it was a rocking bench! It had a nice shape, with a gentle curve on the back, and upon closer inspection, it revealed sturdy materials and solid craftsmanship.

You are gorgeous, I said, in accordance with my habit of talking to inanimate objects, Or, at least, you had been. Before the mean Florida elements took their toll and left you with cracked and peeling varnish, filthy and moldy. What am I going to do with you?

The first thing was quite obvious. The bench was covered with dirt so I grabbed a garden hose and wash it all the off. I tipped it back and forth and from side to side, until it was all clean and the pieces of loose varnish removed.

This is going to take a lot more than good cleaning, I mused. It will require some serious elbow-grease, the scraping of the old finish, the scrubbing of the moldy areas, perhaps even some spot-bleaching… and then it would need a primer and at least three coats of paint...

That seems like an awful lot of work, I continued with the monologue. Are you worth it?

Part of me wanted to cut corners, grab a can of spray paint and finish the job, right then and there. I knew it wouldn’t be right. I knew it wouldn’t be lasting. But, hey, it would be easy! And then, in a month or two, the paint would peel away and reveal old cracked varnish, and grime and mold… and I would have to do it again… and again,… and again…

What a waste, tempting as it may be… I don’t have time or energy for that… I objected.

But, part of me couldn’t bear to see the beautiful bench rot at the top of the city dung heap, when with some time and effort I might be able to return it to its former glory, prolong its life and ensure many years of delightful, useful service of refreshment and rest to our family, our children, perhaps even our children’s children and to all the weary travelers that our gracious God may send our way. It was up to me to make the decision...

What shall I do with you, old bench…? What should I do with you...?

The Constant

If what you are saying is true, it’s worth giving your whole life to it, I confidently vocalized my conviction. What I didn’t voice was the ignorance and arrogance of this ‘mature’ 20 year old atheist who KNEW it could not possibly be true. This, of course, implied that my life was off the hook, all my own to chart and direct according to my own designs and ambitions.

For the first time in my life I was confronted with the outrageous claims of Jesus Christ, and, to be honest, I didn’t particularly care for them. I already had a plan for my life. I liked my plan. And I didn’t appreciate anybody coming in and messing it up.

But, what if it is true…?

The lingering question settled like a cloud over this self-proclaimed “Truth-Seeker.”

In the subsequent days and weeks He tenderly and mercilessly peeled away layer upon layer of defenses and stubborn resistance until I was ready to say an unequivocal yes to Jesus. Not too long after that my own words came back to haunt me.

I said that if it were true, it was worth giving my whole life to it… now, I know it’s true, but there is no way I can do it. I hate to admit it, but I love my life too much. I know none of it is worth a squat compared to You, but still… I can’t to it alone. I need Your help. Will You help me…?

All I am asking you to do is to listen to Me and follow Me today, just one step at a time.

Just one step? I think I can do that. I can do one step with Your help.

And so the story begins. One faltering step after another. Turning into an amazing roadway of faith and uncertainty, fear and trust, as moments became days and days became years and years became decades. Since then, empires have collapsed, wars erupted, countries have changed names and borders. I have been in possession of four different national passports, my identity stripped away from me with each changing government.

I also became Mrs. Doug and a few years later, Mrs. Caleb’s Mom and Ms. Victoria’s Mom. I had jobs I loved and jobs I hated. Babies have been born to us, and babies have died. I felt lonely beyond words and enjoyed the best of both worlds. Over the years, I’ve been acknowledged more than I deserve, and also deemed obsolete and non-mission critical. Cancers have visited our shores and dumped their baggage with us. I became a gardener and an interpreter. And a scribbler.

In one of the episodes of the TV series LOST the protagonists experience rapidly changing shifts from one time period to another. One moment they are here and now, the next they can find themselves 20 years in the past or 20 years in the future. The continuous change is causing severe stress on their minds, emotions and bodies. For some the changes impact them so profoundly that their very lives are threatened. In the course of the story we learn that individuals who have a strong emotional bond with at least one other person seem to be able to resist the detrimental effects of change. They have a constant. The constant gives them stability, a point of reference, motivation and most importantly, hope when the world around them seems to be falling apart. When I think of the continually changing landscape of my own life, I can clearly see one Constant, Jesus Christ. What an oasis of living hope and stability He is to all who listen and follow Him, just one step at a time.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. Hebrews 13:8