God In A Box

Friday night I sat with friends while we listened to a great band at a local restaurant/pub. One friend was particularly concerned about what people might "think." I totally understood her concern. I was that person at one time.

About 15 years ago I was the wife in the perfect little family...or at least that's what it looked like to all the religious people. My family belonged to a conservative church up the road, and the kids attended the church school. In a million years I never imagined that I would be divorced. I had said, “till death do us part,” and I had every intention of keeping that vow. But, long before my legal separation was public knowledge I realized that no one knows what goes on inside the four walls of a home except those who live there. When my marriage imploded, I tried to continue being the same person I had been before all our dirty laundry was poured out on the streets. I especially tried to stay active in the church so that my children could have some normalcy in the chaos of divorce. Too soon, though, I was relieved of my duties because of my "circumstances," and it was hard for my kids to attend school because of the gossip repeated by their friends.

I know it was the Lord who encouraged me that January to read the Bible through that year...with the kids...out loud...every night. We'd turn off the television and pile up on my bed or on the sofa, and we would all read a chapter until the reading was complete. It was a priceless hour, with the only sound in the house being the voices of those precious kids reading the Word.

Afterward, we usually would discuss the reading. Some questions I could answer, and some I could not. My kids usually had a lot of questions about why the people at church and school were so hurtful in their comments and judgement. I made that question a matter of prayer and, the answer was nothing less than inspired in everything we witnessed that year in the Word. Time and again we realized that our God is too big for the box of limitations, religion, tradition, and methods. He is bigger and stronger and smarter than we can even fathom. He created it all, from nothing. He is so limitless that no two sunsets have ever been the same. Unfortunately, though, much like atheists, our church family could not see the limitless God. They had their own rules about hair and dress and music and Bible translations and, of course, divorce. The judgement was palpable at times; but, throughout that year, where man failed, God showed us that He is as infinite as we let Him be. He knows all languages and dialects. He loves all music from a heart of worship. He adores all types of true worship. His Word is inspired when it speaks to a lost soul, even if not KJV. And He is so much more concerned about what is going on inside our hearts than what we are wearing on our back.

So many years have passed, but the lesson is as real today as it was those years ago. When our family was decimated by divorce, and abandoned by our church, God showed up nightly in His word and daily in the reminders that He is infinite, limitless, omniscient, and far too big to squeeze into the box of our finite mind.

I love those folks from that conservative church. Most did not mean any harm. But I am so happy that I no longer shackle my God with their limitations and expectations. One of those church folk recently bragged on Facebook about how proud he was of his 13 year old son who didn't want to sit "facing the bar" in a restaurant. I wondered to myself where Jesus would have sat in that restaurant. I have a feeling he would have been in the bar. He may have heard a great band, too.

Ginger

I watched my neighbor today scoop her puppy off the roadway. It was an accident that ended one precious life and broke the heart of another. She carried her baby home in her arms—never minding the mess. My two girls watched with me from the window, and we were all so sad. So far it had been a typical Sunday morning; it quickly became atypical. I was reminded about how abruptly some lives come into ours. Unexpectedly. Unintentionally. And, perhaps, unnecessarily. Those are atypical days too. These lives arrive in small, whimpering packages—totally helpless and speechless. They slobber. They lick. They shed. They grow. The fuzzy hair becomes a fine coat. The body catches up with the floppy ears and wiry legs. As they grow in strength and stature, they simultaneously grow into our hearts. We teach them to be housetrained, and crate-trained, and leash-trained. They teach us how to hear what they are saying through their big brown eyes, wet noses, and nudges. If we try, we learn lessons about complete devotion and unconditional love without a word ever being uttered. We can’t say when or where, but at some point on this journey the two hearts are combined, and we don’t consider eternity or mortality or the brevity of each life. Instead we live each day as if today will the same as the next ten thousand and no one will grow old or get sick or die. It’s a defense mechanism, you know, because to dwell on the inevitable would get in the way of the living and the loving. But, just as abruptly as they arrive, they also leave. Unexpectedly. Unintentionally. And, perhaps, unnecessarily. On any given morning, while the sun is shining, and the family gathers, and coffee is brewing, the typical day becomes atypical as they slip away as abruptly as they came. And we are helpless, speechless, whimpering packages of broken hearts because of the time we shared and the love we learned from a little furry insignificant life that came, lived, loved, and left.

the t-shirt theory

I have a theory; although, it is more than theory. After more than twenty winters, this theory has graduated to proven method. Put it to the test and you, too, will adopt the principle of what I call “the t-shirt theory.”

In 1988 I was a young mother with a newborn boy that seemed to be sickly from the time he was born. It was either ear infections or sinus infections or strep infections or respiratory infections for the first winter of his life. I believe I spent more time in the doctor's office than I did on the job. He was a happy baby and a good baby, but he was always sick. I believed that his sickness was just part of the day care experience, and I (we) would have to learn to live with it. So, I settled in and prayed for the day when his immune system would kick some germ butt and his health would compliment his demeanor.

Mrs. Ruby worked the baby room at Jack & Jill Day Care. I never knew her last name; she was just Mrs. Ruby to me and to all those babies she loved. I remember her face and her no-nonsense way of keeping young mothers like me straight. She didn't mince words and would let you know when she thought you were not properly taking care of your baby (a/k/a "her" baby). Don’t shortchange Mrs. Ruby on diapers, snacks, or bottles, because Mrs. Ruby would let you know.

After one of those numerous doctor's visits, I dropped off my baby boy at the day care on my way to work. While I told Mrs. Ruby that the doctor said he wasn’t contagious, his chest rattled and he sputtered green slime from both nostrils, and Mrs. Ruby just said, "What this boy needs is some t-shirts." Once she realized she had my attention she said, "Get some that will snap between his legs, otherwise, it's a waste of money. Bring a few extra in case he has an accident," and that was it. I had my marching orders. She took my baby boy and, like a good soldier, I marched to the department store and bought two packages of t-shirts to fit my little man.

He wore those "snappy" t-shirts for almost a year. We converted to regular t-shirts when he started potty training. Before he could wear out those first two packages of snappy t-shirts, he was a well baby. He wore those t-shirts day and night. They seemed to be a shield protecting him from all germs as he learned to crawl and walk. In time, it seemed he couldn’t get sick and our visits to the pediatrician involved more well baby visits than any others.

When I saw how well the t-shirt theory worked for my baby boy, I tried it for my own self. To this day, during three of the four seasons, I either don a t-shirt or camisole, and I can't tell you the last time that I had a cold, the flu, bronchitis, or any other head or chest cold. There's a lot of mysteries in life that I can't explain, e.g., electricity, gravity, self-propelled engines, and the t-shirt theory. Personally, I believe there is something special about the extra layer of clothing that is as tight as an extra layer of skin and completely unnoticeable to anyone. Somehow, there's some magic in cotton (or silk camisole) that insulates and protects.

My baby boy is a grown man today; he is will graduate from college this year. But, since that fateful day with Mrs. Ruby, my baby boy has worn t-shirts for at least three of the four seasons of the year. I think t-shirts just became second nature to him. Now that he is a grown man, I sometimes chuckle when I see him donning a t-shirt under another shirt--as if it is a fashion statement of some sort. I'm sure to him it is a fashion statement; to me, it's just confirmation that he will be well for another day.

Looking back, Mrs. Ruby saved me hundreds of dollars in doctor bills. I wish I could repay her, but she'd probably be insulted. So, instead, I've shared with you her wisdom (at no charge). She knew what she was talking about. She kept me and my son healthy for most of twenty years. And her secret was a simple t-shirt. I call it a miracle. You can call it crazy, but before you do, I encourage you to try the t-shirt theory.

Chastising the audacity of me

She stood in line in front of me at the bank. She wore ragged jeans, inappropriate shoes, and a scoop neck shirt that proudly displayed her black bra straps as well as the tattoo emblazoned between her shoulder blades. If you’ve known me for more than five minutes, you probably know that I am not a big fan of tattoos. I don’t like them on guys, and I especially don’t like them on girls. I have never been able to wrap my head around what a guy (or girl) would want permanently inked on their body. It is the equivalent of someone telling me I have to wear the same pair of earrings for the rest of my life (to which I would reply, “No, thank you”). Sometimes when I see a girl with a tattoo—especially a tattoo as large as this one—I just want to tap that child on the shoulder and ask, “Honey, what were you thinking?”

While this girl in front of me wasn’t a runway model, this tattoo did nothing to make her anymore attractive. And why would she have this tattoo emblazoned between her shoulder blades where she would never be able to see it? I didn’t ask that question either. I suppose the point of the tattoo and the scoop neck blouse was for others to get some enjoyment from it—lucky me, huh? I mean, you couldn’t miss it. Inked between her shoulder blades, in gothic letters, was ARMY, and dangling from the Y in ARMY was something else....oh, a chain and dog tags. Classy! The top dog tag read RDR, and the dog tag peeking out underneath had dates on it, “05/05/1985 – 08/20/2008.” I hadn’t noticed the dog tags at first because I had been too distracted by the tattoo, but now that I saw the words, the chain, and the dog tags, I realized that I was looking at a memorial.

Thank goodness she couldn’t see me staring. The line moved, and she stepped up to the next teller. She set down her keys and purse, and I heard the metal of dog tags hit the counter. I know that sound. My dad wore dog tags. I know what they sound like when they hit a dresser. I know the sound of that metal. It’s a distinctive clattering sound. When I looked at the counter, this girl's key chain had a set of dog tags attached. While the teller completed her transaction, the girl stroked the dog tags—almost subconsciously. She looked down at them once, and then back up. I couldn’t see her face, only her hands, the dog tags, and the tattoo.

And I chided myself. How dare I be so self-absorbed and pompous in my personal opinions as to pass judgment on this girl. Who am I to tell anyone how properly to grieve? Suddenly, my opinions didn't seem as important as they had five minutes beforehand. No, I don’t understand tattoos, but I do understand grief, and it appeared that this young girl—young enough to be my daughter—was grieving the best way that she knew how. This tattoo was her memorial. This was part of her healing, remembering, and processing the pain. And I rebuked my condescending audacity to stand there and pass judgment on this child for grieving the only way she knew how. God forgive me, and God bless her. Wherever you are, little girl, I like your tattoo.

My confession

Why do we talk about the weather or traffic or sports when someone is dying? How can we think of so many things to say rather than what needs to be said? We’ll tell a joke before we’ll touch their hand and say, “I love you.” And I am the chiefest of the offenders.

My dad suffered with lung cancer for the last two years of his life. I was 18 when he was diagnosed and he passed away a few weeks after my 20th birthday. I visited dad in Tennessee on several occasions throughout that two-year period, and we chatted often by telephone, too. Far too many of those conversation had nothing to do with how much I loved him, how proud I was to be his daughter, how I regarded him as a hero, or how I wanted nothing more than to make him proud of me. Instead we talked about the Vols and politics and college life and other fleeting topics.

You’d think I’d learn my lesson. But here I am 20+ years later and, as Yogi Bera said, “It’s déjà vue all over again.” It was last Thanksgiving when my sister, BJ, was diagnosed with breast cancer. A year later she has had a double mastectomy, three rounds of chemotherapy, and a round of radiation. Today the hospital bed was delivered to her home. She is not doing well. The cancer is aggressive and, in the words of her doctor, “consuming” her. Barring some miracle, we know her days are numbered. So, when I visited today, I let her tell me a funny story, and then she dozed off to sleep. I want to tell her that I love her, and that I’m so thankful that we are friends. I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay, and that I’m going to be there until the end. I want her to know how special she is to me, and that I have thanked God for her friendship on so many occasions. Instead, I talk about the baby kittens, or compliment her Christmas tree, or discuss today’s Oprah episode.

Perhaps it’s just me. Maybe the rest of the world is in touch with their feelings. If so, I’m not feeling the love, people! Instead, I’ve got to believe this is one of our greatest shortcomings—ignoring the elephant in the room. And who is to say that I’ll outlive anyone—even BJ. Just because I don’t have cancer doesn’t guarantee me of one more day.

Supposedly confession is good for the soul. This is my confession. This is my shortcoming. What about you? When was the last time you spoke your heart? Who needs to hear from you?

"Give us Barabbas!"

Every year I try to read through the Bible. It’s not a big deal and does not consume a lot of time (if I don’t fall behind). The cool thing about my Bible reading schedule is that by the time we get to the holidays I am reading in the New Testament. The week before Thanksgiving my reading schedule usually takes me through the crucifixion of Christ. Certainly, at this time of the year, my salvation is something I am thankful for, and these daily readings are just daily reminders of my “I am blessed” list. By the time Christmas rolls around, and we’re celebrating the birth of Christ, I am already in Revelation and celebrating Christ’s second coming.

This morning my reading was from Matthew 27. After walking the dog, I came in and settled down with a cup of coffee and my daily reading. Afterward, I hustled off to the gym, as usual, but the words of Matthew 27 stayed with me. When I returned from the gym, I opened the chapter again and re-read certain portions of it. In the chronology of Christ’s crucifixion, Matthew 27 takes place after the Last Supper and after the arrest in the garden. Christ has been betrayed by Judas. He has been taken before the Sanhedrin and, in Chapter 27, to Pontius Pilate.

Even though I have read this passage numerous times, my heart was pricked this morning by how the crowd chose Barabbas over Christ. They cried, "Give us Barabbas" even when they knew his reputation. Barabbas was a convicted murderer; he was a “notorious prisoner,” rebellious, the epitome of evil.

I reflected on that for quite some time. I even went back and read it again. I couldn’t get away from the crowd begging for evil to be unleashed upon them. What a bunch of losers! Who would choose Barabbas over the Son of God? Who would choose a murderer over a Savior? The truth is, I would, and I have. I am ashamed to say there have been times when I have said, "Give me Barabbas" instead of "Give me Christ"—if not literally with my voice, then certainly by my choices. I have chosen rebellion and evil over Christ so many times that I can't condemn one person in that crowd.

I have found myself in public situations, with friends and business associates, who expect me to follow their lead and call, “Give me Barabbas!” And other times I have cried “Give me Barabbas” deep within my own spirit where only God could hear and be grieved.

How much faith must it take to see the eternal is much better than the temporal? In that town square on that Thursday morning, how much courage would it have taken for one person to yell, "Give me Christ!" Probably the same courage that it still takes for me (and you) to stand up for Christ today. “Give me Christ!” Let me have the faith to see the eternal much better than the temporal. “Give me Christ!” Let me keep my attitude in check, let me work hard, let me be a friend, let me be sensitive to the needs of others, let me guard my tongue against gossip, let me guard my heart against judgment, and let me be faithful in the little things—minute-by-minute and hour-by-hour. And, should the occasion arise, may I also be faithful and courageous enough to proclaim in the town square, “Give me Christ!” even when my friends or my leaders cry, “Give me Barabbas.”

We Begin Again

I discovered blogging several years ago at an educational seminar. In 2006, when I left the world of academia (as an instructor) to join the world of academia (as a law student), I decided to document my journey through a weblog. If you're reading this entry, you probably followed that blog as well, i.e., theantediluvianlawstudent.blogspot.com. The Antediluvian Law Student blog recorded the highs and lows of three years at law school. As I neared the end of that journey I felt compelled to close that blog address and begin a new work. So, welcome to the new blog page. I look forward to writing and hope you look forward to reading and sharing your thoughts as well.