Blazing Ranges and Clingy Rear Bumpers

The rear bumper just fell off of the ample backside of our van.

Not a big deal. It's urgent fwip fwip fwip fwip alerted me to the fact that it was being dragged down the road behind us at 100km/hr. well in advance of me exposing anyone else to danger.

"Why?" you ask. "Why was your bumper dragging along behind you instead of riding securely on it's bumper-sturdy screws?" I am so glad you asked. Settle in, dear friends, for I have a tale to tell...

It all began on a typically non-threatening day in June, just one short month ago. The day, so sunny and full of promise, skipped along uneventfully. Until around 4:15 pm. At which time I received a call from a very nice constable who mentioned that I might want to hurry my way home from wherever I was as my house was on fire. Literally. With smoke and flames and everything.

Hurry on home I did. I hurried right home to find that the kids were safe, the dogs were fine, and dozens of people had rushed to our aid: neighbors, police officers, and fire fighters alike. Some smoke damage, a melted pot, a warped oven, and a slightly toasted kitchen were all we had to show for the adventure.
Note to self: Do not leave ground beef "simmering" on the stove unattended. For an hour and a half. At a high temperature. Particularly if you plan to be across town for any length of time.

I spent a few days washing smoke-saturated laundry. On day three, I made my way outside to hang out with the neighbor gals while I awaited the final load's rinse cycle. Dozens of piles of linens and clothing clean at last! My visit with the girls was leisurely, but eventually I made my way back into the house. I made my way in just in time to witness the flood waters ~ mucky, soapy, creeping flood waters ~ slither their way from the main floor laundry room out into the living room...and down into the basement.

The basement with the newly constructed drywall ceiling.

The basement (with the newly constructed drywall ceiling) required immediate attention. I slopped my way into the laundry room, turned off the machine, re-routed the drain hose back into the drain pipe in the wall, tossed a few bath towels (all freshly washed, smoke-free, and folded) into the spreading puddle, and headed for the basement. Cordless drill in hand, I hollered for help from my unsuspecting sons. "Get down here, NOW!" I shrilled. Together we removed our carefully mounted ceiling, artfully dodging the cascade of water that was happily settling into the dust encrusted joints.

As the drama-dust settled over the next few days, I noticed something peculiar: our houseplants were dieing. Now, I am not a domestic genius and no one will ever accuse me of having a Martha Stewart flare, but I do alright in the houseplant department. I water them occasionally, I ignore them mostly; every spring I re-pot them in the hopes that their roots will stretch and dive and glory in their new-found freedom. Every spring they thank me by sprouting new leaves and deepening their color.

Not this year, apparently. Almost half of them, on the heels of fires and floods, curled their little leaves into tight little fists, or simply shed them in heaps at their feet, and perished.

Whatever green the plants have been losing, the boys seem to be absorbing. One or all of them have been sick for a month ~ everything from allergies to strep to tummy flu's to incessant, drive-you-around-the-sanity-bend, coughs.

All attention getting, strange-that-it's-all-happening-this-month events. And then came the situation with the bumper...

Until last Thursday, I had never been in a vehicle accident. I've spun 'round on icy roads or driven over concrete parking barriers (Pesky little things! Don't they know I have no spacial awareness and that I'm likely to careen right over them?!), but I've never been in an honest-to-goodness accident.

That day, too, the sun shone with it's deceptive allure. I settled my still-sick kids in front of the television, promising I was only running out for "half an hour, maybe 45 minutes" to water Gramma's flower garden. They'll be fine, I reassured myself, I'll just be gone a little while. They hacked, sneezed, and barfed their goodbye's and I struck out for the quickest route to Gramma's house.

Little did I know that a wolf awaited me en route!

As I careened my way down the city's main highway, I became suddenly aware of the insistent beeeep beeeep-ing of the small car behind me. Before I had time to check my mirror's to see what the worry was, I felt our van rumble (shriek, launch, grate) over something large and metallic. The van to my left and I both pulled to the roadside. His van was clearly missing it's wheelchair accessibility ramp. Our van looked like it had just been attacked by a big, nasty, robotic bear.

The ramp (which was later picked up by two very well-intentioned, if bossy, tow truck drivers) missed our gas tank. It missed the brake line. It even missed the tire itself. But it did a tidy number on the wheel well and the rear bumper.

Which is why the bumper was white knuckling it down yet another quick-paced road this afternoon.

It's been an eventful month. Evidence of the fire and flood are all but repaired. I've managed to talk most of our plants into stepping away from the ledge (Life really is worth living, I tell them passionately!). The doc says the kids are on their way to good health. And the thousands of dollars worth of damage to our vehicle will soon be repaired.

From the moment my husband and I laid eyes on our sons after that house fire, until the moment I drove home after that crazily freak accident we have not stopped saying Thank you, Lord. Thank you for safety. Thank you for fantastically good outcomes to could-have-been-worse situations. Thank you for insurance! Thank you for the many, many people in our lives who care enough to offer support, even help, in strange times.

After that encounter on the highway last week, I've also added a prayer for ongoing protection from the enemy of God, the enemy of all of us who love God; he'd like to see us destroyed, ruined, worn-down, distracted. I'm reminded that there are unseen forces at work ~ for us, and against us.

I should probably go haul the bumper out of the backseat of the van now. Time for some duct tape and twine and another encounter with the good folks at the insurance company!

If you make the Most High your dwelling ~ even the Lord, who is my refuge ~

then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent.

For He wil command His angels concerning you

to guard you in all your ways;

they will lift you up in their hands,

so that you will not strike your foot against a stone...

"Because he loves me," says the Lord,

"I will rescue him; I will protect him,

for he acknowledges my name."

~Psalm 91~

The Secret of God

I (believe) in love not because it (is) an alternative to hate.
Love has no alternatives.

Love is all there is.

Love is the only truth of God that matters.
Love is the occupation of God, His sole employment.

There is no use asking if the human race matters.
To choose to love is to take up the occupation of God.

To love like God is to take prejudices and hatreds and hold them in your hands and confess that they are of no consequence.
Only love counts.

Every other emotion is too small to matter.

Love lives.
Now and forever...love.

No other emotion is granted pulse or breath in the courts of God.
All other attitudes are dying or already dead.

Life is love.

Death is the illusion.
It is a trick played by demons in shadows.
Death is the farce of hate, a shabby play set in a dingy theater.

(Understand) the greatest secret of God:
You cannot serve people nor save them without loving them.

You cannot practice your animosities while you are trying to save the dying.
You must presume that the dying are worth saving because they are human and in need.

~ Calvin Miller, The Book of Seven Truths ~

Bronze

encourage one another

~ 1 Thessalonians, Hebrews ~

I'm late. My son is in the bronze medal game and I'm missing it. I'm rushing toward the bleachers to watch the last half of the match when I hear his name. People are shouting, some screaming, "CORY! Get the ball to Cory!"

The small stand of seats is filled with cheering parents and siblings. I move away from the crowd and lean up against the cool chain-link fence bordering the pitch. My son has his stick on the ball and is driving toward the net, four of his opponents pursuing him ~ hard. A rumble rises from the crowd of observers, "Run, Cory! Hit it! Keep going!"

Men I have never seen before are belting out my kids' name at the top of their lungs. They're begging the coach to leave him on the field. They're pleading with him to get that ball between the posts. Cory snags the ball from the other team. He pushes toward the net. The goalie is quick and agile; he stops my son cold, time and again. Three fantastic shots on net, three stellar saves. Then, nimbly weaving through a crowd of challengers, Cory winds up for the hit of the game: the ball is in. It's a goal! My son's team wins the bronze!

Parents and kids alike go nuts with excitement. Dads, one after the other, approach my kid with head rubs and pats on the back, "Nice job, Cory!" "Good shot, kid!" They acknowledge him by name. They're proud of what he did for their team and grateful that their own sons and daughters have experienced victory, too.

We find our way toward each other eventually, he and I. I cup his sweaty, heat-mottled chin in my hand and we talk about how hard he had to work for that goal. I'm proud of him. I tell him so.

As a parent, my insides have gone to mush. Why? Because I'm proud of my kid? Because he won a game? I suppose so. More because his name was on the lips of his fellows ~~ for fifteen minutes one Saturday morning he was the focal point of the shouted encouragement of the crowd.

If I, as a very human mommy, feel awed and joyful when my son is encouraged, I wonder what the Maker of the world experiences when we, as His adopted, cheer each other on?

Does His heartbeat pick up when He hears us spurring each other on in our day-to-day? Do His insides go all wobbly when there's a crowd of us just pulling for the one who's laying it all on the line, hands and feet hard put to the task at hand, pressing toward the goal? Does His chest swell with pride at the thundering sound of His people reminding each other that this faith we are pursuing, while challenging, even difficult, is eternal?

Is there someone in your world that needs encouragement today? Not Internet-feel-good-warm-fuzzy messages, but your heart-felt support. The kind of cheer that only you can raise for that one?

Do you need encouragement today? Drop a line, if you do. There are friends in the bleachers, watching you make your way through the crowd, driving that ball toward the goal. We'll shout your name ~ loud ~ over and over again until that ball hits its' mark. Because you, child of God, are so important to our team.

encourage one another

~ 1 Thess., Hebrews ~

A Reason For Toilet Scrubbing...With Finesse

If a man is called to be a street sweeper,

he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted,

or Beethoven composed music,

or Shakespeare wrote poetry.

He should sweep streets so well

that all the hosts of heaven and earth

will pause to say,

here lived a great street sweeper

who did his job well.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men...It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

~ Colossians 3 ~

Someone's At The Door

The doorbell gongs. You hastily set aside whatever you're doing and shuffle to see who's there. What started out as a light afternoon rain shower has become a thundering storm of lightening and hail. You pick up your pace, not wanting to leave your visitor in the weather too long.

And then you see them. Through the floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to your well-kept front door you see two clean-cut, perfectly pressed, young men. The Mormon's have arrived. With a sigh of frustration, you turn the bolt and yank open the door. "Good aftern..." Elder so-and-so begins. Without making eye contact, you blurt, "I'm a Christian!" and shut ("slam" would be too harsh an adjective, surely) the door soundly in his face.

You have a fleeting twinge of guilt as you watch them scurry down the front walk, pea-sized hail pelting them as they lunge for their car doors. But the twinge is easily ignored as you give yourself a gentle pat on the back for standing up for what you believe in.

I laugh ironically as I coax this story, and a few others out of the two young men sitting at our kitchen table. They've come to share the good news of the book of Mormon with us ~~ undaunted by our insistence that we will not convert. They are young and idealistic and convinced of the rightness of their mission. And their impression of those of us who call ourselves "Christian" is framed by personal encounters of the impolite kind.

I tell a quick story of my own. My neighbors have seen us talking with the Mormon boys. One by one, sometimes in groups, they've asked me "Are you guys Mormon?" "Nope. Christian." I reply. And God conversations have been started as a result. God talk that I have not known how to initiate has been sparked by our attentiveness to those kind, helpful, earnest young men.

We know that we disagree on many things, us and the Mormon's. We understand that they are at our door to convince us of the truth of their way, and we know that we will not be convinced. But our differences do not justify rudeness. They do not justify judgement. Our differences, and the fact that they've shown up right in our front yard, provide us the opportunity to express the character, the unreserved tenderness, of Jesus.

So, the next time that doorbell clamours for your attention and your visitor is a faith peddler, leave them with something unusual to talk about at their evenings' debriefing. Leave them with the Jesus that you carry about with you ~~ leave them with a kindness, a prayer (they'll always let you pray with them, if you offer), a can of soda (they'll be pounding the street until well into the evening). Leave the judging up to God and just love them like you love yourself.

1 John 4

A Patch of Green

July 2006 I have a garden. A small, square, city-bound plot. A bird feeder sits securely in one corner, inviting sparrows to dive in-and-amongst the dozens of sunflowers growing there. The flowers are strong and lean and generous. Some hollyhocks (or are they gladiola's? I can't remember which I planted and I'm not good about marking these things.) are sprouting in a patch beside an antique table from Gramma's old farm house; a table laden with old pots and bowls and dipping cans.

The rows of carrots and kohlrabi, zucchini and lettuce are relatively straight and promise a meal or two of a refreshing alternative to store-bought veggies. Saskatoon berry bushes sit unobtrusively beside newly planted mint (goodness knows what I'll do with mint, but how can something that smells so remarkable not be planted?) and a pepper plant is contentedly making its' way toward maturity.

Two young apple trees flank the patch, their pink blossoms a reminder of purity and the determination of beauty to make its mark on this planet.

A picture perfect garden patch? Yes, except that I've neglected a few details.

I have, I should mention here, a minor character flaw. I'm not very good at saying "no." My name means Helper of Mankind and it seems that the title, combined with a thorough religious ~~ Mennonite, more specifically ~~ upbringing have conspired to form me into a relentlessly people-pleasing "Yes!" woman.

So, when our neighbors generously offered us a load of top soil from their yard this spring, you can guess that my response was a quick, "That would be wonderful! How Thoughtful! Thank you!" I said this despite the knowledge that it would be the ruin of my tiny backyard patch of green and growing things. I said it knowing that their offer was not one so much of kindness as it was one of convenience (much easier to haul the dirt across the alley than to the dump).

I have been working the soil in our garden for three years, adding peat and compost and heaps of good dirt into the mix. This was to be the weedless year. The year of bounty!

And then I said a hearty "Yes!" to a load of very bad dirt.

Now my poor kohlrabi and onions are being outmaneuvered by hundreds and hundreds of weeds. Tall, spiky, menacing thorns and delicate, creeping, insidious ground covers. Stink weed is thrilled to assault passersby with it's sour stench and the dandelions are putting down some serious roots.

Every few days I go out and hack away at a bit of the devastation, but I'm losing the battle and will likely give up entirely before long.

I really do need to learn how to say no.

June 2007 That bad soil was the ruin of our garden. This spring, the boys and I spent hours digging up, and hauling away, wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of weed-infested earth. My intention in accepting the dirt was good: I care about my neighbors. A lot. I want to help them. I want to make their lives easier. I helped them solve a short term problem (dirt removal) by letting them unload in my back yard.

But the long term effort/cost to us far outweighs the short-lived ease that they enjoyed. I would have felt terribly guilty in not accepting their dirt. I would have wrestled with it for days (How dare you?! You could have helped them!!). As it is, I'm still yanking their weeds out of my soil. I've re-worked that corner, hauled away old mess, and loaded in fresh dirt, and finally given up on the idea of a vegetable garden.

I'm going to practice the words, "No thank you," "No," and "NO WAY!" Because just like the soil in my garden plot had value and potential for producing abundantly, the territory of my heart and mind have value and potential for fruit bearing. I need to tend carefully, deliberately, thoughtfully to the sorts of things I till into the mix. There are times when "no" is the only right answer to a question of how I'll spend my time, my energy, my generosity, my love. The cost of an ill-timed assent can far out-weigh the discomfort of a gentle, "Not this time."

My son, preserve sound judgement and discernment,

do not let them out of your sight;

they will be life for you,

an ornament to grace your neck.

Then you will go on your way in safety,

and your foot will not stumble...

Proverbs 3

Furry Nothings

Late spring moisture hangs in the warming evening air; late-in-the-day sun evaporates evidence of a recent cloud burst. My pace is determined as I begin my trudge to the corner store. I am focused on shedding the days' frustrations, finding peace, hearing God.

What I hear, instead, is a barking dog.

My eyes turn toward the sound. Three young children capture my glance. Three wee, brown, wide-eyed children. Their own stares are fixed,wary. A woman and her dog (a tiny bit of thing; a tuft of black fur on the end of a too-long leash) have rounded the corner and are coming toward the kids. Their eyes do not leave that dog.

To her credit, the woman skirts their small crowd by walking on the street beside them. As she nears, the little boy backs himself up onto the nearest lawn. The dog-master of that particular patch of green does not appreciate the intrusion and, from his station just inside the front door of the house, lets fly a threatening clamor of snarling and wild barking.

The little boy is frozen to the spot. Behind him, a noisy menace, in front of him a stranger wielding another furry threat. His sisters, meanwhile, are caught in this same drama. The eldest sits, locked in one position, on her bicycle. The smallest of the three, a tiny, delicate girl is slowly inching her way down the street, away from what all seems very scary.

The dog walker, a woman of immense proportions, slows her pace, her too-small eyes, and wobbling chin drawing to a near halt in front of the kids. My attention heightens as she, shockingly, spews, "Whatsa' matter? Scared of dogs? Huh?" she demands. "Are ya'?"

She's directing her sneer at the boy on the lawn, ignoring the nearby girls. His eyes do not move from the dog on the leash. His back tensed, hands unmoving in front of his heaving torso, he chokes out a quiet, "No..."

"You ARE. You. Are. Scared. Of. DOGS." Her tone is low and mean. "Why d'you say yer not when you are?" she charges. I make a sound from my place across the street, hoping to draw her attention away from the frightened ones. Suddenly aware that she is not alone, she picks up her lumbering pace. I stare after her, willing her to say one more thing, to make one backward glance. If she does, I'll be after her. She does not.

I carry on in the opposite direction, leaving the children to patch themselves up with reassuring touch and careful play.

The frustrations and fears of my own day quickly crowd my thoughts. I am often immobilized by the barking dogs and bloated, accusing interlopers of my own my mind.

Aren't we all.

With a noisy threat behind us and a wispy unknown out front, Depression, Failure, Emptiness, Fear waddle their way into our thoughts with their spitting accusations of "This is all you are. This is all you will ever be. Don't deny it. You know it's true." And with the fears pressing on all sides, and that voice sounding so sure, so potent, it's hard to disregard the stinging slander.

And then comes that distraction from across the street. Someone bigger than we are can see what's going on ~~ can see it for what it really is. Someone that is not unsettled by noise makers or uncertainty. Someone who can hear our over-inflated, mean-spirited attacker for who she really is. Someone who can send her on her way.

That Someone knows. He watches. He waits. He intervenes. To a point. And when the danger has passed, sometimes He stays outside of the drama, gently observing as those of us caught in these moments of pain and wrong and uncertainty move toward each other. He trusts that we'll reassure each other, redirect each other, remind each other that all is well. That sometimes the threats aren't real, they're just clamoring distractions and furry nothings. That always the cursing meanness is just an over-indulged bully.

The near summer sun begins it's long, slow settling. I walk. I accomplish my errand and connect with a friend for the rest of my evening exercise. And my gaze shifts from street dramas and a full day toward the Someone that is bigger than I, thankful that He is watching.

The Lord is faithful...He will protect you from the evil one.

2 Thessalonians

What Boat?

Once upon a time there was a man named Bob. Bob was a happily successful suburb-dwelling business man with a happy (also spelled d-e-l-u-s-i-o-n-a-l) wife and happy children, happy dogs and a happy home.

One day while Bob was busy doing mellow Bob things, God said, "Hey! You, Bob!" Bob responded immediately to the voice, grateful that the Creator of the World got his name right (Being referred to as "Rob," "Ronald," or even "Doug" is not uncommon for a man with such a complex and unusual name.).

"Er...yes, LORD?"

"Get outta' the boat, Bob."

"Excuse me?"

"Outta' the boat. I want you to get out of the boat."

"For sure. What boat might that be, God?"

"The comfortable, relaxed, chillin' out comfort zone of a boat you've been floating around in for the past eight years. I want you out of it."

"Out? Like into the icy, turbulent, lurching waves of the gigantic untamed sea of life?"

"Uh...well...that's a little more drama than I intended, but yeah. That 'out.'"

"I dunno. It's pretty comfortable here in my metaphorical boat."

"Don't I know it!"

And so Bob was faced with a decision. Remain comfortably in his "boat," sailing phlegmatically through life in a contented fog of self-satisfied oblivion, or step out onto those analogous waves and see what exactly the wave-Maker wanted him out there for.

Bob, remarkably calm in the face of pending disaster, told his devoted (also spelled
m-a-u-d-l-i-n) wife that Great news! God wants me to get out of my comfort zone and start taking some risks for Him! He says I should 'Get out of the boat.'

Aforementioned committed (also spelled h-i-s-t-r-i-o-n-i-c) wife, with a startling lack of calm replied, Stay in the damn boat! Yes, she did. Bob was amused. And then he proceeded to pack all of his figurative spiritual, emotional, and mental bags in preparation for his starboard leap.

He leaped. That heretofore unassuming, silent, compassion-less man jumped into that roiling metaphorical sea where he would quickly becoming assuming, conversational, and responsively compassionate.

And there he floats today. Bobbing along, moving from one white-capped wave to the next. Consistently hearing that same God voice as it tosses unsuspecting sea-flounder-ers into his chunk of the ocean. Bob is very much out of his comfort zone as he reaches out to lend a hand to some sinking soul, or to give a listen to some hollering water-treader.

The boat's long gone. He couldn't find it to climb back into if he wanted to.

His wife, meanwhile, is missing her man, so she's straddling the side, dangling a tentative toe in that chilly, chilly sea. She knows Bob's got it right and the boat is very empty without him. She's strapping the kids to her back and preparing to hurl herself, boys and all, over the side in pursuit of her man and her God.

The dogs will have to fend for themselves.

Bob Is Out of The Boat (P1)

A crowded train car. The smell of unwashed bodies, soiled babies, over-done teenagers, ethnic foods, and false-scented women assaults him as he eases into his chauffeured ride. Lowering himself onto a smooth, cool seat, he reaches into his backpack in search of his O'Brien novel. He pauses. Something tells him this is not a morning for reading.

An hour earlier, my husband was out for his morning jog, dogs at the heel, clear morning wind sweeping up against sleepy lips and a strong jaw line. In those early hour moments, he raised his voice to his Maker with the same question he poses every day: Wherever you are, God, whatever you're doing, I want to join you. Where can I join you?

Time ~~ a little over a year's worth ~~ and practice are teaching him that the commute to work is more than an hour to kill en route to the office. His reach toward God and His request to be part of what God is doing, moment by moment, wherever we are, has drawn him into a challenging, often uncomfortable, state of awareness of the people around him.

This morning he has that increasingly familiar sense that his book should stay in his backpack. He begins to pay attention to the people surrounding him. Two business women standing in the aisle directly beside him. A mother with an unco-operative, belligerent toddler in the next car over. A twenty-something laborer, sleepy eyes and haggard brow testifying to another long week. An elderly gentleman, unsteady on his feet, wearily nudging his way onto the standing room only train car.

And Bob knows that his out-of-the-boat moment has come. He rises as the elderly man approaches and asks, Excuse me, Sir? Would you like to sit down? He sees the man visibly relax as he smiles gratefully at Bob. And as he's about to claim Bob's seat, Business Woman #1 slips nonchalantly past them and into it.

Bob is taken aback. In years past he would, first, have held his own seat, not giving any thought to anyone around him. He does, after all, have an amazing book to read! In years past, had he attempted to aid an old man with the offer of a seat only to have it scooped up by a self-absorbed woman, he would have blushed uncomfortably, shrugged dismissively at the old guy, and carried on with his day.

But this is not one of those years. This is not one of those times. The book is still in the backpack and there's a God thing going on. Bob turns to the seat thief and says, pointedly, "Excuse me, Ma'am, but I was offering my seat to this man. I think he needs to sit down."

Business Woman #1 is not amused. With a fierce glare directed at Bob, she flounces past him and back into her standing position whereupon she engages Business Woman #2 in a heated and bitter exchange about the arrogance of that man. What a jerk! her glare shouts.

Elderly Gentleman, meanwhile, has gratefully claimed the re-vacated seat.

BW 1 and BW 2 continue to fuss and bother as the train pitches and surges its way along the city track. Bob stands alongside them, uncomfortably aware that these moments of overt kindness are intensely public interactions. There is no getting away from the offended ones and not much comfort from the honored ones. He settles in for the thirty minutes it will take to get from the here of home to the there of the work day.

Downtown. Finally. With backward glares and continued complaints, the two women exit the train. Bob is dejected, frustrated, unsure. He had that God sense; he felt certain. The simple offer of a seat to a man in pain should have been a good thing, but it had deteriorated into a morning start of criticism and rebuke. He wonders if he's getting this God stuff right after all.

The next stop approaches and Old Man rises shakily from the oh-so-offending seat. No words are exchanged. But then, the look of gratitude and respect. As he moves past Bob toward the cars' folding doors he briefly, intentionally grasps Bob's arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Bob is undone as he recounts this story. Undone with the frustration of bumping up, again and again, against the injustice and selfishness of our fellow man. Undone by the uncertainty of following Jesus in these Godless times. Undone with relief that despite the apparent undermining of a small kindness, the tenderness of God was felt.

Sometimes, when we obey God's whisper of direction, we make what we feel are strong connections with people. Can I pray for you? we ask. Let me tell you a bit about my God, we suggest.

Always, when we obey the God whisper, we are touched more deeply than ever we touch. Bob is practicing using his hands, his voice, his feet to put action to something he sees God doing nearby. On this day, his obedience led to God using another person to bring the tenderness of Jesus into his own day.

We are, together, learning to trust the gently urging voice of God that says, "Go. Do." We are learning to trust that although no lives (that we can see) are turning to Jesus, no healing is occurring, no demons are fleeing, we are in the process of learning to obey ~~ and learning to accept that obedience to the one small request is enough. For now.

For now, for today, we are required to listen and to follow. A relinquished seat. A listening ear. A responsive, engaged conversation with a clerk, a banker, a tradesman, a mum, a youth. A five dollar bill slipped into an unknowing pocket. A lifted supplication as we drive past an accident. A silent prayer for the troubled one we see across a crowded street.

For now. Today. That is enough.

Bob is out of the boat.

Let Him Go

Acts 3

Peter said (to the begging crippled man), "Look at us!"

So the man gave them his attention,

expecting to get something from them.

Then Peter said,

"Silver or gold I do not have,

but what I have I give you.

In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk."

Taking him by the right hand,

he helped him up,

and instantly the man's feet and ankles became strong.

He jumped to his feet and began to walk...

Our early evening dog walk has landed us at the local video store. My husband is inside, scouring the shelves for something that will interest us both. I'm outside, warm urban air swirling around me, dogs at my feet, waiting. Waiting and lost in thought, mildly aware of the dozens of people going in and out of the liquor store adjoining the movie shop. Vaguely cognizant of the cars moving through the parking lot. Bored. Waiting.

And then he catches my eye. A man of some height, thirty-something, in loose, light cotton shirt and pants, nutbrown, watchful. Signs of mental illness or developmental delay. He's scratching. Incessantly. Scratching his tummy, his legs, his arms, neck, and backside. Our eyes meet and I smile. He grins and moves on, suddenly turning back to quietly ask for cigarette. I don't have one. I tell him so. "Sorry," I say. "I don't have one. I have nothing for you."

I have nothing for you. But the whisper voice of God is saying something different, "I don't have a smoke, but what I do have, I give to you. In the name of Jesus..."

I quell the God thought. I quiet the God thought because the alternative is aggressive, pursuing, provoking, strong.

A split second of decision time: Call him back the Jesus in me urges. No way! the Me in me replies.

Call him back for what? What would I say? What would I offer of Christ? I don't know. I'm inexperienced, unpracticed, wobbly in my faith.

I let him go. No cigarette. No Jesus.

I let him go.