Columns

Our firstborn lives in the Midwest. We visited by phone one morning on her way to get groceries. When she stopped for gas, I heard her say to the screen on the pump as she pushed the buttons, “NO, I do NOT have a rewards card. NO I do NOT want one. NO I DO NOT care about saving money. YES! I need a receipt! What? Now you’re out of paper and I have to go inside? Do you not know it’s 3 stinkin’ degrees out here? STOP with all the questions! Just give me the gas for crying out loud!”

Her door slammed and her voice returned to her normal pleasant tone.

“Hey Mama. How are you? How was your week-end?”

“Are you freezin’ Darlin’?” I laughed at her misery. According to my phone it felt like negative 11 in Ramsey, Illinois where she lives.

“It’s so COLD!” she confirmed as she cranked up the heater hot enough to singe the hair off her legs. Except I’m pretty sure she was wearing several layers of britches.

“It snowed the whole time we were in church yesterday. Our cars were covered when we got out. Then last night we had a fellowship meal and wondered if anyone would come. We had a great crowd and a really good time!”

I smiled at my daughter’s cheery disposition, well… minus the whole gas pump thing. She is one of the most positive and encouraging people I’ve ever known.

Her oldest daughter had a wreck last week in South Carolina where she attends college. Thankfully it was not her fault. Someone ran a red light and did several thousand dollars worth of damage to her vehicle. Stephanie was saying how thankful she was that Mykaela was not seriously injured.

“She’s pretty sore, and very shook up. Her car isn’t drivable, but they gave her time off from work. The other person’s insurance has been amazing and very helpful. It could have been so much worse.”

I glanced out the window as she told me about the things on her plate for the next few days. To me it was overwhelming. She’s writing a VBS curriculum, planning her sessions for a ladies retreat, and putting the final touches on a Girls’ Conference hosted by her church this week-end.

I looked at the mud that’s puddled up all around our house. The yard is so squishy it’s hard to get to the bird feeder, or anywhere else for that matter. It poured down again last night. I hate all this rain and silently wondered if it would ever end. Her words broke into my thoughts.

“Jeff and I spoke at a couples retreat for pastors and their wives this past weekend. It went really well, even the games. I came up with a Jenga game where we told something encouraging about our spouses and churches according to the stickers we drew. It was so much fun!”

Personally I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than play games which also require sharing my soul. I hate to admit it but I may be entering the early stages of Crudmudgeonry.

Another glance out the window revealed tiny birds taking a splash in the puddles under the feeder. They seemed as happy as-if they had good sense.

Cheerfully she informed, “I’m at Aldi’s in the parking lot. But the Jeep is really warm now. We can keep visiting if you’d like!”

I couldn’t help but smile as Stephanie continued. One can learn a lot from birds… and daughters… especially when they bring their own sunshine.

March 4, 2019 by Lynna Clark

I really hate whining. When our kids were little I’d stop them in mid-crisis to inform: “Mommy can’t hear you when you whine.” One of them commented when she had her own children, “I think I was an adult before I realized: you really COULD hear me!”

Now that I feel the need to whine, I’m not sure what to do. I try to keep my writing as genuine as possible. So I need you to know. I am hurting. Even a gentle hug is painful.

Did I ever tell you that I have a mystery disease? Pain grips my body at times with such fierceness that I am knocked onto my ample rear end for days. Last week was one such time. I was in so much pain I had to have help getting out of the recliner. I don’t know why. This ailment began over forty years ago when I was just a kid in high school. At least that’s the first time I remember being in unusual pain for no particular reason. I grew up around water where we jumped in the murky depths of Lake Norman from the family pier. One particular day when I sank into that cold water I really thought I might die. Slowly I climbed back onto the pier and rested in the sun. It seemed to help. Since my parents also had a “no whining” policy, I never said a word. Later when I went off to college things got worse. By the spring of my freshman year I was in such terrible pain I could hardly get home from south Florida. A doctor there gave me some pain killers so I could make the sixteen hour trip. And I figured if one pill was good, a couple more would be better. My fiancé David and his buddy Barry loaded up the Camaro, checked on the girl passed out in the back seat, and drove me home. I landed in the hospital for two weeks of tests. Frankly I was glad. Finally we’d get some answers! They took x-rays, spinal fluid, did an experimental test called a myelogram where they shot dye into my spine and searched for anything abnormal. Nothing showed up. According to them it was all in my head.

As I said before that was over forty years ago. That’s a long time to wander in a desert wishing for an end to the painful journey. During those years I’ve experienced every kind of emotion a person can have. Last week the full gamut of feelings hit once again. Tears, anger, exasperation, self-pity, you name it. I could not function. I was so mad I threw things. Okay, so it was another cancer bill I was sure I had paid, but clearly I was not the picture of style and grace.

In case you’re going through something painful too, I want to give you permission to whine. Even as I write that I cringe. I still really hate whining. However, God knows your heart. He’s a great listener! Plus He gets it. He knows that you and I are just dust. And if nothing else, some of us are going to enjoy heaven waaayyy more than others. Maybe then He’ll smile as He whispers, “Finally child! You’re in a place where whining is not only absent, it’s no longer necessary!”

Then He’ll hug us as tight as He wants. And it won’t even hurt!

My hubby had a motorcycle for a while and was wise enough to take a safety class at the community college. The instructor said something that stuck with David as he was learning to ride. “Be careful of target fixation,” he advised. “When something dangerous occurs, rather than focus on what you DON’T want to hit, focus on where you want to go.”

In other words, if a dog runs out, aim down the road past it and you’ll be less likely to wreck than if you’re looking at the dog. In the fifteen or so years that David rode, he wrecked one time. A sharp curve on a bumpy country road came up way too fast and all he could see was the barbed wire fence he would hit if he didn’t make the curve. He became a victim of target fixation. Thankfully he walked away to ride another day.

Eventually he convinced me of how fun it would be if we could ride together. So I mounted behind him on the cinderblock they call a passenger seat. We rode to the beach, to the mountains and many a country road especially in the spring when the trees first start to bud. The aroma of wild wisteria throughout the woods is so pleasant. Then the smell of fires burning in the fall has a way of bringing the senses to life. I really loved it.

One day we rode up to a state park which included a small mountain range. It was a gorgeous day for a picnic. Before we headed down the mountain I was happy to find a restroom. While David waited for me, he was actually solicited by a pimp who offered to lead him to a camper where a good time would be had by all.

Sorry delicate readers. I realize you just went from a peaceful overlook with a picnic to something disgusting. But that’s exactly what happened. Yes, broad daylight, North Carolina, beautiful park, and lewd fellows of the baser sort. I do not make this stuff up.

When I emerged from the bathroom, David took my hand and hurried down a steep hill covered in about a foot of loose wet leaves. Suddenly he stumbled a bit and turned his ankle. We sat on the side of the hill as I silently wondered how we’d get home. I had no idea how to drive a motorcycle. He didn’t tell me about the earlier solicitation until later. He was probably afraid I’d jerk a camper door open and express my hot displeasure. Thankfully his ankle was strong enough to drive and no harlots were harmed in the making of this story. But I decided to take my own motorcycle class in case I ever needed to drive.

I did way better than I expected. Of course the bikes used in the class were very little compared to ours. But I could maneuver it through the cones with ease. The instructor yelled at me to go faster, so I did. What he didn’t realize was that I couldn’t figure out how to stop. I was last in line and everyone else had parked neatly side by side waiting for me to finish. I saw it before it happened and I could not look away. Everyone scattered as I plowed right into the row of bikes knocking every single one of them down. As warned earlier, I became a victim of target fixation.

Writer Adam Holtz received the same warning in his motorcycle safety class. His instructor wisely added, “Where you’re looking is the direction you’re going to go.”

Have you been knocked on your rear lately? As Mr. Holtz says, “Scripture encourages us to look past our problems to the One Who can help.” In fact, Philippians tells us to focus on one thing: Forget the past and look forward to what lies ahead.

Sometimes we just can’t fix things. Instead of a picnic with a scenic view, ugliness comes out of nowhere. There is only One Who knows our future. He alone will get us safely home. Set your eyes on Him. He is worthy of our focus.