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Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I were privileged to spend a few short hours in our local children's hospital's PICU unit, where a friend of ours awaited his back-to-round-one chemo treatment. In a few short days, he had transitioned from the amazingly awesome R word (Remission) to the ugly R word anyone with a life-threatening illness dreads to hear: Relapse.
I felt blessed to be there, partly because this family opened up to us and became fast friends right away when we arrived in South Texas knowing no one. I wanted in some small way to return the priceless support they gave us in our own transition.
And partly because I was amazed at the resilience of a hurting family whose daughters dropped everything to come spend a few days with their brother, whose voices could be heard in laughter as well as in pain while we all spent an afternoon together like usual, except for the venue and the new R word.
They inspire me.
And my heart breaks for the difficult road ahead of them. I don't have words.
Yet even now, God has words. They come to my mind with a fresh hope, a fresh invitation to cling to those things that sustain better than physical nourishment, the promises of our God who never changes and never leaves us to face these valleys alone.
Will you join me in praying for this family whose son faces the dark days of his leukemia battle all over again?
Desire.
Oh, how I've been longing for a neat little space with hooks and nooks and a door to shut.
We step into the garden center, resolved. We've been eying the object of our desire for several weeks, and we're ready to commit, ready to put up its sides and hide our garden tools and a few snow tires (yes, even in South Texas) inside it.
We've looked at other ideas, we've done a bit of pricing (in dollars, hours, and skill level), and we're ready.
The sales rep, however, wants to warn us.
"Most people return these," he says. "They have a lot of pieces, and..." {he takes a wary look in my direction} "...if you only have two people it can take eight to ten hours to get it set up. It would be better if you had more people to help."
Still, we decide it's our best option, we pay, they help us load it up, and we drive home. I wonder if the eight-to-ten-hours estimate included the time it took to get the box from the car to its temporary home in the shade.
Commitment.
Mine is undaunted, but I'm the one who got a massage during the let's-organize-these-pieces section of yesterday afternoon, and therefore came home to the sorting already finished. My husband might be more committed to doing something to make me happy than he is to that heart longing for a few walls and nooks and hooks and a door to shut. #amazinghusband
I'm ready to go out and put something together, but perhaps today we'll wait until it's a few degrees cooler. You know. Like maybe down to 94 would be nice.
But we won't wait too long, because I'm picturing that de-cluttered patio space, and I get unashamedly excited about it. Set me to work on that thing, and I'll do and learn to do whatever it takes to reach that goal.
Teamwork.
As ready and willing as I am to help, I would never have gotten that box out of the car on my own. There are pieces big enough that they would be incredibly unwieldy if either of us tried to handle them alone.
Together, though?
We'll get this thing done in no time.
When I first got to college, I grudgingly wandered over to the welcome back bash. Introverted, but forcing myself into the circle of booths and cacophony of ridiculously loud music, I passed by all the clubs and stopped at only one booth: Adopt a Grandparent.
I put my name down, perhaps because I knew the girl behind the booth in academy and didn't know how to say no, and perhaps because I've always liked grandparents, whether they're mine or not.
The following weekend, when the time came for the Adopt a Grandparent club's organizational meeting (the one where I would be dropped off at a grandparent's house and left there for an hour or so, never having met them before), I had decided not to go. But that list? Where I had written my name?
I had also written my dorm room phone number. {We didn't have cell phones in college in those days, you know.}
She called. And so it seemed I couldn't get out of it. Of course, once I was in their living room, the one with all the books and paintings and rocks and minerals and people who loved me right away, eating home-made cookies and listening to stories of their lives, I was right at home.
I visited them several times a month for the next nine years.
I suppose I was there to bless them, and maybe I did, but I can't begin to put words to the ways THEY blessed my life. There's just something about people who have lived well for a long time that tethers me, reminds me what's important.
During the last year and a half of college, I wound up in a little country church on a whim one Sabbath and found myself there almost every weekend for the next five years.
Of all the things that delighted me there, the wide age range of my church family was near the top of my list. I loved being able to tell people that I had friends all the way from three years old (the youngest ones in the Sabbath school class where I played the piano) to above 90.
That one older than 90, she's still such a special lady (99 now, I think). This teapot used to be hers, and I think of her often, the newlywed for the first time at 90, who loved to sing hymns and laugh and make sure our church facility stayed coordinated and classy and well-maintained.
She's well educated, from an era where many women were not. She held herself and those around her to a high standard of values. In her, I found someone who could resonate with my own desire for excellence of character in all things.
I joked sometimes that I was born old, but if that meant being like these friends of mine who were still learning all the time and who had vibrant lives in every way imaginable, I was glad enough to be "old".
Or was it that they were still young?
A few years and a few states have gone by since my life and friendships were so richly infused with the span of ages, but here in our new location the span is beginning to widen again.
Yesterday, I sat on the couch reading a good book. Something inside it made me think of my new sweet friend across the street, who is several decades my senior. She and her daughter are just the kind of people who can sit down in the living room and really get to know a person, and the thought of them made me get up from the couch and walk across the street. We visited pleasantly for too short a time.
My eyes widen and my ears perk up when I hear her say how long she has lived in this valley we now call home. I know she will have a lot to tell me about this new climate of mine, the local history, what kind of bugs come out when, and how to grow those purple-leaved flowers I've seen in her yard.
She insists I pick lemons from her tree whenever I want, and I timidly take her up on the offer before I walk home again, heart happy for the new friendships and one huge lemon more than filling each hand.
I grew up helping my parents can peaches, pairs, apricots, applesauce, and sometimes plums. We froze strawberries and peaches and any other berries we could get our hands on in huge quantities, as well.
Thus when I was in college I asked my mom to pass on to me something her dad had done for her: canned fruit in pint jars to stock the dorm room with something awesomely delicious and homemade. She was quick to oblige, and supplied not only me, but also a good friend and roommate with a goodly supply of peaches in pint jars.
My husband grew up freezing fruits and berries, too, but he had the bonus experience of helping his mom make all kinds of berry jams.
These are traditions we've continued into our adult lives, even staying up late into the night in graduate school to make sure we got all our grape juice canned before the grapes we picked would go to waste.
Food preservation looks a bit different in South Texas, though. Because there's no winter to speak of, there's almost always something wonderful in season, and the idea of putting things away for the colder months just doesn't have the same urgency.
Nevertheless, try as you might, you just can't root out the food preservation habit once it's established. Your brain replays these messages over and over.
Home-made is cheaper.
Home-made tastes better.
Home-made in the cupboard is faster than a last-minute trip to the store.
Last week, my husband found some for $2.50 a box, which we thought was a great deal. We're hoping to get more this week. Our latest project, therefore, is to find as many ways to preserve mangoes as possible. Our ideas so far?
We'll freeze them--a couple of quarts are already in the freezer, just waiting to be made into smoothies and sorbets!
We'll dry them.
We'll make jam out of them.
We'll juice them, and research whether it's best to freeze or can the juice.
We might even make sauce out of them. Mango sauce on pancakes, anyone?
How I Freeze Mangoes
While I would hesitate to say there's one correct way to freeze mangoes, this is the way I'm doing it. At least this summer.
- Cut up the mangoes. I do this by making two slices, one on either side of the seed. Then I do the messy job of getting as much fruit off the seed as possible, after which I move on to the easy part of slicing each mango "half" while it's still in the peel, and then scooping the slices out of the peel with a spoon.
- Add a preserver. Depending on how long you expect your mangoes to last in the freezer, it can be nice to add something to keep them fresh. I add a little sugar (a Tablespoon or so for every two or three quarts) or Fruit Fresh (according to package instructions). Lemon juice might also work, if you don't mind the tart flavor with the sweet of the mango.
- Scoop into quart Ziploc bags or other container of choice, and put in the freezer. These will of course freeze in the shape they're in when they first go into the freezer, so it's good to find a flat space for them until they're frozen solid.
My husband and I have a little jar full of little craft sticks. When it's date night, and we haven't thought of something extra creative to do, we pull out a stick, and follow the instructions. All the dates in the jar are free, and the ideas range from the silly to the profound.
This week, when we looked at each other over supper and realized we had both forgotten it was date night (ah, summer, you make us forget which day it is!), we pulled out a stick that said, "make a prayer list and pray together".
We pray together every day, for our morning and evening worship, but we really enjoyed the chance to take time for more serious, in-depth prayer together. When we made our list, we claimed Bible promises for each issue or person on our list. Here are a few of the promises we claimed, and a few extras just for fun.
When you're tired and worn...
Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)
Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall: But they that wait upon the Lord
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles;
they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. (Isaiah 40:28-31)
When you don't know which way to turn...
I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye. (Psalm 32:8)
If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. (James 1:5)
When you feel like you can't do anything right...
For if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things. (1 John 3:20)
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. (2 Corinthians 12:9)
When you carry too many burdens...
Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you. (1 Peter 5:7)
Be careful for nothing;
but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let
your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:6, 7)
When you just want to be more like Jesus...
For this is the covenant
that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, saith the
Lord; I will put my laws into their mind, and write them in their
hearts: and I will be to them a God, and they shall be to me a people: (Hebrews 8:10)
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. (Matthew 5:6)
Today in the garden the parsley blooms, ready to make new seeds for a new generation. Yes, they're heirlooms, so I plan to harvest the seeds right from the plant when they're dry.
The okras and watermelons bloom again, too, on the verge of abundant fruits. The traumatized tomato plants continue their rejuvenation, putting out a
new fruit here, a pretty green leaf there, constantly amazing me with
their resilience.
Those rosemary plants, of which I planted far too many because I was afraid they wouldn't sprout and then they all did, look more like their name every day. The watermelons keep adding pounds to the fruits we've been dreaming about, and a few more Cayennes and Serranos blush ripe red.
Energy builds as each plant grows, closer to fruiting today than yesterday, bigger every moment. No water droplet gets wasted. Even the fig tree next door knows the season, and puts out fresh green fruits.
It's not even my tree, yet I can all too easily imagine how utterly disappointed I would be if, by the end of the season, I had tended and cared for it, and the fig tree hadn't done its job. But if I had created the tree to make figs, and then it didn't? That would be a let down I can't even fathom. (see Matthew 21:19)
The thought gives me pause to think about how often Jesus must have been disappointed, heartbroken, while He walked the earth, knowing how beautifully He made it in the beginning but seeing myriads of ways things just aren't as glorious as He wanted them to be now that sin's curse of thorns mars the planet.
When He should have been walking through His earth-garden seeing the plants and people just about to bear fruits, He met instead stunted plants and trees and people destitute of fruit and glorious purpose.
There's a little four-verse story in Mark that I've never paid much attention to. Right after feeding the four thousand, Jesus and His disciples get in a boat and land on the other side of the lake. He's immediately accosted by the Pharisees asking for a sign, trying to trap Him in His words.
If you ever feel like you just can't get away from people attacking you, well, you're not the first one.
Anyway, they ask Jesus for a sign to prove who He really is, and He doesn't comply. As if all the miracles weren't enough, or the way He teaches with an inherent heavenly authority. It's here that I generally skip on to the next story thinking how much better I am than the Pharisees because I call Jesus my Messiah.
You know what captured my attention this time?
At the end of this conversation, which in Mark chapter 8 seems to be the only thing that happens when He lands on that part of the shore, He turns around, gets back in the boat, and leaves.
I want to shout, WAIT! Stop! Come back!
Jesus didn't waste time and boat trips. What did He go there to do? What energy was building up in Him to bless the people of the shore town?
Certainly He didn't go all that way just to breathe a deep sigh in exasperation and sadness at their unbelief, and leave again, yet something kept Him from staying.
Was that moment a thousand times more grievous to Him than finding a fig tree that wouldn't make figs? Are there times when I too make Jesus sigh a deep sigh in grief, and then leave, because I'm so focused earth-ward that He can't transform my life the way He's like to?
It's a sobering thought, yet it's a thought I need to think and pray about seriously, because I want the energy in my life to build and build and build until I'm bearing fruits for Jesus and playing the part He has for me in this great war against evil.
There's a reason the word humbled sounds so similar to the word humiliated.
He wakes with a start, confused. There doesn't seem to be anyone in Nebuchadnezzar's kingdom who can help him straighten out his thoughts, or even remember what they were, until a brash young captive offers to take the case before the God of his fathers.
Put yourself in his place.
You agree to wait just one more night, because somewhere deep down you know if you can get to the bottom of this nagging dream, you'll have a piece of knowledge and wisdom worth more than anything else on earth.
Yes, you wait. Perhaps you pass another sleepless night in your wondering. You wait until daylight. You wait while Daniel takes time to offer praise to the God of heaven who revealed the secret. You wait while the young man hurries off to find your captain of the guard. You wait while Arioch in turn brings Daniel into your throne room, surpassed in earthly splendor by only Solomon's court itself.
You catch your breath as the Hebrew captive starts from the beginning of the dream, from this very moment in history, tracing the world's kingdoms and countries to the end of time.
Thou art this head of gold.
You're humbled by God's penetrating wisdom, given to a simple captive student on your behalf. Yet it would be hard not to let that go to your head. No one in the future of the world from you onward, except the King of the universe Himself, will surpass you in riches and glory.
You therefore begin to wonder how in the world they will overtake you, these lesser kings of silver, brass, iron, even clay. Certainly you will never be so weak as to be thrown down! No, it can't happen.
The more you think about it, the more convinced you become, until the miraculous circumstances surrounding the dream and the words of awe and praise that escaped your own lips slip into faded memories.
It's not a stretch at all now to make a giant image of gold as wide as Goliath was tall and point it up toward heaven as a symbol of your own enduring majesty, setting yourself directly in opposition to the only true King.
This time, you're humbled by a miracle.
Hebrews again. Captives again. The same God who delivered a visual prophecy covering the rest of the world's history delivered his servants from death when they refused to worship the mock prophetic image on the plain of Dura.
You're humbled, but a root of that pride-weed is still strong in your heart, and you let it grow.
You even start to believe that the entire kingdom of Babylon in all its glory is a product of, well, nothing short of you. It revolves around you, and you are the sole reason for not only its prosperity, but also its existence.
Hardly a memory remains of that God who could deliver a few Hebrew captives out of your hands, who was and is and shall be mightier than you throughout all the ages. From the outside looking in, it might be easy for those same Hebrew captives to think you were a hopeless case.
Maybe, though, they kept praying for you, and that's how you find yourself troubled over another dream. It's one more opportunity to break off your sins by righteousness, one more chance to show mercy to the poor instead of hoarding all the riches of the kingdom to yourself.
You, however, feel far too secure, and instead of taking a chance to change your ways, you settle back into your false security, letting that pride-weed grow a little bigger.
It takes more than a dream interpreted this time, more than a miraculous deliverance from a fiery furnace. And so you spend seven years living the simple life of an animal, eating grass, waking and sleeping with the sun, moistened by the dew of heaven.
Amazingly, when you come to your right mind again after those seven long years of deepest humiliation, you're not angry at God for putting you through such a strange and stringent trial. Instead, you bless Him. You praise Him. You thank Him. You honor Him.
Somehow this time, you've realized that pride only brings a multitude of curses, and anything that can be done to get that awful root out of your heart is worth the price, and you're grateful for that new and beautiful humble-plant growing in its place.
And those last words of your letter to the world?
...and those that walk in pride He is able to abase.
They're no longer a threat, but a promise.
Not just for you, the ancient king, but for anyone in the whole world, throughout history, down the ages of silver, brass, iron, and clay. Because humility of heart before God is the real treasure after all.
Anyone whose heart is so hardened with pride in all its forms of fear, anxiety, and self exaltation--yes, all these and more--that there's not even so much as the hint of a desire for humility can be entrusted to the same God who lifted Nebuchadnezzar up from the grass of the earth and restored him to a glorious kingdom when he could finally be trusted to bear a faithful witness to the world.
The same God who saved Nebuchadnezzar from himself can still save you. He can save those you love, too, and He is pride's only sure remedy.
