#18 - Thanksgiving 2016

This Thanksgiving Day of 2016, I woke to the wind and rain of the Pacific Northwest, thinking about what I am most thankful for this year. I came up with the retro date of August 17, 1969, the day I died and came back. The event came to mind, no doubt, because I'm thinking of writing my own story, and my life is anchored by this watershed moment. It hasn't mattered which way my life has spun out of control in the past, it's always come back round to this. You see, once you meet God--a divinity our limitation of language cannot articulate--you find that life looks and feels differently. If you're interested in reading my author's statement, here it is. I invite feedback.

“A watershed moment. Changed my life.” People say this when something alters their life trajectory and sets them on a new course altogether. Sometimes it’s a wonderful thing. Like for Anne (with an e), when she finds a home at Green Gables. Sometimes it’s a crucible. Like Pip in the Kent marshes, accosted by an escaped convict. Life ruptures with a jerk and a tear, launching us elsewhere. Sometimes watershed moments come more than once in a life time. Sometimes twice, sometimes three times. But for some of us, they come too often and life devolves into a tumultuous thing—wild and undefined, twisting and turning, nothing stable, nothing to count on, nothing to stem the dizziness as we’re tossed off metaphorical cliffs with a roar and a prayer, slammed into corners with no way out. My mother often told me, “You remind me of those fashioned baby clowns with fat round bottoms. Babies bat at them and they tip, but the ballast bounces them right back up. You have such bad luck. But no matter what life throws at you,” she’d say, “you always find your feet.”

I was in my mid-thirties when I started to ask, “But what if I break and my ballast scatters?”

“You won’t."

But I have broken and I did break.

This book is my story, for other broken women. Women who’ve known too many watershed moments and who find landing on their feet painfully problematic. It’s for women who can no longer be made whole by biblical talking points, bumper sticker theologies, or Facebook triteness.

My story is for women who stand in the food bank lines, who come trembling from behind their doctor’s door, who lie beaten at the feet of someone who claims to love them, who endure unspeakable horrors; women kicked in the teeth and around the block, clobbered by greed, oppressed by power, abused by the unrelenting self-interest of others. It’s for those who know life can become meaningless and disappointing and full of pain. My story is for these women because this I know: Despite our pain, confusion, and grief, God sends us the ravens when we find ourselves in isolation at the lonely, barren shoreline of Elijah’s creek, Cherith. He finds ways to penetrate the evils of this world to give us hope and, in my case, to whittle away at the false doctrines of health and wealth to a greater understanding of God’s infinite capacity to inspire awe.

I was once shared some elements of my story to a friend. She interrupted me. “And you still believe in God?”

I do. Because my story begins the day I died. I was seventeen years old. And once you meet God, it doesn't matter what assails. Life always comes back to Him.

#17: Hard Times Can Teach the Joy of Giving

Taking the five loaves and the two fish he looked up to heaven, and blessed, and broke and gave the loaves...to the crowds. And they all ate and were satisfied. And they took up twelve baskets full of the broken pieces left over.  —Hebrews 13:8 (RSV)

When my children were younger, I often worried about the permanent effects our near-poverty might have on them. My daughter Heather remembers being forced to sit alone in a classroom because she didn't have enough money to buy pizza with her classmates. I remember her putting the labels off her friend's cast-off Keds and gluing them onto the heels of her cheap imitations. She also remembers missing social events because my illness or work prevented my driving her to them. All I could do was pray for God's blessing on my children, and that He would keep all of us from bitterness.

This past Mother's Day, I began to see how God was answering my prayer. The first evidence was a lovely bouquet from Heather, who was away at college. It spoke to me of her love and understanding. The other, oddly, was a bill that arrived the same day. It was Heather's monthly reminder from an international charity. How can she afford to do this, I wondered, when she needs every penny she earns for school?

It was then I realized that her painful memories had not been a burden but a blessing. Hard times had taught my daughter the joy of giving to someone less fortunate than herself. I forwarded her bill, grateful that my children were turning out fine. Exceptional, in fact. And I breathed a prayer of gratitude.

Dear God, thank You for all of the abundance You bring when we trust You to turn our very little into so very much.

Originally published May, Saturday 18, 1996, by Guidepost's Devotionals

#16: Twelve Baskets

Originally published by World Vision Today in their Nov/Dec 1986 issue. Illustration by Richard Jesse Watson.

WHEN MY EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD SON, Blake, applied for World Vision's 30 Hour Famine study tour to Kenya, I was not surprised. Blake and his older sister and brother had always been concerned about world hunger, and they've sponsored children over the years through various childcare agencies. What did surprise me was the question I was repeatedly asked when he was chosen for the tour: "Why is your son so compassionate?" The first time I was asked, I blurted out: "Perhaps because he knows what it means to be hungry."

When my three children were growing up, we lived off food banks. As the youngest, Blake often waited in line with me, wondering what we might get. Sometimes we were disappointed. "People weren't very helpful this week, were they, Mum?" he'd say. Other times, "Wow, Mum, ravioli!" However, we were always given as much bread as we wanted. It was Blake's job to carry it, and he would trundle up to the car beside me clutching that bread.

Our Christmases were also of charity. The year Blake turned five, we were inundated from all sides: the food bank, the Salvation Army, a friend's church, a fourth grade class, even Safeway. The mounting presents under the tree marked "Boy, 7," Girl, 10," "Boy, 5," and "Mother," overwhelmed my children. Blake's big brother Phil--"Boy, 7"--sat on the sofa and sighed in bewildered dismay. "These people wasted their money. This is too much."

Charity was a familiar thing, and Blake and Phil accepted it as a matter of course. But when they entered school it didn't take long to figure out what their older sister, Heather, painfully understood about living in an affluent society. They stood in the food bank lines and took what they got, while other families simply shopped at the grocery store. They wore mismatched clothing, while their friends modeled Nordstrom's fashions. The constant disparity marked them. Would they grow up bitter? Become cynical? Would they make money their god, striving after material security in order to compensate?

The generosity of strangers held the greater impact. If the world was a harsh place, it was also a good place, and this was not lost on my children. The many kindnesses shown them over the years bridged their schizophrenic worlds of want and abundance. Blake may be compassionate because he knows what it means to be hungry. The fuller truth is that he's compassionate because he's had his hunger met.

The story of Jesus feeding the hungry multitudes with nothing more than a child's small lunch comforts me. Like that child, I  trusted God to take my little and somehow make it enough. What I couldn't figure out was the remaining abundance. Twelve baskets left over? What would that even look like?

The answer lies in Blake's own words, submitted in his application essay. "I want to return the favor now that I'm in a position to help." Reading that, I suddenly recognized my abundance. Blake (and his brother and sister) are my twelve baskets leftover. And the little boy who carted home free bread and ravioli has embraced a bigger task: World hunger. Once a grateful child, he became a compassionate man.

Today, 32 years later, my children still feed the hungry in  more ways than one. One of the most touching acts of kindness I have ever witnessed is of Blake squatting beside beggars in Bejing, rolling yen into their tins and speaking to them while I watched broken souls become human in the light of Blake's compassion. His big brother, Phil, has adopted a little Chinese girl with brittle bone disease.  His big sister Heather has taken in a little girl from Haiti, orphaned by the devastating earthquake of 2010. Compassion is the hallmark of all three.

#15: Rinse & Repeat--Pray Again

Cast all your anxieties on him, for he cares about you.
--Hebrews 13:8 (RSV)

I've been doing a lot of worrying these days--about my career, about a possible move to Canada, about finances. Each morning I pray for a calm spirit and a trust in God that doesn't waver. I list my blessings like the old hymn tells us:

Count your blessings,
Name them one by one,
Count your many blessings,
See what God has done. . .

But the next thing you know, I'm fretting. I start to list my blessings one more time, but again the worry rises. Why can't I pray and trust God once and for all? I wonder. Why do I have to keep working at it?

"Repeat if necessary." There's the answer, I thought. Shampooing isn't a once-in-a-lifetime thing. And neither is prayer.

As I dried my hair, I thanked God for His message from a shampoo bottle, and I began to pray again: "Here are my worries... And here are the blessings I thank you for: my three teenagers, my work, my family and friends..."

Dear God, it's comforting to know that prayer is "repeat if necessary," and that I can come to you daily, hourly, whenever I need to.

Originally published by Guideposts Devotionals on Thursday, April 18, 1996

#14: Learning To Give Appropriately: My Panda Bear

Each one must do as he has made up his mind, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. --II Corinthians 9:7 (RSV)

1950's Vintage Panda
Could well have been mine.

Panda was my favorite toy when I was five. That Christmas, the fire department collected old toys for poor children. Even though Panda begged me not to give him up, the voice of my Sunday School teacher quietly argued, We never give God what we don't need. We give Him what we love the most.

My hurt worsened as I rode with my mother to City Hall, clutching dear Panda to my chest. “Go ahead,” said a fireman. “Lay your nice little bear right here.” Numb with grief, I laid Panda on top of a rusty truck. A lady with an orange hat dumped a stack of boys' toys on top of Panda, and I rode home heartbroken. But I didn't cry, then or for years; that would have meant I was selfish, and I didn't want to be selfish.

Ten years later I created a wonderful doll from my mother's scrap bag, with a wardrobe to rival Queen Elizabeth's. I took McCall (I'd created her from a McCall's magazine pattern) with me that summer to my grandfather's beach house. I'm not sure when I took it into my head to give her away, or why, but by the time we reached the cabin I knew I would. And when we found the Pattersons, missionaries home on furlough, also at the beach, I knew to whom I would give McCall--the youngest of the five Patterson girls.

“Are you sure you want to give away your doll?” my mother asked. This time I didn't hear my Sunday School teacher. I heard my own heart, saw the little girl and nodded yes. At fifteen, I'd learned what my Sunday School teacher didn't understand: God didn't require me to give away my heart, just to give from my heart. I had made up my mind for myself, and so I could give gladly and freely.

Sometimes I still grieve over Panda. But McCall? I remember her only with joy. She was given from a cheerful heart, freely and without guilt, so there's no room for regret.

Dear God, help me to know my own heart and mind so that I can give appropriate
gifts that bring everyone joy and none of us pain.

Originally published by Guidepost's Daily Devotionals June, Thursday 22, 1995