At the Hands of a Craftsman

What do you like to do? When considering the perfect occupation or weekend retreat, what would you do?

My uncle was a carpenter. His basement was full of enormous power tools -- lathes, saws and all manner of woodworking amenities. The smell of scorched wood, and crackling curls of maple littering the floor --it was captivating. His tools; my foray into craftsmanship.

My nana taught me needlework as soon as I was able to balance a hoop and needle. I loved sitting at her feet, her bag open in front of me. I'd root through embroidery hanks and thimbles --so much potential. Her tools; my toys.

Then there's the unfaithful husband. The drug-addicted daughter. The death of a parent. The bankruptcy. The cancer.

No, you haven't turned a page. These are tools also. Not all of them my experience, but close enough. These are the tools God has used to change my life, or the lives of my friends.

Christians catch a lot of flak for worshipping a God who would hurt to heal or tear down to rebuild. And right now, trust me, we are knee-deep in teardown. But, I have learned that something good will come of it. Oh, I can't say that I'm gushing about the process, but truth tells me this is for a season.

The Bible contains account after account of folks who, throughout history have experienced the same phenomena as this --God's sometimes sharp tools applied to their lives --but this poem says it pretty well and encourages us all:

The Master Weaver's Plan

 

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.

 

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the under side.

 

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.

 

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.

 

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

 

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

-Author Unknown

 

 

Worth a Look!

I just wanted to draw some attention to this group of stars -- real stars. Not because they participated, or donned some designer duds, as is the reduced standard that qualifies numerous no-talents as "stars" these days. Because they determined to overcome and, in fact, it is adversity they credit with their victory. They set the standard for what it means to be a star, and in addition to their "No track, no problem" motto, they adopted a "NO Whining, NO Blaming" policy and stuck with it. These youthful paragons of character cared for one another and so highly valued the definition of team they earned their success!

PLEASE check out their story:

http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/highschool-prep-rally/south-carolina-high-school-squad-wins-state-title-despite-not-having-a-track-173036930.html

Camouflaging Tofu

This is a post about the things we do for love, just so it's clear. I would have called it "The Things We Do For Love," if that title had not already been apprehended some time in the 1970s, by a small but successful band called "10cc."

I also want to be perfectly and permanently removed from what I'm saying here. I don't want anyone reading this to think that, upon request, I will one day pull up out front of your duplex ready to engage in any of the following activities:

1) Sorting, washing, and folding unmentionables. I realize this is a pox on every country which has not yet adopted the practice of wearing disposable skivvies. I realize there are many others like me, out there dealing with this very same issue, but let's face it -- we're all just doing it for love. No? Yeah, me either. I just know for certain I will never again have decent attire if I don't do it myself. And what am I going to do? Leave a hamper full of BVDs and who-knows-what sitting around until I am compelled by my own sense of cleanliness to do them anyway? On second thought, I do it for love. I love me.

2) Answering. "So simple," you say. Never. It usually goes like this:

"Yo, Babe!" 

"Yes?'

"Would you..."

And so it goes -- anything from running up two flights of stairs, moving three pieces of large furniture, and grabbing the blank piece of paper he left behind, to getting up an hour and a half early, making sure his blue shirt is washed and dried, mending his tan shorts, driving him to the shop, picking up his script, printing out the direction for his next job, and changing the oil in his Corvair. Answering. Never simple.

3) Listening. Quietly. Again.

4) Swapping spit. Oh, this is not what you think it is. The sloppy wet kisses of a two-year-old. Finishing the runny grape popsicle your grandson has been slobbering all over for the past 30 minutes or sucking the pimentos out of those little green olives because he doesn't like "the red things."  Drinking from the water bottle your niece laced with every floater known to man. You do it for love. Sometimes because of love -- after all, it's your kid, right? Or your sister's kid -- in which case, she has completely stolen your heart and most of your good judgment.

5) Relinquishing the remote -- sometimes.

6) Gushing over an egg carton caterpillar as if it were hand-painted by Cezanne himself. In my teens, I brazenly opened the bottom drawer of my mother's dresser. Sexy unmentionables? A cache of savings bonds and gold bullion? Nope. Every silly scribble, glob of paste, and fleck of glitter I touched, from nursery school (that's what Fonzie and his pals called it back then) to grade infinity! That's love, there.

7) Putting up with his insufferably dull sister and her husband. You may, however, earn the right to brag to all your coworkers about surviving your first and only Christmas party with a Dr. Who theme.

8) Planning healthy, filling, delicious, unique, inexpensive meals for your family each night. Dr. Oz has made his way into your T25 via Pandora. He is telling you you can no longer eat as you did in your twenties, and expect to wake up without chest pains. Somehow you find yourself afflicted with the task of doing healthy better, for cheap. And of course, it's gotta be good, and diverse, and substantial -- cat food wrapped in Beggin' Strips might be a practical snack, but trust me, there are other ways. So, you spend days traversing the WWW only to find the same eight recipes -- all containing some quantity of white meat chicken, diced tomato, and minced garlic. You eventually find yourself frying falafel burgers at 4AM, and you camouflage tofu in as many as sixteen different ways. Maybe they'll only discover it in...fifteen. But you try because you love them. You want to keep them around. You want to be around for them.

9) Wearing a parka in the summer. Or shorts in the winter, depending upon your arrangement. Dividing control of the thermostat between seasons may increase the life of your marriage by -- yeah, I have no idea, but rules are rules, and there's always payback when your season comes around!

10) Listening. Quietly. Again. (Oh, and somehow, if you look past them to see the results of DWTS, it doesn't count.)

Maybe things are a little different for you. Maybe you are taking a bullet, giving up a kidney, purchasing new wheels for her Veyron, or footing the bill for your new college freshman.  Maybe you're simply camouflaging tofu. But whatever it is, do it for love.

Something For May

*Ring. Ring*

"Who's there?"

"Someone who cares."

That was the call I received about two hours ago. A woman whose life has more going on than PECO. Her name is May, and she is a wonder. She is, well let's say, seasoned in age. (This is relevant or I never would have mentioned it).

We met in church. She has a unique style of worship. I often envision myself in God's throne room as I sing. She is there. Her lips are moving, her voice is crying out, and her hands -- her hands move in such graceful swirls and swishes. She is being carried away by the Spirit of God. Breathless.

She has a dog grooming business in the basement of her splendid old home. Her son and grandson do most of the grooming, but she helps. She often begs for Scott to bring our Tinkerbell to her for a good groom. "Like putting lipstick on a pig," I say. But she graciously, and with a pssht, extends her offer again.

In her room she has painted these beautiful accents on the walls, and resurrected these worn, sometimes broken, pieces of furniture, carrying anyone who steps inside, to a rustically warm French chateau. Cluttered, but not suffocating. Aged, but not decrepit. A true surprise, as the rest of her home completely belies this delicate little sanctuary. Her handiwork and creativity are marvelous.

Her Bible is a work of art. She has softened its pages with her exhaustive meditations, and has covered what seems like every square inch with love letters to her Heavenly Father. Sometimes, during church, she slides me notes across the red pew cushion. Pages photocopied from her devotional, covered with her calligraphy and intense hieroglyphics. Allowing me the tremendous honor of witnessing how God had spoken to her that morning. The beauty and passion that saturate the page is overwhelming. And the fact she prepared it just for me? Beyond special. 

May has so little, and has so much. When it comes to amenities, she lives simply and nobly. When it comes to life, there's nothing simple about her. Her life is dramatic and difficult, but she puts her face to the wind, her Bible in her hands, and with Jesus in her heart, she pushes forward. She cries when she's frustrated. She hates it when Satan messes with her and her family. She worries, but rarely aloud. And when it comes time to do what needs to be done, she and the Lord break their huddle, and she hits the ground running.

This is where that "seasoned" bit comes in. She's got all this drama, and she's in her Golden Years. She should be relaxing on an island somewhere. But as long as she's where she is with her Friend, Jesus, that's all that matters to her. And here she is, taking on my problems as well. "You've been on my mind," she says. "I've been praying for you." And that's no cliché. I know when I answer the phone, that despite everything that's going on in her crazy life, she is someone who really cares.