Ergo, My Ego

It started with Facebook, this silly lesson in life. "How Good Is Your Grammar?" I consider myself pretty meticulous when it comes to wordsmithing. wordsmithery? Language Arts. So, I took the quiz for a little self-aggrandizement.

"There, they're and their. Fewer vs. less. Parts of speech. Pluperfect tense." yada. yada. yada. Calculating your score...

"13 out of 15!"

13 out of 15? 13 out of 15? Oh, HECK NO! I'm the one who secretly corrects your grammar as you chat happily about your two-year-old's potty training success. I'm the one who even searches for the correct tense and meaning when I pray -- silently. 13 out of 15? Oh, there must me some terrible mistake. I'll simply retake it.

Calculating your score...

"13 out of 15," the ethereal proctor announced, once again. I vowed never to rest until this injustice had been undone.

Days later a dear friend, a most invaluable comrade brought justice straight to my door -- or, at least, to the other end of the phone. He had bedeviled by the same troublesome test, and the same vile 13 out of 15. Ah, sweet relief! Commiseration!

"You know P*t S****ds got a 15."

WHAT?! My Snuggie, my soothing balm of Gilead had just casually informed me, the guy who pushes the "pull" door, the guy who goes to the library looking for Facebook, the guy who could fail a blood test -- has just smoked us on a grammar quiz! Whatever whiff of satisfaction I experienced was hopelessly lost in the gale of humiliation and abject failure.

The sad part of all this -- and this is where the lesson comes in: I'm not kidding. Well, maybe a little, but not much.

When my initial score was revealed, I was perplexed. "I expected so much more of myself." The reality is: It's a quiz. On Facebook. I really need to get over myself.

When the quiz did not allow you to review your answers or even determine which were incorrect, I was annoyed. Because I wanted to study up for the next one? No. Truthfully, because I wanted to prove the test faulty. In other words, "No way I got those wrong!" Am I really that egotistical?

I didn't just retake the test. I re-re-retook the test. Yes, I took that stupid quiz four times. Each time with the same outcome. 13 out of 15. Exactly how much time did I spend? I'm not sure, but I do know I'm not getting it back, and it wasn't spent wisely.

And days later, when I had ceased to think about my "dearth of intellect." The minute my friend broached the topic and I was reminded of the whole sordid affair? I found relief in knowing he -- a man of great intellect -- shared my less than perfect score. Why? If I'm going to be labeled "stupid," I want some company. What is that all about? If my friend had gotten a perfect score, would I have even been able to laugh about my shortcomings?

And lastly, and probably most ashamedly, my less than complimentary judgment of our mutual acquaintance, Mr. 15-out-of-15. My friend actually questioned him with regard to his grammatical prowess. His answer? "Just because I can't talk doesn't mean I can't write." Classic! This guy is fully aware of others' opinion of him. And yet, it doesn't bother him one bit.

I wish I could say the same.

Will You Call Him "Father?"

My son was barely sixteen when he decided to go it on his own. To find his own place to live -- or not, handle his own education -- or not, make his own money in his own way -- or not. He demanded I cash in his bonds and clear out the savings account I'd been trying to watch over as I'd tried to watch over him. His initial decision was heartbreaking to me; the decisions he continued to make after that were even worse. There wasn't a day that passed I didn't think of him, or pray for him, or wonder if he was safe, or wonder why he chose the things he did. Some days I cried. Some days I thanked God for being a loving and sovereign Father who had His eye on the smallest of sparrows, and His eye on my son. Some days I put up walls, dusted off my hands, and shrugged, "What can I do?" Some days I scanned the crowd at parades and picnics. Some days I forgot -- not that he was my son, or that he was gone, but I forgot to hurt; I forgot to experience loss; I forgot to live without my son, and just lived. I thought they were the best days.

Today my devotions took me to Luke 15:11-42, the Parable of the Running Father. As I was growing up, it was so commonly referenced as The Parable of the Prodigal Son that I thought "prodigal" meant wayward or rebellious; prodigal means "spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant." And he was, but there is so much more to be gleaned from this story when we know Who the Father really is. I believe I've mentioned it before, but I have always felt as though I identified with each of the characters in this story: the reckless and selfish son, the jealous brother, and the heartbroken, loving father. Well, two out of three. Today the Holy Spirit really showed me something about this father I'd never seen before.

It can all be seen in the climactic return of this lost and prodigal son:

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him."

"While he was still a long way off." This parable falls right into line with two others found in Luke 15 -- a lost sheep, and a lost coin. In both of those cases the owner searched desperately for that which had been lost. Given the context, it does not appear this father had ever given up the search -- not for a day, not for a moment. Customarily, farmers did not live on their farms, so this does not appear to be a scene with some solitary figure cresting the hill of a sprawling estate, the distinguishable walk he'd had since toddlerhood betraying his identity, the father looking up from his raking, and the two locking eyes. Besides, the young man had demanded his share; this means land would have been sold in order to divide the portions between the man's sons. It is quite possible Jesus' listeners would have instantly deduced the setting to be a community -- residents and animals moving through the streets, neighbors watching, tongues wagging, a father walking streets he'd walked countless times before in search of the very one who'd betrayed and rejected him most vehemently.

And Dad's response? Running toward him! When my son was gone I'd often imagined what a reunion might be like, but it never included me throwing myself at him, risking more rejection and hurt. This father can't imagine what his son has been through or what ideas have been rolling around in that self-indulgent and belligerent little head of his, yet he runs to meet him. What if the son had remained stiff and unyielding to his father's embrace? Or even hurled vitriol and pushed right past him? And for an elder to run was highly undignified and equally unlikely. To run to a youth was unheard of. To hike up his robe to avoid tripping himself, thereby expose his legs to his servants and neighbors looking on? Scandalous. Shameful. But this true, selfless father abandons any measure of caution or self-preservation to greet this rebel with tears of joy and to shower him with kisses! Kisses! For a filthy boy who had acted so wretchedly. Not to mention the ramifications of a Jewish pig keeper. Jesus makes no mention of this young man even considering his need to clean himself up before appearing to his father. I'm certain he not only stunk to high heaven, but by Jewish law he had no right to get there -- he would have been decidedly unclean, unworthy. But Dad is willing to defile himself, to wear the stench of his beloved child's misdeeds if only to draw him closer.

The Father that Jesus describes never forgets. He never puts up walls to protect Himself from the hurt of losing a child. He never goes on about His life with periods of grief getting farther and farther apart. He is never distracted by thinking, "This one is so far gone right now, I'll deal with her later, when she's a little more broken, a little more tired of screwing things up her way." This Father is relentless in His pursuit. Whether you return His embrace and call Him "Abba," or whether you demand what is "yours" and reject His authority, He is your Father and He is pursuing you.

What Cancer Means to Me: A Creative Writing Essay by Judi Murphy

Do you remember elementary school? Those silly creative writing assignments: "What Christmas Means to Me." I don't think I ever wrote that Christmas means long hours and chaos; Christmas means a lack of, or completely ineffective planning, and cramming hundreds of thousands of packages through a building equipped for far fewer. Christmas means short tempers and even shorter periods of sleep. Christmas means managers you haven't seen all year standing over your shoulder anxious to help -- and by "help," I mean tell you how to do a job you've done for over ten years, a job they've never done. Christmas means uncertain arrival times for aircraft, uncertain departure times for tractor trailers, and an endless stream of phone calls regarding said uncertainties. Christmas means upper management popping in to high-five their partners, congratulate themselves and exchange gifts, while you remain another nameless peon in a sea of nameless peons. Christmas means warm lunchmeat sandwiches, and cold, crusty refried beans left over from the night shift's Christmas buffet.

As I left work this morning, I couldn't help but feel some sense of accomplishment for making it through my twenty-fifth Christmas ("peak season" as we refer to it) with UPS. I was thrilled to be making my way home to enjoy Christmas Eve with my family. But by the time I got there, the rain had soaked through my shirt, the sinus infection I'd been fighting had KO'd the top of my head down to my throat, and the "other thing," that thing we weren't going to discuss had gripped my heart. I'd been looking forward to Christmas, to the phones at work falling silent, to the glow of candlelight piercing the darkness of the sanctuary of Christmas Eve, to the joy of time spent with family. But with Christmas Eve finally here, it dawned on me that "the holidays" had arrived, and in just a few short days they'd be gone, and dealing with "the thing" would be back.

"The thing" is cancer. The "Big C." The thing I thought I'd been rid of last summer. The thing that showed up in my last round of blood work. "We'll talk about it after the holidays," the oncologist had said. And I'd been OK with that. The holidays seemed so far away. But now...

So, once again, my husband is a nutcase, and I am vacillating between trusting God for good health and facing the reality of bad health. I trust that God is good - no doubts about that -- but, I'd like to know the end of the story. I'm terrible when I'm really invested in a good book. I will turn to the last chapter and not read, but skim, for a name I know, a character I like -- "Did he make it OK? I'm not going to get all wrapped up in this guy if he's not even going to make it 'til the end of the book." It's no different with life. If I'm going to have to undergo radiation I'm going to live differently than if my next three sets of tests show negative. If I'm going to be sick for a while there are things I wanna do now; if this was just a mistake in labs, I can go on about my business.

When I really start to break this whole thing down, and focus on specifics, I have to ask: What, exactly, would be different if I knew these things? Would I do that whole "live like I'm dying" thing? Skydiving. Rocky Mountain climbing. Or would I just take care of those things that mean something to others: the Last Will & Testament, the final thoughts, the "where to find the buried treasure?" Or is it simply doing all the stuff we've been talking about: switching insurance companies, refinancing -- silly details crossed off my list, so I can concentrate on getting better?

But life is not a book, at least not one in which we can peak ahead. With the same tenacity and persistence, I do what I am called to do, what I've been trained to do, with the same patience and calm I refuse to get caught up in the panic and emotion of "peak season" at UPS, I will move forward in life. I will trust that God is good, that He holds the future -- my future in His hands, that He loves me; I will serve Him no matter how blindly, day after day, hour after hour. And will one day feel that sense of accomplishment as He says to me, "Well done, good and faithful servant... Enter into the joy of your Master."

Never Miss Christmas Again!

My son, my firstborn was born more than twenty-four years ago. In less than a day, my life changed forever. I'd waited more than nine months to meet this little life, growing and changing, reading and learning, but nothing could have prepared me for the love, the almost instantaneous bond, the dependence between us. His first communication, a loud, strong, "crackling" wail gave me goosebumps, and rings in my ears even today. His scent, his tininess, the softness of his fingers, the warmth of his body against mine as he nursed, his coos, his infantile and unsteady movements -- all turned my heart inside out. I had become a "we," and nothing could ever be the same.

Last night, Christmas Eve, I should have been at church celebrating the arrival of A Holy Babe. Instead, I was at home, in pajamas, nursing the cold that has been plaguing all of us for the past three weeks or so. I was disappointed, sure, but mostly I was out of sorts. I don't like staying home from church under any circumstances, but on Christmas Eve... As I looked on Facebook today, at the many pictures and posts of last night's celebrations, I became even more out of sorts. If I can't celebrate it "properly," it's almost as if the holiday has completely passed me by -- like some Scrooge who never woke up from his dream, I have slept through Christmas Day. I suppose, if I were like Scrooge, living alone and choosing to remain cut off from folks, I could stick the tree out for tomorrow's trash, stow away all the lights and bows, pack up any remaining gifts, and vow to give it another go next year. But does Christmas stop being simply because I missed the hoopla, or even if I were to refuse to acknowledge it ever happened? No more than my son has ceased to exist to the people who were not present the day he entered that room.

Jesus, our Savior entered the humblest and neediest of bodies, under the simplest and most insignificant of circumstances, so that He, the God of All Creation might be joined with us, might know deeply and experientially our struggles and joys, might understand our limitations, might bond with our needs and emotions, might prove to us His inexplicable love for us, might be the perfect substitute for us as He fully accomplished something necessary and wonderful for us. Now folks can deny that, can change the story to some grand myth or allegory, can hide under their bedsheets or behind their "civil rights," but denying something has never made it cease to exist; calling something a fairytale doesn't make it Mother Goose; rejecting someone doesn't negate their authority over, or devotion toward you.

My son and I have a bond, through blood and tears, laughter and love, that no one would ever think to deny. Whether you've "missed Christmas" or you've been sitting in that same pew for the last thirty-four years, no one can change the story that changed the world more than two thousand years ago. Love it or hate it, deny it or accept, nothing will ever be the same; it is my prayer this Christmas Day that you will not be either.