Enjoying Life From My Perspective

Well folks, the holiday season is upon us! Super Bowl Sunday, Groundhog Day, and Valentine's Day, all wrapped neatly into Black History Month! When we were homeschoolers, this time of the year was primetime for F-U-N! Winter doldrums? No way! It was time to get out the scissors and red construction paper, rustle up some pizza rolls and wings, take a road trip to Punxsutawney, and read about heroes like Sojourner Truth and Booker T. Washington. Trust me, there was plenty of time in there for education and all that, but life was about relationships -- mine with my children, brother with sister, ours with the folks we met along the way -- and how to get along with this big orb, Earth. Our life was one big road trip, learning and laughing along the way. I miss those days. (Can you tell?)

Adults are always talking about how quickly time flies, and kids are always talking about how they're going to die if their birthday doesn't get here. I guess perspective is everything. Well, I'm on the dying end of perspective -- Deal with it! This year I will be the Fabulous Five-O. It's all down hill from here. So, here is my advice to those who can't wait to grow up (or can't wait until their children grow up):

• The dishes can wait. Don't stress about tomorrow. Hop on the tire swing, get sent back to Start, Go Fish, lick the spoon and be a kid again. Don't just let your children have fun, have fun with them. (Anyone who really knows me knows what a big deal it is to suggest dishes remain unwashed for longer than five minutes, but I have grandchildren now.)
• It does go by -- very quickly. So turn the camera around; forget about the "selfie" and document all that's going on around you. Minus the eyebrows -- you'll still look the same twenty years from now. The folks on the other side of the lens may not stick around to see it.
• I'm having some great times with my children now! A) It's never too late to start, and B) life doesn't stop until you do. With every stage, I wish I could say, I lived in that moment. I can't. But if you -- yes, you -- the mother with the bags under her eyes, the essence of Butt Paste lingering in her nostrils, and the crusty sweet potatoes on her shoulder choose now, you still have lots of time.
• You're doing it right. When your children cry, it is not because you have severely, irreparably damaged them. When they fight with one another, it is not because you have created some Freudian sibling blah, blah, blah. When they are sick, it is not because they contracted some life-threatening disease from the window latch you failed to scrub with bleach and an old toothbrush. (I did this. Weekly. I am not kidding. I wish I was.) At the age of one, my son ate a fly he snatched from the floor behind a toilet. He is still alive. See...

• Children remember less of what we tell them and more of what we show them. I'd like to believe my children will grow up to be involved parents; parents who hang construction paper snowflakes from the Living Room ceiling to ward off cabin fever in the dead of winter; parents who wake their children up at 2 AM to look at meteor showers; parents who play the pot rack in a Calphalon cacophony, go wading in the creek in their Sunday best, and serve dessert before dinner (at least once). I'd like to know that because of my interest in them, they will demonstrate a deep interest in their children. Develop a genuine interest in the people that matter to you.
• Volunteer for something. You might be looking to reduce your carbon footprint, reduce your debt, or reduce your waistline; think about growing your legacy. Everybody should have one, so why not help somebody while you're forming it?
• "Wag more. Bark less." (I saw this on a bumper sticker and thought it was poignant. I think it means we should be a little happier.)
• Love. The verb.

And if none of this makes much sense to you, there's one last thing you can do:

• Grab a spoon from the silverware drawer. Go ahead, I'll wait while you do it. Now stick it under your pillow. Turn your PJ's inside out. Sleep like that for the next couple of nights, and when the Big Snow hits, head outside to catch snowflakes on your tongue, or build the world's best snow fort, or barrage the plow with snowballs, or make snow angels. If you can't stop the hands of time for a few minutes in a snow storm, you just might want to consider calling the coroner and calling it a wrap.

If you need me I'll be tuning my saucepans.

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."