Warrior Ears

At right, our cat Augie, waking up from a nap.

Do cats have redeeming value? I sometimes ask myself that about our family feline, Augie. For one thing, we can’t get through his peach-pit brain the truth that fights are dumb. Our lectures go in his warrior’s serrated ears to oblivion. So much for having an alpha male, despite the “vet fix.”

Instead, it seems that one byproduct of his presence in our family is to teach me a thing or two. It probably doesn’t surprise you that about twenty years ago somebody actually wrote a book about “All I Need to Know I Learned from My Cat.”

I was reminded of his conqueror’s complex the other morning as I sat in the rocker, Bible open. It was a peaceful, purposed morning with the cat curled up in his bed beside me, presumably dreaming of cat treats dropping from the sky.

Then I heard it: that soft cross between a chirp and haughty get-me-if-you-can, vibrating through our house walls. I looked down and saw Augie had popped awake, his ears turned toward the sound. Away to the window I flew like a flash, shoved it open and hissed while one of the notorious neighborhood feline fighters leapt over the fence.

This time it was Ivan the Terrible, my name for the scruffy orange one whose eyes gleam hate. Other times the calls to war come from Al Capone (the black tuxedoed cat-criminal) or Ho Chi Minh (for the local Siamese). There’s also Diablo (again, my tag for it), the exploding mass of gray who regularly slinks into our yard in search of violent entertainment.

They all ought to be named “Diablo” (“the devil”), as far as I’m concerned. In some ways their diabolical exploits remind me of this passage: “That enemy of yours, the devil, roams around like a lion roaring [in fierce hunger], seeking someone to seize upon and devour” (1 Peter 5:8, Amplified).

For all the problems I have with so-called domesticated cats, I can’t begin to imagine the terror of a lion. But it’s a profound image of one of the ways Satan poses. Bible teacher William MacDonald (1917-2007) pointed out that the devil sometimes comes like a snake, luring people into sin (as in moral corruption among religious leaders). Other times he is an angel of light, seeking to deceive people with what “seems” right or what the “majority” approves.

As a lion he seeks to terrorize believers throughout the world. His battle lines are vast. To remind me of that (and to pray) I have posted on the wall opposite my desk a large map of the world from “Voice of the Martyrs,” with nations color-coded for those that restrict activities of Christians or are openly hostile to believers.

So how did I get here from our cat? Maybe that God uses even life’s ordinary events (like “cat”-astrophic confrontations in the back yard) to remind us of His bigger picture.

Reunion ruminations

The notice just came for my 45th high school reunion. Oh, dear. Pass the Geritol.

I haven’t made it to a reunion yet, and no longer hear from former classmates. When you move away from the home turf, those friendships slide quickly.

My husband’s 40th reunion came around a few years ago and he signed us up for its evening cruise on Lake Chelan. The “get acquainted time” began with typical questions. Close to retiring yet? (Yes). Kids? (Yes.) Grandkids? (No.) We sipped our pop slowly as his classmates filled with alcohol, loosening their tongues and inhibitions. I was ready to leave in an hour, but the only way “off” would have been to jump overboard. Not in chilly Lake Chelan!

Finally, cruise over, we hurried off, hoping to drive home ahead of those who drank and should not have been behind a wheel. We were nearly killed by a drinking driver in 1997, and you never forget that.

Will I attend my class’s 45th? I’m undecided. Part of me wants to show up and say, “See, I turned out okay. It took a few years.”

After getting the reunion invitation, I took a memory trip through my old high school annual. A lot of kids signed with comments about my bad jokes. Was I that obnoxious? I guess I punned a lot to downplay being one of the class’s scholars. Two B’s on my record (from physical education) marred my otherwise straight-A record. Being concertmistress (first chair) of the high school orchestra was my other honor.

But I didn’t fit in with the typical high school social life. I never had a boyfriend and never went to a school dance. My closest friendships were girls in “Horizon Club,” the teen version of Camp Fire.

As I turned the pages of my high school annual, I noticed an autograph I’d forgotten about. A friend named Bev, whom I remember as a kind person, had thanked me for my work on the Horizon Club scrapbook. Under her name she had put “Galatians 2:20.”

A few years later, I would claim the same text as my “life verse” when I determined that Jesus Christ would define my life’s purpose. “I have been crucified with Christ,” it begins—not a pretty image, but one that defines a significant spiritual decision.

I’ve lived 70% of my life since high school, and I have changed a lot. I had the privilege of mission service, graduate studies, and jobs in publications. I found God to be the God of all comfort when my parents died six months apart when I was 31 and still single.

At 34 I married a 36-year-old teacher, also never married before. We lived simply; I became a coupon-clipper and thrift store visitor. But we paid off our small house and our children made it through college debt-free.

The shy teen who sweated oral class reports now speaks to women’s meetings and retreats. The rookie newspaper reporter who pounded out obituaries moved on to the privilege of writing Christian books.

Our class motto was: “For the best is what we strive, we’re the class of ’65.” Forty-five years later, part of that still makes sense. My “striving for the best” grows out of the last part of Galatians 2:20: “The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me.”

If I do turn up at the reunion, that’s what I’d want my classmates to know. I’m not the skinny, nerdy violinist they once knew, but a woman seasoned by life’s hard places and grounded by faith. And, alas, no longer stick-thin.

Wordless

At right, early spring flowers in our yard. Of all the colors in the Creator’s palette, I’m most fond of blue.

She who spoke not, said the most.

I spoke four times at a women’s retreat this weekend. But I think the most profound teaching didn’t come from my thousands of words, but the silence of an attendee with aphasia. I was touched by the sensitive spirit with which her disability was explained on the opening night. The other women were encouraged to connect with her and ask questions that could be answered with a nodded “yes” or “no.” One woman was her companion, helping her with feeding and personal needs.

Fittingly, one of my topics was “friendship.” Watching the women touch her, ask “yes” or “no” questions, and simply include her was a more powerful teacher than my “prepared” remarks on the traits of a F.R.I.E.N.D. (Oh, the acrostics that speakers build on!)

I thought of another person from the Bible left unable to speak, the priest Zechariah. Learning from an angel that he would father a son in his old age, he mocked at the impossibility, then his tongue went dumb. His speech returned when relatives disputed over what the newborn should be named. He settled the argument by writing on a tablet “John,” the name announced by the angel before the baby was even conceived.

Stop and wonder at what happened next: “Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue was loosed, and he began to speak, praising God” (Luke 1:64).

My father was a “John,” a name that means “God is gracious.” (My name is a feminine form of John since I didn’t turn out to be John Junior.) It was exactly the right name for John the Baptist, who readied the Jews for the ministry of his cousin Jesus. For is not the story of Easter that of God’s grace? Of our deserved punishment for sin taken by God’s own Son?

The stores are full of the phony Easter, the fake grass and plastic eggs, bunnies and “Happy Spring” cards. But if we really—yes, really—consider the reason for Easter, we would be at a loss for words. Probably on our knees. Speechless before God.

Yet, like the women at the retreat, He reaches out to us. Hugs us. Connects with us. Cares for us. Reminds us that we are loved.

Yes, she who spoke not, said the most. And for that I praise God.

A Thorny Issue

Thanks to an unusually mild February, our roses are a month ahead in coming back to life. Already tiny red buds dot the thorny canes, signaling the need for spring pruning. I don’t enjoy the task. That’s because it means tackling 30 rose bushes between our home and that of my mom-in-law (still “in process” of cleanout since her death).

In late fall, after the killing hard frost, I lop the roses to thigh-high to prevent damage from heavy snow. But spring means tediously picking out dead leaves and pruning for maximum bloom. It’s time-consuming, cold (I wait for a sunny day), and contemplative work.

As I remove dead canes, snip sucker branches, and lop anything that interferes with a bloom-friendly “bowl” shape, I think of the Bible’s analogy to pruning grapes. Untended, both roses and grapes would propagate into snarled, weak tangles. Thus, even as I prune, I think of John 15:2: “He [God] cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” That’s why the activities and relationships of my life must get tune-ups—some cut away, others encouraged--as God shapes me for His purposes.

As I sit on an upended bucket to prune, I toss clippings into an old plastic cherry harvest lug. Every couple or three bushes, I empty it in our large garbage bin. The stiff, thorny mound grows, needing pushed down to make more room. This I do carefully, as rose thorns can pierce even my leather garden gloves.

Ouch! As I rip off the glove and suck the wound, I think of the crown of thorns heartlessly jammed on Jesus’ head in the insanity of illegal trials before He was crucified. Often the hymn “My Jesus, I Love Thee” comes to mind with this line: “I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow.”

It’s March…and Easter’s coming on April 4. The roses are now pruned. The dead-looking sticks now jabbing at the sky will begin their transformation to summer’s glorious display of red, pink, white, tangerine, and yellow.

For many, Easter’s symbols are lilies (reminder of a trumpet call), hot-crossed buns (the cross on the “bread of life”), pretzels (imitating a prayer posture) or eggs (for new life). But pruned roses have become my Easter symbol. My annual task in our rose garden reminds me that God is the expert spiritual pruner, and I’m grateful for that.

The Buttercup Race

Crocus in our front yard (photo, above) remind us that spring is coming. But for our family, there's something more important in heralding spring.....

It wasn’t hearing again the tsk-shrrrrr of the red-winged blackbirds on a walk last week on our local nature trail. Nor seeing the first crocus open. Not even realizing it was warm enough for a light jacket instead of the ski coat.

The true test of spring here was going on the traditional family covert search for the first buttercup of the spring. Last Thursday, I’d taken a final, weary bite of dinner leftovers when my husband spoke the magic words: “I have that feeling that one is waiting for us.”

“Give me ten minutes to wash dishes,” I pleaded as he hunted for a trowel and empty margarine containers. Soon we were headed to his secret location: a hillside in cherry country that gets most of the day’s sun.

In a tradition that may stretch back a couple generations, the Zorneses have tried to outdo each other in finding spring’s first buttercup. In recent years, my husband has won the race. One year, however, his homebound mother had friends aka “spring spies” who dug and delivered one to her before her son (my husband) got out for his own search.

The candidate we found had a tight-fisted bloom, but a day in window sun coaxed out the yellow. He made that sneaky call to his older sister, the other “race” participant (now that their mom has died), and left this message: “I want you to know that there’s something on our table.”

When the phone rang about twenty minutes later, I risked answering it, “Buttercup Headquarters!” (Whew, it was his sister!)

Traditions. They mattered to Tevye, the milkman father-of-daughters in “Fiddler on the Roof.” And they’re part of what makes family, “family.”

Besides the buttercups, we’ve had a candle-studded watermelon in lieu of a cake for my husband’s birthday. That began in his boyhood, when his June birthday usually coincided with the family’s involvement in church camps. Not able to bake, his mom substituted his favorite summer food, melon, for the candle-holder.

Other Zornes family traditions: the red “You Are Special” plate for birthdays and other honors. Ice cream bars after school concerts. Driving to a hillside neighborhood of half-million-dollar homes for a million-dollar view of July 4 fireworks (please pass the popcorn to the back seat).

Spring also means (ugh) rose pruning time, but I’ll save comments on that for next time.

Program notes

One of the banes of growing older is knowing more words but being unable to retrieve them from memory. As a writer I’m constantly pulling out my copy of Rodale’s The Synonym Finder or quickly clicking to the thesaurus feature in my word processing program. A few times I’ve visited this high-tech web thesaurus: http://www.visuwords.com/.

When you’re trying to describe music, the problem deepens. How do you portray rhythm and sound? Take Beethoven’s Sonata in D for Violin, a personal favorite (and one far beyond my personal playing abilities). The eight-note motif opening the piece stirs a longing in me that I just can’t put in words. It reminds me of something lost, just found. The pink promise of a sunrise. A shy smile.

I thought of that last week when my daughter, Inga, a violin teacher, made a quick trip across the state so we could both go to a recital in Leavenworth featuring world-class violinist Midori. Arriving early to get good seats, we had plenty of time to study the program notes.

Writers of such explanatory notes are no lazy lot. They unabashedly pour on the superlatives to express the effects of notes and rhythms. When I pointed out some clever phrases, my daughter remarked, “That’s what you do in program notes.”

Midori’s program consisted entirely of music composed during her lifetime of 37 years. Meaning: very modern. But even in the collision of sounds and rhythms that were outside my comfort zone (remember, I’m a Beethoven babe), the program writer heightened my anticipation with a verbal roadmap.

Yes, one piece lived up to the description of “excruciating heat.” Hearing another, I could understand the writer choosing words like glitter, surrealism, agitation, and pseudo-romanticism. Another piece was characterized as having “languid nonchalance.”

When I move from music to the mysteries of God, my word problem returns. How do you describe God? I think I understand why the apostle Paul, after carefully working through the theology of God’s grace, burst into a hymn of wonder about God: “Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out!” (Romans 11:33).

In other words, Paul just couldn’t find the words. God is bigger than our vocabularies. Or, as an old hymn-writer put it, even if the sky were a parchment, and the oceans an inkwell, we’d never quit writing about the love of God.

Dare I say the Bible is like program notes? While the Bible doesn’t flaunt fifty-cent adjectives, it does use story, precept, praise and many other genres to reveal His nature and ways. And most of all, to lead us to wonder and worship.

Mama's Treasures

Oh, the things that mothers keep! Seeing heart-shaped candy advertised for Valentine’s Day recently reminded me of a little candy-studded note among my mommy treasures:
Dear Mom, You are such a (candy=nice girl)! Since you are so nice, you should be on the (web site) for best moms in the world. I’m so thankful that you (love me) bunches. (I will) be always very grateful for you! Congratulations on your (awesome) new book! You are so (EZ 2 love)!!!!!!
Love you), from your #1 Daughter, Inga.
P.S. (Hug me ASAP)

I’m guessing this was a junior high effort, and some day, when I’m gone, she’ll clean out my stuff and snicker that I kept it. No matter who we are, we all can benefit from some encouragement. Even crusty Mark Twain remarked that he could live three weeks on a compliment.

I’ve been working recently on revising retreat presentations on the ministry of encouragement. In doing so, I came across a list of ways youth club leaders can say “very good” to the less-than-perfect efforts of children. We all can learn from these gentle phrases that encourage, not deflate:
“You’re on the right track now.”
“Good for you!”
“Nothing can stop you now!”
“That’s the best ever!”
“Couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Now that’s what I call a fine job!”
“I like that.”
“It’s a pleasure to teach when you work like that.”
“You’ve got your brain in gear today.”

Something else happens when even words of correction show compassion. The acid of discouragement is neutralized. Becoming bearers of hope nurtures hope inside us. The arboretum near the University of Idaho campus in Moscow is dotted by numerous memorial granite benches that are inscribed with the donor’s name and quotations. This one is my favorite: “The fragrance remains in the hand that gave the rose.”

I understand that as one who cares for two dozen rose bushes in our yard. Every summer I cut and gave away a lot of bouquets, often to give someone a boost. Encouragement—be it uplifting words, helpful tasks, or simple presence—leaves on the bearer’s life its own sweet fragrance.

Or, in the case of my “candy” love note, its own sweet taste.