Escapee

With a sigh of memories, I just washed cat nose-prints off our living room window. For hours, barely balancing all 13 pounds of furry blob on the narrow windowsill, our cat would sit and contemplate the world outside.

Augie the gray tabby cat ran away Christmas morning. A determined outdoors guy, he’d had his fill of staying inside for the last three weeks while major battle wounds on his throat healed. For three weeks he’d endured a plastic “cone” on his head to keep him from scratching the wound that merited a $77 trip to the vet.

Thinking the cat was sound asleep in the corner, my husband came in the door with his arms full of wood for the fireplace. And the cat made his escape. Cone still on his head…..

We searched the neighborhood, but after five days of no cat in twenty-degree weather, it’s likely our eight and a half years of cat-care have ended.

I have a two-word conclusion: dumb cat.

As my husband remarked, “He knows where there’s a warm bed, water to drink, abundant food, and somebody ready to brush him. He made a choice.”

Maybe because he was a “rescued” cat (see the Nov. 9th blog on “The Cat of a Hundred Names”) I’ve thought of some life lessons from that. The Bible parallel that keeps coming to mind is Gomer from the book of Hosea.

No, this isn’t the “Gomer” of TV fame—the simple-minded, slack-jawed, wide-eyed gas station attendant from the “Andy Griffith Show.” This Gomer was a woman drawn to red lights, as in “immoral behavior.” By God’s command, Hosea married a harlot to illustrate Israel’s disobedience as a covenant people. Despite God’s love and miraculous care for the nation, it went after idols. Eventually, Hosea bought back his broken, wasted wife for half the going price for a slave (Hosea 3) and resumed taking care of her needs.

If you really think of Hosea’s overwhelming love, it grips your heart. And it should, because God loves us that much, and even more! Even when we pursue our own selfish agendas and end up in deep sorrow and trouble, He waits to take us back.

And so yes, we’re waiting for Augie, though it’s likely he became a coyote’s Christmas dinner or hunkered down somewhere and became a furry popsicle.

We still check the back door, thinking he might show up, still cone-headed and repentant for his impetuous escape.

But today I washed the old towels used for his bedding. I scrubbed out his eating bowls and tucked them in the container with too much uneaten cat food.

Pets come, pets go.

But one truth is certain—one I read in Psalm 103 this morning:
But from everlasting to everlasting
The Lord’s love is with those who fear him. (v. 17)

God never changes. He delights in us. And He will wait for us when we stray, loving us from afar and desiring to restore us to the joy of being His.

With New Year coming, that’s a comforting truth. No matter what we did in the past, God promises new beginnings, new hope, new purpose.

Home—enjoying God—is good.

Thank-you note

A bride I know was a gem. She promptly and graciously acknowledged every shower and wedding gift. Except one. The package of pink towels came minus any sort of card or I.D. Would the gift-givers think her ungrateful because she never sent a note? How could she ever find out who they were?

As far as I know, she never solved the mystery. But her dilemma made me thankful that there’s one amazing, priceless gift for which I can daily give thanks. I was reminded of it a couple days ago in reading Paul’s first letter to Timothy. The venerable apostle starts out talking about people who reject God. Then he turns the finger on himself, the ultra-religious Christian hater, proud of his religious pedigree, and whose life changed dramatically to Christ-lover. Imagine the angst in his voice as Paul declared, “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst” (1 Timothy 1:15).

He writes of Christ’s unlimited patience with him, then breaks out in a doxology: “Now to the King eternal, immoral, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory for ever and ever. Amen” (v. 17).

Paul knew how to say “thank you” to God. He knew what God had given Him—the priceless gift of eternal life. And even the midst of his serious discussion about false teachers and other problems of the religious community, Paul stopped to say, “Thank you, God.”

The King eternal. There are no other Gods besides Him.
The immortal God. The One without a beginning and without an end.
The invisible God. At least for now. But someday, “we shall see him as he is” (1 John 3:2). I hope that grips your heart like nothing else. It does mine.
The only God. Not a shelf of gods. The only God, ever.
Honor and glory for ever and ever. Match this with the celestial hymn of Revelation 15:3: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the ages.”

Here on a chilly early winter day, the fire is crackling and my husband is cracking open walnuts. I’ll soon assemble a mega “green bean casserole” for a big family dinner at my sister-in-law’s. Our daily newspaper with its 45 pounds (just kidding) of ads purring, “Buy, buy, buy” is in a disheveled pile near the couch. Often at Thanksgiving, I read my favorite “thankful” text, Psalm 103, as a reminder to praise God for all His benefits. But this year my heart is drawn to that verse in Paul’s letter to his protégé, Timothy.

Underlined in my Bible years ago with a blunt red pencil, it reminds me that this is what Thanksgiving is all about. Unlike the perplexed bride, we know both the Giver and His Gift. And to Him be all praise and thanksgiving, Amen.

The cat of a hundred names

The theology lesson, all two or three pounds of him, shook in a culvert pipe, alone. Probably a couple months old, he’d been abandoned at the park near our local hydroelectric dam. When no one was looking, people dumped cats and Easter bunnies there, illegally.

Becoming coyote casserole was his likely fate.

Then a father and teen son, on a guy-bonding time, passed by. They’d just left the stagnant oven of their valley home that August first. The rocky hills that shouldered the dam offered some shade, sweetened by the mist wafting off spillways.

They heard the faint “mew.” Two softies, they couldn’t leave him there. Luring him out with a chicken nugget from a nearby trash bin, they swathed him in a towel from the trunk of the car and brought him home.

To a mom who was asthmatic. Who choked and sneezed around cats.

“Where’s some tuna? Get some milk. We’ll just keep him overnight and try to find a home.”

Promises, promises.

That was more than eight years ago. The wisp of a kitten is now 15 pounds of aloofness, deprived of his malehood but not of his territorial temper. Identified with his city pet license and proof of rabies vaccine. Called “Auggie” (for August 1, when he was found) and dozens of other names. More than 150, in fact. When cleaning out the other day, I found a cat-name list my son and his sister had concocted. “Buick.” “Rumplefatskin.” “King Midas of the Golden Drool.” “Bleh.” “Mookie.” “Slug” (my favorite). I’ll spare you the entire list.

No matter how insulting the name, the cat responded in the usual cat way of ignoring us…unless we had a can labeled “Friskies” in hand and he was hungry.

That cat-name list reminded me of something wonderful about our relationship with God. Devotional author Max Lucado wrote about it. God whispers our names. He calls us by name (Isaiah 45:4). Our names are written on His hand (Isaiah 49:16). Even when we muddle under the generic name “sinner,” He knows the name He created us to have: Child of God. Lamb. Beloved. My Precious One.

He rescued us from something far worse than coyote teeth. The One who hung on a cross with a sign declaring “King of the Jews” (John 19:21) took away the condemning name, the hellish destination. He made it possible to have a new name. Redeemed One. Forgiven. Chosen.

His name is Jesus. Savior. Lord.

He whispers your name, in love. Can you hear it?

Look to the ant....

Alone, they weren’t bigger than a hangnail or a thorn in the thumb. But they were even more annoying than those in early spring when hundreds boiled out of cracks in our driveway, then started migrating inside the house. Thanks to ants, I realized I had a spiritual problem.

At first there were just a few that we could whap or wipe away with a wet paper towel in seconds. Then came the morning when they held a wriggling revival in the cat’s food dish (he never was a member of the “Clean Plate Club”), filled the grandstands of the Honey Nut Cheerios box, and started scaling the heights of the trash bin for more delectable discards. Every toaster crumb and ice cream drop came under mass scrutiny.

I shooed the cat outside and sprayed ant poison. Black square ant traps became part of the house décor. And still they came.

One early morning, after letting in our feline night watch guard (for what other reason would he stay outside all night?), my husband crawled back in bed and said, “It wasn’t pretty.” When I got up a little later, it still wasn’t pretty. The kitchen looked like someone had sprinkled coffee grounds all over the floor and cabinets. And this was where I cooked?

Okay, so I had a sanitation problem. But what of the spiritual problem? Sometimes it takes tiny annoyances to help you realize how short your fuse can be. I got snippy at my husband. Whiny to my friends. And, oh so mean, when I came in the kitchen and saw a wiggling line over the floor, up the cabinet side, and into places I’d just cleaned out!

Well, the first frost has come, and yesterday we dared to take the plastic wrap “seal” off the plastic lidded container of cereal. We haven’t seen the enemy for at least a week.

And I went to my Bible.
“Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.” –Proverbs 6:6-8
“Ants are creatures of little strength, yet they store up their food in the summer.”—Proverbs 30:25

Despite being tiny and fragile, they excel in industriousness. They do their jobs without special incentives! They’re fascinating--if you look up “ant” in an encyclopedia, you’ll learn more than you thought possible. And that’s just a start. A Bible dictionary reveals more:

*Ants in the Holy Land place their nests near threshing floors or storage bins for grain. They stay near the food!
*The grain becomes their winter food. A stocked pantry!
*They consort with certain insects (like aphids) that secrete sweet juices they crave, and store their insect-friends’ eggs with their own for future use. I’m not sure what to call this—slavery? Co-dependency? Let your imagination fly!

But a spiritual application? For me, Psalm 19:10 came to mind: that God’s Word is “sweeter than honey, than honey from the comb. By them is your servant warned; in keeping them there is great reward.”

A regular intake of God’s Word is essential for spiritual survival. In His foreknowledge of difficult events to come, God may impress on us to “feed” upon a certain portion of His Word more diligently in preparation for that time. In my late twenties, I obeyed nudges to memorize large parts of Philippians and Romans 8. A few years later, when my parents died, my heart was fortified to endure a spiritual winter. When my mind was too numb to study scripture, I could still “harvest” the sweetness of His Word—those reminders to rejoice (Philippians) and to know that nothing could separate me from His love (Romans 8:39).

I’m still not fond of ants scurrying all over my kitchen (and even finding my toothbrush in the bathroom!). But I am in awe of their Creator and stand reminded that I, too, need to be industrious in taking in the sweet nectar of Scripture.

Civility and yard sales

The incidents hit the news last week like grenades: a rapper ranted rudely at an entertainment awards show, a senator shouted sarcasm at the President, and a tennis diva threw a tirade over a ruling—all before millions watching on television. “Where is civility?” commentators asked, processing the parade of negative behavior.

These public figures disappointed me, too, but I wasn’t surprised. Hey, I’d just experienced the darker side of humanity while holding a yard/estate sale of my late mom-in-law’s things. These types were among the yard sale’s shoppers:

Stalkers: They ignore starting times. They’re after items with collector’s value to re-sell. The day before the sale, as I lugged borrowed tables to the lawn, one woman showed up claiming the ad said “today,” then asked if I had certain collectibles she could buy while she was here! On sale day, one man showed up at 7 a.m. (an hour before the sale started) as I was frantically putting out items. He, too, asked about certain collectibles.

Stuffers: They practice the tricks of shoplifters. For this sale, I’d placed matching towel sets (bath, hand, wash cloth) in twist-tied clear plastic bags, the “set” price clearly marked. Midway through the sale, while tidying up display tables, I noticed a woman fumbling with one of the sacks. It seemed unusually full when she came to pay, so I opened it and found other items conveniently “included” for the same price. When I pointed out the problem, she glared and left.

Switchers: They re-price items, thanks to easily-removed price stickers. That had to be the case when people brought ridiculously low-priced items to the cash box table. Even though I was tired after two days of pricing things, I knew I’d priced those items higher. What could I say, except, “You got yourself quite a bargain.”

Scammers: They use planned deceit. A friend who’s a swimming coach helped her team hold a fund-raising sale. At the beginning, a woman gave them $15 to “hold” a $30 vacuum cleaner, saying she’d get the rest of the price from her husband. At the end of the sale, she returned and claimed, “My husband doesn’t want me to get it. Please give me my $30 back.” Told she’d left only $15, she began quarreling loudly. Finally the coach said, “I will give you the $30 you are demanding, but we all know you only left $15 and you are robbing these girls of money for their fund raiser.” She took the $30 and left. (Reminder: get it in writing!)

The Bible speaks to such behavior:
“’It’s no good, it’s no good!’ says the buyer; then off he goes and boasts about his purchase.” --Proverbs 20:14
“Like a partridge that hatches eggs it did not lay is the man who gains riches by unjust means.” –Jeremiah 17:11
“The Lord detests lying lips.” –Proverbs 12:22
“The Lord abhors dishonest scales.” –Proverbs 11:1

Yard sales can be a good thing, especially in helping some of us pare down and others of us live more economically. A lot of nice people came to the yard sale, too, enabling us to continue emptying the earthly home where my mom-in-law lived.

But the shady shoppers? The prophet Jeremiah was right: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure” (Jeremiah 17:9). There’s nothing like sitting over a cash box full of quarters and crumbled dollar bills to remind you that ordinary people as well as celebrities reveal their souls when “civility” is missing.

Gentle on my mind

Lately the phrase “Gentle on my Mind” has floated in and out of my thinking. I’ve learned it’s a song popularized by many artists, but especially Glen Campbell. The lyrics are about a drifter’s long-ago love. But I’m drawn to the title for another reason: how hymns learned long ago come back to me—“gentle on my mind”—in renewed ministry.

As a young adult I began attending a church that sang lots of the old Gospel hymns. As a newcomer to the Gospel music culture, I embarrassed myself more than once as I helped out at the piano or organ. My mediocre keyboard skills were stretched by the tricky rhythms or fourteen sharps (or so it seemed). But one by one, those melodies and snatches of verses became a part of me, tucked away in some cerebral electrical compartment. Some rested unused for years, yet ready for retrieval if needed.

After my parents died when I was 31, I was drawn to Lina Sandell Berg’s hymn “Day by Day.” Its message seemed tailored for me with its reminder to find daily strength for life’s trials through trust in God’s wisdom and love. Later I learned that when only 26, she was on lake trip with her pastor-father when the boat lurched and he fell overboard and drowned. Her hymn came out of that incredible tragedy. And about a hundred years later it was “gentle on my mind” in my own loss.

Through the years, other hymns have drifted in during times of rejoicing or tragedy. This past week it happened again. On Monday, I was part of the family surrounding my mother-in-law, Doris, as she took her last breath. Seeing death happen for a faithful Christian woman drove home Paul’s proclamation: “Absent from the body, present with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8).

A lot went through my mind that day, but the next morning something I never expected was “gentle on my mind.” It was the chorus of one of those old peppy Gospel hymns—probably one that Doris had sung herself in her many years as a pastor’s wife: “O victory in Jesus, my Savior forever.” I grabbed a hymnbook, read all the verses and chorus—and I knew God had sent it special delivery.

I’m still singing it in my heart: when I wake up, when I drive to errands, and when I lie down at night. And I’ve put a hymnal by the chair where I often read and pray. When another hymn is “gentle on my mind,” I want to be ready to be blessed again.

'Twas a dark and stormy night

‘Twas a dark and stormy night ....

It’s the classic opening line for a mystery novel. Even the aspiring author-dog Snoopy (of Peanuts fame) used it as he tapped out his best-seller on a typewriter balanced on top of his doghouse.

But it really was a dark and stormy night when Acts 28 opened. With a famous prisoner (the apostle Paul) aboard, bound to appeal his case to Caesar in Rome, a sailing ship found itself on the wrong side of the sailing season. Violently tossed for two weeks in a horrendous storm (offering another meaning to “think green”), the ship finally ran aground and broke apart. Miraculously, all made it safely ashore. But no luxury hotel awaited (nor even a Red Cross shelter), only a beach battered by the cold rain.

Word quickly spread among the locals, and they rushed to help out, building a fire for the bone-cold survivors.

Stop a minute here to consider Acts 28:2: “The islanders showed us unusual kindness” (NIV. RSV). Other versions call it “no little kindness” (KJV), “extraordinary kindness” (NASB), “unusual and remarkable kindness” (Amplified). It’s easy to skim right over this benevolent beach scene and rush on to the Hollywood moment of the chapter: the apostle shaking a poisonous viper off his hand (2:3-6).

Unusual kindness. Luke, the writer of Acts, didn’t just say “we got help.” He commended these strangers for helping above and beyond.

My eighty-something friend Mary, a remarkable woman who leads Bible studies in senior facilities, brought that verse to my attention and got me thinking. All around us, people are suffering in spiritual storms. They’re tossed on a lonely beach, battered by the wild winds of life. It’s not the script they would have written.

When I get around them and hear their pain, I want to jump in and fix everything. You know, “Extreme ship makeover” or something like that. But life is messy because we live in a fallen world. It’s “unfixable” until Christ returns again.

But we can do as the islanders, and show unusual kindness. People won’t forget it, either.

Case in point: Thirty years ago, I was tossed on a lonely shore by Hurricane Grief. My parents died six months apart, and I spent most of the next year cleaning out their home and preparing it for sale. One week I faced the task of changing living room walls from “Robin’s Egg Blue” (my parents were creative!) to a neutral, more sale-friendly ivory. The almost-empty room seemed as big as a gym as my energies flagged.

Then a single nurse from the church I’d started attending called. Help paint? Sure, she could spare an afternoon. And she did—her compassion and joy lifting my spirits. Yes, thirty years later, I still remember it—as I do other times people have helped me through a personal storm with the unusual kindness of a card, phone call, visit, hug, prayers, meal or practical help.

Memories of unusual kindness stay with you. Count on it. And keep an eye on the clouds. When you least expect it, some needy people may wash up on your day, needing the compassion of Jesus Christ, expressed through your hands.

Wedding "Fireworks"

It started out like a normal wedding on June 27. The mother-of-the-bride (that’s me) had eyes that started “sweating” even as her son ushered her down the aisle. The three-year-old flower girl was cute-cute-cute as she flung petals along the aisle to the tune of “Humoresque.” The bride (my daughter Inga) glowed as she entered with her dad. The worship band and scripture readings kept the focus on God’s faithfulness.

But those of us who knew were waiting for the final act of the ceremony. After pronouncing the couple “man and wife,” the minister turned to the guests and explained about their unusual pledge. At the beginning of their public “courtship” and on through a year and a half engagement, this couple had established certain physical boundaries to honor the other’s purity. One was that they wouldn’t kiss until their wedding day.

Deep breath. Then, “Trevor, you may kiss your bride.”

We didn’t have to wait a week to the Fourth of July to witness some fireworks!

In an age in which promiscuity is rampant, even among Christian teens (including, sadly, those who made “abstinence” pledges marked with rings), it was a pure, sweet moment.

By the way, do you know the origin of the wedding kiss? Pagan cultures believed this was how the couple “exchanged spirits.” The first bridal bouquets were nosegays of fresh herbs that supposedly warded off evil spirits. The first wedding rings (braided grass wrapped around the bride’s wrists and ankles) supposedly kept her “spirit” from leaving her. More “spirit” stuff: guests clinked glasses in wedding toasts to ward off evil spirits. Carrying the bride over the threshold was supposed to keep her safe from any “evil spirits” lingering there.

Ready for more wedding trivia? The first “best man” was actually a warrior to help capture a likely woman from another tribe! The first bride’s attendants were partners in crime to help a bride escape her family and other suitors to run away with her choice of mate.

Despite all the strange beginnings of many wedding customs, one truth remains. One mother-of-the-bride shared how, between photo-taking and arrival of guests, she took her daughter to the doors leading into the sanctuary. As they looked at the cross at the front of church, the mother said, “Remember this day isn’t about you. It’s about Jesus.”

Amen.

In the Pink

Two memories stand out to people who know my mother-in-law, Doris. The first is her big smile. The second is her love of pink. Only one navy blue dress hung in her closet, and that to be “respectful” at funerals. Everything else was pink. Tops, pants, dresses, nightgowns, robes, coats, shoes, slippers—her closet glowed like a sunrise. Her dear late husband also endured pink dishes, pink towels, pink bedspreads, and a pink couch and recliner. In summer, pink roses graced the table. After his death we painted her bedroom a bright pink, and I sewed her curtains splashed with pink roses.

A lot has changed in her life in the last few years. Now 89, she’s in a memory care facility with late-stage Alzheimer’s. She can’t walk or take care of personal needs. Her vocabulary has shrunk to a few words. Others must feed her. She sleeps a lot.

But the smile is still there. And every day, caregivers dress her in pink, still the only color in her wardrobe.

Curious about the phrase “in the pink,” I did an internet search. The common meaning, referring to rosy cheeks, denotes someone with good health and ready to go. But another meaning derives from English fox hunters, who wore scarlet jackets called “pinks.” Hunters “in the pink” were ready to chase the fox.

I thought about that as Doris inches toward her last day on earth.

The other day, when I helped feed her breakfast, I thought how life isn’t fun any more. Because of swallowing issues, her food is pureed. Her plate held yellow glop (eggs) and brown glop (sausage)—a far cry from the strawberry syrup over waffles I used to fix for her breakfast at home.

As I urged her to open her mouth for another taste of glop, I said, “Doris, just for you I wore a pink shirt today.” At the mention of “pink,” the corners of her indifferent mouth widened and she gave me a big-wattage smile. (And no, I didn’t try to “zoom” another spoonful in there. I just savored the moment.)

For some reason, that vignette reminded me of what Hebrews 12:2 says about Jesus—who “for the JOY set before him endured the cross.”

The indignities of a failing body are now Doris’s “cross” to bear. But even in the darkened shell of her mind, there are bright corners where that joy still beams out. The smile. The joy of “thinking pink.” And the hope of being “in the pink”—ready to go—when the Lord says “enter My joy, child, and come Home.”

Lessons from a pint-size violinist

“Here comes my favorite violin student,” I said as Rebecca came in for her weekly lesson.

“Because I’m your ONLY violin student,” the nine-year-old replied with a big grin. Leaving her pint-size violin on the couch, she headed to the kitchen for a quick after-school snack. Hey, it’s 4:15 p.m. and she just came from school. Need some fuel for brain power!

Since early March, I’ve enjoyed having my first-ever violin student. Though I’ve played violin since age 12, I never considered myself a music teacher. Thus, when her family called in February asking for teacher recommendations, I threw out others’ names.

Explaining they only wanted a two-month run at lessons—this was the gift she really wanted for her ninth birthday—I agreed to it. Just before the two months were up, Rebecca took $10 out of her own piggy bank to help with another month of instrumental rental and asked please, please just another month of lessons.

She’s not your usual beginner for whom music notes are a foreign language. Piano and trumpet already in her background, she jumped several typical lessons by just watching the video that came with her beginner music book.

Working with a beginning violinist has reminded me of several parallels with the Christian walk.

1. You’re special to God. Max Lucado is widely quoted for suggesting, “If God had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it” (from Prayer: A Heavenly Invitation). Dare I say: If God had a violin student, you’d be His favorite student. You’d be the apple of His eye (Psalm 17:8), His chosen one. Because you are!

2. There’s a learning curve. That first lesson, I explained about the instrument and how to care for it. I quickly sewed her a “shoulder pad” (from my sewing scraps) to help her hold the violin correctly. I modeled how to hold the bow with her right hand and place her left hand on the fingerboard. I warned her against “choking” the violin’s neck in her left-hand position, and made appropriate gasping sounds to reinforce the point. I think back to my baby steps in learning about the Bible, like memorizing the books of the Bible and grasping the basics about the fall of man, Jewish history, and Jesus’ life. I couldn’t have handled the profound meaning of “propitiation” as a young believer any more than Rebecca can do “vibrato” or “seventh position” yet. God teaches us at His good pace.

3. You need to practice. It’s not enough to show up for lessons. Learning to play an instrument has no “auto-pilot” mode where you punch the right buttons and cruise on. It takes training fingers, arms, and ears through repetition. I could tell when a piece I assigned Rebecca turned out to be a favorite. She practiced it more! Spiritual “practice” includes praying and thoughtfully reading the Bible. Eventually, even the “hard” parts will come. (I keep telling myself that as I read through Ezekiel. This morning, working through the “sheep chapter” of Ezekiel 34, I marked all the incredible “I will” promises from God. They cover a lot more about life than even Psalm 23!)

4. Enjoy the process. As soon as Rebecca had enough skills, I wrote out a song that I said would be very useful to learn: “Happy Birthday.” Rebecca grinned and said her sister had a birthday the following month. I practice what I preach! A few weeks ago, my calendar reminded me that an eighty-something friend, who teaches a Bible study at a senior living facility, had a birthday coming up. The day of her study, I toted my violin to the facility. As her study ended, I came in playing the “birthday song.” Surprised her? Absolutely. What fun! One of the great parts of being connected with other Christians is sharing the simple joys of life.

Rebecca’s last lesson with me is May 28. The little violin goes back to the music store and she heads for summer vacation. Will violin emerge ahead of piano or trumpet as a first love? I don’t know. But I applaud her parents for enriching her life with music experiences. And I thank God for bringing her bright, eager face into my life for the last three months.

Home repairs

Yesterday morning I tossed the first load in the washer then ran in the bathroom for a quick shower, just the other side of the wall from the washer and dryer. As I turned on the shower, I heard this suspicious "bong." Post-shower, I checked the washer. Dead. Twirled the dials and pulled. No action. Sigh. Pulled out the soggy dirty laundry for Plan B--washing the load elsewhere. Groan. Just fourteen months ago we had this washer repaired.

Another sound, that of whirring and tinkling. It wasn't in any of the bathrooms. It wasn't a faucet outside. The location: the hot water heater. In our house (one of several of the same compact plan in this workingman's neighborhood), that meant the shorty tank in the corner of the kitchen, accessible only by pulling out the stove and removing the side of the cupboard. It wouldn't dare give up, would it? Fourteen years ago it had died. Replacement was a plumber's nightmare. (As was the entire weekend with Grandma's hiccuping garage door opener, putting Grandpa in a care home, Grandma's hip replacement surgery, son Zach getting braces, the invasion of black widow spiders, losing a set of keys....)

My son came for dinner that night. His wife was away at a conference and his dad was already gone to feed Grandma at the nursing home. "What's that noise, Mom?" he asked. "Something near the water heater," I admitted. "Maybe we'll check it this weekend."

He gulped down his spaghetti, pulled out the stove, unscrewed the side panel, and pointed the flashlight at a water heater sitting in its own rusty pool. We cut the power and pulled in a garden hose to drain it.

I had one consolation: at least this double-whammy didn't happen the last week of June, when my daughter's getting married....

It also made me think that I've got it right with my current book project. I've written about Heaven and how our eternal Home is perfect in every way. No more fragile clothes washers. No more rusty water heaters.

Have you ever thought of the type of home that would be perfect for you? Ever looked around your house, apartment or room and wished you could give it a makeover? Think about the colors you'd paint it? The flooring and furniture? How, when it all came together, it would be "you" and bring deep satisfaction?

I think the reason that the reality TV show, "Extreme Makeover--Home Edition," has enjoyed such wild success is that it tapped into this deep human desire of being fully and happily "home." And while the mansions they build in a week are off the top of the scale (and provide great advertising for those who supply materials), they are a reminder of the Bible's promise of something eternally better. Jesus promised it: "In my Father's house there are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you" (John 14:2).

A lot of people grew up hearing this verse, "In my Father's house are many mansions." That's not quite in line with the original Greek word, mone, which means "dwelling place." When you realize that it is God's dwelling place, that makes even "mansions" seem shabby. Whatever Heaven turns out to be, it will be wonderful, absolutely perfectly planned for us by Heaven's design team.

My book is a 31-day devotional tour of our Heavenly home. Each day's reading (about 750 words) is based on a room of a house and gathers together what the Bible says about Heaven. For example, ever think of Heaven's foyer?

I've self-published a little spiral-bound version of the book and more than fifty copies are out there already. [I'm contacting publishers, hoping one will catch my vision for this book.] I've had an incredible feedback--that finally there's an easily-read, comforting book about the hope of Heaven. One of the first books went to a friend in Seattle dying of cancer. He and his wife used it for their couple's devotions, then he read it alone as he had the strength. On April 19, with his last breath on earth, he entered his Heavenly home.

No more home repairs. No more body repairs.

Keep looking up, friends. This isn't all there is.

Taxing Times

Daylight Savings Time used to be my biggest challenge of welcoming spring. Was it spring back, fall forward? Spring ahead, fall back? Gravity always confused me.

That changed when I became a tax payer. After a long winter of resting my brain, filling out tax forms provided me with an activity that was 1,040 times more challenging than reassembling 500-piece optical illusion puzzles--blindfolded. Why do tax laws have to be knottier than a ball of yarn in the paws of a crazed cat?

I've decided the IRS forms and booklets were devised by second-career astrophysicists, assisted by Ph.D.s in Egyptian hieroglyphics whose doctoral dissertations were typed in Sanskrit. Their technical assistants formerly mapped the Roman catacombs.

Thus as the April 15 tax deadline looms, an epidemic of procrastinitis profundus sweeps the country.

One symptom is imagination. We dream of miracles the night of April 15, like discovering every receipt for tax computation magically stacked into tidy, tallied piles that will self-inscribe the appropriate blanks on the IRS form. Then we'll only need to sign for that tax refund to cover two weeks on a tropical beach (or pay off the credit card). We'll whistle a merry tune that night as we drop off the return at the post office or hit the magic "send" button on the computer.

If that's really true, then there really is a Loch Ness Monster.

Instead, in the midst of Schedule A, I find myself pushing the calculator aside, rubbing my forehead, and taking a big breath. I feel like quoting a guy named Felix, who said, "That's enough for now!"

In case you wondered, that's from the Bible: Acts 24:25. And he wasn't referring to taxes (enough came in to fund his extravagant lifestyle as a Roman procurator and his womanizing). Instead, he'd just heard what he didn't want to hear from a political prisoner named Paul, namely "righteousness, self-control and the judgment to come." Paul had reminded the self-indulgent ruler that God had a better plan for Felix's life. But the prospect of bowing to the King of Kings scared Felix. He never changed.

Have you ever said, "That's enough for now," when presented with spiritual challenges? Have you faced where you truly stand in regard to righteousness, self-control and the judgment to come?

If you haven't yet accepted Christ as your Savior, some day there will be no more chances. Do it now.

If you are a Christian, but afflicted by procrastinitis profundus in your spiritual growth, it's time to turn away from apathy.

Spring forward to a fresh start with God. Fall back on His promises to help you along the way.

Adapted from chapter 9 of "Spiritual Spandex for the Outstretched Soul" (Shaw, 2000)

Threshold Anxiety

Threshold anxiety. You may not find this malady in psychology books, but our cat Augie has it.

All fifteen pounds of cat huddle near the door, scratching a corner to let us know it's time to go out. But when someone comes and opens the door, the cat hesitates.

Who knows what's running through its mind? Is my arch enemy, the one that left me with ragged ears, lurking behind the hedge? How cold/hot is it? How soon will the humans let me back in after my rounds? Is that prickly door mat still there?

A gentle nudge on the cat's back legs encourages him to make that giant leap over the threshold and the hated prickly door mat.

Our cat's antics make me think about life's thresholds, like the one described in Psalm 84:10: "Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked."

In Hebrew, the original language of Psalms, "doorkeeper" is saphaph, meaning "to keep oneself at the threshold." It's the only time that word is used in the Bible.

Oh yes, there are other mentions of "doorkeepers," such as those named as doorkeepers of the ark (1 Chronicles 15:23, 24). The word there is shoer and it means--surprise!--"keeper of the door." These men were essentially "sacred bouncers," charged with stopping foot traffic at the most sacred part of the temple that housed the Ark of the Covenant.

But the saphaph doorkeeper had more than security duties on his heart. The psalmist begins with phrases that almost gush out of his heart: "How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord Almighty." Then the deep, irrepressible emotion: "My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord. My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God."

Having had a glimpse of eternity, this person isn't satisfied with spiritual mediocrity. He wants God to overwhelm him, to quench the deep thirst of his heart.

He's at a spiritual threshold.

No wonder, later in the psalm, that he picks his most-wanted spot: doorkeeper at the threshold of God's courts and house.

Thresholds are typically the timber or stone under a door. They help seal out bad weather and offer security from those who might dig under a door--at least in the olden days of houses plopped on a piece of ground.

And here's the application: Jesus is the threshold.

He died on the cross-shaped timbers.

He was the stone that the builders rejected (Psalm 118:22).

He bids us stand on Him, the link between the temporal and the eternal. He is pleased when we yearn, even faint, for the courts of the Lord. It's worship when our hearts and flesh cry out for the living God.

Someday, we'll pass over that threshold to Heaven. We'll see Him face to face, blessed beyond blessing beyond blessing, all our anxieties forgotten.

Join me at the threshold?