I haven’t yet met a writer who didn’t have stacks of dusty stuff in the “office.” I plead: guilty, as charged. Thus, in attempts to get better organized, this week I bought a five-shelf bookcase to replace a rickety two-shelf one held up by stacks of books in front of it. As I dusted and re-stacked books on actual shelves, I discovered some I forgot I had.
Something similar happened this morning as I read to the end of Jeremiah. For a lot of people, Jeremiah is a dusty, obscure book. I understand! But little by little, it’s opening up for me.
Jeremiah’s long prophecy ends in a big swash of condemnation of nations near and far who didn’t follow God. It reminded me of the 1960s and 1970s when it seemed the continents took turns having “coup of the day.” But this was 597 B.C., and the stakes were huge, thanks to super-power Babylon and its ruthless ruler Nebuchadnezzar. He was eyeing a prize called Jerusalem and its young king, Jehoiachin.
Age 18 when he officially took over the throne, Jehoiachin wore the crown for a mere three months and ten days. The Bible’s analysis of his kingship: “He did evil in the eyes of the Lord” (2 Kings 24:9, 2 Chronicles 36:9). Not too great a job evaluation, huh? He’d barely warmed up the throne when the Babylonian king marched him off to captivity with the rest of the royal family (including the Queen Mother—imagine how she felt about his job performance!) and about 10,000 fellow Jews.
In this riches-to-rags story, Jehoiachin sat in a primitive prison for 37 years! Do the math: from age 18 (barely shaving) to age 55 (definitely sagging). He’d probably lost all hope. Then Babylon’s leadership changed. Power-hungry Nebuchadnezzar died and was replaced by Evil-Merodach (how’d you like that for a name?), who freed Jehoiachin from prison.
Then the Bible records an amazing event. You don’t expect it of a ruler whose nation is known for brutality: “He [Evil-Merodach] spoke kindly to him and gave him a seat of honor higher than those of the other kings who were with him in Babylon” (Jeremiah 52:32). Besides being removed from prison, Jehoiachin was given fresh clothes and invited to eat regularly at the king’s table the rest of his life.
There are several ways to look at this story. One is this: Jehoiachin got better than he deserved, though it took a while. However, he never returned to Jerusalem to resume his rule. Plus, the Bible never indicates if he softened his heart toward the things of God. The man who “did evil” in his short reign didn’t emerge from prison on fire for God. He was content to slum along in the royal dining room until he died.
Another way of looking at the passage is this. Sin and godless living can land any of us in desperate circumstances. But God, who unlike Babylon’s pagan king is absolute righteousness, sees us in the dark prison of our own making. Instead of some plebian guard, He sent His own Son to unlock the dank chamber where we rot. He bids us come with Him, gives us fresh garments, and leads us to the King’s banquet hall. There He wants to fellowship with us, forever. For me, it puts another face on that memorable verse: “I will come in and eat with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).
As we end one year and begin the next, Jehoiachin’s story presents us with some searching truths. Have you given up hope in your negative circumstances? Would you be ready if the King called you?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Gift-wrapped
Charlie Brown had his wimpy Christmas tree. In our house, the art of gift wrapping suffers greatly. I know and admire those who elevate gift-wrapping to an art form. Every corner of wrap on the box is folded as neat as sheets on a hospital bed. The tape is pressed on in perfect parallels to the top and bottom of the box. The ribbons color-coordinate and sport little mini-gifts in the bows. Generous poufs of tissue sprout from gift bags.
Let’s just say that protégées of Martha Stewart do not live at my house. I have an under-bed box of wrapping paper, about half of it saved and ironed to recycle, the other half from yard sales. A large box in the garage holds “gift boxes,” which could be anything from a former candy box to one that held an assortment of greeting cards.
Wrapping holiday gifts reminds me of the adage, “It’s not the wrappings, it’s the love inside.” And I remember that God’s one-of-a-kind gift to the world came in humble packaging. Luke 2:7 says Mary wrapped her just-born baby “in cloths and placed in him a manger." The world's most precious baby didn’t wear disposable diapers and cuddle up in a soft, sanitary blanket sleeper. He was bound in long swaddling rags, the custom among the poor.
Recycled cloths—I never thought about it before. But God doesn’t always do things the way we expect.
Merry Christmas! And as you gather up the gift wrappings for the recycling box (or carefully fold them to iron and re-use), make this your prayer: “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Cor. 9:15 NKJV).
Let’s just say that protégées of Martha Stewart do not live at my house. I have an under-bed box of wrapping paper, about half of it saved and ironed to recycle, the other half from yard sales. A large box in the garage holds “gift boxes,” which could be anything from a former candy box to one that held an assortment of greeting cards.
Wrapping holiday gifts reminds me of the adage, “It’s not the wrappings, it’s the love inside.” And I remember that God’s one-of-a-kind gift to the world came in humble packaging. Luke 2:7 says Mary wrapped her just-born baby “in cloths and placed in him a manger." The world's most precious baby didn’t wear disposable diapers and cuddle up in a soft, sanitary blanket sleeper. He was bound in long swaddling rags, the custom among the poor.
Recycled cloths—I never thought about it before. But God doesn’t always do things the way we expect.
Merry Christmas! And as you gather up the gift wrappings for the recycling box (or carefully fold them to iron and re-use), make this your prayer: “Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift!” (2 Cor. 9:15 NKJV).
Monday, December 20, 2010
Finding the perfect (sensible) gift
In the Middle Ages, children's gifts came in bundles of three. They got something rewarding, something useful, and something for discipline. You might call it the original sweet-and-sour. That heritage came down to my own childhood Christmases with candy bars in my stocking, gift-wrapped new underwear, and something strange or unneeded. The last gift involved the discipline of a prompt and gracious thank-you note.
“Dear Uncle Bob,” began the creative exercise. “How did you know that a Rudolph the Reindeer knitted red nose-warmer was a wardrobe urgency?”
I always wondered how people could so badly misjudge what a kid really wanted. Then I became an adult and the buyer of kid gifts. The minute you enter a store, your mind turns to pudding. You wonder as you wander...and wander...past bulging shelves. What do they need? What do they want? Yes, they offered a suggestion list, but it was coded with strange letters. CD--candied dates? DVD--dark velvet dungarees? Wii—women’s indigo ice-skates? Two hours later, unable to find those items, you emerge--exhausted and exhilarated. You have bought traditional gifts of discipline. They will require creative thank-yous.
A tie, to hone acting abilities. "How did you know I needed another tie? I really do need to switch my garment of choice from tee-shirts to collared shirts. This tie that lights up when you insert the batteries will become my favorite."
Perfume, to sharpen olfactory acuity. "What a splendid fragrance. It seems a mix of passion blossoms and spearmint. I've never sniffed just that combination. Maybe I'll take some to my chem teacher for help in analyzing its content."
A book on study skills, for the study-challenged. “What timing to get this book on academic excellence. In barely a month, I will face finals but with renewed confidence from this book’s wisdom.”
Pajamas, to reinforce healthy habits. "Mother dear, how did you know I needed new garments for the eight hours of sleep I will get every night? I have forsaken my habit of staying up until midnight. From now on, I will put them on promptly at 9:30, rise at 6:30 and neatly tuck them under my pillow upon making my bed."
Who says it's hard to buy the perfect gift?
Okay, end of teasing! I’m grateful that God doesn't get befuddled about his gift-choosing and bestowing. He knows exactly what we need. He may give a reward, something useful, or something to discipline us, but it will be His very best. Matthew 5:17 says even though we humans, inadequate that we are, “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”
“Dear Uncle Bob,” began the creative exercise. “How did you know that a Rudolph the Reindeer knitted red nose-warmer was a wardrobe urgency?”
I always wondered how people could so badly misjudge what a kid really wanted. Then I became an adult and the buyer of kid gifts. The minute you enter a store, your mind turns to pudding. You wonder as you wander...and wander...past bulging shelves. What do they need? What do they want? Yes, they offered a suggestion list, but it was coded with strange letters. CD--candied dates? DVD--dark velvet dungarees? Wii—women’s indigo ice-skates? Two hours later, unable to find those items, you emerge--exhausted and exhilarated. You have bought traditional gifts of discipline. They will require creative thank-yous.
A tie, to hone acting abilities. "How did you know I needed another tie? I really do need to switch my garment of choice from tee-shirts to collared shirts. This tie that lights up when you insert the batteries will become my favorite."
Perfume, to sharpen olfactory acuity. "What a splendid fragrance. It seems a mix of passion blossoms and spearmint. I've never sniffed just that combination. Maybe I'll take some to my chem teacher for help in analyzing its content."
A book on study skills, for the study-challenged. “What timing to get this book on academic excellence. In barely a month, I will face finals but with renewed confidence from this book’s wisdom.”
Pajamas, to reinforce healthy habits. "Mother dear, how did you know I needed new garments for the eight hours of sleep I will get every night? I have forsaken my habit of staying up until midnight. From now on, I will put them on promptly at 9:30, rise at 6:30 and neatly tuck them under my pillow upon making my bed."
Who says it's hard to buy the perfect gift?
Okay, end of teasing! I’m grateful that God doesn't get befuddled about his gift-choosing and bestowing. He knows exactly what we need. He may give a reward, something useful, or something to discipline us, but it will be His very best. Matthew 5:17 says even though we humans, inadequate that we are, “know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Too busy? Break a leg....
The usual too-busy Christmas season was underway that Saturday morning, Dec. 16, 2006. I had hurried to the shopping center with three items on my to-do list before returning home to wash and set my 86-year-old mom-in-law’s hair. I just needed to find a citrus peeler, buy some groceries, and mail a stack of holiday greetings.
I had checked off item number one and was carefully making my way down an ice-covered public stairway in the mall, gripping the handrails, when my life was changed. Somehow, between handholds, my feet gave way and I landed at the bottom with a broken ankle. I sat on compact snow and ice in pain as passers-by walked around me to take care of their errands. Finally, somebody stopped, saw I wasn’t getting up, and offered to call an ambulance.
Later that evening, as a nurse rolled me out of surgery recovery, she said, “Honey, you won’t be going very many places for six weeks, at least.”
This could not be! It was Christmas! Plus, I was a care-giver for my mother-in-law, whose Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where I was taking her meals, dispensing her pills, doing her laundry, and generally keeping her clean and healthy. Once the do-it-all person, now I had to sit back in a recliner, broken limb elevated, and learn a few lessons. Among them:
*The world will not stop even if I do.
*My family would survive.
*Care-giving my mom-in-law would happen with others pitching in.
*I had to accept help (meals, laundry, housework) because I just couldn’t do it.
*My family would find me to be a source of humor (pain pills do that to you).
I wouldn’t wish a broken ankle on anybody. I walk very carefully now when there’s ice about. I have wicked grippers for my snow boots. I’ve healed as best as possible, but those traumatized bones (the surgeon said, “You smushed it good”) let me know in advance that the weather is changing.
And when Christmas comes, I’m no longer the holiday tornado.
Yesterday morning before going to his afternoon substitute teaching job, my husband was listening to a Bill Gaither vocal band video featuring Larnell Harris. As I heated soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for his lunch, I listened…and was touched by these words Larnell sang: “Precious Lord, take my hand.”
This year, more than any other, that expresses my heart. I’ve learned to cut back on expectations at the holidays. I am seeking more quiet places to listen to God, to sense Him taking my hand.
And it won’t take breaking a leg (or an ankle) for that to happen.
I had checked off item number one and was carefully making my way down an ice-covered public stairway in the mall, gripping the handrails, when my life was changed. Somehow, between handholds, my feet gave way and I landed at the bottom with a broken ankle. I sat on compact snow and ice in pain as passers-by walked around me to take care of their errands. Finally, somebody stopped, saw I wasn’t getting up, and offered to call an ambulance.
Later that evening, as a nurse rolled me out of surgery recovery, she said, “Honey, you won’t be going very many places for six weeks, at least.”
This could not be! It was Christmas! Plus, I was a care-giver for my mother-in-law, whose Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point where I was taking her meals, dispensing her pills, doing her laundry, and generally keeping her clean and healthy. Once the do-it-all person, now I had to sit back in a recliner, broken limb elevated, and learn a few lessons. Among them:
*The world will not stop even if I do.
*My family would survive.
*Care-giving my mom-in-law would happen with others pitching in.
*I had to accept help (meals, laundry, housework) because I just couldn’t do it.
*My family would find me to be a source of humor (pain pills do that to you).
I wouldn’t wish a broken ankle on anybody. I walk very carefully now when there’s ice about. I have wicked grippers for my snow boots. I’ve healed as best as possible, but those traumatized bones (the surgeon said, “You smushed it good”) let me know in advance that the weather is changing.
And when Christmas comes, I’m no longer the holiday tornado.
Yesterday morning before going to his afternoon substitute teaching job, my husband was listening to a Bill Gaither vocal band video featuring Larnell Harris. As I heated soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches for his lunch, I listened…and was touched by these words Larnell sang: “Precious Lord, take my hand.”
This year, more than any other, that expresses my heart. I’ve learned to cut back on expectations at the holidays. I am seeking more quiet places to listen to God, to sense Him taking my hand.
And it won’t take breaking a leg (or an ankle) for that to happen.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Have yourself a merry lesser Christmas
A few years ago, a frugal living specialist mentioned she made cheap Christmas gifts by stitching pot-holders out of old jeans. To her surprise, hundreds of fans pressed her for step-by-step instructions.
I’ve not yet gone the jean pot-holder route, but I’m still dreaming of a recycled Christmas. I caught the vision a few years ago when my husband and I taught kindergarten Sunday school, a job whose perks included being invited to the annual Sunday school Christmas party. Requirements for attending: two dishes for the potluck and one “white elephant” gift (something humorous you don’t want any more).
One year I retrieved my party “elephant” from my daughter’s wastebasket, where she’d tossed a black plastic spider ring spit out by a grocery store trinkets machine. I tucked it in an old velvet jewelry box.
At party time, who would choose that anonymous gift but our church’s most eligible twenty-something miss, who taught public school music. Her scream of horror was the party highlight. But true to her gracious personality, she actually expressed delight in her creepy gift.
“I’ll wear this when I direct my children’s choir,” she said. “They’ll watch my hands for sure!”
Oh, the variety of gifts in that room. Like a bar of deodorant soap (what I unwrapped). A nine-inch golf bag. Old rock-and-roll record (actually, a secret Elvis fan got it).Of course, the highlight was waiting to see who got the party’s perennial joke gift. Its recipient was supposed to carefully store it during the year, then bring it back cleverly wrapped for the next year’s joke gift exchange. The gift? A crocheted duck filled with melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand candy, which it dispensed via an unmentionable place.
In contrast, I shake my head at the advertising that bombards us in this season. Who really parks in their driveway a luxury car topped with a bright red ribbon, just for Mom? Who really needs diamond necklaces or electronic gadgets? It makes more sense to me to honor the Gift-giver, and that’s why the check’s already gone to a carefully-chosen ministry.
No, I didn’t stitch gift potholders out of old jeans (though I did sew the annual pajamas for my sister’s grandkids). But I am thinking of how my family might revive the hilarity of the Sunday school teachers’ traveling gag gift. Let me dig around in the garage. There ought to be something. Maybe even a spider ring…..
I’ve not yet gone the jean pot-holder route, but I’m still dreaming of a recycled Christmas. I caught the vision a few years ago when my husband and I taught kindergarten Sunday school, a job whose perks included being invited to the annual Sunday school Christmas party. Requirements for attending: two dishes for the potluck and one “white elephant” gift (something humorous you don’t want any more).
One year I retrieved my party “elephant” from my daughter’s wastebasket, where she’d tossed a black plastic spider ring spit out by a grocery store trinkets machine. I tucked it in an old velvet jewelry box.
At party time, who would choose that anonymous gift but our church’s most eligible twenty-something miss, who taught public school music. Her scream of horror was the party highlight. But true to her gracious personality, she actually expressed delight in her creepy gift.
“I’ll wear this when I direct my children’s choir,” she said. “They’ll watch my hands for sure!”
Oh, the variety of gifts in that room. Like a bar of deodorant soap (what I unwrapped). A nine-inch golf bag. Old rock-and-roll record (actually, a secret Elvis fan got it).Of course, the highlight was waiting to see who got the party’s perennial joke gift. Its recipient was supposed to carefully store it during the year, then bring it back cleverly wrapped for the next year’s joke gift exchange. The gift? A crocheted duck filled with melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand candy, which it dispensed via an unmentionable place.
In contrast, I shake my head at the advertising that bombards us in this season. Who really parks in their driveway a luxury car topped with a bright red ribbon, just for Mom? Who really needs diamond necklaces or electronic gadgets? It makes more sense to me to honor the Gift-giver, and that’s why the check’s already gone to a carefully-chosen ministry.
No, I didn’t stitch gift potholders out of old jeans (though I did sew the annual pajamas for my sister’s grandkids). But I am thinking of how my family might revive the hilarity of the Sunday school teachers’ traveling gag gift. Let me dig around in the garage. There ought to be something. Maybe even a spider ring…..
Monday, December 6, 2010
Awry in the manger
I knew something was awry in the manger when the sputtering stopped. I was used to motor noises. I had a boy. Among his first toys were matchbox cars and trucks. They ran on, well, sputters. Little girls giggle. Boys sputter, especially when they’re three and haven’t yet learned words like “carburetor” or “horsepower.”
Advent had come, and we'd put out our child-friendly creche of fake moss on wood with plastic figurines. I sat little Zach down with his cloth Christmas book and related its profound plot of single words to the plastic figures. "Mary." Point to plastic mother. "Joseph." Point to plastic father. "Baby Jesus." Point to baby in animal feeding tray. Then on through the cows, shepherds, and wise men. I left him to review the lesson while I did housework.
All mothers of pre-schoolers worry when there is silence. Zach wasn't at the creche any more. All was okay--except the baby Jesus had a visitor. A four-inch motorcyclist had leaned his wheels against the corner by the cow.
"Zach," I said, calling my son to the scene of the personalized manger scene. "Doyou think Baby Jesus might wake up when the motorcycle goes vroom-vroom?” You don’t argue with a sputter specialist. The rider stayed in the no-parking zone.
Another year, when his younger sister Inga reached fashion doll age, the Holy Family had another unscheduled visit. She pushed the Wise Men to the side so that Barbie could pull up in her hot pink plastic Corvette for a social call. As I noticed Inga "walk" the doll over to the manger, I was just grateful Barbie, for a change, was modestly dressed.
We owe to St. Francis of Assisi the heritage of nativity re-creations. His outdoor manger scene helped tell local peasants the story of Christ's birth. But I doubt he imagined a set director like the one that emerged in our home. It was the year one child's personality bent became evident. As I passed by the creche in its traditional spot, I noticed something else awry in the manger. Sputter Boy had become Mr. Neatnik. My emerging perfectionist had lined up all the "people" on the right, and all the "animals" on the left.
I smiled at the sight, grateful he still left Jesus at the center of it all.
Advent had come, and we'd put out our child-friendly creche of fake moss on wood with plastic figurines. I sat little Zach down with his cloth Christmas book and related its profound plot of single words to the plastic figures. "Mary." Point to plastic mother. "Joseph." Point to plastic father. "Baby Jesus." Point to baby in animal feeding tray. Then on through the cows, shepherds, and wise men. I left him to review the lesson while I did housework.
All mothers of pre-schoolers worry when there is silence. Zach wasn't at the creche any more. All was okay--except the baby Jesus had a visitor. A four-inch motorcyclist had leaned his wheels against the corner by the cow.
"Zach," I said, calling my son to the scene of the personalized manger scene. "Doyou think Baby Jesus might wake up when the motorcycle goes vroom-vroom?” You don’t argue with a sputter specialist. The rider stayed in the no-parking zone.
Another year, when his younger sister Inga reached fashion doll age, the Holy Family had another unscheduled visit. She pushed the Wise Men to the side so that Barbie could pull up in her hot pink plastic Corvette for a social call. As I noticed Inga "walk" the doll over to the manger, I was just grateful Barbie, for a change, was modestly dressed.
We owe to St. Francis of Assisi the heritage of nativity re-creations. His outdoor manger scene helped tell local peasants the story of Christ's birth. But I doubt he imagined a set director like the one that emerged in our home. It was the year one child's personality bent became evident. As I passed by the creche in its traditional spot, I noticed something else awry in the manger. Sputter Boy had become Mr. Neatnik. My emerging perfectionist had lined up all the "people" on the right, and all the "animals" on the left.
I smiled at the sight, grateful he still left Jesus at the center of it all.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
In praise of GIRRLL-friends
I’ve done some thinking about quality friendships as a result of speaking at the bridal shower for a special neighbor girl, uh, young woman. Where did the years go? When her parents moved across the street, she was a toothless baby grinning up at me from her crib.
During my shower talk, I referred to how even after marriage, you need women friends. Your husband can’t possibly meet all your needs. Researchers say the typical woman has 20,000 words a day that need to get out. A man can get through a day with about 7,000 words, and often less (unless he’s a salesman, of course). He's pressed to keep up with her three-times-greater need of conversation. And unmarried women have just as big a need for verbal connection.
That’s where women friends come in—more accurately, the sisterly connection that I’d call (with a southern drawl) girrll-friends.
At the shower I quoted from Pam Farrell’s book Fantastic After Forty (Harvest, 2007) about how we never outgrow (or marry out of) our need for true girlfriends. Afterward, I thought of things I’d add to the list in Farrell’s book, based on the blessing of a girrll-friendship in my life. A girrll-friend:
*Has a “history” with you from years of building a friendship.
*Gives you clothes you can really use when she cleans out her closet.
*Helps you hold a put-off but needed yard sale—and adds her stuff, too.
*Listens to you, helping nudge you toward godly perspective on issues (as in “such-and-such drives me nuts” mellowing to “God’s using that to build my character”).
*Doesn’t keep track of who hosted the last informal lunch together.
*Permanently loans you her house key (1) in case she locks herself out and (2) because she trusts you and knows you probably will use it to sneak a meal in her refrigerator when she comes home from a long trip.
*Anticipates and shares life’s pleasures, like buying a whole watermelon and bringing you half, because neither of you can eat a whole one up before it spoils (and letting you pay for your half because you grew up not wanting to be ‘beholden’ to someone).
*Calls when she spots a bargain you might be interested in.
*Doesn’t force you to agree with her.
*Shares tips for healthier living and encourages you follow through.
*Helps you in humble, practical ways. One of my five-star events was the morning she helped wash my scaly, withered broken-but-healing ankle on the first day out of the hard cast. This act reminded me of Jesus in the Upper room, and I cried over her gentleness).
*Shares good books and videos.
*Prays for your kids like a second mom.
*Comes up with the idea of visiting while running errands together—especially when you’re too busy for time together otherwise.
*Shares your idiosyncrasies, like a fondness for split pea soup.
*Feels free to just drop in, even if it’s for an emergency bathroom stop.
*Clips cartoons that hit home.
*Alerts you to other friends’ needs and sorrows, without gossiping.
*Doesn’t care how messy your house is, but will lend a hand for a quick cleanup.
*Prays for you—for things you’ve mentioned and things she’s just wise about.
I’m sure I could go on about the nurturing connection points of such friendships (and use up some more of my allotted daily words), but that’s a start. I’d love to hear some traits you recognize in girrll-friends!
During my shower talk, I referred to how even after marriage, you need women friends. Your husband can’t possibly meet all your needs. Researchers say the typical woman has 20,000 words a day that need to get out. A man can get through a day with about 7,000 words, and often less (unless he’s a salesman, of course). He's pressed to keep up with her three-times-greater need of conversation. And unmarried women have just as big a need for verbal connection.
That’s where women friends come in—more accurately, the sisterly connection that I’d call (with a southern drawl) girrll-friends.
At the shower I quoted from Pam Farrell’s book Fantastic After Forty (Harvest, 2007) about how we never outgrow (or marry out of) our need for true girlfriends. Afterward, I thought of things I’d add to the list in Farrell’s book, based on the blessing of a girrll-friendship in my life. A girrll-friend:
*Has a “history” with you from years of building a friendship.
*Gives you clothes you can really use when she cleans out her closet.
*Helps you hold a put-off but needed yard sale—and adds her stuff, too.
*Listens to you, helping nudge you toward godly perspective on issues (as in “such-and-such drives me nuts” mellowing to “God’s using that to build my character”).
*Doesn’t keep track of who hosted the last informal lunch together.
*Permanently loans you her house key (1) in case she locks herself out and (2) because she trusts you and knows you probably will use it to sneak a meal in her refrigerator when she comes home from a long trip.
*Anticipates and shares life’s pleasures, like buying a whole watermelon and bringing you half, because neither of you can eat a whole one up before it spoils (and letting you pay for your half because you grew up not wanting to be ‘beholden’ to someone).
*Calls when she spots a bargain you might be interested in.
*Doesn’t force you to agree with her.
*Shares tips for healthier living and encourages you follow through.
*Helps you in humble, practical ways. One of my five-star events was the morning she helped wash my scaly, withered broken-but-healing ankle on the first day out of the hard cast. This act reminded me of Jesus in the Upper room, and I cried over her gentleness).
*Shares good books and videos.
*Prays for your kids like a second mom.
*Comes up with the idea of visiting while running errands together—especially when you’re too busy for time together otherwise.
*Shares your idiosyncrasies, like a fondness for split pea soup.
*Feels free to just drop in, even if it’s for an emergency bathroom stop.
*Clips cartoons that hit home.
*Alerts you to other friends’ needs and sorrows, without gossiping.
*Doesn’t care how messy your house is, but will lend a hand for a quick cleanup.
*Prays for you—for things you’ve mentioned and things she’s just wise about.
I’m sure I could go on about the nurturing connection points of such friendships (and use up some more of my allotted daily words), but that’s a start. I’d love to hear some traits you recognize in girrll-friends!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)