Connections

Recently I attended a funeral for my last remaining uncle, a trip entailing a 36-hour round trip flight to Cincinnati, a trip I almost did not take because I really did not "know" any of the other relatives. Uncle Rob spent most of his life traveling the world, then settled in California in the 60s; he never married or had children, and he and my dad (his brother) were too much alike to tolerate each other's company for too long--they only recently reconciled about two years before my dad died. Me? Over the years Rob and I kept in touch through letters, emails, phone calls, and random trips to visit each other; more recently, he had been a huge source of comfort to me during my dad's and stepmom's illnesses and deaths. Sadly, we had not connected since April, and recent emails and phone calls to him went unanswered. Right  before Thanksgiving, he called me but hung up after one ring; I called him back. He sounded horrible, and he said "Barbara, I think this is it;" we talked briefly, and that was it--I meant to call him back later that month, but you know, I would get busy, or it would be too early or too late, and then the first week of December came and went, and finally, when I did call, that horrible sterile recording, "I'm sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed, that number is no longer in service." A quick search on the internet confirmed my fear: Robert W. Koenig, age 94, Sonoma California, October 18, 1927-December 6, 2021. Sleuthed a bit more, and noticed there were going to be two funerals: one in California, and one Cincinnati; I called the Ohio funeral home and asked to have whoever was handling his arrangements to call me. While I was waiting, I sent a couple of messages to two relatives I found on FaceBook (by looking up their names from an old family tree Rob had given me).

A few hours afterward, I got a call from Cincinnati--it was Suzanne, a cousin I had never met, the woman who was handling the service. Rob had talked often about a Suzanne, a Jerry (her husband) and a Kathy, as well as many others, people with whom he enjoyed close connections, a link back to Cincinnati. Most of them were the grown children of his cousins (my aunts and uncles, who had long passed.) Suzanne shared with me how sick Rob had been that month or so before he died, and that she spoke to him frequently during those weeks; listening to her put to rest that nagging twinge of guilt I felt for not rushing out to see Rob after that awful phone call before Thanksgiving. Anyway, after chatting for a bit and getting past the basic social niceties, I had all the details for the funeral and the burial, and promised to get back to her to let her know either way if I was coming. Mind you, I was not even sure I wanted to go to the funeral. I had never met anyone who would be there, I would have to go by myself, it was a long way to go, airlines were having all kinds of issues with delays and cancellations and COVID quarantines, it was the post Christmas rush...I had a million excuses. In my heart, though, was this persistent ache, a sense of loss, and an overwhelming feeling of grief of reliving the death of my parents, especially my dad, who, by the way, also died at age 94, on December 6, three years earlier. So I booked my flight, hotel, and rental car for a quick 36-hour round trip. 

And oh how glad I am that I went! The funeral was beautiful, meaningful, and cathartic. Driving through the neighborhood where ghosts of my grandparents and parents and aunts and uncles seemed so tangible, and seeing the church and school I attended as a little girl, familiar street signs and landmarks, and I knew I had made the right decision. As soon as I walked into the church, Suzanne came up to me, said "you must be Barbara!," hugged me, and then introduced me to everyone else. Meeting a whole new branch of the family tree, making connections with cousins and their children, I shared in their grief and loss of someone we all knew and loved. These people I had never met went out of their way to make me feel welcome, including me in the celebration of Rob's life, even asking me to help place the pall on his coffin. Then, riding in the funeral procession to the familiar cemetery I visited every Sunday as a little girl, a flood of emotions and memories came rushing back, and I felt more connected to that spot, that area, than anywhere else. I felt I was home, that somehow, if I drove down the block to my old street, I just might catch a glimpse of Nana, or hear the kids playing Red Rover in the street, waiting for the Mister Softee truck. Powerful connections, connections I thought no longer existed were now restored. Finally, seeing my parents' gravesite, the stone that Rob and my daughter and I designed now in place, I knew I had made the right decision. 

Most of the relatives had to leave, but Suzanne and Jerry took me to lunch at a brand new restaurant in the incline district, an up and coming trendy area with a playhouse, condos, and hangouts where beautiful old buildings used to be. We shared so many memories, good and bad, and talked for so long the waitress gave up on taking our order. After lunch, they then invited me back to their house for coffee and snacks, where we talked and shared stories, making those connections. Familiar names--Joann, Celsie, Bernice, Frank, Theresa, Ginny and Ed--names I had not really spoken in ages, all of them connected to our lives. Memories of late night poker games held on weekends, rotating among each of their houses. Clarifying who was married, who had children, where everyone was living, grandkids, even pets. But mostly sharing each others' memories of the man whose life we gathered to celebrate, each of us with different, yet similar, connections. Making new connections with each other. I had been worried my memories of Rob would fade away because everyone who I knew, and who knew him, was gone; I was wrong. At the ripe old age of 66, I can still establish new connections, new roots, and form new relationships, keeping the past and those precious memories alive.

As I age and lose more loved ones, these tendrils connecting me to the important people of my life, connecting me to this fragile life here on earth, become frayed or stretched or even broken, and I’m sometimes left with a sense of loss and pain. That relationship is no longer there, and I can feel the part of me that is connected to that person leaving, like air leaking out of a hole in a balloon. I try to hold on to it, to hold that part of me close, the part of me defined by that person I just lost, but it's no use. But just when I think it is lost forever, serendipitously, God shows me new connections to replace those I thought I lost, making my life fuller and richer, and strengthening those connections to the past through our shared, but different, recollections. 

I see more trips to Cincinnati in my future 

The Chasm in Between

Alex and I have a strong desire to help others, especially those who cannot (or maybe will not) help themselves. Whatever the genesis, I can tell you what it is not. It is not a cry for attention, or an urge to look good. It is NOT virtue signaling, or pity, or feeling better than someone else. And we are not trying to singlehandedly save the universe, nor are we naive enough to believe that everyone we try to help will respond positively. The path to helping other human beings is fraught with all kinds of  danger, a veritable minefield of the worst characteristics of human nature: greed, selfishness, pride, envy, shame, and guilt, to name just a few. So missteps are not uncommon and more often than not the proffered help is not even appreciated, let alone accepted.

Through the years we have helped (or attempted to, anyway) our children, our coworkers, our friends, and our parents, our neighbors, and complete strangers. Over the past five or six years, the desire to help seemed to grow more urgent. We are  retired, our children are grown, and we have everything we need; naturally as Christians we want to share what we have and what we have learned with others. Retirement is not the death knell for life as we know it, and we offer our help aligned with God's law. When someone comes into our lives or our path and we "feel" God has placed that person there for a reason, we reflect on that and pray and discuss it with each other before making a big commitment; we have found if we just rashly jump into it without prayerful reflection and talking to each other, the end result has been less than ideal.  

But how do you help someone who doesn’t want the help? How do you help someone who doesn’t know he needs help? Or, how do you help someone who wants the help, knows he needs it, but doesn’t know how to ask or receive it or find it? That seems to be the sticking point for me, anyway, right now...maybe Alex is doing okay, but my heart hurts. And I am confused! Why does God put these people in our lives, ask us to help them, only to allow them to reject our help? Let's face it, it gets very disheartening when your help is not wanted or when your motives are misconstrued. (And I am not just referring to the fiasco with my mom 5 years ago, either.) We may have loads of life experience and education, and yes we have God on our side, but trying to figure out what to say and when to say it and when to shut up and when to press on and when to let go is a Herculean task! The tendency (actually if I am honest with myself, the very strong urge) to push my help, to control the situation, to steer the end result toward my desired conclusion, where everyone lives happily ever after and there is no more pain and suffering, that tendency is overwhelming. 

I really feel as if there is a huge, bottomless chasm between me and the person(s) I am trying to help, and I don't know how to reach them, to make them see how much they matter to me and to God, and to open their eyes to the ugliness of their sin without making them feel any worse. To reach out and take the wonderful bridge that is God's grace. I just do not have the words, and I am at a loss to help them. I guess I will have to let the Holy Spirit take this one.

On Destiny

Why does one person accept a proffered helping hand while yet another person rejects it completely? How does one person escape from an inevitable future of poverty, abuse and addiction, yet another breaks free of the cycle? Is it chance? Fate? Something I did? Something I did not do? Two young people, from the same community, same backgrounds, similar histories of abuse, neglect, and abject hopelessness, recently came into our lives, put in our path by God's divine plan. One is a young man we've known for a few months, who's sporadically helped us as a handyman and laborer, who Alex took under his wing to mentor and guide and perhaps to break the cycle of bad choices; the other is a young unmarried mom introduced to us by friends up the road when she became homeless and had no place else to turn. Both of them experienced a childhood no child should ever even know about, let alone live. Both had at least one person who cared about them, who reached out to them, but, for one reason or another, who also deserted them and gave up. Both of them were failed by an inadequate system, lost in a social services network overburdened by hundreds of lost children just like them. Both of them bounced from house to house, even ending up living in the woods or by the river because they either had no place else to go, or because the alternative was to live in homes so toxic it would destroy them. 

The young man has tried to change, but keeps getting sucked back into the only world he has ever known, believing the lies that he is hopeless, that he will never change, and that he can fix himself. He says his kids are his everything, but puts himself first. And now, after weeks of us trying to help him--going to parole meetings, posting bond, and countless talks and meals and prayer--he has vanished back into the woods, back to his comfort zone, possibly back to drugs. The young woman got a job thanks to her cousin, and has kept that job for over a month; she is currently looking for her own place. I am amazed at what a caring, loving and consistent mom she is, especially since she had no positive role model growing up. 

I can't help but compare this scenario to my own life, and, more broadly, to mankind. We are all so desperately lost, following the ways of the world and listening to the whispers of Satan since Adam and Eve capitulated to the serpent in the Garden. We make the same mistakes over and over again, and think we can fix it, that we know better, that we have all the answers. And God is always there, reaching out for us, offering His help and wisdom through His word, and many of us stubbornly refuse His help, and reject the precious gift of His Son. 

Is one person stronger or more resilient than the other? I just don't know. What I do know is that without grace I would still be lost, heading towards ruin and an eternity of suffering. Like the song, I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see. By grace. God's amazing grace. 

On Afghanistan

I have been trying really, really hard to not get sucked into the secular drama that is out in the world on FaceBook, news reports, and other social media chatter; my focus needs to be on God and the image of Christ that I portray to the world, and most of the arguments and issues being debated (that is a really kind word for the vitriol I see and hear on a daily basis) are issues  that are never going to be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction--this is nothing new.The reason I try to NOT get embroiled in these debates and echo chambers is simple: they do not personally and directly affect me and my quality of life, and more importantly, they have no bearing on my salvation, so I normally stay out of the fray and refuse to enlist in the tribal mentality so prevalent in today’s society. 

But, something recently truly struck a nerve, causing me sleepless nights, not a few tears, and a sense of helplessness: the bungled withdrawal of the troops from Afghanistan, and the deafening silence that ensued when military and political leaders were questioned. No real news coverage, no investigation, no Congressional inquiry, and no publicized outcry demanding accountability—other than some videos and posts on social media channels, and those were quickly relegated to a trash basket of “disgruntled military and veterans.” Had this happened on President Trump’s watch, mainstream media, his political opponents, FaceBook, Twitter, and other social media giants would be screaming for accountability, probably even demanding impeachment of the President and resignation of senior military leaders. Not now, no—instead all channels are flooded with the Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie saga for the past 30 days. Sure, it’s sad, but she is one of over 600,000 Americans who go missing every year; the timing of focusing nearly all news on that one story brings me pause. She went missing on August 24, and was officially reported missing by her family on August 28, the weekend all hell broke loose at the Kabul airport. Stealing a line from one of the Star Wars movies (don't ask me which one), this is a classic example of "These are not the droids you seek.” Swiftly silenced, swept under the rug, all focus shifted to a missing 22 year old and an uproar over Haitian immigrants being chased by the border patrol on horses. 

Silenced until a 17-year veteran and battalion commander, Marine Lt Col Stuart Scheller, posted a video demanding accountability from senior Marine leaders after 13 service members, 11 of them Marines, one of which Scheller knew personally, were killed in a suicide bombing outside the airport they were trying to protect. Admittedly, making the video in uniform was sure to cause an uproar in the tight-assed Marine community, and many veterans and current servicemen criticize him for that, but something tells me he knew his video and statements would carry more weight and credibility if he wore his uniform.  The video went viral, and within hours he was relieved of his command, and as of today, sits in the brig at Camp Lejeune pending an Article 32 hearing (an Article 32 hearing determines if the offense(s) warrant trial by court-martial). Lt Col Scheller has since posted two more videos in which he resigns his commission and implores senior leaders to take accountability, a sentiment echoed by the majority of military, both currently serving and veterans. 

Accountability??? For senior officers, for those in power, for military officers and senior enlisted, or any military member with connections, yeah what a joke. In the 32 years I served my country—22 years on active duty, and 10 years as a contractor—accountability was anything but fair and equitable. Wing commanders who used their position and power to have affairs with wives of their subordinates, and, when discovered, were allowed to retire as if nothing had happened. My own single airman being denied reenlistment for having an affair with a married officer, while that officer was given a slap on the wrist and allowed to continue on with his career as if nothing happened. Rampant sexual abuse from senior enlisted members and officers, lying and cheating and stealing: in short, any crime or immoral behavior you see in the civilian sector, I saw in the military. But true accountability? None. Scapegoats? Plenty of them. So upon hearing Scheller demand accountability from his chain of command, and the echoes of other service members demanding accountability from their chain of command, all the way up to the commander in chief, I sighed. I applaud him, but at the same time, I seriously doubt it will ever happen.  

 
Back to the Afghanistan debacle: how does the largest organization supporting veterans, the Veteran’s Administration, respond to this debacle? By quickly posting videos on their website, activating a crisis line for Afghanistan veterans (with the ubiquitous tag line “you are not alone,”) publishing blogs, and sending an email to every single veteran on the VA rolls. Funny that no videos or blogs or personal emails from the director were sent in the previous 20 years, but all of the sudden, now we are flooded with help and advice and resources to “help” us deal with the anger and confusion and disillusionment over the fallout of a botched withdrawal from a country we all had something to do with helping since 2001. And to that, I cry BULLSHIT! The emails, blogs, crisis lines, “thank you for your service” comments from politicians and senior officials in the military are vain attempts to atone for the worst military withdrawal in history, virtue signaling at its finest. And, the continued insistence from the commander in chief and his senior level military advisors and joint chiefs that “we stand by our decision” is a slap in the face of all who served. 

Am I saying I believe we should have stayed in Afghanistan indefinitely? No, and I’m not alone in saying we had already been there far longer than we should have been. But, to abruptly abandon the country in the infancy of learning how to protect and govern themselves, to pull the only safety net they had for two decades out from under them, was dishonorable and foolhardy, to put it mildly. The Afghan security forces and fledgling government were not even close to being ready to take back the reins of their country, a country with a multiethnic society, comprised of at least fifteen different tribes dating back thousands of years; the only uniting thread among these warring tribes being their religion: Islam. Outsiders (Alexander the Great, Iran, India, Russia, and the United States, to name a few) have tried unsuccessfully for centuries to "tame" Afghanis, a people for all intents and purposes living in the 15th century, endorsing honor killings, amputation of limbs or execution as punishment for crimes. We stormed in there, guns blazing, ostensibly to avenge the atrocities of 9/11, and 20 years later, after a great loss of life and billions of dollars, realized the futility of “converting” Afghanistan to our way of life. Withdrawal was inevitable, as it was in Vietnam; it was just a matter of determining when we could beat feet, tuck our tails, and run. 

So, how do I feel about the events  in Afghanistan? I am angry, hurt, sad, and ashamed to be an American right now—I think of the maimed soldiers, I can see the boxes marked “human remains” on my flights from Bagram to Kandahar to Kabul to Qatar. Mostly, though, what makes me lose sleep, what makes me truly ashamed of my country, is the abandonment and downright betrayal of those Afghanis who worked alongside us, who risked their lives and the lives of their families to be our interpreters and cultural liaisons in a country we did not understand. I remember the three teenage boys, barefoot and wearing bits and pieces of ill-fitting uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, letting me into the compound at night and graciously offering me a cup of chai. I see the women and girls allowed to go to school for the first time in their lives, and selling their beautiful handmade linens and wares at the weekly market. I see the children clamoring for food, for money, for pencils, for shoes, for whatever we “rich Americans” could spare.  I see a country so poor and so beautiful but entrenched in the past. Photos of Afghan civilians trying to stop huge aircraft while taxiing, some of them even desperate enough to try to hitch a ride on the plane’s landing gear (and inevitably falling to their deaths), whole families shoving their papers and passports at beleaguered American soldiers, trying to attain safe passage out of a country that was falling apart. And all I can ask is, “why?”  Was it worth it? Did those service men and women die or return home crippled mentally and physically in vain? How do we make sense of it all for them? 

We don’t. Only God can see the future, and how it will play out. But I am still angry.

Many of my friends and family have asked me “What do you think of the Afghanistan withdrawal?” and “How does it make you feel?” 

Well, now you know. 

Vent over.

On Prayer

Prayer--that honor and privilege of having a two-way communication with our Creator, a means in which man can not only talk to God, but also listen. Prayer is the means by which His supernatural grace flows to us--powerful grace, saving grace. Prayer is how we acknowledge and adore God, confess our sins, thank Him for everything, and ask for what we need. In short, prayer is talking to and listening to our heavenly Father. Thousands of books have been written about prayer--how to pray, when to pray, why to pray. There are prescribed prayers for every situation, every career field (the lawyer's prayer, the teacher's prayer). There is the serenity prayer. Prayer altars. Prayer cloths and blankets. Beads. Crystals. Mantras. There is no shortage of guidance and instructions and accouterments for prayer. All faiths have some sort of prayer built into their rituals and traditions. 

Christians are great at talking about prayer, but let's face it: few people, me included, have a robust prayer life. Sure, I pray before meals, say quick prayers of intercession, and offer to pray for people who are concerned about some trouble in their lives. Sadly, though, my prayer life is seriously wanting; more often than not, when confronted with a problem, pain, illness, frustration, or a challenge, I still yearn to be in control, to fix it myself, to seek out the answers. Recently I suffered a horrible tooth abscess, and was in excruciating pain. My first reaction? Google it, complain about it, take pills, call the ER; only AFTER all those things did I realize, or even think about, praying about it. 

Then there is the matter of intercessory prayer--friends and families confide some worry or concern to me, I tell them "I'll pray for you," but really, do I? Or is it just some automatic, knee jerk response, something I am expected (as a Christian) to say? And if I do pray for that person, how sincere am I? Do I really talk to God about it as I would talk to my earthly father or mentors or pastor about it? Oh, and yeah, do I actually listen? Or do I just rattle off some "please help (insert name) with (insert problem)," and then move on the next item on the list?

Seriously, by this point in my life I should be more practiced in this area; I mean, I have been a self-professed Christian for over 50 years, and since prayer is integral to the life of a believing Christian, one would assume I would be better at it than I am, that with any challenge, my first reaction would be to fall to my knees and pray.  

Maybe my prayers need to start with "Help me, teach me, to pray." 

The older I get, the farther along I am on this journey of sanctification, growing in grace, the more I realize (painfully) how I do not deserve His grace.  

On antisocial media

I just spent the last hour doing two things: reading and responding to social media posts, and playing Farm Heroes Saga, and the most productive (and least depressing) activity was hands down the second one. Here it is, Saturday morning in the mountains, a gorgeous late August day, sun shining, after a good night's sleep in our beautiful home, and my eyes are brimming with tears out of sadness, frustration, and a sense of hopelessness all because of what I have ingested online. And I am ashamed--ashamed because I let it get to me, ashamed that I have not even prayed let alone open my Bible, ashamed at the excuses I make to rationalize every moment I spend scrolling through posts and comments and memes and photos. "I like to keep up with what's going on in my friends' lives," "I only use FaceBook for seeing and sharing photos of my grandkids," "I need the platform to promote the charity I endorse and volunteer for," "How else can I find out what is happening in my community and how I can help?," and "I only follow people, groups and blogs that are not antithetical to my beliefs and values."  For the past three years I have fooled myself into believing I can use social media for good; that I can control my tongue, sit on my hands, and refrain from snarky comments; and that in no way will any social media platform affect my mood or impact the state of my soul. Yet here I am, blogging about just that.

Sure, I have tried to minimize my exposure to negativity by unfollowing people who post inflammatory memes and comments, by ignoring the algorithm-generated newsfeed and pages, by blocking the trolls who have nothing better to do than stir the pot, and by leaving those groups bent on divisiveness. And when I do open up my computer and click on that FaceBook bookmark, I tell myself I am only checking the status of an item I posted for sale, or a request for volunteers for St Baldrick's. Who am I kidding? Not myself, and least of all God. Five, ten, thirty, ninety minutes later, I find myself no wiser, and, worst of all, I realize I have not even remotely represented Christ, shared my faith, or spread the Good News. Every post I submit, every comment I make, every photo I share, deep down I am looking for approval, and weighing my sense of worth on how many positive emojis I garner. When I think I am posting or sharing something out of love for others, when I really peel it back, I am looking for affirmation.  I intentionally seek out groups and "friends" who think the same way I do, and who will give me that sought-after thumbs up, or better yet, a heart. In person I almost NEVER share my thoughts on a subject or my opinion with strangers; in fact, I am quite introverted around people I do not know, only offering basic social courtesies--a handshake, a hello, a smile. I shrink from engaging in debates and conversations in groups unless I know each and every person, and even then, I tend to keep my thoughts to myself (even if I do roll my eyes) 🙄. But, put me behind a screen and the veil is off, safe behind the anonymity of a keyboard.

If something I wear makes me itch, or is uncomfortable, I don't wear it--I either toss it or donate it. When I am driving down the road and a song comes on that I hate, I change the station or turn off the radio. If it is too hot, I turn on the a/c; too cold, I put on a sweater or turn up the heat. When confronted with something I know is evil and wrong and against God's law, I avoid it. But I have allowed the poison of anti-social media to seep into my heart and into my soul, and it is robbing me of my present--I cannot enjoy the world in front of me, all around me, if I am engaged with the false reality of what is on the internet's social media sites. I become trapped in the filth and the depression and the neediness of the world, and I want to fix it and help and respond to every single thing. Floods, cancer, deaths, bombings, hurricanes--it all pulls at my heart. Looking down at what is on my computer or my phone keeps me from looking up and around at what is going on in my home, my family, my community. Even now as I type this, I am being drawn to open another tab in my browser and click on that FaceBook icon, to check if anyone I know posted a photo, to see what local groups are heralding as newsworthy. As if there is anything newsworthy on a website that caters to, no, promotes, divisiveness and the tribal mentality of “if you don’t agree with everything I say and do, then you are my enemy”. Social media is no longer social or sociable, and it never was courteous; instead, FaceBook, Twitter, TikTok, and their ilk, while they seemingly began as online gathering places for sharing funny cat videos and opinions and as a way to “meet” people, are now just giant echo chambers.

Four years ago I extricated myself from the vacuous, rabble-rousing, and one-sided 24-hour news stations where talking heads droned on ad nauseum about anything and everything. News—HA!—as if the mainstream media provide anything news worthy without burdening viewers with their opinions.  I have not missed anything, either; the world hasn’t stopped turning on its axis and the sun still does come up in the east. As for FaceBook, perhaps it is time to take a break, maybe even close my account, and stop making excuses for the time I waste in virtual reality, to quit justifying my social media presence; I don't really need to know what my 487 "friends" are eating or doing or wearing or thinking. Instead, I should be focusing on what my immediate family and neighbors are doing and thinking, and spending time with real people, getting real hugs, and sharing their very real joys and sorrows. Bottom line: If it neither edifies people or glorifies God, it is not worth the time. 

Hidden Idols

Close your eyes, think of the word "idol," and what do you see? Statues? Golden calf? A tv program? Charleton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments? Possibly you can think a bit more abstractly, and, expanding the definition of the word, you think of beauty, sex, the internet, cell phones, food, work. But what really is an idol? Webster defines idolatry as "the worship of or excessive devotion to, or reverence for, some person or thing (the idol).” Biblically, at its core, an idol is anything that replaces God as a central point in our lives. 

I've smugly thought I have no idols...I don't put bowls of rice in front of wooden statues, or worship trees. I read my Bible, pray, support missions, and go to church, and am making a concerted effort in growing my faith, using His Word as a blueprint for my life, my choices, my thoughts, my values. I know I am a sinner, and I am painfully aware every single day how much I do not deserve heaven, that only by God's infinite and merciful grace through the sacrifice of His Son will I make it there. I don't see myself as secular or worldly--idols are what those people have, not me! Ha! Right! Read on...

I opened my bookcase this weekend and perused the titles on the shelves, especially the plethora of books I bought at a women's conference I attended this spring (all with the good intention of reading them as soon as I got home). One title grabbed my attention; I pulled it partially out, then hesitated, pushing it back in place. The title, "Idols of the Heart," made me uncomfortable--that little prick from the Holy Spirit, I guess--so I picked it up and began reading. Seriously, though, the last thing I wanted was to delve into something that would identify yet another list of inadequacies and failures as a Christian. But, no pain, no gain, right? 

Within the first few pages, I knew I made the right choice; the author, Elyse Fitzpatrick, is brutally honest concerning her own idols, and relates her own journey to identifying them. What I expected was another book bemoaning the evils of cell phones, reality TV, and the internet, all things I could easily dismiss as not really a problem for me; I'm well aware of the potential for these distractions to interfere with my relationship with God. What I got was far more; by the third page of the first chapter I realized that I, like Elyse, put my trust in things other than God. Not in the obvious twenty-first century conveniences and time savers (or is it wasters?), and not in material things, financial security, physical image, or fitness. Not in my family--children, grandkids, or even my spouse; although I do love them all very much, and cherish every memory, every moment with them all, God is definitely first in my heart. 

Or so I thought.

What is first in my heart, even when I try to hide it, to pretend it’s not there, is the almost obsessive need to be accepted, to be understood. That desire (and the inability to fulfill it, to achieve acceptance and understanding) has caused countless sleepless nights, oceans of tears, bouts of uncontrollable anger and self deprecation, depression, and confusion. Confusion and pain when my motives are misread, when I never get the opportunity to make them see (God make them SEE!) they are wrong about me, that my actions stem from the heart, my intentions blameless.  Whenever I meet someone new, I wonder what they think of me, if they like me, did I say anything inappropriate. At times I am so focused on proving I am right, on pursuing acceptance from the world, and on garnering understanding, and therefore, love, I allow my love of God to come in second. I forget about His grace, and put the approval of the world above His approval. 

I can recount innumerable examples, and often the misunderstanding is the result of speaking before thinking, blurting out some casual remark that to me seemed funny and innocent. When my sister was planning her wedding, we were picking out bridesmaids' dresses, and, shocked at the high cost of the dresses, I mumbled I'd return my dress for a refund after the wedding. And, to make matters worse, I had just had my long blonde hair permed (it was the 70s, okay?), and I jokingly said it made me look like a cocaine queen (again, the 70s). Neither of those comments were taken well; in fact, fearing I would ruin her big day, my sister told me I was no longer in the wedding. Over 40 years ago, and I still want to fix that misunderstanding, to get her to understand what I really meant. Other times it is my failure to communicate my intentions, and the reasoning behind those intentions, that results in a painful misunderstanding. Case in point, I developed a friendship with the realtor who found us our Tampa home; five years later, we were moving out of Florida, and hired her to sell our house. But, when after 90 days there was no sale, we decided to go with a different realtor; while I did break the news to her, it was via email, not in person. She felt rebuffed, and betrayed, and she broke off all communication with me. Again...misunderstood. 

These are just two of countless instances that my intentions were misunderstood; each time I would keep focusing on the incident, wondering how I could make it better, how I could gain their approval. And often, sadly, in the midst of it I didn't even stop and ask God how to handle it, or seek His counsel, or search His Word--I struggled with it all alone, trusting my own instincts. How misguided I often am to think that how others see me (other sinners like me) matters more than how God sees me.  This idol of my heart, the yearning for understanding, has not yet been thrown out or broken; it still vies for attention, and tries to usurp God’s rightful place in my heart. But hey…I know it’s there now, I’m wise to its ways, so when it tries to sneak back in, to make me believe I don’t matter without the approval of others, I fall on my knees, open the Word, and place God back where he rightfully belongs: in that God-shaped hole in my heart that can only be filled by Him. A well-known, oft quoted prayer by St Francis of Assisi says it quite well:

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace,

that where there is hatred, I may bring love;

that where there is wrong,

 I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;

that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;

that where there is error, I may bring truth;

that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;

that where there is despair, I may bring hope;

that where there are shadows, I may bring light;

that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to 

comfort than to be comforted;

to understand, than to be understood;

to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.

It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.

It is by dying that one awakens to Eternal Life.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved—(Ephesians 2:4-5)