Land mines

Navigating the minefield of conversation with adult children is exhausting.  Visits can be going swimmingly when without warning, one word, one statement, even a nonverbal—a look, a facial expression, gesture—is misconstrued as disappointment, disapproval, or condemnation.  But, should the same comment or look emanate from a friend, a neighbor, or even a total stranger, it’s not even an issue; it doesn’t raise an eyebrow or even cause a ruffle.  Mom says it though?  Defenses up, hackles raised, and hyperboles abound.  Suddenly it’s as if that adult child is 15 again and defending their lifestyle, their choices, and is incensed that I comment on anything. I’m accused of being  always negative, judgmental, disapproving, condescending. And I’m never understanding or happy for them or supportive or kind. And, to make matters worse, I get examples dragged out of the past and flung at me. 

I’m exhausted. I can’t be honest with my own children. I have to bite my tongue and lie and hide my feelings.  I can’t be worried or mention they may be wrong or even suggest a slightly different alternative solution.  I have to watch the people I love more than life itself go down roads fraught with danger and not warn them.  It makes me sad.  And angry and hurt and unloved  because my wisdom and experience, valued and sought after by others, is so hated and shunned by the ones I want most to share it with.  And while I am perfectly aware that my standing changed long ago, that I’m no longer their hero, that I fell off that pedestal sometime between kindergarten and puberty, it still boggles my mind, this chasm between me and my adult daughters that fluctuates between impassable and nonexistent.  Having grown up with a mother who found it impossible to love, I consider my relationship with my daughters truly special and close and wonderful, like I’m in this sacred place reserved just for me, an inner sanctum, so when somehow I inadvertently violate that space and get demoted it’s that much more heart wrenching. 

Of course, those of you who’ve been down this road a thousand times know the solution to this quandary, and you’re probably screaming it at me right now: “mind your own business!”  Yeah you’d think that at 65 I’d already know how futile (and downright stupid) it is to offer  unsolicited advice to my kids about anything.  Or how foolish it is to agree with them when they criticize one of their friends, coworkers, or spouse (because my concurrence is construed as character assassination). Never mind what they’re saying...I can neither agree or disagree. Even nodding is suspect.  (And before y’all jump to conclusions, I figured out long, long ago not only to not give child rearing advice regarding my grandkids, but to be extremely wary even if the parents ask for advice).  No, my current dilemma is how to listen without judgment, how to respond with neutrality , and how to keep my mouth shut and my face blank.

My hope? That they know how much I love them, how I pray for them constantly, cheer for their endeavors, celebrate their successes and mourn their losses and disappointments.  And that they forgive my indiscretions and misspoken words and give me grace, and understand I only speak out of love and worry.  And, most of all, I pray they feel to the depths of their beings how much they are loved and cherished, and that I’d gladly give my life for them.  

On Discipleship

disciple” (noun): someone who adheres to the teachings of another. It is a follower or a learner. It refers to someone who takes up the ways of someone else. Applied to Jesus, a disciple is someone who learns from him to live like him — someone who, because of God’s awakening grace, conforms his or her words and ways to the words and ways of Jesus. (Jonathan Parnell, Desiring God)

A little over two weeks ago (seems like a year ago), my daughter and I attended The Gospel Coalition (TGC) Women's conference, something she encouraged me to do, and then, when she asked if I would like her to join me, I ecstatically concurred. Leading up to the event, I was excited, anxious, nervous, albeit sometimes a bit nauseated, at the prospect of being in a convention center with thousands of women, women whose objective was to learn more about their faith, about Jesus, about God. And despite having attended countless work-related conferences, heck, I even taught at quite a few of them, I had no idea of what to expect; military and government conferences are a far cry from spiritual ones. My daughter on the other hand was an old pro at this sort of event, so I gladly latched on to her coattails and off we went. My expectations were nebulous--at the very least, though, I was thrilled about some mother-daughter alone time. Ha. That's hilarious. Alone time. In a convention center filled with women from all over the globe, most of whom seemed to know my daughter. 

Remember me? The introverted, highly sensitive person? What was I thinking? I was not equipped for this experience! We hit the ground the day before the conference began, and the next morning we embarked on a 72 hour kaleidoscope of breakout sessions, keynote speakers, a bookstore with over 60 vendors, and yes, tons of women. Old, young, middle-aged women. Single women, married women. Nursing moms. Moms with baby carriers and strollers. Women of every shape, size, color, and denomination. The speakers were fervent, knowledgeable, articulate, and the breakout sessions I had signed up for (at my daughter's recommendation) were germane and on point. I bought more books that weekend than I have in the past 10 years (most of which still sit on my bookshelf waiting to be opened). By Saturday evening, I was exhausted--emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally--overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information and prayer and a very obviously active Holy Spirit. I even ventured out of my comfort zone and joined Mandy and her friends for dinner on at least two occasions. During the conference, though, I would look around the giant arena, and I felt very alone. At one point I wrote in my journal: 

Here at this conference with my daughter and 3500 other Christian women this weekend, I am simultaneously thrilled, inspired, awed, and humbled. I listen to the talks and read the words and sing the songs and worship our God, and I excitedly buy books to help me and guide me on journey through sanctification. I take  notes and pray and grow, and internalize all the beauty and pain and sorrow and joy around me, but despite being surrounded by other believers and sisters in Christ, and believing the same things, I feel alone and alien and unworthy to be here. It’s as if I’m counterfeit, a distorted reflection or pixilated version of these Godly women. I cannot match their fervor or relate to their gospel soaked lifestyles, and my sinful past and lack of a Christian upbringing are glaringly obvious and crippling handicaps.  My daughter and her friends and, let’s be honest, most of the attendees, are so far ahead of me in their growth and their sanctification that I feel I will never catch them. Inside I feel what they feel, and my brain and my heart are there, but I cannot even begin to relate intellectually on their spiritual level. It’s as if I’m in a different dimension, on another plane. I’m alone and different and I don’t belong. Oh but how I wish, I yearn, I ache to be in their sphere, to be a part of their group, a member of this elite club, and to be seen as one of them.

After praying about these feelings, I vocalized some of this to my daughter, and she reassured me that this was normal, and a lot of it was a combination of being new to faith conferences and an introvert. And don't get me wrong: I loved every minute of the conference, and am still listening to sessions I did not have a chance to attend. The real kicker though? We had some fairly frank dinner conversations about spiritual growth; one in particular stands out during which my daughter unceremoniously announced my urgent need for discipleship...to which her friends nodded. Such a humbling experience. I mean, my daughters, both of them, have taught me things and broadened my knowledge base in many areas, and I am not foolish enough or vain enough to think that, just because I am older and "the mom" that I cannot be taught. But being informed you are in need of mentoring and discipleship, by younger women, especially one you gave birth to, is quite a different item than advice on baking bread, fundraising, or gardening. Again, humbling. With a capital H. But the more I contemplated it, thought about it, turned the idea over in my mind, the more sense it made, the more I wanted to act on it. Book recommendation received (Growing Together" by one of the keynote speakers), and subsequently ordered on Amazon (the bookstore, by the way, was completely sold out...a good sign). And a few days after I returned home, I reached out to my pastor's wife...a young woman at least 25 years my junior...and asked if she would be willing to disciple me, to mentor me, and to work through the afore-mentioned book; I even ordered her a copy as well. 

So, here I am, less than 24 hours after our first "session," and I am at once (again) excited, nervous, anxious, and yes, a bit queasy at the prospect of learning and growing and sharing with this younger woman. Our first meeting, intended to be "about an hour" at a local coffee place, lasted nearly four hours, and did not even cover the entire introductory chapters. And, like after the conference two weeks ago, I am overwhelmed and awed at how God works in my life, brings people into my life, and gently puts my feet on the path He has designed for me. 

THANK you Mandy, Cheryl, Amy, Blaire, and especially, thank you Melissa for agreeing to go on this crazy trip with me. This is definitely going to be a bumpy ride!

Reminiscing

After my parents divorced in 1964, we visited Dad every other weekend (when mom would let us) and for two glorious weeks each summer. Those summer vacations were a welcome escape from a less than pleasant childhood, and some of my most precious memories. Every summer Dad would drive all five of us kids to Florida for two weeks of sun and tourist traps and sunburns and cheap hotels (all named the Pelican or the Sand Dollar or the Seafarer or the like), and each year we’d end up in a different city.  

One year it was Treasure Island, where we visited the Sunken Gardens in St. Petersburg (formed by one of the huge sinkholes that frequently plague south central Florida.) We saw the replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, and attended a great dolphin show at the local outdoor aquarium where trained porpoises jumped over bars and leapt high in the air to grab fish out of trainers’ mouths, and seals thrilled audiences with their comical belly slides and rollovers and flapping of flippers. We went to Busch Gardens and sampled beer when Anheiser Busch was still American owned,  and attended a  bird show, watching in wonder as trained parrots, cockatiels, and parakeets slid down slides and pushed tiny wheelbarrows around a stage, and beautiful pink flamingos stood on one leg and peacocks showed off their magnificent fantails.  Another year we visited St Augustine, where Dad made sure he took us to every single, historical building: the oldest school, church, jail, courthouse, fort, etc, making sure to take movies at each one.  Dad’s penchant for taking a movie of the historical signs, moving the camera back  and forth as if the camera was “reading” the sign always made us laugh.  

A visit to Daytona Beach had us marveling at cars driving on the beach, and of course we collected tons of seashells and even rented a paddle boat to trek out to a sandbar for a picnic lunch. As luck would have it, though, paddling back to shore was a lot harder than paddling out, as we were going against the tide, so my sister and I had to get out and swim to shore; I got the worst sunburn that year and spent most of the rest of that trip pouting, wearing a long sleeve shirt and putting vinegar on my blisters.  

Yet another year found us in central Florida at Cypress Gardens watching pretty ladies in swimsuits waterski across blue waters, and later we would be traversing lakes in glass bottomed boats, our little faces plastered against the glass to see manatees and fish and alligators. We visited Weekiwatchee and watched, enthralled, as “mermaids” performed underwater and waved to us.  Walt Disney World was still a dream in Walt’s head, and Orlando’s biggest attraction was Gator Land, where kids could feed live gators, and watch big, burly trainers throw sides of beef to crocodiles as audiences screamed in mock terror. We saw beautiful birds with feathery plumage: snowy egrets, great blue herons, pelicans, and shorebirds.  

The trip down was never boring, albeit five kids in a car for two days got a bit noisy at times, and there were the requisite tussles and spats.  The interstate wasn’t completed all the way from Ohio to Florida back in the 60s, so we’d have to take US 41 through the Tennessee Valley, but we loved stopping at all the roadside stands, where locals sold handmade quilts, pillows with pom-poms, freshly made jam, and local honey; seeing all the dams created as part of FDR’s New Deal was quite the educational bonus.  Then there were stops at Stuckey’s, home of the famous (and deliciously sticky sweet) pecan log, the various welcome centers at the borders of each state we entered, and overnight motels. The Florida welcome center served fresh squeezed orange juice back then, and we’d eagerly line up for cup after cup; now all they have is vending machines. One year we even stopped at Rock City in Chattanooga, TN, and spent three wonderful days exploring the caverns and magical gnome dioramas; if you’ve ever seen the words “See Rock City” painted on the side of a barn, you’re seeing roadside marketing at its finest.  Then there was the year of the ham:  Dad decided he’d buy a huge ham to help defray meal costs.  We had ham and eggs, ham sandwiches, ham soup, ham and beans, even ham and potatoes; it was like the Bubba Gump of Ham, and we never let him live that down.  

How my dad managed to retain his sanity for two weeks taking care of five children (four girls and a mentally handicapped boy) is a mystery—our ages the first year were 2, 5, 7, 9, and 12, and believe me, as we grew into puberty it didn’t get any easier. We all had our share of temper tantrums and teenage angst.  One year he did hire a college girl, a daughter of one of his friends, to help him wrangle us girls—two of us were adolescents and he did not want to deal with questions about feminine hygiene products or processes 

One of the stories Dad loved to recount concerned my stubborn insistence on ordering the soup du jour for lunch, even though I had no idea what that meant-it just sounded grown up, and at 14 I really wanted to be grown up!The soup arrived at the table:  clam chowder. I hated clam chowder, so I just refused to eat it and demanded a hamburger instead.  Dad told the waitress no way, and told me I had to finish that damn soup; I did, and I learned a valuable lesson that day: know what you’re ordering, and eat what you get. Dad never tired of regaling my friends and husband and kids with  that story. 

As far as I can recall, Dad never alluded to the cost of anything, or denied us souvenirs, or neglected to take us to any attraction in the city being visited.  He let us be kids.  We’d climb on fort walls, shoot imaginary cannons, swim in the hotel pools until we were waterlogged and had bloodshot eyes, and build countless sand castles.  Somehow we’d all make it down and back safely, and we’d wait with anticipation until the next summer.  The days, weeks and months seemed to drag on and we thought summer would  never arrive.  But it inevitably did.  

Those cherished memories will always be with me, and I count myself blessed to have experienced places and things and events of yesteryear. Busch Gardens no longer showcases  cool bird antics,  and the old Busch clock tower and beer gardens are overshadowed by modern roller coasters. Legoland sits where Cypress Gardens once was, and the pretty ladies waterskiing are long gone; only a few acres of the botanical gardens remain.  Most of the open air aquariums and amusement parks in Florida have succumbed to the “progress” of giant corporations such as Seaworld, Disney and Universal, and the quaint pink and blue Sand Dollar and Pelican and SeaFarer motels are gone, replaced by shiny modern, towering condominiums and resorts. Little did I know we were receiving a priceless education in history, zoology, geography, and the like, but isn’t that always the case with children? Experiences taken for granted then  are that much more  appreciated now, both new and old, and I’m all the more complete  to have experienced both.  Divorce is never easy—for parents or for children. But my dad made sure he made the most out of every moment we spent with him, and for that, I am eternally grateful.  

The frailty of life

 

So you want to raise baby chicks, do you? Those cute little, adorable, fluffy balls who are peeping in the feed store are so irresistible.  Yeah, I get that. So this year I decided to raise baby chickens, partly out of a need to have something to do and something living to raise, and partly as a bonding and fun experience to have with my grandchildren, especially the three that normally reside in India. I conducted exhaustive research, reading books and  blogs,  watching YouTube videos, and asking questions on local FaceBook chicken groups. I knew Mandy and Brian and the girls were arriving in mid March, so I checked out local places to buy baby chicks, deciding on an area urban farm where we could select different breeds of chicks instead of having to purchase a minimum of six of one breed at the feed store. This allowed the kids to pick out their own little chick, as well as select ones for their cousins who couldn’t be here. I made all the preparations for the new arrivals, converting an old Rubbermaid tub from Goodwill into a brooder; hubby constructed the lid out of scrap wood and some hardware mesh. A chick starter kit (heat lamp, plus water and food dispensers) completed the nursery preparations; we were ready to welcome the babies! 

Lydia and Petunia

When the grandkids arrived Wednesday afternoon, we planned an expedition for the next day to buy baby chicks (read that phrase in high pitched, squealing, excited voices of three little girls); their parents wouldn’t be able to go with us, as they would be otherwise engaged attending a 3-hour Zoom conference. Thursday after lunch, PopPop, three very excited little girls, and I hopped into the van, and off we went on our adventure, stopping first at Tractor Supply to purchase chick starter and some pine bedding. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the farm, where the owner ushered us into the chicken nursery, a converted garage filled with at least ten large brooders, each one containing 10-25 baby chicks. Anyone who has ever been thrilled and mesmerized by a tub full of fluffy, peeping, adorable baby chicks knows how we felt; the kids (and I) were in baby chick heaven. We opened tub after tub after tub, each of us selecting precious little fluff balls and naming them on the spot. Aside from Molly getting scratched by a farm kitten who just wouldn’t let go of her neck, nothing marred the experience, and we left with a box of seven baby chicks. The cherry on top was a pitstop at Pelican’s Snowballs for a delightful afternoon treat. 

Isabella and Pearl

The drive home was peppered with constant questions as to the health of the chicks, with the girls begging to take out the chicks and hold them “because they are lonely.” Once we arrived back home, the chicks were introduced into their new home, each one having its little beak dipped in the water bowl to encourage it to rehydrate. The rest of the day was filled with all of us (adults included) making frequent trips to stand over the brooder and watch the chicks eat, play, and run around, and of course the inevitable pleas from their human mamas to “please can we hold them, please please please?” We all laughed at the antics; a couple of them like to sleep in the food dish as if they are worried about losing their place in line at the food buffet, some unceremoniously walking over sleeping brood-mates, and all of them producing a prodigious amount of poop. Five  of the chicks received names: Petunia (Lydia), Clutch (Molly),  Pearl (Isabella), Buttercup (Sophie), and Creamsicle (Pop Pop). Chicken lovers know they are quite addictive to watch; the chicks monopolized a lot of our attention, but we eventually all went to sleep that first night praying for a good, safe night for our new little flock. 

The next morning, it was obvious Pearl was not faring well—she was listless and not eating or drinking, and despite our efforts, she was our first casualty. Isabella held little Pearl, and nonplussed by her chick’s pending demise, asked if she could just adopt Creamsicle instead in typical Isa fashion. They held a little funeral, singing hymns, and we buried her right next to the resting place of our family dogs. I think I felt worse than the kids did, so I drove back to the farm and got her a replacement Pearl. All was well, we were back to seven fluff balls, and the grandkids left for a two day visit with some nearby friends, admonishing me as they left to take good care of the chicks while they were gone (they were coming back Sunday for a two day stopover on their way back to Atlanta). So, Friday evening found me checking each one for pasty butt, cleaning the ones afflicted, and fussing over one of them in particular: little Petunia was looking very lethargic and listless, so I hand fed her some electrolytes and hovered over the brooder until I was too tired to stay up any longer.  All to no avail, because the next morning, she was gone.  I was heartbroken, even more so because I’d have to break the news to Lydia.  

Molly and Clutch

So, I bought 7 chicks on Thursday.  I’ve replaced one, and am seriously contemplating a trip to replace Petunia. I’m doing everything I can—electrolytes, food, heat, checking their butts,  etc, and I’m at a loss as to what to do next.  I’ve never raised baby chicks before and I feel silly for sitting here crying over dead baby chicks. Sure I know loss is to be expected with little fluffy babies less than 2 weeks old but to lose two of seven is heartbreaking, especially because those two were handpicked and named by two of the granddaughters. So I’m worrying over them like a mother hen (now I know where that phrase comes from) and feeling helpless. I have to fight the urge to constantly stand over the brooder,  and trust that I am doing everything I can to keep them warm, fed, watered and safe. When one of them looks weak, or isn’t at the feeding bowl with the rest of them, my first desire is to pick it up and hold it and nurse it with a medicine dropper. I fret that it may be too warm or too cold or the food is too hard or the chicks are too little. I keep going to backyard chicken blogs and YouTube to glean more advice, hoping to find the magic bullet. I wonder if  the coop I have ready for them outside will be safe enough or big enough. What about raccoons and foxes and possums? How do I ensure these little ones will survive in here, let alone outside? Should I get a guinea hen or a rooster to keep them safe and warn them about predators? So many questions, so many factors over which I have little to no control. 

Like life.

How easily I slip back into old habits, the illusion that I am in control, that I can know all and fix all. And how quickly I forget who truly holds the reins, and who is the creator and who is the created.  

Raising baby chicks will humble you in a heartbeat, and remind you very quickly how fragile and fleeting and precious and exhilarating life truly is. 

"How many are your works, Lord! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number – living things both large and small." (Psalm 104:24-25)

Desperate Evangelist

Have you ever learned something so amazing, or heard news that so radically changes your life forever, that you just HAVE to tell everyone you love? Or gone to a restaurant and ordered something that, when you get it, is so mouthwateringly delicious, so fantastic, you just have to share it, and you are practically trying to force a forkful of whatever it is into your friend’s mouth? But then no one wants to hear the great news, because they would rather talk about what is important to them. The delectable treat you want to share? Refused, oftentimes by pushing your hand away, with the person mumbling, “thanks, but I’ll just take your word for it.” But you stubbornly persist, looking for that perfect opening to interject that wonderful nugget of information into the conversation, waiting for exactly the right moment to slip the tasty morsel onto their tongue.  And you dream of the oohs and aahs and the grateful appreciation and accolades you will receive for not giving up, for being so dogged in your pursuit. Dream on, oh impatient one.  Sharing the gospel and my faith with my non-believing family and friends is a challenge, to put it mildly, only made worse by my lack of finesse. (That’s a nice way of saying I’m rude.) So intent am I on getting MY point across and proving I’m right, I forget all my listening skills and social decorum, and monopolize the conversation, even interrupting others when they try to make their point. Needless to say, I am not very effective. 

Why? Because I forget the basic tenets of sharing Jesus—do everything in love, be kind, pray, and most importantly, let God do the heavy lifting.  I forget I’m planting seeds, not whole trees. Instead of asking what the other person feels (and then actually pausing to hear the answer), I turn into Mrs Buttinski. Throwing all decorum to the winds, I run in like a bull in a china shop, and bash them over the head with my Bible. 

Funny thing is that approach didn’t work with me—in fact it drove a wedge between me and my faith for twenty years; what brought me back was love and understanding and a dose of suffering that knocked me to my knees.  And now that I’ve finally realized I DO need God, that I cannot do anything on my own, I want to share my joy with those I love; it’s  only natural. I love them. I want them to know what I know, to feel what I feel, and most of all I want them to avoid the pitfalls, false steps, and sorrow my stubbornness caused.  And that’s how my pride trips me up: I cannot make a seed grow, I can only plant it and water it in a heart made soft and ready by the Holy Spirit.  All the bashing and blustering and pushing in the world won’t do a thing until that happens.  

Love, kindness, patience, and prayer. Most of all...prayer

"So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ"

Romans 10:17

Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

“Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves." (Matthew 7:15)

Ravi Zacharias has now joined the ranks of such Christian leaders as Jim Bakker, Ted Haggard, Jimmy Swaggart, Bill Gothard, and countless Catholic priests, and not for the souls he may have brought to Christ. Instead, Mr Zacharias perpetrated gross deeds of sexual abuse, manipulation, financial bribery, and debauchery over a period of at least 15 years...and he did so while writing and publishing 89 books, speaking at countless conferences, churches, and seminaries, and becoming one of the most articulate apologists of our time. Millions of people around the world followed his ministry, Christians and non-Christians alike, especially on the subject of apologetics, of which he was arguably one of the best. For those of you not sure of what an apologist is, an apologist defends Christianity and demonstrates the error of non-Christian religions, using logic, evidence, and examination in the support and defense of the Bible and what it teaches. Apologists usually know their Christian doctrine very well. Unfortunately, knowing doctrine does not ensure the person practices that same doctrine. Obviously, Ravi Zacharias was not only a skilled apologist, but also a practiced liar and a deceiver on a grand scale, hiding his sins in plain sight from his staff, his family, and his ministry. 

I am always shocked when famous religious leaders so publicly fall from grace, but this one was a sucker punch to the gut. I had only recently "discovered" Ravi, and was duly impressed and encouraged listening to his lectures and arguments, and used them as a basis and rough outline for my fledgling study of apologetics. Even though he died in May 2020, his teachings lived on, and I loved sharing his talks, his words, and his ideas. But now, his teachings and, in fact, his entire ministry, are tainted and suspect. How can I, as a believing follower of Jesus Christ, a Christian, promote or support the teachings of one such as this abuser, this deceiver? He took advantage of his position, his authority, his power, and worse yet, twisted Scripture, the unerring Word of a holy God, to obtain personal pleasure and to silence those he was abusing. The answer: I cannot. It sickens me to my very core to even think of reading his books or following his talks on YouTube, and I wish I could take back every recommendation I made to friends and family to "listen to this."  

Many believers, while shocked at the news, want to dilute the effect, excusing his actions by saying we are all sinners, that we should not judge, that only God knows the state of Ravi's soul. When The Gospel Coalition published a summary of the report, the reactions were all over the board: from disgust, shock, disbelief, denial, and even blaming his sins on the victims, and I would hazard to guess those reactions accurately reflect how all believers will receive the news.  The actions of this one man, in my opinion, have done irreparable harm to the spread of the Gospel, effectively erasing any and all good he accomplished. And while it is true that only God knows the state of Ravi Zacharias' heart, the depths of depravity to which he sank, and the methods of deception he used to hide his sin, indicate to me he was indeed, a wolf in sheep's clothing. For me, Ravi Zacharias is exactly the type of man Peter spoke about when he said:

"But false prophets also arose among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you, who will secretly bring in destructive heresies, even denying the Master who bought them, bringing upon themselves swift destruction...these are waterless springs and mists driven by a storm. For them the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved. For, speaking loud boasts of folly, they entice by sensual passions of the flesh those who are barely escaping from those who live in error. They promise them freedom, but they themselves are slaves of corruption. For whatever overcomes a person, to that he is enslaved. For if, after they have escaped the defilements of the world through the knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, they are again entangled in them and overcome, the last state has become worse for them than the first. For it would have been better for them never to have known the way of righteousness than after knowing it to turn back from the holy commandment delivered to them." 2 Peter 2:1, 17-21

Thank God we have Jesus as our Shepherd to protect us from such wolves, and may we continue to keep our eyes on him, not on man.

Knee jerks

Have you ever looked back on a rough place in life and realized that something you did or neglected to do precipitated that very situation?  That by not stopping and thinking it through, by not praying over a decision, by just reacting emotionally and plowing forward caused an avalanche? Yeah, well I’ve done that quite a few times in my 60 plus years, making knee jerk decisions and reacting emotionally instead of cognitively. It’s not pretty, and it’s quite embarrassing to admit. And when that momentary lapse in judgment snowballs out of control, you can get crushed by the weight of it.  With crystal clarity, I see how a response made in anger, to hurt those who hurt me, precipitated a storm of epic proportions. I knew my defiance would piss them off—I just didn’t know how pissed off they could get. Eighteen months and over fifteen thousand dollars later, I found out. 

Hindsight is always 20/20, and tears of regret could fill an ocean, and this is no exception. And while it was demoralizing to realize I was worth less than a poodle, I can honestly say it was refreshing to finally learn what they really thought of me.  Made letting go that much easier—no pretense or facades to deal with anymore. So, to whom it may concern: I am sorry for not telling you where the dog was. I was angry and sad and felt betrayed so I reacted by refusing, because I knew it would make you all mad. If I’d known that I’d be sued over a dog, I’d have driven you all to his new owner’s house. In a limousine. With champagne. And a marching band. 

Maybe things would have turned out differently.  

But I doubt it.