And then he walked away...

Years ago, I learned a very important lesson that this week, I forgot completely.

I tend to look at all of life through the filter that is my life. I have a home. Clean clothes. Healthy food. Facilities. I assume everyone desires the same, and that if they don't have it, they want to be rescued.

Martinez proved me wrong today--and freed me, too.

I had gone downtown on an errand this morning, and when I returned, there was Martinez--hunched over, head down--on his bus bench. I pulled up and handed him another 1000 calorie pack. This time I showed him how the zipper worked.

When I got home, I implored Jim to call a Spanish-speaking friend who could translate over the speaker phone on his Blackberry and drive down the street to meet Martinez for himself. While he's at it, let's bungee roll a bedspread, a pair of jeans, socks, shirt, and offer him a coat Jim's not using anymore. Before we head out, I wash a couple of tangerines and a pear and place them in a paper sack.

But now Martinez is not there.

Jim and I duck into the nearby fast food restaurant and ask the people there if they know Martinez. They do. They don't know him by name, but they know who I'm talking about. They tell us that they give him water and sometimes they sell him food with the money motorists hand him. That's good. I feel hopeful.

We decide to hang around for a few minutes and see if he turns up. At the end of my grilled chicken sandwich, he does. He's back on his bench and so we drive over, call our friend, and ask him to explain to Martinez the options he has for shelter and care. Does he want to go?

Oh, and can he use this bed roll and clothing?

No?...Is there anything he needs?

He tells Jim, "socks." Just the socks. So we give him the socks.

After a bit of one-way conversation about the shelter options, Martinez apparently says yes, he would like to go. But he makes no motion toward that end. He just sits, dipping bread chunks into a can of black beans. Jim and I hang up with the friend and begin to discuss our options. Should we request a Spanish-speaking police officer to come transport him? Should Jim drive him over? Where is it? The main shelter isn't answering the phone today.

Meanwhile, Martinez doesn't actually seem interested in going. Did he even understand what our friend was telling him?

As we spoke to one another--Jim and me--Martinez inexplicably picked up only one of the few food bags that had accumulated on his bus bench, and walked away. He didn't look back. He didn't say bye. He just...walked..away.

I think we were uninvited guests who wouldn't leave--and...so he did. Which is kind of funny and embarrassing all at the same time.

So, I am relieved to remember this lesson. Not everyone wants what I have. Some folks choose their unenviable circumstances purposefully. They do not want to be rescued.

And maybe that was the catch this week. Maybe it wasn't a lack of selflessness that kept me from taking in Martinez--maybe it was a lack of calling.

Discovering that my love is not great...

This morning, we got up too early to join our homeschool group in the glass lobby of the Lila Cockrell Theater.

We were there to sit audience for the dress rehearsal of the Nutcracker ballet. The opening scene isn't part of the deal, but we only pay $5 for a ticket--so there are no complaints. The girls were decked out in their prettiest Christmas-colored garb and happy enough to sit around for a half hour waiting to be seated because they were waiting with fun, new friends.

After the production, we walked down the block and ate lunch at Shilo's Delicatessen. It's closed eight out of ten times that we try to stop in--usually evenings and Sundays--but they were open today! I was pleasantly surprised at my vegetarian croissant sandwich, but the little girls didn't care much for their potato pancakes and applesauce.

As we ate, our attention was turned to three young servicemen in camouflage studying the menu outside our booth window. They debated among themselves for a long while before coming in for a round of lunch specials and water. Twenty minutes later our hearts were warmed to see them file past the register without stopping to pay because another patron had picked up their tab anonymously.

As we left, Cuddlebug meekly inquired about a boat ride on the Riverwalk. A mild day, nowhere we have to be, a resident discount, no lines and three sweet smiles quietly awaiting my answer. It was the perfect storm. This is their victory procession to the ticket stand where I will have to borrow $15 cash money from my 8-year old because they're not taking debit today.

I do not know why my 8-year old is carrying around $15 cash money. We keep emptying that wallet into safer places, and it keeps filling up with money--like the widow and her oil. I blame the grandmas.

Back on street level, we ducked into St. Joseph's Downtown Church. It was beautifully adorned with tapestries, paintings and stained glass as was the way to share the Gospel with worshippers before publishing and literacy were commonplace. The beautiful sanctuary was also riddled with at least a dozen life-sized statues, and Fifi's demeanor gave me concern.

I worried that she might be sick or faint dead away before we left.

We reverently walked the perimeter of the room, not daring to sit in a pew, and came upon a man unpacking his bedroll and backpack on a bench. As he wriggled his left arm out of its strap, I took note that his shirt was ripped the length of his torso. Clearly, this place was more his home than mine, and so I said nothing and continued on my way to the exit.

We passed the "poor boxes," and swiped a tourist information sheet on the way out.

Thinking back, I don't know why it didn't occur to me in the moment to give the girls some bills or coins to slide into those boxes. They kept asking about the boxes. They whispered about the boxes. They noticed every one of the boxes.

"Mommy, why does that say "poor box?"

"Mommy, how do you put money in there without a key for the lock?"

Once at the back of the sanctuary, another homeless man held the door for us. I greeted him with a smile and a "good afternoon," but we must have been too close, still, to the sacred place because he did not respond.

Back on the curb again, Fifi strung together her impressions the best she could. It sounded something like, "Mommy, people like that would never think to come into any of our churches."

It is sad and she is right. Our churches are all locked. There is no steeple. There are no people. We are grieved and talk through our feelings. Inaccessibility in the protestant church is a hard truth to swallow. Especially when it's coupled with childish indignation at the idea of taxes going toward government-sponsored social programs. My question then becomes, "O.k. then, Christian--what are you doing about it?"

And on our way home, we exited the freeway near our suburban neighborhood, and I met a man who busted my heart wide open...

to be continued

Growing Legs To Walk the Talk

In a faraway place there is a girl
who is six and very capable.
All the day long she says, "I can!"
and does her mother's bidding.
She is plain and small,
and keeps her hands on her hips,
with her chin held high.
She has no time for puerile pleasures,
and wears only the hint of a smile.
This girl will do well.


In a faraway place there is a girl who is eight
and very cheerful.
All the day long she playfully shirks the work
to assuage her pining need for whimsy.
She is dark and adorable,
and adorns herself
with all that is good about being a girl.
She plays with dolls,
and has fun wherever she goes.
This girl will do well.



In a faraway place there is a girl
who has barely embarked on the years
that will lead her to adulthood.
All the day long she mentors and guides
the young ones in her charge.
And hangs the laundry. And fixes dinner.
She is strong and smart and studious,
and would rather curl up with a good book
than do just about anything else.
This girl will do well.

These are not my girls--but they could be.

And now...
they are.

Though they remain in their faraway lands--
in Equador, Peru and Indonesia--
These girls are ours now to pray for, to rejoice over...

to love...

as with the hands and feet of Jesus, through Compassion International.


ht: Melanie, This Ain't New York

Rebirth of the Blog

For the last few days, I have been thinking, praying and seeking counsel from my Husband over a problem visitor to my blog. And I have been busy about setting up shop elsewhere. I have a fun new blog name and moniker to use and have designed a new header. I even had to establish a new email to fake my death just right.

I've also enjoyed a better response than I expected from people around the world who lurk here and want to read on in my new home. Within those inquires has been the confirmation I needed to keep the blog public...

I really enjoy your blog - I scrolled through your archives last week and really enjoyed your wee series on "your tapesty/journey" to becoming a Christian. I'm not a Christian - I grew up with very sincere Christian parents and 3 siblings, but I never was a believer...I started going to church and I feel drawn to going - but it also irritates/unsettles me no end. I know that there is something there and that you people have something that I don't...Anyway, I somehow ended up in the blog world and it is ironic - nearly all of the blogs that I read regularly are, you guessed it, Christians. Can't keep away, I guess! You all certainly get me thinking and often make me feel that, yes, I'm still missing something!

That one came from a far-away continent and, yes, I got permission to quote from it. Maybe it's where I'm coming from, but upon reading that, I just knew that I could not hide HIS LIGHT under a bushel! I don't often understand how others see it through my unyielded self, but He is God that way, and His purposes are bigger than my sin. *happy sigh*

And there were other letters. Some are intrigued by my "weird" ways, some enjoy the "fly on the wall" perspective of my Weekly Round-ups. Still others sent Scripture and prayers my way--because that's what fellowship in the Body of Christ is...instant, glorious, care and concern: love amongst the bretheren.

And it has blessed my soul this week. At every turn, the Lord sent friends. Friends in the flesh, on the phone, and in my Inbox. I wish I could share the details of my trouble only so that you could better understand the impact of your kindness. But I can not.

Someday maybe...in the new Jerusalem, when the outcome serves to glorify God!

But for now, some new developments. I'll try hard not to say too much.

I should first explain the reason I decided to move my blog and put y'all through this tedious exercise. It wasn't because I've anything to hide. Or because I'm running from anyone. Or because I'm shy. Or afraid. It was because I offended someone who is not only unable to forgive, but seems bent on seeking my destruction.

But I love this person.

And so, in love, I felt compelled to attempt to protect my Offended from what I see as a lack of self control. I know what it is to be enslaved to sin, and I thought I heard the Lord telling me to do all I could to spare this person the obsession of checking and digging this blog for things at which to take offense...or print off so that others may likewise, be hurt and offended.

But it didn't work. My offended has found a couple of my cyber friends--ones with whom I share true fellowship and am not willing to give up. Husband points out that Offended will eventually find me again. My Offended is nothing if not determined.

So, I'm staying put. Staying where my growth in the Lord is already well documented. Staying where my record of His greatness to me can be found.

To my Offended I say this:

This is my blog for the Lord. My heart hurts for you in that you feel compelled to seek offense in its pages, and while I understand your hurt and disappointment in whom I have become, my walk with Him is not something I'm willing to give back--ever--not even for you.

I have long wanted to tell you that the fear and sadness that have driven so many of your decisions--large and small--stem from the void in your heart that only Jesus can fill. Only God Himself--in the incarnation of Jesus the Christ--can make you whole. He is True. He is Real.

He loves you and can bind your wounds if you will only humble yourself and allow Him. No one loves you like He does. And nothing but His death and resurrection can save you. Not your truth. Not your education. Not your job. Not your money. Not your alliance of family or friends. Not your copious notes.

And it's not too late. Your rebellion is not too big for Him.

These are hard truths that I want you to hear on this side--because keeping quiet isn't doing you any favors. It is appointed one time for you to die, and then the judgment. And eternity is a very long time to be so wrong.

Only Jesus can make you whole. And I want you to know that we, here in my house, all pray for it, every day. Often morning and night. Because we love you like you can't yet understand. Frankly, sometimes--like this week--we don't even understand it, but that is all the more to the glory of God. Praise His name!

I implore you: won't you let Him bind up your wounds?

A Strange Christmas Season

I just can't seem to find my traction in this wonderful season of celebration.

A few weeks ago, right after we trimmed the tree, we went on vacation--a nine day vacation.

Nine days, four trips across time zones, two airline flights, 15 hours in a rented car, 4 nights on inflatable mattresses--3 times tearing 'em down, 2 times setting 'em up--unfamiliar food in restaurants, late nights, and...family dynamics.

All in all--exhausting.

But we did it for the girls. And we did it for the 5th commandment. And we did it so that someday, later, I will not need to worry and wonder, "What if..."

See, my parents aren't just unbelievers--they are unbelievers with believers' baggage. And they've given voice to their mindset that we've been relegated to the distinction of, "relative," as opposed to "family."

But I don't mean to paint the trip unpleasant, because it certainly wasn't. There were some really nice moments like when Dumpling found time to run around the backyard with Grandpa and a kickball...

And like finding out that the Titanic artifacts were on exhibit in Phoenix while we were there visiting the grandparents! Grandpa is very generous with his resources, and paid all our way into the museum. And he was so supportive of Fifi's interest that he bought her a book of Titanic facts in the museum gift shop. The best part though, was that he was there with us.

We were refreshed in our travels by the sweet, slow pace of togetherness offered at my mother-in-law's house in a suburb adjacent to beautiful Santa Barbara...

And it always made me smile to visit these three happy playmates on Mama Lee's back porch...

Here's their kind uncle trying in vain to extract a confession of Santa Claus from my girls as he gifts them some spending money. A little awkward, but we stood back and let it play itself out and everyone survived okay.

And then there was..well...every moment at Disneyland. Here we are arriving on Main Street.

Here, Cuddlebug is trying her best to run off the tracks at Autopia, and laughing mercilessly at my motion sickness.

Such concern. I'm moved.

I don't ride in the same teacup as the rest of them anymore. They like it fast and furious. And me? I like to metabolize my lunch.

Last time, Cuddlebug slept right through every trip to the Gibson Girl Ice Cream Parlor...

Dumpling was in. her. element. at the Princess Coronation Fair...

Hey, there's no yawning at Disneyland!

We found a new favorite in the Toon Town rollercoaster...

And found decorative inspiration in Minnie's house...

We shopped...

We waited...

We watched...

We had fun. A lot of fun.

And then we had to leave the "happiest place on earth." But that's o.k., because we were headed back to Phoenix for a few more nights with the grandparents and the aunt that the young ones hardly know.

And there was hurt.

Because it hurts to see your parents getting older. And it hurts to be burdened with unwanted secrets.

And even though there was a lovely and successful effort to keep us comfortable and well fed, it hurts to be a sinner in a place where there is no grace to give.

It hurts to see others squander your precious time with their chores and personal strife, and it hurts more to find they've left...without so much as a goodbye to anyone.

But we tried. We tried to leave a place better than we found it.

And we tried to be a beacon of Jesus' love.

And now we're home, and there is certainly no place like it! But we're finding re-entry into our real life elusive. There has been no baking. Or caroling. We're scrambling to get gifts under the tree. We're struggling to get out of bed before noon, and to find our time in the Bible like we need to.

But there's still 3 days before Christmas, isn't there? And a whole lot can happen in 3 days, can't it?

Weekly Roundup: Gospel and Glitz

This was one of those weeks that might as easily be recorded according to what we didn't get done, as to what we did accomplish.

We didn't get around to scraping the popcorn texture off the ceilings.

We didn't get around to finishing our flower sketches.

We didn't get around to making our cuneiform tablet.

But, there was a long-awaited bike ride around the block for 5-year-old Cuddlebug and Husband last Saturday. 7-year-old Dumpling, meanwhile, hid out in the back yard with 12-year-old Fifi--afraid that she might be commanded to come along. That child still won't mount a bike by herself, but to her credit, has learned to stop without the aid of the nearest hedge.

I might mention that Husband left on the bike ride with one little daughter, but came back with two little children. Cuddlebug was accompanied by a little tow-headed boy who was visiting his Grandpa down the street. They drove around the yard in Cuddlebug's birthday jeep and didn't say two words to one another.

It just may have been a match made in heaven; time will tell.

Later, Husband grilled steak and baked potatoes. Because that's what he does. And it was gloooooorious!

Sunday, we came home after church and it was so hot, and we had nothing to do, so we girls decided it was a good day to lounge around in our pajamas. Wouldn't you know it, no sooner had we put them on than who should appear at the foot of our drive? Friends? Foes? Neighbors?

It only took a second to register, and I was bounding up the stairs faster than I'd moved in years decades! I threw on a pair of sweat pants to go under my house dress and threw myself back down the stairs in time to hear Fifi's calling to her father across the house, "The Mormons are coming! The Mormons are here!"

He beat me to the front door and was already engaging one of the young men in small talk because his nametag bore the family moniker of a popular chain of ice cream stores in Salt Lake City. At least it was popular when we lived there; they've since sold out to Dreyers--but that's of no consequence, it was just a good ice breaker.

Usually, we would politely send such missionaries away with a bite of doctrine to chew on...like that the Bible says God is Spirit and must be worshiped in Spirit and in Truth, or...that Jesus the Son is eternal and not created and is one with the Father. But inexplicably, this time we felt compelled to invite them inside. We did not break bread with them as the Bible commands us not to, but we did seat them in our library and had a wonderfully frank question-and-answer with them for nearly an hour. I think they wanted to cut their losses and leave at about the halfway mark, but we took a liking to them, so we just kept talking to them--silently praying and planting and trusting Him for a harvest someday later after they have stopped circling Mecca, so to speak. We did learn some things about their beliefs that we didn't know, and that will help us better prepare for sharing Jesus with the LDS, because the Lord has put a lot of LDS upon our path since we moved from Utah over the New Year's holiday in 1998.

Anyway...early in the week, while Husband, Fifi and Dumpling were at their Bible study, Cuddlebug had me all to herself, and had our evening all planned out.

First, a little voice practice.

Here is the view over my music; is it any wonder that I sang a little longer than I'd planned? Wouldn't you?

Then there was time for a story. What did we read that evening without Dumpling to cast a vote? Oh yes! A Pair of Red Clogs from our Five in a Row curriculum. This was my 20th time reading reciting it, if only her 8th time hearing it. Fifi liked it too, when she was 5. *sigh* When she was five. *snap*

Next, time for a white-knuckle game of Jenga. Cuddlebug defies all kinds of natural law in the playing of that game. I guess it pays not to know all kinds of natural law!

And then our favorite together--Mancala. She beat me there too. I think. It's sometimes hard to know. It seems to me that the beads were multiplying as we played. I think she must have had a stash. (I'm kidding.)

Past bedtime now, but no way is this little girl going to sleep alone in a room that she usually shares with two sisters! So, she fights sleep with Winnie the Pooh, which never finds its way out of the DVD drawer when her sisters have something to say about it. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was having an out-of-body experience.

And then there were the everyday things...

A time to eat. Breakfast is better if you make it yourself.

A time to brush. Grooming time is more fun with plastic animals made in China. Ugh. Hey, wait! Let me see that toothbrush! Is that made in China too? Is there lead in them thar' brissles?

A time to sing. Fifi, ever helpful, took it upon herself this morning to gather everyone into the library for our morning devotions because she knows just getting started is often the most difficult moment of Mommy's day. She is such a blessing to me!

In our overview study of God's magnificent creation, we touched on pollination this week, and are preparing to assemble cut-and-paste pieces, or sketch the parts of a flower in our science notebooks.

In history, we read about the Sumerians who inhabited the Fertile Crescent, aka Mesopotamia, aka the "Cradle of Civilization," aka Iraq. That led to a short explanation of why we're fighting over there, who is with us, who is against us, and ultimately, a reminder of the Scripture that assures us that the heart of the king (President) is in the hand of the Lord. We rest in that He will navigate his motivations and movements as serves His great, good purpose.

I was struck after reading about this advanced civilization and its dedication to the gods of its own making--that this is what Abram was called to walk away from when the Lord said He must follow Him to a place that he did not yet know. It added a new dimension to Abram's sacrifice in my sight.

Mostly though, the little ones were intrigued by the idea that the Sumerians had flushing toilets. Because when you're 5 or 7, it's all about the body functions.

We listened online to some Sumerian music. The girls and I found the music very lovely and relaxing. We noticed that while the musicians built upon the instrumentation, they continued to play in unison. We also noticed that stringed instruments were sometimes used instead of drums to keep the beat.

Here's the ziggurat they built with their MathUSee blocks. It's pretty small compared to the structures they usually build. I'm hoping the exercise taught these prolific architects something about the importance of engineering integrity instead of just leaving them to think, "What's all the hubbub, Bub?"


There was the requisite trip to the library to pick up the on-line shopping Fifi spends her computer time doing. I think this is a book of knitting patterns--though it could as easily be a book on crocheting or tatting. I wonder what she'll make from it?

There was our monthly playgroup with these friends: good food, good friends, good conversation ended all too soon when someone had to be somewhere to do something.

Finally, we ended the week with a birthday party. It required our stepping out of our quiet, beautiful world filled with gentle strings and relatively slow pace, and into the world of "Type A Personality" recreation: a loud, dark, flashy pizza buffet arcade. It was a nice enough place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. The girls, though, were glad to have been invited and had a lot of fun on the bumper cars and playing games that spit out tickets for prizes. But they also learned a little more about how the other half lives and it made my otherwise stoic Dumpling shed a tear or two in the name of human compassion. I love that girl.

When we arrived home, Husband and Fifi had dashed out to grab a bite to eat. I am told that a profound gesture of trust and obedience was offered by our 12-year old during their time together. I think it has a lot to the book she and I have been reading through, Before You Meet Prince Charming, by Sarah Mally. Husband is humbled. Fifi is happy. I am grateful. The Lord is good.

Having excitedly anticipated her return, here is Cuddlebug showing and telling Fifi about the prizes she picked out at the pizza arcade: three little bouncy balls. She had almost decided upon a terrycloth wrist band, but couldn't decide if it would be, "pretty." I told her they really aren't meant to be pretty, but could be useful--which color did she want?

No sale.

*Oh please! Can we please be done here? !Quiero vamos a mi casa! ?!Por favor?!*


And finally, the quote of the week goes to Fifi and actually happened last week, but I still remember it so it must have been...well...good!

As we were using our globe and Atlas to try and plot where the Rivers Euphrates and Tigris crossed through Turkey and into Iraq, I reminded Fifi, "This is called 'map work.'"

And she politely added, "...or cartography."

Misplaced Judgment

This week, Lord,
like last week,
I'll likely meet someone new.
Someone who doesn't know,
or even care to know--
You.

They might see my daughters--
covered up
and conspicuous
in their joy,
in their care,
in their respect for their elders.

They might notice
the clock and conjecture
by our presence,
that we are homeschoolers.
And they might make the leap
and presume that we
follow You.

They might not be able
to help themselves,
and for reasons unknown
but to You,
they will throw up that wall
that protests the judgment
that they ascribe to me and mine.

Has someone hurt them badly--
in Your name?
Has someone cast them aside--
for Your sake?

In that moment, Lord,
help me.

Let me not stay silent
and allow that root of contempt
be sown between
two of Your creatures
on yet opposite sides
of Your glorious grace.

Give me words, Lord.

Let me be like You were
with the woman at the well
when You made her feel validated
and showed her, her worth to You.

Let me also make inquiries,
or give compliments,
or simply speak about the weather...

Give me words to say
to the one who would decide
that Your people
are filled with
contempt
and bitterness
and judgment
and hate.

Show me how, Lord.
Show me how to express Your love
to a world that doesn't know how to accept it--
in a world where others
have tragically misrepresented it.

Show me how to do my part, Lord,
trusting You all the while to accomplish
what is Yours.

Pauline

I'm a hunter and gatherer. Sometimes to a fault. Especially when it comes to homeschooling; it's a vicious cycle of clutter, expense, false confidence and squandered time.

But this isn't about that.

A couple of weeks ago, I went--alone--to shop my friendly, newly-refurbished Stuffmart Walmart store. I went for a few school supplies: pencils, paper, clipboards, and activity books. Mostly activity books. I need some good mazes or dot-to-dots because my biggest challenge in homeschooling is keeping the little ones busy during table time. It goes something like this:

"O.k., Cuddlebug. On this page you do this and that and so on, and then you color here and there and don't forget to put your name in the top corner."

By the time I explain the same to Dumpling about a page on her level, Cuddlebug is smiling and announcing that she's done, "Mommy, what can I do now?"

Ugh. I give up. And I never even got near the real reason for table time, which is dictation or grammar lesson for Fifi. Good thing she's smart and well-read.

So, anway...I'm at Walmart, and walking in the front door I find that the new store design has conveniently placed all of today's needs right there as the first thing I come upon. I strut purposefully to the activity pads and start browsing.

I'm trying not to be too awkward about sharing the space with an old woman sitting alone in a wheelchair, helpless to move herself.

For a quick minute, I think to myself that it will be better for both of us if I just pretend I don't see her, but then I sense God reminding me that she is a person created in His image. She once had a mother. If the Lord so chooses, someday she could be...me. So, I open up my big mouth and say something out loud that I hope didn't come off as complaining, because it was not my intent,

"I simply must find something to keep my little ones busy!"

And she smiled at me.

I shopped. She watched. And then a man who might be her son walked up with a cart carrying only a few unpaid items. As I tried to respect their privacy and be busy about my own business, it became clear that the logistics were frustrating them. They were one able-bodied person with two wheeled vehicles to maneuver. It wasn't going to work.

So I risked being rejected to offer him, "Can I help by pushing her somewhere?"

He took a quick second to size me up. Might I be a creepy elderly-person kidnapper? Could he outrun me if I took off with his charge? It didn't take long before he said, "Yes!" About 3.4 seconds, actually.

I put down the dot-to-dot and readied myself to follow him. But his directions were to wheel her over and park her in front of the bathrooms. Supposing that he was going to get in line at the checkout and would pick her up on the way out, I had already decided that I would wait there with her.

She was really pretty with hair that didn't grey, but shone white with soft curls. Her eyes hid behind bags and wrinkles, but even they were not enough to conceal the piercing blue that had not faded with the passing of years.

As we strolled leisurely along toward her destination, she said something that I didn't catch the first time. I bowed low and responded, "Pardon me?"

"It's so embarrassing," she repeated, taking her hand away from her face so that the words would not be hindered this time in their travel, "It's so embarrassing to get old and have to be pushed around like this."

My heart was humbled that this sweet stranger would trust me in that moment to be so transparent, and I said the only thing I could think to say, "Oh, not at all. It's my privilege. It's my pleasure. Truly." I could have gone on and on, but knew that to do so would only eventually embarrass the two of us more.

We had a few more steps between where we were and where we were going when she spoke to me as someone who wanted to say something profound but was running out of time, "Well...take one step toward Heaven!"

And right there I thanked the Lord for opening the window to witness as I'm often praying He will, and I replied, "Well, yes. I plan to go to Heaven..."

Only there wasn't the "..." but more of a "."

For reasons I do not understand, I stopped the thought short of saying what I should have said which, in hindsight, would have sounded something like, "but not by my works of righteousness because they are as filthy rags; I'm going to Heaven by way of the grace of God through faith in Jesus Christ."

*sigh*

But alas, all was not yet lost. There would be the waiting time while her son -- who I'd find out later was really her nephew -- was paying for their groceries.

But, when we arrived at the restroom area, she wasn't content to park the chair and listen to me fumble through the Gospel message. She wanted to use the facilities. This was getting a little more awkward by the moment, but the truth was that as much as she looked like she wanted to get out of that chair and walk the 10 yards by herself, I was not going to let this unstable lady fall and break a hip on my watch. So I offered insisted she let me be an arm to lean on as we walked the long, barren road to the big stall at the end of the row.

She went about her business; I waited by the sinks.

When she emerged from the stall, I went over to again act as her stability because there are no railings along the walls in Walmart restrooms. Though, I'm guessing they're available for sale in the hardware department.

I was thinking as we walked to the sinks to wash our hands that I would tell her about my Jesus just as soon as she was settled back into her seat a few short steps away. Meanwhile, I told her my name, and asked her for hers. She proudly introduced herself like polite women of another generation do; she is Pauline *****.

So, now, I'd managed to acknowledge that I'm going to Heaven, but I haven't shared the Gospel message that saved me. And I'd managed to find an opportunity to tell her my name, but I haven't found a chance to let the name of Jesus cross my lips.

And as we rounded the corner, arm in hand, her nephew awaited. He thanked me kindly, but in such a way as to promptly excuse me from their space. Not rude, just finished.

And so I went.

And I regret that I neglected the now. And I pray that God will send another pilgrim across her path who will be quicker and more faithful with their commission than I had been that day.

Hearing Past Her Black Hat And Lip Ring

She followed the 3-year old boy over to the toy train station in the children's section of the bookstore. The toddler was sporting gel in his mock mohawk and she was dressed all in black: low-slung hip-huggers, form-fitting polo, black baseball cap pulled low over her brow and a lip piercing that had to hurt when it got caught in the prongs of a fork. She slouched in her chair and began text messaging.

My puppies and I were already settled in to the area and had laid claim on train cars, chairs and books. I nodded to Dumpling a reminder to share. She smiled and picked one of the cars off her chain to hand him. When he didn't take it, she shrugged her shoulders and left it within his reach.

As we sat silently, each pretending that we didn't notice that we were the only two people over 5 feet tall in the vicinity, I glanced over several times trying to decide whether she was the older sister or the young aunt, or indeed the mother of the boy. Whatever she was to him, her countenance was one of a sullen, sulky, disadvantaged teenager and I longed to share with her, the love of Jesus.

But how to break the ice?

She was a hip, young thing, and I'm...well...not so much. I could almost hear her thinking, "Lady, don't talk to me. You've got nothing that I want."

And then the little boy broke the quiet as he started asking Cuddlebug to, "'Cuse me. 'Cuse me. 'Cuse me again. 'Cuse me," around the perimeter of the train table. And Cuddlebug moved for him once or twice when something unexpected happened.

The girl stopped texting, and without a huff or a puff or a scoff or a sigh, she calmly instructed the little boy to, "Go around her, mi hijo." And she soon corrected him again with good counsel that I can't remember exactly because I was still busy being awed by the unexpected direction of a second ago.

It was now clear to me that this girl was this boy's mother. And that she was very young. And that she was very much in charge. And that she was very good at it.

I couldn't resist breaking the ice now; I had to talk to this girl! And so I asked the only question that was available to me, even though plenty of bloggers and commenters have posted diatribes and hissy fits about it in the past: I asked her if this was her only child.

Thankfully, she hadn't read any of the posts that would have taught her to read something sinister or rude into the question, and so she simply said, "Yes." Actually, she went on past that to explain that she was 21 and he was 3, and that they had a few minutes before she had to go to work, and that he liked the trains. And then she told me about the lead paint scare and the Thomas the Train recall and how all the bookstores in the chain will be replacing the set with metal cars soon and that she couldn't believe they still had these products on the shelf because she was pretty sure they weren't supposed to.

She was neat. I know that's a dumb word, but it's all I've got because she was--neat. She was young and interesting, open and confident. And as I listened to her, I saw that she wore a couple of rings with the Jesus fish embossed on them.

"I see you're wearing a Jesus-fish ring."

"Yeah," she responded, looking down to acknowledge the clue.

"Are you a Christian? Do you know Jesus as your Lord and Savior?"

And she acknowledged that she did, and shared with me that her Grandfather is a pastor at a church across town. She went on, a little less comfortably than before, but willing nonetheless, to praise God for all He's done in her life, and how nothing would be possible without Him.

I agreed and we sat quietly for another minute or so while I silently prayed whether I should dare say what I really wanted to say next. And then I asked her permission, "Can I...can I give you a compliment without meaning to sound condescending or patronizing?"

She shook her head for me to go ahead.

"Because, I am clearly quite a bit older than you," I continued to explain, "You seem to be doing a really good job parenting your son, and that's just not something that very many young moms bother to do, it seems to me. They don't know how, or they don't want to make the sacrifice or put forth the energy...I don't know, but you seem like you're really on top of this and are doing a really good job."

And then I felt a little silly, so I laughed at myself and added, "For what's it's worth, that is. I mean, who am I? *scoff* And I've only watched you interacting with him for a couple of minutes..."

And then she sweetly assured me that, "It means a lot. Thanks."

And we talked. She told me about the strong parenting that she got from her mom, and that her mom got from her parents. And I felt safe enough to cautiously ask if she was raising her son alone, or?...

And she willingly shared the good news of the strong support structure that includes mom, dad, aunts, uncles, siblings and grandparents, if not a daddy. I told her that she was blessed and that the Lord provides.

Right about then, she got up to pick a book to read aloud to her son, and God bless her, she read with inflection! But before she did, she noticed that the Thomas the Train bookshelves were a bit out of order. And so she fixed them: a little shuffle here, a turn around there, and all was in order. That's not something I see everyday. Or...well...ever.

After she sat back down and her son resumed his play, I bravely asked her another question that was simply not any of my beeswax, but was foremost in my mind. I'd done the math; she had been pregnant with her son at 17.

"Did you get to finish high school?"

"Yeah. And I'm a year and a half from finishing college."

"Well then, you're 2 and a half years ahead of me! That's awesome. What are you studying?"

She relished the opportunity to tell me about her educational pursuits as an English major. She passionately explained to me the school she wanted to teach in, the students she wanted to reach, the difference she wanted to make, and the plans that were already in the works to make all her dreams come true.

And I believe she will. And I told her so because as I walked away from our conversation, I had a very strong sense that I'd been in the company of future greatness.

So Ashley, mother of Jayden Noah...you go, girl! The Lord bless you...

I Love Paris Hilton! Really, I Do...

Because she, like me, was created by God for the purpose of glorifying Him. He loves her just as He loves me...and you.

Bless her heart, she is a very public epitome of what it is to be lonesome. So desperately lonesome. Look at her grimace. Feel compassion for her cry.

She is clearly a woman--like many--who is not comfortable or contented in her own company for very long. She is needy. She needs the Lord. She has been forever trying to fill the cross-shaped vacuum in her heart with phone calls and friends and celebrity.

But for the grace of God, go I...

Christian, are you laughing at her?

Jesus isn't laughing. He came to die for her.

Christian, are you loving Paris Hilton?

Jesus commands us to love our neighbor.

Christian, are you finding joy in the plight of her iniquity?

The Bible says that love does not rejoice in iniquity or keep a record of wrongs.


Her soul is serious business. It shouldn't be fodder for gossip and jokes. Let us not scoff and scorn the way the world would. Let us not judge her; for as she is not yet a professing member of the Body, we are not called to do that. Let us, as the Body of Christ, yield ourselves completely to the work of showing her the love that has been lavished upon us--and is available to her--by a gracious and merciful Heavenly Father.

If we have failed, let us repent, that our prayers not be hindered as we pray for her repentance.

Does Anyone Have A Shovel I Can Borrow?

I need to dig a hole. I need to dig a hole under the ground and then I need to crawl inside it to pray. There, I will weep and sob and beg as I pray for my father's salvation because prostrate on the earth's surface just doesn't express it well enough.

Today is my dad's birthday.

"I'm 7 now," Dumpling tells him on the phone after a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday, "how old are you?"

There's a pause and then an incredulous grin, "Sixty-two ?!!" (Later, when it's her big sister's turn with the receiver, she'll tell me, "He's older than you !") *chuckle* I sure hope so.

62 years of life. And 2/3rds of it have been spent openly angry at the Lord--or His people--over I'm not sure what. Was he exasperated to wrath living the life of a pastor's son? Was he infuriated by the hypocrisy that is so pervasive amongst the tares of the Church? Was he undone or unwilling to confront and confess his own inherent sinfulness?

Was it something his brother did?

Or maybe it was his time spent as a police officer in Ohio and Boston. Surely he saw the worst that mankind has to offer while in uniform; did his theology leave him unprepared? Or was it the trama of taking another man's life the time he shot to kill the suspect whose gun jammed in a back alley in Dayton? I was weeks old when they awarded him a medal and put him on the news.

I don't know why my dad is so mad. But the Lord knows.

And the Lord knows that my dad still bears a hint of the image of God whom He was made to glorify. He's a good man in so many ways. Biblical ways. God saw the time, when as a very young police officer, Dad gave cash out of his own pocket to a lonely widow who had been robbed of her government-assistance check. God also saw Dad not cash the check that was made in repayment. To this day, he hangs a small frame containing that check and the message to Remember wherever he does his work.

God saw Dad set aside his own desires to keep the commitment he had made to being a husband, a father and a provider when the road was not always pleasant, smooth or straight.

God saw Dad honor his own father before his death by sitting down to watch an evangelistic video--even though I know he'd rather have been sticking needles in his eyes.

God saw Dad buy his son-in-law his first desktop publishing computer to start a business back in the day, and God saw Dad gift his daughter a video camera with the promise of his first grandchild.

God saw Dad pay for the overhaul of an air conditioner for his niece, her young husband the pastor, and their full and growing quiver of children when the one in their conversion van failed in the heat of summer and they needed to get back to California from Texas, by way of the desert southwest.

God saw Dad thoughtfully and generously pay for train tickets for all so that he could share the milestone with his 6-year-old grandchild, Fifi.

God saw Dad make a no-interest loan on a larger, safer car for his own progeny--and He didn't miss it when Dad forgave the debt halfway through the repayment period.

And God knows that most of this information came my way through another person because Dad doesn't brag.

But when God looks at this man: this generous, compassionate, much-loved man--my dad--He sees someone unfit for Heaven. He, like the rest of us, is stained with sin.

But he simply won't come to the fountain to be washed in the blood of the Lamb.

And he won't let me talk to him about it.

He keeps us at arms length because He doesn't want to see the witness. He has no interest in hearing my testimony. His disgust with Christianity is greater than his interest in his daughter.

And it breaks. our. hearts. Jesus' and mine.

Little Women

Imagine a picture of 9 little girls ranging in age from 3 to 11. Most look a little rough around the edges. It's that awkward stage of growth for some, others just need to see their mommy and a hairbrush after a long day at school. Each girl's individuality comes through in the picture. The smallest looks timid pacifying herself with her thumb. Another is purposely striking a wide-eyed glare and sporting a tee-shirt that says, "So what if I'm perfect." Two or three are smiling a sweet smile; two or three others still are smiling a smile full of mischief.

These are the people in my neighborhood.

Three are mine, but the rest are girls whose homes are typical and unapologetically "America in the year 2006." There are stories of death, divorce, remarriage, shared custody and "shackin' up." The parents of these girls would surely snicker and agree that they have a different set of priorities for their children and achieve success in those goals very differently than I pursue the calling given to me. Some have provided well for their children's physical needs, but at least one has been investigated for neglect. Most are doing their best emotionally and spiritually, but doing it apart from the Lord that saves. So, how good can our best be if we are doing it while yet dying in our sin?

The Lord has made my heart very soft toward these girls, and -- despite our striking differences -- has prepared their hearts to be blessed by what we've had to offer. He loves them and wants them to know Him. He wants me to stand in the gap and teach them of His love as often as He brings them across my path.

However, I recognize the spiritual danger they unwittingly pose to my own children. I cannot let these neighborhood girls impact my children with what they find valuable: material priorities, worldly pursuits, dishonoring speech and a dozen other behaviors I assume will spill out of their unregenerate hearts.

I remember watching my (then) 8 year old's face after her first introduction to some of these girls. Her eyes followed the small group as they left our front yard purposing to meander around the block aimlessly and independently. I could almost hear Fifi thinking, "I wonder what it would be like to be them?"

Uh oh.

Letting Fifi wander aimlessly, or even play unsupervised at an acquaintance's house is out of the question for us, so...2 years ago this summer, we befriended these girls -- on our terms. I took some of them to a Vacation Bible School at our (then) church; I picked them up each morning and returned them home each noontime. They also started coming to Sunday Evening Service with us to attend the Children's Bible Hour. All this -- and I never, ever met their parents.

After the VBS concluded, it became apparent that the girls did not truly understand the Gospel that had been presented to them. They were willing, so I provided them some follow-up; for the rest of the summer of 2004, these girls brought friends over to the house once a week for snack, craft and read aloud. We started with Helen Taylor's Little Pilgrim's Progress, soon added the Children's Living Translation of the Gospel of St. John, and later moved through the unabridged text of Little Women -- just for fun.

There were good days and bad days in this weekly adventure. My girls were always excited for Wednesday to roll around, and almost always enjoyed helping me prep the house for an afternoon of casual hospitality. I liked these neighborhood girls! These girls were me. And without any rules or coaching on my part, they instinctively respected my home and habits. They watched their language, policed each other's manners and even dressed more modestly than I knew was their way. Occasionally, the old adage, "familiarity breeds contempt," would ring true and we would find ourselves dealing with some selfishness, inattentiveness or mild teasing. These undesirable events didn't happen often, but just frequently enough to have a surprisingly beneficial effect: Fifi was no longer intrigued by the "grass on the other side." She could see that it wasn't as lush and green as she might have perceived from a distance!

When we started, one girl in particular was fairly brash; she was outspoken and very proud about how important her money was to her, she wondered aloud why my littlest girls were invited to be with the group and clearly had no room for their giddy attention toward her. Sadly, she showed no genuine interest in the things of God. I was sure she was there because her sister and other friends were -- and because I was the supplier of free fruit and popcorn.

Then I witnessed God do something remarkable. Not too many months later, this same girl had completely left off talking to us of her worldly priorities and acquisitions, she was the first one to sit down with my youngest children and help them do a puzzle during read-aloud, and -- best of all -- she had some pretty remarkable questions about the things we were reading from God's Word!

Some of these neighborhood girls were completely unchurched girls -- no baggage, just God's Word. Many, many seeds were sown during that year-and-a-half, and I'm confident that in His time, He will give His increase.

Moreso, until that time when He shares with them their election, I trust that He will be pleased to preserve them in the midst of their ignorance and unbelief, and that they will soon be able to praise Him for His mercy when they recognize His protection over them.

Epilogue: After we finished Little Women, the weekly visits waned and we have not met since the fall of 2005. One of the girls has moved away to the country -- some in my neighborhood suspect -- to keep Child Protective Services at bay. One is still a few doors down and is enjoying a nearly-new baby sister. One set of sisters has told us that they are moving to another area of the city after the school year lets out. Two other sisters lost their mother to death suddenly, just weeks before Christmas '05 and their father expects to be sent on a second tour to Iraq.

Life and its circumstances threaten to become more difficult and overwhelming for these girls with every passing year that they are raised without the Lord. The same could be, should be and would be true of me and mine if the Lord hadn't chosen us to receive His liberating salvation. In it lies our great hope (as in the biblical usage: expectation).

California Vacation: There's No Place Like Home

We are home from a long vacation, at last. There is no food to speak of in the house, so I sent Husband out for milk to make for a nice cereal dinner. We'd rather do a "Seinfeld" supper than step foot into another restaurant -- I never thought I'd say that.

A good time was had by all. O.k., that's what you say, and it's true enough. Needless to say, the children loved Disneyland! The trip home was easy, just the way I like it.

A few random impressions that I want to remember include: the way Two exclaimed, "Ah! It's gloooooorious!" to everything that thrilled her, and the excited leaps that One couldn't help herself from after discovering and enjoying rollercoasters. I was also struck by the very strange looking people that populate California. A large minority were tattooed -- excessively. Women wore big burly tattooes on their arms, and men were too often nearly completely covered. The saddest voluntary self-mutilation I saw was really botched plastic surgery, specifically collagen-enhanced lips. I recognized the consequence of "clown lips" in no less than 3 aging women desperately trying to hold on to their youth. It made the movie, "Death Becomes Her" all too real.

Being away, and especially selfishly indulging in the whimsical sensory overload that is Disneyland really left me longing to do vacations a different way. I would love to learn how to effectively share the gospel with total strangers -- with no reasonable context -- and purpose to travel with the Gospel as our main objective. How much more profound would anything we did, or anywhere we visited, be if we had felt able to effectively share God's good news with the lost whose paths we were constantly crossing? I long to share it; I just don't know how to very well. Sadly, I don't even know how to conduct a busy vacation without seeing my own bible time go by the wayside. I look forward to starting the day with it tomorrow, knowing that I am not at the mercy of the free continental breakfast downstairs that will be quickly gathered up and away at 9:30 sharp.