The Way I See Things : My Early Life

My mom tells me, laughingly that I was the stubborn one of all of us kids--in delivery and rearing. The proud markings could be traced along my impish chin and defiant lips that stuck out when thinking deeply or angered. She also says I was born old. Not with wrinkles or white hair of course (I'm no Benjamin Button) but rather, possessing a maturity and communication style beyond the average child of three. Adults were impressed. And I like impressing them with my vocabulary. 

Then, I was strong willed, a little bossy and particular about hand washing. Today, I am strong willed, a little bossy and particular about hand washing. Not much changes. 

Amid all this, a nickname was coined. I was crowned and dubbed “Boo Boo”, because my lower lip always stuck out. Boo boo lips they called them.

Remembering back comes in snippets, somewhat golden and hazy memory clips of summer scenes. Climbing the boxelder that grew in the low areas on the “other five”; thrilling games of tag over round bails in the hay barn with the neighborhood kids; playing hide-and-go-seek with the shaggy collie we loved like a sister.

It’s interesting how so many things about a person changes with age and then in another way they don’t at all. I’ve matured of course, but I’m still that stubborn, naughty girl of six. I’m still me.   

Born not far from the capital city my family moved three times before my third birthday. First, my aunt and uncle’s basement. I was a year old and I still remember two or three flashbacks from our time there. Then the apartment…oh the apartment! That was during my terrible twos and I was spanked every day in that place. Flashbacks: standing at the window waiting for my dad to come home from work and throwing a record-breaking temper tantrum (over Lord only knows what) using stuffed animals as missiles (these where quickly confiscated).

Then we moved into the schoolhouse with grandma and grandpa. It was a square, three story white house which they had renovated from a turn of the 19^th Century school house into a home for their rapidly growing family back in the nineteen-fifties. I hated it there. Mom and Dad had bought Bettenger’s corn field and where building a Cape Cod house on the hill. This kept them extremely busy and I spent my days with grandma.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved my grandparents, they were kind, feeble and always had Schwans ice cream stocked in the extra freezer it was like an icecream wonderland in that freezer. I just liked to open it up sometimes to look at it. But at the same time, I remember being paralyzed by the fear that one day my mom would walk out that door and never come back.

I may have told her as much between sniffles, because one day she hugged me, rocking me as I cried and said, “Don’t worry Bethany, Mommy will always come back.”

And I believed her.

On a day shortly after this, as my twenty month old sister Kate wailed after Mom had left grandma’s house, I put my arm around her and said oh-so-wisely, “Don’t worry, Kate, Mommy will always come back.”
            Needless to say, we were happy to move into our first real house after eight months at our grandparents. It took me a while to adjust to system of normalcy then.

 I asked Mom if we were going to stay in that house.

She said we were.

I looked at her very seriously, “Are we going to stay here forever?” I insisted. Feeling safe has always been a deep need of mine—still is in many ways.

More to come...

            

Kissed by a Stranger

 Ever since I was a little girl I dreamed and wondered. I plotted three dozen stories in swirl binder notebooks, all of them starting with the simple phrase: “What if…”

What if…What if a girl named Stevey grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and she—she lived during the Great Depression in one of those poor shanty communities. Secretly, she dreams of becoming an plane pilot…

I’ve asked question of so many of my fictional characters that it seems perfectly appropriate to ask it of myself.

What if I became an author…?

A real, honest-to-goodness published author!

“Beauty. Truth. And goodness,” my high school lit. teacher’s voice rings back to me.  

Yes, Mrs. L. those are the things I will write about.

Experiences—the ones that matter, the ones that change us need to be given voice, to be shaped by those choice golden words.

As long as I write with truth people will listen. As long as I write about beauty they will identify. As long as I write about goodness people will care. I will write things that should matter to everyone but rarely do because no one has learned to say them. I am learning to say them. 

Stories matter. They are a fragment of human history, a piece of an experience which changes a life forever…

As I was writing the above a woman walked into the coffee shop and struck up a conversation with me.

“I could never sit like that!” she said indicating to my cross-legged-atop a high stool posture.

I laughed, “It’s the only way I’m comfortable sitting. I work in an office and my boss makes fun of me, but doesn’t object!” I tossed back good-naturedly. (Do people even say “good-naturedly” anymore? Well, either way that’s the adverb I’m using.)

We started talking and I asked her where she lived and where she was from originally. She mentioned she was moving because her husband passed away 6 months ago. I expressed my sincere sympathy and asked how she was doing. Not the usual, polite, ‘how are you doing?’ But the seriously-I-care-about-you-as-a person-and-recognize-this-is-an-inexpressible-life-altering-loss, “HOW are you doing?”

She drew a deep sigh. “We were together for 47 years. I miss him. Especially on weekends…” she said. And that was all she needed to say. Her round, wrinkled face wore a mask of strength over deep sadness. In those words, I saw much. Much more than what was said. A life of love, companionship, togetherness…where death didn’t belong. Death is one of those things we humans will never get used to. It shocks us every time in a new, different way.

“Theresa, can I pray for you?” I asked, rather a natural question over one I had to think about.

She nodded. “Sure,” her voice trembled she stepped forward and hugged me, kissing my cheek.

I prayed for her; just a short, gentle prayer of comfort and to sense God’s love for her. Every time I quoted scripture she squeezed my hand tighter. I offered to come and visit, we exchanged numbers and she left. That was all. But it meant so much to me to meet her. I’ve never been kissed by a stranger before!

Funny how a glimpse into the life of a sudden acquaintance can change you. You have this sudden amazing revelation hit you when you realize that you are not the only person on the planet who is a real person! You smack your forehead and go, “Wow!” And you see the people all around you in traffic jams and the unsmiling, teenager ringing out up at a gas station and you’re going, “Wow that’s a real person with his own issues and story.”  

That’s what meeting Theresa reminded me of. Maybe because I had recently lost someone I loved and I was able to connect to her humanness. That humanness piece causes one understood and felt and no matter if you are worlds apart in everything else, you can identify at least on one thing. The element that lies at the back of everything it wears the faces of truth, beauty and goodness.

But I know it as...
Love. 

A Word

There was a word. A hushed word. It fell.

Fell from the sky like a drop of perspiration from a bowl of blue JellO.

It hit the earth, splashed, scattering fragmented syllables

The syllables ricochet finally falling like pearls on marble tables

They rolled and bounced in search of the breath of rewarding destiny

 Discovered by child’s hand—though clumsy—

They were hands that believed in the word and refused to squander

Hands soft, unfettered by entitled thinking or the sourness of a disillusioned wanderer

Fingers polished the word until it was given voice

Something that hadn’t been said for ages thrice

The word cried out in the night

Trees raised their sleeping heads and walked forward like fearless giants

Mountains as tall as clouds reared their heads and stomped as horses

Stars pulled back their glittering bows and stood readily

 The child looked at them, his heart burning fervently, heatedly

Too long had the word gone unspoken, too long was it ignored

There would be no rest until the message of the word went forth

No sleep, nor stop, no more standing in a crowd of idlers…

While little girls are raped by their fathers

As orphans slump in alleyways nothing but worms in their bellies

As long as fifteen minutes of human flesh and a bed is sold for a few dollars

So long as unborn babies are killed by their mothers

If man lets these things persist…

The rocks we stand on will cry: “Justice!”

An Ode to the Dorm Room

I'm done with school! I got a job in mobilization and am renting not far from my place of work. I can't get over how quiet silence actually is. Seriously. What a precious, coveted thing!

Oh! Dorm room! Dorm room!
Thou hast served us well!
Despite the wax spills, makeup stains and clothes strewn pell-mell
You loved us in the stressful times
You sheltered us from prying eyes
Your paper thin walls allowed us to hear
Every irritating sound that might reach our ears
You gave of yourself
Offering all your meager wealth
You are our friend of unusual form
Room 301 in the girl's dorm!

The Kids that Changed my Life

I thought I knew kids. But then I met these kids. In my opinion there are three breeds of kid: spoiled kids, good kids and then sad kids. I volunteer for four hours a week to work with the latter. Many of them have a history of homelessness or a parent who is in prison. Many of them live with an aunt or grandparents. They are hurting. I couldn’t possibly summarize my experience over the last year working with these girls, but I am changed forever because of it. Simply, they taught me more about life, evangelism, and missions than I could have ever taught them.

The following is a short true story from a night there a few months ago (however, I changed the names for obvious reasons).

“I love you but you don’t love me!” Zaviana retorted in her husky voice, hands braced on her little hips. She was wearing a princess shirt, pink mini skirt and leggings. I looked down at the petite six year old, her oily black hair neatly braided in ball ponytail holders. Her mischievous eyes sparkled.

“Girl! You’re crazy!” I said in the same sassy tone she used. I caught her in my arms and tickled her until her squirming body hit the floor (the natural impulse of a child when being tickled is to get a low to the ground as possible).

“I love you so much! But do you know the most important thing you need to remember?”

“What?” she asked still giggling.

“That Jesus loves you,” I said.

Usually, everything in the classroom was fun and games until the name of Jesus was mentioned. Then, either one of two things would happen: either one of the girls would roll her eyes and complain saying:

“This is boooring.” Or they would just ignore me completely.

Sometimes one might say, “I know, I know, Jesus died for our sin.” And just as I was about to encourage the little girl to tell us more another would find some creative way of bringing up body parts at that moment. Either way it went it was rarely positive.

I felt desperate and defeated. What on earth was I supposed to do? How was this churched, country bumpkin supposed to relate to this class of undisciplined, inner city girls anyway?

As the conversation began to go down the toilet—literally—I called them to get their attention.
“Girls…girls…lets not talk like that…”

“Ew! Zaviana —you nasty!”

“Let’s not call others names Tirrell. How would you feel if I call you a nasty?” I asked the eight year old. I had a partiality to Tirrell, probably because she was quick-witted, listened sometimes and had a cute sense of humor, but I worked hard not to show favoritism.

“But she is nasty! She thinks she’s a boy!” Tirrell retorted.

Zaviana grinned and covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Zaviana…” I held my arms out to her. She came over shyly still smiling from the attention she was getting negative though it was. “Zaviana, I want to tell you that you are a beautiful, smart, wonderful young lady. God created you exactly the way He wanted you to be. He has a plan for your life. And you are not a boy you are a lovely, little girl.”

“But I’m ugly,” she said.

“That is a lie from the devil,” I said seriously looking carefully in her eyes. “You are beautiful—that’s what God says. You are a child of God.”

I turned to the rest of the class. They’d all gotten distracted and where now chasing each other around the room, climbing over tables, chairs and behind bookshelves. It took me a solid five minutes to get half of them sitting with me on the floor. I turned to one girl.

“Jamartha, who are you?” I asked her excitedly. She frowned.

“I’m Jamartha…” she answered giving me a look that said: You are crazy weird.

“No,” I said. “That’s your name, but who are you?”

“I don’t know.”

I turned to another girl. “Nijah, who are you?” I asked again.

“Nijah…” she smiled shyly.

“But who are you?” I asked again.

“I’m a friend,” she said.

“That’s great! Are you a friend of God?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Are you a child of God?” I asked.

She nodded again.

“Everyone say it with me: I’m a child of God!”

“I AM A CHILD OF GOD!” They chorused.

“Stand up! Say it louder! Tell me who you are!”

“I AM A CHILD OF GOD!” They said again. Every face smiling.

“Doesn’t it feel good to say that? Don’t any of you forget it!”

Life is a constant journey of discovery. One curiosity leads to another. Along the way, you begin to learn a lot more about yourself then you previously did. Identity is huge. God wants us to know who we are. Apart from what we do, how we look, what our background is like, He wants us to know that above all He is what defines us and gives us significance. It's a lesson I must remind myself of again and again.

Thanks for reading, please pray for my little girls at the ministry and the constant spiritual warfare. I'm there Thursday nights.

In Our Precious Father,

Bethany

Sewing on the robes, pouring the oil out

In ancient times when a king conquered a kingdom he would have the garment of the dominated ruler sewn onto the hem of his robe. It was a living symbol of his victories and far reaching power.

Recently, I’ve been meditating on Isaiah 6. “In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the LORD…” The passage speaks of the anguish of mans state when measured up against the holiness of the awesome, all magnificent God. Even Isaiah, probably one of the most righteous men to walk the earth wanted to claw his way under the tiles of that temple floor when he saw the vision of the LORD.

Isaiah describes that the Lord was seated on the throne high and exalted. Further he adds, “The train of his robe filled the temple…” Aside from being an impressively long robe, how is this significant? Because it is a symbol of his authority, victory, and power, every nation is under his feet.

Scripture often refers to God’s people as “temples”. 1 Corinthians says that our “bodies are a temple of the Holy Spirit”. Therefore, I ask myself, am I allowing Christ reign perfectly supreme in my heart? Is every “robe” (so to speak) sewn onto His? Or are there areas of sin (some of us like to call them “things” because it sounds nicer) that I have not surrendered? I can only be used at the level that I am willing to surrender. Until I see surrender as a beautiful gain, I will still be losing.

Reading through John 12 I came across another passage that made me stop and examine my own heart in regard to this. Mary of Bethany lavishly pours a jar of pure nard onto Christ’s feet. Her unashamed love for her Savior is expressed in this one simple act. “And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” John 12:3b.

When we love Christ with all our hearts it is our lavish offering to Him. A fragrance poured out. Loving Christ looks exactly like what Mary of Bethany displayed. Unembarrassed. Pure. Worshiping. Intent on only the approval of One. When we truly grasp the sanctity of this kind of love everything else follows. Our “house” or “temple” is filled with the fragrance of a life poured out. A life of worship. A life where Christ sits enthroned.

Random photos from various places my curiosity led me in the last little bit (had fun with the retro-esque editing!)

All generalizations are false, including this one. – Mark Twain

The world will never starve for want of wonders, but for want of wonder. - G.K. Chesterton

An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is an adventure wrongly considered. - G.K. Chesterton

Literature is a luxury; fiction is a necessity. - G.K. Chesterton

Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn. - C.S. Lewis

I sometimes wonder whether all pleasures are not substitutes for joy. - C.S. Lewis

Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. - G.K. Chesterton