For 63 years I lived in the Chicago metropolitan area and was accustomed to every possible convenience: endless shopping options, museums, convention centers, sports arenas, plentiful public transportation, theaters, and more. Life was fast-paced, if not sometimes over-full.

Then Nate and I relocated to a very small town in southwest Michigan, and a much simpler life came along with our move. He barely had time to adjust before he had to move again, but this time it was to a paradise unlike anything we’d known on earth. He had to leave me behind, though, and I’m still a resident of that tiny Midwestern town.

Small towns may not have the options of giant cities, but they do have their perks. Today I took advantage of one of them, pulling off the road in response to a sign inviting me to help myself to some blooming daffodils. An old-fashioned flower cart with cheery yellow wheels stood by itself, loaded with jonquils, daffodils, and hyacinth. The sign read, “SELF SERVE” for $1 a bunch. A slotted metal box directed my deposit, and I folded several dollars into the opening.

Buying gorgeous flowers on an honor system? Only in a small town.

Later a friend told me about the trusting woman behind the flower cart, a person who has similar carts in multiple locations throughout the area. She owns a flower farm out in the country and shares excess blooms with the public each year.

Looking through my camera I was struck by the beauty in the frame, not just the flowers themselves but the invitation to help myself, no questions asked.

During Holy Week we’re thinking about all Jesus had to go through to secure salvation for us, and the bottom line is much like the action of removing flowers from the cart: we have to reach out and take what’s being offered. I could drive past those flowers every day, admiring their beauty but never stopping to bring some home with me. If I don’t pull over, get out of the car, and make a personal choice, they’ll never be mine.

God extends his offer to everyone passing by and sincerely hopes each one of us will choose him. And though I was instructed to put dollar bills into the lock-box for my flowers, God asks nothing of us. Jesus already paid the bill, and the gift he extends to us cost him a sum we could never provide through our own effort.

Free to us, it cost Jesus everything.

And one last note. Although flower carts like the one I saw today might be found in small towns where buyers are faithful to the honor system, salvation is freely available all over the place: in giant cities, in rural areas, and everywhere in between.

“Let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life.” (Revelation 22:17)

I apologize for the absence of a blog post last night (i.e. this morning).

I’m in California with my siblings and cousins, but last night at posting time, the hotel internet went down.

Hoping to connect later…

Margaret

Several weeks ago during a driving rain, a leak-spot appeared on an upstairs ceiling. Since the ceiling had recently been painted pristine white, the near-black stain was an eyesore. Finally, after many more rains and no new stains, it was time to paint over it.

First it had to be sealed. Among the toxic supplies in my basement was a product called B.I.N, something we’ve used in the past with 100% success. Billed as the “ultimate stain blocker,” the B.I.N did exactly as it promised.

As I was scraping off my foam brush on the edge of the can, suddenly it separated from its wooden handle and plopped into the B.I.N. Instinctively I grabbed it with my hand before it disappeared beneath the surface, making a terrible mess.

Luckily the can had been sitting on a protected surface, so no damage was done. Cleaning off my hand, however, was another matter. Standing at the basement utility sink, I started with soap and water but quickly realized B.I.N. was tougher than that.

So it was into the world of smelly toxins. I like using strong-smelling stuff since it gives my mostly-dormant nose something to do. Scrubbing first with paint thinner (didn’t work), I followed with turpentine (intense smell but also failed).

Reaching to the back of the shelf I found mineral spirits and naphtha. (Still nothing.) The upstairs medicine cabinet offered a few more options, so I scrubbed my hand with nail polish remover, peroxide and rubbing alcohol (to no avail).

Ironically, B.I.N. got rid of a ceiling stain but birthed a fresh stain on me. Deciding it would just have to wear off, I hammered the can shut and put it away, which is when I decided to read the label. Sure enough, help was right there in print: ammonia.

It worked like a charm, but when I put the bottle to my nose for one last sniff, even without much sensitivity, my nose said, “That stinks!”

A basement isn’t the only place where life can stink. Negatives come to all of us now and then, and bad news doesn’t discriminate.

For example, I remember the first time it occurred to me I was about to become a widow. Prior to that I’d only used that word in reference to Mom or elderly aunties. I knew only two widows my own age and hadn’t spent any time pondering widowhood for myself.

Then Nate got sick, and reality hit. Even though I was consumed with what each day would bring for him, the fall-out of his illness was going to mean widowhood for me. Every bit of it was hard to swallow. Or should I say hard to smell. It stunk.

But life’s stinky stuff is our best chance to smell good to God. We can rivet our attention on him rather than on our circumstances, and in some mysterious way, that morphs into a rich aroma for him.

And his sense of smell is flawless.

“Our lives are a Christ-like fragrance rising up to God… To those who are perishing, we are a dreadful smell of death and doom. But to those who are being saved, we are a life-giving perfume.” (2 Corinthians 2:15,16)

Skylar, my two year old granddaughter, amazes us with her comments. In Florida recently, she and I were sitting on her bedroom floor, nose-to-nose:

“Grandma Midgee, your eyes are blue.”

“So are yours.”

“And your eyes have black in the middle.”

“So do yours.”

Suddenly she got quiet but kept staring into my eyes.

Finally she said, “Old ladies get cracks in their eyes.”

I guess my bloodshot was showing. Long life seems to “crack us up” that way.

In our study of the Book of Job this morning, our pastor used a great word picture to illustrate Job’s life. She described each of us as looking at life through a big, clear glass window. As children, our view is good, but eventually, without warning, a rock gets thrown and “Crack!” There’s a flaw.

A barrage of rocks hit Job’s window, so damaging he found himself sitting in a heap of broken glass wondering how he got there. But after he passed his faith-test, God miraculously mended his window, putting the shattered pieces together again.

That isn’t to say Job’s post-cracked-life was exactly as it had been before the rocks. His relationship with God had changed, and his additional 10 children were not duplicates of the first 10. I would guess his marriage changed, too. And surely all who watched his fall and subsequent rise were keenly interested to hear what he had to say.

But what about his repaired window? Was it permanently scarred?

A year ago, my Toyota Highlander and I were taking our first road trip when a rock smacked the windshield leaving a one-inch crack. By the time we got to Florida, it had ever-so-slowly grown a couple of inches, forking into two cracks. After we returned home, I called Geico to ask their advice. They were quite specific:

“If the crack fits under a dollar bill, we’ll fix it for free. If it’s bigger than that, you’re on your own.”

My neglect had done me in, because by that time the two cracks had grown to a couple of feet. The only way to fix them was to buy a new windshield.

God’s crack-repairs are free to us, and he does a spectacular job. Often, however, we find ourselves looking through quite a few cracks before he mends the window. Once in a while God will even break the glass himself, knowing that when he puts it back together, it’ll be better than the original.

He may even stain the glass.

Stained glass windows are made from intentionally broken glass, and as an artist assembles the pieces, a brand new image emerges. Just as old ladies get eye-cracks, life ”stains” us. Sometimes we long for that clean-and-clear window glass we had during childhood.

But God views our stain-experiences and our cracks as valuable. And in his hands, they become stunning works of art.

“Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her… to present her to himself… without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish [like a crack], but holy and blameless.” (Ephesians 5:25-27)