Frozen Solid

Posted on January 21, 2011 by Margaret

Here in the Midwest we’ve come to the part of winter we call the deep freeze. Moving from December to January is the difference between a cold refrigerator and a bitter-cold freezer. In December I can leave a can of Coke in the car overnight, and it’ll be delightfully cold for errand-running in the morning. In January it’ll be a Coke-brick.

Weathermen cheerfully tell us tonight’s wind chill will be fifteen below zero, which means when I’m walking Jack just before bedtime my nose will stick together and gloved fingers will sting. People my age who plan ahead are often settled in Arizona or Florida by this time of year, having forgotten all about down-filled coats and fur-lined boots. The rest of us are learning the definition of “hearty” and are finding out whether or not we are.

Today I decided to pick up the red Christmas welcome mat lying outside my front door. But when I grabbed it, it was stuck to the flagstone, frozen solid. Forcing it would have either ripped the rug or given me a bad back.

I could have flooded the area with boiling water, waited for the rug to thaw and then pulled it up just before it froze again. But that would have left the front step a danger zone of slippery ice. The wisest choice was to admit the time wasn’t right to pick up the rug and to wait for a thaw in the weather.

Most of us can “force an issue” prematurely with expertise. In the category of parenting alone, I can think of many examples. We force our kids to eat their broccoli, floss their teeth and read their Bibles before they’re ready, never giving them a chance to choose these good things on their own. We coax them to take music or sports lessons they may not want, and we promote friendships they don’t enjoy. We push them toward colleges they didn’t choose and are sure we know who would make the perfect marriage partner.

Our skill at doing things too soon also spills into our spiritual lives. We succumb to the temptation to tell God what he should and shouldn’t do in our lives based on what we see at the moment. Most often it’s to our benefit if he doesn’t comply but acts instead on his own long-range view.

Even as we pour out our needs to him, we should do so with caution, knowing we might be getting ahead of ourselves. We may say, “Give me traveling safety, Lord,” while he’s planning to use our upcoming fender-bender as a useful teaching tool.

We may get stuck wondering why God doesn’t give us our way, why the proverbial “rug” won’t come off the frozen ground right when we want it to. He’s probably just waiting for our hearts to thaw. When they finally do, and when he deems the time is just right, the “rug” will lift with virtually no effort at all.

As for my red welcome mat? I guess I’m ready for Valentine’s Day.

“God catches the wise in their own craftiness, and the schemes of the wily are brought to a quick end.” (Job 5:13)

When charity knocks, open the door.

Posted on January 20, 2011 by Margaret

I owe my friend Connie a phone call. She left a voice mail yesterday, and I haven’t gotten back to her yet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about her.

She and I have been friends for sixty-plus years, having grown up together at Moody Church. Among her many talents is being a fabulous cook. Since I’m not a very good one, I’ve always appreciated her ability in the kitchen and have gobbled up many a meal from her hands.

But one particular incident will always come to mind when I think of Connie. It involved food but no cooking, and it happened 16 years ago. On a frosty morning in 1994, she stepped through my kitchen door carrying two overloaded grocery bags.

Wiping the dishwater from my hands, I said, “What’s all this?”

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

I followed her outside, oblivious to the winter winds, questioning her as I went. “What’s going on?” But I stopped short when I saw eight more big brown bags lined up in her car.

“The Lord told me to do something,” she said, “and I’m just doing what I’ve been told. You’re getting your kitchen stocked.”

“Oh no,” I said. “You can’t do that!”

But she deflected my objections. “Don’t get in the way of a blessing.”

Our family had been struggling financially for several years, and for me as a stay-at-home mom of seven, panic was never far away. This day a couple of my cabinet shelves were completely empty, shelves that once couldn’t hold their bounty.

“What do you mean,” I said, “by the Lord telling you what to do?”

“In Bible study this week one verse mentioned helping those in need. I knew it was God’s message for me to help you. So don’t object. I’ve gone over your head and gotten special permission.”

My eyes filled and I threw my arms around this true friend. I hadn’t told her of my rising fear over the near-empty refrigerator or mentioned that our dinners had boiled down to a choice between pancakes and soup. Yet God had, through his Word, given Connie specific instructions. Best of all, she’d obeyed. Knowing her family was also on a strict budget, I appreciated her gifts even more.

It’s difficult to accept charity. Giving is much easier than receiving. As I stood in my replenished kitchen that afternoon feeling guilty for accepting Connie’s groceries, God reminded me that charity is just another word for love. Connie had demonstrated godly love, which humbled me and simultaneously lifted me up.

Later that same day my four year old (who had witnessed the food delivery) made a wise assessment of what had happened. “Your friend sure shares good, Mom.”

I had to agree. Connie had stocked our shelves, lifted my spirits, impacted a four year old, and gained another star in her heavenly crown.

I think I’ll give her a call.

“Don’t forget to do good and to share with those in need. These are the sacrifices that please God.” (Hebrews 13:16)

What’s required?

Posted on January 19, 2011 by Margaret

Most of us can tell interesting tales of our very first jobs. Mine was waitressing in a small California diner in 1966. I was 20 years old and living with my cousins for the summer in a tiny desert town above Los Angeles.

Cousin Gloria and I were hired together by Mary, the owner of “Mary’s Kitchen.” She was a one-woman show who did all the cooking, bookkeeping and food management while training two green waitresses.

Mary’s requirements were simple:

Buy a white uniform, and wash it daily.
Show up on time, and never miss a shift.
Serve drinks first.
For everything else, ask me.

Although Gloria and I made some major mistakes, Mary sensed we were trying hard and gave us endless grace. The day I dropped a tray of 20 water glasses, breaking them all, she rolled her eyes but only charged me a nickle a glass. When I spilled hot coffee at the counter, burning the ankles of those seated on the stools, she lectured me sternly but forgave me.

One Sunday morning about half way through the summer, Mary had just unlocked the front door at 7:00 am when the sound of approaching motorcycles made us both look toward the front window. Fifteen disheveled men pulled up on massive Harley bikes, and I heard Mary mutter, “Oh no. Hells Angels.”

I’d heard about this gang of trouble-makers with a death-head logo on their jackets and violence on their minds. They’d been credited with dealing drugs, trafficking stolen goods, extortion, public brawls, even murder.

My instinct told me to bolt for the door and throw the lock, but Mary said, “Better let ‘em in.”

They burst into our little dining room spewing language that burned my ears and roughly rearranging the tables with boisterous bravado. From their conversation I could tell they’d spent the night in the foothills and were ravenous.

Mary called her husband who quickly arrived on his own Harley with a gun in his pocket. His presence in the corner reassured us both as we pretended nothing unusual was happening.

Mary miraculously produced the requested dinner plates of meat and potatoes rather than breakfast eggs, and the men ate so much we wondered if they’d pay. In the end, some did, some didn’t, but the loss was offset by our relief in seeing them drive away.

Ever since then I’ve wondered about those men. Each had a life-story and a reason for joining the Hells Angels. Requirements for membership are complicated:

Become a “Hang-around”, attending only certain get-togethers.
Move up to “Associate”, waiting a year or two.
Become a “Prospect”, participating in some meetings.
Gain “Full-patch”, wearing the insignia and voting.

They call themselves a motorcycle club but are most proud of their strong bond of brotherhood. Maybe this “family” connection draws them more powerfully than their love of motorcycles or escapades.

The desire to belong is strong within all of us, because it’s God-given. That’s why the Lord offers membership in his family to not just a few but to everyone. Requirements are simple: