Monthly Archives: July 2011

Hit me.

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It was a spring morning in 1980, and our three young children were dressed and ready for Sunday school. The balmy weather coaxed them outside while Nate and I finished organizing, and all three went next-door to play on the swings.

In those days swing sets were nothing like the wooden fortresses today’s youngsters enjoy. Back then they usually included two chained swings, a two-seated glider and a short slide, all made of metal.

Nelson, age 7, Lars 5, and Linnea 3, were playing nicely until suddenly blood-curdling screams came through our windows. We raced out and found Linnea on the ground, the boys hovering over her. Apparently they’d been on the glider pumping vigorously when Linnea had walked in front of them. One of the metal foot pegs had blasted her behind the ear, sending her flying and cutting a deep wound.

By the time we reached them, Linnea’s white pinafore was covered with blood as well as her hair, hands and arms. Nelson saw our alarm and quickly threw up a defense. “We didn’t do it! Not on purpose! It’s her fault!”

Nate carried his wailing daughter into the house, and we mopped her up enough to realize the gash would send us to the emergency room instead of Sunday school. It was difficult holding her still for the stitches, and at one point she had to be bound. But the outcome was good, and she healed 100%.

Many times I’ve asked my heavenly Father to “whack me over the head” with his answers to my prayers, and although I hope that doesn’t involve hospital stitches, I do want him to “hit me.” Especially when in the throes of making a difficult decision, I crave clear understanding of his preferred choice and don’t want to move ahead without hearing from him.

Amazingly, sometimes he complies, not with a bloody head or even audible words but by stopping me from making a mistake. For example, one time I was about to post a blog that wouldn’t have been wise, and the power went out in the house, preventing me from doing it. By the time it came back on, God had given me a more suitable idea.

He works this way in all our lives, speaking first with a still, small voice we often miss but then upping-the-ante by “hitting us over the head” with his answers to our prayers. I love that he gladly increases the intensity until we “hear” it. The fact that he never gives up is confirmation of his love.

When little Linnea got her glider-whack on the head, it probably wasn’t from God. But she definitely learned a valuable lesson and never again walked in front of a swing.

That’s exactly the kind of dynamic influence I hope God has on me when he’s trying to get my attention, a “hit” of insight that will make a permanent impact.

“Listen, my people, and I will speak… I am God, your God.” (Psalm 50:7)

Boy Oh Boy!

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I clearly remember the day our fourth son was born. We had one girl, and as a six year old, she’d been praying passionately for a sister. God was planning to give her her heart’s desire but not yet, because along came yet another brother.

That night at the hospital, after the wonder of a safe delivery and its joyful aftermath had calmed, Mary asked Nate, “How do you feel about having another son?”

Nate’s answer was a good one: “You can never have too many boys.”

Back in biblical times, having boys was critical to carrying on the family name and profession. The more sons, the better. Even in the early days of our nation, as pioneers moved west and took advantage of the government’s free 60 acres and a mule, fathers hoped for boys who could help on the farm.

When our 4th boy came along, our good friend Florie gave Nate a poem with a valuable message about little boys and their fathers. I still have it hanging above a photo of Dad, Nate and our four sons:

A careful man I ought to be.
Four young fellows follow me.
I do not dare to go astray,
For fear they’ll go the selfsame way.

Not once can I escape their eyes.
Whate’er they see me do, they try.
Like me, they say they’re going to be,
Those four young chaps that follow me.

I must remember as I go,
Through summer sun and winter snow,
I’m molding for the years to be
Those four young chaps God gave to me.

God’s plan is that boys grow into men who can be humble, godly leaders, especially in marriages and families. Warren Wiersbe used to say he didn’t understand how husbands could forfeit the chance to spiritually lead their children, telling us he counted it a golden opportunity and a considerable privilege to do so in his own home.

Raising boys well is a big job. James Dobson wrote a thick book about it, and experts agree it calls for different tactics than raising girls. The most difficult part of fathering comes in being a strong example for sons to emulate, and that includes loving their mother. The list of all a man should do is long and difficult, but God doesn’t leave them without his encouragement and assistance.

He, too, is a father to a son, and they’re a unified pair like no other. Jesus told us, “I do what my Father tells me to do and say what he tells me to say.” (John 14:10, John 12:50) When a father is 100% perfect, this tact works out well for the son. Earthly fathers can’t claim perfection, however, but they can study the example of divine fatherhood and emulate that close, loving bond.

I’m thankful daily for our four boys. They’ve demonstrated strength during my days of weakness and have, I’m sure, made their own father proud.

Nate was right. You can never have too many boys.

“Children born to a young man are like arrows in a warrior’s hands. How joyful is the man whose quiver is full of them!” (Psalm 127:5a)

Cover it up!

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Our old, cracked driveway needed help when we bought our cottage 11 years ago, but driveways are low priority when home improvements begin.

Last week, however, a man wearing tar-decorated clothes knocked on my door with an offer to make my drive look and stay beautiful. “I guarantee for 3 years,” he said with confidence, handing me his business card.

We negotiated a price and set a day. The asphalt expert arrived despite the threat of a cloudburst, and he brought along a tar-decorated partner: his blond, blue-eyed wife.

Never have I seen a woman spreading black goo on a driveway, but Diane added the attention to detail most men miss. She used a broom to spread the tar perfectly at the edges, taking care not to touch our concrete sidewalk or retaining wall.

The three of us became friends, because we ended up spending more than the average driveway-tarring time together. Ten minutes after they finished, a cloudburst dumped its load on their fresh work, “bursting” for 24 hours.

Diane and Charles returned two days later to assess the damage, and two days after that re-did the whole job. Their good cheer impressed me as they worked just as carefully the second time around without any additional money. They even posed for a photo.

As they left, Charles said, “Remember. Three years. Call me if any part of this driveway doesn’t make you completely happy.”

Covering the ravages of time is tricky. I try to do it every morning on my face with Cover Girl concealer. All of us attempt to cover certain secrets now and then, and not just on our skin.  Often relationship issues get buried under a thin veneer of “all-is-well.”  Then when storms come, the cracks get exposed.

For example, we widows are famous for covering the flaw of  sadness. Just as driveway crevices can be covered with tar, a widow’s grieving can be covered with activity, denial or friends. It works for a time, but rain-like tears eventually expose fault-lines, and sooner or later they need filling.

When Charles and Diane finished my driveway for the second time, Charles pointed out something special. “See these cracks?” he said. “I filled them with melted rubber, not tar. In three years when my guarantee expires and your driveway needs tar-touching up, that rubber will still be there, expanding and contracting with the seasons. It’s tough stuff.”

What is a widow’s “tough stuff?” It’s found only in God. His sustenance supplies her with the give and take she needs to weather ongoing storms and temperature changes. He’ll empower her to expand and contract with flexibility as she learns to live alone without fear.

And how does she get his supply? By detailing her needs in prayer, by watching for God’s provision, and by counting on him to fill her empty places.

When my driveway begins to look patchy and needs a tar-redo, I’m confident God will see to it that just like the tougher rubber-filled cracks, I’ll still be in tact.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him.” (Romans 15:13a)