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:

Believe Jesus is the Son of God.
Receive him as Savior from personal sin.

Unlike riding with the Hells Angels or even working at Mary’s Kitchen, belonging to God’s family is for everyone. None are excluded.

“To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

Say it in words.

Posted on January 18, 2011 by Margaret

Once in a while Jack will walk up to me and quietly whine. If he’s been walked and fed, I’m not sure what he wants and wish he could say it in words, so I could help him.

Little children have a similar problem. They’re born with needs and opinions but can’t talk for a couple of long years. Parents are left to interpret the different nuances of their cries and behavior, hoping they’ll understand.

Recently when my five grandchildren were here, all of them were sick. When they didn’t feel good, they’d whimper and cry, but four of the five couldn’t use words to say what they were feeling. Sore throat? Clogged sinuses? Tummy ache? Headache? We could only guess.

During those weeks, there were several other reasons we wished our little ones had words: important items began disappearing. One day a baby monitor we’d used in the morning was nowhere to be found by afternoon. About the size of a cordless phone but white and with an antenna, it should have been easy to find.

All of us hunted with diligence, becoming increasingly frustrated not to find it. A day of searching went by and then two. We even prayed about it, not so much for the intense need of the monitor as to know where it went. “Lord, you see it right now. Won’t you show us?”

Of course we asked our small fry, using the other half of the monitor-set as bait. “Do you know where one of these is? Where did you put it?” Only half joking, we said, “Just say it in words!” But of course they couldn’t.

Many times Nicholas or Skylar would dash off, acting like they knew, raising our hopes of finding it. Sadly, though, after several days, we could only conclude it had gone into a local landfill by way of our trash.

Why didn’t God answer our prayer and show us the monitor? It would have been easy for him, yet he refused. I find this exasperating yet symbolic of many of our unanswered prayers. It’s as if we pray, “Just say it in words, Lord! Tell us where to look, what to do, which to choose.”

I can’t count the times I’ve prayed the “tell me” prayer. Right now I’m asking about my phone charger. I put it someplace safe before the kids arrived and now can’t find it.

Why doesn’t God usually answer these prayers? Maybe he wants us to:

practice waiting
increase in patience
learn to be careful next time
learn to handle frustration
order our priorities
find humor in the situation

Apparently our family needed to learn those things, because we never found the monitor…

…until today.

While cleaning out the candle cabinet (a child-high, double-door cupboard), there it was. Little hands had hidden it in the back. Maybe we’d learned our lessons after all.

And interestingly, God didn’t use words to answer our prayer.

“ ‘Can anyone [or anything] hide from me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?’ says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 23:24)

Welcome Home to Heaven

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Margaret

Sometimes I wish I could think simply, like a child, free from decades of mental detail. It’s easy to surmise, assume and guess about the way things are, but often I’m wrong. Ever since Nate died, my thoughts have leaned toward heaven, trying to imagine what his life there is like. But how accurate are they?

I often wonder how God could ever extend the privilege of heaven’s utopia to ordinary humans. We’re hopelessly flawed and completely undeserving. And of course if it weren’t for Jesus’ willingness to pay a sky-high price for our entry, we wouldn’t have a hope of ever living there.

This morning my day began by reading a thrilling blog-comment left by “Beth Jones” in response to yesterday’s post about not losing heart. Here’s part of it:

“[My husband] Bruce preached a funeral message Saturday that focused on Psalm 116:15 ‘Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.’ His last point was about the joy and excitement of our Lord to have us come home to Him with nothing in the way of perfect fellowship with Him. How delightful it is to think of His joy in our coming home… from His perspective!”

When I read this, I got goose bumps. In all my thinking about heaven, I’d always pictured Jesus as the giver and me as the getter. What could I possibly give him that could matter at all? It had never occurred to me he might rejoice to see me coming as if given a gift. Such a thought seems prideful on my part.

What I now understand, however, is that his joy in receiving me and all other Christians is rooted in the enormous investment he made to save us from eternal destruction. Our arrival into heaven is inextricably linked with that sacrifice, which is why he’ll be happy to see us when we arrive.

I can hardly take it in!

I emailed Beth, who talked to Bruce, who emailed me back. During last weekend’s funeral, he expanded on those thoughts: God created us in his image with the intention of having an eternal relationship with us. Until I’m standing in front of him, looking into his eyes and talking with him face-to-face, there will always be a barrier to our relationship, a distance between us.

As Bruce said, it’s because he loves us so much that his heart will “rejoice when we die and are finally home with him.” And that’s why our deaths are labeled “precious” in Scripture.

In recent weeks half-a-dozen elderly “saints” from my childhood church have died, people I grew up knowing and admiring. We’ve joked about a Moody Church reunion going on in glory, with Jesus in the middle of it. I can picture these friends huddled in a circle, arms around each others’ shoulders, jumping up and down as one unit of boundless exhilaration with Jesus the most enthusiastic of all… because they’ve come home to him.

Maybe as I picture that uncomplicated scene, I’m finally “thinking simply,” just like a child. Every little kid loves a party, and I’m glad my invitation to that one is safe and sound.

“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.” (Psalm 116:15)