Monthly Archives: March 2012

All Tangled Up

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When Lars was 8, he loved roaming our neighborhood in search of pets, but not the traditional kind. Throughout his childhood he had a heart for all things cold-blooded: turtles, birds, lizards, fish, and (gulp) snakes.

I well remember the day he came running into the kitchen with a 3 foot long black garter snake draped over his arm. “Mom! Mom! Look what I found!”

He brought the snake’s ugly face up close to mine and said, “Look at his tongue!”

I lunged backwards, filled with fear but trying not to show it. “Yes, I see. A snake!”

“Pet him, Mom. He’s really smooth!”

I forced myself to comply, not wanting to dampen Lars’ enthusiasm, and gingerly touched the snake’s middle.

“Smooth, huh?” Lars said.

“Very,” I said, quickly withdrawing my hand.

As Lars talked he lovingly stroked the length of his new friend like it was a puppy. “It’s ok if I keep him, isn’t it?”

“Only if he stays outside.”

Lars and his snake disappeared, but soon he called me to the front porch. He’d found an old wooden bushel basket and had filled it with fresh grass. “I’m gonna catch crickets for him, Mom. He can live right here by the front door.”

But I knew that snake would slither out of his basket the first chance he got, and by morning, he was gone. Lars was disappointed, but I was elated.

It’s probably wrong to hate one of God’s creatures, but I hate snakes. They’re predatory, quick moving, and unpredictable. That’s why I was startled yesterday to see a snake while walking Jack. It was wound around a small tree in our neighborhood, as big as Lars’ garter snake, but brown.

Fear flashed through me, but in seconds I saw the snake was only an innocent vine crawling up a tree.

But the vine wasn’t really that innocent. It had nearly strangled the life out of the tree. Bulges in the trunk resembled prey being squeezed by a python, and it had climbed high enough to coil around a second tree and then a third. The vine, once a tiny, supple stem of pretty ground cover had grown to 30 feet of stiff strength.

Many of life’s temptations start small just like the vine but end up squeezing the life out of us. It might be a destructive relationship, an addictive habit, an inappropriate goal, or just our belief in a lie. We think we’re stronger than we are and have more will power than we do. The “vine” tickles our ankles, but we ignore it, and it climbs our legs. Before long it’s gripping our hearts and we can’t free ourselves.

But God owns the clippers and is a pruning expert. All it takes is our permission for him to make the cut.

I probably won’t tamper with our neighborhood forest, but it’ll be interesting to see who prevails: the tree or the vine.

“Throw off… the sin that so easily entangles.” (Hebrews 12:1)

Hitting a Home Run

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When I was a kid, Mom always had a bat and ball at-the-ready and loved to watch us play baseball. My younger brother joined Little League, and we all cheered from splintered wooden bleachers on the sidelines.

Later, two of our own 4 sons took to baseball while the rest of us cheered from sleek aluminum bleachers. Lars was fortunate enough to have a dedicated coach who poured monumental effort into his team and frequently took the boys to local batting cages, paying for all of them to practice their hitting.

The owner of the batting cages lived in our neighborhood and did well financially with his venture. Then, in the 1990’s, his marriage and family unraveled, he sold the house he and his wife had built, and the batting cages were permanently padlocked.

This week I was back in my old stomping grounds for an annual physical. The doctor had upgraded his office by moving to a different one, so I Mapquested directions. Amazingly, his new office was in a large medical building constructed on the very spot where the batting cages had once been.

As I walked up the sidewalk, I noticed one of the concrete slabs had an emblem pressed into it. It was a yard-wide impression of a baseball and a couple of bats, no doubt a throw-back to the batting cages formerly on the site. When I got to the check-in desk, I asked the ladies if they knew anything about the insignia on the sidewalk. “What insignia?” one said.

“I saw it,” another said, “but have no idea.” I told them what I knew, but they were unimpressed.

Knowledge of places, events, and people seems to get buried under years the way ancient ruins get buried under debris. Despite efforts to keep memories fresh as with the sidewalk “message,” the press of everyday events keeps most of us focused on the here and now. After all, our heads can only hold so many facts at once.

For example, I’ve been taxing my brain in an effort to remember the name of the neighbor who owned the batting cages, but it’s buried in mental debris like so much else, and I can’t find it.

Inadequate recall or just not knowing in the first place (like the doctor’s office ladies) prompted me to think of God’s ability to keep track of everything without so much as a file cabinet. He’s never had the problem of mental debris. There’s only one thing he makes a point to forget: our confessed sins. At least that’s how Scripture tells it.

But I don’t think he really forgets. He just stops counting sins against us and quits reminding us of them. And that’s good enough for me. It’s even better than a grand slam home run.

“This is what the Lord says: “I—yes, I alone—will blot out your sins for my own sake and will never think of them again.” (Isaiah 43:25)

Grey Matter(s)

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Psychologists can study American culture just by looking at bumper stickers, short and snappy statements that tell society’s story. Yesterday I saw a new one: “THERE ARE NO GREY AREAS.”

Many of us wish for that, life lived in the clear distinctions of black and white, but reality teaches us most of what we encounter is in grey zones. By grey I’m not implying there’s indecision or wishy-washy-ness, just too many possibilities.

Whenever we’re trying to make a decision and think, “Boy oh boy, I’m just not sure,” we’re in a grey zone. Thoughts like “Absolutely!” or “No way!” qualify as black or white, and we’re accepting of those. But why is it so difficult to live in the grey? Why did the bumper sticker truck driver not want any of it?

Maybe it’s because we become frustrated with unsolved problems and don’t like to be in doubt about anything. That feels “off,” like a mystery novel unresolved by the last page. Even Scripture has verses that are colored grey. When we hear that biblical scholars have debated for decades about specific passages, we know those particular verses have been written in shades of grey.

Surely, though, God has grey-tinged purposes for us. A period of wrestling with difficult dilemmas stretches our ability to problem-solve (i.e. making good use of our grey matter). Grey zone struggles are also fertile ground for opinion changes. As we puzzle through problems, a period of time in the grey zone might be just the thing to change an unwise choice to a wise one.

Grey areas also offer the benefit of wiggle room, a good place to debate opposing opinions. If a discussion isn’t limited to the extremes of black or white, there’s a good chance opposite views can land somewhere in the middle, in the grey zone.

As we try to cope with times of grey in our lives, once in a while we do need the relief of clear-cut black or white. Thankfully the Lord is willing to provide that, and despite a bit of biblical grey, most of what’s written on those pages is delineated in crystal clear black and white.

Front and center is his brightly colored love for all of us, which probably isn’t either black or white. It’s probably sparkling with every color in the rainbow. But one thing we know for sure: it isn’t grey.

As for the truck with the bumper sticker about no grey areas? It was grey.

“How blessed are the people who… walk in the light of [the Lord’s] countenance.” (Psalm 89:15)