Yuk!

Posted on September 17, 2013 by Margaret

I like to keep a neat house, but it’s not always clean-neat. Picking-up is easy compared to breaking out the Pine-sol, Windex, and Pledge. This last week, however, the kitchen took on a strange air that none of us could identify. It wasn’t exactly smelly, but something wasn’t quite right.

As the days passed, every so often we’d get a whiff of wierd, and finally, after a week, whatever it was began to reek. Birgitta, Louisa, and I opened every drawer and cabinet, leaning in for repeated sniffs, desperate to find the problem. Was it rotting food in the waste can? In the disposal? Under the stove? In the drain pipe?

None of those.

Although we kept hunting, we also lit scented candles and sprayed room deodorizer. Whatever it was, it continued to worsen until we were gagging and unable to eat anywhere near the kitchen. What in the world was it?

Today we found out.

Reaching into the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, I twisted to the right to get a pair of rubber gloves hanging over the drain pipe when I saw it. Snuggled up next to the back of the Kitchen Aid mixer was a dead field mouse. At least I thought it was dead. He hadn’t moved as I’d rummaged around at close range, and the smell in the back of the cabinet was absolutely putrid.

So I did what any woman would do. I insta-backed out of the cabinet and slammed the door.

Later when I showed Louisa what I’d found, we marveled at how tiny the little mouse was and how big its stench. It reminded me of a tiny word that always brings big stink into our lives: sin.

Because the devil is very clever, he coaxes us toward evil in mini-bits. “A little won’t matter,” he says. “Besides, no one needs to know.” And for a time, that may be true. But as Scripture says, what we do on the Q.T. will eventually be spotlighted…. when its smell has grown so big it dominates us and disgusts those around us. Our best bet is to clean it out in its early stages, well before it begins to rot us.

As for our mouse, since I was the one who’d put De-con poison in the back of the cabinet, I was elected to take him out. Though he seemed dead and his odor confirmed it, I wondered if he would run up my sleeve when I tried to grab him. In the end, I double-bagged my hand, let out a long, loud yell, and picked him up. Sure enough, he was dead.

Not long after that, the comforting scent of Pine-sol filled the room, and our women-against-beast adventure was over. If only it was that easy to rid ourselves of sin.

“Dead flies [or mice] make the perfumer’s ointment give off a stench; so a little folly outweighs wisdom and honor.” (Ecclesiastes 10:1)

Voicing It

Posted on September 16, 2013 by Margaret

Back in 1959 when I was about to enter high school, the academic pressure was intense. Over 4000 students were enrolled at New Trier that year, and the school had been voted #1 in the nation for academic excellence. Many of the students went out East to Ivy League universities after graduating, and 98% of all New Trier students went to college somewhere. Facing my freshman year, I knew the going might get rough.

My parents decided to send me to summer school before I began the regular school year, in an attempt to give me a leg up. “At least you’ll learn your way around the building,” they said. And since it was a really big school, that was enough motivation for me.

I took 3 classes that summer: ceramics, speech, and trampoline. Two of them went well, but speech? It was agony.

Getting up in front of the class was bad enough, but I also sensed the teacher didn’t like me. I remember him well, because he had an unusual name: Mr. Pink. After my first speech, I knew for sure he didn’t like me.

I was still standing in front of the class when he gave me his critique. “Margaret,” he said, “some of us were born with voices that are pleasant to listen to, and others not. Yours is not.” And then he told me to sit down.

Maybe his mind had wandered during my speech and he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but I was embarrassed by his comment and shocked to realize I had a bad voice. If I hadn’t been required to deliver several more speeches that summer, I wouldn’t have uttered another word.

What a difference between talking in front of Mr. Pink and talking in front of God. When I talk to God, he doesn’t stop with just hearing my voice but listens to my heart as well. I can even converse with him without using my vocal cords. He and I can talk heart-to-heart about absolutely anything, and he hears me perfectly. His only concern is that I just say something to him, whether I use my vocal cords or silent thoughts. When I do, he promises to hear it all.

Later that summer I turned 14, and my parents’ birthday gift was a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I’d wanted one for a long time so I could record songs off the radio and also send taped messages to several faraway friends who had recorders.

But on the day I first listened to my own recorded voice, I discovered Mr. Pink had been right after all. I did have an unpleasant voice, and I didn’t like listening to it.

After that, I stopped worrying about his comment in speech class. And it certainly didn’t leave any scars, because I’ve been talking way too much ever since.

“The Lord does not listen to the wicked, but he hears the prayers of those who do right.” (Proverbs 15:29)

Laying Blame

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Margaret

Every year I take a few plane trips and usually opt for non-stop flights. On one recent trip, however, my itinerary called for a stop, though I didn’t need to change planes. Just before landing, the flight attendant made an announcement:

“Since we’ll only be on the ground for 17 minutes, our advice for those continuing on with us is to stay on board. Remain seated until the others have de-planed, and then if you would, please move to the front of the plane while the clean-up crew works.”

The announcement applied to only 11 of us, and we did as asked. When our pilot emerged from the cockpit volunteering to help clean, we watched him move in and out of the rows picking up newspapers, candy wrappers, and empty water bottles.

In a few minutes he came back to the front where our little group was standing and said, “How many of you own Smart Phones?” Most of us did. “Would you be willing to hold them up for me?”

We all dug them out of purses and pockets, except for a young girl of about 12 or 13. After rummaging through her back pack, she said, “Mine’s gone! It’s gone!”

The captain then brought his hand forward with a Smart Phone in it. Before he could say anything, the girl grabbed the phone with a snarl and said, “You took my phone!”

A woman next to her touched her arm and said, “Oh, no, honey. He found your phone.”

How quick we are to lay blame. The minute the girl realized her phone was missing, her next thought was, “Someone took it!” When she saw it in the pilot’s hand, she connected the dots and assumed it was him.

We adults can be pretty quick to play the blame game, too. Humanly speaking, when hurtful things happen, our knee-jerk response is often, “Who’s responsible for this?” Sometimes we can (and even should) point a finger, but oftentimes we can’t.

But if we can’t satisfy our desire to blame someone we know, we can always blame God. Interestingly, he is sometimes the one behind the difficulties and disasters we experience, but rather than blaming him, we ought to give him credit.

That’s because whatever comes to us (good or bad) is intended for our spiritual growth. Instead of pointing fingers of blame, we ought to reach for him with arms wide open.

Actually, we shouldn’t blame God for anything, but amazingly, he takes the blame anyway, not for anything he did but for all our bad. He died as a sinner in our place. Once we take that in, just like the young girl on that airplane, we’ll melt into a puddle of contrition. Instead of laying blaming, we’ll say the only appropriate thing: “How can I ever thank you enough?”