Could things get any worse? Part I

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Nate and I traveled through some lean financial times in our four decades of marriage. Any young couple starting out while one is a full time student has to wear a tight budget belt, probably buckled in the last hole. But newlyweds are pretty good at living on love. They believe their flush days are right around the corner.

 

When Nate got his first lawyering job at a downtown Chicago bank, we figured our salad days were over, and gravy was on its way. That proved true for a long while, but then the meat and potatoes began to diminish, and the gravy disappeared entirely. A government law change had collapsed Nate’s business, and what little money he was able to earn afterwards barely had a chance to register at the bank as it “flashed” through his checking account.

 

We stepped up our prayer efforts as the crisis continued, deciding it would be a good idea to add fasting, too. Neither of us knew exactly how God applied fasting to prayer requests, but we both knew it would somehow add extra power as we prayed. We called it “Fasting for Finances” which sounds catchy but is really hard to do.  On “date nights” we’d arrange for babysitting, then drive to a parking lot and spend the evening praying in our car.

 

During those days when I spent time praying by myself, I’d write out the prayers (as I still do). This became a written record of desperation. I knew I should claim Scripture as I prayed, so I chose James 4:2, “You have not, because you ask not.” I prayed it back to God and said, “Ok! So I’m asking! Would you please send money? We need money!”

 

Then one evening we arrived home to a big surprise. It was raining in the downstairs bathroom, and not through a window. The entire ceiling was a rain cloud releasing its load, and the floor was a pond. Plastic ceiling panels bowed beneath the water-weight of several gallons each, and one had already given way, splintering into many pieces as it hit the ceramic tile floor. Woodwork was buckling, and plaster walls were cauliflowering.

Upstairs the toilet had apparently been plugged and was also running, so it had overflowed for many hours. The cascade had soaked through two stories and even into the basement. After we turned off the water, we stood back and surveyed the damage to the upstairs floor, the downstairs ceiling and floor, the soaked plaster walls and the woodwork. Smack in the middle of the most severe financial stranglehold of our lives, we were facing massive new repair bills.

 
Before the water had even stopped dripping, I was lashing out at God. “How could you let this happen?! We did all that extra praying and fasting, and now this is how you answer? We asked for money, and you gave us bills!”

 

But he didn’t say a word.

 

(…to be continued)

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” (Isaiah 43:2)

Come and eat!

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Wise women have said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I believe it.

When Nate and I got married, he came to me from a childhood of enjoying the creative cooking of his mother, Lois. She had a lavish cook book collection and used it often. As a newlywed, I realized I’d have to learn to cook if I was going to make my man happy.

Fortunately there was an effective buffer between Lois’ high-class dinners and my incompetence in the kitchen: university food.

Nate’s memory of those home-cooked meals dimmed as he ate in college dining halls from 1963 until we married in 1969, and his expectations were wonderfully low.

After 40 years of cooking thousands of meals for him, I remember only one word of criticism. I’d made a teriyaki stir fry, one of his favorites, but the sauce had turned out thin. Because it wouldn’t stick to the veggies or meat, I used a tip from Mom, adding a bit of corn starch to thicken the juices.

When Nate came to the table, he saw what we were having and said, “Mmmmm. Stir fry!”

We all sat down, heaped food on our plates and dug in. Nate had already eaten three forkfuls by the time I took my first. “My word!” I said. “What’s wrong with this stuff?”

That’s when Nate’s criticism came. “I kept trying, because I couldn’t believe it tasted so awful. What did you do to it?”

“I have no idea,” I said, walking my plate toward the disposal. That’s when I noticed the corn starch on the counter. Unfortunately, it was really baking soda. How I’d mixed up an orange box with a white can I’ll never know. But after we’d all enjoyed frozen pizza, we had a good laugh over my error.

Although I never became a skilled cook, I did learn one valuable principle preparing meals for a big family each day. More important than flavor, smell, ingredients or presentation was volume. Everyone was happier with a full stomach, and filling them up became my #1 priority.

Nutritionists might label that eating-suicide saying, “The food pyramid should be #1.” But my experience was that not having enough was worse than having only some of a perfectly balanced meal.

This principle works well with our spiritual eating, too. We can hold out for a gourmet meal: a peaceful place to read the Bible, a notebook to write in, a pen that works and a set of commentaries. We can wait to pray until we’re sure of uninterrupted time. But if we do, we’ll always be on the edge of spiritual starvation without enough to eat.

God is well aware of our fast-paced lives but creatively delivers spiritual nourishment as our appetites for him grow.

Scripture refers to its words as milk (for beginners) and meat (for the more advanced) and encourages us to taste it. So apparently the old adage does have some truth to it: the way to a person’s true heart is indeed through the stomach.

“Do not work for food that spoils, but for food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” (John 6:27)

Sniffing the Road

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When Jack and I take our late-night walks, sometimes we don’t need a flashlight, but I carry one anyway. If a car approaches, I turn it on and point it toward Jack, since a driver might not see a black dog at night.

Once in a while when it’s time to take our last walk of the day, Jack is already dozing. If he’s been sleeping hard, it takes a few minutes to perk him up, even out in the cold. Some nights he drags behind me as if he’s walking in his sleep.

Last night was one of those nights, and since it was after 1:00 am, I wanted him to tend to business quickly. Trying to hurry him along, I whistled, then pretended to run ahead.  I even tossed a snowball down the road shouting, “Fetch!” Nothing helped.

Then I got an idea. I took out the flashlight and pointed it just ahead of my footsteps. The minute I did, he trotted from 20 feet behind me to just in front, walking near the light. If I moved the beam forward, he sped up. If I moved it back, he slowed down, as if he wasn’t sure of his step without seeing it clearly.

I could only conclude Jack doesn’t see very well. Most dogs have a keen sense of smell, #1 among their five senses. Jack walks along sniffing the road with high hopes he’ll smell something good. Suddenly he’ll pause to focus for several minutes on the same stinky spot, like we might pause in front of a beautiful painting, trying to take it in. It’s all about fun with his nose. Vision is probably at the bottom of a dog’s senses-list.

Since Nate died, sometimes I walk through life just like Jack, head down, “sniffing the road,” unsure of my step in the dark. But when I do that, opportunities get missed. There are people with eyes, like me, and then there are people with vision. Those with vision can see beyond what their eyes are looking at to what’s happening around them and what’s possible down the road. By comparison, I’m looking with tunnel vision.

Jack doesn’t worry about what he does or doesn’t see, because his well-developed nose compensates for his eyes. But I don’t have that advantage. Thankfully, though, God has perfect senses and is willing to use them for my benefit. He’s also a visionary, so he sees it all, everything that’s hidden in the dark and all the unseen possibilities still ahead. Much to my relief, he sees me, too, trudging along, “sniffing the road.” Since I can’t “smell opportunity,” I count on him to turn my head toward what he wants me to see.

One of my frequent prayers is that his messages will “hit me over the head.” Maybe I should add, “Do it with a flashlight.”

 

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Mark 14:38b)