Back, and Better than Ever

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Some people name their cars. We haven’t, with one exception: college kids and their first vehicles.

The Chevy Nova with the Toyota engine that was first given to Hans as a student in Tennessee, should have been dubbed “Kitty” because of its 9 lives. Not only has it moved through multiple owners, it’s also had a coat of many colors: beige, green, blue, red, bush camouflage, Swedish flag and now snow-camo.

It’s name? “The Bean,” dubbed so during its green-bean color phase. A better name might have been “Everlast” or “Humilitymobile.”

Currently painted white and grey, a snow-camouflage, The Bean wintered in deep drifts behind a Michigan garage and this week was put back into service. It is Louisa’s turn to climb behind the wheel and start the car with a screwdriver. As she heads to northern Wisconsin to counsel at a high school camp, it’ll be The Bean that gets her there.

This car begs to be pulled over by police and often is. However, outfitted with legal plates, tags, registration and proof of insurance, it charms its way out of every ticket. As one officer said after pulling Klaus over, “I knew there just had to be something illegal about this car.” But he drove away disappointed.

Over the years, The Bean has taught us three valuable lessons:

  1. Don’t judge a car by its paint job (or rust spots, or engine racket). Look instead at its track record.
  2. Fight the urge to buy a classy-car image, because the snazziest cars sometimes clunk before 100,000 miles.
  3. Although an unkempt interior can cause embarrassment, it can still get you where you want to go.

Those 3 lessons happen to be biblical, and they apply to people, too:

  1. No one should be judged by his/her appearance.
  2. Everyone should project only an image of who he/she really is.
  3. A person’s dependability is more important than looking good.

As of tomorrow, Louisa will begin bonding with the humble Bean, and she has magnificent plans to personalize it: silver paint enhanced with glitter.

“Is that legal?” she said. “Just think how it would dazzle in the sun!”

She’d better anticipate double-trouble with police pull-overs. And there’s one more possible snafu that may result in a debate with her older brother Nelson about The Bean’s next make-over. He has already refashioned it in preparation for his own next venture, a 750 mile drive to the School of Biblical Studies he’ll be attending this winter… in snowy Montana.

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” (Luke 6:37)

Bump in the Night

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Normally my late night walk with Jack is a pleasure. We usually head out before midnight, but last night the clock got ahead of our intentions, and it was after 1:00 am. I looked at Jack, wondering if he could “hold it” till morning but couldn’t resist his pleading eyes and wagging tail.

“OK,” I said, “but just a short one.”

Since no one else would be out dog-walking at that hour, I left Jack’s leash at home so he could enjoy romping in the woods along our way. Plugging in my ear buds, I clicked on Michael Buble’s playlist, and we were off.

The lively “Haven’t Met You Yet” came on, causing me to pick up the pace to match the beat when without warning my foot smashed full force into something that sent me sailing parallel to the road. Before I hit the pavement, I knew what it was:

a speed bump.

Our neighborhood is nearly empty 9 months of the year but becomes a busy beach community in the summer. So in June, half-a-dozen portable speed bumps come out of storage to slow the increased traffic, and I’m usually tuned in to their familiar locations. Last night was the odd exception.

Although I’d forgotten a flashlight on a pitch black night, my ipod could have served the same purpose and prevented some painful road rash. Hitting the asphalt with one knee followed by the other, then both palms, the tops of my toes, and cheek, my first thought was, “I’ll bet I tore through my new capri’s.”

As is true for all of us after we’ve had an accident, I wish I had a video of the mishap, but I knew the next day would bring a body-summary of what actually occurred. This morning God guided me in how to properly take inventory:

  • Though my hands are skinned, I didn’t break a wrist.
  • Though my knee is cut, I didn’t break a knee cap.
  • Though my foot is twisted, I didn’t break the bones.
  • Though my toes feel rug-burned, I didn’t break a toe.
  • Though my back hurts, I didn’t break a vertebra.
  • Though my rib cage hurts, I didn’t break a rib.
  • Though my head aches, I didn’t get a concussion.

God began my day by highlighting 7 blessings. As I gingerly crawled out of bed wondering how I’d ever get all the blood out of my new capri’s (and pajama pants), I thought maybe God had let me take my spill just to give me a fresh opportunity to count blessings.

If so, it worked.

He even gave me an 8th. When I hit the ground, my ipod and Michael Buble’ flew out of my pocket and somersaulted down the road. And wouldn’t you know, as it hit, the screen lit up, nicely illuminating the speed bump.

Blessing #8:

  • Though my ipod took a hit, it didn’t break.

Actually, as I hooked it up again, Michael Buble’ was still singing the same song, completely unfazed by my bump in the night.

“My cup overflows with blessings.” (Psalm 23:5)

 

On the Outside Looking In

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Today a Chicago area friend and I spent the day together in Michigan, talking, laughing, biking, praying, wading, sunbathing, eating and walking. It was a meaningful day of simple pleasures most anyone could enjoy… anyone but a new widow.

Several months after Nate died, I remember a dark time of sorrow and gloom. One day in particular stands out as a low point. I was walking Jack in the pitch black of a winter evening, shivering with the cold but also with the misery of missing Nate. Passing a neighbor’s house, I saw through the window they were entertaining friends, and I was overtaken by sharp loneliness.

While standing in the road watching six adults talk and laugh in a warm living room, I felt like the little match girl of storybook fame, homeless and cold, looking in on a family holiday meal. I had a home and plenty to eat but like her I was on the outside looking in.

A week later, other neighbors invited me to dinner. I said “no.” It was crazy to reject a chance to be part of the happy conversation “on the inside,” but that’s new widowhood, a hodge-podge of emotions that make no sense: “I’m lonely, but leave me alone; I’m excluded, but don’t invite me in.”

So what’s to be done for a new widow?

Not too long after my forlorn experience in the road, I walked into a neighbor’s kitchen, though I can’t recall the reason. Once inside, I saw a long dinner table set for a crowd and realized they were having company. A big pot of stew simmered on the stove, and fresh bread lay on the counter.

“Our small group is coming tonight,” my friend said. I nodded, and then she did the perfect thing. She filled a bowl with beef stew and handed it to me. “Why don’t you take this with you? I’d love for you to have it.”

Gratefully I accepted her gift and stepped into the cold night with my warm stew, feeling included but not with the pressure to meet new people or make small talk. It was exactly what I needed.

Showing love to a new widow is difficult. You might be refused repeatedly and be wounded by rejection. After several rebuffed invitations, you might think, “What’s the use. She wants to be left alone, so I give up.”

But from experience I can say, “Please keep trying.” Her in-and-out behavior of living on the fringes is her way to cope with the complex and unwelcome role of widowhood. If you don’t give up, eventually you’ll receive a “yes”, and you’ll know you’ve helped end her days of standing on the outside looking in.

The Lord said, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3)