Ears Opened. Mouth Closed. Heart Engaged. Arms Ready.

(READER TAKE NOTE:  I suspect some of you may be slightly offended and may even disagree with some of what is written here.  These are only my observations and are not meant to offend or cause debate.  On the other hand, I hope you find some of the words useful.)

 

 

 

I may be one of the world’s worst listeners, but recently I saw another example of why listening may be one of the most crucial skills a Christian can hone. 

 

I was at a Christian gathering where a woman in our women’s group was pouring out her heart about how a bad church experience earlier in life has made it very difficult for her to attend church services now.  She was sharing about a recent time in which she had a panic attack during a church service and had to leave.  A few other members of the group immediately began sharing advice including what she needed to do to get past the panic attack and how she needed to leave that church and find one that suited her.  I’m not sure who was actually listening to what this hurting woman was saying. 

Why is it that so many women (in my experience, predominantly Christian women) feel the need to give advice when someone shares details of a personal trial?  We should tear a page from the ‘Man’s Book of Helpful Life Hacks’* that teaches them how to “fix” their woman’s problems – you know the 'book' – the one we’d love to burn in a fire pit! 

Most women who cry out in suffering don’t seek advice – they seek understanding!  They want someone to listen and care! Not fix! 

 

I listened as women in this group inundated this poor woman with words.  One woman was still pounding in “helpful” advice as we left the group.  Truthfully, as she was sharing, I too was thinking about what I could offer, but then it was if God said to me in that moment, “Listen!  Keep your mouth shut!  Let your heart engage, and pray.” 

I wonder how much pain is kept silent among Christian women because they dread the words that follow from their audience.  Words they’ve heard.  Answers they already know.  And so their pain is held close because what they really desire is ears to hear, a heart to absorb and arms to provide a hug.  I believe this is one reason the Apostle James wrote:

 

“My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak…” (James 1:19a - NIV)

 

Sometimes a word of counsel is sage, but seldom is unsolicited advice needed, and even less often, is it appreciated. 

There have been so many times in my own life when I needed to pour my heart out about trials, failures, needs, etc. and I stopped short of doing it because I dreaded the words to follow.  Even some of my closest friends have cut me off with advice.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love my friends so much, but I tell you I could almost mouth their advice verbatim because I’d already spoken it to myself.  At this interaction my heart often drops, I become flustered and I feel the need to qualify my words with more words as my heart is crying out:  “Don’t speak, just ‘love’ me!” 

Earlier I said I may be one of the “worst” listeners.  I love to talk.  I love the idea of being the “wisest” person in the room.  Notice I said, ‘I love the idea of being the wisest. . .’  I seldom am.  God help me when I open my mouth before I’m asked.  Forgive me for the times when I stopped way short of being helpful.  I know I have.  I know I may continue to do this.  It is the continued curse of sin that puts me before others.

If you learn one thing from this writing – let it be this – when someone shares from the heart keep the figurative ‘duct tape’ close by.  Take a deep breath.  Put a hand over your mouth.  Close your eyes and imagine what’s going on inside of them.  And most importantly ask God to help you listen with both ears and with your heart and then let Him guide you with your next move.  That move could prove to be most crucial.  It may make the difference between a moment of self-gratification or glorification for you + prolonged pain for them and a moment of peace for them + a tremendous blessing for you. 

 

Today I start practicing this with you -- again.  I’ll take up the cross in this area. 

 

As always we are a work in progress by God’s grace and for His glory!

  

_{*This book does not actually exist.  It is a figment of the author’s imagination.  At least – I hope  it is!}

When Christmas Isn't Merry

Today is Christmas Eve.  Tonight we’ll attend a candlelight service at my brother-in-law’s church; have dinner with my husband Bob’s family and drive home and anticipate all the merry mayhem that will take place tomorrow.

But something is missing.  Christmas has snuck up on me once again and I admit I’m going through a bit of holiday depression. 

Every Christmas season it happens, and every Christmas season I say I’m going to do it better next year.  Focus on Jesus more.  Listen to some more Christmas music.  Create some new holiday tradition. Make the house a little more festive.  Participate in one of those advent celebration rituals. 

But the season gets by and I realize that I’ve done it the same way I’ve always done it and it feels like something is missing – like somehow I’ve been cheated out of some Christmas magic.  Christmas is just sneaky that way.  It begins in January - creeps in slow and then takes off like rocket. 

It’s been a tough year (But haven’t most of them been?).  Let me count the ways:

 · My oldest child, Drew is still living 2,300 miles away in Seattle and I miss him and his wife Ashley terribly. 

· My oldest daughter Meagan moved out in the spring and is spending Christmas in Alabama with her boyfriend, Ethan, and his family. 

 

·  Bob was out of work for nearly six months. (But thankfully he’s found a new job.) 

· I got transferred to a new location and position on my job at the prosecuting attorney’s office (Against my will, I might add) and now my face is stuck in more mayhem and murder than before.  
 
· The day Bob went back to work, our back door was kicked in, our home invaded and some of our possessions were stolen.

· Then last month, we lost my sweet father-in-law James to cancer.

· And adding to the bittersweet – “ness” of this year – it’s just now hitting me that this may be the last Christmas we have with my youngest Bethany living under our roof full time as she prepares to graduate from high school and go off to college. 

The only thing that’s brought me through this tough year with a modicum of sanity is the hope of Christmas.  Not ‘Christmas’ the holiday, but ‘Christ-mas’ the Savior. 

More than the Christ-child in the manger, He is the God-man who gave His life for me.  And that would be true even if I was the only human being who had ever lived.  And it’s true for you too. 

It’s the Christmas gift that has kept on giving and it’s brought me through another tough year on planet earth. 

Again, let me count the ways:

 · When I’m worried about my kids that live out from under my roof – I pray for their safety and trust that God will watch over them.

·  When we were down to one job with one meager salary for the second time in as many years, I prayed for provision and we never missed a meal or lost our house. 

·  When my own job situation changed and I found myself angry and confused, God   answered with a whole new group of co-worker friends and people to encourage and pray for. 

· When I see tragedy and destruction that my job puts in front of me or think about the danger in the world around us, I hold on to the promise that one day the Savior is coming and He will wipe every tear from every eye.  (Revelation 21:4)

 
· While watching James suffer from the cancer, we prayed for healing and comfort.  God answered by calling James Home to place he’d longed for more than anything. 

There is a place in God’s house that Jesus has prepared for all of us who believe. Jesus said:

 

 “In My Father's house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also.” [John 14:2-3]

 

I can’t tell you what the hope of that statement does for me.  Well – Okay – I can:

It is the ultimate unwrapped Christmas present waiting for me that is my hope and longing that nothing in, of or from this world can EVER give me.  In the middle of life’s storms I can pause, wrap myself in the comfort and security of it and know peace. 

Sometimes I wish I could plant myself in that comfort forever and never leave.  One day at the end of this life I will.  In the meantime, I take the hope with me and I have a place here on earth to live and work and serve – and a job to do.  God has called me to minister, and this year I’ve done a poor job so far.

So I’m asking myself that profound question that John Lennon asked: 

 

“So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Another year over and a new one just begun.” [Emphasis added]

 

Really, it’s just time – past time - to bring my poor, depressed, broken self to the altar and pray for an answer. Then take that answer to the streets.
 

What about you?  What have you done?  What can you do?

Today is Christmas Eve.  (That’s where I came in with this musing). I haven’t missed it.  You haven’t missed it.  Let’s spend the day thinking of ways to give gifts that go beyond underneath the Christmas tree.  We can be living, breathing gifts to those around us. 

And Christmas doesn’t have to be the dividing line between a tough year and a new year’s resolution.  It can be the launching point between depression and the abundant life Jesus promised (John 10:10).  If you believe in the One who promised it and believe He will empower you to carry on and thrive.  He will, and if you believe, you will. 

Merry Christmas. 

Down a Long, Dark Tunnel

The death of comedian and actor Robin Williams is “trending” in the news today and will be for the next few days.  It brought a few thoughts to my troubled mind.

One is that perhaps more tragic than his death is the way he died.  Though the details have not been fully disclosed, we are being told by the media that Williams most likely committed suicide after a long bout with depression. 
 

Experiencing that kind of deep depression is like driving down a long, dark tunnel with no visible light signaling the end.  It feels like “no hope”.  Period.  Nothing to look forward to.  No happiness.  No friends or loved ones to lean on.  Just darkness. 

 

This, of course, is a lie.  However, it’s just as real as the “truest of truths” to a depressed person.  I’ve been there and, believe me, there aren’t enough Hallmark cards on the planet to cheer you up!  It just hurts – from the inside all the way out. 

Depression doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to those on the outside of it.  They can’t see any logical reason for it and oftentimes they run from it and those suffering from it like it was some sort of black hole they themselves might get sucked into.   In short, people fear what they don’t understand. 

The tragic counter to that is that depressed people often isolate themselves from others because they don’t want to “scare them off” by sharing their feelings.  I call it “backing the dump truck up and unloading in someone’s front yard.” 

And oftentimes, well-meaning friends and loved ones try and offer advice or try to think of the right thing to say.  Truth is, sometimes there are no right words to say “on the spot,” but just “being there” can be key. 

 

I think depression is one of Satan’s greatest weapons in his arsenal of death.  He uses it to weaken, cripple and isolate his prey like a prowling lion on a wounded gazelle.  Then he can strike.  Unfortunately, like Robin Williams, suicide is often the end result and the wreckage it leaves in its wake is unfathomable to someone who’s never been through it. 

I was deeply depressed from age 13 well into adulthood.  Many times I was suicidal, thinking that if I died no one would miss me and the world would be a better place – lies many suicidal people tell themselves.  Fortunately, I was way too scared to follow through.  I called it:  “Too scared to die, but too weak to live” – a virtual “hell on earth” that probably saved my life.  It was a “God-thing” I can’t explain.  I just know He used it to save me from hurting myself and a lot of others. 

Here’s the point:  While we can’t cure depression, we can help.  People need to know they are loved, cared for and appreciated.  By God.  By their families.  By their friends.  They need to hear it – perhaps even when they can’t feel it.  It’s those expressions they draw from on the dark days.  Cards, flowers, letters, emails, Facebook messages, gifts – whatever we can think of to show we care.  Bob and I once had a friend come over in the hot summertime and mow our lawn to show how much he cared.  Now that’s love, friends! 

I have a drawer in my house that I think of as my “good memory” drawer.  It’s full of birthday cards, thank you cards, just-because cards, notes, Bible verses, drawings and photos that remind me that I’m loved. 

I’ve been relatively depression-free for years, thanks to the unconditional (and I do mean unconditional!) love of Jesus Christ and medication. Still, sometimes the blues come and one dark thought crosses my mind.  If I dwell on it, the thought becomes a train of dark thoughts and I start heading down that tunnel again.  All it takes is one bad day, friends -- sometimes only an hour.  Dark thoughts can become decisions.  Decisions can become actions, and those actions can destroy families and leave them with no way to make sense of what has happened.  The true tragedy is that if that if that person could just “hold on” the train passes through the tunnel and it’s daylight again!

 
That’s why I keep that “good memory” drawer – and my Bible – close at hand. 

Psalm 34:18 tells me that “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
   and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” 

There are many more verses like that one in Scripture to remind me.  Sometimes I need to be bathed in them.  Other times I need a Bible “with feet and a pulse.”

 Friends, you and I can be that “Bible” to a hurting loved one.  Is there someone you haven’t heard from in a long time?  Someone you haven’t seen on Facebook in a while?  Someone who was just isn’t their usual cheerful self at work this week?  Or maybe it’s someone you haven’t seen at church in a while.  Perhaps you’ve had a thought to “text them” or “message them”.  Or if you’re old like me – you’ve thought of picking up a phone to call them.  Then that thought, like many other thoughts, gets buried in busyness.

Don’t just think it – say it or do it.  And don’t wait for it to get buried.  People need to be able to “smell the flowers while they’re still alive” as I once heard someone say. 

And if you know someone who has taken their own life, please don’t blame yourself.  Suicide is a personal action taken on by the person who makes the choice to do it.  There is enough pain left in its wake already.  Don’t take on the pain of guilt.   You are not to blame. 

What happened to Robin Williams was tragic.  I’m sad about it like many of you.  I think he was a great actor, and by the accounts I’ve read from the news, he was a kind person and a good friend to many.  Who knows what thoughts were in his mind on that day, and perhaps no words would have changed the outcome.  In a few days the tide will turn.  Current events will be new and his death will be just a memory for almost everyone except those who were close to him.   
 
There is a lesson to be learned here.  Say what you meant to say.  Do what you meant to do. It may make a difference.  It will certainly be a deposit in someone’s “good memory” drawer. 

SHARE TIME - 08/04/2013

I’ve known I wanted to be a writer since I was ten years old.  I got my start writing bad poetry in my pre-teen years and progressed to “publishing” my own pretend newspaper before becoming a journalist for "real-life" newspaper after college.  It stands to reason that somewhere along the way I developed a love for telling stories.

I love short stories in part because I’m a little ADD and nothing seems to capture my attention for very long.  For someone like me, short stories are perfect for reading and perfect for writing. I’ve written a thousand of them in my head that never made it to paper. A few did.

 

The following is a short story I wrote a while back.  It recently won 2^nd place at the Little Rock Chapter of American Christian Writers annual conference.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Like all my writing, I consider it one of my "babies."

************************************************************************

 

A Glimmer of Hope

Two things a single mother seldom has enough of -- money and patience. Unfortunately, Abby Green didn’t have much of either today.

She hurriedly got ready for work while her four-year old son, Dylan, played in the floor.

“Mom, I don’t wanna go to day care, today,” Dylan whined.

“Well, I don’t want to go to work either, kiddo, but we can’t always have what we want. Now, go get your stuff, OK?”

Dylan grabbed his lunch box and backpack and plopped down on the couch.

Life hadn’t been easy for Abby since her separation from her husband, Chris -- really since Dylan had been born and she had gone back to work part-time to help make ends meet.

Then Chris left her, and Abby found a full-time job as a receptionist at the local newspaper. It was the closest she feared she would ever get to her dream job, being a journalist. Her salary didn’t come close to covering her expenses, but combined with Chris’ irregular child support and an occasional check from her mother, it had miraculously kept them fed and in shelter.

Abby had met Chris in her freshman year of college. Not long after that, she discovered she was pregnant with Dylan. Her life with Chris fell far short of the fantasy she had imagined, but they loved each other. Then one day Chris came home from work and announced that he wasn’t sure he loved Abby anymore.

Abby had been pregnant and married at 20, and now separated at 25. So far, she didn’t see any happy endings in sight.

When she picked Dylan up after work, she was tired and he was a little cranky. One thing she was grateful for was that it was Friday, and she could possibly sleep in the next day. On the way home, she got a hamburger and fries for her and Dylan. That would make him delirious, and she could indulge herself in a meal out. After all, it was pay day.

At home, she and Dylan enjoyed their hamburgers in front of the TV until bedtime. Then she tucked him in bed and went off to bed herself.

Unable to sleep, Abby lay in bed thinking.

Abby had believed in God from childhood but sometimes felt He was avoiding her. Her mother had nearly had a stroke when Abby told her she was dropping out of college to marry Chris. The fact that he wasn’t a Christian disturbed her mother greatly, and since meeting Chris, Abby, herself, had quit going to church. When she and Chris separated, she thought it was time to include God in her life again, so she went back to church.

One Sunday morning, while waiting for the service to begin, she looked up and saw a familiar face, Susan Wells, who had been her junior high Sunday school teacher. Abby had always liked Susan, and felt warmed by her presence in the pew beside her. It was the first sign that maybe she belonged back here again. She and Susan became fast friends, and Abby could always count on Susan for encouragement. Now, on a lonely Friday night, this thought comforted her in her loneliness as she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning she woke and looked at the digital clock by her bed side. “Nine thirty!” She said to herself, “I DID sleep in!”

She listened for Dylan in the living room but didn’t hear a sound. Maybe he’s sleeping in, she thought. But Dylan never slept in. She jerked herself out of bed and called his name. No answer. And Dylan was nowhere to be found in the apartment.

Panic struck a chord in Abby that set her nerves on edge. The thought that Dylan might have gone outside made her equally angry and scared. He had done this once before, and she had told him not to do it again. But sometimes saying things once was not enough.

She threw on her clothes, ran into the living room, and saw a little table pushed up to the front door for Dylan to reach the deadbolt. She knew he HAD gone outside.

Abby ran outside, and into the parking lot which faced a busy street calling for Dylan. No answer.

Then she knocked on every neighbor’s door. No one had seen him. After nearly two hours, Abby had searched for her son around the apartment complex and in the neighborhood to no avail.

Disheveled and in tears, she called her mother. This horrid thought crept upon her and left her insides in jagged knots: Her son was missing.

Abby’s mother, Gail Weston, showed up at the apartment about twenty minutes later and they called the police. A female officer arrived a short time later. Abby felt nauseated and tired, as she began answering the officer’s questions: “How old is he? When was the last time you saw him? What was he wearing? Do you have any recent pictures of him?”

Abby answered the questions and then remembered she hadn’t had Dylan’s picture made since he was a baby. She never seemed to have enough time or money. Now, she hated herself for it. Then she remembered a Polaroid taken at Dylan’s daycare and fashioned into a magnetic frame made from Popsicle sticks and buttons. It was on her refrigerator.

The officer finished taking her statement, took the photo of Dylan and assured Abby that police would look for him. In the meantime, she or someone else should stay at the apartment waiting for word.

When the officer left, the thought occurred to Abby that she hadn’t called Chris. She had thought of calling him earlier, but dreaded it. Chris hadn’t seen Dylan in almost a month. Her first thought was that he might not even care, or would possibly scold her for being so hysterical. Then, she worried that he might think she was a bad mother.

But deep down, she knew she had to tell him. Dylan was Chris’ son. She found the number and dialed. No answer, so she left a frantic, wandering message and hung up. Typical, Chris wasn’t available.

Abby’s head was screaming so she went to her room for an Ibuprofen and paced the floor. It was now way past lunch time, and she knew that Dylan must be starved. He probably hadn’t had any breakfast, and now he was going to miss lunch.

Her mind was tinkering with thoughts about all the times she had wished she was somewhere else. Perhaps working as a journalist in a foreign country. All the times she just wished she could come and go as she pleased. What kind of a mother was she really? Was this God’s way of punishing her? She felt confused and helpless, because she was powerless to find Dylan. She thought of praying, but wondered what good it would do.

Then she heard a knock at the front door and her heart leapt in her chest.

It was Danny and Susan Wells. “We came as soon as we heard,” Susan said.

“How did you hear?” Abby asked. She hadn’t called anyone except the police and Chris.

Her mother chimed in. “Oh, I called the church while you were in your room and asked them to pray. Susan had heard about it from the church’s prayer chain.

“We thought we could pray with you and keep you company for a while,” Susan offered. Danny nodded in agreement. Usually very talkative around other men, Abby noticed he said very little around women.

“Thanks,” Abby said and she began to cry again. Susan put her arm around her, and said “Abby, I just want you to know Dylan is really God’s child and wherever he is, God is watching over him.”

This thought calmed her some, as she hung on the glimmer of hope it carried. But the guilt still plagued her.

“Susan. I’m a terrible mother!” She blurted out.

“Why do you say that?” Susan asked. “That’s not true!”

“It IS true.” Abby insisted. “There have been times when I wished I had never gotten married,” she began to cry hard as she fought for words. “Times I wished I had never had Dylan.

“Oh, Abby. That doesn’t make you a bad mother. I expect most mothers occasionally wonder what their lives would be like if they had never had children.”

Abby listened as her friend spoke words of encouragement.

“Dylan is a gift from God. Not a mistake,” Susan told her. “God created that child. He knitted him in your womb, and He doesn’t make mistakes. Let’s get down on our knees right here and pray. I think you really need that.”

The two women knelt down together and Susan began:

“Father, we come to You and acknowledging that You love Dylan more than we ever could. Watch over him and guide him back home. And Father, please help Abby know that You love her, and that You’ll never give up on her. In Jesus name...”

Susan squeezed Abby’s hand to let her know it was her turn to pray.

Through her tears, Abby prayed. For the first time since this terrible day began, she poured her heart out to God. She hoped somehow that would make God hear her better. Through her tears, she begged God to bring Dylan home. Afterwards, she felt like a small burden had been lifted from her, but it was going to be dark in a few hours, and the thought of Dylan alone and scared in the dark terrified her.

Abby was exhausted from the stress, and just when she thought it would engulf her, she heard a loud knock at her door and ran for it.

A middle-aged police officer was there smiling. Standing beside him in a green t-shirt and red shorts was Dylan, with matted hair and a dirty face. He ran to Abby and hugged her legs. She bent down and hugged him and kissed his dirty face. Words could not express the lifted burden.

“He’s OK, Ms. Green,” the officer said. “One of our retired officers, Doug Adams, found him playing in his vacant lot about a half mile from here. Dylan said he followed a stray dog and got lost. Doug found him sitting under a tree crying. Dylan knew his name but didn’t know his address. All he said was that he wanted his mommy, so Doug called us knowing somebody was surely looking for him.”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” Dylan said. “I saw the dog out our window and he looked like he wanted someone to play with. So I followed him and got lost.”

“Oh, thank You God!” Abby cried. “I love you. You are a good God!” Then she looked at her son and said, “I love you too, Dylan.”

“I love you, Mommy,” Dylan said, gently sobbing. Then he looked up at Gail, and said “Hi, Grandma.” Everyone, including the officer, laughed in relief.

“Young fellow, don’t leave the house anymore without your mom, OK?” The officer gently scolded Dylan. Dylan nodded and shyly turned toward his mother. “Mommy, can I have a peanut butter sandwich?”

A short time later, Abby heard another knock at the door. Standing in the doorway was Chris, wide-eyed and out of breath.

“I came as soon as I got the message. Have you found him?” He asked excitedly.

Then he saw his son. “Dylan!” Chris exclaimed.

“Daddy! It’s you!” Dylan yelled happily and ran to his father.

“Yeah, it sure is.” Chris said as he knelt down, scooped the boy up and buried his face in Dylan’s hair, gently stroking it, he sobbed softly, “I thought I’d lost you.”

Chris still loved his son, Abby knew. She backed away and allowed them a moment.

She didn’t know where her marriage was headed, but she did know two things -- God was good. And He was HER loving Father.