Toast

Puppy

It unraveled pretty quickly if you ask me.

I’d shut myself away in a bedroom to listen to a podcast and fold laundry (which is the equivalent of a Hawaiian vacation in my world), so I was enjoying the quiet when the sound of howling made its way up the stairs.  The cockatiel heard it too and stopped playing with the fringe on the carpet long enough to tilt his head toward the floor to make sure he was hearing correctly.  We looked at each other and agreed the puppy had woken up. I extricated myself from the pile of clothing and offered my hand to the bird, he obliged by stepping up and allowing me to put him on a basket off the floor while I went to check on the dog.  

Howling isn’t good where a puppy is concerned and I hurried to the kitchen to see what had transpired in my absence.  Puppy came dancing over to see me with a prancing-goat-jump-step thing she does.  Giving her a pat, I stepped into the kitchen and square into a ginormous puddle of pee she had placed directly next to her potty pad.  Bending down to remove my squishy sock meant puppy had direct access knock her skull into mine and lick my face, neither of which movements caused me much happiness.  I reached for the spray and the paper towel when my toe hit something sharp.  It was then I realized an element of danger had entered the game as goat-puppy had knocked a plate off the dishwasher (probably containing a forbidden toast crust) smashing it on the floor.  Pieces of shattered dishware lay scattered like a minefield.  Grabbing the leash off the counter I scooped up puppy and held the leash out to Grandma.  “Can you hold her please while I get this cleaned up?”

Grandma was sympathetic and spoke to the dog about injustice issues while I managed to get the pee cleaned up and started sweeping up the broken plate. At that moment another adult entered the kitchen and asked what was for lunch.  I managed a chirpy response as Grandma and puppy set to looking in the fridge for the leftover soup.  Puppy was remarkably keen to get into the fridge as my mother put leftover beets, cauliflower casserole and pork on the counter asking each time, “Is this the soup?”  Puppy started her goat jumping trick to see the containers and better, imagine eating leftovers.  Figuring I could speed up the process, I gave directions, “Square container, top shelf.”  “Ah ha!” was the response as Grandma pulled the soup from the fridge while puppy-tigger bounded in appreciation of the find.  Sensing disaster, I grabbed the cauliflower from the counter and the leash from Grandma and tried to steer tigger-puppy away from the fridge so Grandma could remove the soup without incident.  Stupidly, the leash and the cauliflower casserole both ended up in my left hand.  Mistake. Satan dog, sensing my intent, lunged for the fridge as it was closing and sent the cauliflower container and my left hand in the opposite direction of my body. My favorite curried cauliflower dish landed with a delightful “plop” on the floor as the puppy moved in for the kill.  Launching herself at the largest floret she could find, she bit it, walked it 2 feet and then spit it out on the floor.  

By this point in time I had identified the sense of dismay hovering in the back of my psyche.  It appears when the universe has conspired against my mental health. I was losing.  I was awash now at the hands of providence and wisdom dictated I should try to get out before I lost my temper.  Grabbing the paper towel again, I started to mop up the cauliflower.  The puppy, pleased to have me on the ground again, came for my face at which point I growled, surprising us both.  Enter another functional, able bodied adult into the kitchen asking what was for lunch and I just about started barking.  Grandma made a comment about the injustice of the demise of the cauliflower, followed by a comment or two about the best way to heat soup.  I threw the Tupperware in the sink and decided the best way to extract myself from my losing streak was to take the puppy for a walk.

Running upstairs to return the cockatiel to his cage, puppy in tow, I secured birdie, who was moderately upset to be returned to his cage, put on new socks and flew downstairs and through the kitchen.  Offering (again) my opinion in regard to reheating soup, I excused myself and headed with puppy through the back garden.  Sighing, I stood still under the apple tree to quiet myself and psycho dog.  Opening my eyes, I stepped straight into a spider’s web with a fat spider in the center.  When the spider and I had finished screaming and wiping off our hair and faces, I sped up and made for the back gate where I stepped in deer poop.  Shouting in disappointment, I wiped my shoe in the grass as the dog ate the poo with unfettered happiness.  So much for the worming medication we fed her 3 days ago.

Undeterred, I pushed through the back gate onto the street and stood while puppy sniffed and snuffled.  I took half a dozen steps before, I am not lying, it started to rain.  The puppy looked at me expectantly, “we are going for a walk,” I told her and pulled at her leash.  Puppy however, wasn’t convinced.  She made it 100 ft. down the street before she lay down in protest.  No amount of encouragement could move the critter either.  “Fine, you win, let’s go home.”  When I changed direction, puppy jumped up, ears flopping, bounding toward home.  I walked gingerly through the garden, avoiding deer excrement, walked in through the front door thus avoiding the kitchen returned to my bedroom and sat on my bed.  Jumping-satan-goat puppy crawled under the bed and immediately fell asleep which was a wise choice all things considering.  Tears were very near and in an attempt to push them off I tried to think of something to be thankful for.  My friend texted me last week and suggested that when I was feeling bleak thanksgiving might be a lifeline.  So I took a deep breath and thanked God for toast.  

Yep.  

That’s what I landed on.  

Toast.  

Frankly that was the kind of day I was having.  I might have thanked God for my children or husband but they were the reason I was a parent in the first place and I didn’t like any of them at the moment. However, I could thank God for toast and thank him I did.  After thanking him for the versatility of toast I moved onto the toaster and the electricity that powered this marvelous appliance. I moved onto the kettle and tea after that, followed by linoleum and indoor plumbing.  It was a bizarre prayer time but I don’t think God minded. 

Sometimes my friend, the only thing that holds back the darkness is a genuine sense of thanksgiving for one of life’s small blessings.  So go ahead and thank him for the small things.  The sweater you found on sale, the fragrance of your favorite flower: nothing is too small for mention.  In fact these tiny things can redirect you back into the sense of his love and care.  Sometimes I wish I were the type of person who could instantly thank God for his unending grace or infinite mercy but sadly I’m the type of person who has to start with toast and work my way up.   

So I’m praying for you this week dear heart if you, like me, feel a bit done and toasted.  That you would be able to have the courage to try again, to shake off the myriad of things that continue to go wrong and to keep on marching, putting one foot in front of the other until the road gets less crooked and until you are able to sing with ease.

Until then, I’m gritting my teeth and praying for you.

XoxKaren  

Bring Out Your Dead

Search and Rescue: Best Volunteers Ever! 

I like parades.  Granted, not everyone enjoys sitting on the side of the road, often in the heat, waiting for friends and strangers to walk by in various states of dress…or undress…depending on the event.  It is one of the few times I can experience acute vicarious embarrassment and yet still enjoy myself. 

Small town parades are the best.  Although the spectacle of watching a gigantic purple dinosaur impale himself on a lamppost before crowds of thousands has its own charm, towns that pull out a moth eaten Barney suit and stick it on a mortified teenager are spectacular.  Towns like this are an exquisite and dying breed. 

When I was young, most groups in town would decorate a float.  Real flowers adorned the floats of any organization who had as it’s member a woman (generally named Gwen, often a real estate agent) who knew how to fund-raise in a community where asking for money was deemed a brazen activity reserved for the town alcoholic.  More righteous groups stuck to the plastic flowers, which were made of folded plastic with a staple in the middle, displaying both their waterproof characteristics and economic frugality.  Both qualities were deeply admired by the Chamber of Commerce and scorned by Gwen, who really was much before her time and shouldn’t have lived in such a backwater town as ours. 

With a happy heart I placed my chair at the end of our drive and waited for the parade. Off in the distance I heard the sounds of the Cadet Bands, long before they were visible. By long before I mean about ten whole minutes, which is how long it took to get from the old elementary school to the main street.   It didn’t disappoint.  Soon I was watching embarrassed tellers from local banks, walking in groups of two and three, waving and handing out candy.  Those who were prepared had on their sunglasses, the great barrier that prevents the wearer from the need to acknowledge any customer they might see.  Various charity groups followed, carrying banners and talking to friends as they went.  Sadly there were few floats, most business not able to afford the cost of decorating them since the exodus of all the Gwens; but they were out regardless, walking the street and creating community.

I was awash with admiration, mortification and a myriad of cringy emotions when I saw a small group that made me look twice:  Search and Rescue.  In the past, family members of mine have worked as volunteers in search and rescue.  They are some of the most dedicated and committed people you could hope to have looking for you when disaster hits: salt of the earth, trail mix munching, mostly-made-of-sinew movers and shakers of the back woods.  I cheered reflexively and then shook my head, trying to figure out what I was seeing.  The bright orange shirts looked sharp but on the stretcher was a yellow something.

It was a body bag.

Specifically, a body bag which looked to be occupied, which wasn’t exactly the message I expected them to send.  I was thinking of a mental picture which left one focusing on the rescue part of their work.  In my surprise I started to laugh hysterically.  Not that parading around with a mock dead body was a problem, it was just surprising.

Now, I know this community and I can tell you without any hesitation that there wasn’t a body in the body bag on this stretcher, though I thought maybe they could use one.  I wondered if they had considered placing one of their members on the stretcher, wrapping them in a blanket and placing a mug of hot chocolate in their hand.  Perhaps being search and rescue folk they were all too capable to assume a “rescu-ee” role. * I’m unclear if they of the grim search and rescue message they were sending but perhaps solemnity was what they were after. Watching them walk by still made me happy, “Bring out your dead,” I declared to no one.

It won’t have escaped you my friend that I haven’t written for a while and while I won’t go into the details, I can share that death, loss and grief rushed into my life like a flood in the last few months.  I’m told in scripture that such calamities are common to man, but as I have awoken in the night, rising to consciousness while simultaneously descending back into unspeakable grief, I have wondered how anyone manages to survive life’s common sorrows.

To add an interesting twist, I’ll share that through one of my trials, I was entirely certain that the Lord would deliver me out of a muddle of a situation only the providence of the Lord could fix.  I fasted, prayed, stood on the promises of God, fasted again, prayed more and believed the solution would be rectified.  I have to tell you my friend when God did not intervene and the bottom fell out, I was devastated.

As I’m certain you have experienced, the blows of life rarely land one at a time.  They often come in a flurry of successive strikes, leaving a soul reeling. When the element of faith is added to a storm, God’s sovereignty, man’s faith and suffering can create an agony of the soul that is difficult to bear.  So when the town came out for the parade on this particular summer’s day, I was happy to find myself represented by a group that brought a body bag to a celebration.

In fact, I had used the parade metaphor with a friend last week.  She made the mistake of asking me how I was and, at that moment, I decided I would speak freely.  Poor darling, sometimes we need courage to stand by those who are suffering, this friend has it in abundance.  Here’s my text to her as she helps me describe what I’m experiencing.

The only way I can describe it is a picture. 
I was in a parade going to a lovely place with all my friends. I had a sense of purpose and my children were happy. Everyone had a role to play.  I was standing with the Lord thanking him in faith for our future which I hoped would take shape. 
Then, I suddenly realized that I was foolish.  I was not going to be in the parade.  I was pulled aside with my family and all my goods were sold off in front of me and destroyed. I was ushered out of my community in shame and with haste.  Some people threw insults, others stopped talking to me.  
I found myself on a side street with my family; alone and afraid.  We were injured, bleeding and unable to stand.  My children are weeping and asking what happened. While in the background the parade marched on. People called out and wished me well. Some mentioned they would visit soon. 
Thank you for reminding me God has a plan.  But I can’t get there. I am trying to figure out if we are just marked for destruction.  There is something that isn’t adding up and isn’t working and it seems to be with my faith.  
I don’t have the ability to figure out faith anymore.  I’m just trying to take the next breath. 

Raw, no?

Sometimes dear friend, those around you will be enjoying the parade of life and all you will have to bring to the celebration are dead things: purposes, plans and promises.  At such times, life can become unbearable and when you feel that God has let you down or lead you astray it can be very difficult to muster the strength to pray again.  At such times, when faith and friends fail there is one thing left to do.

You have to bring out your dead.

One cannot bring out your dead and take them anywhere however, that isn’t wise.  Not many deal in the death and ashes of the human soul.  Certain people do not want to have anything to do with your pain because they are too busy feeling good and don’t want their attention diverted to suffering.  If you can relate to this sad circumstance can I suggest you let such friendships go; don’t try to hold on to them, such relationships cannot go the distance.  You need to have been broken to walk with those who suffer, smile and wave if friends pull away.  You can add their names to your stretcher and piles of broken things as you muster the courage to try again.  

Conversely, you might be surprised who shows up to walk alongside you for a spell while you are grieving.  People can be so very lovely sometimes. 
In truth though, human help is not enough to recover from loss, you need a Redeemer for that task.  Not just any god will fill the bill on this either.  You need one “who, [was] despised and rejected— a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief (Isaiah 53:3).” At first, it might feel weird bringing your stretcher and body bag out into the light but don’t let that stop you. Granted it seems an odd thing to bring the ruler of the universe but "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18) He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds (Ps 147:3)." 

If your faith is bruised, broken or altogether smashed to pieces may I remind you that words aren’t necessary?  It is enough just to show up and sit in silence with him for a spell.  Or maybe, like me, you have so many words they get caught in a jumble as they try escape your throat and all you can do it sob and choke out a “why?”  Entirely acceptable: as is frustration, anger and hopelessness.  Lately my offerings to the Lord have been measured in piles of soggy Kleenex. 

If this note finds you in a difficult season, I am truly sorry for your loss.  If you are a person of faith who feels like it has been irreparably damaged, may I remind you who oversees your walk?  "He is the author, finisher and perfecter of your faith (Heb 12:2)."  He will not leave you alone; the pull of the crowds has no effect on him.  He will wait with you in gentle silence until you can find the words, or not, to look up again. 

You might not get to march in the parade my friend, but there is a job for you in search and rescue.  The world is sadly lacking those who are able to comfort broken hearts.  If you allow your brokenness to shape you and find the grace to stand again, you will be able to pull the stretcher of those you rescue from despair.  You will wrap them in comfort, give them a cup of compassion and heaven will cheer you on as they recover.

There won't be a body bag on your stretcher either.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren   

Resigned and Inclined

Going Up

Going Down

I didn’t set out on an epic trek, not intentionally.  Feeling a bit under the weather, I figured the best way to clear my head was to take a slow stroll around my hood.  If a walk didn’t make me feel better, I reasoned I could jump in bed and have a snooze when I returned.  Leaving the house, I remember thinking to myself, “These are the wrong shoes, I should put on the brown pair.”  However, I was a full ten feet from my front door and the thought of opening it again and swapping my footwear didn’t seem worth the effort.  I told my feet not to complain and started up the street. 

Wandering aimlessly, I stared at the new greenery spring had provided.  Flowers were in full bloom and I sniffed my way down the road, stopping at every lilac bush and early rose I could find.  A pair of rabbits caught my attention and I followed them through the empty lot.  My mind has been  busy lately and the pace of my adventure was a welcome respite to the hectic month.  Walking toward a friend’s house then taking a detour to follow a family of ducks meant that by the time my feet started to hurt, I had walked much farther than I had intended. 

The noise from the gun range was loud in this cul-de-sac.  No one much noticed it though, the residents and wildlife having made peace with the noise as only longtime residents can.  I can hear the gun shots through the forest from my home, but I had wandered to the limits of the range property and the sound was much louder now.  Looking up, I cursed silently.  I really had taken myself for a walk.  A few hundred yards followed by a left turn and I would be at the bottom of a mile long hill, whose gain was about 500 ft.  Do-able, but not exactly what I had intended with a headache, crummy shoes and sleep deprived brain. 

Contemplating turning around, I realized the fastest way home was up the hill, not retreating the way I had come.  Congratulating myself sarcastically, I steeled myself at the bottom of the incline and slowly started my march up the hill.

My children will tell you that I chant when I run up hills.  I’m not repeating the chant here, but be assured it is equal parts ridiculous and annoying.  At this point in my life though, it’s automatic.  I started my little chant as I marched my chubby self up the hill, making sure I didn’t close in on the man who was ahead of me by ¼ mile. By the time my lungs started to feel the ascent, he had stopped and pulled into a small driveway.  I continued my merry song as my left foot started to criticize my inability to make solid life choices.  By the time the fellow ahead of me started his ascent again, my right foot and head were complaining.  Determined to make it halfway up the hill before I agreed with any aching body parts, I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and continued with determination.  I changed the lyrics of my chant.  Pleased with the introduction of “urban grit” into my vocabulary I continued up the hill as only a street fighter can.

When I realized my left foot had given up complaining and started to bleed in protest, I stopped again to adjust my shoe.  My companion climber had stopped again and this time I was able to recognize the face of 70ish year old man, leathery and strong, smiling kindly and clearly willing to chat.  Forcing myself to breathe steadily instead of sucking wind, I walked up and stopped to catch my breath. 

“It’s quite a climb yes?”

“It is indeed Sir, but you make it look rather easy.”

“I go this way once a week.  It keeps my legs moving.”

“Going down the hill would keep your legs moving Sir, I’m fairly certain going up this hill is either vanity or stupidity.  I know what it is in my case, you want to tell me anything…”  I smiled and he laughed.  We chatted a bit more and he let me pass.  “I’m going to rest a bit longer, this is where I slow down,” he said motioning for me to go ahead.

“Fabulous!” Was my reply, “you can call the ambulance for us both after you reach the top.”

I continued on, marching slowly but steadily, trying not to shame myself in front of the 70 something Mountain Man.  In truth I felt crummy, my head was pounding, my foot was still bleeding and my breathing shallow.  At this point in the walk I noticed two things.  The first was I could smell the gunpowder from the range now; the second was that as I strained for breath, it stung my nose and eyes a bit.  I continued my march upwards and noticed at the top of the hill was another walker coming down the steep grade. 

His step was jaunty, not surprising considering the path of the descent.  He looked fresh and matching: the kind of fellow who wears only moisture wicking clothing.  He glanced down the hill at Mountain Man and I and I caught the slightest hint of scorn in his glance.  I examined him from behind my sunglasses.  He held a water bottle affixed to a strap in his hand.  His phone was attached to an armband and his air pods were visible.  Yep.  I recognized the look scorn and pity; given by a beautiful, able bodied youth who had yet to experience any form of physical limitation.  I smiled and looked closer, a second examination of Mr. Correct Fibers lead me to believe he did indeed have on moisture wicking socks.  

I moved to the side so that he could pass.  He looked at me as though I were a form of bug and hurried by.  I couldn’t even muster up the emotion of resentment.  Resentment must require more oxygen than abject amusement.  I giggled.  I felt like hell and Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t have the presence of person to be impressed that a deranged human was climbing the hill.  Heck, even if he found me pathetic he had to be mildly impressed by Mountain Man.  But no, sadly scorn is an opiate to those who feed upon it.  It is hard to be impressed by the efforts of others when exuding effort means you have already lost.  I prayed for Mr. Correct Fibers and asked God to bless him with at least 7 children.  The smell of gun power was thick in the air and I remember wondering how those who lived on this block managed the smell.  Did they ever get angry about it? 

I did get home from my ridiculous walk eventually.  I slowed down considerably after my expedition up the incline.  When I staggered in the front door I was met with a glass of ice water, to which I added 2 tylenol and 2 ibu.  I threw myself in a shower and curled up on the couch for a snooze after that.  When I woke up, I was thinking about my adventure and those whose path I crossed.

Without a doubt the hardest part of my adventure came half way up the hill.  In truth I was too tired to continue either up or back down the hill.  However, there was no turning back.  If I was going to get home, I was going to have to walk myself there regardless of my low reserves. 

Have you ever been in a trial so intense that you came to the end of your ability to cope friend? I’ve spent some time on this road and frankly, I was disappointed Jesus didn’t send a bus to help me out.  I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve sought the Lord.  Yet the help I hope for still has not shown up.  I’m well past calling anyone for prayer help because the situation is so complex I’m not sure I understand it.  I couldn’t tell you which way faith runs at the moment, because all I can do is groan and strain to take one more step, which brings me to Mountain Man and Mr. Correct Fibers. 

The interesting thing about my travel companions was the fact that each of us was walking the hill and each could smell the gunpowder.  However, it was those of us who were straining to get up the hill who understood the cost and pain of the climb.  Mountain Man and I could chat in fellowship.  We were both straining, doing all we could to make it up the incline.  The gunpowder stung our eyes and our breath was labored.  We could smile at each other through our pain.  Not so with Mr. Correct Fibers.  Although he could smell the gunpowder, his breathing was not labored.  He was capable, beautiful and indestructible.  He wasn’t straining, his eyes weren’t stinging and he certainly wasn’t hurting. He knew about the hill, he knew about the gunpowder but he did not know about his limitations. It was not surprising therefore, that he looked down the hill at a wheezing middle aged woman and a leathery 70 year old and saw only lack and pathos.  He didn’t know we were actually amazing superheroes, pitting our wills against a hill from hell. Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t realize he was in the presence of those who overcome despite lack.  We look like crap, but we are amazing. 

Have you ever been in a season of suffering that hangs on for longer than you wanted my friend?  Have you walked a road that lasts beyond your fears, tears, and prayers?  I would like to remind you that there are others who have walked that road.  You aren’t lost and you are not forsaken.  You are suffering and existing past your ability to endure.  This is a gift.  Though it feels like death, I promise you it is a gift.  Because unlike Mr. Correct Fibers you know your limitations and what it is to suffer, you are not foolish enough to despise the weak.  You possess the power to ascend and descend that stupid hill of lack.  You alone know how to approach someone who is out of breath and cannot go on, you are able to say,

“I’ll walk this part with you, I know how the road bends and where you can take a breath.  Soon you will smell gun powder and your eyes will sting.  Feel free to cry and clean your eyes with your tears.  Soon we will be at the top of this hill and you can be on your way again.  Take heart. Take a small step.  Take another.  Well done.  You are there.  You have done it.”

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren