Yeah, That’s the Ticket

By Jane Thornton –

Hearty hoots of laughter drew me from my bedroom lair into the living room where my husband Wes watched television. As I peeped around the door facing, I heard Jon Lovitz’ smarmy claim, “I’m married to…Morgan Fairchild…yeah, that’s the ticket…Morgan Fairchild.” I had to plop down on the couch and enjoy his SNL liar character for the hundredth time.

Sad that we find humor in deceit. Maybe because we think our lies pale in comparison to the exaggerated comedian.

Several years ago, Wes and I blithely signed up for the His Needs, Her Needs marriage seminar, thinking we would bond with some other couples and enrich our already delightful union. Both results occurred, but the enrichment came by means of some painful soul-searching—most of it on my side, but we’ll save that for another article. Wes got smacked upside the head by the chapter on lying.

Please don’t get me wrong; he is the soul of integrity, but he had to fess up to a dubious foible. One week, the husbands were to examine themselves to see if they were born liars, avoid trouble liars, or protective liars. (Please see Willard Harley’s excellent book for a complete explanation.)

I was quite proud when Wes reported back that he was none of the above. I beamed with gratification. Then he clarified. He had determined he was a lazy liar. He would give in to the temptation to fib or avoid complete openness because he just didn’t want to mess with the ensuing barrage of questions from me. Ouch.

One of my students faced an ouch lesson of his own this week. After I had called out the vocabulary words for a test, I tracked the room like the proverbial menacing shark. My gaze fell upon the hunched shoulders of a teen as his arms created a protective circle around his paper, unusual test-taking posture, suspicious, in fact. Sure enough, he had his vocabulary list tucked under the test paper. His cheating earned an unchangeable zero and a firm lecture on honesty.

I remember the temptation clearly. My senior year in high school, I finished my government test and placed it face down on the corner of my desk. The need to check a few answers itched until I pulled out my folder and scanned my notes. Frustration surged when I realized I’d made the wrong choice on a simple question. Arms folded in self-disgust, I scrunched in my chair waiting for time to be called.

My angst-filled eyes took in the fact that my teacher had not seen me check my notes. Discreetly, I flipped my paper, changed my answer, and replaced the test, no one the wiser.

Except God.

Immediately His Spirit convicted me, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32b NIV). I must admit to pangs of regret as I changed my answer back to the wrong one. However, although I endured great mockery by friends who thought such honesty was extreme and foolish, I still consider that repentance a proud moment. Too bad it’s not the norm instead of the cause of pride. God is still working on me.

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much” (Luke 16:10 NIV).

Alone at Midnight

By Jane Thornton –

Gaze darting hither and thither, I stretched my lids as wide as possible. Midnight, alone in my bedroom. In the basement.

I’d been fine while huddled under the covers reading. But frequent yawns nagged me to get some sleep. School would come bright and early. As soon as I laid my novel on the bedstand, fear whispered in my ear.

Shadows thickened. Something rattled in the hallway. My drowsiness vanished and nerves screamed to take cover. Just outside my door on the right, loomed the cavern of the staircase. To the left lurked the fearsome portal to the dangers of the outdoors during the witching hour.

My choices were slim. To find haven with my parents, I’d have to scramble up the dark steps and traverse the length of the house, which included wall-to-wall, gaping windows. My sister’s room was much nearer, but I’d have to pass the outside door. Neither option appealed. Still, I needed to be near a live, breathing person. If I didn’t find refuge, my heart would burst from my chest.

I gathered all my nerve (and my teddy bear). Taking a gulp of air and holding it to sustain me through my flight, I leapt from my bed and clambered across the landing, throwing a wild glance at the outside door. I skidded around the corner and raced for Nancy’s room. Slithering to a stop (on the side of the bed farthest from the door), I panted and tapped my soundly sleeping sister’s shoulder.

“Nan,” I hissed. “Can I get in bed with you?” I poised with my fingers already grasping the blanket.

“No.” The muffled voice was grumpy.

“Please!” Tears choked my throat as I begged. “I won’t take up much room, I promise.”

After much pleading, combined with threats, she grudgingly allowed me three inches on the edge of the mattress. I lay with my hand literally dangling to floor to support most of my weight. But I was satisfied to feel safe.

Over the years, I have been blessed to have little legitimate cause for real terror. A couple of brushes with Peeping Toms encompass the extent of the menace I’ve faced. Most of my scares have been experienced vicariously with characters of books.

Snuggled securely in my armchair, I like to ponder how I would react to a true threat. Forgetting my hysterical reactions to eyes at the window and bumps in the night, I prefer to give myself credit for great potential bravery. I look ahead to the worst that could happen and imagine I could handle it.

My confidence and logic might not hold up in the heat of the moment – if I ever have to face it. But even if I melt into a quivering puddle of incoherency, my faith rests on a kernel of truth. Whatever I face, God will be with me. And when all perils end, I will be with Him.

“Because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’ So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’” (Hebrews 13:5b-6)

Oooh, Baby

By Jane Thornton –

This spring my bi-annual case of nature fever struck as scheduled. Some time every March, when the sun has shone for seven days straight, and the daffodils and redbuds sing of the coming season, I get a yearning to be outdoors and plant flowers. The bug attacks again in September when the temperature stays below ninety degrees for seven days in a row. Unfortunately for my garden, the passion is always short-lived, and I tend to migrate to my habitual pastimes of reading novels or watching movies during every spare moment.

As usual, when my zeal peaked this year, I binged at Home Depot then came home to don my gardening attire. Since my lily-white skin rarely sees the light of day, I need to take advantage of these fits. On went the raggedy shorts and the T-shirt with arms and neck scooped out for tanning purposes.

After a few hours, my hair straggled over my forehead although a kinder person might have described it as tousled or windblown. Potting soil clung to my knees and had seeped through my gloves to embed itself under my nails. And, to use the southern, feminine term, I glowed.

At this point, my husband, Wes, drove up, returning from some long errand. I smeared my dirt-encrusted glove across my face, trying to see through the rattails of my hair. With a hand braced in the small of my back, I creaked to a stand, making it to an almost-erect position.

“Wow! You’re working.” He strode across the lawn, swept me into an embrace, and laid a fervent kiss upon my lips. Apparently he found the unusual aroma of perspiration an effective aphrodisiac.

I have noticed another aberration over the years. Wes finds the vision of me behind an ironing board a bigger turn on than me in a skimpy nightie, perhaps because the ironing is a rarer sight. We once went to a marriage seminar at which we were asked to share with each other actions which made us feel cherished. Ironing came up. So much for the impression gained by my novels and movies—they suggested a smoldering look was all it took. Recently, Wes threw out another shocker. He opened the cabinet and, finding I had stocked up on his favorite grape Kool-Aid, casually commented that a plentiful supply of the drink made him feel loved.

Now, I’m not knocking the usefulness of a beautiful negligee, but the desire for a successful marriage requires us to learn some of these other quirks—and to do something about them. Look at the description of a wife of noble character in Proverbs 31:10-31, NIV.  This woman “gets up while it is still dark,” “sets about her work vigorously,” “grasps the spindle with her fingers,” “makes coverings for her bed,” etc. The result? “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her” (Proverbs 31:28 NIV). I have a new habit of buying a few containers of grape Kool-Aid every time I’m at the store.  And at this moment, the ironing basket is calling my name.

Hand in Hand

By Jane Thornton –

One hot August Monday morning I walked hand in hand with five-year-old Matthew up the wide concrete steps to Plummer Elementary. My heart was in turmoil; his probably was too. Read more

I Think I Can’t

By Jane Thornton –

Returning from the bathroom and twirling to snap into position by my classroom door, I caught a glimpse of Natalie sobbing at her desk; Anne patted her haplessly on the shoulder. Immediately I shut the door for privacy and hurried to squat and rub her other shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Read more

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