Wake Up Call

By Jane Thornton –

Molly sighed, plumped her pillow, and rolled over again. Hank’s sigh echoed hers. After stilted conversation at dinner, she had lingered in the bath, debating ways to heal their marriage. She hated the arguments alternating with silences full of mutual hard stares. Her mother’s advice resounded through the years: “God can heal anything; He can restore a romance.” Molly humphed. I still feel romance—when I’m not angry or hurt or tired. Does Hank?

So she shaved her legs, slathered on musky, floral lotion, put on her not-too-obvious shorty nighty, and here she lay. She chanced to bump her smooth, silky leg against Hank’s hairy, hard one. Molly sighed again.

She heard Hank inhale and felt his calloused hand rest on her forearm. Molly turned invitingly. Hank stared at the ceiling. He released his breath only to draw another. “I think we need to see a counselor.”

Stunned, Molly sputtered and bit back a cry. Oh, God! Oh, God! She screamed in her head. She managed a breathy, “You do?” as all the fluid in her body rushed to gather behind her eyes and at the top of her sinuses.

“Yeah. I got a name from Steve Dell.”

Molly felt herself shrinking. “You did?” she choked.

“Yeah. What do you think about it?”

Failure crashed in and strangled her. “I guess that would be okay.” She managed a whisper, then held her breath. Hank seemed so calm, breathing evenly.

Silence reigned for a few moments. “I’ll make an appointment then.”

****

The previous passage is a snippet from my first—unpublished—novel, Menace. You know what they say: Write about what you know.

Eighteen years ago, I was much further into denial than my character Molly. We had two very young children. Tired and stressed at times, I still would have rated our marriage at a sevenish. Wes’s request sent my world reeling. The only people I knew who had been to marriage counselors were divorced.

Intellectually, I believed the advice of Molly’s mother, and my own, that God can heal anything. I’d been blessed with a mom who shared enough of her own story to know that marriage doesn’t bloom without watering and pruning.

But a counselor? My husband’s suggestion shouted to my shaken soul that I wasn’t giving him enough water, that I needed pruning, that I had let our marriage wither. I had been rolling along content with a measly seven rating, and I was crushed to know I’d been oblivious to Wes’s misery.

Nowadays, Wes would probably call misery an exaggeration, if only to spare my feelings, but I needed the shock to call me back to my priorities. We went to counseling. We learned to talk. We kept learning. A few years later, we attended the His Needs, Her Needs seminar where we forced ourselves into more soul searching and more communication.

And now our marriage is a ten, and we’ve lived happily ever after.

Truly, God used our Christian counselor to strengthen our commitment. He has used several seminars through the years to grow our relationship with each other and Him. We’re not perfect, but we’re doing better at living up to the pledge engraved on our wedding rings—committed to love.

“So they are no longer two but one flesh. What therefore God has joined together, let not man put asunder” (Matthew 19:6 RSV).

Comment prompt: Will you share any wake up calls that improved your marriage?

The Wrath of Dad

By Jane Thornton –

My father’s wrath frightened my siblings and me. We’d hear friends boast about smart aleck retorts made to their dads and shudder at the very thought. Whether by nature or Marine Corps indoctrination, he developed an authoritative style that intimidated the socks off our feet. His tour of duty as a drill instructor perfected his ability to bark an order with justified expectation of immediate obedience. He didn’t require salutes, but “yes, sir” better be the only verbal response he heard.

One evening, most of our family had been away from the house attending some function now relegated to obscurity by the events that followed. Wade, my youngest sibling, in his teens at the time, remained at home. When five of us trooped through the door loudly rehashing some fine point of contention, we interrupted Wade’s TV program. As Daddy summarized his argument, Wade growled with teenage ire, “Shut up!”

Mark, Nancy, and I froze. Wade’s audacity stunned us. We’d heard of siblings who intentionally got each other in trouble, but none of us would throw a brother or sister onto Dad’s lack of mercy.

I held my breath. Anticipation of the coming furor stiffened my bones.

Daddy kept talking.

I looked at Nan. Had I misheard? She was gazing in disbelief at our father. We all shared furtive glances, waiting for the coming disaster.

Daddy wrapped up, and threw a mild scowl toward the couch. “By the way, Wade, don’t ever tell me to shut up again.” Up the stairs he went.

Our chins dropped. By the way? Our world tilted off kilter. On the heels of relief that our brother still lived, resentment crowded into our collective brains. That’s all?

Almost thirty years later, we still can’t let go of our incomprehension, and we never let Wade forget it either.

Have we lost our incredulity at God’s mercy toward us? I’ve been reading Francine Rivers’ rendition of the Exodus in The Priest, the story of Aaron helping Moses lead the Israelites. God’s wrath is fearsome. His people stir the Lord’s fury and suffer for it.

My father never hurt me. I never doubted his love. Yet, his anger could make me cringe.

God’s purity and jealousy led Him to strike some of his beloved but rebellious children with leprosy and death. His awesome Presence caused the Israelites to tremble and run in fear. “On the morning of the third day there was thunder and lightning with a thick cloud over the mountain and a very loud trumpet blast. Everyone in the camp trembled…The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, the whole mountain trembled violently, and the sound of the trumpet grew louder and louder… Moses said to the people, ‘Do not be afraid. God has come to test you, so that the fear of God will be with you to keep you from sinning” (Exodus 19:16,18 and 20:20 NIV).

God’s wrath didn’t disappear with the birth of His Son. Although Jesus took God’s anger upon Himself, sin is still unacceptable. James is speaking to Christians when he says, “You adulterous people, don’t you know that friendship with the world is hatred toward God?” (James 4:4a NIV).

Let us keep in mind that the God who adores us is a vast and fearsome Being, not to be taken lightly or for granted.

Comment prompt: How do you balance God’s mercy and wrath?

Hear Me . . . Whimper

By Jane Thornton –

Though I’m not much of a feminist, Helen Reddy’s lyrics, “I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Hear me roar,” inspire me to belt them out. I do lay claim to strength of character—obviously not of muscle—whether related to my sex or not, whether evident to others or not, whether justified or not.

My strength has rarely been tested with any severity, but I have presumed to believe I would endure bravely all the trials which the heroines of my beloved novels conquer. Sometimes I have even sunk to the depths of imagining myself graciously suffering through bankruptcy or cancer or widowhood. I tend to ignore prior evidence of the times I’ve sniveled my way through a common cold.

With little credit to myself, although I seem to be taking it, I have enjoyed a fairly successful life. My family relationships are close and encouraging. In both high school and college, I excelled in academics. Blessed with a brain whose left side dominated, I didn’t struggle overmuch with bookwork. My dating life could be judged as weak since it was almost nonexistent. However, that lack meant I didn’t deal with traumatic breakups, and I ended up with the best husband ever, so that area tallies on the win side, too.

Parenthood brought a small hiccup in my confident stride. Still, we didn’t face a lot of ordeals common to many, so we plowed forward. Perhaps I am glossing over a few struggles, but with our kids about grown, I’m proud to plop them in with my successes.

I started teaching as a four-year-old when my sister was a trapped audience. I have taught Sunday School to all ages over many years. I taught writing to homeschoolers. I quit a budding career as an accountant because I felt called to the classroom.

Then I became a public school teacher.

Never have I worked so hard and felt like such a failure. When the student fails, the teacher fails. Progress reports just came out, and my failure rate for seniors bottomed out at sixty percent. That figure is not a typo. Sixty. I want to cry. I have cried. I’m sure I’ll cry some more.

Of course, my defensive reaction blames the kids. They don’t do their work. True. They don’t try. True. They don’t care. True. Those students who do work, try, and care are not failing. However, I have to deal with reality. My job isn’t merely to teach, but to inspire effort and motivation in these teenagers too.

I work long hours, try everything I know, and care immensely—yet statistics attest to my failure. I want to scream at my students, at administrators, and at God, “What am I supposed to do?”

I hope you’re not reading this article expecting a pat answer. I don’t have one. But this semester, God’s words keep reverberating through my spirit. “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (II Corinthians 12:9 NIV).

Bring on the power, Lord. I’ve got the weakness.

Last year, when failure rates were high, I had a heart-to-heart with my students, asking what I could do to motivate them. I teared up in front of them and left the room to compose myself, in spite of my acclaimed strength. The next day, they delivered a poster-sized apology, which they all had signed. So, maybe I’m teaching them tender hearts instead of English?

Comment prompt: Where has God used your weakness to show His power?

Pushing Buttons

By Jane Thornton –

You’re trying to help. You’re trying to explain. Your point is crucial to your students’ success. But, the room full of teens blithely ignores you. Their conversation about who threw the paper wad looms more vitally in their psyches than tomorrow’s test.

You remind them they must pass this class this year to graduate with their peers.

You conspicuously jot names of the top offenders for disciplinary action. The chaos increases as fellow students jeer at your targets.

You calmly point out that time wasted in class engenders more burdensome homework.

A mouthy youth smarts off, “You just want us to fail.”

What do you do? What do you do?

My reaction was not effective. Frustration stewed. Anger rose. Bile in the form of truth erupted.

“I am so irritated with you.” I ground the words out through my teeth.

Mild bile, it seemed to me—an understatement, in fact. Perhaps my tone implied the more cutting remarks brewing in my brain because the response I gained echoed my words in a belligerent, disrespectful timbre. “Well, you’re irritating me.”

A similar incident occurred within the week.

This student had mastered the art of pushing my buttons. She knew how to shut down my brain and my training and, from my jaundiced perspective, set out to do so purposely on a daily basis.

I added her to my prayer list. I tried hard for sincerity to pray for her success and not just ask God to have her transferred out of my class. I forced myself to request wisdom in dealing with her instead of entreating Him for her deserved dire days.

God sent me a Bible class on confession and a sermon on controlling my tongue.

Yes, she was sassy. Yes, she was disobedient. Yes, she was defiant. But my response was attack not leadership. Therefore, last Sunday when the lessons sparked the idea to apologize, I believe the Holy Spirit was lending His guidance.

I sought my student out. Without excusing her behavior, I apologized for mine. Her eyes watered along with mine. She explained some of the stress she was experiencing. And when class time rolled around, she told her noisy classmates to get quiet.

On God’s prompting, I think I pushed the right buttons.

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger” (Proverbs 15:1 NIV).

Comment prompt: How has an apology soothed rough seas in your life?

A Kiss for Daddy

By Jane Thornton –

The gray, metal battleship dominated the harbor. In our childish terms, it was humongous. Five, three, and two, my brother, sister, and I gave Daddy’s leg one last hug while he shared a final kiss with Mom.

“We’ll keep in touch.” He hiked his bag over his uniform-clad shoulder and headed for the gangplank.

“I’ll write every day.” Mom held our hands and bit her lip to stop the tears.

In 1965, keeping in touch meant letters. Handwritten, international snail mail. No e-mail. No instant messaging. No Skype. Long weeks between contacts. But we did have some high tech options—tape recorders. We could send cassettes back and forth, and we could hear Daddy’s voice and he could hear ours.

Mom pulled out the compact black box and set the tape rolling. We told Daddy we loved him and shared our daily sagas. We played the piano for him. I’m sure my rendition of Chopsticks brought moisture to his eyes:

Bling, bling, bling, bling, bling, bling,
Blang, blang, blang, blang, blang, blang,
Blamp, blamp, blamp, blamp, blamp, blamp,
BUMP, bump bump, BUMP!

“We got a tape from Daddy!” Mark would holler when he brought in the mail. Our feet would thunder and rattle across the wooden floor of our grandparents’ house, and then we’d skid to a stop by the machine, staring at the plastic strips of the speaker, waiting to hear that deep voice tell us he loved us and missed us.

When the tape ended, Mom pulled out a fresh cassette and plunked it in. We answered Daddy’s questions, asked our own, told him about boo-boos, and played the piano again.

One day, we were riding to the grocery store. Mom drove, and all three kids slid around on the front bench seat. Two-year-old Nanny announced, “I am going to give my daddy a kiss.” With great drama, she leaned down and smacked her lips against the horizontal stripes of plastic that covered the air-conditioning vent.

Mama cried.

In Nan’s toddler mind, it made perfect sense that her father was a machine. When Daddy came home about a year later, she adjusted very well to a human man with arms to hug and lips to kiss. Over the years, the laughter over the story outweighed its poignancy, but the tale reminded us of the sacrifice on both sides—given freely for our country.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13 NIV).

Our soldiers not only risk their physical lives, but they give up so much of family life, and we take that for granted.

“God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them” (Hebrews 6:10 NIV). Let us not forget either.

Comment Prompt: Do you have a soldier story to share?

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