Mercy Me

By Jane Thornton –

“Do the work or pay the consequences.” So reads one of my favorite parent e-mails. I wrote to let a father know that his child had blatantly refused to do an assignment. As per usual, I asked that he encourage his child to take advantage of the late work policy since this was a major project. This supportive dad let me know that he had no patience with a child who had the “gall” to tell me to my face that he had no intention of writing his paper. (Believe me, an atypical reaction.)

When I received this response, I practically shouted “Hallelujah!” at my desk. I hustled next door to report to my fellow teachers. We all said amen with great enthusiasm.

My daughter Meredith must write her own assignment—about a community issue. She came to me for advice. With this incident in the forefront of my mind, we discussed the prevalent tendency to make exceptions for and accept excuses from students. We bemoaned the state of education and our society where these overly merciful policies seem to be destroying our culture’s sense of responsibility.

Another incident from earlier in the year popped into my memory. Policy dictates that failed tests may be retaken, usually for a maximum of seventy, but that is left to teacher discretion. I had caught a girl cheating on her test—red-handed with crib notes.

Automatic zero, no retake.

However, the next morning during my prayer time, I became convicted that I needed to offer this student mercy. I pulled her aside and told her exactly that. Very appreciative, she promised to study and come to tutorials to take the makeup test.

She never showed up.

Indignation rumbled through my soul. Talk about nerve.

So, yesterday I mulled over these issues as I brushed my teeth. I planned arguments and logic to share with Meredith. Righteous frustration welled up in me again. A sense of entitlement is running rampant, not only in my high school’s students, but in our nation. Someone (me?) must develop the courage to stand firm. Let them suffer the consequences. Without consistent penalties, they’ll never learn to be dependable; they’ll never develop a work ethic.

As I continued my mental rant, I notice something in my eye in the mirror. Was that a splinter (mote)? Surely it wasn’t a plank (beam)? Do you recall Jesus’ story of the person trying to get a mote out of someone’s eye when he had a beam in his? (Matthew 7:3-5)

Don’t I know better than to commit the sins I commit? Yet I not only desire, but have come to expect, God’s mercy. God has given me and every sinner chance after chance after chance. And some of us tend to develop that sense of entitlement. We expect more chances—and He gives them. Does he feel the same frustration with me that I’ve been harping about? Praise God, that if He does, He sets it aside and keeps forgiving me! Thank God that his mercies are “new every morning” (Lamentations 3:23a NIV) and that He gave us the story of Hosea to demonstrate his continuing compassion.

Comment Prompt: Share stories where you’ve shown mercy or how you appreciate God’s mercy.

Halls of Jericho

By Jane Thornton –

Warning: Joking during the sermon may have unexpected repercussions.

Recently, as our preacher, Russell, circled the audience, speculating over the Israelites’ reaction to God’s command to march around Jericho, I whispered to Wes, “Maybe I should march around the school seven times.” Ha, ha – sarcasm duly noted.

Backstory: I have found this school year particularly stressful. My longsuffering family would testify to a rise in work load, complaint level, and tears. Under this pressure, I began to seriously consider blowing the dust off the accounting degree which I set aside many years ago to pursue education—for a kind of instant gratification of the desire to feel worthwhile. In recent months, that worth has been buried under paperwork, testing, and student apathy.

Thus, the joke, emphasis on lack of serious intent. I never intended to walk around the school.

But the idea didn’t fade; it kept popping into my thoughts. I echoed Russell’s imaginary Israelite, “Really, God? Why? What good will walking around the school do?” I will admit that a teensy, evil portion of my soul was tantalized by a vision of crumbling bricks in clouds of dust. Still, the scheme nagged until I decided it was a prompting from the Spirit.

Monday morning, when I had to don my rain boots and ward off drizzle with an umbrella to trudge through the lack of dawn’s early light, doubts mocked me. What was I trying to prove? Was the weather a test of my resolve? Was I just an over-imaginative Jesus freak?

I didn’t know, but I carried on. Praying over each portion of the building and my own future for a fifteen minute romp certainly couldn’t hurt although my frizzy hair might argue the point.

Each of the following six work days, I tramped in a loop around campus, wavering back and forth from prayer to misgiving. I met an occasional colleague on my wanderings. My quest was unclear in my own mind, so I was leery of sharing it. Most assumed I was exercising, and I allowed the mistaken credit, feeling a little deceitful at my caginess.

On the seventh day, I rose earlier than normal and started my trek in full dark. I managed six rounds of prayer and questions before school. I’d make my final march in the afternoon. I laughed at alternating dreams of suddenly cooperative students versus a profitable business career.

The sun shone as I started my final trip past the gym. Students lingered in the courtyard. One called out, “Hi, Mrs. Thornton!” Then another flagged me down for a simple question about an assignment. Nothing earth-shattering. I shared no deep insight about life’s purpose—but I connected, and the link resonated.

As I rounded a corner, my shadow stretched several yards before me. I chuckled at my own grasping for symbolism. Yet, a peace descended along with a new confidence in my purpose here. God sent an epiphany: for now, I am to teach, and, by the way, try not to complain about it so much. For the last ten minutes of my pilgrimage, I probed my subconscious for forced meaning. The conviction remained firm.

Climbing into my car to head home, I sheepishly gave a semi-shout of “Amen” and tooted the car horn to cement the deal. “See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands…” (Joshua 6:2b).

Comment Prompt: What Jericho has the Lord conquered for you?

Good Grief

By Jane Thornton –

Respectful whispers brush across the church lobby. Hugs cling a little tighter than the norm. Sunday Best is slightly more prevalent than on a typical modern Sunday, even if the predominant color is not black like it would have been fifty years ago.

Family and friends have gathered to celebrate the life of my father, David Hines. A few moments before the official assembly, a disturbed murmur of horrified gasps ripples across the room.

“David Hines fell in the baptistery!”

A moment of stunned silence follows.

“I thought they didn’t bring the casket here.” A friend’s undertone reflects her shocked disbelief.

Stifled laughter flutters through the family. Not dead David, grandkid David. Where else would a ten-year-old boy who arrived thirty minutes early for a funeral be but playing near the baptistery?

I go to see for myself. Sure enough, there stands my nephew, khaki pants and plaid shirt darkened and plastered to his wiry frame, a puddle forming around his loafers. My embarrassed but resigned sister-in-law hustles him off on a frantic Wal-Mart trip for dry clothes.

Ten years later, that story highlights our reminiscing. Everyone enjoys a hearty laugh over the spectacle, including a semi-sheepish David.

Last week, our church laid another David to rest, a brother we all agreed was a “mighty man of God.” Sunday morning after the funeral, we took several moments to share memories. Numerous memorable hospital visits brought appreciative tears. Reflections on Dave’s unique eccentricities brought poignant chuckles. We sang his silly song. We wept and laughed at his love for kids.

At the funeral of Lazarus, “Jesus wept” (John 11:35 NIV). Even knowing he would conquer death, Jesus shared his friends’ sorrow. I wonder if laughter shuffled through the crowd when Martha protested the stink of opening the grave. I wouldn’t be surprised. Several stories show Jesus’ sense of humor and comic timing. I love knowing He participates in all our emotions—the joys and tears found in the everyday vagaries of life.

When teaching English, I offer “good grief” as a prime example of an oxymoron. But as I reflect on funerals, silly songs, and sopping wet boys, I see that through our faith, God makes good grief a reality. “‘Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be o God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (I Corinthians 15:55-57 NIV).

Comment Prompt: Any funereal yet funny moments you can share?

Nine Tips for Peaceful Progeny

By Jane Thornton –

As my son, recent college graduate, returns home for a final roost before testing his wings, I have been reflecting on our strategies in raising him. I thought I’d share some that were more successful – we’ll save stories of the less successful for another day. I don’t claim these as my own ideas; we gathered whatever worked from friends, books, and our own childhoods.

1. Either/Or –Give children options while guiding them toward your own goals. We used this often enough that four-year-old Matt mimicked our policy with his little sister. “Merry, here’s how you play this game . . . Merry, you can play the way you’re supposed to, or you can just not play. Those are your choices. Do you want to play the way you’re supposed to or not play?”

2. Odd/Even –Matt got odd days, Merry even, for both chores and privileges. Before I’d holler for a helper, I’d remember the date and address the appropriate kid. As we’d head for the car, instead of hearing “Shotgun!” and squabbling, we’d hear, “It’s the second, my day in the front.” No questions asked.

3. Change it Up – Honestly, I’m not so good at this, but my husband Wes is a master. When the kids (and I) circled around in a pointless argument, he abruptly asked some completely unrelated question. Although his tactic was glaringly obvious, we would all frequently comply.

4. No-Thank-You-Bite –Although now I only rarely turn my nose up at anything edible (still no brussel sprouts), as a child I preferred meat and potatoes only. Somewhere I heard that our taste buds change every seven years; true or not, I use it as a mantra for tasting. Although this plan doesn’t eliminate all fussing, we found requiring a bite much more manageable than a whole helping.

5. Two-Minute-Warning –We got much better cooperation with “Two more times down the slide, then we have to go.” If fussing ensued, the number decreased to one more time – or a return to that first strategy: “Two more slides or now – which do you prefer?” Same thing applies to chores: “You need to start cleaning your room in the next thirty minutes” works better than “Get in here and clean your room!”

6. Say Sorry – Not them, me. When I could hear that shrieky tone enter my voice, my kids responded with great forgiveness if I stopped and apologized for taking out frustrations on them. Sometimes a bedtime apology was called for due to a long day of grouchiness. I’m hoping they’ve picked up on this model for future relationships.

7. Nights Up – We weren’t terribly consistent with this, but I love the idea. Give each child some alone time with the parents by allowing them to stay up past bedtime once a month and choose an activity. Some things we did: bake cookies, play games, wrap Christmas presents, read a book.

8. Celebrate Spirituality – I love this tradition. We celebrate our children’s spiritual birthdays—the day they chose to follow Jesus. Each year we go out for dinner, often inviting friends. Everyone present sets a goal for spiritual growth. At each celebration, we review our old goals before we set, or reset, new ones.

9. Age and Absence – Not an idea or strategy, this point is a reality to reassure you. As the kids grow up and are not interacting daily, they learn to appreciate parents and each other. I’ve experienced the joy of maturing relationships with my own siblings, and now I get glimpses of the future of cease fire in my children’s sibling battles!

Comment Prompt: Share your parenting strategies, please.

Shattered Illusions of a Goody-Goody

By Jane Thornton

Confession: I captured my husband under false pretenses.

Not intentional deceit, I make every effort to be open; I strongly believe in being frank—but somehow, on first impression, most people judge me to be ladylike. This notion even lingers beyond acquaintance. Perhaps some of my traits and habits reinforce the reaction: I have a girly southern voice; I collect china cups and saucers; I tear up over Hallmark commercials and romantic movies.

Even those who are not so impressed with me have been known to categorize me as a goody-goody.

Unfortunately, as my husband discovered after our wedding day, the illusion does not hold up under day to day living. I’m often loud, silly, grouchy, and selfish to name a few not-so-ladylike attributes. Thank God, over the last twenty-five years, Wes has found other reasons to love me!

One day in the first year of our marriage, I shared with him the story of what I considered the follies of my youth:

As a freshman in college, I wanted to spread my wings and test my new freedom. I stepped outside of my moral standards and went with a group of friends to well-known strip club. (Please hold back your gasps; there’s worse to come.)

I felt daring, cosmopolitan, wild. Upon the urgings of the crowd, I even tipped a dancer a dollar and asked for a kiss. I flushed with my audacity. I managed to rationalize and smush any shame.

We tromped back to the dorm and fell into the dreamy slumber of slightly tainted innocence.

The next afternoon, I developed a scratchy throat. By evening, my glands were swelling and red. I scrambled through my mail, and, with horrified dread, I re-read the letter from my mother: “Mimi says to be careful. She read an article saying that there’s an epidemic going around of gonorrhea of the mouth.”

Fear drove spikes through my heart. Shame escaped its prison and swamped me. I cried myself to sleep, nightmares haunting me with the necessity of confessing to my parents that I had an STD.

I did not.

And, I did not confess my misdeeds until much later. In spite of my own regrets, I was surprised that when I told Wes, seven years later, he was angry. Now, with the perspective of our silver anniversary, I know that I shattered some of his illusions with that confession.

Recently, I revealed this story to a church friend. She, too, was horrified and grossed out by my peccadillo. I tumbled off the pedestal I didn’t know she had put me on. That fall is probably a good thing since I don’t belong there.

Praise the Lord that I do not have to earn the image of being good. In Romans, Paul says Jesus gave me His righteousness (3:22). “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus” (Romans 3:23-24 NIV).

Comment Prompt: What impressions – true or false – do people have of you?

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