Too Much Information

By Jane Thornton –

Publicly, I don’t like to admit the possession of the baser bodily functions.

A howl of protest and laughter echoes across the miles as my family reads that claim, but remember I said publicly. Although I take some pride in being open and frank, contrarily, I also enjoy the ability to maintain the feminine facade of a southern lady.

Perhaps this inclination derives from the many stories of our close family friend, Aunt Susie. At a party one evening, she had consumed three glasses of Pepsi. A man watched in fascination and exclaimed, “How does your bladder handle that?”

Straight-faced and batting her blue eyes, Aunt Susie drawled in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice, “In the South, we don’t have those.”

My desire for privacy and knack for denial was recently challenged in the classroom. On a day-to-day basis, I easily fit my restroom requirements into the stringent schedule of a high school teacher. However, my aging digestive tract has grown a bit temperamental of late, demanding attention at the oddest times.

After only fifteen minutes of a fifty-minute class, in the middle of a very interactive lesson, a cramp struck. As any experienced teacher can do, I carried on without a hitch, thrusting the pain to the back of my mind.

Nature would not be ignored. A sense of urgency shortened my breath. No way could I last till the end of the period. The new goal became to finish the activity and set my students to work independently. Twelve vocabulary words to go.

I perched on the edge of a student desk. I circumspectly practiced Lamaze breathing. Could the nearby students hear my noisy intestines? Sitting wasn’t helping.

I hopped to my feet. Six more words to go. I began to pace. A cold sweat—um, I mean glow—broke out on my brow. I swung my arms. Definitions spewed forth. I stopped giving examples. Forget about student interaction; I gave them answers.

I dashed for the door. The lock pulled me up short. Fumbling, I made it out and sprinted. “Write some sentences!” My vague instructions floated over my shoulder.

Business finished, I returned sheepishly to class. As I entered, a precious teenager, who obviously does not share my inhibitions, called out, “Miss, did you have to go bo-bo?”

“Let’s talk about research.” Class resumed.

At such moments, I tend to question God’s plan. Creative, omnipotent . . . He could have designed our bodies with a waste disposal system that was pleasant, or better yet, no waste at all. This episode set me pondering His purpose. Why are parts of life so messy?

Sometimes I think our bodies remind us that we are all equal. “Rich and poor have this in common:    The LORD is the Maker of them all” (Proverbs 22:2 NIV). That’s not all we have in common!

When humiliation reverberates through my system, I think perhaps He designed such a system to keep us in our place. “But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’ Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for noble purposes and some for common use?” (Romans 9:20-21 NIV).

Comment Prompt:  Share an embarrassing moment – even better, one that taught you a lesson.

Green-Eyed

By Jane Thornton –

My sister is disgusting. I’ve told her this fact numerous times—in the most loving, Christ-like manner possible. Allow me to enumerate: As a gifted artist, she is planning her third year of art school in Florence, Italy. She majored in music, has written several beautiful melodies, and sang in a Christian band during college – and at my wedding, by the way. This year when she joined my family for Easter, she brought a gorgeous yellow pantsuit, perfectly tailored, which she whipped up the day before.

In spite of the fact that at the age of three she trimmed her eyelashes to nubs, she has lush, long lashes that frame deep chocolate eyes. She’s smart, athletic, and she weighs less than I do.

Throughout our lives, the only claim to superiority over her I had was my year and a half lead in age. That sad truth is no longer a benefit.

The demon of jealousy has plagued me sporadically through the years. Fortunately, as a rule, I managed to roll along content with my lot—mostly because we were blessed with loving parents who highlighted our varying strengths. In fact, they took pains to treat us all equally.

However, in a family of modest income, this equilibrium was not always possible to maintain. I remember clearly the summer before my senior year gritting my teeth as I admired the five new shorts outfits Nancy received in order to go to cheerleading camp. (I was too chicken to try out). That ugly monster had me firmly in his grip, and I’m pretty sure I gave in to some whining about how unfair her luxurious increase in wardrobe was.

I will say, my jealousy slash envy did not quite edge into covetousness (thin line, I know). It’s not that I didn’t want Nancy to have bright new clothes. I just wanted them, too.

You’d think thirty years later, I would have matured beyond such pettiness. And, again, I would say on most days, God has taught me to be more than content with my very blessed life. Yet this year, in the middle of my sincere rejoicing over the publishing success of two friends in my writing crit group, Satan stirred up an ounce of dissatisfaction. I want success, too.

I imagine God cringes at the whine in my thoughts.

He continues to help me be like Paul who said he had “learned the secret of being content in any and every situation” (Philippians 4:12b NIV). And how many times must I remind myself that God has a perfect plan fashioned for me? The confidence in His fulfillment of this promise allows me to genuinely “rejoice with those who rejoice” and “mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:15 NIV).

Rumbly in My Tumbly

Hole in My Heart

By Jane Thornton –

Excited pleasure bubbled and frothed over the brim of my thirteen-year-old heart as I clasped the yearbook to my flat chest. Coach Ripley, beautiful Coach Ripley, had signed the annual, commanding me to stay sweet and pretty. I was in alt. Although I barely knew the man, I could live on this one, off-hand compliment for ages.

Of course, the following year, after a few stops on boys my own age, my affections were transfixed on Mr. Mac, the drama teacher. With his horseshoe mustache and aviator shades, he was the epitome of cool. When he brought his guitar to class and crooned John Denver’s “Lady, Are You Crying?” my romantic heart bled. For Christmas that year, a family friend who was an aide at my school obtained a four by five copy of Mr. Mac’s picture. I would stare at the photo, listen to my new Denver LP, and dream blissful dreams of a man who would cherish me.

That same year, Coach Thompson paced the aisles of my algebra class, then stopped with his speculative gaze pinned on the back of my raised textbook. He interrupted my studious pose with a raised brow and sardonic tone. “Jane Hines, what are you doing?” I blushed as I revealed the Harlequin romance tucked securely in the tome then, resigned, crammed the novel back into my purse.

Even my older brother’s mockery did not alleviate my addiction to these fantasies. He would snatch a paperback from my hands and with great drama read the back cover blurb. “Burning gaze fixed upon the wide, innocent eyes of the ravishing vixen, the pirate stalked this appealing beauty with panther-like grace.” I’d like to claim he embellished, but I’m afraid it wasn’t usually necessary.

Through high school, college, and, beyond the fluttering anticipation continued; each outing held the potential to introduce me to him, the man who would complete me. I was not alone in my expectancy. Many a giggling conversation or serious soul-searching was shared with friends who wove their own dreams of romance.

Nowadays, I chuckle when my daughter, attending college away from home, calls to share ____ sightings. (I leave the name blank both because she deserves privacy and because the name changes fairly frequently.) She, in her turn, suffers the throes of heightened awareness while she awaits the discovery of her intended mate.

Even now, after twenty-five years married to a prince among men, I thoroughly enjoy escaping reality in the pages of a romance. I willingly endure the rolled eyes and ridicule of said prince as I revel in sagas of pirates, rakes, and, yes, even vampires. I can laugh with him at their unreality, but I still get a kick out of them.

Even amidst my adolescent ferment, I usually saw through the idealistic glitter and recognized my own naiveté. I try to remember that all the wonderful scriptures about cherishing your spouse and loving sacrificially were written to people living in arranged marriages—arranged for family or monetary reasons, not usually because the girl told her dad about the good-looking carpenter she saw.

We all need to try to be aware of the illusions the world offers. Whether through romance, adventure, money, etc., humanity cannot truly provide fulfillment. “Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation” Psalm 62:5-6a (NIV).

The Next Dictator

By Jane Thornton –

Rain slashed across the windshield, wipers frantically flapping to eke out a hint of visibility. Inside our cocoon of dryness, Meredith, my five-year-old daughter, sat in the passenger seat. (For those of you who just inhaled with mighty outrage, this preceded the current laws about car seats, weight, etc.) The downpour and our surprise over it inspired a conversation about weather and weathermen.

“I don’t want to be a weatherman when I grow up.” Merry’s conclusion was definite.

Peering through the storm, I hummed noncommittally and stopped at the intersection.

“They’re sometimes wrong.” Her hazel eyes reflected none of the conflict surrounding her.

Wow. I managed to hold back my hilarity as I pondered where to start sermonizing about how everyone is wrong occasionally. Before I could settle on a place to begin, she continued.

“I want to tell everyone…” Her gaze probed the car’s headliner for the exact phrase. “I just want to…”

I waited with bated breath.

“…you know…control all…” Lips pursed, she deliberated. “…the whole world.”

A daughter after my own heart.

On the job, I still cling to some psychology I learned years ago in my education classes, clutching at all the control I can get. I wear black on the first day of school. I learn my students’ names within three days (good for other reasons, but my speed is highly motivated by the need for a small degree of power).

At home, I try harder to control my urge to control. The stereotype of the nagging shrew who treats her husband like a child repels me, so I make a conscious effort to curb my tongue—usually. I do find myself falling into the habit of asking questions to which I already know the answers, just to subtly get my way. My children are pretty much grown, nineteen and twenty-one. But as long as they are financially dependent on me… there I go again.

“Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that’” (James 4:13-15 NIV).

A hard verse for a veteran planner. And, of course, we can find many Scriptures that also encourage preparation. The primary goal here is to learn to recognize and acknowledge God’s sovereignty—and to find peace in it. His hands are so much better at the wheel than mine.

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