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?

Right or Left at Oak Street?

By Jane Thornton

“Mrs. Thornton, we’re so sorry, but we can’t find Matthew.” The voice of my eleven-year-old son’s principal echoed through the earpiece.

The world slowed.

“What do you mean?”

“His teacher let him go to the restroom at eleven this morning.”

My gaze flew to the wall—two o’clock.

“The class went to lunch, and she thought he had returned and gone with them, so she didn’t notice he was missing until the end of the meal. We’ve searched the entire campus and can’t find him.”

I wanted to scream, And you’re just now calling me? But somewhere in the depths of my foggy brain, I knew this was a tough call to make, and screaming wouldn’t find Matthew.

“The police are on their way. You can meet them here at the office.”

Denial stupefied my mind. Stunned fear jumbled my thoughts. Matt had run away before (to the park down the street); surely he was voluntarily missing. A school employee had seen a kid walking down the road during her lunch hour. Thirty-five years of training in manners managed to squelch my desire to screech at her, Why in the world didn’t you stop him?!

Matt had been headed east. Our house was five miles northwest. He had a friend who lived seven miles east. We made frantic phone calls. No one had seen him. The police cruised the roads in both directions—no sign of him. They sent my husband home to wait in case he called or showed up. I stayed at the school office.

Time dragged. The police asked questions; I can’t remember what they were. I made phone calls. I prayed. I grasped at every straw-like possibility that would bring my son safely home.

And God blessed us beyond belief.

At five, Wes received a call. Matt had made it four miles to the freeway where he walked down the middle of the construction area and got in the car with a construction worker. Thankfully the man took Matt to Whataburger where they called us.

Matt had gotten fed up with school and decided to come home. Roads look different on foot and alone than when riding with Mom. Every time he came to a familiar street name, he chose the wrong way to turn. He never realized he was lost.

I assume since God is omniscient, He doesn’t have the fear of the unknown that we have as parents. But He is our Father, and I have to believe that he does suffer the agony of the known. He sees us making those wrong turns and knows the consequences we will have to suffer. He knows how lost we get even if we don’t.

He also knows our final destination. But then again, so do we, and still I agonize over the path my children may take to get there. Does God suffer when we don’t listen to His guidance? “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it’” (Isaiah 30:21 NIV).

Comment Prompt:  What incidents have reminded you that God feels our emotions with us?

Off-Kilter

By Jane Thornton –

Noise swirls around me. Paper rips. My niece shrieks in triumph. She got the present she knew she’d get; the slight doubt my brother managed to plant has been slain. A crack of laughter erupts from my son at the antics of his cousin. My other brother heaves an exaggerated sigh of contentment as he swallows his first morning taste of Mexican Cheese Fudge. My daughter gurgles over the baby. Muted carols fill any chance moment of silence.

In the midst of the chaos, I sit in an oasis of stillness.

The whole scene is off-kilter. Tears brim, threatening to expose me. My breath claws at my chest. I stare at the ceiling light, forcing the tears back where they belong.  Daddy is not here, but that’s not the main issue. We’ve managed three holidays without him.

My mother slants me a sweet smile of understanding, but her paper-crumpling speeds and takes on a slightly frantic jerkiness. Guilt swamps me. I know she can’t stand having her grown baby unhappy—and she’ll take on her own guilt over my feelings.

Our first Christmas as a blended family. Some traditions discarded, new traditions started. I know resenting any of it reeks of pettiness. I know my step-siblings are going through the same struggle in reverse. I can rest in the deep security of my mother’s love that overrides any jealousy. I know we celebrate Jesus’ birth—which broke all kinds of traditions.

But it still hurts. Unreasonably. Full of shallowness. Drenched in selfishness. My heart aches.

Seven years after this scene, the differentness has become easier. I love Johnny, my stepfather. He treasures my mother. He’s funny; he’s wise; he’s generous. I knew all that then, and I know it more thoroughly now.

Still, we all wrestle with accepting the ways of our new families. Somehow I have to learn that my way is not the only way. I have to believe that my way may not be the best way for everyone else. (I’m not convinced of this at all, so it’s scary to think what God may have to do to persuade me!)

Not to be sacrilegious, but . . . Sometimes I think the way God lets the world run has gone off-kilter, too.

Actually, I rationalize secular problems with the presence of evil and sin and people who don’t know better. But what about the church? If we all know and love Jesus, and we are all trying to please Him, why does it so often seem out of whack?

I know part of the answer is our humanity. But so many scriptures promise His ability to move us beyond the capacity of our flesh. So, my answer is mostly, “I don’t know.” I do know “the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength. . . But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong” (1 Corinthians 1:25, 27 NIV).

Recently, a friend shared her struggles with Christians acting un-Christlike. After years of ministry, disillusionment with the church is driving her to withdraw. I have been pondering what gives me assurance. I cling to the deep faith that I see that is making a difference and pray to understand the rest. And I sing the hymn that echoes Paul’s words to Timothy:  “I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day (2 Timothy 1:12b KJV).

Comment Prompt:  How do you reconcile the way things ought to be with the way things are?

Speed

By Jane Thornton –

Sun glinted off my handlebars, the wind whispered around my goggles, and the leather seat jounced under my rear as my ATV slewed to a stop on the side of the sandy road. Grinning around my gritted teeth, I jerked the kerchief away from my face. “Wes! We’ve found our new retirement activity!”

I was ready to sell his ’67 Mustang, buy a pair of four-wheelers, and hit the road. For three hours, my family zipped and bounced along the mountain trails, relishing the speed, admiring God’s magnificence, and laughing at each other’s antics.

Toward the end of our jaunt, we had tracked down the wandering youngsters and were aiming for our rendezvous with the tour company. Our group had strung out along the trail to avoid dirt in our eyes. I careened into the parking lot with five minutes to spare. My niece was two minutes behind me. Wes should be pulling up the rear in a moment.

The owner of the company checked in our vehicles and nodded his understanding when we explained, “The dust was really getting to him, so he was hanging back. He’ll be right here.”

Minutes ticked by. Conversation grew awkward. Jokes about turning down the guided tour fell flat—maybe as flat as a tire? My brother Mark took off to find my husband. More time dragged by. Cell phones don’t work in the mountains. The boss sent an employee with a flat repair kit.

Rationalizations ricocheted through my brain and out of my mouth. The whole family endorsed all my possible reasons for the delay. The owner and his family waived away our apologies for holding up their excursion.

A rumbling motor announced the return of the company rescuer. With a serious face, he went straight to his boss. We heard the words “off the cliff.”

My heart went numb.

Robin, my sister-in-law echoed the pronouncement. “He said off the cliff.” Sound jabbered around my ears with no meaning. Off the cliff.

My thoughts flew to hospitals, lonely years, and funerals. I prayed, no, no, no. Reason told me God never promised life. No, no, no.

My gaze desperately followed the muted conversation. Finally, the owner approached. “He’s all right. He was walking.” Two short, amazing, powerful sentences.

When Mark putted back with Wes perched and clinging behind, we found him bloody and bruised, perhaps with cracked ribs. He told his tale:  he hit a boulder in the road, rebounded off an unbending tree, rolled down an eight-foot embankment, splashed into a creek, and lay dazed as the heavy machine landed across his shoulders. By nightfall the bank was twelve feet and the creek was a river. Two months later, I think he says he fell fifty feet into roaring rapids.

That evening as he tried to break the chill from shock and snowmelt, I hovered. He shuddered in the cramped bathtub, and I laid warm handcloths over him. I mopped up blood and ruined several butterfly bandages. I flitted out to the kitchen for boiling water. Reminded myself of every frantic birthing scene in movies through the years.

Depending on how you measure, five to fifteen minutes of terror can bring presumption to a shrieking halt and slap you in the face with perspective. Life is good. It goes fast. Every minute is a blessing.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man’s life is but a breath” (Psalm 39:4-5 NIV).

Comment Prompt:  Share a time when you were struck by the fleeting quality of life?

Endsummer Night’s Dream

By Jane Thornton –

A tall, lanky teen swaggers across the classroom. His defiant eyes dare me to stop his trek. “Check this out!” another boy hollers. A paper wad arcs over three rows of students. Ricocheting off the rim of the beige metal trash can, it bounces to litter the mottled blue carpet. Hoots of laughter mock the clowning thrower.

“Class, I need your attention, please.” My feeble words search for listeners in vain.

Crackling paper snaps my attention to the back corner. Earphones implanted, head swaying, a girl munches on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

Weaving through the desks, I hold out my hand. “No eating in class.”

With her audacious gaze glued to mine, the girl tilts the bag to her mouth, shakes out the last crumbs, scrunches the wrapper, and drops it in my hand. “I’m done. You can throw it away.”

My fogged brain grapples for her name—blank. “That will be a discipline step,” I bark out the threat.

“Ooooh, a discipline step.” Ridicule swathes her retort.

At my hip, a neighboring student snickers. I turn my dire gaze in a new direction. The blonde hunches over her cell phone, thumbs flying.

“I’ll take that.” I jab my palm out over her desk.

She pockets the device and raises limpid eyes. “What?”

Hilarity ripples across the room. Heat flushes through my body. My heart thuds against my chest. Names. I need their names. Why don’t I know their names?

My breath catches, and I wake, sweaty and panicked. Relief floods over me. Only a dream. Then dread and doubt trickle back. I start to pray.

As summer draws to a close, this sequence hits many teachers. Our worst nightmare—a classroom out of control and a personality turned ineffective. I’ve never had a first day like the one I imagine and dread. However, in spite of years of students filing into class cooperatively, each August those fears haunt my dreams and taunt my insecurities.

The details may differ, but I’ve heard of similar attacks on most people. “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8b NIV). Worry is one of his best tools. Anxiety leaches joy out of the day.

When I listen to the Spirit’s whispers, I can take the devil’s assault of my sleep and use it to rest in God’s peace. Satan made me imagine the worst; now I cast it on Him (1 Peter 5:7) and claim God’s promise:  “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7 NIV).

Don’t fret about this verse as a command; rejoice in the assurance it offers when we trust Him.

Comment Prompt:  Share a time when you dreaded something. Did it turn out better or worse than you expected?

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