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?

Bite Your Tongue

By Jane Thornton –

“I know everything in the world.” Matthew, age five, piped this amazing assertion from the backseat as we drove along on daily errands.

Communication experts say to repeat what you hear to ensure your understanding. Managing to mask my doubts, I questioned, “You know everything in the world?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you learn everything in the world?” By this time, I had learned that further questions often revealed a wonderfully entertaining imagination.

“Brandon met the real Jesus, and he told me everything Jesus said.”

“Brandon met the real Jesus?”

“Yeah, and he said Jesus told him everything in the world, and he told me everything Jesus said. He even told him how to work a typerwrater.”

Although we could garner some great lessons from this precocious conversation on sharing the real Jesus with others, I want to focus on that first staggering statement. Sixteen years later, I sometimes think my son would still stake that claim.

My greater fear is that people might perceive a know-it-all attitude in me. I’ve been guilty before. An unforgettably humbling moment came at the hands of a co-worker in an elevator some twenty years ago. Although her exact words are lost, I remember clearly the sarcastic sting of her accusation that I always corrected their grammar. Scarier—I had been unaware of the obnoxious habit.

And obnoxious or not, I am still tempted to be didactic at every turn. I can justify such teacherishness in the classroom, but most companions find it very irritating outside of those bounds. (Actually, my students find it irritating, too, but endure because it’s my job.) At first, I preened when my critique partners called me a grammar guru. However, on second thought, perhaps to most of the world, that phrase is an insult!

Grammar forms only the tip of this dangerous iceberg. I grew up in a church with a history of hellfire and brimstone exclusivity. Even though my own home was full of teachings on grace, I apparently managed to pick up some of those condemnatory phrases. At one late night dorm session my freshman year, I had been holding forth on Truth, Justice, and Jane’s Way. My friend said, “So, you think you’re the only ones going to heaven?”

I gasped. No, no, no. How had I communicated the very sentiment I so opposed? Somehow—word, tone, expression . . . something—conveyed  a self-righteous attitude. Yet, we are called to share our faith and convictions. “Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke, and encourage” (II Timothy 4:2a NIV).

As usual, we must find balance. I left off the end of that quote: “with great patience and careful instruction” (II Timothy 4:2b NIV).

Although not mentioned by that particular verse, prayer should precede our corrections. Does that public speaker really need his grammar error pointed out? Is that friend’s habit just a foible or a fault? Is it my place to be the teacher?

I pray for wisdom to balance the instructions in II Timothy with these: “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19 NIV).

Comment Prompt:  Share a time when you mis-communicated. Did you have a chance to work it out?

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).

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