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.

Battle of the Siblings

By Jane Thornton –

I stormed through the doorway of the church classroom, flounced into a plastic chair, crossed my arms, and exclaimed, “I hate Mark!” Thus ended the battle between my seventeen-year-old brother and me—and our privilege of sleeping a little later on Sunday mornings and driving in on our own instead of riding the church’s bus route with our parents.

The mêlée began as I preened in front of the mirror with a curling iron. Mark hollered that we needed to leave. I bawled back that I was almost (halfway, in teen-girlese) ready. We repeated the exchange at least once. Patience thoroughly tested and failed, Mark swaggered in and manhandled the styling utensil from my hand, both of us miraculously managing to escape a burn.

I shrieked. I dug in my heels.

To no avail—my athletic brother literally dragged me, hair half-styled, yowling threats of repercussions, to the car and stuffed me in. I’m sure the streaks of tears and angry scowl I wore were much more unflattering than the frizzy half of my hairdo.

Not the finest Christ-like moment for either of us.

Unfortunately, it does not stand alone in our high school history. On another morning, we were leaving for school. Mark blasted the horn of the El Camino. I scurried out of the house. (I believe he would say I meandered.) I plopped into the passenger seat. (He would describe my motion as easing into place.) Leaving my door open, I thrust my folder and books onto the floorboard. (His version, I fussily arranged my supplies.) Tolerance pushed to the breaking point, Mark threw the truck into reverse and gunned the engine.

This time it was metal that shrieked. The basketball goal caught my open door and twisted the protesting iron completely off the truck.

Poor Mark, his graduation present was a new door for Daddy’s vehicle. I still feel guilty about that consequence even though I swear to this day I was not intentionally testing him.

These days, the memory of those farcical skirmishes draws rueful laughter, but at the time, resentment and bitterness brewed inside the automatic love for a sibling. In college, after a couple of years of distance, we discovered that we enjoyed each other’s company. He wrote me a poem for my twentieth birthday about realizing he not only loved me but liked me, too. I treasure my friendship with my big brother, and our combat has long ended.

In a recent Christmas letter, I described our congregation as extended family. I’m sorry to say we’ve been having some sibling battles there, too, but these conflicts have challenged my faith unlike any run-in with my blood relatives. Perhaps an insecurity exists without the blood bond. Perhaps we all expect more from each other because we’re adults and Christians. Perhaps we should.

However, the memory of those early clashes reminds me that family life is not always smooth. Each person has achieved a different level of maturity. We do have the bond of Christ’s blood, and we can grow past the resentment into a deeper love and acceptance.

“For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen. And he has given us this command:  whoever loves God must also love his brother” (I John 4:20b-21).

Better Part of Valor

By Jane Thornton –

Prom night, thirty years later, still resonates with emotions. Mostly self-mockery at this stage, but I remember the heightened feelings of anticipation and giddiness. Hours spent applying my first set of fake fingernails, a mad dash to the florist for the forgotten boutonniere. For years I planned to wear the floating dress of a southern belle, but, as an oh-so-adult senior, I switched to the sleek, sophisticated look of polyester.

That night, adorned in chic maroon (not pastel), I traipsed into the ladies’ room with a friend to freshen my makeup. Among the throng in front of the mirror, I spotted a dress with vaguely familiar lines.

I elbowed my friend. “Look at her dress. It’s an awful lot like mine except hers vees in the front and mine in the back.”

Eyeing the unaware target of our interest, my friend nodded. “It even has the little cape top.” (I told you this was thirty years ago).

A disdainful sniff scrunched my nose. “The vee in back is much more original.” But my eye was continually drawn to the similarities. “Lisa, I think it’s exactly the same, but she’s wearing it backward . . .”

Slowly an inkling of the mind-boggling reality seeped into my consciousness and horror dawned. “Oh no! I’m wearing my dress backward!”

My awkward words spilled into a sudden silence.

So many lessons can be drawn from that day and night. Vanity. Priorities. Friendship. The list continues. But the moral that resounds over the years is that I should have kept my big mouth shut.

As James 3:2 says, “For if we could control our tongues, we would be perfect and could also control ourselves in every other way” (NLT). The price on prom night was just a few moments of excruciating embarrassment followed by a hands-on tutorial in learning to laugh at oneself. At other times in my life, the damage has been much worse.

I have lost count (and hope my children have also) of the number of bedtimes where I had to apologize for my harsh words during the day. I fear my example for handling stress has put the penalty for my loss of control onto my kids.

Although I know I’m forgiven, I still wince at certain memories. More than once my attempts at humor have resulted in a lack of discretion. My unruly tongue has victimized my husband, my friends, my siblings, and my children. Not malice, but a quick and thoughtless mouth, is the culprit.

Let’s not turn this into the tirade I deserve, but thank God for His incomprehensible grace in forgiving each stumble and listen to His guidance for the future:

“Do not be quick with your mouth,
do not be hasty in your heart
to utter anything before God.
God is in heaven
and you are on earth,
so let your words be few.
A dream comes when there are many cares,
and many words mark the speech of a fool” (Ecclesiastes 5:2-3 NIV).

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