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).

Wheelchair Bound for Heaven

By Jane Thornton –

I just got off the phone with my mother who told me she’s in a wheelchair. This shocking news went in one ear and bounced around in my brain for a few minutes before it registered, and I could stutter, “Why?”

Many people would not find the news of a woman pushing seventy-three in a wheelchair even mildly surprising. But this is my mom, who bikes (well, trikes since Johnny got her a three-wheeler) six miles several times a week and regularly shreds the pasture with the tractor like the best field hand.

She had hopped out of the car to shut the garage door, tripped over her purse strap, and landed on her hip, probably fracturing it. Notice the word probably. Although putting any weight on her right foot was excruciating, sitting was quite bearable. So she kept her date at the symphony. And at the football game this afternoon.

Mom knew her doctor had a birthday party and didn’t want to bother her on the weekend. She’d wait until Monday. Like most grandmothers who want to stay in touch with their grandchildren, she has become techno savvy enough to text, so she did text the doctor to set up the x-ray.

Numerous self-deprecating chuckles sprinkled Mom’s telling of these events. Even as I approach fifty, I’m learning lessons from my mother (although I still feel pretty sure I would take the opportunity offered by a broken hip to retreat for a bout of guilt-free reading).

In just this one incident, she displayed thoughtfulness, strength, vigor, and an ability to laugh at herself.

Twenty years ago, she took a scary battle with breast cancer and turned it into a ministry. Now she sends cards to literally hundreds of people, encouraging them as they fight the disease or suffer through other struggles. Mom also shares her journey through a booklet, Whiner’s Guide to Chemotherapy, which includes some humorous (of course) tips and her prayer journal, another lesson for me in strength, openness and encouragement.

When I was growing up we had company almost every Sunday because she’d invite whoever visited at church. She made dining with strangers comfortable—this is the same woman who claims to have been a shy child.

Lest she read this and be embarrassed by my canonizing her, another of Mom’s charms is her honesty about her failings. Many of my lessons about marriage and parenting have come through her relating her own trials and errors.

Most important, Mom imparted her confidence in God’s love. She knew she was His precious child, and she passed that security to her children. Although I didn’t discover this favorite verse until I was an adult, its message only affirmed her teachings. No shock or surprise:

“The LORD your God is with you,
he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
he will quiet you with his love,
he will rejoice over you with singing” (Zephaniah 3:17 NIV).

My mom sang over me. My husband and I rocked and sang over our children. I love the image of Father God singing over each of us. Sometimes we forget it or take His love for granted, but pause with the entire world this Christmas and marvel at the extreme measure God took to prove His love for us. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16 NIV).

Yeah, That’s the Ticket

By Jane Thornton –

Hearty hoots of laughter drew me from my bedroom lair into the living room where my husband Wes watched television. As I peeped around the door facing, I heard Jon Lovitz’ smarmy claim, “I’m married to…Morgan Fairchild…yeah, that’s the ticket…Morgan Fairchild.” I had to plop down on the couch and enjoy his SNL liar character for the hundredth time.

Sad that we find humor in deceit. Maybe because we think our lies pale in comparison to the exaggerated comedian.

Several years ago, Wes and I blithely signed up for the His Needs, Her Needs marriage seminar, thinking we would bond with some other couples and enrich our already delightful union. Both results occurred, but the enrichment came by means of some painful soul-searching—most of it on my side, but we’ll save that for another article. Wes got smacked upside the head by the chapter on lying.

Please don’t get me wrong; he is the soul of integrity, but he had to fess up to a dubious foible. One week, the husbands were to examine themselves to see if they were born liars, avoid trouble liars, or protective liars. (Please see Willard Harley’s excellent book for a complete explanation.)

I was quite proud when Wes reported back that he was none of the above. I beamed with gratification. Then he clarified. He had determined he was a lazy liar. He would give in to the temptation to fib or avoid complete openness because he just didn’t want to mess with the ensuing barrage of questions from me. Ouch.

One of my students faced an ouch lesson of his own this week. After I had called out the vocabulary words for a test, I tracked the room like the proverbial menacing shark. My gaze fell upon the hunched shoulders of a teen as his arms created a protective circle around his paper, unusual test-taking posture, suspicious, in fact. Sure enough, he had his vocabulary list tucked under the test paper. His cheating earned an unchangeable zero and a firm lecture on honesty.

I remember the temptation clearly. My senior year in high school, I finished my government test and placed it face down on the corner of my desk. The need to check a few answers itched until I pulled out my folder and scanned my notes. Frustration surged when I realized I’d made the wrong choice on a simple question. Arms folded in self-disgust, I scrunched in my chair waiting for time to be called.

My angst-filled eyes took in the fact that my teacher had not seen me check my notes. Discreetly, I flipped my paper, changed my answer, and replaced the test, no one the wiser.

Except God.

Immediately His Spirit convicted me, “The truth will set you free” (John 8:32b NIV). I must admit to pangs of regret as I changed my answer back to the wrong one. However, although I endured great mockery by friends who thought such honesty was extreme and foolish, I still consider that repentance a proud moment. Too bad it’s not the norm instead of the cause of pride. God is still working on me.

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much” (Luke 16:10 NIV).

Alone at Midnight

By Jane Thornton –

Gaze darting hither and thither, I stretched my lids as wide as possible. Midnight, alone in my bedroom. In the basement.

I’d been fine while huddled under the covers reading. But frequent yawns nagged me to get some sleep. School would come bright and early. As soon as I laid my novel on the bedstand, fear whispered in my ear.

Shadows thickened. Something rattled in the hallway. My drowsiness vanished and nerves screamed to take cover. Just outside my door on the right, loomed the cavern of the staircase. To the left lurked the fearsome portal to the dangers of the outdoors during the witching hour.

My choices were slim. To find haven with my parents, I’d have to scramble up the dark steps and traverse the length of the house, which included wall-to-wall, gaping windows. My sister’s room was much nearer, but I’d have to pass the outside door. Neither option appealed. Still, I needed to be near a live, breathing person. If I didn’t find refuge, my heart would burst from my chest.

I gathered all my nerve (and my teddy bear). Taking a gulp of air and holding it to sustain me through my flight, I leapt from my bed and clambered across the landing, throwing a wild glance at the outside door. I skidded around the corner and raced for Nancy’s room. Slithering to a stop (on the side of the bed farthest from the door), I panted and tapped my soundly sleeping sister’s shoulder.

“Nan,” I hissed. “Can I get in bed with you?” I poised with my fingers already grasping the blanket.

“No.” The muffled voice was grumpy.

“Please!” Tears choked my throat as I begged. “I won’t take up much room, I promise.”

After much pleading, combined with threats, she grudgingly allowed me three inches on the edge of the mattress. I lay with my hand literally dangling to floor to support most of my weight. But I was satisfied to feel safe.

Over the years, I have been blessed to have little legitimate cause for real terror. A couple of brushes with Peeping Toms encompass the extent of the menace I’ve faced. Most of my scares have been experienced vicariously with characters of books.

Snuggled securely in my armchair, I like to ponder how I would react to a true threat. Forgetting my hysterical reactions to eyes at the window and bumps in the night, I prefer to give myself credit for great potential bravery. I look ahead to the worst that could happen and imagine I could handle it.

My confidence and logic might not hold up in the heat of the moment – if I ever have to face it. But even if I melt into a quivering puddle of incoherency, my faith rests on a kernel of truth. Whatever I face, God will be with me. And when all perils end, I will be with Him.

“Because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’ So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?’” (Hebrews 13:5b-6)

Oooh, Baby

By Jane Thornton –

This spring my bi-annual case of nature fever struck as scheduled. Some time every March, when the sun has shone for seven days straight, and the daffodils and redbuds sing of the coming season, I get a yearning to be outdoors and plant flowers. The bug attacks again in September when the temperature stays below ninety degrees for seven days in a row. Unfortunately for my garden, the passion is always short-lived, and I tend to migrate to my habitual pastimes of reading novels or watching movies during every spare moment.

As usual, when my zeal peaked this year, I binged at Home Depot then came home to don my gardening attire. Since my lily-white skin rarely sees the light of day, I need to take advantage of these fits. On went the raggedy shorts and the T-shirt with arms and neck scooped out for tanning purposes.

After a few hours, my hair straggled over my forehead although a kinder person might have described it as tousled or windblown. Potting soil clung to my knees and had seeped through my gloves to embed itself under my nails. And, to use the southern, feminine term, I glowed.

At this point, my husband, Wes, drove up, returning from some long errand. I smeared my dirt-encrusted glove across my face, trying to see through the rattails of my hair. With a hand braced in the small of my back, I creaked to a stand, making it to an almost-erect position.

“Wow! You’re working.” He strode across the lawn, swept me into an embrace, and laid a fervent kiss upon my lips. Apparently he found the unusual aroma of perspiration an effective aphrodisiac.

I have noticed another aberration over the years. Wes finds the vision of me behind an ironing board a bigger turn on than me in a skimpy nightie, perhaps because the ironing is a rarer sight. We once went to a marriage seminar at which we were asked to share with each other actions which made us feel cherished. Ironing came up. So much for the impression gained by my novels and movies—they suggested a smoldering look was all it took. Recently, Wes threw out another shocker. He opened the cabinet and, finding I had stocked up on his favorite grape Kool-Aid, casually commented that a plentiful supply of the drink made him feel loved.

Now, I’m not knocking the usefulness of a beautiful negligee, but the desire for a successful marriage requires us to learn some of these other quirks—and to do something about them. Look at the description of a wife of noble character in Proverbs 31:10-31, NIV.  This woman “gets up while it is still dark,” “sets about her work vigorously,” “grasps the spindle with her fingers,” “makes coverings for her bed,” etc. The result? “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her” (Proverbs 31:28 NIV). I have a new habit of buying a few containers of grape Kool-Aid every time I’m at the store.  And at this moment, the ironing basket is calling my name.

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