His Love Reflected in our Relationships

Diane Mayfield –

I saw the caller ID and knew our daughter was calling to wish her dad a happy birthday. Only when I heard her voice, I knew that was not the reason for the call.

“Honey, what’s wrong,” I asked.

“Mom, I miscarried.” Then all I heard was sobbing.

Between sobs she tried to tell me the details. Over our cell phones, I could only catch portions of what she was saying, but it didn’t matter. Her heart was broken, and mine was breaking, too.

It took me back to another time. When this same daughter was in junior high school, she was trying out for cheerleader with all her friends. Tryouts were over and we parents were waiting outside the gym to hear who had made it. When she found us, she was sobbing that she didn’t make it, and all her friends did. My heart broke then as it was breaking now.

With her pregnancy, we had been waiting for our daughter to see the heartbeat so we could tell the world our good news that we would be grandparents for a third time. They were to have a sonogram on Thursday, but the radiologist said the baby was still too small.

Disappointed and yet hopeful, my daughter left for a bachelorette party in New Orleans, and her husband went to San Antonio to golf with a friend. While in New Orleans, she experienced excruciating pain at dinner, went back to the hotel where she officially miscarried.

My husband and I were so numb, shocked and aching for our daughter. As a parent I don’t think that ever changes. We found ourselves just staring into space, lost in our own pain. We had three days until we would get to see her.

When I finally held her in my arms, I could breathe again. It was the same for my husband. One of our most tender moments was our group hug with our son-in-law. It was heartwarming to see the love and care that my son-in-law has for our daughter and she for him. I could see their love deepening through this difficult time.

I stayed with her for a few days at her request while her husband attended an out of town business meeting. There were many sweet moments with my daughter over the next few days. Once again she needed me, and I was so glad to be there.

We all walked this journey together. I couldn’t fix it and I couldn’t take it away. I can’t guarantee the future either. But I know I’ll be there for her, for both of them. My husband and I both will.

Isn’t that just what our Lord does for us? We never walk this place alone. Difficulty will come but he longs to be invited to walk it with us. He aches for our pain, and He holds us along the way in the same way I held her.

This beautiful special relationship with my daughter is but a reflection of the one He has with us.

We Got Game

By Jane Thornton –

I am white. So white, in fact, that my college buddies, upon seeing me in my swimsuit, dubbed me Flo, short for florescent.

Their mockery did not scar me even though I remember it vividly almost thirty years later. I’m sure their ridicule has nothing to do with the embarrassing fact that I dye my legs before wearing shorts or skirts in the spring.

I teach in a district where several of my classes are ninety percent African American, nine percent Hispanic, and one percent white – and I have been that one percent in some classes. Jumping right in during the first week, if not the first day, of school, I address the conclusions we might draw based on appearance. What does a middle-aged, white woman wearing a dress purchased in the eighties have in common with a teenaged, black guy sagging his jeans to his knees?

Students respond well to laying the cards on the table. The issue re-emerges several times throughout the year, most notably when I try to use a term like gangster. (Don’t ask me why this term is relevant so often. I can’t explain it.) My pronunciation of this noun engenders great hilarity, with repetition and exaggerated, drawn out versions of the syllable er. So, I adapt and say gansta. Now the students are rolling on the floor. Nothing opens up a conversation like a little self-inflicted derision.

I share with my kids how my friend Michelle Stimpson’s book, Boaz Brown, opened my eyes to my ignorance. Some of her characters, who were professional, educated, Christian African Americans, struggled with prejudice—against whites. Of course, I knew I was white, even without my college friends’ insulting label of Flo, but that detail remained in my subconscious, rarely crossing my mind. I have discovered that both African Americans and Hispanics seem much more aware of their race. In fact, as a minority in my environment, I, too, have become more conscious of my color, or lack thereof.

The differences in culture among the races have also become evident. Acknowledging these undeniable distinctions does not constitute racism; de-valuing them does. I have found that frank, respectful discussions free all parties to learn and adjust their lens on life.

This possibility indicates progress for our society. We have not arrived; tact is still required and always will be. But I look forward to the day when no race feels defensive, when we can use descriptive words related to ethnicity and skin color just like words related to height and eye color without hesitating lest they seem racist. I look forward to the days when we embrace each other as we embrace this scripture: “for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise” (Galatians 3:27-29 NIV).

Hmm. Yes, I see the irony of an author writing an article about being comfortable with who we are yet planning to continue with the silly, vain habit of smearing iodine-colored lotion over her pale skin to subdue its luminescence.

Comment prompt: Do you have an encouraging story in our battle with prejudice?

Sin and Love

Heather Allen –

Last week my son Noah and I had a conflict of interests. I was interested in him obeying. He was interested in playing and ignored what I asked him to do. After ten minutes of discussion and internal prayer, I sat him down. I looked into his bright teary eyes and told him the consequences of his continued disobedience: a week without any video games.

The week before this fairly normal event, I read a few parenting tips. On occasion I have given a consequence for Noah’s action and then released my child in order to model mercy . But one of the tips I read took that idea a step further, encouraging parents to take their children’s consequences from time to time. As much as I like Tetris, it is a rarity for me to play video games. But my, oh my, how I love a hot bath after a long day.

I looked at my son’s sad face and felt compassion. I said I would take his discipline. I would forego a pleasure bath for one week. Honestly, I am not sure what response I was hoping for, but he smiled and said, “You mean I can play video games?” I reminded him about redemption, and why we need it. I thought about pulling out a dry erase board for some illustrations. He looked so happy. Surely, he does not understand how much I like baths!

I did not expect my older children, lingering nearby, to offer to take the consequences by giving up what was important to them. One thought ran through my head as I asked them to join me at the table—I should have thought this through more. I felt we were standing on the brink of great spiritual understanding and I was not sure which direction to go.

If I were having this conversation with God, what would he emphasize? I spent moments throughout the day thinking about this.

I talked to my husband about it as I climbed into bed and kept talking as he snored. Do I remind Noah that his sin costs more than a bath and an apology? Does God remind me of my sin to reveal his salvation?

Romans 7:7 says we know what sin is because of the law. The Ten Commandments are the law. If we break one of these, we have broken them all. Saying sorry does not cover it.

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Jesus Christ. God presented him as a sacrifice of atonement through faith in his blood” (Romans 3:23-25, NIV).

Sometimes I will be able to carry my children’s consequences, but I cannot atone for their sin. Correction done well teaches children about their inherent value and their need for a Savior.

In our case, it meant reminding Noah that God’s word says children are to obey their parents. When he chooses not to, he not only disobeys us, he disobeys God.

When he understands he has sinned against God, he can also understand there is a consequence. The consequence of sin is death. The one who covered this debt is Christ.

God exposes sin, to reveal his love. Salvation is miraculous and beautiful for those who know how badly they need it.

“Blessed are they whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered.
Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord will never count against him” (Romans 4:7-8, NIV).

You’re Out

By Mary Sefzik  –

I was never much of a sports watcher until the Texas Rangers made their first appearance in the World Series in 2010. Dad wanted me to join him in engaging in America’s favorite pastime so we watched the last several innings together. We counted down the outs hoping for victory.

Since I am blind, I can follow the action better by listening to the games on the radio. I prefer to come in during the last several innings—usually the most exciting part of the game. A recent Friday night game really captured my attention and taught me a lesson about life.

It was the bottom of the eighth. The Rangers were at bat and the bases were loaded. The batter swung on the first pitch and missed—strike one. The crowd booed. Pitches two and three were balls and were met with cheers. The next pitch was a strike, followed by another ball. The count had gone full-three balls, two strikes. The crowd was on its feet. The next pitch came and the batter fouled it back. The runners were in position ready to move. The batter swung and finally made contact with the ball. The crowd cheered, the runners took off, but the joy was short-lived. The ball landed in reach of an opposing team member who scooped it up and tagged the batter out. The inning was over and the scoring opportunity was lost.

Life can be like that sometimes. You are given an opportunity, but despite your best efforts you still strike out. A job is eliminated because of economic troubles, retirement savings are lost in a stock market crash, a new home is damaged by a spring tornado. Or maybe you blank out on the most important test of the semester, or the sale you thought was a done deal fell through at the last minute. How do you handle those times when you strike out of the game of life? Some will boo while others smile at your failures. Fear of another humiliating strike out threatens to keep you sidelined for the rest of the season. Each day you are given represents another chance to try and get back in the game. Grab your glove and get in line. Today an opportunity might be pitched to you which only you can nail. This may be the day you knock it out of the park. The bases are loaded. Let’s play ball!

BLACKBERRIES, STICKERS AND COBBLER

By DiAne Gates –

PRAYER: Father in Heaven, thank you for the miracle of Your creation, the love of family and friends and memories; but most of all, thank you for loving us and sending Jesus to die for our sins.

Springtime in Florida was a multi-colored landscape of green, buttercup yellow, and pastel pink. Delicate white blooms dotted prickly vines along roadsides and covered fence lines. Transparent flowers with pollen-filled centers, swayed in the breeze. Honey bees buzzed.

Lumpy, green balls replaced blossoms to confirm this was the perfect patch. We watched those hard green spheres balloon into hundreds of scarlet berries. And sunny days and spring rains urged their transformation into plump, luminous, blackberries.

The berries ripened. Our family piled into our ‘57 Ford, and headed toward our berry patch alongside a country road near the marshes of the St. Johns River, outside Jacksonville, Florida. The Gooding family joined this annual first-blackberry-picking-day.

Parents set boundaries and issued warnings about snakes, stickers and sandspurs. They might as well-a’-been-talkin’ to the wind. We grabbed our buckets and raced down the slope to be first to find the biggest blackberry in the patch.

We scrambled here and there, hoping to find the berry of the day—waiting to be picked by someone—hopefully me. Truth is, we ate as many as we picked, evidenced by toothy grins smeared with tell-tale black juice tinting our lips, our tongues, and grimy fingers.

During one of those scrambles Elaine lost her balance, bounced bottom first down the sandy slope, and landed right in the middle of a sticker-filled-cactus-patch.

Her wails brought an end to this event. Two dads carried the wounded berry-picker to the car where she laid, face-down across our laps, and cried all the way home.

Moms washed the black treasures, then mixed ingredients for the anticipated cobbler. My dad churned homemade vanilla ice cream that would crown the scrumptious berries already bubbling in the oven.

Elaine’s dad had the unpleasant task of removing those nasty stickers from her backside.

I’ll admit, we were not sympathetic onlookers. She had spoiled our fun. We snickered and giggled, sneaking peeks around the corner with every shriek of pain—secretly grateful it wasn’t one of us.

Glasses of iced tea, lemonade with mint sprigs, warm bowls filled with black-berry cobbler, piled with homemade ice cream, however, proved our berry picking day a success.

We lingered in the backyard, swaying in wooden swings hanging by gnarled ropes from aged oak trees as the last moments of the day slipped away. But fireflies flashed in the hedges and a new chase was on, to see who could capture the biggest, brightest insect.

Everyone but Elaine, who stood with her bowl of cobbler.

I no longer search country lanes, but drive to Walmart and buy expensive, tasteless berries, picked before they’re ripe, packed in plastic—not a kid’s bucket—only to find a layer of moldy ones on the bottom.

These days I sit on the patio to watch the day fade into evening while the latest accounts of troubling information blare on the evening news and my grandchildren text me in three word sentences.

I recall these joyful memories while one or two fireflies dart in the bushes around our pond and marvel that times change but God is forever sovereign and on the Throne.

My grandchildren will never experience the excitement of beating friends to the biggest blackberry in the patch, or catching the brightest firefly in their jar, or joining lighthearted conversation with grown-ups.

Memories of a tummy full of cobbler and fresh homemade ice cream, wrapped in the blanket of love family and friends provide, holding my jar full of God’s miraculous lights, are tucked into the secret places of my heart.

Precious memories this world of technology will never duplicate.

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