Wake Up Call

By Jane Thornton –

Molly sighed, plumped her pillow, and rolled over again. Hank’s sigh echoed hers. After stilted conversation at dinner, she had lingered in the bath, debating ways to heal their marriage. She hated the arguments alternating with silences full of mutual hard stares. Her mother’s advice resounded through the years: “God can heal anything; He can restore a romance.” Molly humphed. I still feel romance—when I’m not angry or hurt or tired. Does Hank?

So she shaved her legs, slathered on musky, floral lotion, put on her not-too-obvious shorty nighty, and here she lay. She chanced to bump her smooth, silky leg against Hank’s hairy, hard one. Molly sighed again.

She heard Hank inhale and felt his calloused hand rest on her forearm. Molly turned invitingly. Hank stared at the ceiling. He released his breath only to draw another. “I think we need to see a counselor.”

Stunned, Molly sputtered and bit back a cry. Oh, God! Oh, God! She screamed in her head. She managed a breathy, “You do?” as all the fluid in her body rushed to gather behind her eyes and at the top of her sinuses.

“Yeah. I got a name from Steve Dell.”

Molly felt herself shrinking. “You did?” she choked.

“Yeah. What do you think about it?”

Failure crashed in and strangled her. “I guess that would be okay.” She managed a whisper, then held her breath. Hank seemed so calm, breathing evenly.

Silence reigned for a few moments. “I’ll make an appointment then.”

****

The previous passage is a snippet from my first—unpublished—novel, Menace. You know what they say: Write about what you know.

Eighteen years ago, I was much further into denial than my character Molly. We had two very young children. Tired and stressed at times, I still would have rated our marriage at a sevenish. Wes’s request sent my world reeling. The only people I knew who had been to marriage counselors were divorced.

Intellectually, I believed the advice of Molly’s mother, and my own, that God can heal anything. I’d been blessed with a mom who shared enough of her own story to know that marriage doesn’t bloom without watering and pruning.

But a counselor? My husband’s suggestion shouted to my shaken soul that I wasn’t giving him enough water, that I needed pruning, that I had let our marriage wither. I had been rolling along content with a measly seven rating, and I was crushed to know I’d been oblivious to Wes’s misery.

Nowadays, Wes would probably call misery an exaggeration, if only to spare my feelings, but I needed the shock to call me back to my priorities. We went to counseling. We learned to talk. We kept learning. A few years later, we attended the His Needs, Her Needs seminar where we forced ourselves into more soul searching and more communication.

And now our marriage is a ten, and we’ve lived happily ever after.

Truly, God used our Christian counselor to strengthen our commitment. He has used several seminars through the years to grow our relationship with each other and Him. We’re not perfect, but we’re doing better at living up to the pledge engraved on our wedding rings—committed to love.

“So they are no longer two but one flesh. What therefore God has joined together, let not man put asunder” (Matthew 19:6 RSV).

Comment prompt: Will you share any wake up calls that improved your marriage?

Questions without Answers

By Kathleen Brown –

Hot coffee. Thank you, Lord.

The café next to the motel is a classic—breakfast served all day, coconut and chocolate cream pies displayed in frosty glass cases, endless refills of coffee. I lift the mug to my lips and tell myself everything is fine.

But the confusion continues this morning. In the tiny motel room, Mom couldn’t find the toilet. It was plainly visible, but she couldn’t find it.

What should I do about this? I don’t even know what “this” is.

Across the table from me, my parents have their heads together over the breakfast menu. I hear my father suggesting ham and eggs. Or French toast. Or how about good ole’ oatmeal? His voice is loud, too loud, but she doesn’t correct him as she normally would.

While I was awake last night, I came up with a mental list of things Mom is doing differently. Or doesn’t do at all anymore. Like answering the phone. It’s always Dad now, though he hates to talk on the phone. And ironing. Every shirt he wore to work for 34 years was washed, starched, and ironed by my mother. Even the pants he wore to work on the car were scrubbed and pressed. Now his khakis are wrinkled and his collars look tired. And gardening. The plants and shrubs she tended so carefully are my father’s charges now.

When did she become so inactive?

Bacon? Ham? Sausage? Dad tells her to just make up her mind, just choose. But Mom keeps repeating, “Whatever you’re having. That’s what I want. The same as you.”

Just choose? An hour ago she couldn’t choose what to wear from her little brown suitcase. If I hadn’t helped, would she still be standing there?

Is Dad doing this at home? Helping her get dressed?

I look at them across the table. Mom’s eyes are fixed on my father. His are scanning the café, probably homing in on the goodies in the frosty glass dessert case. But when he turns from the pies, he meets her gaze in a way I have watched since my childhood. About this, there is no confusion. Their eyes speak clear devotion to each other.

The world seems to settle back on its axis. With a silent promise to expect only good things, I drink my coffee and look forward to the day.

Thank you, Father, for parents who still love each other, in spite of the changes the years have thrust on them. But Lord, I’m scared. Have I overlooked too much for too long? Has Dad been hiding this from me? Why? What do I do now? Who knows how Mom will act tonight? Tomorrow? Ahh, yes. You do. You know, Father. You have always known what this day holds. You have a plan and this day is part of it. Thank you for helping me to see the truth. Open my eyes to see the things that have changed; open my spirit to trust in the things that haven’t.

The Wrath of Dad

By Jane Thornton –

My father’s wrath frightened my siblings and me. We’d hear friends boast about smart aleck retorts made to their dads and shudder at the very thought. Whether by nature or Marine Corps indoctrination, he developed an authoritative style that intimidated the socks off our feet. His tour of duty as a drill instructor perfected his ability to bark an order with justified expectation of immediate obedience. He didn’t require salutes, but “yes, sir” better be the only verbal response he heard.

One evening, most of our family had been away from the house attending some function now relegated to obscurity by the events that followed. Wade, my youngest sibling, in his teens at the time, remained at home. When five of us trooped through the door loudly rehashing some fine point of contention, we interrupted Wade’s TV program. As Daddy summarized his argument, Wade growled with teenage ire, “Shut up!”

Mark, Nancy, and I froze. Wade’s audacity stunned us. We’d heard of siblings who intentionally got each other in trouble, but none of us would throw a brother or sister onto Dad’s lack of mercy.

I held my breath. Anticipation of the coming furor stiffened my bones.

Daddy kept talking.

I looked at Nan. Had I misheard? She was gazing in disbelief at our father. We all shared furtive glances, waiting for the coming disaster.

Daddy wrapped up, and threw a mild scowl toward the couch. “By the way, Wade, don’t ever tell me to shut up again.” Up the stairs he went.

Our chins dropped. By the way? Our world tilted off kilter. On the heels of relief that our brother still lived, resentment crowded into our collective brains. That’s all?

Almost thirty years later, we still can’t let go of our incomprehension, and we never let Wade forget it either.

Have we lost our incredulity at God’s mercy toward us? I’ve been reading Francine Rivers’ rendition of the Exodus in The Priest, the story of Aaron helping Moses lead the Israelites. God’s wrath is fearsome. His people stir the Lord’s fury and suffer for it.

My father never hurt me. I never doubted his love. Yet, his anger could make me cringe.

God’s purity and jealousy led Him to strike some of his beloved but rebellious children with leprosy and death. His awesome Presence caused the Israelites to tremble and run in fear. “On the morning of the third day there was thunder and lightning with a thick cloud over the mountain and a very loud trumpet blast. Everyone in the camp trembled…The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, the whole mountain trembled violently, and the sound of the trumpet grew louder and louder… Moses said to the people, ‘Do not be afraid. God has come to test you, so that the fear of God will be with you to keep you from sinning” (Exodus 19:16,18 and 20:20 NIV).

God’s wrath didn’t disappear with the birth of His Son. Although Jesus took God’s anger upon Himself, sin is still unacceptable. James is speaking to Christians when he says, “You adulterous people, don’t you know that friendship with the world is hatred toward God?” (James 4:4a NIV).

Let us keep in mind that the God who adores us is a vast and fearsome Being, not to be taken lightly or for granted.

Comment prompt: How do you balance God’s mercy and wrath?

Limitations

By Diane Mayfield –

I hate limitations. There I said it. I’m frustrated when I can’t get up, hit the floor running, and get my list completed. What’s even worse is when I need someone else to help me do simple things like cut my meat or wrap my packages. Then I have to be on his timetable. If you haven’t guessed by now, internal peace is not filling me up.

Recently I had what was to be a minor surgery on my left pinky finger. I expected to have the pinky and it’s neighboring finger in a splint for two weeks. In my mind that was manageable. When I awoke from surgery, I had my left hand in a mitten-like soft cast from the tips of my fingers past my wrist. My thumb and index finger remained moveable. My sister referred to it as my claw. My hand looked like a lobster with only pinchers exposed. I quickly found I was quite limited in what I could do, even down to typing this article.

I know many others are for more limited than me. On TV, I recently saw the young Australian man who was born with no limbs. He’s written a book, drives a car, and fully enjoys life. He travels the world speaking about his faith and it’s enabling power. Believe me, I get it. I’m just a whiner trying to get to the other side of my pity party.

Nevertheless, in my quiet time with God instead of worship, I’m flooded with all my to do’s for this Christmas season. My claw hand slows me down way too much. You can then imagine my internal frustration and complaining to the Lord. God in His goodness got a hold of me, though, in the story of Martha and Mary. “Martha, Martha, the Lord said, You are worried and upset about so many things, but few things are needed-or indeed only one” (Luke 10:41-42 NIV).

Then I thought about, or I should say He brought to mind, Jacob wrestling with the angel in his desire to do things his own way. Jacob was crippled in that encounter. Paul was imprisoned when he wrote many of his profound letters inspired by the Holy Spirit. John was led to a deserted island where he was taken up in a vision of the end times. All of these men were limited in some way to accomplish God’s greater purposes. Even our Lord limited himself to become flesh and dwell among us that we might be saved.

Limitations, while I hate them, often happen so that He might increase in my life. That is if I am willing to surrender to His way and focus on what Mary did. That is to sit at his feet and listen to Him.

God, I pray I would see your face in this limitation. My desire is that You would increase in me and my ways would decrease.

40 Years

By Heather Allen –

I had never been to an abortion clinic before. But a frantic call came from a friend, whose girlfriend scheduled an abortion. He asked if we would wait with him at the clinic and pray that she would cancel her appointment. He clutched the hope for their future in a jewelry box in his nervous fingers. A small group gathered to hold out hope and support.

Determination set her brow as she walked toward the clinic door, but it was the anger in her eyes that gave me pause. She gripped her toddler’s hand and marched on. And I knew. I could say what I had already said. I could renew the promise to do as little as babysit or as much as adopt. My words would go unheard. So instead, I reached down, took her three-year-old’s tiny fingers in my hand, and followed her in. Her eyes met mine with surprise. She mumbled something about not wanting to leave her child alone in the waiting room. I nodded. I could not have known it would be the last time she would look me in the eyes.

Many joys died that day. A life was swallowed up in fifteen minutes in a sterile, straight-faced clinic. A child lost before ever having the chance to say “Momma,” smell a flower, make someone smile, or be held close. The shadows grew down the calculatedly cold hallway. There was no space to grieve loss.

So when the receptionist trailed me to my car I was surprised. I turned. Why was she was following? Did I leave my sweater? Did we leave a toy behind? It was not the time to talk with strangers.

“Who are you?” she called out.

“Huh?” I responded.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“I am a stay at home mom,” I replied, completely lost as to why we were having a conversation.

“I watched you while you were in the waiting room. I have never seen anyone interact with a child like that before.” She stared at me quizzically.

“Oh,” was the only answer I could come up with.

Over the years, I have replayed the sadness, like a movie clip that I wish I could file away and never re-watch. I have thought about the receptionist, knowing her work routine was hammered out at a dark, soulless desk. While mine was worked out in my children’s learning, laughter and growth, birthing in me a prayerful urgency for patience, kindness, and a gently instructive tongue. If she saw anything in me that reflected beauty, it was simply the Lord. He takes women who know all their own shortcomings and allows them to be moms.

On college graduation day, I sat behind an empty row of chairs reserved for the classmates who would have taken their place alongside me had they lived. I am almost forty. Part of the first graduating class lacking members because abortion became legal the year of my birth. They did not receive diplomas, but most surely are round about Jesus in glory and much wiser than the most learned scholar.

I no longer grieve for the life that was taken that day. I am at rest knowing my friend’s baby was welcomed into the arms of Christ. My sadness is for the moms who will never carry their babies but will continually carry grief and remorse.

If this is you, Jesus offers forgiveness. “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8 KJV). Repent, and don’t pick the shame up again. No matter the sin, His love is greater. God tells us children are an inheritance, and then He calls us child. There is no greater love.

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