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.

I Am

By Makenzie Allen –

I am Makenzie Brook Allen. My name means little warrior of God. I am a daughter, sister, grandchild, niece, and friend. A passion of mine since I craved pacifiers and had a “blanky,” is creation. That’s probably the explanation for why my first word was “woof,” as in dog noises. It’s also most likely why I know for a fact chipmunks have at least three noises when communicating, and the reason I know this is because I confess to having attempted conversation with one. So now that my sanity is in question, I’ll also point out I do in fact have a life and God living in and through me is the only reason I am not too many eggs short of a birthday cake.

My identity, who I am, is all because of what God has placed in my life. Strangely enough, I’m thankful for the rough times in life. The times when I feel alone and broken. Almost as if I’ve built myself one way and the Lord comes and says, “No, we need to start over with this.” And I feel like everything I’ve built my life around comes crashing down. Then, the Lord comes and rebuilds my life for me. He comes and rebuilds my life right.

My memories pull me back to a time and place where I felt desperately alone. So alone, the light in my eyes hardly shone and my laugh was misplaced. I remember the bowed head and the heavy drag to my feet. How does one move on from this solitude?Where has my joy gone? I racked my mind night and day for some hint as to where my joy had departed. Answers to solve my feelings of loneliness and stolen joy had fled like thoroughbreds out of the starting gate. And I was the one left to stand frozen, helpless, as those answers ran around just outside of my reach. One thought reverberated through my mind nonstop, How will I find what I’ve lost?

Time moved on, but my burdened soul could not. It stayed, unwilling to let time take its toll. I acknowledged I was broken and could no longer try to sustain the world I had made for myself. Every last ounce of my determined, structured, goals had been demolished. I felt detached. People had moved on. But I stayed, alone. Except for One. He stayed too, waiting patiently for the day I would relent from my terrible building-and-repair job. When I would hand Him the tool belt, because only He knew how long I had pounded nails with the wrong end of the hammer and measured in centimeters instead of inches. Finally, I saw Him waiting, lovingly holding out His nail-scarred hand for the tool belt.

God’s repairs in my life were hard to swallow at first. But He built me from the ground up. The Lord was giving me a new identity, one built with hands of expertise. My character was no longer attached to what I had done or who I had tried to be, it was ground solidly as my identity in Christ. He is my Lord, and nothing could divide me from that relationship. Neither height nor depth could ever separate me from the love of Jesus Christ. All I can say is thank you Lord for rebuilding my life to be firmly rooted in You.

I am Makenzie Brook Allen, loved by the Maker of things seen and unseen. I am a daughter of the King, cared for by Him who wears scars proclaiming His love for me with pride. My identity is in Him. I am His. Forever.

“For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” Ephesians 2:10 (NIV).

Hear Me . . . Whimper

By Jane Thornton –

Though I’m not much of a feminist, Helen Reddy’s lyrics, “I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman. Hear me roar,” inspire me to belt them out. I do lay claim to strength of character—obviously not of muscle—whether related to my sex or not, whether evident to others or not, whether justified or not.

My strength has rarely been tested with any severity, but I have presumed to believe I would endure bravely all the trials which the heroines of my beloved novels conquer. Sometimes I have even sunk to the depths of imagining myself graciously suffering through bankruptcy or cancer or widowhood. I tend to ignore prior evidence of the times I’ve sniveled my way through a common cold.

With little credit to myself, although I seem to be taking it, I have enjoyed a fairly successful life. My family relationships are close and encouraging. In both high school and college, I excelled in academics. Blessed with a brain whose left side dominated, I didn’t struggle overmuch with bookwork. My dating life could be judged as weak since it was almost nonexistent. However, that lack meant I didn’t deal with traumatic breakups, and I ended up with the best husband ever, so that area tallies on the win side, too.

Parenthood brought a small hiccup in my confident stride. Still, we didn’t face a lot of ordeals common to many, so we plowed forward. Perhaps I am glossing over a few struggles, but with our kids about grown, I’m proud to plop them in with my successes.

I started teaching as a four-year-old when my sister was a trapped audience. I have taught Sunday School to all ages over many years. I taught writing to homeschoolers. I quit a budding career as an accountant because I felt called to the classroom.

Then I became a public school teacher.

Never have I worked so hard and felt like such a failure. When the student fails, the teacher fails. Progress reports just came out, and my failure rate for seniors bottomed out at sixty percent. That figure is not a typo. Sixty. I want to cry. I have cried. I’m sure I’ll cry some more.

Of course, my defensive reaction blames the kids. They don’t do their work. True. They don’t try. True. They don’t care. True. Those students who do work, try, and care are not failing. However, I have to deal with reality. My job isn’t merely to teach, but to inspire effort and motivation in these teenagers too.

I work long hours, try everything I know, and care immensely—yet statistics attest to my failure. I want to scream at my students, at administrators, and at God, “What am I supposed to do?”

I hope you’re not reading this article expecting a pat answer. I don’t have one. But this semester, God’s words keep reverberating through my spirit. “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (II Corinthians 12:9 NIV).

Bring on the power, Lord. I’ve got the weakness.

Last year, when failure rates were high, I had a heart-to-heart with my students, asking what I could do to motivate them. I teared up in front of them and left the room to compose myself, in spite of my acclaimed strength. The next day, they delivered a poster-sized apology, which they all had signed. So, maybe I’m teaching them tender hearts instead of English?

Comment prompt: Where has God used your weakness to show His power?

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