Pride Goeth Before a Marriage Conference

By Connie Cavanaugh –

Women buzzed around the “Love and Respect” marriage conference registration table in the church foyer, eager to sign up. The men leaned on the walls, staying well back. They had been to these gigs before and weren’t too keen on spending money to learn how messed up they were. The women, me included, secretly hoped our husbands would hear all the things they were doing wrong, smarten up, and become more like us.

The conference facilitators were Emerson and Sarah Eggerichs. I had seen their video clips on their web site and I figured Emerson would disarm us with laughter, then he’d swoop in for the kill: all the men would see their mistakes and repent, they would commit themselves to try harder and we women would go home validated. I couldn’t wait!

Erelong I would discover that pride goeth before a marriage conference.

We gathered on Friday night and took our seats amid the noisy throng. As expected, Emerson had us hooting with laughter as he dramaticly played both roles in a marital spat. Before long I was riveted to my seat as he talked about the way our culture had vilified men for 30 years — in an attempt to raise awareness and create gender equality, popular culture has normalized male bashing and tried to feminize men. He explained that God created men and women equal but different and it was that “different-ness” that provided the romantic spark as well as fostered the misunderstandings.

The more Emerson talked, the taller my husband sat. I, however, was sinking, stunned by my naivety. This was a spiritual encounter with Truth and it would set me free from the cultural lies I had swallowed for years.

I watched my husband and dozens of other men fight back tears when Emerson talked about a man’s primal need for respect in a culture that is saturated with romantic notions of love but sadly lacking in respect. I learned that a man gladly serves and dies for country and family from a sense of honor. That is his way of showing love. Too often, he isn’t thanked or even recognized.

I learned things my parents and grandparents grew up knowing, that when a man works hard and provides for his family, he is serving them in love and this service is worthy of respect. Because my husband has always been quick to say, “I love you” and is very affectionate, I didn’t realize that while my need for love was constantly being met, his need for verbal respect was seriously underfed.

The one who needed to change was me, not my spouse. I had to start expressing my respect and stop taking his contribution for granted.

There was a decidedly different feeling in the air when the crowd was dismissed that night. Gone was the she-dragged-me-here look the men had arrived with three hours earlier. They could hardly wait to come back the next morning.

My husband was pumped! He yakked my ear off all the way home in the car. I was so raw with emotion I barely had the stamina to whisper, “Can you ever forgive me for not voicing my respect and appreciation more often for who you are and all you do?”

For too many years I assumed my husband was the one who needed to do all the changing, if he would just be more like me everything would be great, I thought. The good news is that while pride goeth before a marriage conference, humility cometh after.

Your Undercarriage Will Sparkle

By Liz Cowen Furman –

After the tragic events of 9-11, I felt compelled to show my patriotism in some way. It seemed most everybody in the area had the same thought. By the time I got to the store, there wasn’t a single flag remaining. So for the first time in my life, I ventured bravely into cyberspace to search for and buy a magnetic flag to display on our van. I accomplished this feat in record time and when the much-sought-after purchase arrived, I was thrilled. Emblazoned across the magnetic sign was the American flag and underneath were the words “God Bless America.” Perfect.

The first few times I drove around town with the sign on the car, I would look in my rearview mirror to see if the driver behind me noticed my cool magnet. I felt I was making a statement “I believe in this country and the freedom for which it stands!” However, the very first time I took the van through the “touch-free” carwash, I forgot to take my new flag off and it was washed away. UGH!

When I realized my show of patriotism had slipped off, I knew it had to be on the floor of the car wash. So the next morning, Micah, Matthew and I stopped by the car wash after we dropped Martin at choir just as it was starting to snow. As we pulled up a gentleman was about to enter and the door to the bay was slowly lifting.

Seizing the moment, I jumped from the van and dashed toward his window. I politely asked if I could sprint in ahead of him and retrieve my little flag. He waved me on enthusiastically. I waited for the door to open and entered the bay. As I entered, the little electric eye must have caught sight of me. In an instant the undercarriage wash came on with such startling force that I was airborne before I knew what had hit me. A flying leap took me through the spray and when I landed the pre-rinse immediately opened up, drenching me from head to toe. Without looking at the man in his car behind me, I escaped as fast as I could with no flag to show for my troubles.

The howls of laughter rocking my van told me that Matthew and Micah had witnessed the entire show. As I crawled behind the wheel of the van, icicles forming on my brow, I couldn’t help but share in the laughter. Despite my frozen exterior, joining in the hilarity with my boys warmed my heart. I’m not sure, however if the man who treated me to his car wash ever recovered.

The next Sunday morning as we passed by the car wash on our way to church, my husband, Dave slowed the car and said, “Hey Liz, if you need a shower we will wait.” And we laughed all over again. Times like this remind me that God has a great sense of humor, and we do well not to take ourselves too seriously.

Bully Birds

By Stephanie Prichard –

My husband barely dared to breathe. He sat immobile at the picnic table on our Aussie host’s deck, surrounded by thirteen wild Sulphur-crested Cockatoos perched at one-foot intervals along the railing. The size of barnyard chickens, snowy white except for their black beaks and their yellow feathers crowning their heads, they didn’t move either. Aloof, regal, their agenda clear, they stared at him and waited.

Finally, my husband oh-so-slowly extended his right arm across the tabletop and deposited one sunflower seed after another toward him. The Hansel-and-Gretel trail ended with his hand as the gingerbread house. He opened it wide to reveal a tantalizing, come-hither pile of seeds.

Within seconds, a volunteer hopped from the railing to the table. Step by step, the cockatoo followed the trail, gobbling up the seeds until he was within a neck’s stretch of the gingerbread-house cache. He halted. Looked up at my husband. Looked down at the cache. Ever so slowly, he stretched his neck toward the pile of seeds. My husband’s lips quirked into a smile of victory. Then, with lightning speed, the cockatoo nipped my husband’s index finger and scurried backwards.

My husband’s smile disappeared, but he didn’t move. He pressed his hand all the firmer onto the tabletop and tightened his mouth into a straight line.

The cockatoo crept cautiously forward. He stretched his neck again and latched onto the same finger. This time he bit so hard an electric current of pain shot through my husband’s body. Suddenly it wasn’t so cute that he was surrounded by thirteen combat-ready, sharp-beaked aggressors who coveted his sunflower seeds. He dumped the pile onto the table and left. Chagrined, he stood beside me at the sliding glass door and watched the other twelve cockatoos swoop to the table to join in the feast.

That wasn’t the end of it. A few days later, at a small zoo of native Australian animals, we stopped at a cage labeled Cockatoos. My husband clutched the wire fence and peered inside. Immediately, a Sulfur-crested Cockatoo flew straight over to him. “Well,” my husband said, “at least there’s one friendly cockatoo in Australia.” He grinned as the bird replied with what sounded like a mighty affable “Aaaark.”

And with that, the cockatoo promptly reached over and bit the same sore finger the other bird had chomped. “Aaaark,” he squawked, and with a distinct Aussie accent said, “Good boy, good boy.”

Aren’t we just like those cockatoos? Territorial: “Hands off, God. This is my space. My life. Just dump what’s good on the tabletop and leave me alone.”

. . . Until something bad happens. And then guess Who gets questioned for His lack of goodness?

Free Spirit

By Judy Davis –

For months I had been searching for a bicycle. I  looked for one on sale and priced several, but they were too high. Every time I went to a store that sold bikes, I would price them. Early one morning after my daily prayer walk, I glanced at the For Sale section of the paper and noticed a new 26 inch, 10 speed ladies bicycle for $65.00. Wow, I could not believe this low price.

Immediately, I called the lady and she said she had paid $130 for the bike but only rode it once. She had fallen and broken two vertebrae and would not be able to ride again. I got directions to her home. It would take me over an hour to get there and back home.

Since I  made arrangements to meet several ladies from the church at 10:00 to set up tables, I felt it would be best to wait and go get the bike. However, I knew if I waited, the bike may be sold.

I ran into my bedroom and got the $50 I had been saving. I had a crisp five dollar bill in my billfold. I looked on my husband’s desk and found 13 dollar bills. I grabbed them and left, knowing I would not have time to go to the bank.

It took over an hour to find the little green house at Lake Wildwood. As I walked into her lovely home, I couldn’t help but notice all the beautiful dolls in her den. She had dolls from Holland, Germany, England and all different shapes and sizes.

She showed me the burgundy bike waiting for me. I paid her the money and as I started to leave, I thanked her. She mentioned how she had broken two vertebrae recently in a fall. I immediately asked her if I could pray for her. She said, “Oh, honey yes.” I knew even in the rush, I could not leave without praying for this dear lady. I then took the bike and squeezed it into my Mustang.

The next morning, just like a child with a new toy, I couldn’t wait to ride my new bicycle instead of walking for my daily exercise. The cool breeze blowing against my face made me feel like a free spirit. It was then I thought of God being a free spirit, moving through each of His children wanting to give us the desires of our heart. “Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires and secret petitions of your heart” (Psalm 37:4).

After I returned home and was putting my bike away, I glanced at the frame of the bike and written across my brand new bike were the words “Free Spirit.”

Back by Closing Hymn

By Carol Barnier –

I love going to church. My favorite time is not the singing. Nor is it the time of greeting when we wander about the congregation seeking people with hands to be shaken and peace to be shared, and then once safely back in the pews, quietly put on disinfectant to avoid one of the Holy Plagues.

Nope, my favorite part is . . .

The sermon.

Not just the sermon, which is always good, but my mental meanderings away from the sermon, which delight me just as much.

Here’s how it works.

Pastor: Paul was lowered over the side of the city wall in a basket.

Me: Wow. That must have been some basket. I don’t have a basket anywhere NEAR strong enough for that. Grant you I have one that holds about 50 pounds of onions…which, come to think of it is almost empty…I wonder if Paul ate onions?… I’d better get to the store this week…but I really hate shopping…although they’ve installed that little café mocha dispenser now… I just wish it wasn’t in the refrigerated foods section—waaay too cold…I suppose I could wear my winter coat…I wonder if Paul ever wore a winter coat? What’s winter even like in Jerusalem? I wonder if…wait…what is that sound…I hear music…why is everybody standing…oh…it’s the closing hymn. Time to rise Carol.

I’ve heard there are people who have linear thoughts. Supposedly, these folks start a thought, think about it, and then complete it. They can focus intently on a 90-minute lecture regarding the historical derivatives of the word hermeneutics while never losing their train of thought. They actually have a train. I have more of a hot air balloon. I’m just as interested as getting to my location as the folks on the train, but I’m blown about a wee bit by the wind, meandering here and there, seeing things that weren’t on the agenda, but nonetheless are still quite lovely.

On any given Sunday, my mind will wander off the sermon, just the tiniest bit, and is now thinking about the back of that woman’s head, and why she let her roots grow so long and if the root plants in my garden are ready to be pulled since it looks like snow and I really should stop and pick up a new shovel and … “Carol,”…the pastor says cheerily, “Could you tell us why you believe the Apostle Paul was so quick to judge the church in Ephesus?”

Blink.

Blink Blink.

I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with roots. And my other usually safe fallback of always answering “Jesus” wasn’t going to work here either. Man! Where do I get one of those linear thought patterns?

So far I’ve been lucky. My pastor has continued with the traditional model of preaching as a single participant event, not a team sport. That’s good because. . .I’ve never been good at sports. . .although I once thought I’d like gymnastics. . .till I saw that Olympic girl bend herself in half backwards. . .which I’m thinking causes spinal cord damage. She looked like a pretzel. . .we haven’t had pretzels in a long time. . .maybe I should get some next time I’m in. . .  <watch the balloon drift away>

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