It Takes a Village (To Get my Husband to the Airport)

By Connie Cavanaugh –

It all started with a blanket of feathery snow during the night. My husband and I had just returned from a weeklong trip and early the next morning we were leaving again on separate jaunts. He was flying south on business and I was headed three hours west with our kids for two and a half days of skiing.

Bright and early, after a hasty goodbye, Gerry dashed out with his luggage. I woke up our three teens. If we wanted to be on the slopes by noon we’d have to get rolling.

The phone rang as I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed it, still dripping. It was my neighbor: “I noticed some luggage in the middle of the street. It had your phone number on it. I put it on the sidewalk in front of your house.” I thanked him casually, trying to act like this was the way we usually did things and said good-bye. I ran in circles for several seconds before I became rational.

I called Gerry’s cell, hoping he could return for his luggage and still make his flight. He didn’t answer. Flustered, I threw on some clothes and fetched the luggage. Dropping his computer bag and suitcase inside the door, I tried calling again. To my horror I heard a muted ringing in the foyer.

I found his phone and plane ticket inside the computer bag. This threw me into another tail-chasing frenzy, wasting more precious time. After praying for help, it occurred to me to check his itinerary. I saw that his flight was leaving an hour later than he’d thought. I could get his luggage to the airport with 30 minutes to spare!

I stationed my groggy son by the phone. “When dad calls, tell him I’m on my way!” I headed for the airport 45 minutes away. My fuel gauge was dangerously low. Can’t stop now! When I tried to wash the salt spray from a passing semi off my windshield; I got a small drool and nothing more. The wipers spread the slurry around. I drove into the glare of the rising sun, barely able to see the road. My mood darkened. I confess, the African proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child,” crossed my mind rather uncharitably.

Not far down the road, my son called to report his dad had phoned and would be watching for me. “I guess this means we won’t be able to ski this afternoon?” he asked.

I arrived at the terminal squinting through the white haze in search of Gerry. I saw him frantically waving and pulled over. He yanked open the passenger door, saw my dour expression and blurted, “I’m so sorry!” His apologies poured forth. He felt terrible for ruining our plans but his sincerity and appreciation softened my heart.

Even though he had no time to spare, I just had to ask: “How, exactly, did your luggage wind up stranded in the street like a couple of gunslingers at high noon?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he confessed, sheepishly. “And I think I figured it out.”
I felt the corners of my lips begin to twitch.

“When I left the house, I set my suitcases down behind the car so I could open the trunk,” he began. “Then I noticed I had your keys, not mine so I dashed inside to exchange keys. When I came back out, I forgot about the bags. I jumped in the driver’s seat, backed out, and drove off!”

I started to chuckle as I pictured the bags gently rolling, nudged by the bumper over the slippery snow to where they would remain, abandoned in the middle of the road.

“When I got to the airport and opened my trunk I thought, ‘I’ve been robbed!’” I snorted, unable to hold back the laughter. He leaned in for a kiss, grabbed his bags and was gone.

I was still grinning as I headed for the nearest gas station with one eye on the big E and the other eye on the single clean streak that narrowed my view to a slit. Yes I had forfeited a ski day but it wasn’t a loss. It was an investment. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I needed Gerry to be part of my village too!

By yourself you’re unprotected. With a friend you can face the worst. Can you round up a third? A three-stranded rope isn’t easily snapped (Ecclesiastes 4:12. MSG).

Church Service Survival 101

By Carol Barnier –

This will probably get me in trouble, but … I think it’s possible that children shouldn’t be allowed in church, at least not until they’ve been trained. I don’t mean that typical genteel parental kind of training. I’m talking more like truly useful, kid-to-kid warning and wisdom. Call it “How-to-Survive-the-Next-Hour-Without-Getting-Spanked-101.”

For example, I learned at a very young age that, when the elderly Edith Cooper began her weekly snore, looking back at her would invariably produce a tiny ping from my mother’s index finger. Mother was a firm believer in the Head-Always-Forward theology. Once, when the second to the last pew completely collapsed, sending three people through the floor into the basement, emitting a cloud of centuries-old dust, I hesitantly glanced up at my mother only to watch her simply nod to the pastor and quietly say “Amen.” She was a rock.

Young children, coming to church for the first time, need to be warned. Don’t look back! Or if you must, do so with technique. I eventually learned that if I dropped the bulletin at the correct moment, when returning from my retrieval lean, I could swipe a quick backward glance that was, if not elegant, at least permissible. But there is a firm once-per-service allotment of this technique. Use judiciously. You’ve been warned.

Children should also be told about the risks involved when they are all taken up front for a “children’s message.” Who invented this terror-filled activity? This situation is fraught with peril. The most important rule is simple: don’t offer anything unless asked. Sharing that your sister has a bank of boogers on the inside slat of her bunk bed will not endear you to your parents. While there is a risk in saying too much, there can also be a risk in saying too little. A visiting pastor shared with us a time when he called all the children forward and asked a seemingly simple question.

“Hi, kids! Got a question for ya’. What’s little and gray, has a long fluffy tail, skitters around on trees and stores up nuts for the winter?”

Total silence met this man’s eager face.

A little surprised, he nonetheless cheerily continued.

“Oh, come on, guys. Let’s try again. Little and gray, long fluffy tail, skitters around on trees and stores up nuts for the winter.”

Again … not a peep, but this time the children’s eyes were huge and fearful.

This visiting pastor was clearly becoming agitated.

“Kids … this isn’t tough. The story won’t work unless you answer. So help me out.” He shot through the question again. “Little and gray. Long fluffy tail. Skitters around on trees. Stores up nuts for the winter!”

Finally, one kid timidly raised his hand. Clearly fearful at this line of questioning, he nonetheless took a deep breath and said, “Pastor … I know we’re always supposed to say ‘Jesus’ … but that really sounds like a squirrel to me.”

This kid knew one of the most basic forms of church survival. When in doubt, answer “Jesus.” Nine times out of ten, it’ll be the answer they want. But, as it turns out, listening is also a pretty good strategy. Who knew?

I actually love the buried truth in that concept. When in doubt, answer “Jesus.” Not only is it usually the right answer to the teacher’s question, it’s the right answer to most of life’s questions. I love it when we actually learn something from our kids. Maybe that’s why Jesus turned to the pompous adults in his company and said, “Be more like kids.”

Maybe we should let them back in church after all.

Oh, Those Senior Moments!

By Karen O’Connor –

I left the women’s luncheon feeling like a million. I made new friends, enjoyed a delicious meal, was inspired by the music, and felt great about my presentation as the keynote speaker. Then it happened. I walked out the front door of the banquet hall with two other women and I went blank. There in front of me was a sea of cars––but I had no idea where mine was located. I started walking––praying. Where are you little Escort?

I couldn’t lose my cool in front of these women. They were impressed with me. They thought I was a celebrity! They wanted more of my books and my autograph. “Do you have any extras in your car?” one asked.

“Sure,” I mumbled. “Authors always carry extra books.” (Now if I can just find my car.) “Why don’t you wait right here?” I suggested. “I’ll run to the car…” (if I can find it) “…and come back with the books signed and ready.”

“Oh no,” said another. “We’ll follow you. No sense in your walking all the way back. We’re parked in the lot too.”

Follow me? My hands were suddenly wet and my mind had turned to mush. I wondered if they’d be so eager to keep going if they knew I was walking in circles.

“Sure, right this way,” I said, clearing my throat and blinking back tears. I didn’t have a clue where I was heading. My trusted, faithful car, clean, dependable, and paid off, was nowhere to be seen.

Help Lord, I’m having a senior moment!

Then suddenly it all came back. Clear. Vivid. Certain. I had parked in the first lane by the exit on purpose––so I wouldn’t get in a long line going out. Whew! In the nick of time you answered me. My honey of a car, gleaming in the sun from the fresh car wash, was right where I had left it, six cars to my right, practically in front of me. It never looked better. I wanted to wrap my arms around it, hug it, smooch it!

“Here we are,” I chirped. “I’ll get the books, sign them, and you can be on your way.”

The ladies smiled, scribbled out their checks, handed them to me, and off they went, thanking me as they waved good-bye.

I thanked them too.

But you’re the one who deserves the thanks, Lord, and the hug, and the big smooch! Once more your Holy Spirit came to my rescue.

Say What?

By Steph Prichard –

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

“W-h-a-a-t?” I clicked Save and trudged from my bedroom office to the top of the stairs. “Did you say something?”

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

I trekked down the stairs, through the living room, and into my husband’s dining-room-converted-into-an-office. “What’d you say?”

He answered. I answered. Back upstairs to my computer.

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

“Wha-a-a-t?”

Mumble, mumble, mumble.

Uh-huh, you guessed it—back downstairs again. Grace ebbed with each step until, on my fourth trip, I suggested what clearly was more than a recommendation. “From now on, how about if we have the rule that we meet at the stairs to talk?”

Agreement. An hour passed, then mumble, mumble, mumble.

I stomped out of my room. What part of “meet at the stairs” did the man not understand? “Wha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-t,” I yelled, my protracted vowel definitely not coated with shugah.

Oh my. At the bottom of the stairs, already waiting, stood my husband. My jaw dropped, and heat pinched my cheeks as he grinned up at me. “Maybe we need the rule,” he said, “that we see the whites of each other’s eyes before we talk.”

Or, face it, I needed a hearing aid.

“Why wait until you’re old and gnarled to hear better?” a friend asked. Why indeed? I was missing out on half the content of conversations directed to me. As if listening to a skipping tape recorder, I had to piece words together to catch the gist of what was said. Worse, my daughter spoke softly—I heard maybe twenty percent of what she said—and she allowed me only two whats. And then there were my friends who teased me by muttering juicy tidbits just loud enough that I couldn’t quite catch what they said. Meanies.

Why put up with this? I bought a hearing aid for each ear, and, yessssss, finally, I could hear!

Reminds me of how we need spiritual hearing aids too. Before I became a Christian, I read the Bible … and thought it horrid. I listened to sermons … and the words went in one ear and zipped out the other. Scripture by itself, whether read or listened to, is not a hearing aid to God’s Truth. First Corinthians 2:14 says, “The man without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him, and he cannot understand them because they are spiritually discerned.” Yep, nailed me!

Once we are Christians, however, the Holy Spirit opens our ears to hear and our minds to understand the Truth that God reveals in Scripture. That’s when we can meet with Him at the stairs and talk. “‘Come now, let us reason together,’ says the Lord.” Oh yeah, that’s an invitation I don’t want to miss out on!

Qualities vs. Symptoms

By Rhonda Rhea –

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I think I have some very unique and useful character qualities. Granted, most better psychoanalysts might not refer to them as “character qualities” as much as they refer to them as “symptoms,” but still.

I think writers acquire an exclusive symptom or two…make that a “quality” or two…that others don’t necessarily encounter. Maybe it’s the inordinate amount of rejection we’re called to deal with, but insecurity is so often the order of the day. Not to mention that when fiction writers hear new little voices in their heads, they never medicate. No, they actually encourage the little voices. And then publish them.

This week, though, I experienced a “quality” beyond voices. It’s a weird thing that happens to me now and again. I look over the writing du jour and I keep thinking I’ve misspelled words—even when I haven’t.

I think I might be a typo-chondriac.

Interestingly enough, if the psycho-professionals come up with a 12-step program for typo-chondriacs, I’m pretty sure step one will be admitting you don’t have a problem.

When it comes to successfully walking out this life for Christ, though, we have to recognize right from the get-go our complete lack of ability to make it happen ourselves. We do have a problem. And without surrendering to the leadership of God’s Holy Spirit, there’s no hope for resolving that problem. No 12-step program. No self-help book. Personally speaking, I don’t even have a horn to toot. Not a leg to stand on. Not a keyboard to type on. It’s got to be all Him and zero me.

You’d think that would cause a more intense insecurity than even a writer has to bear. But it doesn’t. As a matter of fact, it’s the exact opposite. There is great security in knowing that I don’t have to depend on my own abilities. There is even greater security in knowing that I can so completely depend on the One who is all-powerful. Paul reminds us in Philippians 3:3 that, “We rely on what Christ Jesus has done for us. We put no confidence in human effort,” (NLT).

The Amplified version of Philippians 3:3 puts it this way: “Put no confidence or dependence on what we are in the flesh and on outward privileges and physical advantages and external appearances.” That pretty much settles it. Nothing we’ve done. Nothing we’ve said. Nothing we are. Nothing inside us. Nothing outside us. Victory in the walk of faith will only happen as we rely totally and completely in the all-powerful One. And in Him our security is sure.

So it’s not such a terrible thing to recognize that even though I’m a writer, with all the built-in insecurities and various “qualities” that come with it, I don’t have to live in insecurity. There’s freedom in recognizing I have nothing to offer in and of myself, but that “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me,” (Philippians 4:13, NKJV).

That’s especially refreshing to dwell on when I realize that on top of my typo-chondria, I think I might be coming down with a touch of kleptomania. Gee, I hope there’s something I can take for that.

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