Clyde the Cart

A children's story. Or is it?

Clyde the Cart had a big, big heart and humble roots in an old factory surrounded by grease and escaped ball bearings. 

 

When Clyde was only a few hours old, he was loaded into the back of rumbly truck and shipped off in the darkness to his new home: a fast-food restaurant with only one thing in common with his old home—a greasy floor.

 

Clyde did his best to settle into his new surroundings. He waited patiently to be loaded with boxes, he tried not to squeak and squeal when Dan, the man in charge of taking out the trash, pushed him out to the blue dumpster behind the building.

 

But Clyde soon grew weary of his new job. No one seemed to take any notice of him at all. Martha, the manager, complained he was always in the way. Peter, the patty-flipper, grumbled he either brought in too many boxes of burgers or not enough. And Dan stubbed his toes and knocked his shins on Clyde’s corners so often, that one day he howled in pain, then kicked him out the door, straight into the path of a car in the drive through.

 

The driver blew his horn. HONK!

 

Clyde barely managed to roll out of the way in time. At first, he sat unnoticed near the big dumpster. “Surely someone will come and take me back inside,” he thought. But no one came. Finally, it grew dark, and Clyde fell asleep. He was awakened by sharp claws on his back.

 

It was Snap, the black cat that lived on the other side of the fence. “What are you doin’ here?” he asked Clyde.

 

“Dan kicked me out,” Clyde explained. “And I’m waiting for someone to take me back in, but now it’s dark, and I think they’ve forgotten me.”

 

“Pro’bly so,” answered Snap, nonchalantly. “People are like that. Can’t always trust ‘em. Look at me! I used to have a little girl that gave me sardines and scratched me behind my ears, but one day I woke up and the whole family had moved to California. Can’t trust ‘em I say.”

 

Snap leaped off Clyde’s back and balanced delicately on the edge of the dumpster. “If I was you, I’d leave. No use waitin’ around.” Then he disappeared into the giant heap of trash.

 

Clyde sat sadly, thinking. It did seem that no one cared for him. No matter how hard he tried to serve, he’d somehow messed up. He’d done everything he could do, and no one had noticed at all! In fact, he’d been grumbled and complained at, and even kicked! It wasn’t right.

 

The more Clyde thought about it, the more his big heart hurt. He’d given his best, and no one appreciated him at all. Perhaps Snap was right, maybe he should move on. Slowly, his wheels begin to turn. This time, Clyde didn’t even try to keep them from squeaking.

 

By morning, Clyde had rolled to the edge of the parking lot near a little hill. When he saw Dan’s old white car pull in to work, something happened to Clyde that had never happened before. He felt angry. Without another thought, he rolled a little farther toward the hill, then Zip! Over he went, traveling at breakneck speed toward the entrance of a store at the bottom of the hill.

 

Going so fast made Clyde forget he was sad. He felt the whistle of the wind around his handle, and exhilaration flowed through him as he leaped off the ground to jump a pothole.  There was only one problem. He didn’t stop in time.

 

Crash! Glass shattered all around him. Oops. Clyde rolled slowly backward, his wheels crunching over the bits and pieces of the door. Maybe the people at the restaurant had been right. Maybe he really was a bother. He couldn’t even run away without causing trouble.

“Hey!” A large man with an angry face appeared at the door. “What’s going on?”

 

Clyde didn’t wait to hear more. He rolled away rapidly, leaving the man shouting after him.

 

He was in such a hurry he didn’t notice the woman walking toward the store pushing a stroller. At least, he didn’t notice until he ran straight into her. The woman fell to the ground, and the stroller rolled away and came to rest against a parked car. Clyde was too scared to stop. He hoped he hadn’t hurt the woman or the baby, but he knew he was becoming a bad cart. A cart that ran into things and pushed people over, and he didn’t know why. He couldn’t seem to help himself. He wanted to cry, but big carts didn’t cry.

 

Then Clyde saw something. Across the street was a sprinkler. It was watering a flowerbed filled with colorful blossoms. What fun it would be to roll through the sprinkler! Maybe that would help him not to feel sad. Recklessly, Clyde scurried across the street, then tore through the yard and under the sprinkler. He cavorted about, feeling the drops cascade onto his back and run off his corners. This was fun!

 

Suddenly, something hit Clyde hard. He skittered off to the side. An old woman stood there brandishing her cane. “Look at my flowers!” she yelled. “Just look at them!”

 

For the first time, Clyde looked down. The damp ground was torn up in big ruts. Flowers lay uprooted and crushed all around. “Oh no!” Clyde thought. “Look what I’ve done! I really am a bad cart now!”

 

Quickly, before the old woman could hit him again, Clyde rolled down the street. He spotted a hill in an alleyway and thought it might be fun to go fast again. Over he went, racing away toward the bottom. But Clyde wasn’t a good judge of distance, and as he hurtled downward, he realized he would never fit between the wall and a shiny black car parked to one side.

 

Scri-i-i-tch! A long streak of red appeared on the shiny black car that hadn’t been there before.

 

Clyde paused in dismay to look at the disaster. He didn’t want to cause problems, but he didn’t know how to fix the ugly scratch, and he didn’t know how to stop messing everything up.

 

He’d have to leave, now, before the driver of the shiny black car came back and yelled at him. Maybe, if he could go fast enough, he’d forget how miserable he was. Clyde took off at a tremendous pace, fleeing down, down, down the hill.

 

He rolled along so fast his wheels were only little black blurs. On and on he went. At last he stopped near a crumbly old building, just as the sun sank out of view and the little twinkly stars came out.

 

Clyde used to love the twinkly stars. He had imagined they were his friends as they winked down at him. But now the twinkly stars just made him sad. They wouldn’t want to be friends with a naughty cart like him. No one wanted him, Clyde thought sadly. And he cried himself to sleep by the crumbly brick wall.

 

Clyde the Cart was awaken the next morning by a cheerful voice: “Ho! What have we here?” the voice asked.

 

Clyde opened his eyes. A little old man was standing there, looking at him with kindly expression. Clyde could hardly bear the smile the man wore. “I must leave now!” he told himself, “Before he finds out what a bad cart I am. Before he starts to yell at me and kick me. I must go quickly!” And so Clyde threw himself forward, aiming his wheels down another nearby hill.

 

But he had misjudged the distance. Oof! Clyde barreled into the little old man and knocked him over.

 

Clyde rushed past the man on the ground and raced on down the hill. There was a bridge at the bottom of the hill with a river roaring beneath it. Big, ugly rocks poked out of the water. Clyde put his front wheels on the bridge railing and peered over. Maybe he should roll over the side and hide in the rushing water. There, he couldn’t hurt anyone. He wouldn’t scratch fancy cars or root up flower gardens or bruise shins.

But before Clyde could clamber over the bridge railing he heard pounding footsteps behind him. A firm hand grasped his handle. “Oh no, you don’t!” a voice said, and Clyde felt himself dragged backward onto the bridge.

 

It was the little old man whom he had knocked over. “You’re coming with me,” the man said, still cheerfully. “I have plans for you. You’re just what I needed!” And he pushed Clyde back up the hill, up, up, up, until they were once more by the crumbly brick wall.

 

The little old man washed and scrubbed the runaway cart until all the mud was gone from his wheels. He left him to dry in the sun, and that afternoon he painted him with a can of bright red rust-proof paint, whistling all the while. Come nightfall, he pushed Clyde inside and parked him carefully by a pile of boxes.

 

The next day, Clyde was put to work. He carried boxes and bags and random pieces of furniture back and forth in the store the little old man operated. Sometimes Clyde knocked things over, just to see if the man would kick him like Dan had. But the little old man never did. He didn’t complain like Martha and Peter, either. He just smiled at Clyde and said, “I’m glad you’re here, little cart! I don’t know what I’d do without you!” and he would pat Clyde’s handle, and smile at him.

 

And so it was that Clyde begin to trust the little old man. He stopped tripping him up. He stopped waiting to be kicked. And slowly, slowly, Clyde’s big heart begin to grow back together. He wasn’t really a bad cart. He had made some mistakes, it was true, and he might make mistakes again, but the little old man treated him the same no matter what.

 

One night, the little old man took Clyde outside and parked him by the crumbly brick wall. The man sat down on Clyde’s back and leaned against the wall, and they looked at the stars together. Clyde was not afraid to look at the twinkly stars this time. He knew they were friendly, and he was too.

 

Suddenly, he heard a sound. “Meow!” It was Snap. “Didn’t I tell you not to trust people?” he asked Clyde.

 

“Yes,” Clyde answered, his big heart swelling, “but Snap, sometimes you need to trust people. Sometimes that’s what your heart wants most of all. You can stay here for the night, if you like.”

 

“Humph,” grumbled Snap. “That old man would probably throw rocks at me. I’m just a mangy old alley cat, least that’s what I’ve been told.”

 

“I don’t think he would,” answered Clyde. “You see, he doesn’t kick me, and I’ve tripped him up plenty of times. You really ought to stay.”

 

So Snap stayed the night, sleeping on Clyde’s back. And the next morning, when the little old man offered him some old salami, Snap stayed to eat, too.

 

And that, Clyde thought, was the best thing of all—to have his big heart back together and to pass on a kindness to someone else, someone else who wanted to be good but often was bad. Someone else who thought he was not wanted. Someone else with a big, big heart and humble roots. Someone very much like him.

 

The End.

Fly On the Wall

     Sometimes it is hard to accept responsibility. Sometimes we need to let others bear a burden we are not meant to handle. None of the women in this story shirked their duty. All were used of God in some way. We can trust that our Father divides His work evenly. Which worker are you? 

    Elizabeth was a Christian woman. She was a hard worker, a good singer, and had her worries like everyone. Her three children were sometimes well behaved and sometimes not. Her husband went to work every day, where he earned a comfortable, but not extravagant wage. He came home at night, tired, but still managed to play a few games of catch in the backyard with the nine-year-old, let the toddler ride on his back like a horse, and admire the painted rocks of the five-year-old before he sat down to a hot supper that Elizabeth had prepared. The lettuce was from the garden, and the chicken she had canned herself.

Elizabeth loved her Church family dearly. She didn’t feel particularly critical of them. She was glad to do her part. She prided herself on it, in fact. She was always there on school cleaning days and bake days for the elderly. She offered to help sing at the local old folks’ home, had company, and sometimes kept her neighbor’s children for the day. She did sigh, though, when she got elected to the food committee. She was already a Sunday School teacher, a busy mom, librarian at school, and part of the Comforter Committee. Couldn’t someone else do the job?

     Berniece, for example. She didn’t have any jobs at all. She was perfectly capable, too. But she rarely brought food to basket dinners and often she stood around and didn’t help with so much as putting ice in the glasses!

     And Amanda. Why, she was only on the Bible School Committee, and that was only a couple weeks in summer! But maybe she had a spiritual problem. She sometimes missed Church entirely. And she never talked in Sunday School.

     And then there was Marge. She talked a lot, maybe too much. She didn’t mince her words when she had an opinion. She would likely have no trouble at all making the decisions being on the food committee required.

    That night, Elizabeth had a dream. She dreamt she was working in the garden. A fly landed on her nose, and she brushed it off. As she stood up from pulling a weed, a figure appeared at the end of the row. She gaped. It was an angel! Whatever could he want?

 The being smiled at her. “I am here to give you a gift,” the angel said.

 A gift! Whatever could it be? “Oh,” stammered Elizabeth, “Why, thank you, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a gift!”

 The angel looked at her. “Gifts are never deserved and rarely given for one’s own use,” he said gently. “They are nearly always given for the use of others.” He then handed her a tiny pin. It looked like the kind businesses give away as promotions. She peered at it. It was black, with the silver image of a fly etched on the top.

 “But what is this?” She turned to ask, but he was gone. Shrugging, she pinned the tiny fly to her blouse, and continued with her weeding.

 Elizabeth woke with a start. What a strange dream! An angel and a fly. And nothing had really happened beyond that. As she lay awake, pondering, the problem of the food committee again began to bother her. Perhaps she should ask to be released. Maybe she should suggest Berniece to take her place. But even as she lay there, there was a buzzing noise. And suddenly she found herself in someone’s living room. And that wasn’t all. She was sitting on the wall, in the form, she discovered, of a fly. And there were two people in the room. She recognized them in the dim light of a single lamp as Berniece and her husband.

 Berniece was lying on a recliner, a bottle of pills nearby. “I am so sorry,” she told her husband. “I don’t mean to complain, but I feel so badly, being a burden to you!”

 Her husband, in a chair near her, shook his head. “You’re not a burden, Berniece. I wish you wouldn’t think that! Maybe soon the doctor can find something to help this back pain. And I wish you could understand,” he continued, "just how much you encourage me with your steadfastness and patience, even through your pain."

 Elizabeth felt her little fly eyes widen. Berniece struggled with back pain? She had never once complained. No wonder she didn’t help much. Now that she thought about it, she could remember Berniece and her husband often left social events early. She’d been a little irritated in the moment—how they could show up, and Berniece never helped set up or clean up and if she brought a dish it was usually a simple one.

 “I just feel so badly,” Berniece was saying now, “I wish we could have company. I know you like to socialize! And If only my back would quit hurting long enough to make you something besides soup out of a can! There are days I just feel useless!”

"I don't mind," her husband shook his head,"and you serve a great purpose with the way you are willing to listen to other people's problems for hours on the phone."

 Suddenly it all came clear to Elizabeth. Berniece was sacrificing herself for her husband. Coming to social functions must be excruciating to her, but she still showed up because it was the only way her husband got to visit with his friends. And probably the only time he got a really good home cooked meal besides. And here she had been, ready to hand in Berniece’s name for the food committee!

 Well, there was still Amanda. Maybe her name would work for a replacement. Even as she thought the name, there was another buzzing sound in her ears, and Elizabeth found herself in another room. She recognized it as Amanda’s dining room. There was a little desk beside one wall. Amanda was there, writing something. Elizabeth stretched out her little fly wings and landed as quietly as possible on Amanda’s shoulder. Peering down, she read what was being written:

 “This burden that I carry, Lord, will it ever leave, or must I be resigned to carry it forever? I want to serve You. I love You with my whole heart, but this pain from my past, will it be with me always? If you wish me to carry it, I will, for I know You will walk with me. But it is so hard for me to walk among the other women! I feel so different, like a stranger wearing a mask, trying to blend in. None of them know my life was so different from theirs when we were children. I still get flashbacks of my father and how he treated us. What if someday I lose control of myself and hit my own children? Sometimes, in spite of my love for You, I can hardly go to Church and pretend. I know I shall cry the whole service through, because I am sad, so sad, and I grieve for my lost childhood, my shattered dreams. I want to be a whole and vital Christian and live for you, but will I ever be whole? Or will I go through life broken?”

 The pen paused on the page. Elizabeth had known none of this. She remembered Amanda from school days, a quiet girl. The kind who never had come-backs when the other students teased her. She’d worn out of date, ill fitting dresses. Her hair had only ever been combed one way. Sometimes she had spoken strange, fanciful things, and when the others looked at her oddly she had collapsed into silence. They had thought her boring, unpopular, odd. They had never guessed the truth. Oh, it was terrible!

 “I’ve started healing, Lord, but it’s such a long process. I’m afraid it will take the rest of my life. But I will pursue healing for my children’s sake, my husband’s sake, my own sake, and Yours. Yet it takes so much energy! Taking care of my family feels like a monumental task. I am weary so often, a weariness in body that comes from a weariness of heart. I don’t do my part in the congregation, but not because I don’t want to. I struggle to accept that I can’t. I know if I take on jobs I’ll become overwhelmed and end up in the hospital again, and Lord, I can hardly bear the thought of that. I never felt good enough for my earthly father. But I stand amazed every day that I am perfect in the view of my Heavenly Father. Help me to keep that ever in the forefront of my mind.”

 Elizabeth felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. No wonder Amanda always acted so exhausted around holidays! Of course, they’d been with her parents, and that must take a terrible toll on her! Elizabeth remembered now the last Christmas party at school. Amanda had been picking up her things as if to leave, and Elizabeth herself had thrust a vacuum in her hands and told her—the words came back as she had spoken them—“We all have to do our part if we’re going to get this done!” Amanda had turned white, and then looked angry. After a long pause, she had taken a deep breath, put down her things, and taken the vacuum. She had looked about to cry as she pushed the vacuum back and forth, and when she was done, she had left without saying a word. At the time, Elizabeth had congratulated herself. Somebody had to see to it that everyone helped out. If Amanda wanted to cry and be mad, that was her own problem, she needed to grow up. But now? Now Elizabeth knew it had probably been a difficult time. And she had not helped anything.

 Well, there was still Marge. Maybe she could take over food committee. Again there was that buzzing noise in her ears. And in moments, Elizabeth found herself on Marge’s back porch. Marge was there, and a teenager Elizabeth couldn’t recognize.

 “Sometimes I just want to run away. I don’t think my mom cares at all! They all think Clara is the perfect daughter, and they don’t understand me!” the girl was saying.

 “But your mom does love you,” Marge was saying. “Even though it can be hard to feel if you don’t think she understands you. Promise me, Angie, that you won’t run away without talking to me about it first, OK?”

 Marge listened, amazed how gentle Marge’s voice was. But surely, talking to some random girl late at night on the porch wasn’t enough to get out of other responsibilities! The gentle buzzing in her ears again, and Marge felt herself transported to a bright, sunny day.

 Again, Marge was there, handing a water bottle to a wrinkled woman wielding a cardboard sign. Elizabeth was perched on a sign pole and couldn’t hear a word, but she saw Marge sit down beside the woman. Elizabeth didn’t know if she could do something like that! Sit with a homeless woman? She could hand out money and pray for them, but to actually sit down and talk? It just wasn’t her. The conversation wasn’t long, and soon Marge hugged the shabbily dressed woman and walked away.

 And? Elizabeth wondered. So Marge had midnight conversations and hugged random homeless persons. And that was supposed to let her off the hook how? Again the buzzing noise. Elizabeth really wanted to cover her ears. To escape this weird world of half dreams and vision and somehow a feel of reality. But no, here she was again. This time it was church. To her surprise, she saw Amanda, standing by the back wall. This time, Elizabeth was sure to fly close. Suddenly, Marge was there, too. She reached out and squeezed Amanda’s hand. “I’m glad to see you this morning!” she said, “I left a casserole in the fridge for you. I sure hope you all like bacon and ranch!”

 Then everything went dark, and Elizabeth found herself, heart beating faster than normal, back in bed. It must have been a dream. Slowly, she grew drowsier and drowsier. Soon she drifted off to sleep again. And there she was, back in the garden. Suddenly the angel was before her.

 “I’ve come for the pin,” he said quietly.

 “Oh, of course,” Elizabeth felt flustered. “Here it is.”

 “Did you find the meaning in the gift?” the angel asked, smiling.

 “Well,” Elizabeth paused, “I think so. Except, I wasn’t quite sure about the last one.”

 “Marge?” asked the angel. “She is a very dear worker. The Father has so many uses for her. She is faithful in them all. He would rather not use her talents in such a direct way. Someone has to do all the little jobs, you know.”

 Elizabeth stood, biting her lip. Something she didn’t quite understand niggled in her brain. “But I was wondering,” she said, “I mean, I don’t understand. Where does that leave me? Am I to take on all the responsibility that those women can’t? How am I supposed to handle it all? I’m busy, too! I have my own needs that have to be met.”

 The angel smiled and sat down. “Come here,” he said. “Let us talk a little.” Elizabeth made her way over to him. “I said the gift you were given was for others, not yourself,” the angel begin. “Can you see how that was true?”

 Elizabeth nodded. Yes, she could understand that. Being a fly on the wall had led her to understand what others were really going through. It helped her to give them the grace they needed, to not hold them accountable to do things they really couldn’t handle.

 “You have been an admirable worker, Elizabeth. You handle a household so well. You always are volunteering to clean or cook for others. But you sometimes feel disappointed with life. You get disgruntled because you work so much, and you sometimes wonder why all the responsibilities fall on you. Isn’t that so?”

 “Yes…” Elizabeth hesitated. “I’m so busy all the time! I hardly ever have time for me and the things I enjoy! I give all of myself to others! If not my family, it’s the Church. And I know that’s what I should do, but it’s hard.”

 “That’s honest of you,” the angel looked at her. “You know, Elizabeth, life is busy. The Father knows it. But giving yourself is what He asks of everyone, just in different ways. There will come a time when you are old that you will long to be able to do the things you are doing now. This is a busy season of life, and you have choices, you know. Fight against the busyness or accept it. The gift you have been given wasn’t only being a fly on the wall.”

 “What?!” Elizabeth looked at him with dismay and consternation. “What was it, then?”

 “Two things,” the angel smiled. “Maybe more. You’ve been given a healthy mind and a strong body. Because you have those things, you will be asked to do much in the Kingdom. There will be times it looks like you are doing more than your share, but trust me, the Father never divides His work unfairly. And if you’re worried about drowning in busyness, you needn’t be. He’ll give you direction for rest, as well as for work.”

 “I don’t think,” Elizabeth said, petulantly, “that I like being a mature person with responsibility very much.”

 “And that,” said the angel, his eyes sparkling, “is why the Father wishes everyone to remain child-like.”

 And then the angel was gone, and Elizabeth found herself sitting bolt upright in bed.

 Elusive thoughts danced about in her mind. Child-like. Pure, innocent, forgiving, loving, patient, kind. And accepting most of all. Children were so flexible, so resilient, so utterly moldable. Was there a reason she couldn’t be on the food committee? Not really. She had accepted the good things in life, why not accept the busy-ness of life as well? Learn to enjoy the things she was called on to do as a service to God instead of her dutiful place in the community? Love her struggling sisters enough to fill in the gaps they left when they were unable to do what she could?

 Slowly, she opened her heart to the Father, and He spoke peace to her soul. And then, like a child, she fell into the sleep of true acceptance.

The Now

We laugh at children and their problems. The vegetables that they cry over, the toy their brother won’t let them have, the nap they have to take when they want to do something else. “I wish my problems were only that big,” we say.

 But this very petulance is part of the essence of childhood. The focus on the present, the now. The little discomforts seem so big to them because they cannot see the future and many times have disregarded the past.

 This focus on the present is also what enables children to notice the tiny bug with a hint of blue on its back and the perfect petals of a flower. It’s why they collect leaves and rocks and feathers. It’s why they forgive and move on.

 Many times in our adult world, we forget about the present. We spend so much time looking at the disasters of the past or the fears of the future that we forget the now. And the now is what God has given us to live. If we can let go of things past and things to come, we, too, will begin to notice things we’ve never seen before.

 In childish wonder we will see the Love of our Father as if it is the first time. We will note with amazement the way the brotherhood comes together in times of need. In absolute joy we will take in the Sunday message and the songs that are sung, delighted at the way it all flows together and speaks to the individual needs of our hearts.

We, too, may sometimes feel unhappy about the things life calls us to, but living in the now we will learn to look honestly at the reasons for our anger, disappointment, or jealousy. Instead of blaming our past ("I've never been good enough") or fearing the future ("But what if I never do get invited again?") we learn a new type of acceptance for the life we are living.

 Letting go of the past and handing the future over to God takes a special kind of child-like submission. It calls for a trusting humility and a complete surrender.

 Next time you see a child fussing over something small, remember that they are living in the moment, and that living in the moment also causes little things to bring excitement. For Jesus says still today, “Permit the children to come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.” (Luke 18:16)

 So here is to this day, this hour, this moment. Here is to being honest with ourselves when we are feeling grumpy. Here is to living in childlike wonder and amazement. Here is to the childlike spirit that will lead us closer to the Father whose love for us transcends the past and sees beyond the future. Live today. Live the Now. Live it with Him.

Firsts

Right now I want you to stop for just a moment and think about the first.

 I can just imagine you looking at me in confusion and asking, “The first what?”

I don’t know. I’d like you to choose. The first day you went to school. The first time you moved away from your parents. The first occasion where you slid behind the wheel of a car and tentatively put it in drive. The first moments on ice with skates loaned to you by the rink. This particularly applies if you live in the South.

What do you remember about that first? Did you know what you were doing? Did you feel a little nervous? Some of us probably remember feeling terrified. Today you would probably laugh and say that it was OK. It’s normal to feel a little scared the first time you do something new.

I’d assume that you, like me, probably didn’t do things perfectly on that first. Maybe you slipped and fell. Maybe you learned a hard lesson about which pedal was the brake. Maybe you found out how difficult communication really is.

Whatever it was, you expected to make some mistakes because you knew it was your first.

But there are a whole lot of firsts out there that we don’t give ourselves that kind of grace for. We find it hard to accept that our Savior doesn’t hold us to some impossible level of perfection for a lot of the firsts we face, and we somehow believe we should expect that same perfection of ourselves.

Being human, for example. That’s a first. I’ve never done this before. Every year, every stage of life is something new.

Being a Christian. There are still firsts for me in this walk of life. New things to learn, new roots to my behaviors I haven’t dug up yet.

Being a Teacher. Sure, I’ve taught for a good number of years, but every year is different. Sometimes every day is different. I’ve never lived this day before.

Instead of looking with awe at the treasure of another first and the opportunity to learn something new, I turn away from the amazement of what life holds and look with dismay at all the mistakes I make. I draw back, afraid to take the next step, terrified I’ll somehow make a mess of things. Convinced I am the only novice at life and others have everything under control.

Give yourself a little room for being a beginner. It’s OK if you stumble through being a mom. This is the first time you’ve ever done this. Lots of other moms have made it successfully through their firsts. You will, too.

Take a deep breath and tell yourself it’s all right if youth life looks complicated. You’ve never lived this particular year in the youth before. The group is constantly changing. So will you. 

It's all right if you feel out of depth in the new mission field or at the new school or in your new occupation. 

Let go of your ideas on how you want to be the perfect new wife, the exemplary nurse, the idealistic career woman. You’ve never lived your life before. You will make mistakes and messes. You might be afraid or even feel like crying. Remind yourself that you are a beginner. You are still learning. Don't carry frustration around with you. Don't let comparison steal the wonder of the new thing you are doing.

Remembering that you are a beginner in life (and always will be!) leads you towards a place of humility. As soon as we forget that we are living a first, we start becoming confident in our own abilities and forget the One who gives us the ability in the first place.

So give yourself grace. Give yourself room. Give yourself the liberty to be a human. For the first time. Ever.

Love is a Heavy Thing

Love is a heavy thing. 
But that’s why God created dads with strong arms and wide shoulders to carry its weight. We see it when a father stoops to lift his child to his shoulders. Every time he stands, protecting those he loves from the wild winds around them. It’s in the way his sturdy hands can open a jar, move heavy furniture, and carry the weight of the world.

Love is a funny thing.
But that’s why God created dads with a love of laughter. It’s obvious in the way a father reminds his family to laugh. Sometimes that reminder comes on the darkest days. This is why dads are fantastic story-tellers and can recreate a whole cast of characters in a one-man show. And even if we roll our eyes at dad jokes, we really do think they’re a little funny.

Love is a quiet thing. 
But that’s why God created so many dads who show, rather than tell. We can see the love of a father for his family in the way he tenderly holds his child on his lap. It’s there when he quietly helps tidy the house. It’s in how the children know he will always listen to their problems. And most of all, it’s in all the prayers dads whisper for their family as they go about the day.

Love is a joyful thing.
But that’s why God created dads whose eyes light up and sparkle when they look into the faces of those close to them. It’s why a dad will come home, tired, and still play catch. It’s in the pleasure dads get spending time with their family on a trip, or playing Monopoly, or going on a picnic. It’s why a dad delights in his children at all ages, and why their smiles are reflected in his own.

Love is a creative thing.
But that’s why God created dads with the ability to fix and make do. They need their skills to figure out how to make toys work that have lost a part and how to build things for their daughters who are going away to teach. This is why fathers are interested in the world around them and come up with creative answers to the problems their loved ones are facing. 

Love is a painful thing.
But that’s why God created dads who are able to cry when they need to. Because sometimes life requires tears. And children don’t always make the right choices, and burdens can weigh a lot, and it hurts to see those you love in pain and not know how to fix it. But what means the world to those around them is seeing that dad cares enough to walk through the pain with them.

Love is a heavy thing.
But that’s why God created dads and gave them the strength to stand and the wisdom to know when to kneel. That’s why God planned for dads to know when to carry a burden, and when to lift it to Him. That’s why God designed dads with the wisdom to know when to speak and when to listen. Because love is a heavy thing, but God created dads that could carry the weight.

Happy Father’s Day! 

The Lost Car

This is the true story of three maidens who lost a car, and the minor tragedies suffered in their great adventure to retrieve it.

The three, who shall remain unnamed, were once visiting the beautiful city of Savannah, Georgia. Now, as maidens on occasion are wont to do, they were running late. The amazingly modern miracle of Google Maps informed them they were but twelve minutes from their destination. This, in itself, is not a number too large, but there arose yet a problem, for the three were well aware the Riverboat Ride for which they had carefully purchased tickets—Alas!—was to leave in minutes numbering ten.

And so they toiled through the busy streets, casting their eyes this way and that, searching upon their devices for a place in which to park. It seemed there was nothing. But one, alert, suddenly cried, “There!” and the member of the party behind the wheel speedily turned the car into the lot. Doors opened before the car had hardly stopped, and anxious feet pounded down the sidewalks, sometimes walking, sometimes running.

The boat was reached in time, much to the relief of all, and, in spite of much huffing and puffing, the next two hours were spent enjoying the rays of the sun upon their skin and making, it must be admitted, snide remarks about the tour guide, whose jokes were so bad not even the dads were laughing.

And so it was when the pleasant time was over and the trio disembarked, they wandered through shops and stopped for a treat of ice cream, for it was, after all, vacation.

Then it was time to venture back to the automobile which had been left in such haste a few short hours before.

With confidence they began their journey, never dreaming of the hours which lay between them and the glossy black carriage which they had so lately left.

“Is this the street?” asked one.

“Of course,” said another, “and then we turn up there,” finger pointing, “at least, I’m pretty sure that’s where it is.”

And so they strode swiftly up the hill, ready to continue with their journey.

But it was not to be. At the place they paused—for there was no car, not even an oil spot. In truth, the parking lot on which they gazed was not the same one they had left post haste but a few hours before.

“I think it was over that way,” announced the third.

Together, they turned and walked with measured tread and uneasy dread, to discover, much to the dismay of all, that this spot, too, yielded neither car nor recognition.

“Maybe we should have taken that other street,” suggested the first, waving vaguely in the direction of a lane long past.

The others groaned, but as there was no other thought forthcoming, fell in line and marched with trepidation toward the street.

It takes no great mind to recognize the outcome. There was neither car, nor even parking lot at all.

The three took pause.

“What shall we do?” asked one.

“Where should we go?” inquired second.

The third spoke not, but gazed into the screen of a cellular device, tracking whence the travels that day had taken them. Then, decisively, “This way,” she said.

And so they followed, first and second, trusting third would know the way.

But though they followed faithfully each turn they were tasked with taking, they found, dismayed, the destination covered with yellow banners and orange obstacles, surrounded by fences of chain. No parking lot, no oil spot, and certainly no car.

And for the next hours they wandered the streets, trying this one, trudging that one, all to no avail.

At last, they sat down on the curb, discouraged, hungry (for lunch had been forgone), with neither water nor much cell phone battery left of which to speak.

Said one, whose phone still showed a little bar, “We should call a taxi.”

Forsooth, the deed was done. A taxi service and an uber both were pled with to make a quick appearance.

“Where are you located?” asked the driver of one.

The maidens looked around. The business on the corner was a bar, and so they gave the name. “We will be there in thirty or forty minutes,” said he.

Time passed slowly. The taxi nor the uber hove in sight. Calls were made again—“Where are you?”

“Coming,” was the answer.

Yet a third time the call was made, and on this attempt, the call was left ignored, much to the increasing alarm of the maidens, for the sun was slowly sinking away and it was fast becoming dusk.

There seemed little hope but to walk again.

They straggled drearily to their feet, pulling strength from deep inside that none would guess existed in their dehydrated forms.

The one whose phone was somewhat working, searched and found a police station nearby. “Let’s go and ask for help,” she suggested.

The others nodded wearily, and all weaved down the street in search of what, they hoped, would be a saving sanctuary.

And there it was! A building rusty red, with iron rails on the steps. Eager eyed, they scanned the scene, then hope dropped like a leaden balloon onto their tired feet. For perchance there once had been a station here, with helpful men in blue, but if that were the truth, it had been many years since such had been found in the now-decrepit building.

Shoulders drooping, they looked about. The search now had continued for nearly two hours and a half, and one cannot blame them for their wearied state.

Yet what was that? A policemen’s cruiser! Parked in a lot nearby. Perhaps there was reason for spirits to be lifted!

And so they trudged, their steps much slower than before, anxious to ask for help. As they drew nearer, unease grew a little in each breast, until finally the awful truth dawned upon them all. The car was void of occupants—neither man nor beast graced its inner comfort.

Shadows lengthened as they gazed in consternation at the empty cruiser sitting placidly before them.

But the third maiden had had enough. “I shall find a place,” she proclaimed, “whence I shall use the toilet.”

With this decisive speech there followed equally decisive action. A new spring had come into the step, and all haste was made to find this place of refuge.

Past two valets, waiting by the back entrance of an elegant hotel, the three marched confidently. Into the interior, past a sign that said, “No public restrooms!”, past the empty service desk, they marched.

The deed done, they exited, out the way they’d come, only this time stopping to speak with the valets.

“Can you help us?” pleaded one.

The valets, both young men, listened to the story, chuckling only slightly, keeping it quite politely, behind their hands.

They discussed between themselves. What could they do to help?

One picked up his phone (Luckily they were not busy) and called the nonemergency number, and tried his best to explain the situation to the faceless person speaking on the line.

“They said they’d come,” he told the maidens, “and see what they can do.”

And then he offered, kindly, that they could buy some snacks, and charge all wireless devices with his own charging cord, which was done with much humble gratitude.

Time passed. No shining car with blazing lights appeared. Two peered blankly down the street, one gazed relentlessly into the face of her most modern mode of mobile, but all to no avail, for the path that they had taken would not, or was it could not? Be traced at all.

One young valet moved restlessly. “I’ll drive you around, if you want, when my shift is over,” he offered in a manner as gallant as any knight of old could have offered to slay a dragon. “I’ll soon be off the clock, and I’d be glad to help.”

The three considered. This might be their only option, the only hope they had.

But it was at this juncture a patroller’s car appeared and parked across the street.

A lone policewoman stepped out, hand upon the weapon at her side. Striding masterfully across the street, she came.

“What seems to be the matter?” she demanded.

The three encircled her explaining best they could, “Well, you see, we can’t find our car.”

Narrowed eyes relaxed a little. “Well,” she said, “It doesn’t sound like I need to write up a report.”

With haste the maidens did agree this view was valid.

“It doesn’t really sound like there’s trouble,” she continued, “it sounds only like, perhaps you are,” she paused, searching for the word.

“Lost?” supplied the third.

And so it the policewoman (may all who don the uniform be blessed!) offered that one—the owner of the car, should travel with her to find the place where it mysteriously had disappeared.

So one embarked upon the journey, riding behind the bars of the cruiser, sliding none too elegantly across the seat whereon she sat, trying to explain the best she could the place whereupon so much earlier the chariot had been left.

At last, at last, the weary maiden spied the form so much beloved. “That’s it!” she cried.

The woman driving looked amazed. “You walked a long way,” she said. And not one of the three would have disagreed.

The one profusely thanked her, then slipping in behind the wheel made haste back to where the others waited. Never had hearts warmed so much to see a motorcar. Never had the maidens found the seats so comfortable into which they sank. The car was found, at last, after only nearly four hours of searching.

Do true stories come with morals? This one has, perhaps, if you look closely, two.

The first is always know exactly where you’ve parked your car, and second?

When the need arises, it’s always wise to stop and find a loo.

I Wish I Had Known

Whatever situation you are in, whatever emotions you are experiencing, I want you to know it is OK to feel. Don't wait to figure it out until you have walls built up and painful things buried. Take a step, trust someone, even if you are afraid. Falling apart is sometimes the only way for things to come together.

I wish I had known many things when I was younger, but most of all I wish I had known it was OK to cry.

It wasn't that I grew up surrounded by tearless family. Far from it. My mother and her sisters were the brunt of many jokes about crying over tiny, insignificant things. But I didn't know it was OK to cry. I thought it was weakness, and I couldn't afford to be weak.

I wish I had known it was OK to be weak.

It certainly wasn't that I grew up feeling strong. Quite the opposite. I often felt like a lone sailor, precariously riding the swells of the ocean in a flimsy lifeboat, panicking that things were out of my control. But I didn't know that it was OK to be weak. I thought weakness was the same as fear, and I didn't believe it was acceptable to fear.

I wish I had known it was OK to fear.

It wasn't that I grew up fearless. I was very familiar with fear in my stomach, the tightness, the dull heavy feeling it gave. But I didn't know it was OK to be afraid, and so I didn't tell anyone that I was scared, and tried to stuff the feelings out of sight behind a mask. To show fear was to be vulnerable, and vulnerable people did not survive.

I wish I had known it was OK to be vulnerable.

I didn't grow up in an era that knew a lot about being vulnerable, so maybe it's not really my fault I didn't understand. I thought vulnerability was weakness and fear combined. That being vulnerable meant giving up and being walked on. I didn't know that vulnerability is more about love, loving not only others, but also yourself.

I wish I had known it was OK to love.

I definitely grew up in a family that was big on love. But I thought love was just gross, mushy kisses and rib-cracking hugs, and embarrassing moments, and I wasn't too big on that. I didn't recognize that love was so much bigger. I had no idea that love was more than giving hugs. It was also learning how to accept them.

I wish I had known it was OK to hug.

People around me seemed to think it was. But I was terrified of hugs. It was love and fear and vulnerability all rolled into one. And so I squirmed out and away, tried to be independent, decided I could make it on my own. Besides, the feeling I got when I was hugged was a funny feeling I wasn't used to. It made me want to cry.

I wish I had known many things when I was younger, but most of all I wish I had known it was OK to cry.