Which of These Three?

As the school year is about to commence, many new teachers will enter their classrooms. You might be nervous. You might be scared of making mistakes. But being a teacher doesn't depend on being perfect. There's another quality that is even more important when it comes to being a success. Can you find it?

Please note, there is nothing wrong with enjoying social life or being organized. Some teachers really do seem to do it all. ;)  

And so it was that at the beginning of a new school year, three teachers pulled into the teacherage yard and begin a new adventure together. Miss Right was there to teach 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th. Miss Social had agreed to teach 3^rd, 4^th, and 5^th, and Miss Imperfect nearly bounced up and down in her excitement to meet the 1^st and 2^nd graders.

The first thing all three did, of course, was speed to school and begin unloading their respective cars.
 
Miss Right had possibly a hundred posters explaining the parts of speech, how to place your hands on a keyboard, and the series of steps needed for all types of complicated equations. Her art supplies for the year and science projects were carefully organized and labeled in coordinated boxes. All extra activity pages and History worksheets were filed alphabetically and chronologically, and her students’ desks were placed in rigid rows with a neatly typed handbook containing lists of dos and don’ts and classroom procedures displayed prominently atop each.
 
Miss Social’s boxes and bags were not quite so neatly arranged, but her color schemes were natural and neutral and modern-looking. She possessed cute beanbags and an exquisite job chart. Her incentive plans were on full display, and her bulletin boards were minimalist. Her classroom was set up as quickly as humanly possible, because her cousin had invited her to go out for coffee with a group of youth. It didn’t much matter that the border corners didn’t meet up or that she hadn’t completely studied her lessons. She knew how to divide, right? And she could still find a subject and verb in a sentence. So surely that was good enough. She would not be a slave to the studies.
 
Miss Imperfect was struggling. Her method of organization was something down the lines of “Bless her heart, she tried.”

No matter how she attempted, she couldn’t get the bulletin board she was working on to look right. She finally gave up and sat down at her desk. School hadn’t been easy for her, but someone had told her once that the best teachers were those who had struggled to learn, so she took solace in that thought. She had been shown at teacher prep how to set up her gradebook and lesson plans, but now they lay before her like foreign objects. And so she watched from her window, discouraged, as Miss Right left her perfectly ordered classroom and went home to make a three-course meal. She felt a small despair begin to fill her spirit as Miss Social bounded energetically out the door to jump into a pickup with four other youth. And finally, all alone, overwhelmed, and dismayed, she bowed her head and prayed, “Dear God, I don’t know where to start! Please just show me the first thing to do!”
 
As the first week of school came to an end, the schoolboard chairman and his wife showed up to ask how things had been going.
 
Miss Right was the first to speak. Her class had doubled lessons three days the first week. She’d sent homework home with them because she believed in working them hard. Their first art projects were displayed neatly on the wall. She’d handed out three sets of sentences for students to write and had made 2 of the boys run laps. Nothing was going to get by on her watch! And by the way, would one of the men be available to help on the math unit about measures? She wanted to have her class build a doghouse as they worked with linear systems.
 
Miss Social yawned while she waited to speak. Her class was just buzzing along. They thought the story hour book was hilarious. They’d had a lot of fun playing White Lightening at recess. And art had been wild—three children got paint on their clothes—but everything was going great. She wondered how much they could check in class. It seemed like she spent so much time grading after the dismissal bell rang. She hopped off the counter where she had been idly swinging her legs, and went to fill her Stanley cup with water. She was trying to get in the required amount each day. Plus, she had challenged her students to see who could walk or run a mile each day without missing, so she really needed to go do that before she left for supper plans.
 
Poor Miss Imperfect was trembling. Dean wasn’t catching on to vowels. Kimberly hadn’t understood a single syllable about naming words. And Cody had fallen out of his chair three times in five minutes. The last time he had said he was pretending to fish like an Indian. It never crossed Miss Imperfect’s mind to mention to Mr. Chairman about how she had hugged Kimberly while she cried about her kitten that had been mauled by a dog. She never thought to explain how she’d had a serious talk with Cody about the difference between pretending and truth. And it never crossed her mind to mention the special prayer her class had had that morning for the missionaries after Dean told a story about his uncle in Guatemala. She wished she had everything under control like Miss Right and Miss Social. Every morning, her drive to school was peppered with “Dear God, please give me wisdom,” prayers.
 
Reports of school begin making their way home to the parents.
 
Miss Right’s class complained about all the work they had to do. They grumbled that their teacher never listened to their side of the story. They were pretty sure she didn’t like them. And she never smiled.
 
Miss Social’s students talked about the crazy things that happened in their classroom. Jefferson and Tianna had a prank war going on. And everyone talked when Miss Social went out of the room to send a voice message.
 
Miss Imperfect’s first and second graders talked about the funny pictures she drew to go with their spelling words. They groaned about putting their heads down on their desks. And they colored countless pictures for Miss Imperfect, because they knew each one would be hung proudly—albeit lopsidedly—on the wall behind her desk.
 
At last the school year came to a close. Miss Right had signed her contract for another year after asking for a pay raise. Miss Social had declined to sign, and everyone knew there was a wedding in the future. Miss Imperfect had signed her contract for the next year as well. She had had a rough start with running her classroom, but she’d grown a lot as a teacher after seeking out and acting on advice from trusted sources.
 
Miss Right watched her graduating class walk across the stage with a quiet sense of pride. At least 3 out of the 5 were straight A students. And they better be. She had certainly put enough work into them.
 
Miss Social made sure everyone saw her hugging her children goodbye at the play day. She really did like them a lot. Although James could be a pest.
 
Miss Imperfect watched her class load into the school van on the last day with a smile on her face. “God, help them to grow in a way that pleases You,” she whispered. “I want them to be strong and true.” And then she waved goodbye.
 
Which of these three will you be?

Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. (Proverbs 31:29)
 

Roll the Tent

 Inspired by a real event

And so it happened that the Smith family (because Smith is a good name for those who wish to remain anonymous) took their annual camping trip. There was good food, lots of laughter, singing around the campfire, and cousins. This last element is the one most worthy of our attention.

James, Jerry, and John (because names that start with J are convenient) shared one tent, and Barb, Beth, and Brenda shared another. No one knew exactly how it started. It just began as these things do. Maybe someone hid a drink behind a tree or covered a pair of shoes with sticks and leaves. That part isn’t so important. But what is integral to the story is that a war broke out. This was not a war of words and cannons. No, it was a war of wits and boasts.

“You’d better watch out!”

“What are you whispering about over there?”

“You just wait and see!”

An aura of distrust soon settled over the campsite.

But nightfall came, surprisingly, peacefully enough. The funny stories the uncles were telling slipped away gradually into low murmurs and yawns, and soon enough everyone dispersed to their tents.

Jim, Jerry, and John moved in a clumsy state of tiredness about their tent, then, at peace in heart and body, they soon fell asleep, attuned to the noises of nature around them.

Barb, Beth, and Brenda, however, felt the night was just beginning. There was so much to talk about. So many little details of life to catch up on. So many questions about the future and ponderings on things past, that quite a little time had passed before they began to bumble about by some form of artificial lighting and prepare for bed.

It was then that Brenda remembered something. “Girls!” she said, “I almost forgot!” and she held up, in the dim light, a small padlock. (Because what girl doesn’t take a padlock along when she goes camping?)

“Surely we can do something with that!” said Beth, her eyes lit with mischief and her voice soft with conspiracy.

Barb agreed. “Their tent!” she whispered triumphantly. “The door of their tent!”

Beth unzipped their own tent flap and looked out. Through the silhouette of the tree branches they could see the night sky, sprinkled liberally with stars. An owl called from far away. Water ran gently down the little creek behind their tent. Nothing else seemed to be moving. “I think they’re sleeping,” she whispered to the others.

But who would do the deed? Brenda said they would be suspicious of her right away, it was best If she didn’t do it. Barb said she had to live with Jerry. She didn’t want to put up with the consequences of the action for the rest of her life. And so they both turned to Beth.

“But I…” Beth begin.

“You’re perfect!” Barb said.

“We’ll go with you,” Brenda added.

“They’ll never know, we won’t tell,” Barb persuaded.

And finally Beth relented.

The three crept silently across the intervening space between the two tents. There was just enough light to avoid a clump of shrubs to one side, and Beth bit her lip only once to silence the gasp of pain when she stepped on a sharp stick.

They halted before the boys’ tent. A gentle snore issued from the darkened interior. The three culprits stifled their giggles, and Brenda handed the open padlock to Beth. Carefully, she inserted the shank through both zippers of the door, then closed it with a gentle click. The sound seemed loud in the peaceful silence of the campground. The three held their breath, but the steady rhythm of sleeping sounds did not change. Turning, they crept back the way they had come.

Sometime later, when all was silent in the girls’ tent, a dark figure who had been tossing and turning in the boys’ tent, awoke. John, feeling the call of nature, sat up and fumbled for his phone. Turning the light on, he stood up, partially bent over, and headed for the door, doing his best not to step on the other two. Confidently, he reached for the zipper to let himself out of the tent. He hadn’t moved it far when he could tell, even in the darkness, something peculiar was going on. The zipper was certainly moving, but the flap wasn’t coming open.

John shone his light on the zipper pull, thinking he must have pulled both by accident, and tried again. This time, he could clearly see he was pulling the correct one, but the other was mysteriously coming along with it. He put his phone down and grabbed the two zipper pulls, trying to force them apart. He pulled until one of them seemed to be bending, but still the door would not open. He knelt on the floor, trying to peer through the tiny space between the two zippers to see what could be holding them together. In the moonlight, he saw the faint silver shine of a padlock. He knelt back on his heels and muttered an exclamation half aloud. Then he played his light around the tent, wondering if there was another way out. Of course, there wasn’t.

“What’s the matter?” asked a voice. James had been awoken, whether by the light or the rustle of movement no one knows.

“We’re locked in!” hissed John. “Somebody padlocked our tent shut!”

“Do what?” James sat up.

“It had to be the girls,” John said bitterly. “At least I don’t know who else would have done it.”

It didn’t take long for the sound of their voices to awaken Jerry. He soon appraised the situation. “We gotta get out of here somehow.”

A council of war ensued. One suggested ripping the tent (Because all guys like a little destruction now and then, right?) and another thought a pocketknife would do a more precise job. For a while, that seemed to be the best idea. Next came the question of where to make the cut. John thought the door seemed the most reasonable place. Jerry opined the back of the tent seemed better, and James wondered why they couldn’t just unzip one of the windows and cut out the netting, at least for tonight. That way they wouldn’t completely ruin the tent.

And then Jerry said, “Really we should wake the girls up and make them come unlock it.”

“Right,” agreed James.

“We could yell,” shrugged John.

But that, they decided, would wake up more of an audience than they liked to view their predicament. Besides, only the girls should have to pay for this vile deed.

“Whenever we decide where to make the cut, we should go and pound on their tent,” James said.

“If I know anything about them they’ll just laugh and go back to sleep. They need to pay a little for this,” said Jerry, remembering certain other events surrounding pranks and his sister.

“Too bad we can’t just walk over there with the whole tent,” James mused.

“Hey! Do you think we could? Like what if we just sorta turned it over on its side like a hamster wheel?” asked John.

And so it was that at 3:00 in the morning, the three found themselves rearranging the contents of their tent. Working together, they managed to pull up the stakes. “Glad the ground was soft,” grunted Jerry.

Then it was time to roll, literally. Together, they pushed the front wall of the tent down and out, then stepped on it. Their backpacks and sleeping bags tumbled around their feet. The tent, surprisingly, held its shape fairly well as it settled to the ground.

The process was repeated several times. It was a bit disorienting, and nearly impossible to steer, but luckily they were just about straight across from the girls. For one moment, they thought they’d been hung up by the bushes that grew, forgotten, halfway across the clearing. But at last, peering through the window, Jerry said he thought one more roll should get them right to the girls’ door. “Then they should be able to hear us without waking up everyone else,” he said.

“Nope!” John contradicted. “Twice more. Then we’ll just roll right into them and give them a bit of a surprise wake-up call.”

James chortled gleefully.

Thunk. The tent rolled once more. The guys started the familiar process of shoving things out of the way and pushing out the tent side.

Crunch.

Brenda came suddenly awake. Something was wrong. What was on her feet? What was that noise? Why was the tent wall leaning so far to one side? “What’s going on?” she whispered, sitting up.

Beth’s first thought was a bear.

Barb only awakened when the whole tent begin to slide along the ground. “Hey!” she cried out, startled.

Everything happened so fast there was no time for consultation. The girls’ tent was a pop-up version that didn’t require stakes. Instead of just collapsing under the pressure, it had actually begun to slide across the ground.

“You can let us out, now!” said a voice. “Where’s the key?”

Brenda recognized it as John. “It’s just the guys,” she said to the others. “They’re just pushing our tent around or something. Shall we let them out?”

But before the conversation could continue, Jerry said, “Let us out before we count to ten or we’ll roll right over you!”

“Hurry!” said Beth. “Where’s the key?”

“I need a light!” said Brenda. The girls fumbled frantically in the dark tent.

“Coming!” said Barb. 

“I can’t find it,” gasped Brenda. “I put it in one of these pockets, but I don’t know which!”

“Seven,” said a voice.

“Wait!” said Barb. “Don’t you dare go over us! You’ll squash us! We’re trying to find the key!”

“Nine,” said a chorus.

“No!” cried Beth. “Please!”

“Ten!” the voices chanted.

“All right, guys, heave!” commanded Jerry. Once more they maneuvered the tent. The girls screeched, but the boys didn’t roll over them. Instead, like before, the tent slid along the ground.

Suddenly the screams from the girls’ tent became more frantic. Their tent had slid off a sudden drop and water, much to their consternation, was soaking quickly through the flimsy walls and floor. Thankfully, the creek was shallow, only a foot or so deep, but the rocks underfoot were sharp.

Uncles and fathers begin popping their heads out of their tents and shining lights on the two tents, trying to determine what the ruckus was. At last, Beth managed to get the tent door unzipped, and the girls stumbled out. Brenda found the key in a dark mysterious pocket and released the boys. The girls’ tent was pulled from the water, and the boys’ tent was dragged back across the campground to its original spot.

The rest of the girls’ night was rather unpleasant. Wet tents and sleeping bags usually are.

The rest of the guys’ night was spent in peaceful slumber after a round of congratulatory high fives.

This story is, perhaps, mostly without moral. But as I have said before, I believe almost every story has something to teach us if we look closely enough. So perhaps here, the moral is this: When things look dark and circumstances appear unsurmountable, there are times you’ve got to get willing to think creatively. Often, getting upset and ripping into things that stand in your way isn’t the only option. There are times when you’ve just got to roll the tent.

 

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!