Butter and cream

If Southern Baptists could be nominated for sainthood, I’d have my pick. I lost a dear friend today in the passing of Mrs. Betty Hasty. She was a friend as close as a family member for the past 21 years. She’s the reason Michael and I are in the ministry positions we are in today. She’s been like a second mom to us, and like a grandma to our children.

Many, many people will miss Betty, and others will no doubt speak of her and write of her with more eloquence than I can muster. So I will content myself to dwell on one simple aspect of her life: butter and cream.

Sometimes it’s OK to pretend

I called her “Tillie.” She was some kind of hound dog mix who turned up in our neighborhood back in the summer. Actually our son, Clay, dubbed her something which I refused to call her (and I now refuse to print!) so I adapted his moniker to “Tillie.”

It’s all too common for animals to get dumped in our neck of the woods. And of course, unclaimed, they stay, mate and reproduce, thus worsening the animal control situation. I’ve tried to find homes for many a stray kitten, but when they’re born in the wild I can’t catch them to give them away.

But back to Tillie. She came to us nearly starved and otherwise in poor health. Her ribs stuck out under skin that appeared to cover nothing but bones. Her haunches were covered in sores. She didn’t have much energy, yet her sweet disposition was still obvious to the casual onlooker.

Seasons

Well, last weekend we had ourselves some snow. Actually, we didn’t get nearly as much as the forecast predicted we might, but it was still more than we’d had in a while. All in all, it’s been a mild winter for us, so I’ve had no complaints. The snow just got me to thinking about seasons.

Fading

A couple of months back I chaperoned a trip with Michael and his AP English IV class. We took them to Transylvania University to see “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Clay met us for dinner and the play, and it was great, as always, to get to spend time with our son.

After the show we took him back to the U.K. campus and dropped him off in a parking lot near his dorm. As we pulled away and I saw Clay walking back to his high-rise home away from home in the darkness, I started to cry. Michael had his back to me on the tiny bus. It was dark inside and the kids were all chatting merrily. Thankfully, nobody noticed the silent tear coursing down my cheek.

A sense of loneliness overwhelmed me. I missed Clay. I missed Noel. I missed Grandma.

Four weeks in

For those of you who may be wondering, yes, I took the pill. And I’ve been taking it faithfully every day for the past four weeks. The first couple of days I felt pretty strange, both physically and emotionally. In fact, the first entire week everything was a little “off.” I just didn’t feel like myself. But by the start of week two, things began to get to my new state of “normal.”

It’s been just like everyone said it would be. I’m still me, for good or for ill. But instead of being controlled by my emotions, I’m now better able to control them. Instead of being pushed to a point of despair when the stress mounts, I’m now better able to take it in stride. I still feel happy. I still feel sad. But it’s what a person should feel in day-to-day life, without the unhealthy extremes. (It has been giving me some pretty freaky dreams, but I won’t complain about that.) Oh, and God and I remain on speaking terms.

Early on, it helped my perception of being medicated to know that mine is an SSRI. It doesn’t work by adding some foreign substance to my brain chemistry; it simply helps me make better use of my body’s own serotonin. I really like that. I hope the medication helps me be more of the person my Creator intended me to be than ever before. But this whole thing has gotten me to thinking…

That dreaded “R” word

Well, it’s almost Valentine’s Day, and you know what that means. It’s time for the guys over on the BHT to begin their annual rant against romance. I don’t think they’ve started yet, but there’s still plenty of time.

They have good intentions. They make many good points which are very true. They quote John Piper, and I like John Piper. Yes, marriage should be about more than romance–much more. Yes, romance fades but real love lives on. Yes, marriage is way more about agape love than any other kind. It’s about sacrifice, sometimes even suffering. It’s about giving even when you don’t feel like it. But still, I wonder…

Does it have to be either/or?

The Night Before I Take the Red Pill

Anyone who has seen “The Matrix” will remember the moment. Neo stands looking at two pills, one red, the other blue. Morpheus tells him, “You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.” It’s a moment of grave decision. Neo swallows the red and his life–even his understanding of reality itself–is forever changed.

And so it is that I now stand with the red pill in my hand.

Emmanuel

Christmas is, in many ways, a time for children. Jolly old St. Nick, red-nosed reindeer, stockings bulging with surprises–all things that make a young countenance light up with glee.

One of my favorite personal Christmas stories is about our daughter, Noel. But it’s not about the mythical aspect of the holiday. No, Noel has always been a very practical  person. This story is about the down-to-earth side of Christmas, the real Christmas, if you will.

Noel was three years old, and already had a great love of play-acting. One day she came into my bedroom carrying her favorite baby doll and wearing a cloth diaper as a head covering. “Mommy,” she directed, “You be Mary and I’ll be the angel.” She looked rather serious, and I sensed that this might be important. “O.K.” I agreed, and waited. Noel carried the doll gently, carefully, and ceremoniously laid it in my arms. “It’s the baby Jesus,” she explained, as if I had not already guessed. “Thank you,” I replied, and looked upon my new addition with the best pretend maternal love I could muster.

The small angel stood there a moment before giving me one knowing admonition: “He spits up.”

Little did she know that she had captured the heart of the gospel in three unlikely words. Jesus, the Alpha and Omega, only begotten Son of the Father, came to earth as a human. A tiny human, wrinkled and helpless, crying and hungry. Jesus, the Word made flesh, would nurse at His mother’s breast and then spit up.

I have known Him for a lifetime, and still it amazes me. I hope it amazes you, too. May you know and worship Emmanuel, God with us, this Christmas.

Thirty years the wiser

In the summer we always have our annual Homecoming at Oneida Baptist Institute. Our Homecomings are different from most high school reunions. Anybody who has ever attended OBI (and former faculty and staff, and friends of the school, and pretty much anyone else who would like a great BBQ lunch!) is welcomed and encouraged to come. We recognize classes celebrating 5, 10, 15 (etc.) year reunions, with a special emphasis on the 50th anniversary class.

It all reminded me of last summer, when I attended my 30th high school reunion. It was the first reunion I had ever been to. I guess it took me 30 years to get up the nerve.

The Little Things

Whether it’s a pebble in a shoe or a smile from a stranger, sometimes it’s the little things that affect us the most. And so it was in the brief time that Grandma lived with us.

Grandma’s personality seemed to change after she moved into our home last fall. Since we had never spent this much time with her before, we didn’t know if she had really changed, or if we were just seeing a side of her that we had never known. If she were truly different, maybe it was a result of aging. Perhaps it was an after-effect of her recent heart trouble and resulting hospital stay. It certainly could have been the  depression she suffered from being blind and having to give up her independence. Whatever the cause, it was the little things that we noticed.