Today started out exceptionally well. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I decided to take the dogs to the beach early. I’ve been babysitting for Jack’s cousin-dog, Sydney, for a couple of weeks. The two of them work like a team of miniature ponies, each appreciating the other.

I rode my bike while the dogs ran enthusiastically through nearby trees and dunes. Fifty white seagulls were a springy surprise at the beach, since we hadn’t seen them since last fall. The dogs dutifully cleared the area, chasing them into the sky.

Although the sand was like concrete after temps in the 20’s last night, the scene was striking, each rock sparkling with a thin layer of ice. But all three of us were wearing heavy coats and spent an hour walking the water line, appreciating the visual feast of wild waves and glistening dunes. I filled a Zip-Loc with spectacular stones but wondered how I’d get them home on my bike.

Each day as we fly down the road toward home on the back side of a dune, the dogs cooperate with biking etiquette, running parallel with each other and me. But today, as we were speeding downhill at a fast clip, Jack suddenly broke stride and made a sharp turn in front of my bike without warning. Our collision stopped the bike cold and tangled me in the front wheel as the bike and I tumbled down the hill to a stop.

In that split second before my face hit the pavement, all I could think of was my bag of rocks perched on the handlebars, hoping I wouldn’t lose them. Looking up, I saw the dogs racing side-by-side as always, chasing the reason for Jac’s abrupt turn, a red-tailed squirrel.

I sat up on the pavement to assess the damage, which didn’t seem too bad. But the rock-baggie had split, scattering my treasures everywhere. As I was debating what to do about it, I saw my cheek begin to get in the way of my vision, and blood was dripping on my coat. Thankfully I had two tissues in my coat pocket and used them while riding the rest of the way home.

As today’s hours have passed, my body has “described” to me exactly what happened, yelling about two toes, three fingers, two knees, four teeth, one back and my prize-fighter face. Finally, at Mary’s urging, I agreed to go to the emergency room. Compassionate next door neighbors donated six hours to the cause, chauffeuring me to the hospital and bringing me back home afterwards, along with three prescriptions, a water bottle and a warm blanket.

After arriving home with a broken toe, torn tissue around one knee and a “developing” face, my mind was flooded with reasons to be grateful. Despite an eye full of sand and gravel, my eyeball wasn’t cut. I’m also glad Jack wasn’t hurt and that my bike still works. I’m grateful my neighbors were home and willing to give so generously of themselves, and I’m thankful Nate didn’t see this face. If he had,a lecture would have been forthcoming for sure.

Jack, Sydney and I were planning to load the Highlander and head for Chicago to spend tonight with Louisa and Birgitta before the five of us began another road trip to Florida early tomorrow. But with only one eye looking through the windshield, I decided the girls should come to me instead. I’m thankful to have capable drivers willing to clock the 1400 miles to our destination while I chill out doing other things in the back seat. As for my rocks, I’ll go back in the morning to gather them up.

Today I’d had the perfect Plan A with a well-ordered to-do list, but God had pre-arranged a Plan B. And in his plan, I found many reasons to be thankful.

“The Lord will work out his plans for my life—for your faithful love, O Lord, endures forever.” (Psalm 138:8)

Living here in my Michigan cottage, I’ve been thinking about the many friends I still have in the Chicago area. I’ve also thought back on one friendship that traveled a very bumpy road.

This person who I knew for decades and loved deeply hurt me by something she did, taking advantage of our relationship in a way she didn’t see as a problem. To me it was cruel, but she never saw it that way, even when I confronted her.

The problem grew, however, in that this offense began to dominate my thinking, every single day. No matter how I tried, including repeated efforts to hand it over to the Lord, I couldn’t get rid of it. It was like someone had strapped a lead-filled back pack on me, insisting I carry it every waking moment.

One day I was complaining to another friend about the mess, defending my anger and my position as the victim. She’d heard my speech one too many times and finally asked, “What exactly would you like to happen, best case scenario?”

I was ready with an answer. “I want her to feel the hurt exactly like I do, so she’ll be sorry.”

It shocked and disappointed me when my friend shook her head and said, “She never will.”

I argued my position, but she stuck with her opinion. “You’ll have to give up wishing for that, or you’ll live the rest of your life hoping for something you’ll never get.”

I had a different scenario in mind. First, she would feel terrible and, with tears, would ask my forgiveness. Second, our friendship would be restored. Third, I’d be able to release my feelings of hostility and get closure.

After struggling for seven months, I realized my “friend” probably wasn’t thinking about the offense at all. And my other friend’s prediction was coming true: I was hoping for something I’d probably never get, and the striving was eating me up.

Why did I want this woman to feel the same pain I did? I guess I thought it would be a type of shared suffering, that if she felt badly too, I would only feel half as bad. It started to dawn on me, though, that even if she shared my misery, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Eventually I did find help. It came through two statements made by Pastor Colin Smith in a sermon:

1. God feels what you’re feeling.
2. Jesus went to the cross for the sin that caused your pain.

Once I realized God had been watching on the day she wounded me and genuinely felt the extent of my pain, it was as if someone lifted the heavy back pack from my shoulders. I also realized that because Jesus was tortured and killed for sin, he would deal with my offender personally and didn’t need my help.

These two truths were so freeing, it wasn’t long before I found myself moving back toward this woman, without resentment or anger. My get-even mentality had completely disappeared, along with its heaviness.

Seventeen years have gone by since the hurtful incident occurred. I’m still friends with this woman, and occasionally I think about it but without struggle or bitterness. If anything, I have greater appreciation for God’s power to affect change from the inside out, simply by showing me who he is. He’s a personal friend willing to share in our suffering, and he’ll insure justice in the end.

Although his “Rules for Relationships” often go against human logic, they work remarkably well. And in missing my Chicago friends, I am missing that friend, too.

”If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18)

[ Two days ago I promised to blog about the cousin who was killed in a car crash, the second childhood incident that taught me about prayer’s importance. One day late, here it is. ]

Growing up, we had five cousins living in distant California. The oldest, Karen, was a bit older than the rest of us, and we all looked up to her. She was full of personality with many friends, and when she was 17, one of them invited her to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.

That weekend Karen happily climbed into the groomsman’s blue Corvette, and with the top down, they began their two hour drive to the rehearsal. The bride and groom followed in their own sports car. While rounding a curve, a car driven by a drunk driver on a spree with three buddies crossed the centerline and slammed head-on into the Corvette.

Karen and her driver were both killed, the bride and groom critically injured. The drunk driver and two of his passengers died, too, and the wedding never took place.

The night our family got the phone call with this shocking news, I watched my parents, in the midst of their confusion and sorrow, turn to God in prayer. After flying to California the next day, I observed one scene after another that didn’t line up with my 12 year old world view. Watching my mom and aunt weep freely was bad enough, but I’d never seen a man cry. The low point came during the funeral when I looked down the church pew and saw my dad’s profile. Although he was facing forward not making a sound, tears were running down his face, and life seemed to fall apart.

Karen’s parents prayed countless prayers during those difficult days as they asked God to use her life and also her death for his purposes. I noticed that communication with God seemed to anchor unsteady adults.

When Karen’s senior English teacher gave her parents the last school assignment she’d turned in, my aunt and uncle were able to read her candid “Philosophy of Life.” In no-nonsense words, she detailed her love for Christ, quoting Philippians 1:21: “For to me, to live is Christ, to die is gain.” They were comforted to see, in her handwriting, these words: “I know that after death I will go to be with Him forever.”

That school assignment eventually became the centerpiece of a pamphlet entitled “Teenage Triumph” and was printed in 14 languages, distributed on every continent. Countless young people have come to Christ because of her testimony during the 51 years since her death. Eventually her story was included in a book entitled MORE THAN CONQUERORS along with celebrities like Chuck Colson, Corrie Ten Boom, C. S. Lewis and Billy Graham.

When Karen’s parents were in their eighties, a film company making a video about answered prayer asked if they’d be willing to share their daughter’s story again, as one of five examples on the hour-long documentary. Although the interview brought back some of their pain, joy over the wide-ranging impact of Karen’s life led them to say yes.

My uncle reiterated on tape how they’d dedicated Karen to the Lord when she was born, and so she’d really belonged to him all along. He said, “Her life has counted. Her death has counted. And her influence was greater after she died than before.”

I began to see that God hadn’t “killed Karen” in a random act of cruelty but had let it happen for specific, eternal purposes. And remembering that her parents had prayed for her life to be used by him, I began to glimpse the vast scope of prayer.

God takes us at our word. He hears every utterance and has the power to affect dramatic change. I’ve found that watching him work is one of life’s peak thrills. To me, forfeiting a chance to pray about something is to throw away an opportunity unequaled by any other.

“I am praying to you because I know you will answer, O God. Bend down and listen as I pray. Show me your unfailing love in wonderful ways. Satisfy the hunger of your treasured ones.” (Palm 17:6,7,14b)