Hip Hop

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I used to have a green thumb. Mom was an enthusiastic gardener who’s skill at tending things made it all grow, and she tutored me. For decades my Illinois gardens were happy.

Since moving to Michigan, however, I haven’t done as well. I thought my yellow cottage could resemble a Thomas Kincaid painting if I hung flowering window boxes, so I bought 3 of them. Their northern exposure meant 100% shade, but I figured impatiens or begonias would work.

I tried both over 2 consecutive summers, but the boxes never looked good. Last year I purchased new groups of plants 3 times over, but saw the demise of all 3 sets. This year, though, I have a fool proof plan. Blossoms are guaranteed, because the flowers I planted are… artificial. Their label bragged they could fool anyone, so yesterday, the day before my Sunday brunch for 14, I brought the 3 window boxes into the house to set them up with white flowers and beautiful plastic asparagus fern.

While I assembled gardening tools, the 3 window boxes (full of last year’s moist potting soil) sat on my dining room table, and when I came back, I got a big surprise. The table was alive with critters who’d been living in the window boxes while it wintered behind the evergreens.

There were roly-poly bugs, ants, spiders, and several earth worms making their way across my table, exploring their new surroundings. I knew my brunch guests wouldn’t appreciate critters crawling over their feet or (gulp) their coffee cake, so had to move fast.

In keeping with my policy of never harming an outdoor creature when it’s outside but signing its death warrant inside, I started with the spiders, then finished off everything else except the worms. They received grace and were relocated in the yard.

After that, the plastic planting proceeded without a hitch except when a frog suddenly jumped out of the third window box. About the size of a plum, he startled me but quickly hopped to the table, chair, and floor, ultimately finding shelter next to a table leg. After making several unsuccessful grabs, I laced myself through the chairs trying to put a hand over him, but he always stayed one hop ahead of me.

In a way his moves imitated what I sometimes do when I hop away from God’s plans to carry me out of one of the messes I’ve made, favoring my own route out. He has every intention of liberating me, but when I pray for his direction and he responds with a protective hand over me, I jump right out from under it. Then when I get into trouble a few hops later, I beg him for rescue.

The frog didn’t know I had a good plan to carry him back outdoors. And because he wouldn’t let me hold him, he might have signed his own death warrant. Although I kept trying to catch him, in the end he completely disappeared.

Thirty-six hours later, I still haven’t found him.

“Listen to advice and accept instruction, that you may gain wisdom in the future.” (Proverbs 19:20)

Misinformed

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Although I’m not much of a traveler, I’m beginning to learn the ins and outs of Southwest Airlines. Unlike American, United, and others, Southwest has “open seating,” which means no one can choose their spot ahead of time. As ticket holders receive their boarding passes, they check for an important letter:     A, B, or C.

If it’s A, lucky you.

You get to board first and pick any seat you want. The C people are the unluckys, having to squeeze into leftover spots here and there between passengers who were hoping you’d sit somewhere else.

I’ve always viewed the A group with boarding-pass envy, wondering why I inevitably rated a C. Finally I asked an A how she did it. It turned out “good grades” were the prize for winning a cyberspace game: be the first to check-in online.

For my next flight, I entered the competition for an A slot. Each of 3 attempts flashed the “Oops!” screen, but once the computer clock moved into that golden 24 hour zone just before my flight’s departure, the check-in click worked. And when my boarding pass emerged from the printer, it had a big A on it!

What a satisfying feeling to finally be part of the privileged pick-your-seat A-people. As I waited in the A-wave of passengers, I tried not to look over at those holding B and C boarding passes, knowing they were eying me with envy. How lovely to be holding an A.

Scripture isn’t big on A-passes and actually promotes the C’s. One day Jesus’ disciples were mourning all they’d given up to follow him when he assured them brighter days were coming. Future first/last places would have nothing to do with earthly firsts/lasts but would be just the opposite. He told them, “Being in the C group now is setting yourself up to one day be in the A’s.”

This was hard to believe, and Jesus knew it. He told them several stories to push his point, and today we can do whatever we want with those. He knew putting ourselves last would go against our natural egotism but continued to insist that being last was the only sure way to get ahead.

As I surrendered my A-pass and boarded the plane, I surveyed scores of empty seats, choosing a window spot in the second row. “First on, first off,” I thought with smug satisfaction. “And a wall to lean on for a nap.”

Gradually the plane filled as flight attendants announced it would be a full aircraft. And wouldn’t you know, the last C boarding pass belonged to the biggest passenger. I don’t have to tell you which seat (and a half) he wedged himself into. As nearby A-people sent sympathetic glances my way, I learned that even an A-level boarding pass can lead to a C-quality seat.

“Jesus said to them, “If anyone would be first, he must be last of all.” (Mark 9:35)

Defying Logic

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Yesterday’s flight from the West Coast back to Michigan was flawless. We flew from the Pacific Ocean over snow covered Mount Hood (11,800 ft.), across the Badlands of South Dakota, and above a succession of massive, round wheat fields sprouting from desert sands.

Every seat on our 737 was full, and as always, I marveled at the efficiency of modern air travel, wondering how jet engines can possibly lift the weight of all of us, plus the heavy plane.

Orville and Wilbur Wright would probably refuse to get on a modern jetliner, certain that thinking adults couldn’t believe such a monstrosity would actually fly. Although I did get on, it seemed to defy all logic to me, too. Yet up we went, lifting off the concrete runway with the ease of a seagull rising from the beach.

Sometimes I think it defies logic that God could possibly square off with all my prayers, an imponderable task of answering each one with a yes, no, or maybe. I don’t doubt he hears them all, from me and every other person calling to him, but answering them all? It must be worse than an airport traffic controller trying to keep a thousand planes from bumping into each other while coming and going at the same time.

But God’s involvement with our prayers is even more complicated than that. While he’s rearranging circumstances and facts in response to our asking, seeking, and knocking (which includes everything from the weather to “chance” meetings), he’s also rearranging our emotions, thoughts, and wills. For example, when we ask him to soothe our grief or influence a decision, he goes into action on the unseen parts inside of us. This defies all logic. Like Orville and Wilbur, I’m tempted to think, it can’t be done.

But as our plane took off yesterday and I watched the ground shrink from view, all I could do was trust the unseen principles of aeronautics to do “the impossible” and fly me home through thin air. And because jets have done this for me again and again, defying logic every time, my trust factor has increased to the point of not even flinching when I step onto a heavy, loaded plane. I do it with confidence.

The same principle applies with God. I can ask him to work his wonders on an impossible set of circumstances. Then when he does, my trust in him soars… even higher than the most powerful jet airplane.

“Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.” (Psalm 62:8)