Doing Life God’s Way

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Today I was waiting in line at a bank drive-through with the window down, listening to nearby bird songs. Since winter doesn’t leave many birds in the Midwest, hearing them each spring is a special treat. Today their music seemed quite close.

Sure enough, there was a nest just above the ATM sign perched on a tiny ledge. The mama was comfortably nestled in, although with our 88 degree temperatures, she needed have worried about cooling eggs. I snapped a picture and made a mental note to check back for babies.

After making my bank deposit and passing through the lane, I noticed a second nest, this one nestled in a tiny corner next to the bank wall. Another mama was in residence, but this time daddy was on hand, too. I stopped my car and opened the door to get a better camera angle, but he said, “I don’t think so!”

He took a swoop across the roof of my car, circling back immediately for a second pass. Neither of them appreciated my camera or me, and in an instant both daddy and mommy left their ledge and came at me again! I took the hint and drove away.

Both birds followed, looping around my car in wide circles, one of them swooping in front of my windshield as I sat at the nearby stop light. They were black with split tail feathers, and as they flew they flashed orange. Their lack of hospitality notwithstanding, I’ll be watching in coming weeks.

The bank birds reminded me of an incident with two year old Nelson. We lived two blocks from a commuter train station and walked each evening to meet Nate as he arrived. Little Nelson disliked his stroller, preferring to toddle on his own.

His strawberry blond curls bobbed as he walked, and apparently the local birds thought they’d make good nesting material. A couple of red winged blackbirds dove at his head, doing a fast flutter just above him as they plucked at his hair. I shooed them off in a panic, thinking of Alfred Hitchcock, and after that Nelson wore a hat to the train.

Fear tactics aside, nest-making and egg-defending have been programmed into these birds by God himself. Most animals automatically care for and protect their young without any schooling, doing a good job for one reason: they’re following God’s prescribed plan.

Everything works better when we do it God’s way, and that includes human parenting, too. In the Bible he’s detailed exactly what that is, listing do’s and don’ts and including stories of success (following his instructions) and failure (ignoring them). Thinking we might know a better way is laughable at best, catastrophic at worst.

Even now, as the mother of adult children, I want to do it God’s way rather than my own. I’m feathering my nest with slate tile and polyurethane sealant rather than strands of strawberry blond hair, but there’s still a mother-role to play.

My nest is usually empty these days, and I’m not chasing predators away, but as God shows me how, I want to do my best.

“Love never gives up.” (1 Corinthians 13:7a)

 

Displaced

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Birgitta and I have moved. Not permanently, just for a few days. The wood floor in our cottage is getting a new lease on its 73 year old life, and today is the first of several “poly days” when polyurethane will perfume the house. Sticky floors will dry by next week.

Having to leave home is an inconvenience for us, but it brought to mind the thousands who live in refugee camps around the world, routed out of their homes amidst traumatic circumstances.

Birgitta and I had planned ahead, making lists beforehand and packing what we wanted; refugees often leave on the run, taking only what they can carry. We left for the happy reason of home improvement; they leave to escape war or, worse yet, to preserve their lives. We’ll be home in just a few days; refugees may be displaced for months, maybe years. Some never return home.

When the biblical Abraham was told to leave home, it fell somewhere between inconvenient and awful. He wasn’t a refugee but wasn’t given a return date either. And he wasn’t given a destination. Instead he was told, “Pick up and go.” But because it was the voice of God directing him, he did it.

After that, Abraham lived as a nomadic tent-dweller, roaming desert terrain with his household and possessions, believing there was “milk and honey” at the end of the journey. He didn’t know all that we know today, that many generations would come and go before God completed his promise. In the mean time, Abraham was often sent packing.

Recent news stories have shown thousands leaving their homes to escape natural disasters and then returning to find no home at all. And of course lean financial times have displaced many others who’ve been forced out of homes they love. Dorothy of Oz fame put it well. “There’s no place like home.”

So many stories of dislocation make me wonder what God is up to.

We’ve all heard the expression, “Home is where the heart is.” Could it be that’s what God is trying to show us? Maybe home isn’t about wood floors, mud huts, mansions or igloos but about who’s inside them. If so, then losing our address might not be as traumatic as we think. As long as we hold onto those we love, anyplace can become a home.

And God is hoping to be on that list of the ones we love best. As a matter of fact, he wants to be the heart of our homes, wherever we are. When he is, he assures us we’ll always have a home, not just in the distant someday but in the now. When we get displaced, he goes along. Though we lose our houses, we don’t lose him. If we must pitch a tent, he’s inside of it with us.

And maybe it’s those times when we’ve been forced out of our brick-and-mortar homes that we suddenly feel most at home with him.

“Lord, through all the generations you have been our home!” (Psalm 90:1)

Washed and Pressed

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All of us know we’re supposed to hold our possessions lightly, but it doesn’t come naturally. We have to repeatedly remind ourselves everything we own has come to us, in one way or another, from God.

Following this principle becomes more difficult when we’re dealing with the possessions of someone else. For example, Mary, Tom and I dismantled Mom’s apartment after she died, a strange experience with endless questions of what to do with each item. Yet it had to be done.

After Nate died, my first reaction was to leave everything as it was: the pens atop his dresser, his shoes lined-up in a row, his business suits on the closet bar. Most people don’t need someone else’s used clothing, nor do they want it. Even so, bundling it all up for charity is a bite too big for most widows to chew. And so the clothes stay put.

Today I decided it was time, at least for part of Nate’s wardrobe. His business shirts have been hanging in dry cleaner plastic for 18 months, pressed and ready to go to work. How silly to let them hang there when other workers could be wearing them.

Nate probably suffered from shirt gluttony owning 45 of them. He also collected pens, some of them antiques, some with leaks, so many of the shirts were pocket-stained. Thankfully, our church is conducting a sale this weekend, with a welcome mat out for used clothing (although not the ones with stained pockets). This moved me to release one more piece of Nate’s life.

Much of adjusting to widowhood is emotional and must be done in our heads. That means it’s not about the shirts at all but about missing the guy who was inside them. Reminding myself that he isn’t ever coming back to wear those shirts helps me let them go. I don’t want to cling to a fantasy.

A day will come for each of us when we won’t need what’s hanging in our closets. Whether we slip out of this life through illness or accident, closet contents will be far from our thoughts. And it’s a good idea now to picture others pawing through our stuff wondering what to do with it all.

There’s a passage in Scripture that’s always puzzled me. It describes God’s detailed care of those he loves, including provision of clothes, and not just any clothes but spectacular ones. Yet many in this world are wearing rags, which doesn’t jive with the story. (Luke 12)

But Jesus was probably referring to our new paradise-clothes, garments with an other-worldly dazzle we can’t yet picture. Nate didn’t take anything with him when he left, but as he met Jesus, a new wardrobe awaited him, and none of it had pocket-stains.

Leaking ink and every other life-stain had been washed away by the blood of Jesus.

“Grace be unto you, and peace, from him which is, and which was, and which is to come; and from Jesus Christ… him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.” (Revelation 1:4,5)