That cracks me up.

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Skylar, my two year old granddaughter, amazes us with her comments. In Florida recently, she and I were sitting on her bedroom floor, nose-to-nose:

“Grandma Midgee, your eyes are blue.”

“So are yours.”

“And your eyes have black in the middle.”

“So do yours.”

Suddenly she got quiet but kept staring into my eyes.

Finally she said, “Old ladies get cracks in their eyes.”

I guess my bloodshot was showing. Long life seems to “crack us up” that way.

In our study of the Book of Job this morning, our pastor used a great word picture to illustrate Job’s life. She described each of us as looking at life through a big, clear glass window. As children, our view is good, but eventually, without warning, a rock gets thrown and “Crack!” There’s a flaw.

A barrage of rocks hit Job’s window, so damaging he found himself sitting in a heap of broken glass wondering how he got there. But after he passed his faith-test, God miraculously mended his window, putting the shattered pieces together again.

That isn’t to say Job’s post-cracked-life was exactly as it had been before the rocks. His relationship with God had changed, and his additional 10 children were not duplicates of the first 10. I would guess his marriage changed, too. And surely all who watched his fall and subsequent rise were keenly interested to hear what he had to say.

But what about his repaired window? Was it permanently scarred?

A year ago, my Toyota Highlander and I were taking our first road trip when a rock smacked the windshield leaving a one-inch crack. By the time we got to Florida, it had ever-so-slowly grown a couple of inches, forking into two cracks. After we returned home, I called Geico to ask their advice. They were quite specific:

“If the crack fits under a dollar bill, we’ll fix it for free. If it’s bigger than that, you’re on your own.”

My neglect had done me in, because by that time the two cracks had grown to a couple of feet. The only way to fix them was to buy a new windshield.

God’s crack-repairs are free to us, and he does a spectacular job. Often, however, we find ourselves looking through quite a few cracks before he mends the window. Once in a while God will even break the glass himself, knowing that when he puts it back together, it’ll be better than the original.

He may even stain the glass.

Stained glass windows are made from intentionally broken glass, and as an artist assembles the pieces, a brand new image emerges. Just as old ladies get eye-cracks, life ”stains” us. Sometimes we long for that clean-and-clear window glass we had during childhood.

But God views our stain-experiences and our cracks as valuable. And in his hands, they become stunning works of art.

“Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her… to present her to himself… without stain or wrinkle or any other blemish [like a crack], but holy and blameless.” (Ephesians 5:25-27)

A Picture of Health

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Today I spent a frustrating hour seated on a stool in front of a Walgreen’s photo kiosk trying to order prints. I had two cameras, two different sized “cards” and only minimal understanding of how to work the machine. One of the cards needed an adaptor, plus I had two different coupons.

After interrupting the cashier for help six times, I got to the end of my order and muffed the coupon screen. This time she said, “I think I’ll get the manager, even though he’s on his dinner break.”

I’d probably be the laughable subject in the break room later on, but I didn’t care, as long as I walked out of there with my pictures.

The manager was a tall, 30-something “kid” with a winning way. While working on my “case” he punched enough computer buttons to write a letter, but eventually we got it sorted, and I got my 25 free prints. We were half way through the money transaction for the rest when he noticed my name on the order. “Nyman, eh? We might be related.”

“How so?” I said.

“I’m relatives with lots of Nymans from this area.”

We chatted for a few precious minutes of his dinner break when unexpectedly he said, “My dad died recently.”

I was surprised but put my purse and pictures on the counter and said, “When?”

“Three days before Christmas,” he said, looking down.

“Oh my. That’s really recent.”

“Yeah.”

“What did he die of?”

“Pancreatic cancer.”

Suddenly we were related. I learned his dad had had only eight weeks and that a cherished uncle had also died just a few days before his father. As he talked, his face was pinched with grief, and my heart grew heavy for him.

When the conversation finished, I said, “I’m so sorry about your dad and your uncle.”

He bowed his head and muttered, “Thanks.”

Driving home I felt queasy. While growing up, I hadn’t heard much about disease and dying. Now it’s everywhere, which must be part and parcel of being 60-something. Yet this young man was only in his 30’s. My kids were young, too, three in their 30’s, three in their 20’s, one still a teen. Although friends prayed for their dad to be healed, Nate died.

God has been called the great physician, the miraculous healer. I’ve learned, though, that he usually sidesteps physical ailments to focus on healing hearts. Dr. Luke describes a moment when the Jewish leaders were criticizing Jesus for associating with sinners and eating with “the riff-raff.”

Jesus gave them a sharp response: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I have not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.” (5:31-32) His desire was to heal sin-sickness, because when that gets healed, eternal good health becomes a sure thing.

Today at the Walgreens counter, I wish I’d asked the young manager if I could pray for him then and there. People usually receive that gladly, and maybe it would have led to something significant.

Maybe I’ll take a few more pictures and head back to the kiosk with coupons that I’m not quite sure how to use.
“By his wounds you have been healed.” (1 Peter 2:24)

Butter me up!

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Last night’s walk with Jack was like a worship experience. After an overcast day, the sky had cleared and the stars were brilliant, making me catch my breath and thank God. I was glad I owned a dog, because without him, I wouldn’t have been out strolling at midnight.

I usually enjoy walking Jack, but not on days like today when it was raining, and I’d just finished doing my hair for church. On those days we walk a new way: I drive, he runs alongside. Through the window I encourage him to stay nearby, and off we go on the quiet neighborhood streets.

This morning I drove to the beach and back while Jack loped next to the car. He got his exercise, and I kept my hairdo.

A while ago, however, Jack and I were driving-walking when he saw a group of white-tail deer in the woods and gave chase. I never worry about the deer, because they bound up sand dunes in massive leaps that quickly leave short doggy-steps behind. What concerns me is getting Jack back.

He knows the way home, but what kind of trouble might he find en route? This day when I called him, he emerged from the woods with what resembled a big cigar in his mouth. As he came closer, I saw it was a full stick of butter.

I don’t know where he found it, but I got a quick visual of diarrhea in the basement and knew I needed to take it away from him. I got out of the car, grabbed a plastic bag from under the seat and rattled it like it was lunch meat. “Jack! Mmmm! Yummy! How ‘bout a treat?” He came right to me and dropped the butter (for his treat) just long enough for me to reach around and grab it. Poor Jack. His prize got stolen, and he was duped in the process.

This is a perfect illustration of the way we reject God’s counsel in favor of our own. He says, “You’ll be sorry if you ‘eat that butter’.” But we grab it like a magnet grabs the fridge, thinking we know better. So he takes a step back and says, “Ok. Have it your way.”

As we run off, we barely hear him say, “I’ll be here if you need me.” And of course we always do.

On “Butter Day,” I put a dejected Jack into the car and drove him home. But first thing, I gave him a double treat, the doggie kind, wanting to make good on my word.

God never fails to make good on his word. After we’ve “eaten our butter,” in the midst of a belly ache and a sincere vow to heed his advice next time, he lets us begin anew.

Then after we’ve had enough butter and belly aches, finally we learn.

”The simple are killed by their turning away… but whoever listens to Me will dwell secure and will be at ease, without dread of disaster.” (Proverbs 1:32-33)