Life Under Construction

Today we had our weekly staff meeting. It took about an hour to complete the business part of the meeting, and then the senior chaplain asked us to share where we were with God these days; how God was working in our lives as we entered the new year.

I shared with them my desire to leave an \”impression\” (see article below) on the world that points folks not to me but to Jesus. The other chaplain at the meeting remarked how very interesting it was that I should say that, because he was currently reading a book in which one of the chapters discussed impressions we leave. He decided to repeat an exercise talked about in the book and just the day before began writing his obituary. The other lady in our group talked about a book she was reading entitled Finishing Well and the thoughts she was developing as she read. Finally our senior chaplain shared what was happening in his life and the way that God was working.

As I sat there with these fine folks, it occurred to me that not everyone has such an opportunity as I have had the last year. I love my job! My co-workers have become good friends. They truly care about each other. I am able to pray on my job–in fact, it is the first responsibility I have each morning, as I call inmates to join me in prayer in the chapel. I can hand out Bibles. We get to tell guys that the community cares for them with the love of Jesus as we hand out socks, tee shirts, coats, and other clothing. By sharing Jesus with them, we offer hope for a better/different way of living once the guys leave the facility.

I also really enjoy watching the chaplains interact with the guys. They are so obviously called to what they do, and it shows in the care they exhibit.

My job is a lot of work, but it\’s meaningful work. Right up my alley. Love it, love it, love it.

I\’m a lucky girl.

Several weeks ago, our Wednesday evening service was centered around a prayer labyrinth. Don\’t get all hung up on the word \”labyrinth.\” We just followed some taped lines in our chapel to different \”stations\”. At each station we focused on a particular aspect of prayer. Every station, every thought centered around our relationship with Jesus. Is He the center of my praise, have I properly forgiven those in my life who have hurt me so that the name of Jesus is magnified; is the person inside of me the same as the person I show the world about who Jesus is, or am I doing a really good job of faking it? Lots of opportunity to examine my heart and motives.

As I was nearing the end of the prayer time, I came to Station 11. It was entitled \”Impression.\” After taking off my shoes and leaving my footprints in a box of sand, I then was asked the following questions… \”What will be left of me when I\’ve left? What traces will I leave? Will the evidence be compelling? What will the surviving witnesses say? Will their world be better because of what I did in my present? What will history say of me when I am history, too?\”

Okay, now, before you go off on how that is so \”me-centered,\” let me tell you that I know that it could very easily become that way. If we are honest, don\’t we all wonder from time to time if our lives have made any difference at all in the lives of those in our world? Is anything we have done going to leave positive results for them? I certainly wonder. Maybe it\’s a girl thing. I don\’t think so, though. I would venture to guess that the reason many men work so hard is so that when they are gone, their world can talk about what a wonderful provider he was; how great a guy! Yep, that evening could have easily become an \”all about me\” exercise.

What happened–for me, at least–was that I was struck motionless with the notion that I might actually leave this world and not have left a single \”trace\” of the Savior I serve in my wake.

I wrote a poem once that went like this:

Someday my life will be no more
And I wonder
Will anyone knock on my door
To mourn my passing?

More than that… will any impression of the Savior I served be left from my life? Will anyone be able to say they knew Jesus better because of my witness? I\’m quite aware that my life is only a small ripple and that others\’ lives make huge waves with their witness. I don\’t need to have my name up in lights or be known world-wide; I simply do not wish to meet Jesus with empty hands. I\’m not looking for accolades here–not my intention at all. This is just the way I want to begin and continue the year 2012…contemplating ways to make sure Jesus is known and God is praised because of the way I live my life. The older I get and the more I learn, the more convinced I become of this truth–that has always been there, but just lately truly taking root in my life–it really is all about Him.

This morning\’s sermon was from Luke 5:1-11. My husband titled it \”Getting Back to Basics.\” The main points of the sermon were these: Our first responsibility as Christians is to glorify God. Our second responsibility is to become fishers of men. Jesus told Peter, Andrew, James and John, \”…from now on you will be catching men.\” This is what He has called us to do.

My desire, my prayer is that 2012 will be the year of leaving HIS \”impression\” on the lives of those in my world and catching lots of \”fish.\”

Among the great and happy memories of my childhood are my cousins. They were an inheritance from my step-father. He had three sisters, and they had children. I met them just shortly after my mother married my step-dad, and we stayed a day or two at one of the aunt’s houses while they went away—maybe for a honeymoon—that part I don’t remember.

Here’s what I do remember; lots and lots of fun. I don’t remember a single time ever that my cousins were around that we didn’t have a blast. In the winter, we rode sleds down the road in front of our house. In the summer we hiked the woods behind our house, or we rode horses. When we first moved into our developing neighborhood, we spent an evening climbing all over the skeleton of the house next door, playing hide and seek, throwing dirt clots at each other.

I still remember the anticipation when the cousins were coming over. The family went into high gear, getting the house straight, preparing the food, heating up the grill outside for the hotdogs and burgers. I also remember the freedom we older girls experienced once the cousins arrived. Whereas we were normally expected to help care for the younger siblings as part of our daily responsibilities, when the cousins came over there were enough adults around to take care of the babies, and we older kids were allowed (and quite probably encouraged) to go outside and play. I don’t know that anyone ever checked on us to see what we were up to—though they probably did. I don’t remember ever having to be told to go outside to play; it’s just what we did when we got together.

As we moved into our early teen years, our interests changed. We replaced hiking in the woods, croquet, and sledding down the street with showing off our latest dance moves, roller skating around our wide-open basement, occasionally going to movies; and because we were “kissing” cousins, even going out on dates as we got older.

Yep, the times I spent with my cousins still makes me smile. They were such happy, carefree times. We didn’t communicate on a daily basis—sometimes we went months without seeing each other. Then they’d come to our house, or we’d go over to see them, or travel to Pennsylvania to visit, and it was like we just picked up the conversation where we had left off.

The last time I saw my cousins was at a family reunion several years ago. The glow of all the fun was still there as we reminisced. Lots of years had passed since our childhoods, and that day we also spent time discussing our families—wives, children, grandchildren. Time had rolled on, and we had grown up. Life had done its usual thing–some good times, some sad times, some bad times. But nothing—and I mean nothing—will ever take away the memories of those growing up years and all the fun we had together. I sure do love those cousins.

Intensity. The title of the first book I ever read by Dean Koontz. And the story matched the title. But that’s not the intensity to which I refer in this blog.

In case I never mentioned this before, I have three grandsons. Oh, I did mention that? Sorry. Anyway, the three of them are very different. Little man Andre is spoiled, and even though he rarely gets his way by doing so, he still screams us into insanity on a regular basis, hoping against hope that this time we will let him have his way. Philip, my middle man, has a sweet personality, but he has this extremely annoying habit of talking to himself, non-stop, and mostly gibberish. Nate, the first man, is a study all to himself. And he is the subject I wish to address for the rest of our time together.

Nate is 11 years old. When he was born, he was born with a “sad” soul. I’m not kidding. As an infant, we would take him to church. It didn’t take many notes into the organ music before his little self was crying. I had mixed feelings about that—at once I thought it funny, a bit embarrassing (that he cried over the musician’s playing), and disconcerting. Deep inside, I had this foreboding that his reaction had something to do with his personality makeup, and somewhere down the road, it wasn’t going to be “good.” Well, friends and neighbors, that day has come. Actually, it’s been heading in this direction for a while, but last week it became clear it was time to get some help for this kid.

Right off, let me make something clear here. I don’t like the fact that so many parents put their kids into therapy these days. I don’t like the fact that adults get their own lives so screwed up that it messes up their kids, who end up needing that therapy. I don’t like the idea of a child being diagnosed and “labeled.” I don’t like any of that. But more than that, I have spent lots of sleepless moments wondering at what point a child that I love will get desperate enough to try to hurt himself or someone else.

Nate is angry. He feels cheated that he has to share the grownups in his life with his brothers. He’s angry that he isn’t as close to his brothers as they are to each other. He feels abandoned by a deadbeat dad who shows up for a month every other year or so, making big promises he never keeps and then who disappears back into his hole for another couple of years. Yeah, I know. Tell him to get over himself; get a grip; just grow up. Actually, that is what we are telling him–with the help of someone who can help us help him, and who can help him learn to deal with his depression and his moods.

I know a lot about the nature of Nate. The reason I know is because he shares a lot of the personality traits that I had as a child. He’s the first born. He’s smart. He’s independent-natured. He thinks he knows the better way to do a thing, over suggestions offered by just about anyone. Okay, okay, by anyone at all. He is very intense. He gets focused on something—anything—and off he goes. Many times, he walks into a room and states that he is going to do thus and such and launches into a dialog about how he will accomplish this goal. No matter what the topic, the game, the event—he has to be in charge of what is going on. I get that. It’s a control thing. He feels out of control of his life, and because he is intelligent, he is hard-pressed to understand why he has to let anyone be in “charge” of him. For me, being in charge was how I controlled the chaos around me as a child. I tell you the truth, it doesn’t win friends on a regular basis. The only trait we don’t share is depression, which I’ve never experienced on long-term basis. I can mostly talk myself out of depression. Some folks aren’t as fortunate as that.

When you put all these traits into one body, you end up with a potentially irritating personality. I don’t need to remind you how much I love this boy, do I? He’s my heart-child. But his personality, combined with the anger that he carries around inside of him, could be bad news. It is most certainly maddening to try to sympathize with, that is for sure.

Anyway, I get this kid. But what\’s going on inside of him is something we have to deal with–either now through therapy, or later through some other means. I vote for now.