Children of the NICU

Think hospital.  Think needles and probes.  Think what it’s like for the youngest.  They’ve hardly entered this world, and already their bodies struggle.  Yet there’s a song that comforts them.  My friend sings, “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.”  She sings of how precious they are to Him, and she sees a little crease forming at the side of their small mouths, lifting into a smile.  She cuddles these young ones who often haven’t known life outside their hospital incubator.  No puffy white clouds in a blue sky.  No sunshine or fresh outside air.  They live among beeps and blinking lights and sterilized equipment.  My friend initiates some of their first conversations, introducing them to the scenery of their future walks in the park.  Some endure the loss of their twin who is healthy and already at home.  Many love the quiet, exhibiting a cringe at any loud clanking.  They enjoy the comfort of the Cuddler’s heartbeat that follows the rocking motion of her chair.  The sense of touch is a wonderful blessing.  My friend sees their tensions soften, and their reaction compares to the gentle release of air from a balloon, in that their little arms and legs finally realize a way to relax.  She often rests a baby on her shoulder or nestles one in her forearm, blessed also to meet many moms and dads who talk of their own side of the trauma.  It’s an opportunity to lessen the burden of a scenario that's difficult for many.  I think of her soft voice singing the name of Jesus to each little ear, resting in each little bed, being blessed by the only perfect Love that knows the intricacies of their medical situations.  Inside the walls of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, the Lord is present, bringing us to the aid of each other.

Teacher vs. teacher

In Matthew 23:10, Jesus cautions the crowds.  The hypocritical ways of the Pharisees are not to be followed.  The teachers of the law had been seeking the attention of men, and Jesus stepped in to encourage everyone to do the opposite.  Respect this role of teacher, He said, but don’t imitate their self-serving ways.  He instructs, “Nor are you to be called ‘teacher,’ for you have one Teacher, the Christ.”  And upon reading that sentence, I suddenly paused.  How do we view this role of teacher?  I have known the role of schoolteacher to be humbling, for I have seen students pose questions for which I had no immediate answer.  I have known the role of parental teacher to be humbling, for when needing to teach my daughters to share their toys, I quickly remembered one time not wanting to share my Hershey's chocolate.  Never do I want to approach a teaching role on the assumption I have a final understanding of any particular subject, for there's always a new perspective to come.  Yet with another kind of humility, I’ve learned also not to automatically decline a teaching role because I lack qualifications on paper.  The Lord may want to teach someone through me, even without formal schooling on my part.  Years ago, some fellow piano players offered me their overflow of piano students, yet I rather quickly declined.  More recently, some friends asked me to teach piano, and I dismissed the notion again.  Yet these friends persisted, and I finally asked the Lord what to do.  I don’t hold a music degree.  Neither did I study at a music conservatory.  The Lord has been my music teacher primarily, and on the occasions I did study through a formal school or private instructor, it was mostly oboe.  Turns out I’ve now been immensely blessed to teach piano, sharing openly about the Lord as our ultimate Teacher.  He guides both me and my dear friends who are students.  And with church, when asked to teach about the Bible and the Lord, I rely on the Lord’s qualifications.  On formal paper, I have only CEUs.  No Bible college degree.  Yet what a joy to share with others my experiences with the Lord.  He is the only One for whom I spell teacher with a capital T.

Leaping with Daniel

I awoke early, early, early.  Too early for my choosing.  The idea in my head was to host Bible study on Daniel 5.  King Belshazzar has a banquet that leads to trouble, and suddenly the fingers of a human hand write a message on a wall of the royal palace.  People use the phrase “the writing’s on the wall” without referencing the Bible, and that would be the point of the study:  to read the actual stories from which these indirect usages have come.  I emailed friends to see if anyone was available to study at the house, and lo and behold, here they come, and I’m so happy for a new friend to join us too.  Midway through our time together, I hear this new friend say how perfectly this study fits her personal circumstances.  And as she started explaining, my heart began to melt.  Here the Lord had awakened me days ahead about a certain topic for the sake of someone who would attend our study, yet whose email address I didn’t even have.  He would make certain she received an invitation, in whatever way He deemed best, which I later learned was through one of our ladies who is her dear friend.  Indeed the Lord loves us that much—that He brings together many for the sake of one, setting our feet on paths that lead to things we’re unaware of, bestowing blessings in all kinds of directions.  Earlier in the week, I had been frustrated at not finding some notes I’d written last year that would relate to our study this week.  Yet when my new friend commented on the perfect match within these verses of Daniel, I realized it was good for me not to find those notes because they contained other references that could’ve distracted me.  The Lord had let my eyes see only what He intended.  His orchestrations do amaze me.  I’m like the one on the street who stands motionless in the midst of loud honks and heavy traffic, with my mouth agape, wondering afterward if my jaw really did hit the ground.  I'm not really unaware of the surrounding traffic, but I'm spellbound at times to witness the Lord at work.  Motionless on the outside, yet giant leaps of joy within. 

To repair William Tell's overture

No time to lament.  Our initial shock came backstage, and we scrambled to consider options.  It was time for the chase scene, and should we attempt it without our usual William Tell overture?  Our sound system had crashed.  And what about our individual microphones and the rest of the music?  It was only Monday, and we had 6 more performances that week.  What to do for a trio of actors from out of town?  Imagine gyms full of kids, and would anybody be able to hear anything without the sound system?  That afternoon ushered us through a host of phone calls, some in search of a repairperson, some to touch base with the rest of our schools, and one to call in a lunch order for fast pick-up.  All the while, we asked the Lord to guide our path.  A trip to Guitar Center introduced us to a very kind staff who sympathized and quite generously offered their time.  A recommendation to Guitar and Banjo Studio connected us with an electrician who diagnosed our transistor problem.  Even reaching that point was mentally taxing, given our narrow timeframes and the miles that separated the stores.  Through all our phone calls and jaunts on the road, and amidst our regular loading and unloading of stage equipment and even the basics of locating the different schools and driving to each one, the Lord's timing did prove impeccable.  At each school, He brought together an in-house sound system, whether using clip-on mics or hand-held or stand-alone ones, each occasion being accompanied by a new amazement for the sufficiency of His provision.  From the children came wonderful levels of attentiveness as well as lively participation and hearty laughter, lending us to realize the Lord's blessing upon them as well.  And we did pick up our sound system from the electrician in perfect time for our last performance of the week.  All along the way, the Lord tossed in reminders of His presence.  One afternoon, having collected our to-go lunchboxes from McAlister’s Deli, I opened my horseradish roast beef and did munch to my heart’s delight, just so thankful for some nourishment in the quick recess between venues.  But then I saw a sheet tucked behind the sandwich, and in it was a pickle.  Something so simple brought an escape for me.  It seemed each bite of that pickle was flavorful enough to lift me out of our hectic pace.  As long as I ate that pickle, my backache disappeared, my heart quit racing, and my mind was quiet, except to tell my fellow actors how freshly I was blessed by that pickle.  I remember our director telling us ahead of time, “Oh, Monday afternoon should be leisurely.  Maybe we can go to the hotel pool.”  The closest we came to the pool was to peer at it through a window on our way to collapsing on our beds at night.  But we left town having seen the Lord at work.  And that's exciting indeed.

Curly ribbon & waiting

The prize was $10 for guessing closest to the actual number of jelly beans in the jar.  I waged my guess at 171, and soon I merrily tucked $10 into my purse.  Should I buy lunch at Chick-fil-A?  Maybe Pei Wei?  The answer was neither.  I had asked the Lord what to do, and thereafter I kept picturing the face of a new friend.  I wanted to compile a care package for her, in hope of easing the near-exhaustion she felt from travelling so many weekends.  Ten dollars would buy her some healthful snacks for the road and some other things just for fun.  For her early mornings, I bought Target’s version of Nutri-Grain berry bars.  Just for fun, I bought some Bugles, some peanut M&Ms, and a few other items.  A bottle of green tea can be refreshing anytime, so I put one of those in the basket too.  At home, I bundled everything together and added purple and green curly ribbons dangling on the outside and stamped her a colorful card that included Philippians 1:3, because each remembrance of her really does sweeten my day.  The next Sunday, I would be so happy to present her the gift.  But next Sunday I didn’t see her.  The Sunday after that, I didn’t see her.  The next month, I didn’t see her.  Two months later, I still hadn’t seen her.  Four months later, still no sign of her, and truly my heart was heavy.  Each Sunday morning, I put her package in the car, and each Sunday afternoon, I took the undelivered package back into the house.  I fluffed the ribbons back into place, smoothing their creases, and placed the package again in its weekday residence on my dresser.  I held such high hope for seeing my friend again.  Occasionally the notion surfaced to unwrap everything and piece the items apart into our kitchen pantry, but entertaining that thought made me feel I was abandoning the whole friendship.  From the start, I had felt strongly compelled to prepare this package, and here now I determined again to hold on and keep asking the Lord for another opportunity to see my friend.  And then it happened.  Almost 6 months of waiting, and there she was.  I walked in late and sat on the opposite side of the congregation.  Peering to the side, I noticed her distinctively dark curly hair flowing near her shoulders.  I could feel the corners of my mouth jump up into a smile.  Even more, I could feel my heart swell.  The hard part would be waiting till after the sermon to leap across the aisle to give her the biggest hug ever.  She explained her absence, and I explained my care package.  It was an occasion that brought immense joy for having waited upon what the Lord set in motion months before.  In the words of Philippians 1:6, what He had begun, He had carried to completion. 

A frog in the throat

I wanted to listen about the zaroah, but I couldn’t.  A sudden onslaught of temptation had infiltrated my brain.  Next would be the afikomen and a prayer, and I was panicked.  This lump of something in my throat was not clearing, and time was short.  For many days and weeks, I had been asking the Lord to sing through me on this occasion, as He had given me great joy for this song.  I had imagined His voice resounding freely and fully into every nook and cranny of every heart in attendance, and yet now in this moment of panic, again I prayed silently, “Lord, may You let nothing in my throat obstruct Your voice tonight.”  I could feel warmth spreading at my neck, which usually means red splotches of nervousness infecting my skin.  My husband and I stood to approach the steps, my eyes peripherally seeing him pick up his guitar, and he began with a beautiful introduction.  I almost didn’t want to sing those first lyrics.  I had hoped so big and with such great anticipation, and all I had envisioned for “Creation Song” was a group of worshippers spellbound to reconsider the magnificence of the Lord.  Anything less was not appealing.  Yet that first verse came, and then the second.  To my amazement, I was noticing an inspiring connection within the congregation.  Their eyes didn’t blink, and their postures stood at attention, and their lips came to join in the latter choruses.  Despite my fears, despite the thoughts that had felt all jumbled in my head, the Lord had prevailed.  He had most certainly covered my voice with His.  And the reactions afterward confirmed that indeed the Holy Spirit had hovered among us.  At that particular seder that our friends call "Jesus, Lamb of God Passover," the Lord had won—once and for all—and again.

Time for tennis shoes

I would much rather wear flip-flops.  They’re just so easy to put on, whereas the tennis shoes require socks and tying laces and all that preparation that us non-exercise people associate with sweat.  I actually do enjoy walking, especially when I meet up with the orange cat down the street, and I did enjoy trimming trees last weekend and shoveling dirt, but I never look forward to sweat dripping in my eyes and down my back.  Yet yesterday I dreaded something even more.  I dreaded my doctor’s appointment because it reminded me that I still had not lost the weight I had intended to lose.  I fare real well for about 3 weeks.  Then invariably it seems the weight hasn’t fallen off fast enough, and I succumb to the temptation “Why bother anymore?”  But on my way home from the doctor yesterday, I determined to restart.  Alas, I will not quit, even if it’s my hundredth attempt!  This aspect of exercise, or the lack thereof, is certainly one of my trials.  It's on the same shelf with the co-worker who challenges our every nerve and the wayward child for whom we grieve.  They’re all situations that stare us down and threaten our well-being.  Some lend widespread angst, and some stay more internal, but they’re all trials.  Yet the Lord loves each soul in the midst of the turmoil, and there’s blessing in store as He fine-tunes and reshapes us through these fires that singe.  And here now I endeavor to begin again.  One of my favorite memories is of a middle school track meet where one hurdler barely stood taller than his hurdles.  This young man approached his first hurdle with great gusto, yet down he fell.  That same gusto took him to the second hurdle, though down he fell again.  Then the crowd began to cringe and shield their faces in anticipation of what might come with the third.  But evidently the pain was more in watching, for rarely do we witness such unabashed intent to run a race that appeared impossible from the start.  This young man’s perseverance brought roars of applause from all ages, even from those who had ridiculed at the start why anyone his size would ever attempt such a race.  We found ourselves wiping away oceans of tears that gushed of admiration, as this young man drew a standing ovation before he ever crossed the finish line.  He had wholeheartedly aimed to jump each and every hurdle, yet proceeding to knock down each and every one, never once appearing defeated.  And it’s to that same perseverance that I aspire, not because my doctor tells me exercise is good or because all the fitness magazines say so, but ultimately because verses such as Hebrews 12 tell me the Lord wants us up and running.  I want Him to be my reason, my incentive.  I’ll keep the flip-flops for later, but I am now walking to the closet to set those tennis shoes in motion.

A different Everest

What is the shape of the human will?  It’s big, I know.  And conquering it can appear exhausting, much like climbing Everest.  Yet Everest always looks like Everest.  The human will seems to adapt in size.  Last week it was rectangularly shaped in the form of a DSW shoe coupon that I insisted on using.  This week it was blue and white and shaped like the blanket I selfishly grabbed for finally catching some sleep.  Ours is a will that is self-centered.  It’s impure.  Sometimes it’s been to my own detriment that I’ve determined to have my way, such as one occasion when I wanted to stay angry at my husband.  The whole scenario backfired on me, leaving my stomach in knots and any sense of a productive day debilitated because I needlessly wanted to prove a point.  We can thank the Lord that while Jeremiah 17 says the human heart is deceitful, we also have Philippians 2 that says He works in us and through us to yield His good purpose.  Our natural condition is fallen and self-destructive, yet the Lord does not leave us alone.  He guides us to discern the many shapes of selfishness.  It's not an insurmountable mountain, and He refreshes us in the climb.  

Spanish — SMTWTFS

When the Lord led me to a Spanish congregation, I had little idea what would lie ahead.  I was curious and excited, though also uncertain, because all those years ago I had dropped out of high school Spanish when we were assigned Lluvia Roja.  I could conjugate verbs and pass vocabulary quizzes, but reading a whole book in Spanish?  No way.  I took one hall pass to the counselor’s office and transferred out.  Yet now with my new congregation, I was facing whole conversations and whole sermons in Spanish, and what would happen?  Would my limited textbook Spanish work at all with the real-life Mexican vocabulary, or the Tex-Mex, or the Puerto Rican?  They had advertised for a guitar player, and soon we changed from our English congregation, bringing my husband to carry his guitar down the hall to the Spanish group.  They were different rooms in the same building.  Different languages with the same purpose.  And I loved it very quickly.  Each week they patiently lent me new words, and even when I asked “¿Cómo se dice…?” for the thousandth time, they flinched not once to translate me yet another word into Spanish.  They spoke some English, yet Spanish was comfortable and close to their heart, as was English for me.  I soon studied the Bible in Spanish on Wednesdays and brought a friend from Puerto Rico.  When a small group on Sundays prayed in Spanish, they graciously allowed me room to pray in English.  I soon found myself singing “Rey de Justicia” during the week at work and realized the Lord was touching my heart deeply.  I experienced over and over the Lord’s presence without my fully knowing the spoken language.  A host of blessings far outweighed my occasions of feeling like I couldn’t learn Spanish fast enough.  Yet still now, in these most recent months, I’ve realized more.  The Lord has positioned me to speak Spanish on the streets when I’ve prayed in front of an abortion center.  He has supplied me words in Spanish for visiting patients in the hospital.  He has given me enough Spanish to welcome Spanish-speakers to our English study group.  He has used my endeavors toward Spanish to inspire the same interest in some of my English-speaking friends who want me to toss them some new Spanish words just for fun.  When I ride the city buses, I can now converse more in both languages.  The two have seemed to mix around in lots of directions.  And only after I asked to announce to the Spanish congregation about 40 Days for Life, did I realize I hadn’t been nervous about formally speaking in Spanish.  All this to say I love how the Lord takes us down unknown roads.  Unknown only to us, that is, though we’re entirely secure in His hands.  He comforts us along the way.  He supplies us—7 days a week—SMTWTFS.  He encourages and enlightens with each step.

Among the inanimate

People, yes.  Land, yes.  Inanimate things?  Man-made things?  Is there anything God cannot affect?  Anything beyond His reach?  Following my post on how Jesus’ death and resurrection affected the land, here’s some food for thought.  In Exodus 7, upon the Lord’s instruction, Aaron threw down his staff in front of Pharaoh, and it became a snake.  In Ezekiel 37, the Lord caused a vast army of dry bones to start rattling around.  He attached tendons to the bones, covered them with skin, and breathed life into them.  He brought the bones to stand on their feet, and it’s a scene that wonderfully boggles my brain.  Today I can attest first-handedly to the Lord affecting my TV.  Sometimes I let that 26” box of noise talk too much.  One time, looking out for my best interest, the Lord turned off my TV.  The fact that Little House on the Prairie was a wholesome show doesn’t change the fact that I’d allowed that box too much air time.  One could attribute an electrical reason for the screen suddenly blacking out, but I knew it was the Lord.  I’d sensed ahead that I shouldn’t have turned on the TV.  Also I think of a friend who prayed for her clothes dryer to restart, and it did.  I remember as well the many occasions I’ve prayed for the Lord to reveal lost car keys.  In a panic, combing entire areas multiple times, whether campuses or classrooms or vehicles, finally in complete exasperation lifting the floor mat on the driver’s side one last time, there finding the keys in plain sight.  Indeed the Lord does work among the inanimate.  There’s nothing He cannot move.  There’s nothing into which He cannot breathe life.