Lost and Found

Maybe you’ve done it, too -- been stung by your tendency to try and do too many things at once. This week, my multitasking caught up with me. In rushing between too many jobs at once, I lost track of all of them!

Our school sells gift cards to make money for special projects. I’m happy to support that program, especially with grocery gift cards. Preparing to have company over for lunch this Sunday, I ran into Shop ‘n Save to pick up a few things, sailed through the aisles, bolted up to the checkout, grabbed the gift card in my wallet, and, upon the ka-ching of the register, handed over the card. Oops…only $4.27 left on it. How embarrassing! With two people waiting behind me, I dashed out to the car and ran back in with the other card, much relieved. I knew it had $100 on it; I hadn’t used it yet, and it rang up with no problem. Fortunately the women behind me were ok with my fiasco, saying not to worry about it (they were great spokespeople for whatever churches they went to that morning!), and I continued on my way rejoicing.

Guests were waiting with my husband at the house. We all unloaded the car, and I quickly prepared a tasty and pleasant lunch. We laughed and visited, and the rest of the meal went off without a hitch.

But that’s not the end of the story. Three days later, I stopped past the same store for a few items, gift card again in hand. I handed over the card, knowing I was covered because I only used $9 from it last time. “You have a zero balance,” the checkout clerk said sweetly. What?! I couldn’t have a zero balance. As I paid with a credit card, I was beyond perplexed. I stopped by the business counter on the way out of the store to see if we could figure out what happened to the $91 on that card. The assumption quickly became that I was still using the first card; the second card had gone missing. All they could do was give me an office number to call.

After explaining my dilemma on the phone, with no receipts to back up my story, I figured I’d lost a lot more than a year’s worth of coupons! But the Shop ‘n Save office representative, Marsha, took a personal interest in my supposedly tossed or lost card and went to work. Two days later, I noticed a plastic shopping bag in my car trunk. Inside the bag was not only the grocery receipt showing the two card numbers I’d used, but also the missing card with all the credit on it! I called Marsha to learn that she’d somehow traced down the card number and was ready to mail me a new one with $91 credit.

Everybody needs a lost and found story with a good ending now and then, right? I can’t count the number of times I’ve lost things and memories I needed back. I even lost my three-year-old once for 15 minutes when she hid in a round rack of clothes in the department store and fell asleep. Talk about feeling helplessly frantic!

Obviously, the stories don’t all end with joyful reunions. On my refrigerator, I have a picture of a man trudging through a snowy forest of enormous trees, a child on his shoulders, his wife behind them clutching a bundled baby in her arms. The caption reads, “An Albanian Kosovar couple carry their children through the woods on their way to join a group of several thousand refugees on the Macedonian border, as they try to escape what is viewed as ethnic genocide ordered by Yugoslav President Milosevic.” I’ve prayed for them for years as “lost.” Did they make it, all four of them? Are they ok today?

Whatever the reason we lose or are “lost,” I take comfort in how many times Jesus refers to Himself as a seeker of the lost. He is the Good Shepherd who leaves 99 sheep who are fine to seek the one that is lost and in danger. He watches and guides us, and He wants our eyes to be on Him, too. God knows where all of your lost items wound up. Can He direct you to them? Yes. Will He? I don’t know. I do know, though, that He promises to be with us always, even to the end of the world. That helps me remember that we’re not in this alone.

Sittin’ in the Rain

We’ve had above average rainfall this spring, eight inches in one day last week. I don’t know why -- maybe because Father’s Day is coming up -- but today’s rain called to mind some yesterdays. Smelling the rain, I put everything aside and watched, listened, and remembered. In an instant, I was sitting on orange crates with my dad, watching the rain from just inside the basement garage door of our summer cottage. The garage opened onto the sloping driveway, so the water rushed toward us but was deflected into drains topped with Lake Michigan rocks. One of my summer chores was to clean out the rocks after rains to keep the drains clear.

I haven’t sat and watched the rain for years. As I did today, sweet memories of times with my dad flooded my mind like the waters flooding large puddles in front of me just now. I recalled running through puddles with him as a child, water skiing in the rain on the last day of high school summer vacation, and, as adults, playing tennis until it rained so hard we had to stop, all the while laughing our heads off. One summer, when lake levels got so high that the waves splashed onto the shore banks and over the roof to water the gardens behind the cottage, we even pretended it was raining.

My dad’s been safely tucked into his eternal rest for two years now, but today the lessons he taught me comforted me in his absence. The best part was thanking God for realizing now what my dad knew back then: God gives us little moments for our pleasure that we can easily miss or dismiss. My dad had the ability to translate the “rainy days of life” into sunny days. Daddy laughed in the rain and at the rain, always looking for the rainbow. He thanked God for the rain even as he steeled himself against storms. Come rain or shine, I knew my dad was a rock for our family and for me because of his faith in Christ, the Rock of our Salvation. Sure, we had good times and tough ones. In the end, though, nothing rained on our parade that we couldn’t handle by taking it to our Lord, the Creator of rain and sunshine!

My dad couldn’t carry a tune, but if he could, I know he would have enjoyed singing in the rain. Instead, I have memories of the two of us sittin’ in the rain. It was good -- and it still is. Next time it rains, maybe you’ll pause and let the Lord speak to your heart and soul. Let me know what you hear!

A Tip

What women do with what they know blows me away. It’s not about the degrees and diplomas they have as much as how they help us serve God and each other. Check out the Web site below from Sheila Day, wife of Pat Day, a jockey who’s made it into the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame. Pat Day raced the Kentucky Derby 22 times, won many trophies during his career, and even won the Kentucky Derby in 1992. He’s an incredible man with a great story, and his wife is a remarkable woman in her own right. Sheila Day serves as a resource to women through her important work.

According to the Mom’s Closet Resource Center’s Web site, the organization is dedicated to developing the potential of single moms in the state of Kentucky with encouragement and education and by setting a good example through a Christian viewpoint.

Is this something you could do where you live? Perhaps, you could help Sheila Day in the work she has already begun to do.

I Went to Jail…

…but it turns out I went for a different reason than I’d planned!

Bad choices spiraled a friend into a bad place -- physically, emotionally, spiritually, and legally. I wrote him a letter when I heard he was in jail, but I felt a nudge to go and visit. He was only allowed one visitor each week. His wife lives far away, and I didn’t know if anyone had seen him that week. I called the jail, but they couldn’t tell me if he’d had a visitor or not. I didn’t have two hours to spend on a wild goose chase, but I couldn’t not go. For some reason, that nudge just wouldn’t go away.

So I appeared at the appointed time, stuffing myself into a jam-packed waiting area. It was like standing in an elevator that didn’t move. Same unspoken rule: no talking! Everyone stared straight ahead, peering through a long glass wall at a stern, uniformed woman behind a tightly secured desk. Instead of surround sound, it was surround sad, mad and fear. We were not there because we wanted to be, but because we had to be.

After 20 minutes of waiting in this silent, unmoving limbo lunacy, I couldn’t take it any more. I asked the fellow next to me, “Is this like a bakery? Do you take a number?” He looked scared. “No. No number!” he said in his best English. The spirit of oppression in that room was suffocating. On a six-foot bench along the side wall sat a large man with his pregnant wife and their toddler who kept throwing down her bottle and running into the motley crowd. The mother’s sharp words to the child put us more on edge, as the father gave chase, and then it would all start again. Other than that commotion, we were mostly catatonic, except for two young boys at the front. They were brothers, five and four, and their manners were impeccable.

To break my own boredom and, hopefully, theirs, I asked their mother if we could play a game. She seemed to regard me as a cross between Captain Kangaroo and the Cookie Monster, but nodded okay. I started, “Hey you guys, do you know what a beehive is?” “No,” was their reply. “Have you ever tasted honey?” “Yes,” they offered shyly. “Who makes our honey?” Starting to trust me now, I prompted them, “Bees?” “Yes!” they exclaimed. And we were off for five minutes with a hand game they caught onto right away. I told them how smart they were and loved the back and forth of their playfulness. This could be a long night, so we may as well do something with the space we shared.

Suddenly, the door opened and the feared uniformed woman checked ID’s and let us in. Into what exactly, was not clear. Everyone lined up in front of her desk for another long wait. By now I was thinking it’s almost as difficult to go to jail as it is to be in jail, but I was on a mission to be my friend’s one visitor that week. It’s the least I can do, so no more whining, girl!

I found myself, out of 40 people in line, in front of a bench on which sat my two new little friends. They were next to their grandmother whose face had been the saddest one by far in the first waiting area. Next to them sat the same man who’d been on the foyer bench; this guy knew his place on the bench! I introduced myself to the boys who happily told me their names. They had been so enamored of the bee game we’d skipped formalities! Their grandmother said, “Say, Hello, Miss Phyllis!” The boys and I broke out into another game: “Row, Row, Row Your Boat!” all the way through, dropping off the last word until you only say “Row!” The noise in the room let us get away with it. I was grateful for the companionship. I hoped the uniformed woman wouldn’t take this moment of light-heartedness away from us as I waited to see my friend and, the boys, as they told me, waited to see their daddy.

By now I’d been in line so long, I’d only have about seven minutes with my friend on the other side of wherever he was. And he didn’t even know I was there to see him! So my evening was pretty much gone, but I was on a mission. No way was I going to skip out now. Besides, I had friends. It’s nice to have friends in high places, but I was really enjoying friends in low places this evening; thank you very much.

Half way through the song I heard my friend’s name called. “Who’s here to see him? The guard wants to see you.” I wasn’t sure why, but I guessed I was getting bumped ahead of the others. Stepping past everyone to the front of the line, including my friends’ mother, I heard the warden say my name. “Yes?” I responded. “No visitors,” was the blunt reply.

It hit me like a bucket of cold water. All I could come back with was, “Why?” The guard then informed me he already had a visitor this week. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “I called and the jailer couldn’t tell me.” “We have 300 inmates in here,” she told me. “It’s their job to let visitors know.” “Thank you,” was all I could manage. Deflated, I walked back to say goodbye to my boys and head home.

Had I failed? Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, the boys were happy I was back. I explained I couldn’t see my person inside, like they could. They were special. We finished the song and gave each other high fives. As we quickly reviewed the beehive bit, I realized we had bonded and that it would be hard to leave. I suggested they show their daddy what they learned, because they were so smart and he would be so proud. I told them I would pray and ask Jesus to watch over them as they grew up, and the next time we met, maybe we could do the beehive and singing game again. They nodded with big trusting smiles. I pulled a dollar bill and four quarters out of my purse, pressed them into their little hands, and told them to buy something fun, whispering a prayer for what those hands would do some day. I bid them quiet farewells, with the boys waving and discussing which was better -- the silver coins or the bills.

In an instant, the experience was over, except for the man at the end of that bench calling out, “Hey, if I’d known you were giving out money, I’d have sung that song myself -- and in Spanish!” A lot of us laughed, really laughed, and it felt good. It was a moment of much needed relief where there was none to be had. It took his calling out to me to let me know my trip to jail was for a reason different than my first intention. I went with one plan, but God turned it into another.

Ultimately, that visit amounted to no more than a few minutes out of my schedule. Still, that time counted for so much to me and, perhaps, those two young boys, their mother, and even their grandmother whose body language and facial expressions changed before my eyes. Who knows? Maybe even the large man on the bench with the frustrated wife lightened up for a minute or two. We will never all be in that same place together again. But that moment was engineered by a loving heavenly Father, who simply asks us to report for duty.

I can’t gauge anyone else’s reaction that evening, but I know mine. Now when I pray for the man who informed me there were no numbers in the waiting area, and for the others with whom I shared that evening -- including the woman who told me I couldn’t see my friend (a woman whose sternness I understand because I once worked in a prison) -- I don’t ever expect to know how their stories turned out. I simply thank God for the opportunity to bring His love into a loveless moment. He’ll take it from there.

But it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t listened to that nudge and gone to jail.

The Garden Redeemed

Enjoy these spring, post-Easter reflections from my friend -- Cynthia Schuette, of Midland, Michigan:

Have you ever found yourself coming full circle?

Maybe after several -- perhaps even dozens of years -- you’ve returned to your old elementary school to read a book to second-graders. Maybe you’re sitting in the old high-school bleachers, watching the younger crowd maneuver through life, and you’re thinking -- if I knew then what I know now . . . . Or, perhaps, you’re facing a familiar circumstance or trial and wondering if God is trying to tell you something.

Maybe He is.

Earlier this week, I was struck by the fact that Jesus was in the garden when Judas carried out Satan’s desire to betray Jesus to His enemies (John 13:27).

It was also in a garden, the Garden of Eden, where Satan’s desire to derail Adam and Eve succeeded. He tempted them to go against God’s will and eat the forbidden fruit. What wicked glee Satan must have had as he watched the first human beings God created turn their backs on Him.

Even in this dark garden moment, God, the lover of your soul and mine, had a plan. One day, the last Adam would do what the first Adam did not. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus would choose the will of His Father over His own (Mark 14:36) and through the cross defeat the downward spiral to death. Through the cross, death has lost its victory -- forever.

This, of course, is the overriding source of joy and hope for those who believe. However, the message is also this: My God -- your God -- is in the redeeming business. He can bring you a second chance -- again. He can and will help you through it. How do I know this? I know that my Redeemer lives, and He loves the garden, too.

Tweets!

Are you following Woman to Woman® on Twitter, yet? Follow us now, here!

She said…what?

“She said you took her paintings for your kids. I thought you should know how she feels because I bet I’m not the only one she’s telling.”

This call caught me totally by surprise and pierced my heart. The quote was from an elderly woman I’d considered a good friend. She was a Christian role model whose amazing life I tried to copy. Now she’s failing physically and mentally, but this report -- even in the context of encroaching dementia -- cut me to the quick. Where in my head and heart could I file these disturbing words? This woman, now bad-mouthing me, had regularly prayed for and encouraged me.

What happened? After she moved to the retirement center, I stopped by her home to dig up a rose bush she told me to take. Her son was there packing up the last of her stuff that no one wanted. She was a painter and, after family members selected all their favorite pieces, he saw no option but to haul the unwanted paintings off to the dump. It was terrifying to think of her work destroyed. Surely, there was some place for her finished artwork.

I rescued a dozen paintings and stored them in my husband’s office attic. I planned to someday give them to her grandchildren, the school auction committee, a library -- any place but the trash heap for her handiwork.

I had an equally hard time dumping what she said about me. I asked God to help me forgive the words that she wouldn’t have meant and never would have said before her illness. I remembered St. Paul’s words to the Galatians: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22-23a). Through these words, He settled my soul so that I could let go. Thank God that through Christ we are forgiven and can forgive! Our intentions are sometimes misinterpreted where feelings get hurt, and rifts are created, but Jesus reconciled us to one another.

Finally, I hauled the paintings to her nursing home and put them under her bed. As I left her room, I thanked God for His Words. Stored in my heart and mind, they reminded me to care more about what He thinks and knows about me than what others do.