Weeds

I spent some hours pulling weeds in the front flower bed today. Levi and Violet decided they wanted to help me. They are the voluntary workers of the bunch (at least for now). Sadie, too, actually often voluntarily takes up a broom, cleans a room, or organizes an area. I'm not sure how I got so blessed in this area, but I love it when the kids take up a task to help me. This is mostly because I enjoy being around them - talking and working alongside them.

Levi has loved to work ever since he could walk. I credit my husband's genetics with this desire. He also has not learned the fine art of sitting still. Of course, I remember reading a book in which the author commented on the fact that a woman reclining and resting is a beautiful sight, whereas a man reclining and resting is not nearly as attractive and met with at least a mental, "What are you doing? Get up, and get to work... mow a lawn or something." I am blessed with a hard working man as well as children - at least some of whom seem to enjoy working also.

This evening in particular, I got to work pulling weeds and threw the ones I had pulled up onto the porch. I planned to collect them later to put them into the lawn cart to cart down to the burn pile. Levi immediately began to collect them for me and put them into the lawn cart. I pulled the cart closer to the porch, and he and Violet moved all the weeds from the porch into the lawn cart. He began to request the bigger weeds, and said I should give her the smaller weeds. So as I started to do that, they both began to rush back over to me to try to obtain the bigger weeds to carry to the cart. After awhile of fighting over the weed size, she gave up and sat in the mud pile to eat some dirt and a few grubs. (I can't help but suspect that may be what she'd been in it for from the beginning.)

Levi and I split a pair of lawn gloves so we could dig up some thistles and carry them to the cart. He was very meticulous about making sure that he grabbed the "pokey" weeds with the gloved hand. This was further evidence to me that he was his father's son. As I am a little scatter-brained when it comes to things like that. With every weed I dug up and tossed toward him, he congratulated me, "Way to go, mom! You're doing a great job, you know?" Being a prisoner of politeness myself, I had to reply each time with a, "Thank you, Levi. You're doing a great job too." It was nice to see him being so helpful and hear him being so encouraging. I kept wondering, "Where have I gone right?" I'm not sure it's me at all or just something inborn.

This weeding reminded me of last summer when we were doing almost the identical weeding project in the front. Sadie, Claire, and Levi were helping, and Violet was sitting in her little rocking chair on the porch watching us. I don't know if I'll ever forget that time. Claire is my less-motivated worker. She isn't interested in helping keep things neat or tidy. She isn't particularly interested in a clean room or work space, and some people have come right out and told me that they have never once seen her with a clean face. (I've found she is somewhat like Pigpen in that she generates her own cloud of dust.) Anyway, it was a hot, summer evening, and we were all sweating as we pulled weeds. Levi was working hard and loving it. Sadie was sweeping the dirt clods off the sidewalk and porch, and Claire was... well, we weren't sure what Claire was doing. She was looking for worms and grubs, giving certain weeds a smell test, and twirling them around her head. I kept trying to encourage the kids to keep working hard.

Claire said, "I have to go to the bathroom." This is a move that Claire is utterly famous for... Her bladder has impeccable timing - when cold vegetables are languishing on a dinner plate, during pastor's sermon (if we're sitting near the front and inside of a row), a school lesson is dragging on, mom is waxing eloquent, or during chores - her bladder can always be counted on for a spasm or two. I raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, hurry up. We'll save some work for you." She took off toward the bathroom. After about 10 minutes, I began to wonder if she had fallen in. She came back out shortly thereafter and said, "Oh, I forgot my shoes inside." Then she took off again for the air conditioned house. She took a whole 5 minutes more (at least) to find her shoes. When she returned, she found me complimenting the others on their hard work. I said something to the effect of, "Levi, you are doing a great job. You might deserve the hard worker award." Now, there is no hard worker award at our house. I'm not even sure what prompted me to say it. I just figured it'd be something like a lollipop. He was barely 2. That would work. I saw Claire stop dead in her tracks at the words "hard worker award". The performance I witnessed thereafter was worth the $7.50 I paid to get in. It started with Claire fighting the working children for their jobs. She was ripping weeds from Levi's hands and trying to find another broom for sweeping. After about 2 minutes of this, she walked behind me and said, not directly to me, "Whew! I am sweating!" Then, about a minute later, there was a, "I'm working so hard I'm already getting tired." What a doll! It was priceless.

The happy ending is that all the kids got a lollipop and a cold drink for helping mom. An interesting thing I learned about all the kids that day is that some people are just wired to work out of duty (Sadie) or compulsion/drive (Levi), but others need there to be something in it for them - some type of reward (Claire). She responds very positively to a reward system. I was doing it because I enjoy (when I have the chance) to be outside and to work on a garden. It meets a need in me.

This makes me wonder if people respond to God in a similar way. Some attend church out of a sense of duty. Some are compelled or driven to it. Others do it for what they perceive might be in it for them. Still others do it out of love, because they are blessed by it, and it awakens something inside of them.

Jesus Himself spoke of "rewards" in heaven throughout the gospels. Matthew 5:11-13 - the Beatitudes - He speaks of rewarding those who are persecuted in this life. In Matthew 6:1-19, Jesus speaks of giving, fasting, and praying and that our acts of right should be done in private - not in front of everyone - because God sees what we do without our telling Him (or everyone else), and He will be faithful to reward us for what we do in secret. There are several other references about the rewards that some will receive from God - making it clear that He is not socialistic in His reward system (like I was) - that they are not doled out equally to everyone. But Matthew 6 is worth a second look. We are best off to hide our good deeds, if our purpose is to gain man's praise for them. For one thing, man's praise is fickle... coming and going with changing moods and changing standards. God never intended us to work to please other people. With man, well pleased is a moving target... never so with God. He is the only One trustworthy with our hearts, because He knows what's in them - the true motives - and is, therefore, the only audience that counts.

Claire and I have a lot to learn about good deeds done in secret.

This I Know...

Austin and I went to the grocery store tonight. We are scrambling to prepare for an impromptu birthday party for him tomorrow (he was supposed to be with his mom this week in Iowa). He and I went to pick up a few food items, etc. for his special day tomorrow.

As we were headed home, we decided to grab some late supper and go down to sit at the river and eat. As the sun was beginning to set, we pulled the van into a stall near the historic Lincoln statue and cabin on the North side of the Rock River. I noticed some of the homeless men I know from the shelter sitting under the porch of the cabin. I waved as we sat in the van eating and talking.

There is a man in our town. His name is Scott. He has no legs, and he pushes himself around in his wheelchair... all over town. I've seen his chair at the taverns around town many times. One night, a little over a year ago, I sat at a stop light in my husband's car. I don't drive his work car very often, as it generally leads to some type of embarrassment. (In the winter, the window sticks, and I have had to pound on it like a maniac to get it to open at drive-up windows or mailboxes.) That night, it was warm, and he had the sun roof and every window open as I borrowed it to drive over to our realtor's house. As I sat at the light, I looked to my right and saw Scott. He was obviously intoxicated and shouting at passersby - swearing and screaming angry words. I was alone in the car and getting nervous. I couldn't help looking at him, but then we locked eyes. Oh, no! I panicked as he started rolling off the curb and toward the car. Buttons, buttons... where were the right buttons to roll up every conceivable window and open crevice in the car and lock all the doors? I fumbled recklessly as "flight or flight faster" was apparently kicking in. Rationally thinking, I would have known that this man was virtually harmless. He didn't seem harmless. I managed to get the window almost completely rolled up as he rolled up to the window and began to pound on it with his fists. I looked over at him, smiling nervously and waving, as my heart pounded in my chest. He looked at me, and said, "I'm sorry, ma'am," and moved on to the next car.

Well, tonight I met Scott. He had been sitting, talking with the other homeless men at the cabin. Austin asked me if that was the man who had been yelling at me through the car window that time (as he had heard the story), and I replied yes. He asked how the man had lost his legs. I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I had heard a rumor that it had to do with his being drunk and falling into a fire. As Austin and I talked and ate while listening to the radio, Scott began to roll toward the van. My heart started to skip a little again as I contemplated turning the key in the ignition and taking off again. I said something to the effect of, "Oh, great. Now what are we going to do?" Austin said, "I'm with you this time, mom." It was more comfort than I had anticipated, and we just sat watching as Scott made his move.

He rolled up to the curb next to the van and started to talk. The smell of alcohol and unbathed flesh drifted toward the car. Flies and bugs were buzzing about him and crawling on his body. His fingernails were long and yellow and many of them were broken off jaggedly. He had trash bags wrapped around the bottoms of what was left of his legs. He was wearing an open button-down jersey and some purple shorts. His yellowed gray hair was partially covered in a brown cap. He asked about the weather report. (I had actually just looked at it on the computer before I left home and therefore had a valid response - some common ground.) He told us stories about doctors who had done him wrong, people who had called him names and nearly run him down, and his dreams to write and sing a song on stage with his fender guitar signed by Eric Clapton. He told us the story of how he had lost his legs in a fire one night when he was drunk and how his friends had rolled him too close to the fire and he had lain there for 12 hours - not knowing his legs were burning. He told us about his housing situation, the government, his dream of rolling to Washington D.C. before he dies. He told us how he had been a Navy Seal for 4 years and showed us the cross tattoo he had gotten at age 14. I got out of the van to introduce myself properly and went to kneel down next to him to listen closer. He told me he was dying of pancreatic cancer according to the doctor and had about 6 months to live. As he began to weep heavily, he cried that he knew he was going to die and was afraid he wasn't leaving anything good behind. He told me how he had always been a "hell raiser". He sobbed that he didn't know where he was going to go when he died. "I've paid my daily dues," he said, "but I'm still afraid I'll end up in hell."

Amid the distractions of sirens passing and motorcycles rumbling past, I found it difficult to take up such a complex topic. I asked him if he knew about Jesus, and he said he did. We talked awhile about spiritual things. I asked him if he knew he was created for more than he was living. He began to cry again, and he said that he did. We talked about the longing for eternity with God, and I got up the courage to ask if I could pray with him. At the moment the words were coming out of my mouth, a motorcycle roared past loudly and drowned me out. WHY??? Hadn't it been hard enough to ask without not being heard? Scott (who I found was easily distracted by noise, etc.) seemed off in another world now, talking about motorcycles, and shouting at the man who had ridden by. I felt maybe I was off the hook - almost relieved. I started to think of ways to end this conversation, because the sun was nearly down, and I needed to get home. After he got done shouting at the motorcycler, he looked up at me, and said, "Yes, I want you to pray with me." So he had heard me after all. As if thinking of it simultaneously, we reached out to hold hands. I prayed silently that I would say what needed to be said. He wept as I prayed - thanking God for Scott and his life and for many other things. I can't remember what all I prayed, but he wept heavily again. He thanked me when I was done. I gave him a hug. He embraced me tightly and said, "You know me, don't you?" It struck me that he just wanted to be known by someone. He wanted someone to see him. He asked if we had a dollar so he could get a hamburger - swearing (without any prompting) that he was going to use it for food (as he already had 2 large cans of beer in his lap). Austin piped up from the car, "I have one!" He gave it to me. I handed it to Scott, and I got in the van. As he wheeled away, he declared, "If I was younger, I'd have married you, darlin'." At which, I smiled.

When I got back into the van and shut the door, Austin smiled, and he said, "Wow, mom. He liked talking to you. I think you earned a big, purple jewel in your crown tonight." I smiled doubtfully as I turned the key to start toward home. Except... the ignition clicked - dead battery. I had failed to turn off the radio/lights as I was talking to Scott, and we were stuck there another 20 minutes as we waited for my wonderful granddad to come jump start our dead battery. It was a little awkward as the homeless guys watched us sit there to wait for Grandpa to help us out. I was glad that he could help. I'm sure Grandpa didn't approve of why I was stuck there. He didn't say much.

Austin and I talked on the way home. We discussed how narrow my focus had been the first time I had encountered Scott. I had been afraid and unwilling to take the time to see him as a person and not an inconvenience or "boogey man". I was ashamed that I had acted that way, and we got the opportunity to discuss how our narrow focus and judgmental attitudes can keep us from the joy of sharing our hope with those in need.

As I got home in time to help put the kids in bed, Levi got out of bed after our first try of putting him in bed. I asked him what was wrong. He said simply, "I'm scared, mom." As I started in with the parental, "There's nothing to be scared of..." speech, he interrupted me with 5 words, "Is Jesus watching over me?" I said, "Yes he is." He said, "Okay." He turned around and got in his bed. I tucked him in, and that's the last we saw of him tonight.

It occurs to me... we all just want to know that Someone is watching over us - that He knows our fears and cares for us... that He knows us. 1 Peter 5:6-7 says, " ⁶Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, ⁷casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you." God knew we would want to know that He cares for us. His eyes are upon us.

Psalm 139

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

¹ O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.

² You know when I sit and when I rise;

you perceive my thoughts from afar.

³ You discern my going out and my lying down;

you are familiar with all my ways.

⁴ Before a word is on my tongue

you know it completely, O LORD.

⁵ You hem me in—behind and before;

you have laid your hand upon me.

⁶ Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

⁷ Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

⁸ If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

⁹ If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

if I settle on the far side of the sea,

¹⁰ even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand will hold me fast.

¹¹ If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me

and the light become night around me,"

¹² even the darkness will not be dark to you;

the night will shine like the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

¹³ For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place.

When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

¹⁶ your eyes saw my unformed body.

All the days ordained for me

were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

Kahlua "Cut Off"

If you know me well at all, you will have likely heard this next story. If you've been reading my blog a little, this next story is not likely to surprise you.

A few years back I started going to the nice salon in town. I had been doing the "walk-in" thing for years at different salons in the area, and - being blessed/cursed (depending on the day) with naturally very curly hair - let's just say that walk-ins, always, without exception, ended badly. I usually just ended up cutting my own hair... which ended up equally as badly, but at least I hadn't paid money for it. I tried the nice salon once, and was hooked. Yes, nice usually equals more expensive, but sometimes (like with paper towels and chocolate) "you get what you pay for". Nice sometimes comes with new rules of etiquette and a little more luxury too. For example, this new salon doesn't accept tips. This came as a huge relief, because I always hated paying for "poodle" at those walk-in salons and then trying to figure out how to thank the "groomer" with a monetary gift of appreciation. A luxury at the new salon was the offering of free beverages upon one's arrival. This was another pleasant surprise. That day, I would get more surprise than I had anticipated.

On a cold day in winter, I walked into my new salon, and the girl behind the counter asked me if I wanted a beverage. I responded in the affirmative and waited somewhat patiently as she gave me the list of choices - having been sold on "hot chocolate" ever since the two words escaped her lips somewhere near the top of the list. I always laugh that I'm not quite a grown-up yet, as I haven't acquired a taste for coffee - the real grownup beverage. So if there's a warm drink alternative like cider or hot cocoa... YES, ma'am. I'm in. When I told her I wanted the hot chocolate she smiled sweetly, and then narrowed her eyebrows with a devilish grin and said, "With cool whip?" Had I died and gone to heaven? Of course, with cool whip. Did she even have to ask? I wondered why she had given me that look when she asked about the cool whip - as if "cool" and "whip" were what Grandma would call "whisper words". When I nodded in the affirmative, she asked with greater enthusiasm, "Lots?" So I matched her enthusiasm with my response... we were so in sync. I liked this gal.

Well, as it turns out, in a salon there are lots of noises - water running in the basins, blow dryers, cash registers, and jingling bells on the door - not to mention the constant jibber-jabber that my husband would call "cackling and clucking". Apparently, above such din, the words "cool whip" sound uncannily like the similar and slightly less benign word - "kahlua" - a coffee flavored liqueur. And by liqueur, I mean an alcoholic beverage that barely qualifies as alcohol.

However, for a nearly perpetually pregnant/nursing mother who had barely ever consumed alcohol before this occasion, it ended in a little embarrassment.

As the girl brought me my beverage a few minutes later I couldn't help but think, "You know, for all the fuss she made over asking me if I wanted a lot of cool whip, this thing doesn't have one drop!" I am glad now that I hadn't mentioned the discrepancy to the girl, or my bumpkinnes (yet again another made up word) would have been revealed, and I would have been shunned from sophisticated society forever. I drank it, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than I would have had it contained my favorite whipped topping. It tasted a little funny, but these fancy salons and their flavored concoctions... can't just leave well enough alone. Hello, grandma. (Sometimes she just shows up.)

Anyway... by the time my stylist arrived at my chair, I was already feeling relaxed. Within a few minutes of the start of my haircut, I was giggling uncontrollably at everything she said. She asked if I was alright. Of course, I responded, "of course". She said, "Are you sure? You're acting funny." I told her she was too, and we laughed about that. Then she asked perceptively, "What are you having to drink?" I said, "Hot chocolate." She said, "With kahlua?" mmm... exsqueeze me? I responded (a little less guarded about my bumpkinness), "You know, I think so." She asked, "Who made it? Was it ___?" I said, "Yep." She said, "Oh, she likes to put a lot of kahlua in it." She then asked if I drank coffee, at which I thought, "Well, apparently I do if it's liqueur and swimming in a sea of hot chocolate." What I said was just, "Nope." And she had a girl bring me a glass of water. She took the rest of my hot cocoa away, and she started giving me water to drink. I said, "This is great! I have to go on duty in another hour." We both had a few more laughs at my expense that day - despite the fact she handled my drunkenness very professionally. I purposefully never mentioned the miscommunication that had occurred between me and the sweet gal up front... cool whip and kahlua... I was determined to keep a small portion of my dignity anyway. Apparently hair isn't the only thing that can get "cut off" at the salon these days. Who knew?