My Faithful Friend

Before too much more time passes, I really want to record some thoughts about the trip last month to see Jeanie Hansen. What struck me the most was the picture of faithfulness that she held up for me. Father Warren, had a Ph.D. in biochemistry from St. Louis University, then taught at St. Louis U. and Purdue. In his late 40s, he left that life to go to an Episcopal seminary. They lived a life of such simplicity, selling their big home and living in what had been their vacation cabin in Cuba, Mo. They both worked so hard all of the time, but laughed often and were so full of joy. They showed me from the start of my Christian life that knowing God is all about great joy.
They also showed me what the Christian life is NOT about: the applause of men. When I first got saved, the Lord gave me a desire to go help at a nearby soup kitchen. I told Father Warren, and he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, "That's good. Go, and do that. Just remember, only one of the ten lepers Jesus healed came back to thank Him." I had to laugh when the first day, I struggled with my huge cafeteria tray full of grilled cheese sandwiches and was greeted by a rather hostile , "Oh, I hate grilled cheese!" Now that's a good preparation for a life in ministry. And Father Warren had warned me ahead of time, so it was no surprise.
When I was visiting Jeanie, less than a month after losing the one she always called her "hubby", she was faithfully serving at the Food Pantry in Cuba, (probably encountering some ungrateful lepers in the lot), serving not to earn points for heaven but to paint a picture of Christ by giving to those in need.
Her faithfulness really hit home in another way when we spent time going through her old photo albums. She had saved every card or picture of my kids that I had ever sent her. She had hanging on her wall an ornament that I had given her 15 years ago. She had planted in her garden the potted mums that had decorated the altar the day John and I got married. I was touched and humbled to see just how much she had cherished even the smallest thing that I had sent her. I wished I had sent more.
Unconditional love like hers comes only from God. And I don't want to be an ungrateful leper. I thank God for giving me such a faithful woman who calls me one of her adopted daughters. I thank Him for the picture of His steadfast love, a picture of my Lord who, for some reason, cherishes each of my totally inadequate prayers and praise.

Pain, More Pain, Rage....Exuberance!

This month, my pinkie finger gave me some spiritual reminders. I broke it while tossing a football at Youth. I tried my best to ignore it the next day, but it kept throbbing and dangling in a weird way, forcing me to the Emergency Room. There, doctors and nurses seemed unperturbed by it, X-rayed it, declared it broken indeed, slapped a splint on it, and slapped a $100 charge on us -- increasing my fiscal pain while doing nothing to decrease my physical pain. The Lord made His comforting presence known in an incredible way when our church sent a totally unexpected check to cover the ER costs. But every day, I became more aware of my pinkie as the throbbing intensified. "When one part of the body suffers, the entire body suffers." Finally it so pervaded my thoughts that I made an appointment with an orthopedist. (Just as suffering drives us to the Great Physician, makes us aware of our desperate need.) This very human physician (whose greatness I sincerely doubted) looked at my pinkie, grabbed a hold of it without warning and twisted it violently toward my other fingers. Two loud snaps filled him with great glee: "Did you hear that? Did you hear that?" he asked me. I could barely hear HIM as the room started to go black. Later, I lay in the examining room, furious, crying, wondering whether this man even had a license to practice medicine. While that thought is fresh in my mind, he comes BACK in and forces the very top of my pinkie over "just to see," he says. This fills my soul with black rage, but I'm too weak and beaten to do what I want to: punch him. Instead I say, "Well, I guess I'm glad you didn't tell me ahead of time that you were going to do that." "You're welcome," he says, speaking as though from on high. I am speechless with indignation. I was NOT thanking him. I thought I was being gracious not to have kicked him. I leave with my whole hand feeling limp and useless. I go home and go right to sleep, totally exhausted -- but when I wake up-- my hand feels great! Suddenly I like the doctor very much. Doubt and rage became brokenness and submission ... bringing healing and glory to the healer.