The Talisman in my Pocket

    

I don’t consider myself superstitious at all. But last Friday night when I gave my testimony, I was more anxious that I thought I would be. Before going over to church, I went quietly into my room. I opened one of the many containers I have containing various objects from my past and found a little hair-band with four wooden beads. That was what I wanted. I slipped it into my pocket.

     I couldn’t figure out why I was as anxious as I was. I had taught lessons at Celebrate Recovery, made announcements and prayed in front of the group. What was reading my testimony getting me worked up about? And was there mojo in this little hair band?

Flashback 15 years ago:

I am walking to a carnival set up in an empty park in Budapest. Then I see the bungee jump. There is a crane taking folks up about 50 meters and they jump off. I ask nicely if I can do the bungee jump. (Just the previous night I’d had a dream of flying.) Prajna says yes. The little Hungarian language I know gets me a ticket. The operators tell me to take my coat off. I feel in my pockets for anything loose and hand my keys and wallet to Prajna. I also feel the hair ribbon. I don’t remember where it came from. It may have been in our flat when we moved in. Naomi likes to play with it and for some reason it’s in my pocket so I keep it there.  I take off my boots, get strapped into a harness and the crane takes me up… and up. I look down on the tops of the 12 floor apartment buildings. I see the Danube. Then the men tell me “okay”. My stocking feet toes are hanging over the side and I look down on a huge expanse of empty space. The ground is a long way down. Suddenly I’m terrified. The men wait patiently. I realize that standing there trying to steel myself won’t do anything but slow this down. I paid to jump, and the thrill is not only in the jump, but in this frightening first step. Then I am jumping. The air is rushing around me everywhere and I am soaring, falling, then bouncing. Then it’s done and as the crane descends, I hang upside down for a minute and begin to get my bearings back. People help me to my feet. Other than the clothes on my back, the only item I had on me was the little hair band with the four beads.

     As I was walking over to church I thought about the hair band. I didn’t really believe in lucky charms. I do, however, have an unhealthy attachment to the past sometimes. Was I convincing myself that if I could jump of a crane platform 50 meters above Budapest then I could read a 15 minute testimony to people I’m learning to trust? Yes, maybe I was.

     I had another talisman for a long time. It was a long chain like a keychain with the dog-tags Prajna wore in the Air Force. Along with her dog tags was a tiny medic-alert bracelet that had belonged to Naomi. I used to wear this chain all the time until it snapped once when I was working construction. After that I hung it from the rearview mirror of my truck. I didn’t think about this chain until I was already at church. I wondered why I didn’t consider that as a comfort object.

     The chain with Naomi’s medic-alert was just an object of memory. The beads were with me when I overcame the natural human instinct to not step off a precipice into nothing. What I was doing that night felt more like that than anything else. At the meeting, people prayed for me. They played some of my favorite songs before I got up and spoke. I felt encouraged. It was like helpful workers, even if they didn’t speak the same language as me, knowing that I was afraid and being cool with that. 

     When I delivered my testimony, I kept my eyes on my paper in front of me. Usually when I teach, I make eye contact. It was just different.

     When I was done speaking, people clapped and I got handshakes and hugs. It was like being helped back to my feet. It had been scary and a bit of a thrill too. Of course I could have done it without the talisman in my pocket. It had no powers. It just reminded me that I once I took a risk and came out alive and standing, albeit with help. Could I have done it without the help and support of others, including Prajna? No.

     And part of my recovery in this program is admitting that. The fact that I never considered an old chain to carry, one that only reminded me of her and not what I had overcome, that was a good step too.

    

           

Roll away the Stone

     Writing is therapeutic for me. It’s a healthy escape from reality, if there is such a thing. Over the past several months I have been working on something a little different than anything I’ve ever written. I’ve been writing my testimony for Celebrate Recovery.

     One of the 12 steps in this Christ-Centered recovery program involves writing out an inventory of my life. And it’s definitely a healing thing to write out one’s life and look at it all. For someone like me who lived in denial for so long, to start writing about my life with no façade in the way started to bring out things. As I wrote and read what I wrote I began to see connections and patterns of self-destructive behavior and their origins. I was supposed to do this inventory when I did the 12 steps for the first time a few years ago but didn’t fully get it. Only now as I’m writing my testimony is it all working for me. It really is like putting together a puzzle and suddenly seeing the big picture of my life. I’m seeing not only what I’ve done in my life, but what God has done.

     Before I was a writer I still made up stories. Then there came a time in my life when I started to avoid the real world and live more in my made-up worlds. I created worlds with my toy cars and spaceships. Back then toy spaceships weren’t sold in stores. I used hairbrushes, bottle caps, and other items that looked right. One might think that a robust imagination was healthy, but not how I used it. Not only did I make up stories, I convinced myself that I was an alien from another planet. Instead of trying to get along in the real world, I watched the skies and waited for my people to come and take me home. Living outside of the real world carried over into my adult life. It was dormant for years until crisis took the forefront of everything and I fell right back into denial of reality.

     Saved to my laptop right now is every word of this entry so far. (I hit the save icon often, sometimes with every sip of coffee.) But there are also folders of fiction stories, two of which are almost novel-length. They are created out of my imagination. Also saved is the testimony I’ve been working on for months. I rarely plan and outline writing the way I did with this. And since I called it completed two months ago, I have gone back and revised and polished it. This Friday I am reading it aloud at the Celebrate Recovery meeting.

     I don’t know how I could have written this testimony without practicing some vulnerability here on my blog. Some weeks I get somewhat personal. My testimony does too.

But that openness is a small thing compared to the healing I’ve experienced in taking the time to write my testimony out and see the pieces put together.  I have shared a bit about how four years ago I was in a bad way. I was entrenched in self-destructive behavior, living in denial and spiritually dead. I was just walking around refusing help. Jesus could have come up and offered to help raise me up and I would have told him no. I would have said that I wasn’t deserving of any help and besides, there would be an awful stench if my problems were exposed to the world. But somehow (people must have been praying for me) it happened anyway. The stone was rolled away.

I didn’t realize most of this until very recently when I started writing it all out. I think I might have been aware somehow of how blessed I was, but there are some astounding things I finally grasped. I will share it Friday night and put into my blog too someday.

I don’t like ending my blog posts with an entreaty like a homework request. But there are a few things I want to mention.

First, anyone can come and hear my testimony Friday night if they want to. I am thankful to so many people for quietly believing in me and being with me before I started the healing. I don’t know how else to thank them all.

 My second item up for bid is just me saying what works for me. Not just journaling or writing, even though anybody can do that too. But there is so much brokenness out there and there is healing. If I learned anything in my recovery it’s that I can’t do it alone. But it works. I’m getting better.

Thanks for letting me share.

     Celebrate Recovery meets at Yucaipa Christian Church every Monday and Friday at 7:00 p.m.  12954 Bryant Street, Yucaipa

           

What Time Takes and Leaves

     “I miss them at that age,” I said more than once this past week.  I don’t know what I was thinking except a very narrow-minded, rose-colored memory that little kids are just a joy.  Not that I don’t mind having an 18, 15, 13, 10 and 9 year old, not at all. But this past week I spent time with friends who had younger kids including a six and three year old. They loved being read to and I could throw them in the air without hurting myself. Later in the week I even held a one year-old and she loved being lifted up and down, but then wanted her mom back.

     It’s all good. My kids did very well the 14 hour drive from Yucaipa to Medford last Monday and the two 8 hour drives later that week. I haven’t forgotten past road trips with more frequent rest-stops, crying, tantrums and the high maintenance of the younger children. I think that while there are fond memories of the very young kids, they are definitely easier to travel with as they get older. The real challenge in my life as I’m this age is to accept the things I cannot change, like the fact that I have three teenagers and the ones who are not teenagers don’t need to be read to as often as before.

     It was heart-warming to see all the younger children at the Faux Family reunion. We do it every two years. Not too many years ago we were the parents with some of the youngest kids. Now there are even younger ones. Of the Faux Family, I am one of the youngest grandchildren. My kids are the great-grandchildren and one family has a great-great grandchild. Every two years I see my cousins and aunts and uncles have aged and how much the kids have grown.

Time inevitably rolls forward sapping strength and adding years to us all. I don’t know if I should start worrying about not seeing some folks at the next family reunion in two years. But it’s encouraging to see new faces each year. Not only are new children but also new spouses added in. Time doesn’t just take as it moves on, it also adds.

I’m still a little tired from the drive yesterday. I had an idea as to what to write about and it sort of went its own way and this being a writing exercise, I like to just let that happen.

It’s nice having a big family that all shares grandparents. I wanted to share that when I was considering what to write. But I know that not everyone has a family, big or small or nice. Well before our family reunion we visited friends so close that we call them family. Up until recently most of my kids thought we were related because of our use of the Hawaiian Style, calabash “auntie and uncle” titles. But there is no blood relation. We are just that close. And I realized that if someone doesn’t have a real family they can call their own, there is hope that they could at least have another family or just close friend that they can call that.    

That was the point I thought about driving down Interstate 5 yesterday. But today is the first day after vacation and I go back to work tomorrow. I’m still kind of tired from the drive and the change in routine all last week. My blog this week is sporadic and confused. If it makes any difference, I’ve got my next one in mind. But for today, I’m going to try to re-acclimate and appreciate the kids I have. I’m glad their mine and someday I’m sure I’ll miss them at this age.

           

Two in the Morning Sensitivity

     It was a little before two in the morning when Prajna nudged me.  I know that nudge.  I wasn’t snoring and she wasn’t having one of those dreams where a shark is chasing her with a firearm. This nudge meant only one thing.  I listened at the open bedroom window and heard it too.  The alarm was going off at church. 

     One of my jobs as custodian and keeper of the keys at Yucaipa Christian Church involves answering the alarm during off hours.  The audible alarm sounds just like a car alarm with a  steady downward chirp.  I don’t have to get up to answer it very often, sometimes it's quiet for months.  Every time I have responded to it, there has never been a break in. It is always a motion sensor and most often in the same area. 

     I am prepared to respond to the alarm.  I keep a pair of socks in my boots and have some old loose-fitting clothes that I can pull on over whatever I’m sleeping in.  I was able to get dressed and grab my keys take my flashlight and pull on my long black coat, get into the golf cart and be over at the church in less than four minutes. 

     To me, a flashlight is my friend.  I carry the biggest MagLight® available.  I also always wear my long black coat.  If there is ever trouble, I want to have that on.  Of course I have never encountered a bad guy.  The only people I’ve ever met up with are the local police.  The alarm company calls them first, then me.  Last time I called them first and then almost missed when another operator was trying to call me.  So now I wait.  I had circled the building and saw no sign of an intruder.  The alarm cut off after four minutes and my phone rang as I got to the front door of the building.  I have a special ringtone just for the alarm company that’s the fire station klaxon from the old TV show Emergency!  The alarm company told me what had set off the alarm, and it was a single motion sensor.  If there was someone in the building there would have been a door alarm and more than one motion sensor.  I told the operator to please call off the police, which I do every time it’s clear there is no break-in.

     I checked all around the inside of the church, re-set the alarm and went home.  I got into bed and my side was still a little warm. It was just after two in the morning.  I felt awake, but relaxed. This had happened before, I would go back to sleep and blog about the ambulance and the crossing guard in the morning.

     But there is something sinister about two o’clock in the morning.  The “what if’s” start to appear.  What if my truck’s electrical system is completely fried? What if one of our chickens is eating the some of the eggs before we gather them? What if my laptop crashes? What if terrorists explode a nuclear weapon in Los Angeles? What if my cat runs away again? What if my children make bad choices? What if one of us gets cancer?

     I stayed awake for what seemed like an hour or more. I was barely asleep when Prajna twitched and I woke up.  The alarm was going off again.

     I was a lot more clumsy getting dressed this time.  I couldn’t figure out how to get my pants on and disturbed Prajna shaking the bed.  As I got my phone it rang the klaxon.  I fumbled to open it right-side up and greeted the operator.  It was the same sensor and I asked them to call off the police again. 

     Over at the church I walked through the sanctuary. It felt odd that I had been in there just over 12 hours previously.  It had been bright and full of people. We sang some great worship songs.  The room had been alive.  Now it was quiescent. Worship folders were here and there.  The room looked larger and even more empty than when I clean it mid-week.  I looked long and hard at the offending motion sensor.  There were no spider’s webs near it.  But shining my flashlight I saw some other cobwebs nearby that I had to get with a Swiffer® duster when I was at work.  But I didn't see anything that could have triggered it.  This had happened to another motion sensor in the building a few months ago.  Here is something about motion sensors: When they get old, they become extra-sensitive.  And it seems mostly in the middle of the night they become afraid that any little thing might happen and they sound the alarm. 

     I re-programmed the building’s alarm to by-pass this particular sensor and I will make a note to have it looked at.  Back at home I still had trouble sleeping and when I finally did sleep I dreamed that I was wandering around church answering the alarm but also trying to be nice to people who happened to be there without reserving the rooms.  

     I don’t think it’s my old age (okay I’m only 45) that makes me fret at two in the morning.  To be sure, being a parent can do that and sometimes I wish there was a bypass code that just shut off the extra-sensitive parts of me.  Actually there are such things that do that and they’re called crutches, addictive behaviors and bad habits.  That motion sensor is there to keep the building safe and needs to be in working order.  We can’t have it inactive.  I can’t do anything to by-pass the “what-ifs” that hit at two o’clock in the morning.  At least when the sun comes up the world looks less scary.

The Flag Draped Coffin

     I work as a custodian at a medium sized church in a medium sized town.  When I heard that we would be holding the memorial service for Tyler Davis, a young man killed in Afghanistan, my first concern was that half the town might turn up.  My second concern was that we might get the group of people infamous for protesting soldier’s funerals.  I am not proud that my sorrow at the loss of this young man didn’t occupy the front of my mind.  

 I tried not to forget that as we prepared for the Friday service, but I stayed busy with other things. I set an overflow room and the church put the local police in charge of the parking.  The police were prepared to handle any protestors.  Their free speech and assembly would not be denied.  But they would not be allowed to pass onto the property.  Then the media, social and public, got wind of the rumor of protestors.  The nets came alive with incredulity and rage at the thought of this young man’s honor being disrespected in such a way. 

Friday came.  The service was scheduled for one p.m. and before 10 a.m. there were people.  I went up to have a look and there were people with lawn-chairs and American flags.  There was a police chaplain prepared to talk to any protestor.  News trucks from Los Angeles arrived.  One reporter managed to find our senior pastor and ask him some questions.  They had more to do with the potential protestors and less to do with the fallen soldier.  More people arrived.  I wondered how many were there to honor Tyler Davis and how many were hoping for fireworks.

The local police arrived before 10 and began to control traffic entering the parking lot.  I stayed with them to direct parents arriving to pick up kids from camp.  Shortly after that, the Patriot Guard arrived.  From the south, between 40 and 50 Harley Davidson Motorcycles ridden by several different clubs/gangs rumbled up, circled, and backed up to the sidewalk in front of the church. Cheers went up.  Motors roared.  The police looked a little nervous.  I found myself caught up in the circus show.  Then the hearse arrived.

I’ve seen several memorial services at my church.  This was the first time I had seen a coffin brought in.  While most people stayed out at the street, several veterans with flags stood lining the way from the curb to the church’s front doors.  The pastor asked me to open the double doors, and I never imagined there would be such honor in unlocking and blocking open two doors I clean every week.  I stood back.  It got very quiet. Moments later a call was given and the veterans lining the path raised their flags.  Young men in smart dress uniforms slowly walked through the line carrying a flag-draped coffin.

Very few of the huge crowd were there to see that.  But I saw it.  And at that moment, it was no longer about the circus, protestors, TV trucks or motorcycles.  I remembered what the day was about.  This was a day for a family that had lost a boy.

I don’t know how many people showed up at the church in order to counter-protest.  The word had gotten out that there would be protestors, but they never showed.  I kept wondering, how much of the town would have been there if there had never been the threat?  It may not have been a very positive thought.  I was just as guilty of forgetting what the day was about.  And yes, there was cheering outside the funeral for the show of American muscle.  But regardless of the reason, people were there.  And if they were there to show up protestors, they were still there in numbers, still waving flags as the procession left through town.  They were supporting their hometown hero, regardless of motives.  

And look at what the empty threat of the abhorrent protestors did.  This so-called church that I thought did nothing but evil managed to bring more people out in a show of encouragement.  

None of this, however, takes away from this simple fact:  A mother lost her son.  As much as I want to support our troops and my country, seeing the soldiers carry the flag draped coffin moved me like nothing ever has before.  I won’t go any further there.  Just this last point: thank you to all the soldiers.  I hope… I wish you can come home alive.

    

           

The Lost and the Misled

     My church is having a memorial service for a fallen soldier.  He was from our town and only 20 years old.  The honor to have this at our church is humbling.  I wish we didn’t have to face the possibility of people coming to protest the funeral in the purported name of God.  Like terrorists, they make us worry about how to deal with them.  They know enough to demand their free speech and free assembly rights and I’ve heard they make a lot of money in litigation when those rights are denied. The irony of them invoking the constitution while horribly disrespecting those who are sworn to defend it is not lost on anyone.  In fact, so much about this seems wrong that I want to share a story.

     Imagine a meeting in the depths of hell where there are always meetings, subcommittees and portfolio facilitators. It goes like this:

      The mood in the meeting room was always the same.  Fear mixed with a lustful hate.  Desperation sounded in the voice of the speaker as the report was given.

      “We are gaining strength nearly everywhere,” the voice trembled.  “In the developed world, we have generations that are not loyal to… to the other.”

      There was a sound at the end of the table where light did not shine.  When the voice spoke from it, everyone in the room sank low.

      “As long as there are any loyal to Him,” came the hiss.  “We must assault them.” 

      “Popular culture makes loyalty to the other undesirable,” the first one spoke.

      “Popular culture is fleeting,” was the reply.  “There will always be those who resist its draw.  It has no real power.”

      There was silence for a time.  The fear rumbled softly like the ground quaking.

      A new, younger one slowly rose to speak. “So then master,” he said.  “We must have some real power.” 

      All eyes looked to the new one.

      “Yes,” said the master. “And what power do I have?”

      “Lies, master.”

      “Lies,” said the master. “More than lies.  Deception.  The truth, but with confusion and selfishness and things of the world distorting it.”

      “Yes, master,” came the reply. “So we should be like them.”

      There was a shudder from the others, but the master kept calm.

      “What would be the most damaging thing to the other side?” the new one continued.”  “For some to pose as their own followers to quote His Words.  But to do it in such a hateful way that the world looks upon all of them with a distorted viewpoint.  What a weapon we could have if the world believed them to be of Him, but all along they were doing your work?”

      The fear and hate in the room rose.

“Yes,” the master hissed.  “You will make this happen.  Go find some of His flock that is unsure, guilty, weak.  Begin to plant in them ideas of how they might serve their master.  Make them imagine themselves boldly doing His work and deserving great reward.  But give them ideas filled with fear and hate.  Have them invoke His Words so loudly that the unreached believe that is His way.  Many will stay away from him, yes.”

      The other sank down and bowed.  Pain and fear surrounded him as he departed. The master looked to the rest. One spoke up:

      “We will be victorious master,” he said.

      “No,” the master stated.  “In the end, we will lose.  All we can do is take as many of the flock away from Him.”

      The departing one found some with hearts that would hear.  When their work began, the effect was just what the master had desired.

      The effect didn’t last as long as though.  Some of those that truly belonged to Him prayed for the lost. And when the flock prayed, deception fell.  

           

     I won’t pretend to know what goes on in those meetings.  But what this group does seems so wrong that I think it was created there.  

     I want to remember that these protesters are God’s children also.  I wish that if they showed up, we could give them coffee and doughnuts or somehow minister to their closed hearts.  But they are in a cult.  What’s more, this isn’t their day.  This Friday, it’s about our hometown soldier and his family and loved ones.  There is nothing to do but pray for these lost people.