Learning About Myself through Others

Have you ever noticed that when you think you're in a position to teach someone, or comfort someone, or change someone's life, you end up being taught, comforted or changed in ways you didn't expect? I've had this happen several times in my life, so I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to me that it has happened again.

The first time that I can recall this happened was when a very dear friend and mentor of ours was diagnosed with Leukemia at the age of 60. When we found out that this amazing, robust, artistic man had received such grim news and had immediately been admitted the hospital for aggressive treatment, my first thought was, "What can I possibly offer him?" I hadn't experienced such illness in my life. As a matter of fact, I'd only really had to go through the death of one family member, my grandmother, and I'd been too young to fully understand what was happening.

But here was a man who had been like a father to my husband, had welcomed him into his home during a particularly rocky time in his life, and had offered himself as a spiritual guide. He had seen us through no small difficulties and witnessed some of the ugliest moments of our lives. He had given us so very much. What could we possibly offer? So for quite some time--a week? a month? I can't quite recall--I resisted visiting him in the hospital. I felt so guilty, and yet I couldn't bring myself to do any differently.

It was just before Easter, and my two young children had been busily decorating egg-shaped cupcakes. They turned out so beautifully that I had an idea. The children and I would brighten our friend's day with a plate of these festive Easter cupcakes. So, on a warm Spring day, I loaded the children into the car, my belly swollen with the second trimester of pregnancy, and we made the trek to the hospital to see our friend for the first time since his diagnosis.

Reed was so vibrant, even in the final stages of his cancer, but one thing he absolutely could not do was eat. He had lost quite a bit of weight, and just the idea of food made him queasy. As a result, our cupcakes were useless and I, likewise, felt useless, too.

But as I sat in my awkwardness, desperately searching for something to offer my friend, reminding a four- and five-year-old not to touch that, and not to climb there, Reed did something amazing. He comforted me. He shared his thoughts, and his peace, and his joy with me, and he let me know that he was content with what the Lord was doing in his life, and that I should be, too.

I walked away from the hospital room that day in such awe that this man, who I had sought to comfort, had ended up comforting me.

Three months later, on the due date of my third child, I stood with Reed's wife and other loved ones as Reed took his last breath on this earth and stepped into eternity with God. As I stood there on that Thursday afternoon, my stomach tensed and hardened with early contractions. A week later, Monet would be born, and would be given Reed's name as a middle name. He, too, would become a gifted artist.

Once again, I find myself in a place where I have been unsure about how well I would be able to serve and teach.

Once again, I'm being served. I'm being taught.

Two weeks ago, we welcomed a young man into our home from Swaziland for a six-month stay as part of a international voluntary exchange program. Our guest, who I will call Rejoice because that's what his name means, has been such a blessing to me and has already begun to teach me so much about who I am, what I believe, and how my life affects the world and those around me. His politeness, eagerness to learn and amazing dedication to Christ have been sources of much introspection for me.

Over the next six months, I'll be writing about Rejoice, about welcoming him into our family, and about the amazing lessons I'm learning along the way.

Please help me to welcome Rejoice into the Today's Lessons family!

A good thought for this season...

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. If you bite and ravage each other, watch out—in no time at all you will be annihilating each other, and where will your precious freedom be then?

My counsel is this: Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit, just as the free spirit is incompatible with selfishness. These two ways of life are antithetical, so that you cannot live at times one way and at times another way according to how you feel on any given day. Why don't you choose to be led by the Spirit and so escape the erratic compulsions of a law-dominated existence?

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.

But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity.

Galations 5, The Message

How People Affect Me, Part One

It amazes me how deeply I'm affected by other people's attitudes.

I mean, when someone doesn't treat me warmly, my first and very immediate thought is to wonder why they don't like me. Generally, if I've not even opened my mouth, I tend to believe that a grumpy person dislikes the way I look. I'm no Andi McDowell, after all, so I suppose a real aesthete would be put off by my face. This makes me feel very self-conscious.

If I have my children with me, I immediately assume that my progeny are piglets and the person has determined that I'm a terrible mother/they're terrible children/both. This also makes me feel very self-conscious. And much like a failure.

If I've asked a question and the person is short-tempered or unkind, I just know it's because I've asked the stupidest question on the face of all existing planets and the person is merely tolerating my existence. This makes me feel like an idiot.

It takes several encounters with a grumpy person before I begin to realize that I'm not the problem. This makes me feel dense. But better.

One of the adventures of our recent mini-vacation began with the phone call I made to our hotel the day before our departure.

"Would it be possible for us to store an ice cream cake somewhere at the hotel?"

A high-pitched elderly voice that sounded very much like Minnie Mouse responded, "No. That won't be possible. Our freezer is full."

H-okay. "Um...I have another question. We will be having pizzas delivered to the hotel on Friday night. Our forensics group will be arriving back at the hotel at around 9:00. Would it be possible to use a breakfast area or common room to eat?"

"No, I don't think so. You can call back tomorrow and ask to reserve a meeting room, but it will cost extra."

This one suprised me. We've always been welcomed to every hotel we've gone to for speech tournaments. Sometimes our name is on the marquee. Sometimes the hotel actually foots the bill for the pizza. I shrugged, thanked the Minnie Mouse voice and figured I'd ask someone else when I arrived the next day.

But when I arrived the next day, I had the opportunity to put a face to the voice. A woman with very stiff, teased hair and a stiff-looking face to match stood behind the counter.

"I'm here to check in," I said. "I have a reservation for today through Friday night."

A few keystrokes, and a response, "I don't have a reservation for you for tonight. I have one for tomorrow and one for Friday, but not for tonight."

I was struck dumb. How could this be? I'd driven over and hour and had five tired kids in the car. I had definitely made this reservation, and I had definitely been told that my room would be ready when I arrived. I had also definitely failed to bring my confirmation number.

"There's nothing I can do." This, even though the parking lot was practically empty.

I didn't want to have to strangle this woman, so I took a deep, deep breath, wondering what I'd done to deserve this treatment. I'd been nice. I had showered. I hadn't even brought my kids into the foyer with me. What had I done that would cause her to be so mean and unaccomodating?

"Can you cancel my other reservation and just make a new one including tonight?"

"I could, but I'd have to charge you $14 per night more," she squeaked, glaring at me over her bifocals.

I stood for a moment looking at her, then I put my head in my hands. "I'm kind of at your mercy here. I have five kids in the car, and I'm tired. Is there anything you can do?" Having already gathered that this woman was the type to flaunt her lack of authority, I totally expected her to say, "My hands are tied," but she surprised me.

"Well, I can put you in a vacant room for the night..." (Thank goodness. A vacant room, I thought. I certainly wouldn't want an occupied one. What a favor she's doing me!) "But you'll have to check out of it and check into a different one in the morning."

I sighed.

"Isn't there any way you can put me in a room that will be vacant tonight and Thursday and Friday? Is there a way you can check to see what rooms won't be filled this weekend?"

She shook her head.

But then, with the push of a few buttons, she did just that.

"You'll have to stop down here at the desk at 7:00 tomorrow morning or your card will expire."

Let it expire, I thought. I'm not coming down her in my jammies at 7:00 during my vacation.

And I hauled my children to the third floor.

For the remainder of our stay, this woman was a thorn in my side. When taking our microwave popcorn to the front desk for my son, my friend Marcella was told that there was no microwave in the hotel (came to find out later that it wasn't true). It was then that I started to realize that it wasn't I who was the problem. If this woman could be difficult with Marcella, it had to be that she was quite simply a difficult woman.

We were able to get a room for our pizza party by asking a reasonable human being for help. We were able to get permission to store our cake by talking to a sane human being. And when Minnie Mouse approached a couple of the quietest kids in the club and I in the lobby telling us that we were being too loud, that guests were complaining and that one guest had already left because of us, I was able to look her straight in the eye, ask her to repeat what she'd just said, and then boldly respond to her by saying,

"Oh. Okay. I'm sorry."

Okay, so I wasn't so bold.

But at least I had realized that it wasn't just me. In my heart, I knew that this woman would be short-tempered and unaccomodating with anyone with whom she interacted.

But it still bothers me how deeply her attitude affected me.

::: what a month! :::

My first instinct is to tell you what a terrible month it's been. I mean, if these things happened to you, you'd probably think it pretty terrible, too.

After all, it's not everyday that you see your life flash before your eyes. That kind of thing tends to happen when you're taking a trip, round a dark corner in your minivan stuffed with all of your children, half of their belongings, and your husband at the helm and suddenly become blinded by the oncoming headlights of a semi-truck. In our case, the occupants of our vehicle became silent. Wide-eyed and silent. As if that weren't scary enough, once the semi-driver realized that he was in our lane, approaching our vehicle in a very wrong way, he jerked himself back into his lane, leaving his trailer to struggle to follow suit around the curve. I watched as our lane grew more and more narrow, the semi-trailer approaching on our left, a steep drop-off and dense forest loomin on our right. My husband kept his wits, drove steady-on, and we were soon (though it felt like years) on the other side of the whole ordeal, breathing deeply and fighting the urge to vomit. After I was able to speak, I asked Bo, "What were your thoughts just then?"

"I knew it was over. I knew it would be quick and no one would be left behind. A truck hitting us at 60 is like hitting a brick wall at 120. It would have happened very quickly and painlessly."

"Then after the cab passed, what did you think then?"

"Then I was scared. We'd either hit the trailer, or we'd go off into the trees. And that...that would have been painful."

The rest of the drive to my sister-in-law's house was relatively uneventful, but those few moments kept my heart racing and my mind turning.

These are the kinds of moments that have peppered the last few weeks. A missing toddler; an emergency brake that didn't release and cost over $700 in repairs; triplet kids born to a nanny goat who decided that one of them wasn't worth worrying about so she rejected it, leaving it to die; time on the treadmill that made it feel like I'd been regressing instead of progressing; an close to midnight discovery of a fire in our laundry room that almost burned out of control and could have taken our whole house.

All of this packed into less than a month. Less than three weeks, actually.

And my first reaction is to tell you how horrible these three weeks have been.

But I can't do that, can I?

Because the semi-truck missed us. The toddler was found. The brakes didn't give out until we got home from Cincinatti. The goat kid was brought to health thanks to a very knowledgeable friend and goat-lover. I was able to hit the trail instead of the treadmill and do better than I'd thought I would. My husband was able to put out the fire, and only a dryer and a few items of clothing were lost.

In addition, we didn't owe money in income tax. Neither did our daughter, or my live-in father. We actually got money back! I've begun working at the greenhouse, and my first paycheck went towards paying for the brake repairs. A distant family member sent $1300 for the children's education, just in time to make a decision about Bard's trip to Germany this summer, though the family member knew nothing about the Germany trip. And several people have sent Bard money for her trip, so she will indeed get to go. Bo turned forty, and his family gave him a wonderful surprise party, blessing him with their time and gifts.

How can I focus on the near-tragedies, when God has made them all into miracles?

It's been a fabulous month, and I thank God for it.

Drawing of the church by Monet when he was 9.