What Being a Bad Bowler Taught Me about Life

The email was brief – an urgent request for prayer for my friend’s husband Bill (not his real name.)

“Last week, Bill’s Chicago- based boss said that she wanted to set up a meeting with him for tomorrow to discuss changes in his group.  She’s never done this before but she is flying in to meet with BIll only.  This could mean a layoff, demotion, relocation, or different job. God has given us peace this past week, but the unknown is uncomfortable. When Bill asked her if he should worry, she said no.”

I quickly responded that Mike and I would be praying for Bill’s job situation, but as I reread her message I felt my stomach begin to churn. Bill is highly-placed in management and he’s also middle-aged. Why would the boss fly across the country to “discuss changes” if it weren’t bad news? The more I thought about it, the more worried I became on his behalf. Maybe the boss told him not to worry, but his friends certainly could!

WORRY. Some of us seem genetically wired to worry, don’t we? Recent research reported in the New York Times indicates that a predisposition for fretting is literally in our DNA.

In a sermon he preached years ago, Mike used a definition of fretting that went something like this: “Continual fretting about a situation you cannot control carves a mental rut. The more you fret, the deeper the rut grows until it becomes a channel into which all other thoughts drain.”  

Most Christ-followers like me who are predisposed to worry are well acquainted with the Apostle Paul’s instructions to the people of Philippi: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” (Phil. 4:6)

Paul, who was no stranger to adversity, knew that anxiety is an emotion that quickly ramps out of control and overtakes life. Rather than barking at us to “Stop worrying!” he instead offers a practical solution: petition the One who has the power to change the situation. And harness the power of praise while you’re doing it.

And what’s the point of a petition? The name attached to it, of course.

Do I requisition my friends when I need prayer-support? Sure do. But when it comes right down to it, petitions sent God-ward only need one name attached: the name of Jesus. That’s why scripture teaches us to pray in his name: “By faith in the name of Jesus, this man whom you see and know was made strong. It is Jesus’ name and the faith that comes through him that has completely healed him, as you can all see.” Acts 4:16

I think it was former president Harry Truman who once commented that 9 out of every 10 things we worry about run off the road before they get to us.

 That’s sure been true for me. It’s a little like the way I bowl. I think my ball is going to strike the pins but most of the time it veers off into the gutter.

So what happened to our friend Bill’s job? Absolutely nothing.

 Prayer is worthwhile but all that worry?  Totally worthless.

Gutterball!

My Pet, Peeve

I have a pet, Peeve, and she annoys the heck out of me.

Those with canine companions or feline friends love their pets, and I totally get it. Most pets are loyal and loving and make us better people in many respects.

But my pet Peeve is a nuisance. I don’t intentionally take her anywhere but she comes along anyway, latching on like a leech, whining that she doesn’t like this or is inconvenienced by that.

To be fair, I share her gripes in a few areas.  My list of irritants includes non-responders – people who ignore messages sent to them personally – and those who fail to express appreciation for gifts given or services rendered.  I am vexed by individuals who throw their cigarette butts out of car windows and bothered by those who never volunteer for anything.

When I focus on my pet Peeve she takes advantage of my attention. She sighs and rolls her eyes and casts disgusted looks at the miscreants on our list. I have to keep her tightly leashed so she doesn’t snap at anyone. She has an uncanny ability to hide behind my skirts so that others are unaware of her presence, but I know she’s there. She’s sulky and sullen, resentful and bad-tempered.

Maybe you’re got a pet Peeve or two yourself. How do we banish these petulant pets?

(1)    Cut the slackers some slack. Ok, there’s no excuse for the butt-throwers, but in general it’s wise to give people who peeve us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the new bride, groom, or parent is overwhelmed and writing thank-you’s isn’t at the top of the To Do list. (As time passes, you can always contact them to make sure the gift arrived in the first place.) And the individual whose solitary contribution to church, school, or community seems to be warming  a chair might have health or other reasons preventing greater involvement.

(2)    Consider Thyself.  One of the most poignant portions of the gospels records the disciples’ response when Jesus told them that one of them would betray him. Rather than pointing fingers, each one said, “Is it I, Lord?”  (Mark 14:17-19)

Someone once said that our faults irritate us most when we see them in others. I have a horror of appearing to be rude or thoughtless by failing to express appreciation, but I’ve probably been guilty of that very failure more often than I know. When our kids received a gift, I used to tell them they were not to play with it, spend it, use it or eat it until they had thanked for it, but do we grownups follow that same rule?

Missionary Amy Carmichael, often the victim of unjust accusations and personal attack, once wryly observed:  “How can I feel bitterly towards those who condemn me? If they knew me as I know myself, they would condemn me much more!” 

So what’s your current Peeve? A spouse who leaves his socks on the floor? A child who refuses to eat her veggies? A friend who never initiates conversation?

 We can keep the things that irritate us in perspective when we realize that we might have a featured role – ahem – as someone else’s pet, Peeve.

Dreams Deferred, Hope Fulfilled

With Mike near the library in Ephesus, Turkey last summer

Have you ever had a dream deferred for nearly 40 years?

I took my Graduate Record Exams in the spring of 1975, and just this past Friday I received a letter from Wheaton College Graduate School informing me that I’ve been accepted for entrance this fall into their new cohort program in Biblical Studies.

Nope, the letter wasn’t lost in the mail all these decades.  I wasn’t wandering in the desert like the Israelites either. My dream of attending grad school has simply been deferred until now.

The following is a personal statement from one of the essays I submitted in my grad school application:

     For me, pursuing my M.A. in Biblical Studies is not so much a means to an end as an end in itself. I am not seeking this degree for “where it will get me” but rather what it will give me – an in-depth exploration of the length and breadth of Scripture along with courses in theology and Christian ethics.

     I have always loved learning, and I worked hard to excel in my studies in both high school and college. Throughout my undergraduate years at Wheaton, my intention was to go on to graduate school to pursue my Masters degree. The question that stumped me at that time was: which one?! My first love is creative writing, but while at Wheaton I majored in speech communication with a minor in secondary education. I enjoyed radio broadcasting, competed in national forensics competitions, and was accepted into the drama workout group that qualified me to perform in theatrical productions on campus.

      I took my GRE just prior to commencement in the spring of 1975 yet still wasn’t sure what area of graduate study to pursue. In the meantime I became engaged and subsequently married to the man who has now been my husband for 35 years. Since he was a teenager, Mike knew he had been called into ministry, and he arranged his undergrad courses and served as a youth pastor with the clear goal of entering seminary upon graduation.

     When Mike and I married in 1976, he entered a three year M.Div. program and I embarked on a great adventure with God. It was no sacrifice for me to postpone grad school at that time. It would have been a waste of time and financial resources when I still was unclear as to why I needed an advanced degree.

     Amazingly enough, God used my B.A. from Wheaton to open numerous professional doors for me in the decades to come. I acted in summer stock, taught adjunct courses in business writing and public speaking at a small college in New Hampshire  for nine years, had my own radio show for a time, and later spent 11 years on the staff of the regional association of evangelicals in New England.

     Though I had never been a Bible teacher, my ministry position led to numerous invitations to speak at conferences and retreats. In the past 20 years, I have spoken over 300 times throughout the United States and abroad, and teaching the scriptures during the evenings and on weekends has become my passion and the joy of my heart. In recent years I have longed to study the Bible in-depth “from stem to stern” to become better equipped for the ministry God has given me.

      I also work full-time days in public relations at Tyndale House, where our corporate goal is to meet the spiritual needs of people through literature consistent with biblical principles. An advanced degree in biblical studies will be a significant asset for me professionally at Tyndale as well as personally in ministry. 

Back to you, my friend.  I hope my story might encourage you to believe that a dream deferred can one day become a hope fulfilled.

The best is yet to be!

This Old House

320 West Harrison Ave.

There’s something about age that makes things – and people – interesting.

As I walked our collie early this morning I was studying the vintage homes that dot our neighborhood.

Many are a century-old or have been renovated in the style popular when our city was young. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, homes were built with raised foundations, set-back carriage houses and generous front porches. No two houses in north Wheaton are identical, and I enjoy studying their differences as Kelli and I walk.

This morning it occurred to me why I have such an affinity for the aging process: it characterizes me, too. The homes in our neighborhood require constant upkeep to maintain their vitality and so, ahem, do I.

Where did these crepey folds on my neck come from, and what’s with the crows’ feet around the eyes? Why do extra pounds cling so stubbornly in the second half of life? Vintage architectural details are charming, but I can’t say the same about the physical ones.

When Mike and I were traveling in the footsteps of Paul last summer, we were reminded that the Apostle may have been close to our age when he hoofed it throughout Greece and Turkey (then Asia Minor). We traveled in an air-conditioned tour bus; Paul by foot. He must have been acutely aware of the toll his calling took on his aging body.

“Outwardly we are wasting away,” he wrote to the people in ancient Corinth, “yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Cor. 4:16).

I love that perspective. So what if the house my soul is stored in is showing signs of age? It’s been sheltering me for nearly six decades already. That makes it a classic!

I do what I can to maintain my soul’s home. I exercise, fill it with fuel, and slap paint on it. But inside, where it matters most, is where personal renewal happens. Every single day we draw breath is an opportunity to rebirth our own dreams and encourage others in theirs.

I’m fond of the old homes in my neighborhood, and I’m grateful for mine.

Both of them.

A Birthday Memory

Spring often arrives late on Cape Cod, like a tourist who has taken a wrong turn somehow. The year that our daughters turned 16, though, spring was right on time.

Patches of daffodils dotted the streets of our small village like broken shards of sun. Amber and Sarah loved these harbingers of spring and often posed for birthday photos surrounded by the splashes of yellow.

 On May 3 of 2000, however, they were two young women on a mission. The joint birthday celebration we always held was over and their friends were hastily sent on their way.

I began to pick up paper plates and discarded wrapping paper, but the girls would have none of it.

“It’s time, Mom,” Amber said impatiently. “You promised you’d take us to get our permits today!”

 Sarah added, “It’s already 3:00 and the DMV closes at 5:00. Can’t we hurry?”

How could I forget? The girls had talked of little else as “Sweet Sixteen” approached. Getting their driver’s permits was the birthday gift they wanted most of all, and they were not about to let me forget it.

Abandoning the double debris that accumulated every year on their special day, I grabbed my purse and a magazine while the girls flung themselves into our minivan, urging me to hurry up. As we drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles in So.Yarmouth, I prayed silently. Dear Lord, help us! Two overconfident teenagers let loose on the roads, skyrocketing automobile insurance rates, one minivan with too many drivers . . . Father, help me find the humor in this situation!

Amber and Sarah were not the only teenagers in our home eager for wheels and independence. Their older brother Adam and younger brothers Matt and Jordan were constantly on the go as well. With five teenagers filling our modest raised-ranch home, we needed humor to survive, and the kids could be counted on to provide it.

Adam, Amber, and Jordan were born to us, but Sarah and Matt had come to us three years earlier when a series of events left them without a custodial parent. Sarah and our biological daughter Amber became fast friends in fourth grade when they discovered their mutual birthday, and every year since the girls had celebrated together. The close friends had now become sisters—foster sisters.

And I was their mom. Qualifying adjectives like “foster,” “adoptive,” or “biological” are irrelevant when you’re raising children. For the years that my husband and I were privileged to have Sarah and Matt, I was their mom. Period.

The teenage years are a challenge whether you have one teen or five at a time, as we did. Yet never once during their adolescence did our biological kids even hint that we shouldn’t have opened our home to two more children. They accepted their new siblings into our family as God accepts us – without qualification.

The girls’ relationship was a complex one, though. Other than the circumstances in which they had been raised, Amber and Sarah had so much in common:  the same birthdate, school friends, and church youth group. One was first chair clarinet in the school band – the other second chair. Both were excellent students.

As the girls moved into their high school years, however,  differences emerged. One liked jazz; the other rock. One wanted the best grades; the other the most friends. Once close friends and allies, the girls now seemed at times more like intimate enemies.

And also competitive ones. Neither wanted to come in “second” in anything, and that included getting her driver’s license. When we reached the DMV the afternoon of their sixteenth birthday, I settled into an uncomfortable plastic chair with my magazine while I watched the girls negotiate the lines of applicants together.

When they reached the head of the line, I noticed that the usually efficient clerk seemed to be taking her time studying their paperwork. She glanced at the girls, looking from one to the other, and then returned her gaze to their applications. What could be taking so long? I wondered. She’s approved other permits in a fraction of the time she’s kept Amber and Sarah waiting. I closed my magazine and walked up to join them.

I didn’t have to wait long. “Are you their mother?” the clerk said with a frown.

 “I sure am,” I answered.

 What had we done wrong? Had I failed to make sure the girls brought the right documents?

 “What seems to be the problem? Is everything OK?”

“Oh, everything’s in order,” the clerk responded. Now it was her turn to look embarrassed. “It’s just that your daughters have the same address, same phone number, same parents listed. It’s all right here. And the same birth date: May 3, 1984.”

Sarah turned to me anxiously while Amber simply looked exasperated.

“Yes?” I responded cautiously.

“Well, I know it’s really none of my business but . . . they have different last names!”

 I stared at her for a moment and then grinned. New Englanders are not known for inquiring into others’ personal business, but it was obvious what she was thinking: Twin girls with different fathers? Just how did she manage that?

Eager to get on with it, Amber set the matter straight. “One of us is a foster,” she explained.

 The clerk examined brown-eyed, brunette Amber and then fair-haired Sarah. She stared again at me. “Oh-h-h,” the clerk said, nodding sympathetically at Amber. “Aren’t you lucky they took you in.”

But it was Sarah—born not of my body but in my heart—who had the last word.

“We’re both lucky,” she retorted as their permits were approved.

We turned to leave, and I lagged a few steps behind as the girls hurried out to the van, sparring good-naturedly over which one should have the privilege of getting behind the wheel first. Tears suddenly formed in my eyes, surprising me. No, I’m the lucky one, I thought.

I had not given Amber a sister, but God had. Sarah needed a home, and God had given her one.

Two unique young women born on the same day of the same month of the same year to different families, now living as sisters in the same home.

Remembering the clerk’s confusion about their last names, I smiled.  I should have told her the most important thing Amber and Sarah had in common.

 The same Father.