Kayak Rescue 101

  “Let me get this straight.  You want me to intentionally fall out of a boat?”  Dan asked, with a stupefied expression on his face. 

“Uh huh!” I nodded my head enthusiastically in agreement.  I suppose that there were better ways to explain my plan for our Tuesday night, but he got the general point. 

Our church was offering a class on basic kayak rescue skills, and I thought it would be a fun marriage building date to learn how to rescue each other from the chilly waters of Lake Washington.  Dan took a little bit of time to warm up to the idea, but he knows that it’s next to impossible to talk me out of something when I get my heart set on it.

So, last night we drove to the north end of Lake Washington in our waterproof gear, ready to spend the better part of the evening in the water, trying to get back into our capsized kayaks. 

We’d only been in kayaks once before, and that was in the tropical waters of the Mayan Riviera, in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, on our honeymoon (6 years ago).  We mistakenly assumed that we knew how to paddle a kayak, based on this limited experience.  Once we showed up at the dock and took one look at our rental kayaks, we immediately realized that not all kayaks are made alike.  These new kayaks were about twice the length of the ones we’d used in Mexico, and we had to sit inside of them.  They were also incredibly unstable, making for some challenges getting afloat without tipping over.                                            

Eventually, we were on the water and drifting in random directions. It took me awhile to figure out how to move consistently in one direction.  I kept going in circles, and for some reason, paddling backwards was much easier than forwards.  Dan was much more of a natural, and he made it look easy.  We joined the rest of our group, and it wasn’t long until somebody needed to be rescued.  That somebody was me.

Long before we’d received any instruction about what to do in the event our kayak capsized, my kayak tipped over, and I went under with it.  Thankfully, freeing myself from the belly of the boat wasn’t as challenging as it looked. I had visions of floating upside down, sitting in the boat, until somebody came and put me and my boat aright.  However, I managed to slide out and pop back up next to my capsized boat.  Our instructor now had a nice demonstration model to use.  I got a nice trial by fire, and I managed to get back in my boat within about 10 minutes. 

Slightly humiliated, but glad to be floating atop the water once more, I paddled back towards the group to listen as the instructor told them about how to perform a kayak rescue.  Feeling like the pro, who had just successfully undergone that task, I started messing around in my kayak, trying to figure out how to paddle more effectively.  Soon, there was somebody else to rescue.  Once again, that somebody was me.

This next rescue attempt went much faster, since I’d already done it once before.  By then, the class also was getting pretty good visual instruction on how a rescue looked.  Once I was back in my boat, Dan and I paired up for some practice rescues.  It was his turn to fall out his boat, so I could save him. 

Like a trooper, he willingly leaned over the side of his boat and capsized himself.  Soon, he was back topside, floating beside his boat with a big grin on his face.  I grabbed his boat and paddle and helped empty the water out of it.  We then balanced his boat while he climbed back into it.  Miraculously, I didn’t capsize myself in this process.  Otherwise, we’d have 2 Letinskys in the water, needing two separate rescues. 

The experience confirmed a few valuable truths:

1.  If you fall out of your boat, get right back in, and keep paddling.

2.  Love is willingly falling overboard for the one you love.

3.  Pride comes before a “sploosh” (Proverbs 16:18).

4.  Life is better in pairs. Why? You never know when you’ll need a rescue.  

Childlike or Childish?

Dan and I sometimes act like little children.  Watching us in our living room, jumping around like maniacs, whooping and screaming at the TV, yelling at the animated Wii characters on the screen, you kind of forget that we’re a college English instructor and a primary care physician.  You should see us at Disneyland. We literally run from one ride to the next.  Dan and I are so dang competitive, that we can turn just about any event into a game:  “Last one home has to scrub the toilet!” 

That’s why when we were reading our devotional last night, we got stuck on the verse for the day:  “When I was a child, I used to speak as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things” (1 Corinthians 13:11).  “Great,” I thought.  “No more fun.” 

But then, I recalled Jesus’ words about children.  Jesus loves a childlike spirit.  He said, “I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3-4).   

So, we have before us a challenge.  Somehow, we need to heed Paul’s warning to avoid being childish.  However, we need to be childlike for Jesus. 

Dan and I agreed that those people who are blessed with children of their own probably have some better insights into this issue.  They get to witness little acts of childishness and childlikeness on a daily basis.  From a parent’s perspective, they can probably understand which attitudes are Godly, and which ones are just childish. 

I don’t think Paul is being a killjoy.  God wants us to be joyful.  He’s just encouraging us to avoid some of the childish selfishness and whininess.  He wants us to grow up, so that we’re responsible and reliable. 

So my goal is to be far more childlike and dependent on God but far less childish and self-centered. 

Wiiitis

After months of patiently waiting to be in the right place at the right time, wii finally managed to snag ourselves our very own Nintendo Wii.  If you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, I suggest that you watch this highly informative commercial, which will enlighten you about the virtual insanity of Wii.

Dan was the driving force behind this purchase.  He’s been saving up all his birthday money for awhile, just for this occasion.  I was largely uniformed about the world of Wii, except for the commercials and the occasional e-mail forwards that Dan would send my way (yes, honey, I got the hint).  Now that I am among the initiated, let me give you the insiders scoop, or at least my own humble experience of it.

At the store, people were staring at the pile of Wii boxes, amazed to see a stack of them in one place, at one time.  Apparently, this is a rare occurrence, one worthy of a moment of silence.  Dan and I paid our respects, then wii had the audacity to interrupt and actually steal one from the revered pile. 

After Dan managed to set it up on our 15-year-old TV (the irony wasn’t lost on us), wii grasped our baton like controllers and pointed them at the screen, waiting for something to happen.  Mine started vibrating at me and playing music.  I almost dropped it, out of shock.  “Aack!  It’s moving!” I yelped. 

The Wii prompted us to create virtual cartoon identities for ourselves.  Wii created a tall and lanky guy with tired looking eyes for Dan, a joke for all his on call nights at the hospital. For me, wii designed a gal with hazel eyes and my hairstyle.  We argued a bit about the nose shape, but other than that, wii were pretty satisfied with my facsimile. 

Soon, our virtual representations were battling against each other in a tennis match.  As in real life, my backhand suffers on the Nintendo court as well.  Dan did amazingly well, and much to my chagrin, he skunked me.  This goes against all our real life experiences playing tennis, especially the one from our first date (remind me to tell you the story sometime).  However, I was astounded by how seemingly realistic it was.  I’d swing the controller, and on impact, it would vibrate.  I could do all my typical tennis strokes, even with a little topspin if I wanted to be tricky. 

After tennis, wii challenged each other at baseball, boxing, bowling, golf, billiards, ping pong, fishing, and shooting.  Hours passed, and it was as if time had stopped.  Dan summed it up best when he said, “This stuff is like crack!” 

The next morning, wii both woke up feeling a little sore.  My left arm was a bit tender, and Dan’s right shoulder felt a little strained.  It wasn’t until wii once again picked up the controllers that wii realized what plagued us.  It was the curse of the Wii!  We suffered from a relatively new disease called “Wiiitis,” listed in the June 7 issue of the New England Journal of Medicine as “acute tendonitis” brought on by the prolonged use of the Nintendo Wii.  The author of this article, Julio Bonis, M.D., recommends the following treatment protocol:  “ibuprofen for 1 week, as well as complete abstinence from playing Wii video games.”

Although Wii abstinence won’t be our first line of therapy, wii probably should keep our Wii habits in check.  Too much of a good thing can really hurt you! 

Like a Deer in the Headlights

Last weekend, Daniel and I had the joy of driving north to visit my family for the weekend.  We like to escape to the country on occasion, far from the smog and traffic of the city.  It may lack readily available Starbucks locations, but it grants us a sense of peace and calm that’s hard to find within Seattle.

Saturday night, we were driving on a busy country road shortly after dusk, and a deer darted out in front of our car.  I had noticed something running from the right side of the road, on a collision course with the front of my car.  Slamming on the breaks (thank God for ABS), we narrowly avoided adding a new hood ornament to our Ford Focus.  At first, I’d thought it was a drunken teenager wearing a tan Carhartt jacket (something more common than deer in those parts).  However, I changed my mind, once I got a good look at the animal, since it was staring blankly at the car, mesmerized by our headlights.  I didn’t fully understand meaning of the phrase “like a deer in the headlights” until that night.

It was a beautiful young doe or buck, spry and lithe.  Cars went by on either side of us, but it was unfazed in its staredown with our car.  My car was rendered motionless, as I waited for one of us to make a move. 

Looking into its wide, reflective eyes, I sympathized with its moment of paralysis.  I saw myself standing there in its place, staring at impending disaster, indecisive about what to do.  Do you go to the right or to the left?  Which way is best?  How do you know?  Like a deer caught in the headlights, I’m frequently paralyzed by indecision.

As much as I was enjoying this moment of reflection and nature watching, I couldn’t let the staredown go on forever.  I needed to force the deer to make a decision, or I had to make one myself.  With cars zooming by, unaware of what was happening before us, I decided it was unwise to prompt the deer to leap away and endanger someone else.  When the coast was clear, and no cars were in sight, I broke the connection and honked my horn.  The deer was startled from its reverie, and it scampered back in the direction from which it came.  I watched it disappear to the other side of the road, and we continued to drive along our merry way.

I continue to struggle with indecision, but I am comforted that God provides means for us to avoid staring into the headlights.  He promises that his Spirit will guide us: “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is the way; walk in it” (Isaiah 30:21).  It’s seldom the loud blare of a car horn, but his still, small voice will lead us, if we quiet ourselves enough to listen for it.  God also provides his Word as council about which way to take: ”Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path” (Psalm 119:105).  When we are so easily blinded by other lights, trust God’s light to guide you along the right path.

A Tribute to Ruth Bell Graham

Last Thursday, I was driving in my car, listening to the radio, when the news announcer interrupted the broadcast to inform us that Ruth Bell Graham passed away.  Normally, I’m not one to get all choked up and teary eyed about things, but I couldn’t help myself.  There I was, crying on my steering wheel, for somebody that I knew next to nothing about.  All I knew was that she was Billy Graham’s wife. 

I think that my initial reaction stemmed from my realization that she must have been the backbone to Billy Graham’s ministry.  Now that I’m married, I recognize how important a woman’s role is in supporting her husband.  Without a strong woman behind him, I’m certain that Billy Graham wouldn’t be the evangelist that we all know and love today.  All these thoughts washed over me, the moment I heard about her death.

Since then, I’ve spent a couple days reading a little bit about this woman, whose death moved me to tears.  Fortunately, when famous people die, there tends to be a flurry of media activity to chronicle their lives.  I took advantage of these resources to learn about this remarkable woman.  Let me share with you some of the gems that I gleaned from her testimony.

Ruth Bell Graham was born in China, to missionary parents.  She attended Wheaton College, where she met Billy (those Christian Colleges are great places to snag stellar Christian guys; I can testify to that too!).  After their first date, Ruth knew what she wanted from life.  She prayed, “If You let me serve You with that man, I’d consider it the greatest privilege in my life” (qtd. in Newsweek).  God answered that prayer, but it wasn’t an easy path that she’d chosen.  Billy’s ministry left her frequently alone, raising 5 children, largely by herself. 

Ruth’s faith sustained her while her husband was away, and while she faced the challenges of raising her family.  Her daughter, Anne, recalls her mother’s devotion to God. She would find her mom each morning in her bedroom, all alone, at her large desk, with many translations of the bible open around her, studying the Word. 

In a 2006 radio interview, Ruth Graham (named after her mom) explained her mother’s attitude about Billy’s ministry, which left her home alone with the children (to listen to the Midday Connection interview online, click here).  Ruth Bell Graham clung to a verse in 1 Samuel:  ”For as his share is who goes down to the battle, so shall his share be who stays by the baggage; they shall share alike” (30:24).  She believed that her ministry was to take care of the home and the children, Billy’s “baggage.”  While Billy was away preaching to thousands and leading many to the Lord, she was doing the Lord’s work back at home.  Her reward would be just as great in the end.

Well done, good and faithful servant.

Writing in the Margins

While reading a recent issue of our Sunday paper’s Parade Magazine, I went against my habit of avoiding the advice columns and skimmed the “Ask Marilyn” section for some juicy tidbits from other people’s lives.  One person wrote in with a question that really irked me.  I’ll quote it for you, to see if you find something unsettling about it as well:

Dear Marilyn,

My uncle Jim owns hundreds of books, and all have his handwriting in them!  He writes thoughts in the margins, strikes through paragraphs he thinks are unnecessary, labels some passages as illogical, circles words that are new to him on first reading, and more.  What do you have to say about this practice?  –Tina

Here’s Marilyn’s response:     

Dear Tina,

I say, “Hooray for Uncle Jim!”  He’s an active reader, and mass-produced modern books aren’t sacred.  Their content is what matters.  Unless the books belong to someone else or are intended to be sold or given away, I am 100% in favor of this cerebral activity.  –Marilyn

I’ll give Marilyn some credit.  She acknowledges that it’s okay to write in books at least some of time.  However, for being the magazine’s “savant,” she certainly doesn’t comprehend the full potential for writing in one’s books.  Marilyn seems to think that we should only write in mass-produced books that are in our own personal collection.  I, on the other hand, don’t have such strict limitations on my marginalia.

I love writing in my books, each and every one of them.  You’ll rarely find me reading a book without at least one writing implement near by.  How else are you supposed to react to what the author is saying?  My favorite way to write in books is with a mechanical pencil, one of those plastic, disposable types, especially pink ones with white erasers.  I’ll nibble pensively on the eraser while I read each page and eagerly click down on it when it’s time to scribble something in the margin.  Sometimes it’s simply a little star to highlight a main point.  Every so often, I’ll underline an especially memorable quote.  If a character says something disagreeable, I’ll banter with them for awhile in the margin.  Authors I love and authors I strongly disagree with earn the most pen marks per page.  I’m largely ambivalent to those somewhere in the middle, but I’ll still write the occasional note. 

When you write in your margins, loaning your books is a greater gift.  You bestow upon your friends your thoughts in addition to those of the author. If you have my enthusiasm for this sort of interaction, you’ll encourage them to converse with you in the margins, to engage with both you and the author in their own notes.  In this way, your books become more alive with each successive reading.

I can even make a strong case for writing in public library books.  What, is that a large collective gasp I hear?  I recently checked out a book on evangelism called Out of the Salt Shaker and Into the World.  It was a terrific book, for those of you looking for something on that topic.  The copy was worn from previous readings. It had been checked out many times before.  Someone who read it before me had made some excellent notes.  She underlined many lines that had struck a chord with my spirit and had convicted me.  Her marginalia were in a soft hand that seemed so thoughtful and committed to this same purpose.  I felt like we were on the same journey together, two women on the same paths, struggling with the same issues, searching for the same answers.  The book was published 30 years ago, and it’s quite possible that the woman wrote those notes that long ago.  I’ll never know.  However, a bond was formed in the reading of that text, one that wouldn’t exist if she’d never have written in that library book.  My reading of the text was certainly enhanced by her notes, and I might not have gotten so much out of the book without her as my reading companion.

The experience reminded me of one of my favorite short stories, written by Max Lucado.  It goes by different names, sometimes called “The Pen Pal,” others “The Test,” sometimes “The Rose,” but the story is based on an older story, possibly a true life one, published in the 1940s, about a couple that met after a man read a library book that had a woman’s notes in it.  I found an online copy of the story.  It’s worth a read sometime, especially if you’re a romantic at heart:  http://www.highonlife1.com/thetest.htm.

The next time you hold a book in your hands, try holding a pen or pencil as well.  It might take some time to undo all those years of training from your parents who told you not to color in your books, or from your teachers who told you not to write in the school’s books. You never know who will read that book next. Firmly grasp your writing implement, and boldly make your mark. 

Women Speaking Nonsense

I’ve found a new favorite bible verse.  It helps explain a lot of my life:  “But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense” (Luke 24:11). 

Sound familiar?  The words certainly rang true for me, but I admit that until a few days ago, I never actually noticed this particular verse.  Let me give you the context, so you can understand why these women were talking this way. 

On Friday, Jesus has been crucified and laid in his tomb.  Jewish law dictates that everyone rests from sundown on Friday until Sundown on Saturday, so nobody could anoint Jesus’ body during this time.  On Sunday morning, after the Sabbath, several ladies formed a body anointing party and journeyed to Jesus’ tomb, carrying fancy spices and perfumes.  We know that Mary Magdalene was there, somebody named Joanna, James’ mom (also named Mary), Salome, and some unnamed women called “the others” (kind of freaky sounding if you ask me…probably well suited for this sort of work) (Luke 24:9 & Mark 16:1). 

When they showed up at the tomb, not only is the stone rolled away, Jesus is nowhere to be found.  All of the sudden, two angels show up and scare the bejeebers out of the ladies. They announce the good news: “He is risen!”  The women take off from the tomb, and meet the remaining 11 disciples (minus one Judas).  Now, here comes the verse.  The ladies attempt to explain what just happened:  “But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense” (Luke 24:11). 

What you have here are uncommon circumstances but very common women.  Whenever you combine a group of women and get them all worked up about something, then you send them to a group of men to relay a message, you get pandemonium.  Here’s my impression of how this probably went:

Mary 1: “There was this angel, then this other angel, and then, oh my gosh, no, we couldn’t find Jesus…”

Joanna: “Bright lights, shiny people…”

Mary 2: “Jesus wasn’t anywhere. The stone wasn’t even covering the hole.”

Salome: “I told Mary that she shouldn’t run so fast, but would she listen…”

Mary 1:  “Which Mary were you talking about?”

Salome: “The other one.”

Joanna:  “We should come up with nicknames for you two.”

Salome: “I like my name.”

Joanna:  “No, the two Marys. It gets way too confusing.”

Mary 2: “Then the Angel told us that Jesus wasn’t there, and we said, like, we know!  What are we supposed to do with all these herbs and spices we schlepped all the way over here?”

Salome: “But we’re really excited though, because even though he’s not there, he’s somewhere!”

The Others:  “Who are we going to anoint now?”

You get the picture.  No wonder the disciples were confused!  The thing is, this instance isn’t confined to the first century in Jerusalem.  In fact, this sort of thing is happening every day, in a household near you.  I’m talking about the communication breakdown between women and men.  At times, it just seems like we’re speaking nonsense to each other!

I was recently blessed with a visit from a dear friend of mine.  Lindsay stayed here for a few days, and we got a chance to spend lots of girl time shopping, cooking, eating, chatting, and drinking coffee at various Starbucks locations.  I realized that when in “girl mode,” I can speak a slightly different language around my husband, one that frequently focuses on handbags, clothing, hairstyles, and things that my husband probably considers from another planet altogether. 

Dan was a trooper.  Although I saw him glaze over every so often (a conversation about the best sort of eye shadow did him in), altogether, he was remarkably adept at translating our “nonsense.”  In fact, he made one bold move that I’ll forever remember as a remarkable bridge between the seemingly insurmountable linguistic barriers between the sexes.

Lindsay and I were sitting at breakfast one morning, discussing our outfits and how best to accessorize them.  Dan was getting ready for work, and he walked in wearing his dark blue hospital scrubs.  He stopped in front of the table and struck a pose.  “Ladies,” he announced. “I’d like your opinion on how I can best accessorize my ensemble.  You’ll notice that it’s reversible.  Also, pay attention to all the many, handy pockets.”  Lindsay and I broke out in uproarious laughter. 

Not only had he been listening and interpreting our conversation, but he found a way to be a part of it.  No, I’m not saying that all guys need to subject themselves to fashion discussions.  However, an ability to honor a woman’s unique conversation style and her own set of interests goes a long way to respecting her as a person, even if she is a little hard to understand sometimes. 

The Messiah Detergent: Eliminates Stains & Bleaches Whites!

 Okay, I want to know what idiot came up with the brilliant idea that Doctors should wear WHITE coats. Today is laundry day, and I noticed that my husband threw his white coat into the pile to be sorted.  For those of you who don’t know, Dan is a Family Practice resident doctor.  I’ve been washing white coats for some time now, but since he graduated from medical school, the coat got a lot longer. So now, there’s a lot more room for stains.

Armed with my trusty stain-stick and Clorox Bleach Pen (I have to buy those things in bulk), I attacked this week’s casualties of medical warfare.  “Hmm, I think to myself, that looks suspiciously like…ewwww!!”  You know, I really don’t want to think too hard about whose or what bodily fluids my husband brings home on his white coat.  Sometimes it’s worse than others. Thankfully, today’s mess isn’t so icky.  It’s a lot of pen marks, a few mystery blobs, some definite mealtime mishaps, and lots and lots of general wear and tear, hospital grime.

One time in particular, early in Dan’s training, I had a super big mess to deal with, one that caught me completely off guard.  Dan showed up at our home, very late one night, and knocked at the door.  I thought that was strange, since he normally lets himself in.  Once I opened the door, I could see why he didn’t want to come in.  He was soaked, head to toe, with blood.  It wasn’t his blood.  He’d been in an agonizingly long surgery, where he’d had to massage a man’s liver for hours on end (thankfully, the patient survived).  After I recovered from the shock of seeing Dan that way, I helped him remove his blood covered sneakers, which he left outside.  After I cleaned him up, and we had some time to talk through his ordeal, I ventured to clean his clothing.  Fortunately, the hospital issued scrubs got cleaned at work, so I didn’t need to deal with those.  His formerly white tennis shoes were the worst part.  With lots of soap, bleach, elbow grease, and hazardous chemicals, I managed to make his shoes look fairly clean again.  However, they never did look the same.  They were always slightly tainted after that. 

Why did I subject you to this gruesome story?  I want to demonstrate how amazing it is that there’s one blood that has the power to cleanse us of all our dirt.  Just as blood can stain like nothing else, there’s one type of special blood that has the power to clean anything.  Jesus’ blood has the power to wash away our sins.  Isaiah tells us, “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool” (1:18).  There’s nothing too dirty that his blood can’t clean.

Apparently, Jesus’ blood is also the best sort of laundry detergent.  In Revelation, all the saints get their robes washed by his blood, and guess what color they end up?  WHITE!  It says, “These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb” (Revelation 7:14).  This side of heaven, I’m going to stick to my Clorox pens and stain stick.  If anybody else has suggestions for getting stains out of a white coat, I’d love to hear them!

God understands our Gobbledygook

My friends have the cutest kids.  All of them seem to be perpetual toddlers. Does that stage last for 10 years or something?  Maybe it’s just me, but I have the hardest time understanding what these cute little guys are trying to tell me.  They come up to me, tug on my pant leg, say something like: “wah goh doh lah de mamy.”  I’ve perfected the enthusiastic expression, combined with the nodding head and the “uh huh” that usually satisfies them.  However, sometimes, they seem to want more of a response from me.  That’s when I have to turn to mom, with that, “Help, I don’t speak ‘toddler’” expression.

What gets me every time is that mom always knows what the kid is saying.  She’ll turn to me and say, “Oh, little Timmy just wants to know if you’ve ever had a tarantula on your face before.”  A little light bulb will flash on over my head, and I’ll finally understand the wild gesticulations the kid was making with all its limbs flailing and pointing at my face.  How was I supposed to know that he was trying to ask if I’d had an arachnid protruding from my head? 

How do moms do that?  They can be in another room, and I’ll ask them what their kid just said, and they’ll give me a full sentence or two description of the precise meaning of the kid’s statement.  Not only will they interpret what the kid said, they often know what the kid is trying to say, before the kid knows it.  Sometimes, the kid doesn’t know the right words, or it’s naptime/cranky time and he’s confused.  The kid can be whining incomprehensively, and the mom can come in and say, “Oh, do you want this slimy shredded blanket that you insist on sleeping with?” And the kid will have an “aha” moment, and all will be well.  Mom figured out what they were trying to say, even though they didn’t know it themselves. 

I need some of those “mom powers” to use in my teaching.  I have far less success translating basic English to my college students. When I’m lecturing about something in class, more often than I’d care to admit, I’m met with vacant stares, as if I’m speaking a different language.  Sure, I teach English classes, but as far as they’re concerned, on some days, I might as well be teaching Advanced Swahili. 

I know I don’t sound like a toddler in front of class, but there’s at least one time in my life that I sound like one.  A lot of my prayers end up awfully messy.  Especially if I’m upset and sniffling and crying, my prayers to God sound less like Mary’s Magnificat and more like the grown ups on Peanuts cartoons (”wah, wah, wah”).  Often, I don’t know what I’m saying, but I’m upset, and I just want to talk to God about it.  It goes a lot like this, “God, *sniff, sniff*, I don’t know what’s wrong, it’s just this and this and this, and nothing is making it any better, and I don’t know how to fix it, and I don’t know what I really want, and those shopping carts…, and I’m in a terrible mood *sniff sniff*, and everybody is annoying me, and all my students are looking at me with vacant stares…”  You get the picture.  Who can make any sense of that?

Here’s my question.  How does God hear us?  Is he sitting up in Heaven, listening to my prayers, like my undergraduate students going, “Huh, she is making absolutely no sense today.”  Or, is he more like the mom, who can read through the toddler speak and get right to the heart of the matter?  Of course, God is more like the mom.  He knows our hearts better than anybody else.  He knows our thoughts, even before we start saying stupid, confusing, awkward things. 

I’m so thankful for the Holy Spirit.  He can cut through our confused minds and words and get to the core message that we’re trying to convey:  “In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.  And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will” (Romans 8:26-27).  So regardless of whether we can preach eloquent sermons or pray with excellent grammar, God understands. 

Like the good mom who knows what her child is saying, God always knows what our hearts are speaking.

Have it Their Way

 I thought I’d start piecing away at some of the questions I’ve been getting from people on the topic of writing (or giving) your testimony.  Thanks to everyone who’s been writing me and posting questions to share with everyone!  (Click here to read my post requesting questions on this topic)  Today, let’s take a look at this question, one that was e-mailed to me on May 23rd: “Does one ‘fine tune’ a testimony to the person who is hearing it?”

This makes me think of those Burger King commercials, where they say, “Have it your way.”  Although your testimony is not a made to order meal, for the sake of a simple analogy, let’s run with it for awhile.  Each person that you share your testimony with has their own areas of interests and personal preferences, their own unique “tastes.”  Just as you wouldn’t force feed a guest food that they would hate, you want to season your testimony with the right amount of “salt,” so it’s palatable to them.  In Colossians 4:6, Paul tells us how we can season our words to appeal to the appetites of those who are listening:  “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” 

The “salt” that you use might stories about your kids, for people who are devoted parents.  It might be a testimony of God’s faithfulness when you were sick, when you’re speaking to people who are struggling with illnesses.  People crave salt.  It meets a basic physiological need in our bodies.  Different people want different amounts of salt, presented in different ways.  Think about ways to sprinkle your testimonies with salt.  This doesn’t mean that you change the facts of your stories or stretch the truth.  It just means that we learn to pay attention to the people that we’re addressing and how we might best serve them.

May I take your order?