The Present

I used to think that I didn’t have an answer for people when they’d ask me how I know there is a God.  I struggled with this question my entire life.  It wasn’t until I reached my 40’s that I think the question became more pressing.  I may not have the best answer to this question but I do have one answer that has clarified God for me.  God isn’t just a “He” to me anymore.  God isn’t a being in the sky or an omnipotent power that controls my thoughts and actions.  No, God has been revealed to me in so many ways that I cannot define “Him” as just “Him”. 

Perhaps this story will convince others that God is real, perhaps it won’t, but it is a story worth telling because it convinced me of His mighty power to answer our prayers - especially when we least expect it. 

Anyone who has read my blog knows that my husband and I haunt flea markets and auctions on a regular basis.  We take bargain hunting to a whole new level – even attending a garage sale on our wedding day (ok, maybe it was just Bill attending the garage sale, but you get the drift).  So, auctions are in our blood so to speak.  It doesn’t matter the town or state, if there is an auction around, you can bet we’ll sniff it out.  From Florida to New Jersey, and every state in between, we have found treasures galore!

NJ is where our roots are, but Florida is where we planted ourselves 26 years ago.  About eight years ago I made a very special trip to NJ to visit my mother’s grave.  It was the first time that I visited her grave since her death in 1960. It took me years to discover the name of her cemetery because her death, her very existence, was something that was never spoken of in our family.  I don’t think anyone can truly comprehend the struggle I’ve experienced over my mother’s death.  For most of my life I harbored bitterness over losing her and not knowing anything about her.  When I visited her grave I made a promise to God and to myself that I would move on and spend time with the living.  I left my heavy heart at the cemetery that day and returned home with peace in my soul.

In fact, I wrote a story about that trip on this blog: Be Still. 

Now, more than ever, I believe that it was perfect timing that brought me to her grave eight years ago and it was perfect timing that brought me to the auction in FL shortly after I visited her grave.

The auction house was one that we frequented regularly.  On this night, they were auctioning the entire estate of a Time-Life photographer who hailed from North Jersey.  I don’t know how his estate ended up in Cape Coral, FL, but it was clear that this was his private collection of photographs and the collection completely filled the auction house.

There was one gentleman at the auction that was bidding on every photograph.  No matter how high the bidding went, super bidder (the name Bill and I dubbed him) clearly had unlimited cash.  He undoubtedly had a vested interest in winning back the entire collection and wasn’t about to let even one item slip from his grasp.  We quickly discerned that it was useless to bid against this guy.

Towards the end of the auction we made our way back to the box lots where we figured we had a chance to bid on something – anything.  It wasn’t like us to leave an auction empty handed, after all.

While Bill was busy buying his share of box lots, I was eying a briefcase shoved under the table.  I assumed everyone’s attention was diverted by the current booty up for bid, so I stealthily pulled it out and opened it to find more Time-Life photographs.  Before I had a chance to sneak the case back under the table, super bidder appeared at my side.  I did my best to pretend the case was devoid of anything worthy of a bid but I think I may have blown my cover by my reaction to his looming presence.

 “Oh, just a bunch of old papers in that thing.”  I stammered as I shoved the case back under the table, “Nothing I’d be interested in.” 

His glare told me that he wasn’t buying it for a minute.  I knew then that he had seen the contents of the briefcase and any hope of my owning it vaporized in that realization. 

Well, to make a long story short, every item in the box lots that had even one photograph was bought up by super bidder.  I had resigned myself to not getting the briefcase but I decided to bid on it anyway. 

It was the very last thing to go up for auction that night.  It was just Bill and I, the super bidder and few stragglers left in the auction house.  The briefcase was placed on the table and the bidding began with super bidder throwing out the first bid.  I waited until the last possible moment before I placed my bid.  Super bidder didn’t bat an eye as he nodded his head indicating he was in it to win it.  Well, so was I!  I bid again and waited for his nod.  I waited.  This couldn’t be happening, my mind raced, Am I actually going to win this bid!

It was as if everyone left in the auction house held a collective breath as the auctioneer counted down, “Going once, twice, all in all done…” I looked at super bidder in astonishment as I heard those glorious words…“Sold to the lady in the yellow shirt.” 

The place erupted into applause as if I had spent a fortune to win the briefcase.  In reality, I only spent $15.00.  It was, at the time, a complete mystery as to why super bidder bequeathed the briefcase to me that night.

 All I remember is his faint smile as I took possession of the case.  It was as if he was saying to me, “It was yours from the beginning.  I was just having a little fun with you.”

I was so excited!  I couldn’t believe my luck.  All the way home, I held onto the briefcase as if it contained a momentous treasure.  As soon as we came in the door, Bill and I started rifling through the briefcase like two little kids on Christmas morning.

 I noticed right away that these pictures were taken in NJ where the photographer lived as they were more personal than the others.  Some were labeled with town names that I know are in North Jersey.  As we got to the last few photographs, my heart took a little leap. 

“I remember this place, Bill” I told my husband.  “It’s the duck pond we used to visit when I was a kid.  I passed by it when I was visiting my mom’s grave.  How weird is that!”

“Wow, that’s cool.” Bill said as he moved the photograph from the briefcase to the pile on the table.

I stared into the briefcase as the next photograph was revealed.  As the photograph came into focus, my heart didn’t just take a little leap, it about bounced out of my chest.  I don’t know how long I stared at the picture staring back at me, but it took Bill’s voice to pull me out of my trance.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

I was barely aware of the tears streaming down my cheeks as I tried to answer him. 

“I…I…I…” For about five minutes, I couldn’t put a coherent sentence together.

Finally, I picked up the picture and looked at the one below it and the one below that.  I really couldn’t believe my eyes.  There in the briefcase…the very last three photographs were pictures of the three pillars at each of the entrances of my mother’s cemetery. 

Here’s the thing, I would never had known that these pictures were from her cemetery had I not recently visited her grave.

I don’t wonder any more if there is a God.  I know there is.  I know there is because only He can answer a prayer that hasn’t even been spoken yet.  Only God can show you something in such a profound way that it is fathomless…how?  How is it that I ended up with those photographs on that night in that auction house in Cape Coral, FL just a few weeks after visiting my mother’s grave in NJ?

 I’ll tell you how.  It was God’s mighty hand reminding me that He is always in charge.  He knows just what we need exactly when we need it.  I didn’t even know I needed those pictures, but I did.  I needed them to remind me that letting go of the past doesn’t mean that you don’t grieve a loss – you just look at the loss differently.  It’s kind of like a photograph forever etched in your mind’s eye, a part of your life’s tapestry.  But, the photograph becomes a reminder that the tapestry is still being woven.  It’s a reminder that there will be more photographs to fill the tapestry.  Now, every time I look at those cemetery pictures I am reminded that, had I stayed stuck in the past, I would most certainly have lost the present. 

 

Who Would Have Thunk It!

Who would have thunk it?  Worms!  I’ve always been an “out of the box” thinker, but even I was a bit taken aback by this calling.  I knew very little about worms; nor did I understand how worms would provide jobs for the least and invisible among us. Yet, the thought stuck in my brain and nagged me like a pebble in a shoe.



Six years after the thought was planted in my brain, I knew it was time to pitch the vermiculture operation (worm farm for short). So, I went to the Grace Community Center and said, “I want to run a worm farm that employs special needs adults.”  



Imagine my surprise when they responded, albeit laced with a healthy degree of skepticism, “We’ll give it a try.”



It actually makes sense to me now - almost a year after Exceptional Entrepreneurs launched.  Why shouldn’t our most precious vulnerable people in our community champion the lowly worm?  Think about it for a moment.  Without worms our world would be a dirty, unhealthy and unhappy place.  In fact, without worms the world would not be fit for habitation.  No one ever notices worms - the cleaning machines that eat our garbage and turn it into something wonderful and useful.  Worms do their job and we reap the rewards with nary a thought.  



Nary a thought is something that I wanted to change when it came to worms and employment for folks who wheel themselves in a wheelchair at work or who cannot communicate well enough to have a “real” job. Now, a year later, people are noticing this joy filled workplace where the least among us show up everyday to care for the least among us - worms.  Today,  our exceptional entrepreneurs beamed over their first paychecks.  I cried.
  


Who would have thunk it!

NoNo for Nana

Yesterday, I had the privilege of watching my sixteen-month-old granddaughter, Devyn.  We had such great fun!  The park was beautiful and there were slides of all shapes and sizes just waiting for the pitter-patter of Devyn’s feet!  The pitter-patter of Devyn’s feet was followed close behind by the clump-de-clump of Nana’s feet.  Up and down.  Up and down.  Up and down we went.  Nana kept getting stuck in the slide making Devyn laugh her head off.  By the time we got home, Devyn and I were exhausted.  Well, maybe I should rephrase that - I was exhausted and, luckily, it was Devyn’s nap time.  So, we tucked each other in and slept for four hours! 

I woke up with sore knees and an aching back. 

“My God!” I thought to myself, “I’m this out of sorts from a short trip to the park!” 

I guess it is time I accept the inevitable truth that I am no spring chicken any more.  I mean it’s really bad when you take longer naps than your granddaughter and your bedtime is earlier than hers.  There are so many things that are daily reminders of my waning youth.  Like, for instance, the other day my hairdresser trimmed my eyebrows after she plucked them!

I was looking at family pictures we took at the park and I noticed that whenever I smiled my eyes disappeared.  How sad is that!  Speaking of eyes, I was wondering why my husband was sneaking up on me and getting really close to my face when I was lying on the couch. 

“What are you doing!” I screamed in his rapidly approaching face.  (I knew he wasn’t getting romantic after all). 

“I was trying to see if you were awake.” He yelled as he jumped back from the couch and almost fell over the coffee table.  “I couldn’t tell if your eyes were open.” 

Another true sign of aging is when NoNo (the “no more hair in unwanted places” gadget for chin hair) is at the top of your Christmas list. 

Speaking of Christmas, I was whispering to Bill the other night about our thirteen-year-old’s present I ordered online when she yelled from her bedroom, “I heard that!” 

“How could she hear me?”  I whispered to Bill. 

“I heard that too, mom! You and dad are both deaf!” Came her snarky reply. 

Deaf!  What is she crazy!  I can’t help it if all she and her sisters do is mumble all the time.  Mumble this and mumble that - I went to the wrong friend’s house to pick her up the other day because she mumbled the name into the phone.  How embarrassing was that to show up at JJ’s house to pick up your daughter who was at Cricket’s house!  I mean, come on, JJ and Cricket sound almost exactly the same when you mumble the names!

I have a confession to make.  I started texting more and talking less because all my friend’s have lousy phones that make them sound like they are in tunnels or under water.  Unfortunately, I can’t read their replies because I broke my reading glasses when they fell out of my pocket while Devyn and I were stuck in the slide.

There are so many things about growing old that I could continue to mention like never sneeze or laugh after consuming even a tablespoon of liquid.  However, there is a bright side to aging...damn, I forgot what it is!

Nudge

I play scrabble on the computer, and every once in a while it will ask if I want to “nudge” someone into making a move.  I started thinking about the word “nudge” and I meandered through my fertile mind until I rested in the valley beside still waters.  There, I started thinking about how God nudges us.  More to the point, how he nudges me.  I often grow weary of listening to God or for God.  Maybe weary is not the right word to use.  I grow leery is perhaps more apropos.  What I mean by that is I don’t know if it is God directing my path or my foolish ways directing my path.  How do I know the difference between a God “nudge” and a Betty “nudge”?

I was sitting in Bible study the other day listening to a lady speak very passionately about how God is the God of miracles if you “own” His word and know His word is written for you and with you in mind and that God can do ALL things.  As I was listening to her, my knees began to ache from sitting in one position - they ache from ANYTHING.  So, I silently told God that if he was a God of miracles to heal my knees right there and then.  My knees kept right on aching.  Was it something I said?  Was it something I didn’t say?  Was it my lack of faith?  I don’t know.  All I know is that God did not perform any miracle on my knees - not then and not now.

Am I angry at God?  Sometimes.  Sometimes I ask Him why he doesn’t cure my ails so that I can do more for His kingdom.  I whine.  I cry out.  It doesn’t matter.  My knees still hurt really bad, I still can’t sleep at night, and I still have to take blood thinners to prevent another stroke.  Because of the stroke, I still don’t recognize people who should be familiar to me and find myself hiding from people I know I should know, but I don’t know.  It is exhausting being in pain all the time, and I wonder why God would want me like that.  I mean, I have so much to do for Him!

Maybe that is it.  I do have so much to do for God’s kingdom.  But, God doesn’t call the equipped does he?  He equips the called.  I have no doubt that I am called.  I got the nudge, and I know it was from God.  I know because it was right and just and required me to surrender completely and step out in faith.  Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was able to do that.  I didn’t look back.  I didn’t second-guess the call.  I didn’t say, “Wait until my health is better.”  “Wait until I have no kids at home.”  Wait until the mortgage is paid off.”  I just did it.  I just walked into my principal’s office and resigned from my job.  I walked away from a $50,000 a year paycheck with benefits to a $0 a year paycheck with no health benefits.  Why?  I did it because it was finally time for me to listen to God and, more importantly, to trust Him completely.

So, I allowed God to nudge me from a 2400 sq. ft. home into a 15’ x 32’ RV.  I allowed him to nudge me from a $50,000 a year job to a part-time volunteer position.  I went from being able to pay all my bills to scraping two pennies together hoping they’ll make more pennies (it hasn’t happened yet).  What has happened though is that I have found that all my needs and my family’s needs have still been met.  We’re not starving.  We’re not out on the street.  We have all the comforts of home - albeit on a much smaller scale.

I learned a lot from this nudge.  I learned that I am equipped as much as I need to be to do what I’ve been called to do at this moment.  I learned that I can trust God to provide my daily bread and my daily energy.  I’m learning to let Him lead me when I cannot see where the path of my life is taking me. I’m learning to listen to Him by recognizing His voice in my everyday life.

I’ve recognized God’s nudge through the smiles of my special needs students.  I know it’s Him nudging me when my 800-pound horse rests his huge head gently on my shoulder.  I know it’s God’s nudge when my granddaughter gives me Eskimo kisses.  I know it’s Him in my husband's hugs and my daughter’s dancing.  He nudges me every day to look at my life through a different prism and to be thankful because I know that He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me.  I may not have painless knees, but I have knees that allow me to do just what I need to do.  I believe that God would not want me to be healed completely because then my life would not be a testament to what people can accomplish despite their limitations.  I know that He will always deliver on His promises as long as I allow Him to nudge me from time to time.  

What Kind Of...?

“Miss Betty, I’m here!” Tito announces into the phone. 

“I know, Tito.” I tell him, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

This is the conversation I have every morning on my way to “work”.  It never fails; the phone call comes usually fifteen minutes before the scheduled arrival time - never late.  That is Tito’s motto.  He is never late to work.  Neither is Josh or Heather or any of the others.  Ever. 

Here’s the thing, they don’t get paid.  I don’t get paid.  We just show up for “work” and, well, work!  But, it is so much more than work.  It is opportunity.  It is community.  It is joy. 

Where is this joyful place where people work but don’t get paid and want to be there so much so that they are always early?  It reminds me of that car commercial where the car drives by a spectator and the person says...”What kind of...” without finishing the sentence.

I’ll try to tell you as much as is humanly possible what kind of place this is.  It is a place where Jesus shows up - that I know.  Jesus limps into this place with his left side paralyzed.  He shows up everyday despite the fact that he cannot communicate verbally.  He comes in his wheelchair wearing a smile.  He comes to this place broken and hurting and challenged beyond what any of us can truly comprehend and he finds joy.  He is joy. 

This is the place where I “work”.  I don’t care if I ever get paid because I am paid in full each and every day that I have the privilege to serve Him.  I am paid in smiles, laughter, kindness and love.  There is love in this place and I wouldn’t trade it for all the money in the world!

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthew 25:40 NIV

Carry You

It was April 20, 1989; Twenty-four years ago.  Yet, my heart still aches.  Something will trigger the memory and the pain wells up like a newly formed wound that will take forever to heal.  Or, maybe will never heal.  It’ll leave a scar for sure.  Scarred; that is how I feel.  Scarred for life.  Scarred about life.  Scarred from life. 

Today it was a song; “I Will Carry You.”  I started the day asking God to answer my whispered prayer.  I didn’t expect him to rip open an old wound.  Is that really how you answer prayer, God?  Thanks a lot!   

Why?  Why today of all days did God decide to have me read that story and listen to that song that brought twenty four years of mourning into this morning:  This regular everyday morning when I was just going about my everyday business praying my everyday prayers. 

Six.  That is the magic number.  Six babies.  Six little souls.  Six huge gaping wounds.  The one wound is the gapiest I guess.  It’s that way because the others were so young.  They barely made it to three months old.  Hardly a baby after all!  I did feel them, though.  I felt them stir.  Maybe I just imagined it, but I know they were a part of me in my heart and in my soul.  God blessed me with them.  He asked me to carry them.  I said yes.  Then, like some mean hateful revengeful...I don’t know - he took them away.  All of them.  The one I remember most was the one that made it past three months.  That one was going to make it all the way.  I just knew it. 

Does God empty you completely so that He can fill you up again?  Is that what He was doing?  He sure did a good job of emptying me.  He emptied me of my joy.  He emptied my soul.  He emptied my uterus.  I didn’t love Him then.  I didn’t trust Him then.  I didn’t turn to Him then.  I didn’t want any part of Him then.  I wanted my babies.  They were mine! 

The first five were barely a flicker in my eye.  The doctors were so cavalier about the whole thing.  “Oh,” they’d say, “There had to be something terribly wrong with the baby.  It’s nature’s way of taking care of things.”  Nature’s way!  Really?  Every time I left the office feeling so completely empty and I couldn’t explain it to anyone.  Not to my husband.  Not to my family or friends.  Not to God. 

I’m not going to lie.  I’m not going to sugar coat this.  I’m not going to say that I didn’t scream and cry and shout and raise my fist to the heavens and curse the God that asked me to be the mother to these precious souls and then cruelly snatched them out of my life.  I had no one.  No one understood my pain.  No one understood my loss.  No one understood the depths of my emptiness.  Not you and not God.

I carried the bitterness like the yoke that it was.  I carried it on my shoulders.  I carried it in my heart.  I carried it in my head.  I carried it through my life as it burdened every part of every day for twenty four years.  The yoke of unforgiveness.  I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I didn’t know how to forgive myself for being the terrible mother I was.  What kind of mother would...what kind?  What kind of mother would drink a beer knowing that she has a precious life inside of her?  What kind of mother would sand furniture, paint the house, speed in the car...what kind of mother!  What kind of mother was I!!  I was a lousy mother!  I couldn’t keep them safe!  I didn’t save them!@  I wanted to keep them safe and well and happy and I wanted them to live.  What kind of mother was I@!  I could not forgive myself.  EVER!

Today.  Today I prayed that God would answer my whispered prayer.  I didn’t even know what my whispered prayer was.  I asked Him when he would answer it.  He said now.  I said, “I don’t see it.”  He said, “That’s because you are not looking.”  I’m looking now.  I’m looking at the words my fingers are typing and I’m listening to the song “I Will Carry You.” 

There were photographs I wanted to take.  Things I wanted to show you.  Sing sweet lullabies, wipe your teary eyes.  Who could love you like this?  

I will carry you...I wanted to carry you not just in my womb.  I wanted to hold you in my arms as your heart beat in rhythm with mine.  But I know now my precious little babies that I did carry you then and now.  I carry you all in my heart and my soul.  Thank you God for the short time that you blessed me with my little angels.  The silence has brought me to your voice, God.  I’m listening.  I will no longer carry the yoke of unforgiveness.  I’m forgiven.  You have them in your arms and I know I will see them and hold them and carry them soon.  Until then, thank you God for CARRYING ME.http://youtu.be/FlDUkp1Ts8A