Category Archives: Stories

Grocery shopping has its charms. Aisles brimming with culinary treasures awaken my inner chef to the possibilities. Sample ladies entice me to devour tasty morsels of chicken Kiev or artisan cheese. The flower market calls me especially in Minnesota’s late winter hibernation to smell and touch the hyacinths and dream of spring.

But grocery shopping also has its temptations, especially if the shopper happens to be forswearing sugar for Lent.

Oh, the sweet pain as the decadent aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies wafts thru the aisles and draws me toward the bakery counter where I, alas, commit the crime and purchase not one but two delightfully warm gooey gems and with nary a thought of contrition devour them whole on the spot.

Ah, what have I done?

My noble intentions and stout resolution get lost in a sea of remorse as I ponder the weight of my unwise and impulsive decision. I can hide the evidence on the outside but inside I sense an uneasy mix of guilt and failure. I can rationalize that it was only a small offense in the grand scheme of possible crimes, but I am still left with a glaring example of my own imperfection. I have sinned.

The Apostle Paul speaks to this reality in the book of Romans. He says, “My own behavior baffles me. For I find myself not doing what I really want to do but doing what I really loathe. … I often find that I have the will to do good, but not the power. That is, I don’t accomplish the good I set out to do, and the evil I don’t really want to do I find I am always doing….In my mind I am God’s willing servant, but in my own nature I am bound fast, as I say, to the law of sin and death. It is an agonizing situation, and who on earth can set me free from the clutches of my sinful nature? I thank God there is a way out through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

There’s Hope. Glorious Hope.

The hymn writer Horatio G. Spafford said it best:

My sin—oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!—

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!’

A shaft of Light emerges thru an open door into the pitch-black room of my guilty soul piercing the darkness, illuminating and transforming all inside by its own radiant Power.

A Way Out. Yes, indeed. Thank God.

My Lenten confection redeemed.

_______________________

Phillips, J. B. “Romans 8:14-20.” The New Testament in Modern English. New York: Harper Collins, 1962. Print.

It Is Well With My Soul lyrics by Horatio G Spafford – 1873 –  found in http://library.timelesstruths.org/music/It_Is_Well_with_My_Soul/

Images courtesy of:

http://www.thehealthblueprint.com/55-fat-loss-secrets/

http://www.handletheheat.com/ultimate-chocolate-chip-cookies/

http://lightloveandpower.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/light.showing-open-door.jpg/

https://heathersjoy.wordpress.com/2010/10/27/itiswell/

During the Advent season many of us wrestle with mixed emotions—the warm fuzzies that accompany Christmas decorating, cookie baking, parties, gift giving. Yet, surprisingly, there’s haunting melancholy in the mix. This season reminds us painfully of areas in our own lives in which we are waiting or longing for some kind of healing.

A Light in the darkness. A candle for hope.

In the last three years I’ve received unwelcome gifts accompanying Parkinson’s disease. Last winter I came near death with the downward spiral of untreated symptoms and found myself at the Mayo Clinic on Christmas Eve day. It was on that day, December 24, 2013, that I received the definite Parkinson’s diagnosis and with the ensuing treatments prescribed and in place I began to improve. My new friends include two pills every four hours 24/7/365 to keep the tremors and spasticity at bay, a cane, walker, and, on occasion, a wheelchair.

In this process our church healing services have provided the sacred space for my healing to begin. At first I didn’t know what to expect.

Maybe I would take up my proverbial bed and walk right then and there.  Maybe, like Paul, I would pray three times for the thorn to go away and God would say “No”.  Maybe I would have to die first, like Lazarus, be dead three days, and then rise.

All I knew was that I was broken. I still looked pretty good on the outside, but in my Pleasantville of denial nothing was pleasant inside. I was not coping with the flood of frightening changes. Even though I was under the care of some of the world’s best doctors, I knew they were powerless to perform miracles. I was in pain physically and spiritually and I was drowning on the brink beyond hope.

So at the first service I attended, when the leader, Cheryl, asked Jesus’ question—-“Do you want to be healed?” it almost made me angry.

At first instinct, I thought, of course, I do. Who wouldn’t? Especially me!

At second thought, the question gave me pause to ponder the depth of the implications. I began to see the light of glorious change dawning in the dim distant horizon of my troubled mind but I knew it would cost me.

It would cost me my pride. My denial. My self-bartering. It would demand taking a good look in the mirror and facing my harsh realities head on. It would also demand asking and receiving and listening.

Nevertheless, that night I decided to get out of the boat.

I stepped into the deep water and, wonder of wonders, I started to walk.

As long as I look at Jesus, I’m OK.

He steadies me in the waves and storms and gives me Light in my Darkness.

Light a candle for Hope!

*Images courtesy of Church of the Cross, Hopkins, Minnesota.

Divine tablets. Right there. Up close and personal. I’ll bet Moses didn’t have any trouble figuring out that God speaks.   The Voice from Heaven commanded his attention. He got the message loud and clear.

And he listened.

God used angels with Mary and visions with the Apostle Paul. Samuel, Isaiah and Elijah each heard a voice in a dream. So did Daniel, and Ezekiel, and the Apostle John.

Job listened carefully as a still, small Voice of the Presence of God ministered to him in the midst of trial. David enjoyed that Voice while communing with nature.

Many people choose to believe that God communicates in special ways and only with special people, but I don’t believe it.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning says in Aurora Leigh:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries,

And daub their natural faces unaware.

I have ‘taken off my shoes’ at a ‘common bush afire with God’.  Yes, I have.  More than once.  Let me tell you a true story. 

Our first days in Russia filled with drama: witnessing the parliamentary takeover attempt in Moscow live from our hotel room, enduring a 54-hour Trans-Siberian train ride to Novosibirsk, and, then, setting up a temporary home in a small flat before our permanent residence became available.

During this ‘interior camping’ experience, our seventh day in Russia, Andre fell into a four-foot cement window well in the dark on his way back to our flat after taking out the trash.

He somehow managed to get out of the window well and stumble back to the apartment building, climb five flights of stairs, and collapse in front of our apartment door.

All he said was, “Call an ambulance.”

At that time, I spoke no Russian and I didn’t know anything about Russian ambulances, hospitals, diagnostic equipment, or doctors.

I did know how to call our Russian friend, Tatyanna, who called the ambulance and who rode with Andre to the Siberian hospital that dark night. They wouldn’t let me ride along, so I left the kids in the care of another friend and took off for the hospital.

I didn’t have a car and barely knew how to navigate my way to the bus stop, but I did both, paid the fare and found a place to stand near the front left side.

My mind was as foggy as the frosty window I gazed through. Myriads of shocking questions and unknowns crowded together becoming restless and uneasy as my body relentlessly squished itself between two large babushkas, all of us jerking awkwardly toward somewhere with every bumpy turn of that slowly moving bus.

At that moment, I didn’t know how serious Andre’s injuries were.

I did know that he thought he’d probably broken at least four ribs and that he was quite sure he had a punctured lung and maybe other internal bleeding and injuries; so I also knew that I needed to prepare myself mentally.

Maybe he would die?

I prayed to God for a Promise and a Hope.

Our town was carved out of huge, dense evergreen forests. This is the forest primeval, I thought, pondering numerous, heavy thoughts. They weren’t about Longfellow’s Evangeline.

As I watched the deep, dark trees and paths drift by, Robert Frost’s words from Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening came to my mind.

I quoted them to myself from the beginning to the end.

Then I understood.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

God told me thru Robert that Andre would be all right.

And indeed he was.

Cartoon courtesy of:

http://www.catholica.com.au/gc0/ie2/119_ie_030909.php

Poetry courtesy of:

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/barrett/aurora/aurora.html

http://allpoetry.com/Stopping-By-Woods-On-A-Snowy-Evening

http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/books/longfellow/evangeline00.html

Images courtesy of:

http://dailyclosertochrist.com

http://www.rffriends.org

Dear Leaves,

I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but we must. With 25° weather, you just can’t make it. So, we release you. We will see you next year young and full of life. Thanks for the beautiful fall.

Love,

Your (not so secret) admirer,

Staci

Ah, yes. The ‘goodbyes’ are harder than the ‘hellos’.

My friend’s words ring true as we bid adieu to the most gorgeous Minnesota fall season ever. Some changes, like this one, from a gloriously vibrant kaleidoscope to a barren, frozen landscape, are harder to take because of the even harsher realities that loom in the wings. Ice. Snow. Blizzards. Wind chills.

In the fall of 1993 our family picked up lock, stock, and barrel and moved from our cushy, custom-made sofa-life in the United States of America to a ragtag of ill-fitting, hardened chairs in Akademgorokok, Russia.   We left our jobs. Sold our home and cars. Sorted and disposed or stored most of our possessions. We left kindred and kin.

New language. Culture. Religious background. Government. Weather. Infrastructure. Transportation options. Educational options.  Rules to learn—written and unwritten— about how the system works and the people interact.

We chaffed and squirmed trying to make many a square peg fit into a round hole.

We changed the known for the unknown in every category of our high stakes Jeopardy game and were well aware that the losses would probably outweigh the wins. At least in the short-term scheme of things.

It was at our summer orientation camp in Colorado just before our departure that the stark realities of foreboding change sank in deep and wide. Part of our orientation consisted in various simulations to allow for emotional encounters of the third kind. The most powerful of these was the balloon game.

The children gathered outside our meeting room on a brilliantly sunny afternoon. Not a cloud in the sky. No ill winds blowing or chilly temperatures or dampening rains. Just clear blue sky. Everyone was silent. Waiting for an unknown something to happen.

At that moment several of our orientation leaders appeared seemingly out of nowhere bearing colorful, huge helium filled balloons on strings. The children’s eyes lit up as the leaders gave each child a brightly colored balloon. The delight radiated from young faces.

Once the balloons were all distributed the leader began to talk to the children about the concepts of change, loss, gain—leavings and cleavings–goodbyes and hellos.   It all seemed pretty abstract until the end of the talk when the leader summarized by saying, quite matter of factly, “The ‘goodbyes’ are harder than the ‘hellos’.” He let the words sink in.

Then he gently asked the children, “ Who is willing to let go of their balloon?”

You could have cut the thick air with the proverbial knife. Some said, “No way.” Others began to openly weep. Some hung on tight and looked anxiously at their parents. The minutes seemed like hours.

Finally, one brave, thoughtful child spoke. It was our dear seven year old, Claire Marie, who shocked us all.

“I will let go of my balloon,” she said.

And so she did.

It slowly rose into the air and out of sight. Several more balloons followed.

The lesson became crystal clear. Tears flooded my vision as I held little Claire.

Embrace the pain. The loss. The sadness. The suffering. The holes. These new unseemly friends will come and they are part of the package.

After all, Jesus said in Matthew 16:24-25:   “If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.  For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.“

Lord, help me to let go of my balloon.

_______________

Opening letter and picture courtesy of Staci Carroll, Minneapolis, MN.

Image courtesy of:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1305386/Earths-helium-reserves-run-25-years.html