My Father's Shoes

Such a large crowd of witnesses is all around us!

When you live and work in another culture, you’re bound to unconsciously bump up against people’s expectations, even with the best of intentions. You might as well not spend too much time worrying what others think. My father is the sort of person who carries off magnificently unselfconscious eccentricities in his own culture. Thirty-six years in Japan did little to alter this tendency.

Once, in my 6th grade, a friend told me she’d seen my father running in the rain across the CAJ parking lot in his sock feet, clutching his shoes in one hand, big black umbrella in the other. I asked my dad that night if he’d been at my school, hoping my friend had somehow been mistaken. “Well, yes,” he confirmed. Driving from the suburbs to downtown Tokyo is inefficient, so he parked at school and walked to Higashi Kurume station to take the train. On his way back he got caught in a downpour. Of course no sensible person goes out without an umbrella, but the puddles were deep so he carried his shoes because, he told me, “I didn’t want them to get wet.”

How can you argue with logic like that?

Granted, if you consider that his next pair of shoes was three years and ten thousand miles away, he behaved quite sensibly – but how many people do you know who do the sensible thing even if it makes them appear undignified?

When Dad first went to the mission field in 1957, at 5’11” he stood well above other men. When you ride the subway, thousands of people stand packed nose to nose, so it’s easy to tell whose head sticks out. (Tokyo dwellers colloquially refer to a subway like this one as “empty.”) By the time my parents left Japan in 1993, the Japanese people grew so much taller that the government enlarged the standard size of first graders’ desks three times. So my father got squeezed face to face like all the rest.

But in the ‘50s, in the coastal collection of fishing and farming villages known as Choshi, Dad stood tall. With a population of 90,000, and one American man, it’s a safe bet everyone watched Dad wherever he went.

They say in Japan only children, Christians and drunks sing in public. Put children and Christians together and you get Sunday School – up to 140 giggling Japanese kids squeezed into my family’s tiny home each week. (Among my own childhood memories is searching for my shoes among many dozens tumbled in a doormat-sized space.) Once, as the last adult helpers began their leisurely leave-taking, my mother opened her entryway door to find a church teen standing on the tile, his feet in Dad’s shoes, wearing Dad’s coat. The sleeves draped well below his fingertips.

“I just wanted to see what it felt like to be in Sensei’s shoes,” he explained simply.

After graduation, this young man headed off to Canada, ambitious to study clothing design. Although “fashion industry mentor” would not be one of my father’s top 100 descriptors, I’d like to think his friend caught Dad’s gift for following one’s dream no matter who is looking.

In 1962, my folks left Choshi to furlough back in U.S. They couldn’t take everything, and invited neighbors to help themselves to leftover clothing – including some of Dad’s shoes. (The same young man wrote my parents later and told them he’d tried them on again. Still no fit. )

Which, if you know anything at all about Japan, squarely dates this incident in the tail-end of post-war poverty. Later on, missionary kids dumpster-dived for locals’ castoffs, never the other way around. When my father attempted the same generosity seven years later, the neighbor stared dubiously, then offered, “I suppose I could use them for rags.” Talk about feeling like the bottom of the missionary barrel!

Even so, in 1979, someone again thought my father’s shoes worth wearing.

Dad always brought slippers when visiting a tuberculosis patient in a local hospital. Traditional hotels and hospitals provide an entryway where you can trade your shoes for their slippers, just like homes. Since Dad’s entire heel hung off the native-sized slippers, he didn’t mind carrying his own. Ministry is unhurried everywhere but America, and my father took his time, ministering to the sick man with prayer, Scripture, and a heart full of Jesus.

When he came out, his shoes were gone. At least he had his own slippers to wear home.
We teased Dad that perhaps a local collector needed just the right accent piece for a display shelf. It’s not like someone could easily mistake his size 11’s for their own.

Once, walking home, a neighbor stopped my Mom and me and made us stand in the street several minutes for a recitation of Sensei’s virtues. “Your father is a great man,” she said to me in English. My Sunday sandals raising a blister, I shifted from foot to foot, hoping she’d conclude her rhapsody so I could get home. The phrase “great man” lingered in our household lore, but Dad paid no attention.

These days, Dad laces on hiking boots and heads up the hill behind his North Georgia home. When we talk, he lets me know his time that day – 19 minutes. Never mind the collapsed disk, sciatica and whatever else tries to ail him.

I remind him he’s grown almost as young as Caleb when that octogenarian claimed his mountain. I tell him I’ve heard a great song I’d like to play at his funeral, preferably in another 40 years or so, and recite the lyrics:

I won’t bend and I won’t break
I won’t water down my faith . . .
I want to be a light for future generations

He mumbles a quick “Oh!” which I interpret as pleasure, then changes the subject.

Like Max Lucado’s Wemmicks, the stars and dots just don’t stick to a man who spends time with His Master. Once in a while, he stubs his emotional toe on someone’s attitude, just like the rest of us. Most of the time, though, Dad remains oblivious.

Watched by many, watching only One.

We’re always in somebody’s viewfinder. Tell you what, next time we feel stressed by who’s looking, what they’re thinking – let’s do ourselves a favor. Let’s take off our Sunday shoes and go running in the rain. As long as we protect what’s irreplaceable, we can let our socks get wet.

What’s it gonna take to lay your burdens down, it’s a beautiful sound
And they all fall, like a million raindrops,
falling from a blue sky, kissing your cares goodbye. –The Newsboys

Unveiled

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
– Nelson Mandela

How would it feel, I wonder, to be a stone jar, holding twenty gallons of water (the size of my aquatic turtle’s tank), and experience an explosive force transforming everything inside me? How does one contain such power?

What sensations might I be aware of, if I were a clay jar with a flame inside? When the moment came, would I surrender my insecurities to shatter in a thousand pieces, my torch blazing courage while willing hearts blew Reveille, proclaiming oppression’s defeat to my family and country?

Exactly what do I accomplish when I drag my uncertainties through my neighborhood, workplace, or Wal-Mart, careful to set everyone straight, not just in words, but by my shoulders’ droop and the scuff of my step, "I’m just a jar, you know, nothing special here"?

It’s true, if you only look at me, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That's to prevent anyone from confusing God's incomparable power with us.

But make no mistake, the force inside is all-surpassing, powerful beyond measure. Strong enough to slake the world’s thirst with a joyful exuberance beyond mere water, blazing enough to break a tyrant’s grasp on the communities we love.

For eons, condemnation held glory captive, veiled, Rapunzel in her tower. Like the dwelling (you could hardly call it a home) we saw once in the Colorado mountains, no neighbors near, and no neighborliness either, barbed wire fence adorned with bullet-riddled cans, draped animal skins, and a four-by-six-foot sign proclaiming "The Law allows us to shoot trespassers on sight." Pretty scary stuff, like Numbers 11 and 16. If you see somebody climbing the fence, stand back.

That’s how it had to be, until one Friday, when Love’s clay jar shattered, mangled beyond comprehension, and simultaneously a four-inch-thick veil ripped wide, exposing the heart of God. Revealing the plans He'd cherished all along, to bathe our street dirt off and set us on the thrones of Cair Paravel. Once a king or queen in His Kingdom, always so.

With that in mind, don't focus on the unworthiness of your clay jar. Mandela added, "Your playing small doesn't serve the world." Do not call anything impure that God has made clean. Including yourself.

Instead, let the glory we hold be a spotlight for His dance. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God. Carry the light-giving Message into the night, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God’s glory and power inside me and you is not a secret to be kept. Go public! Don't hide under a bucket.

In responding to Nelson Mandela’s quote, John Eldredge wrote, "I realized we do fear our glory....because once we let others see it, they will see the truest us, and that is nakedness indeed."

My artistic friend took creations to a craft fair. Her neighbors oohed and aahed, did you do all these yourself? She wrote to me, "I felt they were seeing the real me for the first time." Unveiled. Our truest God-given glory, exposed, off the shelf, sleeves rolled up and ready to work.

Whenever we turn to face God (in any previously unexplored aspect of our souls), the veil comes off and there we are--face to face! We're free – all of us! Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face, Rapunzel letting down our hair for the King of Glory to come in. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him. Naked and unashamed.

And that is why we call this Friday good.

Le Coeur A Ses Raisons

On the day I met Mitch, I saw his Dad in street clothes, only once.

Already losing his battle with prostate cancer, Bill left the next morning for Lake Casitas, enjoying one last precious fishing trip with his sons. After that, as Mitch and I began to date, our times together included time with his Dad, huddled miserably in pajamas on his La-Z-Boy, and eventually on the hospice-provided bed which centerpieced the living room.

Bill liked me immediately, and I am certain he knew I would marry Mitch in time. He privately told Mitch’s Mom they didn’t need to worry about their youngest son any more.

I wish I could have known him better, but soon the pain grew too great for him to speak. And one day, encircled by his family and hearing words of reassurance and release, Bill slipped home.

In those six months while we watched his father die, Mitch began to teach me about our healing covenant in Christ.

My rock-solid, Scripture-loving background had taught me that God wills some sick and some well. His to choose, ours not to question why. He gives and takes away. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. A little sunshine, a little rain. Kind of like yin and yang: we need some bad things just to keep balance in the universe and teach us important lessons.

When Mitch told me that Jesus’ death on the cross purchased unconditional healing for our sicknesses as well as undeserved forgiveness for our sins, I felt concerned. Could my good-looking boyfriend be mixed up with some kind of cult?

Of all the gifts my parents gave me, the greatest is an unquestioned allegiance to the infallible supremacy of the Word of God. If the Bible says the sky is blue, but mine is green, I get my eyes examined, then call the EPA to start a clean-up operation. Like the old office joke about the boss. Rule Number One: The Bible is always right. Rule Number Two: If the Bible appears to be wrong, see Rule Number One. That’s how I was raised.

So Mitch never argued with me. He just took me to the Word.

When I read, for the first time, Isaiah 53:4, with the correctly-translated Hebrew words – and its interpretive New Testament passage, Matthew 8:17, it blew me away:

Surely our sicknesses he hath borne, and our pains -- he hath carried them, And we -- we have esteemed him plagued, smitten of God, and afflicted. (Young’s Literal)

He fulfilled Isaiah's well-known sermon:
He took our illnesses,
He carried our diseases. (The Message)

But what does that mean when your Dad is coughing blood into a pan? Who do we believe when the promises of Heaven face off against the ravages of hell’s visitation?

To Mitch, it didn’t seem to matter that his father’s suffering provided evidence to contradict God’s plan for healing. Every person who takes God at His Word experiences two realities: what we hear God say, and what we see happening in the world around us. Whichever reality we focus on becomes our filter to explain the other. As one preacher put it, "Even if no one ever got saved, the Gospel is still true."

We’re told the early disciples preached the Word with signs following. If you preach only what you see, you’ll get more of the same. And there He can do no mighty work, but only heal a few sick people.

To Bill, family is everything. He knew his most important job was complete, that of raising his kids. Knowing his family would be OK settled the greatest concern of his life. Once each person around the circle said aloud, "Dad, we release you. We’ll take care of Mom," Bill chose to leave his body within one minute after the last one spoke.

They say the heart has reasons that reason cannot comprehend. The closer we grow to the heart of God, the more we’ll catch His vision, and the more easily we’ll understand the reasons why things happen. Isaiah's question, "Is there anyone around who knows God's Spirit, anyone who knows what He is doing?" has been answered: Christ knows, and we have Christ's Spirit.

Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.
The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.

--Blaise Pascal

Take A Little Prayer With Your Vitamin I

Pastor Kurt from Harvest Downtown sharpened our iron with grace this morning. He pointed us to the four-fold logo
and exhorted us to Preach the Pitcher. This is code for “why doesn’t anyone preach on healing anymore since it is, in fact, one of the four symbols of the Alliance?”

Pastor Kurt is always anything but condemning, and quickly pointed out his own tendency to grab for Vitamin I (ibuprofen) when he feels something coming on – and his own frustrations when that doesn’t cut it.

He compared our tendency to reach for medicine, doctors – then finally God (sometimes when no medical hope is left), to a story told of another culture where a missionary, visiting a home, noticed an impressive line-up of gods on a shelf. His host explained, "If this one doesn’t answer my prayer I pray to this one, if that god doesn’t answer I pray to the next one, then if none of them answer I pray to this one (pointing to a little status of Jesus) and he ALWAYS answers!"

Most of us respond, "So why not get smart and pray to Jesus first?" and Kurt countered with “Why not pray for healing FIRST while you’re grabbing that ibuprofen?”

A great reminder.

In our home, we’ve taught our children to pray over every bump and scratch, just to get us all in the habit. We even pray over the animals! But lately we’ve slackened off - due in part to exactly the frustration Kurt described.

I needed to be told this today. Thanks, Kurt, and keep bringing in the Harvest!

Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog

If you dislike dogs or indelicate matters,
you may prefer to read someone else’s blog today!

We’ve taken kids to the emergency room three times (when the doctor appears, the child springs up and runs in circles). We’ve dealt with a negligible assortment of concussions, sore throats, and my favorite dress puked on just before walking out the door. But I’ve never had a sick dog.

It’s only me who is a novice here – Mitch’s childhood dogs experienced close encounters with cars, gun-toting garbage-can owners, and other canine hazards. But Zydeco is my first dog.

My son noticed before we did. “Zydeco keeps shaking,” he pointed out. Probably just dreaming, we thought. But the quivering continued when he awoke, his ears felt hot, nose dry, demeanor lethargic. With a prayer for healing, I searched the internet for the canine WebMD.

I found an instructive piece, “How to Take Your Dog’s Temperature,” which explained the three ways to do this. You can use a special ear thermometer for dogs, but we don't own one (yet). As for oral, I thought it unwise to hold a small crunchable mercury-filled object between his teeth. Particularly since he can easily close his mouth over a tennis ball. So that pretty much left one option . . .

For dog-owners not possessing a basic knowledge of canine anatomy, the web article helpfully advises that this most efficacious of temperature-taking points “is located just below the base of the tail.” In the event of persistent uncertainty, the site obligingly provides a photograph one can study.

After illuminating the process (I won’t go into detail here), the commentary suggests that you “remove the thermometer and read the temperature.” I’m just not certain I would have thought to carry out these additional steps, all on my own.

And one more pointer, gleaned from my years of parenting: if the patient is not sick enough for you to safely attempt the southern hemisphere insertion, you probably don't need to know the exact number.

Nevertheless, the article proved useful: normal canine temperature is 100.5 to 102.5 degrees Fahrenheit, and you should call your vet somewhere over 104, depending on your checking account balance.

Initially, in my alarm and without my glasses, I read our (did I say “our”? it’s now the dog’s) thermometer as 109. My unflappable husband did not sweep Zydeco into his arms in a desperate rush for emergency care. So I held it up to better light and checked again. “Make that 104,” I admitted. If you’ve had a sick child lately and for some obscure reason don’t use digital, you may remember the high number on the glass is 106.

Since emergi-petcare is slightly less expensive than a Caribbean cruise, we opted for a quick run to Petco. Only $7.99 will get you 100 chewable aspirin, liver-flavored, with the instructions “one-half tablet per 10 lbs.” Per ten pounds of dog, that is.

Fortunately we weighed the pooch just last month, by the simple expedient of weighing Mitch first, then, Mitch holding the dog. We did this twice because I somehow did not grasp, the first time, that I was to get all the way down on the floor, dog haunches hanging over me, and count those tiny lines between the numbers, upside down and in a portion of the dial I thankfully don’t frequent, once again without glasses, in the rapidly waning milliseconds before Mitch lost his grip on the wriggling beastie. Laughing hysterically increases the difficulty. Mitch, hefting 90 pounds of hound, twice, was not amused.

Much like taking the child to the emergency room, only cheaper, Zydeco perked up the second I walked in the door from Petco. He snarfed down four aspirin tablets (that’s only 80 lbs of dog but close enough), ate some food, and stopped shaking. Thank God.

In our house, we celebrate Christ our Healer and humbly receive His blessing on our pets, in the vein of Deut 28:4’s livestock. Which may explain why Mitch’s dogs dodged bullets and car axles. I slept peacefully, knowing Zydeco was fine, and I got a chuckle from the oh-so-basic “web vet.”

If nothing about canine temperature-taking strikes you as hilarious, maybe it’s just me whose humor is as sick as a dog. But I sure hope you find something funny in your world, before it eats you alive! If you’ve been in ministry five minutes, you know that wherever two or three are gathered together, you’ll find plenty to laugh or cry about. Take your pick.

I don’t know if a merry heart medicates a hound dog, but it works for you and me!

Really, It’s Up to You

Expectantly she stood at my elbow while I ate breakfast, Etch-A-Sketch in hand. “What would you like me to draw for you, Mama?”

Well, let’s see, a doggie would be nice, or you could draw a horsie for me.

She gave me a blank stare. Clearly, this was not what I wanted her to draw for me. I tried again, feeling like Anna in the King & I, guessing what advice the king wished to hear. “How about a doll?”

Her face grew sunny, “Yes! I will draw a baby doll for you, Mama.” And she sat down and drew a lovely . . . cow.

A few minutes later, I checked in with my Daddy during drivetime.
“So, God, what would you like me to do for you today?” I asked, expectantly.

I could feel His chuckle right down to my toes.

Playing Hide & Seek

“Find me, Mama,” demands the petite heap of blankets every morning. Cooperatively I search the room . . . “Is my little girl in the closet? behind the chair? under the crib?” I rattle drawers and rustle curtains, culminating in a “find” full of kisses and giggles. Often I must repeat the process, and more than once I’ve mortally offended my son (our eldest Hide & Seek aficionado) by locating him too quickly. “You cheated!” he accuses, and we must prolong the game until my children’s passion to be found is satiated.

Why do they do this? And it doesn’t stop when we get older.

Here’s a favorite line from a favorite movie, Parent Trap (1994), when Natasha Richardson and Dennis Quaid’s characters try to make sense of their break-up a decade ago:

He: “Why did you leave?”
She: “Why didn’t you come after me?”
He: “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

Every time we watch this, I snuggle closer to Mitch, get teary-eyed, and say “ALWAYS come after me.”

Mitch mastered this game early. In the four long years I gathered courage for the greatest leap of my life, trepidations began to crumble and a final fear surfaced: “What if you ever left me?”

“Then I would try to talk you into staying,” he replied simply, with complete logic. That’s how I knew he had found me and wouldn’t let go.

Hide and Seek.

Sometimes we seek by hiding.

Like the old saying goes, “he chased her until she caught him.”

In “Kate & Leopold,” Kate’s brother strategizes his pursuit:
“If I call and leave a message on her answering machine when I know she’s out, then the ball will be in her court.”
And Leopold responds,
“Ah, but you want the ball to be in your court.”

After all, if both players hide, you’ve got no game.

Did you ever hide and no one came to look for you? The big kids ran off to fry bigger fish, leaving you cramped in a small dark place smelling dirty socks and the dawning realization that you had been left seekerless.

Dr. Dobson addresses this devastation in the arena of adult relationships in “Love Must Be Tough” and “Tough Love for Singles” - if your game is off, it’s time for a little coaching.

Do you believe we should be “seeker-friendly”? What if no seekers come and we hide unsought? Did we leave voicemail for the people who stay home on Sunday mornings, and wonder why they don’t call back? Perhaps we should have kept the ball in our court.

Pastor Mark Beeson of Granger Community Church did not spend big bucks to rent a billboard shouting “For the next five weeks, our church will host a solid Scriptural sermon series exhorting you to stop indulging in adultery, lust and pornography.” He would have been lonely in his pulpit that Sunday for sure.

Instead, the billboard, with its four bare feet and four bare words, whispered,

“We’re hiding . . . and the Spirit and the Bride say Come! Find us!
Whoever is thirsty, come on, ‘cuz we’ve got water here!”

And they hosted the feeding of the seven thousand.

Another great game of Hide ‘n Seek.

A-Lions, Felines and Bears, Oh My

Bedtime at our house is a zoo. I’m sure this is true of your home too, if you have children anywhere from birth until whatever age it is they begin to disappear into their caves unaided.

Since I work full-time, bedtime is my big chance to speak into the lives of our young son and daughter. Last night’s circus kicked off with my little one, who produces and directs her own shows, starring herself and whatever family member she can con into playing the other part.

“Mama, you be Goliath and I’ll be David.” So I act gruff and growl “Who will fight me?” Little David squeaks bold defiance, and I continue, “Am I a dog?” Soon I am thumping my way down to ceremonious defeat. Then it’s her turn. She screws her sweet elfin face into the crustiest curmudgeon she can manage and deepens her tiny voice into a snarl as she throws down the gauntlet. I accept the challenge, and she accosts me with “Are you a cat?”

At this point “David” breaks character and laughs. My little comedienne, ever ready to milk a receptive audience, presses in, “Are you a frog?”

Act II: We go through our nightly cribside liturgy: “Mama, what are we going to do tomorrow?” “Well, you and Daddy will stay home and play, Big Brother will go to school, and Mama will go to work.” Only this time I added, “ . . . at the ALLIANCE.”

“Mama, are there LIONS at your work?”

Act III: This is where the “bears” come in, that is, tough and colorful questions from #1 Son:
“Mom, what’s booze?” and then “hootch” and then “butts in an ashtray”? From the quizzical and slightly shocked look on his face he was picturing a most disgraceful display (he’s visual just like me!). And all this in one paragraph . . . Even my laidback husband raised his eyebrows – what is he reading? “Left Behind: the teen series” – the book was describing an irresponsible alcoholic relative in a most unappetizing light, and the message my son, along with the boy in the book, got was “This is NOT cool, this is NOT what you want to grow up to be like.” That was the “colorful” part – now the "tough" questions – several dozen times this week “When will the rapture happen?” “Will it be in my lifetime?” and “When will the AntiChrist come?” Never mind that I’ve told him a hundred times I have no idea . . . he needs to hear a great message I heard on “living with ambiguity.”

And don’t we all? Life is a circus and we don’t know what’s going on in the next ring, much less the next act! Blogging is good, it helps us connect the dots, connect those rings as we catch a glimpse of who’s walking what tightropes and who’s facing down tigers while we peddle popcorn . . .