The doctor hovered over my little girl’s eyeball with a drill in his hand. I was so tense that my muscles were sore. Neck, back, arms, legs, closed fists. I was holding still for her, I guess. I thought to myself, “What if she panics, or what if she jerks her head away out of fear? And just how sure is his hand?” She was sitting in his surgical room late one evening, responding to a call from the hospital emergency room. The doctor at the hospital could see the splinter in her eye, but could not remove it himself. So he called an ophthalmologist and asked if he could meet us at his office to remove the splinter.
It all started while having so much fun. I had built a nice high tree swing alongside the house. Our daughter loved to go out in the evening and have me push her higher and higher. She was fearless. When she got going really high she would clear the fence and brush up against the leaves and blossoms of an apple tree. Night after night she loved to have her Daddy go push her on the swing, higher and higher.
I got carried away one night, pushing her higher and higher. Too high. She swung up into the apple tree far enough that a branch brushed against her face. It didn’t hurt at the time, but we slowed down a bit so she wouldn’t get hurt. When she got done swinging we went in the house to rest. She complained that her eye hurt, like something was in it. I remembered the branches of the apple tree brushing her face so I tried to look around in her eye to remove whatever was lodged in there. But I couldn’t find anything. She was tough and didn’t want to complain, but I could tell it hurt pretty bad. She was starting to cry. And I was feeling worse and worse. I looked again and still could not find anything around the edge. Somehow I noticed the tiniest little sliver in the white part of her eye, so small that I could hardly believe that it could cause so much pain. But every time she blinked it scratched her eyelid, and she was pretty miserable.
So we headed to the hospital, not knowing what else to do. It was stuck in there pretty good, because they couldn’t get it out with a cotton swab. So that’s when we headed to see the eye doctor. I expected he would have some way to clamp her head still, and use some special tweezers to get it out. But no, he told her to hop up in the chair and started showing her the little drill he was going to use to drill out the sliver. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. She was so trusting, and so very happy. She was confident that this man knew exactly how to get rid of the pain in her eye.
And just like that, he was done. She was smiling, and they were kidding around, looking at the little splinter resting on the tip of his finger.
“How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? First take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. Brothers, if someone is caught in a sin, you who are spiritual should restore him gently.” (Mt 7:4-5; Gal 6:1)
Helping my brother to remove sin’s hold from his life is likened to removing a splinter from his eye. The pain of that spiritual splinter can be intense – guilt, shame, failure, discouragement. Whoever would remove the splinter of sin, though, must be like a surgeon, filled with love, skilled in God’s truth, full of the Spirit. Love changes hearts. Truth changes direction.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Inculcation
I had to look it up in the dictionary when the Holy Spirit told me the word. It might as well have been in a tongue or a foreign language. But the definition in Webster’s was amply clear, and God’s direction was even clearer. He doesn’t need to say much to get across to me exactly what he wants to tell me. In response to my heartfelt prayer, His wise counsel emanated brightly from just that one word. He’s like that, over and over.
Remember Peter? Mr. Impulsive. Spirit led one moment, self led the next. Full of faith and trust, then he would turn around and fall on his face. Loyal and dedicated one day, but tomorrow found him captive to fear. When it comes to professionalism and finesse, the north country fisherman rated kind of low. But who else but Peter would you expect to get out of a boat in the midst of a storm and walk to Jesus. Trust came to him so naturally, He was so teachable. He must have been very likeable, too, the life of the party.
Jesus chose Peter. That amazes me. All twelve of his picks amaze me. Every one of them was rough around the edges, unrefined, disenfranchised. He didn’t pick a single millionaire, not one CEO type, not a single Pharisee or religiously trained scholar. Not one of them was “pedigreed”. I wonder how he knew who to pick, who to call and commission to follow him, who would respond and learn, who would be eager and zealous to fulfill His mission. He knew He was going to invest a whole lot of time and effort in twelve guys for a very limited time.
Jesus had to teach his disciples many of the same things, over and over again. They seldom understood at the first hearing. Jesus taught them patiently, and by constant repetition they learned. That is inculcation. Teaching and instilling by persistent repetition. Those broken, needy, disenfranchised men were the only ones Jesus knew could unlearn their old ways and patiently learn the new. They changed. And the world changed, too.
I was ready to give up leading the men’s group a year ago. I was discouraged, defeated, wondering if the effort was worth it. There was so much to change, so much to unlearn, and it seemed to go so slow. That’s when the Holy Spirit spoke to me, “Inculcation”.
This last week I looked around the room of ten guys, and I sat amazed, marveling at the change in their lives over the last several years. Myself included. Each one has their own unique and marvelous story. I call our group the ‘Fellowship of the broken and needy’. That might be what Jesus called his group of guys, too, at first.
“We urge you, brethren, admonish the undisciplined, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone… Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass.” ( I Thes 5:14, 24; NASB)
Remember Peter? Mr. Impulsive. Spirit led one moment, self led the next. Full of faith and trust, then he would turn around and fall on his face. Loyal and dedicated one day, but tomorrow found him captive to fear. When it comes to professionalism and finesse, the north country fisherman rated kind of low. But who else but Peter would you expect to get out of a boat in the midst of a storm and walk to Jesus. Trust came to him so naturally, He was so teachable. He must have been very likeable, too, the life of the party.
Jesus chose Peter. That amazes me. All twelve of his picks amaze me. Every one of them was rough around the edges, unrefined, disenfranchised. He didn’t pick a single millionaire, not one CEO type, not a single Pharisee or religiously trained scholar. Not one of them was “pedigreed”. I wonder how he knew who to pick, who to call and commission to follow him, who would respond and learn, who would be eager and zealous to fulfill His mission. He knew He was going to invest a whole lot of time and effort in twelve guys for a very limited time.
Jesus had to teach his disciples many of the same things, over and over again. They seldom understood at the first hearing. Jesus taught them patiently, and by constant repetition they learned. That is inculcation. Teaching and instilling by persistent repetition. Those broken, needy, disenfranchised men were the only ones Jesus knew could unlearn their old ways and patiently learn the new. They changed. And the world changed, too.
I was ready to give up leading the men’s group a year ago. I was discouraged, defeated, wondering if the effort was worth it. There was so much to change, so much to unlearn, and it seemed to go so slow. That’s when the Holy Spirit spoke to me, “Inculcation”.
This last week I looked around the room of ten guys, and I sat amazed, marveling at the change in their lives over the last several years. Myself included. Each one has their own unique and marvelous story. I call our group the ‘Fellowship of the broken and needy’. That might be what Jesus called his group of guys, too, at first.
“We urge you, brethren, admonish the undisciplined, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone… Faithful is He who calls you, and He also will bring it to pass.” ( I Thes 5:14, 24; NASB)
Friday, January 13, 2012
Easy To Give Away
She walked by, with her two children tagging along, and asked him for 20 pesos. With that she could buy a small bag of groceries from the orphanage, groceries and supplies that would cost 40 pesos elsewhere. He told her no, that he didn’t have any money to help her out.
After all, he reasoned, I am down here in Mexico donating a year of my time helping out with this orphanage. That is my service to the Lord. I am giving quite sacrificially already, if you understand, so why should I give more.
As the woman and two children walked off down the dirt road, away from the orphanage, he watched them. She looked very familiar, but he was having a difficult time placing where he had seen her before. Then he remembered. She had come up to the front of the crowd a few nights earlier, at the call of the evangelist. She had given her life to Jesus.
So he ran inside to get his wallet, and went running after her to give her the twenty pesos she had asked for. But he never found her. She was gone. The opportunity had passed him by.
That is when he heard the still small voice inside his heart say so clearly, “When you don’t consider the things you have to be your own you will find it a lot easier to give them away.”
About the same time that I heard this “orphanage” story another brother told me his “tax” story. He had not filed his income taxes for about four years, because he had moved out of town the first year and lost all his tax information in the move. So the ensuing years it seemed wise not to file taxes, either, if he couldn’t file for that first year.
Eventually he moved back to his home town, found the tax records, and tried to ignore them. But God told him otherwise. So he took all his tax info to his tax accountant, expecting to have to pay several thousand dollars in taxes, penalties, and interest. And that was going to hurt, desperately. His wife was in and out of the hospital, they didn’t even have their own place to live in, and now God wanted him to pay four years of back taxes.
Driving around a few days later God told him that when he got his tax refund back he was to give it all away. It took a few minutes to sink in, but he realized that he would not be having to pay out several thousand dollars which he didn’t even have, but instead would be getting a refund. Sure enough, the next day the accountant called and asked him to come in and sign the tax returns. “Oh, and by the way, you will be getting money back,” she said.
He hadn’t hardly told his wife the news when she immediately said that she knew exactly where they should give the money. He ended telling me his story by saying, “It’s easy to give away what you don’t consider yours to hold onto.”
“There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to be open handed toward your brothers and toward the poor and needy in your land.” (Deut 15:11)
It’s fine that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, just fine. Just so long as they are on the next ranch, not mine, thank you.
After all, he reasoned, I am down here in Mexico donating a year of my time helping out with this orphanage. That is my service to the Lord. I am giving quite sacrificially already, if you understand, so why should I give more.
As the woman and two children walked off down the dirt road, away from the orphanage, he watched them. She looked very familiar, but he was having a difficult time placing where he had seen her before. Then he remembered. She had come up to the front of the crowd a few nights earlier, at the call of the evangelist. She had given her life to Jesus.
So he ran inside to get his wallet, and went running after her to give her the twenty pesos she had asked for. But he never found her. She was gone. The opportunity had passed him by.
That is when he heard the still small voice inside his heart say so clearly, “When you don’t consider the things you have to be your own you will find it a lot easier to give them away.”
About the same time that I heard this “orphanage” story another brother told me his “tax” story. He had not filed his income taxes for about four years, because he had moved out of town the first year and lost all his tax information in the move. So the ensuing years it seemed wise not to file taxes, either, if he couldn’t file for that first year.
Eventually he moved back to his home town, found the tax records, and tried to ignore them. But God told him otherwise. So he took all his tax info to his tax accountant, expecting to have to pay several thousand dollars in taxes, penalties, and interest. And that was going to hurt, desperately. His wife was in and out of the hospital, they didn’t even have their own place to live in, and now God wanted him to pay four years of back taxes.
Driving around a few days later God told him that when he got his tax refund back he was to give it all away. It took a few minutes to sink in, but he realized that he would not be having to pay out several thousand dollars which he didn’t even have, but instead would be getting a refund. Sure enough, the next day the accountant called and asked him to come in and sign the tax returns. “Oh, and by the way, you will be getting money back,” she said.
He hadn’t hardly told his wife the news when she immediately said that she knew exactly where they should give the money. He ended telling me his story by saying, “It’s easy to give away what you don’t consider yours to hold onto.”
“There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to be open handed toward your brothers and toward the poor and needy in your land.” (Deut 15:11)
It’s fine that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills, just fine. Just so long as they are on the next ranch, not mine, thank you.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Help Us To Help Each Other
My prayer last night, as we started our men’s group was this. “Spirit of God, help us tonight to help each other.” I like that word, “help”. We all need help, whether we know it or not, whether we admit it, or not. And we all can offer help, if we are being led by the Spirit of God. Every one of us.
The Holy Spirit lives in each one of us who has chosen to trust Jesus. Fathom that, God’s Spirit dwelling in me. He is there to be my helper. That is the name that Catherine Marshall gives to the Holy Spirit, “The Helper”, interpreting the title that Jesus gave to the Spirit whom the Father would send to us (John 14:16). Others translate the term as counselor, advocate, or paraclete. But I like the name, Helper.
And the Helper doesn’t just help me, but He helps me to help others. That is what the grace-gifts are all about. The Sprit of God in me empowers me and motivates me to help others.
That is why I prayed that prayer. I wanted to turn loose the Holy Spirit in that group of guys that night. And I wanted them to be empowered and encouraged to help one another. And wow, you should have been there to see it happen. I wish you could have peeked in on us.
Following are some excerpts from a recent online article, Why We Don’t Need “Women’s” Ministries. I don't know the author, Sarah Bessey, but some of the things she wrote are worth sharing.
Dear Women's Ministry:
We're choking on cutesy things and crafty bits, safe lady topics, and if one more person says that modest is hottest with a straight face, I may throw up. We are hungry for authenticity and vulnerability…. Some of us are drowning, suffocating, dying of thirst for want of the cold water of real community. We're trying really hard--after all, we keep showing up to your lady events, and we leave feeling just a bit empty. It's just more of the same every time.
We need Jesus. We are seeking deep spirituality. We are seeking fellow travelers. We are hungry for true community, a place to tell our stories and listen to another, to love well. But above all, point me to Jesus--not to the sale at the mall.
You know what I would have liked instead of decorating tips or a new recipe? I would have liked to pray together. I would have liked the women of the church to share their stories or wisdom with one another, no more celebrity speakers, please just hand the microphone to that lady over there that brought the apples. I would love to wrestle with some questions that don't have a one-paragraph answer in your study guide. I would like to do a Bible study that does not have pink or flowers on the cover. I would have liked to sign up to bring a meal for our elderly or drop off some clothes for a new baby or be informed about issues in our city where we can make space for God
We want to wrestle through our theology. We want to listen to each other. We want to worship, we want to intercede for our sisters and weep with those who weep, rejoice with those that rejoice, to create life and art and justice with intention.
Let's be a community of women, gathered together to live more whole-heartedly, to sharpen, challenge, love, and inspire one another to then scatter back out to our worlds bearing the mandate to be women that love.
I'll bring the cupcakes next time (although they likely won't look as cute).
(http://www.churchleaders.com/pastors/pastor-articles/155219-sarah-bessey-why-women-s-ministry-needs-jesus.html#.Tt6516W_Aio.facebook)
The same can be said of men’s ministries. And home groups, too. Don’t think otherwise. Small groups are where church really happens. We have to be real; we have to trust God and others with who we really are. We have to know how to love and minister grace, not just bandy about truth, rehashed and hand-me-down. We have to let the love of God change our hearts, the truth of God change our direction, and the Spirit of God help us with real life issues. Then we can be men and women empowered and focused on helping others.
By the way, just so you know, I bring Chewy Chips Ahoy. My favorite. But then there’s those times that Pete’s wife sends something delectable. Oh yeah!
“The church is only the church when she exists for others.” (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)
The Holy Spirit lives in each one of us who has chosen to trust Jesus. Fathom that, God’s Spirit dwelling in me. He is there to be my helper. That is the name that Catherine Marshall gives to the Holy Spirit, “The Helper”, interpreting the title that Jesus gave to the Spirit whom the Father would send to us (John 14:16). Others translate the term as counselor, advocate, or paraclete. But I like the name, Helper.
And the Helper doesn’t just help me, but He helps me to help others. That is what the grace-gifts are all about. The Sprit of God in me empowers me and motivates me to help others.
That is why I prayed that prayer. I wanted to turn loose the Holy Spirit in that group of guys that night. And I wanted them to be empowered and encouraged to help one another. And wow, you should have been there to see it happen. I wish you could have peeked in on us.
Following are some excerpts from a recent online article, Why We Don’t Need “Women’s” Ministries. I don't know the author, Sarah Bessey, but some of the things she wrote are worth sharing.
Dear Women's Ministry:
We're choking on cutesy things and crafty bits, safe lady topics, and if one more person says that modest is hottest with a straight face, I may throw up. We are hungry for authenticity and vulnerability…. Some of us are drowning, suffocating, dying of thirst for want of the cold water of real community. We're trying really hard--after all, we keep showing up to your lady events, and we leave feeling just a bit empty. It's just more of the same every time.
We need Jesus. We are seeking deep spirituality. We are seeking fellow travelers. We are hungry for true community, a place to tell our stories and listen to another, to love well. But above all, point me to Jesus--not to the sale at the mall.
You know what I would have liked instead of decorating tips or a new recipe? I would have liked to pray together. I would have liked the women of the church to share their stories or wisdom with one another, no more celebrity speakers, please just hand the microphone to that lady over there that brought the apples. I would love to wrestle with some questions that don't have a one-paragraph answer in your study guide. I would like to do a Bible study that does not have pink or flowers on the cover. I would have liked to sign up to bring a meal for our elderly or drop off some clothes for a new baby or be informed about issues in our city where we can make space for God
We want to wrestle through our theology. We want to listen to each other. We want to worship, we want to intercede for our sisters and weep with those who weep, rejoice with those that rejoice, to create life and art and justice with intention.
Let's be a community of women, gathered together to live more whole-heartedly, to sharpen, challenge, love, and inspire one another to then scatter back out to our worlds bearing the mandate to be women that love.
I'll bring the cupcakes next time (although they likely won't look as cute).
(http://www.churchleaders.com/pastors/pastor-articles/155219-sarah-bessey-why-women-s-ministry-needs-jesus.html#.Tt6516W_Aio.facebook)
The same can be said of men’s ministries. And home groups, too. Don’t think otherwise. Small groups are where church really happens. We have to be real; we have to trust God and others with who we really are. We have to know how to love and minister grace, not just bandy about truth, rehashed and hand-me-down. We have to let the love of God change our hearts, the truth of God change our direction, and the Spirit of God help us with real life issues. Then we can be men and women empowered and focused on helping others.
By the way, just so you know, I bring Chewy Chips Ahoy. My favorite. But then there’s those times that Pete’s wife sends something delectable. Oh yeah!
“The church is only the church when she exists for others.” (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Dear Friends And Gentle Hearts
On an icy January morning many years ago, a man was found collapsed and bleeding in a twenty-five-cent-a-night flophouse, the North American Hotel on the lower east side of Manhattan, New York. He had fallen and hit his head on a sink, shattering the porcelain, causing a severe laceration. Doctors sewed up the gash in his head as best they could, but the wound and the booze had taken their toll. Three nights later he died in his sleep. He was only 37 years old.
A nurse gathering his belongings found a dirty coat with a few personal belongings. In his worn leather wallet, there was found a scrap of paper on which was written, "Dear friends and gentle hearts", along with 38 cents in Civil War scrip and three pennies. Those five words seemed almost like the words of a song, she thought. And she was right. This poor man turned out to have been the songwriter who penned some of America’s most beloved music, including “Swanee River,” “Oh! Susanna,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” and hundreds more. He was Stephen Foster, considered by many to be the father of American music.
He wasn’t always down on his luck, an outcast. Like any derelict, he wasn’t always in that condition. He was once successful, full of promise and hope, happily married, creative and hard-working. But eventually, and way too early in life, he was cut down by the pruning knife of time. A few wrong choices, some unfortunate circumstances, plenty of unrealized dreams, no income from his life’s passion -- all led to the tragedy of an unfulfilled life.
How do we look at the down and out, the man or woman who has lost hope, the hurting and needy? Are we cold and aloof, judging that they brought it upon themselves? Do we think that if they only tried a little harder they could get out of the deep dark hole they got themselves into? Do we say “I’m too busy”, presuming that someone else will help them?
Jesus told the story of “The Good Samaritan” (Luke 10:25-37). A man was beaten, robbed, and left for dead on the Jericho Road. Two godly, respectable, honorable men came upon the beaten man. Certainly the priest or the Levite would be prompted by God’s love to help this man. But no, they walked right on by, crossing over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street to go around him. Then a Samaritan man happened by, a social outcast himself, a man despised by those to whom Jesus was telling the story. The Samaritan man stopped and gave first aid, transported the man into town, and paid for his medical care. Jesus then asked the legalist standing at the front of the crowd, the man who had prompted the story, to tell him which of the three was the “neighbor” to the injured man. He answered, “the one who acted in mercy.”
A friend is one who responds with a gentle heart and acts out of compassion. Dear friends and gentle hearts, let’s go and do likewise.
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27; Deut 6:5; Lev 19:18)
A nurse gathering his belongings found a dirty coat with a few personal belongings. In his worn leather wallet, there was found a scrap of paper on which was written, "Dear friends and gentle hearts", along with 38 cents in Civil War scrip and three pennies. Those five words seemed almost like the words of a song, she thought. And she was right. This poor man turned out to have been the songwriter who penned some of America’s most beloved music, including “Swanee River,” “Oh! Susanna,” “My Old Kentucky Home,” and hundreds more. He was Stephen Foster, considered by many to be the father of American music.
He wasn’t always down on his luck, an outcast. Like any derelict, he wasn’t always in that condition. He was once successful, full of promise and hope, happily married, creative and hard-working. But eventually, and way too early in life, he was cut down by the pruning knife of time. A few wrong choices, some unfortunate circumstances, plenty of unrealized dreams, no income from his life’s passion -- all led to the tragedy of an unfulfilled life.
How do we look at the down and out, the man or woman who has lost hope, the hurting and needy? Are we cold and aloof, judging that they brought it upon themselves? Do we think that if they only tried a little harder they could get out of the deep dark hole they got themselves into? Do we say “I’m too busy”, presuming that someone else will help them?
Jesus told the story of “The Good Samaritan” (Luke 10:25-37). A man was beaten, robbed, and left for dead on the Jericho Road. Two godly, respectable, honorable men came upon the beaten man. Certainly the priest or the Levite would be prompted by God’s love to help this man. But no, they walked right on by, crossing over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street to go around him. Then a Samaritan man happened by, a social outcast himself, a man despised by those to whom Jesus was telling the story. The Samaritan man stopped and gave first aid, transported the man into town, and paid for his medical care. Jesus then asked the legalist standing at the front of the crowd, the man who had prompted the story, to tell him which of the three was the “neighbor” to the injured man. He answered, “the one who acted in mercy.”
A friend is one who responds with a gentle heart and acts out of compassion. Dear friends and gentle hearts, let’s go and do likewise.
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” (Luke 10:27; Deut 6:5; Lev 19:18)
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
To Love and To Cherish
Larry and JoAnn were an ordinary couple. They lived in an ordinary house on an ordinary street. Like other ordinary couples they struggled to make ends meet and to do the right things for their children. They were ordinary in another way. They had their squabbles. Much of their conversation concerned what was wrong in their marriage and who was to blame. Until one day. A most extraordinary event took place.
“You know, JoAnn, I’ve got a magic chest of drawers. Every time I open them they are full of socks and underwear,” Larry said. “I want to thank you for filling them all these years.” JoAnn stared at her husband over the top of her spectacles. “What do you want, Larry?”
“Nothing. I just want you to know I appreciate those magic drawers.” This wasn’t the first time Larry had done something odd, so JoAnn pushed the incident out of her mind until a few days later. “JoAnn, thank you for recording so many correct check numbers in the ledger this month. You put down the right number 15 out of 16 times. That’s a record.”
Disbelieving what she had heard, JoAnn looked up from her mending. “Larry, you’re always complaining about my recording the wrong check numbers. Why stop now?”
“No reason. I just wanted you to know I appreciate the effort you’re making.” Nevertheless, the next day when JoAnn wrote a check at the grocery store, she glanced at her checkbook to confirm that she had recorded it right. “Why do I suddenly care about those dumb check numbers?”, she asked herself.
She tried to disregard the incident, but Larry’s strange behavior intensified. “JoAnn, that was a great dinner,” he said one evening. “I appreciate all your effort. Why, in the past 15 years I figure you’ve fixed over 14,000 meals for me and the kids.” Then, “Gee, JoAnn, the house looks spiffy. You’ve really worked hard to get it looking so good.” And even, ”Thanks, JoAnn, for just being you. I really enjoy your company. I’m so glad God me you.”
JoAnn was growing worried. “Where’s the sarcasm, the criticism?” she wondered. Her fears that something peculiar was happening to her husband were confirmed by 16-year-old Shelly, who complained, “Dad’s gone bonkers, Mom. He just told me I looked nice. With all this makeup and these sloppy clothes, he still said it. That’s not Dad, Mom. What’s wrong with him?”
Whatever was wrong, Larry didn’t get over it. Day in and day out he continued to affirm JoAnn and the kids. Over the weeks, JoAnn grew more used to his unusual behavior, and occasionally even gave him a grudging “thank you.” She prided herself in taking it all in stride, until one day something so peculiar happened she became completely overwhelmed.
“I want you to take a break,” Larry said. “I am going to do the dishes. So please take your hands off that frying pan and leave the kitchen.” After a long, long pause, “Thank you, Larry. Thank you very much!” JoAnn’s step was now a little lighter, her self-confidence higher, and once in a while she hummed. She didn’t seem to experience blue moods anymore. She rather liked Larry’s new behavior.
That would be the end of the story except one day another most extraordinary event took place. This time it was JoAnn who spoke. “Larry,” she said, “I want to thank you for going to work and providing for us all these years. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I appreciate it.”
Larry has never revealed the reason for his dramatic change of behavior no matter how hard JoAnn has pushed for an answer, and so it will likely remain one of life’s mysteries. But it’s one I am thankful to live with. You see, I am JoAnn.
(Condensed From Deseret News, February 10, 1985)
“You know, JoAnn, I’ve got a magic chest of drawers. Every time I open them they are full of socks and underwear,” Larry said. “I want to thank you for filling them all these years.” JoAnn stared at her husband over the top of her spectacles. “What do you want, Larry?”
“Nothing. I just want you to know I appreciate those magic drawers.” This wasn’t the first time Larry had done something odd, so JoAnn pushed the incident out of her mind until a few days later. “JoAnn, thank you for recording so many correct check numbers in the ledger this month. You put down the right number 15 out of 16 times. That’s a record.”
Disbelieving what she had heard, JoAnn looked up from her mending. “Larry, you’re always complaining about my recording the wrong check numbers. Why stop now?”
“No reason. I just wanted you to know I appreciate the effort you’re making.” Nevertheless, the next day when JoAnn wrote a check at the grocery store, she glanced at her checkbook to confirm that she had recorded it right. “Why do I suddenly care about those dumb check numbers?”, she asked herself.
She tried to disregard the incident, but Larry’s strange behavior intensified. “JoAnn, that was a great dinner,” he said one evening. “I appreciate all your effort. Why, in the past 15 years I figure you’ve fixed over 14,000 meals for me and the kids.” Then, “Gee, JoAnn, the house looks spiffy. You’ve really worked hard to get it looking so good.” And even, ”Thanks, JoAnn, for just being you. I really enjoy your company. I’m so glad God me you.”
JoAnn was growing worried. “Where’s the sarcasm, the criticism?” she wondered. Her fears that something peculiar was happening to her husband were confirmed by 16-year-old Shelly, who complained, “Dad’s gone bonkers, Mom. He just told me I looked nice. With all this makeup and these sloppy clothes, he still said it. That’s not Dad, Mom. What’s wrong with him?”
Whatever was wrong, Larry didn’t get over it. Day in and day out he continued to affirm JoAnn and the kids. Over the weeks, JoAnn grew more used to his unusual behavior, and occasionally even gave him a grudging “thank you.” She prided herself in taking it all in stride, until one day something so peculiar happened she became completely overwhelmed.
“I want you to take a break,” Larry said. “I am going to do the dishes. So please take your hands off that frying pan and leave the kitchen.” After a long, long pause, “Thank you, Larry. Thank you very much!” JoAnn’s step was now a little lighter, her self-confidence higher, and once in a while she hummed. She didn’t seem to experience blue moods anymore. She rather liked Larry’s new behavior.
That would be the end of the story except one day another most extraordinary event took place. This time it was JoAnn who spoke. “Larry,” she said, “I want to thank you for going to work and providing for us all these years. I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I appreciate it.”
Larry has never revealed the reason for his dramatic change of behavior no matter how hard JoAnn has pushed for an answer, and so it will likely remain one of life’s mysteries. But it’s one I am thankful to live with. You see, I am JoAnn.
(Condensed From Deseret News, February 10, 1985)
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