John A. Wilson

 

I turned seven the summer my family moved to Springfield.  We immediately began church-hunting.  We stumbled across this rather large church; First Christian Church.  Mom wasn’t sure about it.  She didn’t think a large church could make you feel welcomed or “at-home”.

But my sister and I begged to differ.  Because the phenomenal children’s department cuddled us right in.  We were “at home” immediately.

Every Sunday became a battle.  We would visit a different church, then return to FCC the following Sunday.  Our parents were eventually won over too, mostly by a certain gregarious white-haired man with a contagious smile.

I was absolutely starry-eyed over Mr. Wilson.  He looked so old, but he acted so young.  He took my sister and me out to lunch, all by ourselves—without our parents! And he talked to us the whole time, just like we were real people who counted.  He marveled over my dimples, taking every opportunity to stick his fingers in my cheek-holes.

I knew that when I got baptized, he would wear his white overalls, and I would wear a white robe, and we would walk out into the baptismal, and he would pray over me, and I would become a full Christian just like him.  And when I was ten, it happened.  I stood in the doorway, and he was there, in the water, smiling at me, holding out his hand.

Mr. Wilson ushered me into my new life, as he did for countless others, yet I was no number for him.  I was a very special little girl to him.  But I don’t know of any little girl, or little boy for that matter, that wasn’t special to him.

And one day, I stopped him and told him unequivocally, that when I was old enough, I wanted him to be the preacher to marry me and my husband.  I was still just a kid.  And he took my hand, patted it, and told me he didn’t think he’d be around for such an event.

So, after Chris and I got engaged, before we set the date for our wedding, we called Mr. Wilson.  I wanted to make sure he’d “be around” for my wedding.  Not only did he officiate my wedding, but he hung around for nearly nineteen more years.

My children had the privilege of knowing Mr. Wilson, of having lunch with him, and laughing with him.

My husband also grew up knowing Mr. Wilson, but instead of the cute little dimple poke, Mr. Wilson would give him a punch in the ribs!  Ah, well, Chris loved it!

Mr. Wilson passed away yesterday.  He was 100 years old; and eagerly awaiting his arrival to his Father’s house.  He was a singular individual, loved by many.

Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for your life and your legacy.  I will miss you.  You were my first taste of Jesus.  Not just the words of the Bible, but the attitude of the heart and the actions flowing from it.

Jairus' daughter

A young girl, twelve years of age, a beloved daughter, excessively ill.  We do not know her name.  I used to think that she was not important enough to name.  Perhaps she’s too important to name.  She could be me.

Why is she ill?  Did she cause her own illness through her own misdeeds?  Did she eat poisonous berries or visit a sick friend, exposing herself to a dangerous virus?

Or did her mother feed her stew that had been sitting one day too long, with meat just a bit spoilt?  Was she sent to run an errand through a neighborhood that lacked proper sanitation?

And his disciples asked Him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he would be born blind?”  Jesus answered, “It was neither that this man sinned, nor his parents; but it was so that the works of God might be displayed in him.

And it happened that the young girl died, and she died in a spectacular manner, having been born at the time a certain woman began having a bleeding disorder, her death marked the moment of this woman’s cure.  Twelve years of a beautiful life in stark contrast to twelve years of stigma and shunning.  One life ending as another is just beginning again.

This Rabbi, the one that healed the lady, felt power leaving him as she touched him, expecting relief from her pain simply from her touch.  Was this the power he was using to keep the child alive?  It does not matter; the power was transferred, the woman was healed, the miracle occurred.

Who holds power on the hem of their robe?  Who is so careless with such strength that they would allow it to seep out from their clothing before they could rein it in?

But this Rabbi was not done for the day; more works of God to be displayed.

He knew the secret that we fail to see, that the veil between life and death is but momentary and faint, like a nap one might take to escape the midday heat.

This child, dead in sin, both physically and spiritually, needed new life.

And it does not matter, when one reaches the critical moment, where the blame lies.  “Who sinned?”  What happened in the past is not God’s primary focus.  He is anxious to see how His works can be displayed in you, through the events that have occurred. 

The world sees our illness-ravaged bodies, our stumbling blocks; our sin.  And they discount us as “already dead”.  They deride our Lord for suggesting that we can be anything living, that we can come back to life, that we can make a difference.

But then Jesus steps in, says my name, takes me by the hand, and says, “Little girl, get up!”

Behavior problems in school

A new school year is upon us.

The morning went swimmingly, no issues whatsoever.

Then noon hit. (cue eerie music)

I warmed up some leftovers, sat down for lunch, ate just one bite.  Then Jacob asked a question about his geometry.  I left my meal to go look at his book with him.  As we were looking over his math problem, suddenly Carina asked, “What’s that noise?”  I asked her to check on it while Jacob and I worked.

She left the room, and immediately I heard her exclaim, “Charlie!  Bad, bad boy!”

Charlie, for the first time ever, had taken advantage of my empty chair and full plate.  Yes, he was gobbling down my quiche.  The last slice.

Carina carried my now-decimated meal into the schoolroom, followed by Charlie, who was delightedly licking his chops, not at all upset over the scolding he had just received.  As far as he was concerned, the reward was well worth it.  I fed the rest of my slobbered-over food to the other dogs, and found myself something else to eat.

Yes, behavior problems in the homeschool environment are definitely significantly different than the behavior issues you get in the public schools.

Okay, I forgive you.

Forty

I turned 40 yesterday.  This past year sometimes seems like it’s been a time of gritting teeth and hanging by my fingernails; scrabbling and straining to continue, move on, grow.  But I thought I’d take a moment instead to celebrate the joys in pictures…

Charlie Brown.  My 39th birthday present.  Best present EVER!

Family trip to Hocking Hills.  Carina commandeered the camera and took some artistic shots.  I like this one.

Just after Christmas, I saw this double rainbow while running errands.  Had to stop in a parking lot to take pictures.  It was so beautiful, and signified a promise for a new year for me.

Carina became a teenager this year...She insisted on making her own birthday cake.  A book, blue, of course!  What a mess of frosting!  Blue teeth, blue tongues!  I talk about her birthday on this post:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/01/thirteen.html

Charlie continues to be a BIG part of my life...cuddling and caring for him is a HUGE part of keeping my mood stable.  He follows me around, wanting to be in my lap whenever I am still.  I wrote about some of his misadventures
here.

 

I took a step of faith and went on a trip to Churchill Downs with my daughter and her 4H group.  I was very proud of myself that I managed to "survive" the trip without the aid of any anxiety medication!  Victory!  I mentioned our trip on this post:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/05/keep-your-ponies.html

Charlie suddenly decides that nail clipping is not a fun activity, and it turns into a WWF Friday Night Smackdown entertainment.  Carina, instead of helping, grabs the camera and snaps pictures of our struggle.

Charlie has his first birthday, and to prove how totally neurotic I am over this dog, I bake him a dog-approved cake and we throw him a party.  Carina made the hat, and the other dogs got to eat slices of the cake, too.

I survive the Clark County Fair.  I've written a blog about that, so I won't say any more about that here.  You can read about it over here: http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/07/i-survived-clark-county-fair-barely.html

Jacob got his driver's permit.  I thought that I wouldn't be able to handle driving around with him, considering I have an anxiety disorder and all, but I'm finding that I'm relatively calm with him driving.  He's a conscientious driver.  I wrote a little about him here.

  As for me, the struggles continue, mostly in the form I wrote about here:  http://fragileclayjars.blogspot.com/2012/01/namaste.html.

"Namaste" was probably my favorite blog post of the year, and the most meaningful to me.  I keep my rock prominent on the island in my kitchen, so I see it often and am reminded that I am not alone; my Father is there.  He desires to lead and direct me.  He wishes to heal me and use my experiences to help others.  He wants me to surrender to Him and accept his grace and mercy and fall into the unfailing love that is surrounding me.  If only I would use eternal eyes to see.

I've known grace this year like I've never experienced it before.  I have received it in abundance, from my Father and those around me who have chosen to continue to faith walk with me.I'm excited to look ahead to a new year, a new decade, with hope in my heart and trust that yes, in all things(even while cleaning the bathroom for the third time), God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.


It's all grace.  And somehow, it all becomes a blessing.  I believe it.

One of my pet peeves

I’m going to rant for a moment about one of my favorite pet peeves.

And I’m even going to be a huge hypocrite, because I’m guilty of doing it myself, and I disgust myself when I do it.

It’s the question “How are you?”

I know it’s a North American social convention, and it means very little, and it is as much a part of “Hello” as anything else; but I wish that when words were used, they would be meaningful and useful.

Especially over the past few years, this question has grated in my ears.  Because no one wants to hear the answer.

I went to a church service on Sunday, and the sermon was about how their church was so counter-cultural and revolutionary, and so concerned about being “real”.  The preacher used an example from a member’s past, a member I happened to know, who used to go to a large church, and who got tired of being one of many.  He got so tired of being asked “How are you?” without the other members caring, that he answered, “terrible” and the people didn’t even hear him, they just continued to pump his hand in the usual handshake, and say, “That’s great!”

And it’s wonderful that this church is trying to break that mold, but guess what?  That same person, who hated that question, who hadn’t seen me in a year of so, had greeted me with a, “Hi Michelle, how are you?” as I entered the church.  And before I could even answer, his back was facing me as he strode off about his business.  I didn’t even get the chance to say I was terrible.  Not that I would have answered that way, but I’m just saying if you’re going to ask a question, at least have the common courtesy to at least fake listening to an answer.  Ii wonder if he knew he was going to be a sermon example.

And I’m sure if he’d known what a struggle this year has been for me, or even this past week, he would not have treated that question so flippantly, but isn’t that the point?  We never know.  People who look like they are all put together are often the ones who are falling apart, and it is dangerous to assume that they need no attention or care.

I do not blame this man, because this question is so ingrained into our culture, that I say it often and without thought.  I wish I did not, and when its barbs hit home, I am reminded how deadly hurtful they can be.

I want to say what I mean, and mean what I say.  I don’t have to ask someone how they are if I don’t have the time to commit to the answer.  I can easily say hello, and it’s great to see you, and move on without offending someone.  If I want to know more or become more involved, it’s simply a case of asking them for some time to talk.  But saying “How are you?” as I pass someone in the hallway is not the appropriate time to ask that question.

What about you?  What do you think about this?

I survived the Clark County Fair (barely)

I haven’t blogged in awhile.  That’s because I’ve been swamped by preparations for the fair, and then living the actual event.  Now that it’s over, and I’ve had the requisite day to be ill and sleep it off, I thought I’d post some musings about my experiences.

This picture is here for shameless bragging purposes only.

First, fairs are dirty.  And if you’re in the horse barn next to the show arena, there is a constant dust storm blowing in your direction.  I would come home feeling like an extra from the movie version of “Dune”.  Even worse, I’d blow my nose, and the boogers were black.  Black!  I don’t even want to know what was going on there.  The best public restrooms were still subject to flooding, a lack of paper towels, an absence of soap, and a general lack of good hygiene.  And don’t even get me started on the piles of poop that I had to skirt on my way between the horse barn and the rabbit barn…

Next, fair food is creatively disgusting.  I know many people get excited about the food, and there are two things that I look forward to:  fair fries and candy apples.  My husband and I bonded over a serving of fair fries many, many years ago on a pre-date (don’t let him tell you it was a date, because it wasn’t), and the fries always seem special to me.  But when you get into things like “bacon cinnamon rolls” or “deep-fried Twinkies”, my arteries start clogging up just thinking about it.

And then there are the ignorant people.  Notice I said ignorant, and not stupid.  Please remember that “ignorant” simply means “uninformed”.  So I’m talking about the parents who take their kids through the horse barn, pick them up, and allow them to thrust their arms into the stalls to “pet the horsey” without knowing anything about the horse’s disposition.  Umm, some horses bite. Especially at fair, when they're all a little crabby and out of sorts.

But then there are the sweet little kids and the adults with genuine affection for the animals.  These are the ones who stop and ask about the animals, who ask permission to touch, who express interest in the animal as a special creation instead of a tool to be used.  The children who look with awe at Carina’s huge Paint horse, with his bi-colored eyes, and dream of riding something so majestic themselves.  The adults who look longingly at Blue, and talk about the days when they used to ride, and the affection they had for their horses.

I think that for the soul who is willing to take a moment, the spirit who is willing to focus beyond him/herself, the part of the fair that is so amazing is the animal barns.  So many children have spent huge amounts of time raising and training all sorts of animals.  I would see young girls curled up in the stalls, taking naps with their calves, children petting their goats, boys shearing their sheep as they stood quite content, children expressing all sorts of affection for their animals.  And these animals knew their master, were comfortable with their master, felt safe with their master.

I am the Good Shepherd.  I know my own sheep and my own sheep know me.  In the same way, the Father knows me and I know the Father.  I put the sheep before myself, sacrificing myself if necessary…This is why the Father loves me: because I freely lay down my life.  John 10:14-17(MSG)

If even a small child knows how to nurture and care for God’s creatures, how much more does our Father care for and love us!

Yes, and through His care and love, I’ve survived the fair! (barely)  Thanks to all the friends and family whose visits, texts, emails, and prayers made this week possible.  I think I’m still sane.  Or at least as sane as I was before this week, which isn’t saying much, I know…