Six Thoughts in Four Days

My youngest brother got married yesterday.  His wedding was as beautiful as his bride, who was so beautiful, I cried when I saw her.  They are perfect for each other and I was beyond proud to be a part of it.

We got home from Kansas a few hours ago and my mind is busy with thoughts from the last four days.  Being in a different environment with a lot of different people gave me some food for thought.

Thought 1:  I don't like being around drunk people.  It sounds harsh, but I don't respect them.  I'm trying to put my finger on it, but I think it's a combination of a lack of self-control, the transformation from something genuine to something less so, and the idea of drinking to an end.  The actual enjoyment of drinking seems to get lost in the pursuit of getting drunk.  It reminds me of those people who compete in eating contests.  They don't eat to enjoy the food, they eat to eat a lot.  40 hotdogs in how many minutes?  Blech. 

And yet, I envy their ability to enjoy themselves without regard for anyone else.  I love the idea of blending in with the crowd, and enjoying myself in a room full of tipsy people.  But, all I really want to do is run away, which makes me feel a bit like an uptight spinster, a prude, and a freak.

Maybe I'm missing out.  I've never even had a good buzz, much less been drunk.  I can't get past feeling my eyes move around in my head after one wine cooler.  And how do people drink so much beer (or any liquid) without their stomachs crying out in protest?  I can't imagine drinking 3 or 6 or 10 sodas in a row.  There's something about it that is totally beyond me.  All I really know, is that it has a lot of power over people, especially ones I love.  And it is a power I loathe and distrust.

Thought 2:  I love my husband.  A lot.  And my family loves him.  A lot.  But, he doesn't sit well for any length of time and he likes to be in his own house.  We were only at my parent's for four full days.  He was ready to go home at the end of day 2.  I usually want to know how he's feeling, good or bad.  But, I would rather not know this.  When I realize it, I pick up and carry the burden of him wishing he were elsewhere.  It disturbs my peace and dampens my joy.  If I dwell on it, I begin to feel like he's stealing something from me.  Something that I already have precious little of.  Time with my family - who lives ten hours away - who I see about three times a year. 

To be fair, there are two sides to every story, and I know I am not an attentive wife and mother when we go there.  I'm distracted by conversation with whoever happens by, and busy sketching the plan of how to fit everyone in.  Meanwhile, he's being hen-pecked (rooster-pecked?) by boys who want to ride the four-wheeler and shoot fireworks and start a fire and be pushed on the swing.  Based on that alone, I can see why it isn't exactly the vacation for him that it is for me.  But, it would be nice if it were.

Thought 3:  I never thought I could get tired of hearing good things about myself or anyone else.  But, I can.  On all accounts.  I don't tire of thinking good things about others, but I do tire of talking about them.

Thought 4:  My boys are growing up.  They need me for little and want me for the same.  So, after no nap and an unsuccessful search for "Bear", his best friend and constant companion, my 4-year-old fell asleep on me at the wedding reception.  This is the boy who doesn't give hugs and kisses anymore and loves to tell me how pretty I don't look.  He slept so hard, he peed his pants, and mine.  I was in heaven, just the same.

They really do grow up.  As parents of young children, we're careful to record our baby's and toddler's "firsts".  First tooth, first word, first step, first haircut, etc...  But there are as many "lasts" as there are firsts.  (Like, maybe, hopefully not, but maybe, holding a pee-soaked 4-year-old on your lap for the last time).  Lasts just aren't so obvious.  And that's a good thing because we might never stop crying over the things that will be no more.

Thought 5:  On the other end of life, I reminisced with one of my Dad's old friends about water fights and days gone by.  He's been doing the chemo/radiation routine to fight cancer for awhile now.  There's no hope of eradicating it, they're just trying to slow it down.  When we said goodbye, he said, "I hope to see you again while I'm still alive."  I choked back the tears and said, "Me, too", knowing that I wouldn't.

Saying your last goodbye to a dying man in the middle of a party isn't something that makes any emotional sense.  This man and his wife were the couple who "caught" the bouquet at my wedding.  We gave it to the couple who had been married the longest, and that was ten years ago.  While the young newlyweds danced the night away on hearts full of promise and dreams, time is running out for a man and wife who have lived them, and tucked them away.  They still have promises and dreams, but they are for eternity and those they'll leave behind. 

Thought 6:  I regret not slow-dancing with my husband.  I assumed we would early on, but I ended up holding my son, talking, or cleaning up.  When I realized that it was almost time to leave, I listened intently for a good slow-dance song, but one never came.  By the end of the night, I only danced to one song, and that was with my brother, the groom - for a dollar.

I should have done better than that.  I guess we don't have to wait for somebody to get married to dance.  We have music and a hardwood floor at home.  But, we also have a TV, and a computer, and little kids.  Maybe we just need a date night...



Dear Author of all that is good,

Thank you for our safe travel today.  Thank you for the guardian angels who watched over us.  Thank you for my little brother and his new wife.  Please watch over them as they leave for their honeymoon tomorrow, and all the days of their lives.  Thank you for families that just keep growing.  Thank you for parents who pray and invest in their kids, and in their kids' kids.  Please bless Ed and his wife as he continues treatment.  Thank you for their example and their love. 

Thank you for the freedom we have in this country.  Please help us to use it in a way that pleases You.  Thank you for fireworks, and every other reason we have to cast our eyes heavenward. 

Lord, please grant me wisdom and compassion where alcohol is concerned.  I don't know what I don't know, and I need You to show me. 

Lord, please help me to be grateful for "what is", so that I may not live with regret when it is no longer.  In Your Wisdom, you spared us the constant awareness of those things that slip away from us.  Thank You.  Please help me redeem the mistakes I've made this past week in the week ahead.  And please bless my family, friends, and all whom I include in my poor prayers.  Amen.

Rejected

I got the call from the Institute for Spiritual Direction today.  I applied for their Spiritual Director program this Spring, and interviewed last week.  The director of the program said they (the board) believe I have a calling to be a Spiritual Director, but "not right now".  I need more time to "do what you're doing."

My disbelief has grown with each passing hour.  Not because I'm so awesome, but how could I be so wrong?!  How can I still be too young when I've already been waiting to begin this program for two years, and wouldn't be finished with the program for three more?!!  How not ready can I be?

The director told me at my interview that the selection process was a discernment, which in this case, meant there was prayer involved.  And I don't think a group of prayerful people can really screw up God's plan.  Can they?

My pride wants to send a long email explaining how I became a caregiver at age 16, and detail all of the other things that make me older (wiser) than my age might tell.  1Timothy 4:12 flies into my brain as a rebuttal:  Let no one have contempt for your youth, but set an example for those who believe, in speech, conduct, love, faith, and purity.

But, then I think of the example.  Jesus.  Isaiah 53:7 - Though harshly treated, he submitted and did not open his mouth; Like a lamb led to slaughter or a sheep silent before the shearers, he did not open his mouth.

And He was God.

I'm just a human being who's feeling a little misunderstood and very confused.

Aside from being 100% certain that my husband was the man I wanted to marry, I have never felt so sure of anything.

The self-doubt is creeping in and the ground is feeling a little shaky.  Maybe it's a coincidence (are there such things?), but our A/C went out on Friday.  When we learned the price of the replacement, I started wondering if I need to be working.  I have no idea.  Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done...

The Desire to Please God

 

My Lord God, I have no idea where I

am going, I do not see the road ahead of

me.  I cannot know for certain where it

will end.  Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think I am

following your will does not mean that

I am actually doing so.  But I believe

that the desire to please you does in

fact please you.  And I hope I have that

desire in all that I am doing.  I hope 

that I will never do anything apart 

from that desire.  And I know that if I

do this you will lead me by the right

road, though I may know nothing

about it.  Therefore, I will trust you

always though I may seem to be lost

and in the shadow of death.  I will not

fear, for you are ever with me, and you

will never leave me to face my perils

alone.                      Thomas Merton 

A Concussion and an "F" for Trust

Happy Father's Day to you and yours!  It's been a good one for us.  Sleeping in, Mass, and eating out make for a pretty great day.  I also emailed my Dad the links to my posts where I wrote about him (A "Rough" Life - A Tribute to my Grandma, Uncle, and my Dad).  He doesn't do blogs, but it occurred to me that he might better understand how much I love and respect him if he could read what I had written.  He was deeply moved, printed it off, and put it in his Bible.  Happy Fathers Day, Dad.

Two weeks ago today, my husband (and the father of my children) got a concussion when he and his skateboard parted ways.  I was at the swimming pool (roughly 100 yards away) when it happened.  My oldest son came and told me "Dad has a concussion, but he's fine.  He's up and walking around".  I clambered out of the pool to go see what in the world was going on.

As I was gathering our stuff, my husband walked into the pool, saying he thinks he has a concussion, was seeing stars, and half of his vision was blurry.  He wasn't really sure what happened or if he lost consciousness, so I sat him down on the pool steps and went to investigate.  What I found was a pool of blood in the bottom of the skate bowl.  At the time, I couldn't find any witnesses, so I assumed he was knocked out because he laid there long enough to make a puddle of blood (from his elbow) the size of my footprints.

I did my best to wash the blood away and we loaded up to go home.  He had virtually no memory of the day and began to ask a series of questions, which went something like this..."What happened?  Was I awesome?  Did anyone see?   Was I unconscious?  What happened?  Was I awesome?  Did anyone see?   Was I unconscious? What happened?  Was I awesome?  Did anyone see?   Was I unconscious? What happened?  Was I awesome?  Did anyone see?   Was I unconscious?..." 

You get the idea.  I worked for an ambulance service for 6 years, so I knew he had a concussion at least, and was worried he might have bleeding in his brain.  I waited for a couple of hours to see if his symptoms (repetitive questioning and memory loss) would improve, but they persisted. 

To make a long story short, we ended up in the ER.  He had a CAT scan which showed no bleeding on his brain and he got three stitches in his elbow.  He took the following day off of work for "brain rest".  Aside from a sore neck and elbow, and a little light sensitivity, he was back to good. 

But, then I wasn't so good.  The more I thought about what happened, the more I had my own series of thoughts that went something like this...

"It freaks me out that my husband was lying unconscious (or something close to it) 100 yards away from me and I didn't have any idea.  I guess I always thought that if something happened to him I would somehow know.  A gut check or something.  Nope.  Nothin'.  What if it was worse?  What if his brain had bled, and he had a stroke or an aneurysm?  What if he had broken his neck?  If he died, financially we would be able to make it, but if he's disabled and it didn't happen at work, we'd have nothing.  I am totally dependent on him and his good health.  This vulnerability feels like crap. Should I get a full-time job?..."

This went on for about two days.  I was pulling back emotionally and he knew it.  He was telling me not to dwell on what could of happened, and that I couldn't love him any less because of some dumb accident.  But, I was trying to.  I don't want to be physically, emotionally, psychologically, and financially dependent on someone who could check out at any minute!  I told him he was a liability, and he was quick to let me know that I was one, too.  Then, he said something to the effect of, that's what happens when you get married...

Hmmm....

Good point.  He would be in as much of a fix if something happened to me, as I would be if something happened to him.  Not for a paycheck, but for someone to run the household and take care of the kiddos, and all of the other things wives do. 

After this conversation, and by God's grace, I started to realize that the only problem I had was a trust problem.  In the unusual circumstance of seeing my husband incapacitated, I withdrew my trust from God, and put it in myself.  Only, I quickly realized how drastically short I came from being able to provide the solution that I was trusting myself for.  If this whole scenario was a test for my trust in God, I'd have a Big 'ol "F" over here...

As Providence would have it, one of the Mass readings during this time was from Tobit 2:9-14.  In the story, Tobit became blind for four years after some birds pooped on his eyes.  (I'm not making this up!)  Eventually, his wife weaved cloth and provided for the family, and life went on...

Duh. 

God has provided for me for 35 years.  Some of those years, he provided for me through my parents.  Others, I provided for myself.  For the last 10 years, my husband has provided for me and our family.  If something were to happen to him (God forbid!), God would continue to provide for me.  Yes, it would look different.  Very, very different.  But, I would have what I need.  Just like I always have.

It is a paradox to be sure, but our security is our vulnerability.  It doesn't matter if I like it.  It's just the way it is.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat [or drink], or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing?  Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are not you more important than they?  Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?   Matthew 6:25-27

Dear Heavenly Father, Happy Father's Day!!!  Thank you for being The Father of fathers, King of kings, and Lord of lords!  Thank you for fathers who help us believe in You and Your love for us.  Thank you for my husband and the way my kids will emulate him even before they recognize his greatness.  Thank you for his health and the big lesson in humility and trust, when it was compromised, even for a short time.  Please bless him with good health and a long life. 

Lord, please draw near to those who don't know what a good father is.  Make Yourself known to them!  Please grant the grace of forgiveness to those who need it. 

Abba, I love You.  Thank You for loving us first!  Make us love You more and more.  Amen.

Cigarette Burns and Pooping in the Bedroom

I'm thinking I'd rather be in bed right now, but I have too many details from other people's lives swirling around in my head (again).  I have a friend who marvels at how the world is big enough to hold all of the stories that it contains.  I'm starting to wonder the same thing.

My boys were eager to get back to the skate park after being out of town for a few days, so we headed up this afternoon with a cooler of drinks in tow.  Bringing food and drinks for the skaters was part of the resolution we made at my last women's meeting, in an effort to "love the sinner, but hate the sin".  It sounds presumptuous and judgmental even to write it.  Of course, skating is not sinful, but there are a lot of other things that often go with the skating lifestyle...Sex, drugs, rock and roll?, rebellion, tattoos/piercings and language that would make a sailor blush. 

They're not worse sinners than me, or people who dress well, or people who keep their lips buttoned.  They're just not so careful about covering it up.  Sort of refreshing in its own way, if you think about it.  The point is that these kids need love like everyone else on the planet.  They're just not (always) the most approachable or easy to love. 

I took my seat at a picnic table, and in 5 minutes, (I think my little guys were inviting them) there were 6 dudes at my table throwing back drinks and talking to me for the first time.  I'd seen several of them before, and one was quick to say "Y'all are the coolest parents that come up here."  And I thought I'd been invisible every time...

Most of them came and went, but two stuck around.  It didn't take long to notice the (nine) cigarette burns running down the right side of the skinny, shirtless one.  As I was talking to him, I kept thinking how he looked like Jesus.  Not just because we're supposed to see Jesus in everybody, but for real.  His hair was dark and almost shoulder length, and his eyes were honest.  I told him he had great hair.  He said "thanks", showed me how he couldn't get his fingers through it, and shared his dreadlock plans with me. 

In short time, I learned he's almost 20.  He lives with a roommate (who has nine cigarette burns down his left side) and his anti-social girlfriend.  Their self-inflicted cigarette burns are a memorial to their friend who died when he was hit by a train.  Apparently, he convinced eighteen friends to burn him with cigarettes, so they each did half in his memory. 

He has one brother and thirteen sisters.  They are mostly "half" sisters, because his mother was a "crack whore", so their dads are all different.  They were all eventually adopted by the same family, but they "never really cared what I did".  He said the best piece of advice he's ever received was, "You only live once, so you better enjoy it the first time around."  I countered with the idea that there are a lot of things that are good for you that don't necessarily feel good.  He acquiesced, but followed with, "But, only if you have to."

His goodness came through when we started talking about the three-year-old boy I've seen up there.  He said he saw somebody give him a cigarette once.  It was the only time he beat somebody up.  "You don't give cigarettes to a three-year-old."  Agreed.  He went back to skating and circled around every time he got thirsty.   

The other guy made me want to cry...
After describing himself as a "roller coaster addict", he painstakingly described a "Haunted Adventure" house experience, and said we should never go.  I very sincerely told him that we wouldn't.  Little by little, the conversation moved from this scary fake experience to his scary real experience.  He jumped around between mission school this, and group home that.  There was something about how he and his sister were left beside a Georgia highway when he was a baby, and his struggles with a learning disability.  Later on, he and his sister were adopted, but only to be sexually and mentally abused.  His adoptive mother locked them in their rooms and wouldn't let them out.  "If I had to go #1 or #2, I had to go in my bedroom because she wouldn't let us out."  He and his sister communicated through an air vent.  They were eventually put in foster care and bounced around the system. 

He pulled up his shirt to show me his rose tattoo in honor of Lady Gaga.  Apparently, he's a big fan, she has something similar, and that is good enough for him. His vulnerability was palpable, and when he showed me that he knew the alphabet in sign language, I could see his hand trembling.  He is 24-years-old.  He is looking for a job and planning to start school in the Fall.  He lives with a lady who ran a group home where he previously lived, and her children.  He affectionately calls her Mom. He attends Church with her dad.  He knows he makes mistakes, he knows God forgives him, and believes "I am a man of God." 

My sons were "in and out" during these conversations, but my 8-year-old caught on that the second guy had suffered a lot and heard me repeat something I heard Mother Angelica say once. "When we are suffering, that is when we are most like Christ.  If we are not like Him at any other time, we are like Him when we are suffering."  To this, my son said, "I guess I've suffered."  I said, "No, you haven't."  He said, "I've suffered a little.  My great-grandmother just died."  I said, "Yes, but you didn't suffer."  And he said, "I guess I wasn't really that sad."  Right.

I vacillate between thinking it is and isn't good for my kids to be at the skate park.  Today, it was good.  It was good because they got to see that these kids are "nice".  Even if they use bad language or have metal in their face.  It was good because my oldest son heard about real suffering, and consequently, realized that he has not really suffered.  Having parents who love you enough to make you go to bed at night, chores here and there, and something other than your favorite food for dinner is not suffering.  In lieu of going to Africa to appreciate what we have, I think we'll be going back to the skate park.  We still have a lot to learn.


Dear God, I don't know how I continue to meet so many people with such painful and incredible stories.  I can only assume that you are "hooking us up", so thank you for the privilege of being on the listening end.  Lord, have mercy on these kids, and on their parents, who will have to give an account for them on the day they meet You face to face.  Please, give me the grace to show them Your Goodness, Truth, Light, and Love.  Thank you for my Regnum Christi sister, Robye, who provided the drinks I brought today, and all of those who spur me on in my faith.  God, bless us all.  Amen. 

A "Rough" Life - A Tribute to My Grandma, An Uncle, and My Dad, Part II

My Dad was in Vietnam at the same time as his younger brother. They were 11 months apart in age, but they weren't stationed together.

From the evictions, beatings, and sheer terror of my Dad's childhood, I always assumed when he left to join the military that he never looked back - Relieved to be away from the heavy hands and empty bottles. But, no.

He wrote every week - sending updates, offering encouragement, and money when his Dad was out of work or money was tight.

I've only ever seen my father honor his father and mother, but I didn't think it was possible for that to have always been so. But, it was. By the grace of God. There is no other explanation.

My Dad was responsible for monitoring communications during the war. He knew things were getting bad where his brother was, when someone came in and tore the paper off the teletype and tried to leave with it. My Dad demanded to see it, and confirmed his suspicion. His brother was killed when his armored personnel carrier drove over a landmine. My Dad escorted his body home.

Stateside, three letters were written requesting an early release from his military duty, including one from his parents. He was desperately needed at home. His brother in reform school needed him, his brother in a wheelchair needed him, his baby brother needed him, and his parents needed him more than all the others put together. So, he did what he does. He showed up.

Like yesterday. My Grandma had a beautiful Rosary, Mass, and graveside service. Her casket was blue; just like she would have chosen. Today, he's wrapping up all of her personal business. Just like he did for his three brothers and his Dad. "Well done, good and faithful servant."

I never knew my Uncle Mike was a real, funny, lovable man. Now, I know. I knew my Dad was a great man. Now, I know he is an even greater man than I knew was possible. And, now I better understand why my Grandma just wanted to shut me up.

The more I know, the more I don't know, but the more I feel. And I know that is good.

I'm tempted to dwell on these final, unread letters from the Vietnam war. I'm tempted to dwell on the three telegrams indicating a missing son, then a dead son, and finally, the dead son being escorted home by his brother. My humanity wants to stay here - in solidarity with my Grandma and the pain she once knew.

But, my grandmother doesn't need this from me, and God let me know that this morning - the day after her funeral and the day I've understood her better than any other day.

"Man is so made that he can carry the weight of twenty-four hours - no more. Directly he weighs down with the years behind, and the days ahead, his back breaks. I have promised to help you with the burden of today only, the past I have taken from you and if you, foolish hearts, choose to gather again that burden and bear it, then, indeed you mock Me to expect Me to share it...

A man on a march on earth carries only what he needs for that march. Would you pity him if you saw him bearing too the overwhelming weight of the worn-out shoes and uniforms of past marches and years? And yet, in the mental and spiritual life, man does these things. Small wonder My poor world is heartsick and weary. Not so must YOU act."
-God Calling

I love you, Grandma. I will continue to pray for you until I see you again. Please pray for me and all who are dear to me, especially your son, my Dad.

Uncle Mike, I can't wait to meet you in person. Thank you for your service and your letters.

Rest in peace

Dear God, Thank you for my Grandmother and her choice to have my Dad. She easily could have aborted. Thank you for the special bond we had and the privilege of honoring her with song and prayers the final day of her life. Thank you for the opportunity to assist another into Heaven.

Thank you for my Uncle Mike. For his service, for his humor, for his letters, and for his love.

Lord, Thank you for my Dad. I've known no one who has loved so well in the face of being loved so poorly. Thank you for giving him the grace of forgiveness and a deep conviction about following your Commandments, and making no exceptions.

Please bless him on earth and for eternity - for his love and fidelity to You and those You entrusted to Him. You are an awesome God. Please, through your mercy, grant eternal rest to the faithful departed. Amen.

A "Rough" Life - A Tribute to My Grandma, An Uncle, and My Dad, Part I

May 28, 2013 - It's almost midnight and I just closed the lid on a lot of love I never knew existed.

My Grandma died four days ago and her funeral was today. We were as close as two people who are fifty years apart and two states away can be.

I always knew my Grandma had a "rough" life, and I was always strangely comfortable with this blanket description. Between her rough exterior and inability to share those things from her life that necessitated the impenetrable wall she built, I gradually and subconsciously believed her life was lived just beyond the place where real dates and times and faces and letters and infinitesimally deep emotion happen.

I've begged and pleaded with her to share her life with me, but she always brushed me off with, "I don't know, Heidi" or "I can't remember". I don't think she could recall even one happy memory.

She was forbidden to marry the love of her life, and instead married an abusive man who vascillated between insanely drunk, jail, and unemployment.

She had five boys. Today, I saw a picture of her, biting her lip and staring straight into the camera, as they pinned her second oldest son's bronze star on her husband, days after his death in the Vietnam war. His name was Mike. He was 20-years-old. He is my brother's namesake. And for me, that is all he has ever been. Until today.

The box I just closed were all of the letters he and my Dad had written (usually weekly), between bootcamp and their final post. Through his writings, I learned my uncle was a funny, laid back fella who liked to tell people to "Go to hell" and who ended his letters with "Bye for now" and "Send prayers".

He encouraged his wheelchair bound brother to study hard, his brother in reform school to "keep your nose clean", and repeatedly asked his Mom not to worry.

He would often write, "They can't get this kid" and had made R & R plans in Australia. He never went. It was scheduled for one month after he was killed.

After I found my Grandma's final letter to him, I didn't read many more of his. It was written two days before he died. She wondered why he hadn't written, was very worried, and what should she do about filing his income tax?

The letter was returned. Unopened. Marked deceased.

After just pouring over his letters, and getting to know him for the first time in my life, the last unanswered letter in my Grandma's handwriting pricked my soul with a sliver of the pain she spent the rest of her life trying to forget.

She was 40-years old when she buried the first of her children. When I am 40, my oldest will only be twelve. She had already lived two lifetimes in the span of my single one.

If living with an abusive husband and burying a son wasn't enough to shut her down emotionally, the years to come would try to finish the job.

One of her sisters was murdered and she buried two more sons - both died from drug/alcohol related causes.

**I really want to continue here, but this post will be entirely too long. Please see part II, which is already written on paper. I only have to punch it in (as I have done here), one letter at a time on my phone. We are on our way home from KS...

A Traceable Piece of Trash

My youngest and I were at the park this morning.  He was playing contentedly, so I decided to fill up my empty bread sack with the little bit of trash I saw laying around (I'm incredibly grateful to my husband for his example in this department). I told God that each piece of trash was an offering for souls, and when my bag was nearly full, I found a ziplock baggie with someone's name written on it with black marker.  A traceable piece of trash... 

This got me to thinking that every piece of trash I picked up, has someone's name on it.  It is just written with invisible ink.  Which got me thinking...Every thing we do has our name on it.  Good and Bad.  Little and Big.  Which got me thinking...about Judgment day. 

I imagined a big mountain of all the things (actions, thoughts, and words) from my life with my name on it.  And then I imagined Jesus sorting through the heap; tossing the bad in a pile a little distance from His feet, and gathering the good to Himself.  And I'm standing there watching Him, praying that the Good pile is bigger than the Bad pile, although I'm not really sure that settles anything...  

And that's it - I can't see anything beyond the Divine sorting.  But, that makes sense to me because I'm still adding to both of them, Good and Bad... 

My vanity would love to think of all the good in my life secured with a big flag waving around with my name on it.  But, if the "Bad" flags were flown around for all to see first, I think it would crawl under a rock, never to be seen again.

So, I wonder, on Judgment day, do we see the good or the bad first?  (By the way, don't you hate, "Well, there's good news and bad news..."?!  The bad almost always overshadows the good, and I'm not sure which order you hear them in makes a bit of difference).

Anyway, I think we see the bad first.  Because if you get to go to Heaven, you don't want to show up in a bad mood.  And, I'm pretty sure if I watched the movie of my life, and the first half was awesome and the last half sucked (excuse the expression), I would be in a pretty bad mood.

Have you heard someone say, "All's well that ends well."?  I think that's about right.

At least for today, I'm going to try to remember that everything I do has eternal value, and it is accruing.  I'm either getting closer to Heaven or farther away.  The heaps of Good and Bad are growing, and they are traceable to me. 


Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for the time in the park this morning.  Thank you for that brave little squirrel that was nearly eating out of my son's hand, and for that little ziplock baggie with a name scribbled on it.  Thank you for moments of reflection about Judgment day that don't suck the air out of my lungs.  Your mercy reins over Your justice.  I'm counting on that, and I Thank You.  Please help me build a mountain of Good, that no human eye can perceive.  You know that it must me be so, for it to be purely for love of You.  Otherwise, my vanity shoves in, and takes over.  I love You.  Please make me love You more and more.  Amen.