See Spot Go

About four or six weeks ago, I noticed a spot at the base of my breast that looked like an insect bite, but didn’t really itch. It was about the size of a lentil. It didn’t go away and I realized it wasn’t on the skin, but under the skin. And it got bigger, to about the size of a pea.

Last week, God spoke to me to ask for prayer for it. Honestly, it took a lot of courage because I was afraid I would doubt – that’s doubt compounded. But I did pray. Then in prayer meeting on Saturday night, I asked for prayer for it – that the spot would be gone before I go to the doctor next month for an annual exam.

I bet you can guess what comes next, after all, this is a blog about miracles… This morning the spot is gone. I can see where it was, there’s a light impression of it still, but there’s no lump there. It’s the slightest bit tender, like rubbing on a scabbed over wound, but there’s no lump there. Praise God.

Full Circle: The Real Miracle of My Mission Trip to Peru

Even as I was hauling rock from point A to point B, cutting wire and making rebar columns (see the slide show or video referenced in the post “Mission Accomplished), to help in the construction of a missions school and local church in Cajamarca, Peru, I was aware of a miracle that was drawing to a conclusion, after some 25 years in the making.
25 years ago this fall I started college, with faith and good intentions. 24 years ago this fall, I returned to college with good intentions. 23 years ago this fall, I returned to college… (awkward silence). I don’t blame Drew University, but in two years there, my moral compass got all screwed up, such that I thought I was going north when I really was headed south.
On both sides of my family, I had mission-minded grandparents. Dad’s mom had been to Latin America dozens of times taking literature, clothes, etc., in support of local churches. Mom’s parents had spent 13 years in the Cayman Islands as missionaries. Even though concern for the Great Commission was part of my family heritage, my newly acquired world view convinced me that mission work was culturally insensitive, a form of neocolonialism and even supremacist activity. And indeed there is no dearth of missionaries throughout history and today who have played this out.
Well, praise God, it turns out intelligencia was a just a phase I was going through and I eventually returned to the values of my family – for the most part. However, missions remained my one bastion. Sure, I want the natives of the Amazon rain forest to learn about Jesus, but can’t we find a way to do that without making them wear clothes? In it’s purest form, missions is OK – the lost get found and then God begins to work in their hearts to transform them for His glory and their good. It’s all that other stuff that really turns me off.
Indeed even today, most Christians are confused about how culture is irrelevant to salvation. Don’t believe me? Take a look at this guy.

Do you think he’s a Christian? (See below for the answer.) Salvation comes with a simple confession of sin and profession in Christ as the Son of God and risen Savior – not with the way we dress, the music we listen to, whether we’re circumcised or the food we eat (right, Peter?) Once we’re saved our entire existence should be subject to the Lord’s will, but for most of us, actually subjecting the whole package to God’s will takes a lifetime. I know I’m still working on a couple of little things called worry and doubt – anybody else have a problem with those? (oopsie – started to rant!)
As you can see, I feel a passionately about this cultural sensitivity thing and I continue to believe that the vast majority of mission work carried out by foreigners tramples all over the sensitivities of culture. It’s the Ugly American – in missions work! Ugh.
So, imagine my surprise as I ventured into publishing on account of the book Walking Man: A Modern Missions Experience in Latin America. Then, so much more when I heard myself saying, “I’m organizing a missions trip,” – a trip to build a school to train missionaries, no less! What is going on here? It can only be explained thusly: God works in mysterious ways.
In some effort to explain this incongruity, I have to point out the school we worked on is going to prepare Latin Americans to serve in missions among … Latin Americans. By and large, there is not a cultural chasm to bridge (or not!). I feel good about that. Yet there remains the cultural mine field between Catholics and Evangelical Christians. Many Latin American Evangelical Christians wrongly assume that to be Catholic is to be lost in sin – again, they confuse culture with salvation.
So, I’m back – full circle – continuing on that family heritage of lending my hand to the Great Commission, and I’m happy about it. Further adding to my joy is that I am partnering with a couple that my grandmother supported near the end of her ministry and the beginning of theirs. And now my son and daughter have had the joy of contributing to their ministry – and we also support their son’s work in Brazil. Kind of a neat intergenerational thing going on between our two families who have only one thing in common: the same Heavenly Father.
Oh, yea, this guy: I can’t say for sure, but he seems to be making a profession of faith.

Mission Complete (well, Sort of…)

I could write volumes on all we experienced in helping on the construction of Walking Man Narciso Zamora’s latest project, a local church that will also house an international school of missiology for Latin Americans. But I’ll let a picture speak a thousand words instead. Here are about 124,000 words on the topic! For the cliff notes, see the 3-minute video of just the work - no Machu Picchu shots.
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A Lovely Blog

Thanks to Sarah Bolme of Marketing Christian Books, who conferred on me the One Lovely Blog Award. This award is a moving blog award, meaning that each recipient who accepts the award passes it on to other blogs.

The rules of this award are that if the blog recipient accepts the awards she posts the One Lovely Blog Award image on her blog, includes a link back to the giver of the award’s blog, and passes the award on to other blogs.

So, now it is my turn to pass this award on. And the winner is… 110% Surrendered? – a blog by a young woman who calls herself simply His Daughter. Love the blog and I can only hope my daughter will be so committed when she reaches that age.

Testing, Testing 1…2…3…

Praise God, Daniela got her visa for Peru. There wasn’t anything miraculous about it, in the way I think of miracles, but it was one of those things that tested every fiber of persistence in her being. From dishing out almost $500 to get to Mexico City (the only place in the world a Mexican residing in Mexico can get a visa to Peru), to literally having to chase down the last bus that would get her to El Paso in time to catch her flight out to El Salvador the next morning, the ordeal was filled with one bloomin’ obstacle after another. Daniela has expressed an interest in journaling about this experience because it held some lessons for her, so I hope the in the coming weeks (after the Peru trip!) she’ll guest blog for me and let the rest of the world in on what she learned.

The Saturday night before she left for Mexico City, I attended prayer meeting and was asking for prayer for this situation when I saw a parallel with an ordeal I went through some years back when I believed God was telling me to give a truck to a man in Savannah. This humble servant in Savannah had been very kind to me and helpful in a time when I was in need. He lived on next to nothing and for many years had been driving a truck so beat up that it would only be on the road in a state without inspection laws (that’s Georgia). He could literally pull the entire steering wheel off effortlessly – it was actually quite dangerous.

I was living in Arkansas at the time and I felt God tugging me to buy this man another truck – used of course! We were going to South Carolina in July and would go on down to Savannah and drop the truck off afterwards. So we looked around with a budget of $1500 for the truck. We found a truck that seemed to be in decent shape, but the windshield was cracked. We replaced it – $250. Then a funny thing happened on the way to Savannah. Following behind in my air conditioned Cadillac, I noticed something leaking from the truck. We were in rural Tennessee, about 80 miles past Nashville. We pulled over at a rest stop and determined it was transmission fluid. We made for the nearest exit and asked around for a mechanic. It was July 4th weekend. No one was willing to look at it past being able to confirm that it was tranny fluid and it was not drivable.

I dreaded the worst while hoping for the best as we all loaded in the Cadillac and continued on to South Carolina. On the way back, we learned it was not going to be a quick fix in Po Dunk, TN. Disheartened, we went on back home and then began to negotiate with mechanics via long distance. There was a whole lotta looking for cheap parts to get the price down, but the long and short of it was another $1400 to get a rebuilt tranny for the truck. OK, this was God’s money, so I just said, “Father, if that’s how you want to spend your money, fine by me.”

Almost three weeks later, the truck was ready to be picked up. So off we went again from Arkansas, across Tennessee, to pick up the truck whose source of air conditioning was two front windows open going 60 mp. On we went to Georgia. Everything was good until Atlanta, when yet another muddy-looking substance starting leaving the truck at record speed. We pulled over and ascertained it was oil. Oh bother!! Well, we conducted a little experiment and learned we could make it about 50 miles down the road on a quart of oil, so we went to an auto store, bought a case, and headed on to Savannah. I knew my way around there better and thought if we could just get to Savannah, another repair would be easier to manage. This time, I kept the truck in my rearview because of oil it was spraying. Thank God no cop stopped us. The truck began to leak more and more oil, to the extent that we were only getting 10 miles to the quart by the time we pulled into Firestone on Martin Luther King, Jr. Street in Savannah.

At this point, I was so doggedly determined not to be beat by this thing, I didn’t care what it cost, darn it, this truck would be fixed and given to that man! Thank God, it was just a hole in the oil pan, and with a few other things we didn’t know were wrong, the total bill was about $250. The mechanic said something from the road must have flown up and punctured the oil pan – how odd.

That night, we pulled up at the man’s house and called him outside with an elaborate charade to give him the truck in a way that would really, really surprise him. It involved taking him to Wendy’s for ice cream. We had touched base with him earlier in the day while the truck was being repaired, just to make sure he would be there. When we arrived at his house (the truck was at Wendy’s), he had company and said he was very sorry and invited us in, but he didn’t feel he could leave to go to Wendy’s. That just iced the cake, that our surprise was muddled. We went to Wendy’s and picked up the truck and brought it back to him (along with Frostys for everyone) and just said “Here, have a truck,” or something anticlimactic like that.

The look on his face was priceless as he slowly understood that we were in fact giving him a truck. He started shaking and tearing and said he had been praying about the matter for some months because his truck was not safe to drive, and probably not legal to drive either. My husband was especially blessed by his reaction and I was very happy for that because all along John had just been going with this thing that he probably thought was some scarebrain idea rather than being a vehicle of blessing.

When it was all over and for months later, I thought and thought on that ordeal and wondered “why!” I believed all along that it was something God was leading me to do but everything was going wrong. It did occur to me that the devil didn’t want me to get that blessing or give it either, but I couldn’t understand why God wasn’t clearing the path a bit better. Everything was such a struggle. I’m writing this after five years and there is much I don’t recall, but I do remember enough to say that there was a lot more hassle and stress involved than I can articulate in a blog!

Back to Daniela and Peru…the following week in prayer meeting, I was able to give praise that Daniela had indeed gotten her visa amidst many trials. And again I pondered why. Of course, I know the scriptures on testing and if hope is the end result of all this testing then I’m going to have one big hope some day. But it still just leaves me with a question mark over my head. The next morning, a central tenet in the pastor’s sermon was this thought: God allows tests and trials in order to soften our hearts, not harden them. I’m still contemplating that.

And I’ve got a lot to chew on just now. We’re less than 48 hours out from the Peru trip and I just received a call that two of the participants are pulling out of their completely paid for trip. It’s mind boggling to me. The reason was too much work. Both are in full time ministry so I can’t say that they have their priorities out of order – either way they would be busy about the Lord’s work. But only one of these options is the Lord’s will. And I just don’t know which. Is this Satan distracting this couple from the view of the forest by waving trees in front of them, or is it God’s will that they don’t go? Either way, it’s a test for me because it immediately discouraged me. My husband said, “Just don’t let this discourage you.” So I guess that’s test for me – will I allow it to discourage me?

All along my prayer has been that God’s right group would go and that’s the assurance I cling to as I close this post now wondering, “Just who will be on this mission trip anyway?”

Mission Impossible

In general, I kind of like the challenge of figuring out how to do logistically difficult things. But we have a situation (Houston!) going on right now that really looks impossible, and I am exhausted from trying to sort it out with no progress. I have concluded that we need a miracle. It’s a little complicated, so hang with me.

Daniela Bermudez and I made a deal that if she would work for me for a month, I would pay her way to the mission trip in Peru on July 7. Today Daniela concluded her month of work and it was very fruitful. She deserves the trip to Peru, and indeed, the tickets have been purchased, including a two-day excursion to Machu Picchu. In our best laid plans, we forgot to factor in swine flu. Daniela is Mexican and added requirements are being put on Mexicans now because of swine flu.

In order to get a visa to enter Peru, she has to present a medical certificate of health no more than one week prior to travel. OK. One week before July 7, Daniela will be in El Salvador on a mission trip. When she inquired to the Peruvian consulate in El Salvador, she learned that they only issue visas to foreigners who live in Peru, even though the Web site clearly states it issues visas to foreigners visiting El Salvador. This seemed so unbelievable that we had to confirm it a few times, but it is true. So heads up all you Euro backpackers who think you might make your way from El Salvador to Peru – you can’t if you need a visa to get into Peru.

Next we thought about having her hold up a couple of days when she connects through Dallas on her way home. A friendly consulate employee there told her over the phone that he would issue her a visa for all her trouble with El Salvador. Apparently there is some wriggle room with this 7 day advance requirement on the health certificate so that he could issue the visa about 15 days in advance of her arrival in Peru. But when he found out that Daniela has pushed the limits of her student visa, he retracted and said he couldn’t do it because she had no legal basis for being in the United States after today.

What about Mexico? She’s gone home today and has about 10 days before the El Salvador trip. If the 7 day advance requirement for the health certificate was flexible in Dallas, maybe it’s flexible in Mexico as well. So she called the closest Peruvian consulate to her today, the one in Monterrey, to learn that people from Chihuahua have to go to Mexico City to get visas for Peru. Mexico City is 20 hours by bus from Chihuahua! Why doesn’t she just walk to Peru for Pete’s sake? And flying to Mexico City from Chihuahua costs $400. It’s literally cheaper to come back to Dallas and fly to Mexico City than to fly from within Mexico. But $400 is just the flight. It takes three working days to get the Visa, so she would have to hold up in Mexico City for three days. Is this just completely unreasonable, or is it me?

Next we were trying to call the Peruvian consulate in Guatemala City. All day, no answer. And their Web site is no longer existent, apparently. But as I was working on this blog, I came across a service that gets visas for Americans or foreigners living in the U.S. and learned that apparently Mexicans have to return to Mexico to get their visa to go to Peru. I guess she could come back to Mexico City from El Salvador, get the visa, and then go back, changing her plane ticket to leave for Lima from three days later than scheduled. We’d also have to change her Peruvian flights from Lima to Cajamarca, cutting the trip from 11 days to eight.

There are other options, but they aren’t pretty: Cancel the El Salvador trip and leave for Lima from Mexico City, but that would suck to miss El Salvador. She could cancel the Peru trip, but that would suck too. Regardless of what she does, from what we can see now, it’s unavoidable for her to lose money.

I’ve done a lot of international travel and it’s always a challenge to time everything right, but the situation Daniela is in because of this swine flu thing is insane. And this whole experience has given me a better appreciation for how easy it is for Americans to just skirt around the globe at our leisure. We don’t even need a visa for Peru. And if we wanted to stay longer than the 90 days we’re given upon arrival, all we have to do is ask once we get there.

Please pray for a miracle that all of this might work out and Daniela will be able to do both trips. And check back in July to learn how it all went down.

A High Jump

This is Gwen’s first season in track. The team was only afforded about three weeks of practice and then a short season – only two meets. So, it’s not been much of a season. In the first couple of weeks, Gwen would come home discouraged: “I tried discus and I’m bad at it because I have no upper body strength,” “I tried the pole vault and I’m bad at it,” “I’m a slow runner.” Her dad and I tried to explain to her that she can’t expect to be good at something the first time she tries it, but nonetheless, it was a pretty discouraging experience for someone who has a lot of natural abilities, but none readily apparent in track and field. Then one day she tried the high jump and she said she liked it. That ended up being one of her events.
The first track meet included about a dozen schools, most of them larger with better programs than Gwen’s school. In fact, Gwen’s school doesn’t even have a track. So at the meet, Gwen was running for the first time on a real track. Also, she didn’t have cleats (I guess that’s what track shoes are called – they have little spikes like cleats anyway). She was wearing some old Payless tennies she’s owned for two years – they probably weigh a pound a piece. To say that Gwen was at a disadvantage over some of the others who have been doing track for more than one season, or more than three weeks, who have track shoes and have actually run on a track, well, it’s stating the obvious. That meet Gwen learned a little something about the agony of defeat. But honestly, not too much, because a large part of the fun for her was getting to travel with the team and flirt with all the boys from the other schools (much to her boyfriend’s chagrin).
There was another track meet scheduled, but the school decided not to go because there was a conflict with baseball. OK, so now, a week and a half later, we’re at the end of the season, the district meet – ironically not as tough as the first meet. The district meet is made up of only schools of similar size, so our kids were a lot more competitive.
Since the last meet, Gwen got new shoes – still not track shoes because I’m not about to pop $40 on a pair of shoes that I have no assurance will be worn more than once – but we did get her some good Nike running shoes. And she had another week of practice under her belt. Yet compared to the preparation of her competition, there was no reason to expect any upsets.
But I did expect a miracle. I prayed the night before the meet that our Heavenly Father would give her the gift of placing in one of her events – just a ribbon, not a medal. I didn’t feel like it was even right to ask for her to win an event (not to mention I’m not sure I had enough faith to ask it) because she’s brand-spanking new to track and up against so many who have worked so much longer and surely want it more badly than she. So I asked our Father to give her a lift on the high jump or wings on the track, just enough to encourage her with a ribbon – provided that it could be done without edging out some young woman who had trained harder or wanted it more.
Praise God, Gwen placed 6th in the high jump. She had really improved in one week of practice. I could tell she had better technique – and an angel to keep that bar from falling off when she bumped it with her booty! You should have seen her reaction to hearing her name called over the loud speaker when they announced the results of the girls’ high jump. She jumped up and down clapping her hands and then gave her friend standing next to her a high five before resuming jumping up and down. I’m quite certain there was some supersonic squealing going on as well.

Check out the look on Gwen's face when they announced she placed in the high jump.

Fighting Fear

“…and the terror of God fell upon the towns all around them so that no one pursued them.” Gen. 35:5

Almost three weeks ago, I got a phone call, my caller ID said “private number,” from a man who identified himself as “Robert Dudley, D-u-d-l-e-y.” He said he was calling about a book he was working on, Unusual Unique Things in the United States, and he wanted to include my propane tank in the book. He had learned of it at www.Ohiobarnes.com:
This rarely happens to me, but in the first minute of conversing with Robert, I got really creeped out. My senses were on orange alert for the rest of the conversation, which is probably why I was able to remember so much of it and replay parts at random in my head over the next couple of weeks. To be honest, it could have been a very normal conversation, but because I was creeped out, some things he said or asked, threw up red flags for me – questions about my children, did my daughter ride a bus to school…
We ended the conversation with the understanding that Robert and his wife Barbara would be coming to photograph the propane tank and would call either Monday or Tuesday of the following week. After hanging up, I immediately started working on a backup for that visit. My mother was coming for the weekend – could I ask her to stay over? How about insisting he come after 4 p.m. when more people are around, but then Gwen would be here and maybe that was who he was after. I settled on getting my neighbor Jeff’s (see my hero from the last post) cell phone number and just keeping my phone handy. I told Jeff and his wife about it. I’m sure they thought I was/am paranoid!
Through the week of waiting for the Dudley’s visit to come around, I really struggled with fear and negative fantasy at night in particular. I’m no fiction writer, but when it comes to spinning worst-case scenarios, I could win a Booker Prize or something. I was having something of a relapse from the intense fear I felt for months after my baby Hunter died. I tried to keep the thoughts at bay by calling on the name of Jesus – and it worked, like it always does, but only for as long as I kept my eyes on Him. My focus kept shifting back to negative fantasy.
By Monday, I had actually calmed down quite a bit and wasn’t afraid to get the call that the Dudley’s were in town. In fact, I reasoned that if I did get the call, if a man and woman pulled up at my house, there would be no problem. Well, I didn’t get the call. The call is more than two weeks late now and I have no explanation for why I haven’t heard back.
On the last day I was expecting the call (Wednesday after the Monday-Tuesday timeframe Dudley had given me), I was still wrestling with negative fantasy. No call had spawned all kinds of new possibilities. In my devotion for that Wednesday, I prayed God to give me peace. I can’t stand being afraid. And God did. I read of the story of Jacob leaving Canaan after his son had ticked off the locals and how his clan got away without a problem because the terror of God fell upon the towns. I claimed this verse and it gave me peace. If Dudley had meant me any harm, I believed the terror of God had fallen upon him and he didn’t pursue it.
Just so no injustice is done to Dudley, I have to admit that there could be a lot of explanations as to why he never got back to me. But whether or not he was legit is not the point. The point is that God gave me peace over my negative imagination.
Well, that was sweet peace for one day.
The next day, I was taking a walk with Chaise (he was in a stroller) and a truck passed me just as I was about to go on to the no-outlet road that leads to my house. When I got about 20 feet down that road, I heard the truck come up behind me and stop at the T where my road and the county road meet. Three men without shirts and appearing to me to be drunk got out. I was down wind from them and could smell old beer mixed with body oder – gag! The driver yelled at me a question about whether the road they were on went back out to the highway. I answered a couple of questions about directions then I kept walking, civic duty done.
Another of the men yelled out, “She’s got a nigger baby! She’s got a nigger baby! Hey Bi…! Hey Bi… come back here!”
My split-second reaction was fury. I wanted to rip the cajones off that guy. But a voice loud and clear in my head said, “Just keep walking. Don’t look back.” So I did. And I didn’t hear anything else from any of them. Just the truck starting and pulling away. I pulled out my cell phone and called the police and reported them for driving drunk. They had two miles (one on gravel road) to go before they would be off that county road, so I thought if a police car happened to be in the vicinity, they might intercept them when they hit the state highway.
The incident set my mind reeling again. I had been on a no-outlet road when they saw me. They could find me again and the baby toys in the front yard would be a dead giveaway. Whereas Dudley was a big unknown, these guys were obviously not law abiding citizens and they obviously were very racist. I haven’t heard anyone say “nigger” outside of a movie or historical reference in almost two decades! I always joke with people when I’m giving them directions to my house that when they start to hear “Dueling Banjos” they’re almost there. But this was some serious back-woods stuff! And yet, if these guys were from my county, I know they weren’t from my neighborhood by the questions about directions they were asking.
Phoning the police, though I believe it to have been the right thing to do, actually worked against me later. Now I had all these revenge-related plot lines in my dark thoughts. This day was the worst. I was irrationally afraid.
The next morning, when my husband left for work, I went to the door that leads to our basement and even though it was locked, I put a chair under it. Then I brought my cell phone in the bedroom and locked that door. My actions had gone way past prudent into the realm of the ridiculous.
When I finally got up that morning, God met me at my morning devotion with another special selection. The devotion read: Don’t let your fears rule your actions.
Besides being just what I needed to hear, I had to acknowledge that a God big enough to put that sentence before my eyes on the day I most needed it must certainly care enough for me to protect me if those goons did come looking for me.
I wish I could say that was that and my mind was at peace from that point on. But the truth is that I continued to struggle. I had the verse from Genesis and the other devotion in my arsenal now and so I battled fear much more effectively. I was able to quickly redirect my thoughts when I caught myself slipping. But it wasn’t until last Sunday night that I really felt at peace.
Sunday night, I shared an abbreviated version of this post with my church family. They prayed for me – various ones prayed specifically for me – and as the words were coming from their mouths, I could feel peace coming over me. And that was that.

My Hero – My Neighbor's Husband

No infidelity intended here, but I have to acknowledge how my neighbor, Jeff Estep, has come to my rescue twice. What makes this so unlikely is that Jeff works all over the nation in his job and is home only about a third of the time. Yet God timed things so just when I needed a helping hand, he has been there.
The first was about a year ago. I was out in the yard with Chaise, still a baby-baby, and I stretched the hose over and dropped it in the turtle pond to fill it up because the dogs always like to drink the water from it. I went to the tap and turned it on, with Chaise in my arms, and as I was standing up straight again, I noticed a snake coiled about 6 inches from the tap. It had been within striking distance of me and Chaise!
I let out my characteristic super-sonic “I’ve seen a snake” squeal and reeled backwards. After the initial heeby -geebies wore off, it hit me: the tap is on and that turtle tank will be full to overflowing in about 3 minutes. John was at work and I knew that my neighbors weren’t home because I had seen them drive out earlier. And me? Besides having an infant in arms, I’m terribly afraid of snakes. And even if I weren’t, I couldn’t imagine doing battle with one. I was working this over in my head for about a minute when in the distance I heard a diesel engine. I thought, “If that truck comes past my house, I’ll flag it down – whoever it is.” I watched as the truck came into sight and it was indeed neighbor Jeff. In a skinny minute, he dispatched the snake before the turtle tank overflowed. Neither of us could figure if the snake was a copperhead or a look-alike.
That small miracle would have gone undocumented if not for Jeff’s second rescue yesterday.
I was leaving the house to pick up Gwen from school. My trajectory was to go out the basement door, get in the car, drive it around to the front door, pick up sleeping Chaise from my bedroom and whisk him into the car seat without waking him so he could sleep a little longer and I could have a peaceful ½ hour ride to pick up Gwen.
I walked out the basement door, locking it behind me. Immediately, as if I already knew what was coming, I reached into my purse and discovered to my horror that my house keys were not in my purse. In a second I recalled that Gwen had used them to unlock the door last night and I knew she must not have returned them to their usual and customary home, the place I count on them being! Problem: My house is locked up as “tight as Fort Knox,” as Jeff said later, and my baby is sleeping inside. Did I mention that my husband was out of town?
Not a problem: The other spare key resides at our neighbor’s house so the kids can feed our animals during our frequent excursions. So I zoomed down to their house and found Jeff at home alone. He sprang into a frantic search for the key, but couldn’t find it. And his wife wasn’t answering her cell and the kids weren’t either (probably because they aren’t supposed to have cell phones in school). About five minutes had gone by since I left the house and I was started to imagine Chaise awake and screaming for me, so I told Jeff I was going on up and asked that if he couldn’t find the key, that he come up and help me break into my house.
When I arrived, of course, our yappy dog Mindy whose job it is to alert the entire household of all comings and goings, even involving members of the family, started in. I went to the bedroom window and peeked in and couldn’t see Chaise, which meant he was probably still asleep on the bed. Jeff came up about a minute behind me, and again, Mindy the guard dog sounded her alarm. As we tried the front door with a credit card, Mindy barked on. She was a very lucky dog to be separated from me by a locked door at that moment!
Jeff went around the house trying windows – I knew nothing would be open – he jumped up on our back deck to try that door. “Locked up tight as Fort Knox,” he said. I went to the basement and tried the door again, I’m not sure why, since that’s the door I had locked to set this whole catastrophe in motion. It was locked. Further defying explanation, Jeff came behind me and tried the basement door too. Locked. But then he shoved it and it opened!
“Thank God and thank you!” I blurted as I ran up into the house to find Chaise soundly sleeping. I resisted the urge to kick the dog!
Jeff went on his way without fanfare, having saved the day and saved one of my windows from a very ugly fate. And he uncovered a breach in our Fort Knox-like security! From now on, I will deadbolt the basement door – and have my house keys in hand before I close the door behind me!

Like a Wave of the Sea

But when she asks, she must believe and not doubt, because she who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. The woman should not think she will receive anything from the Lord; she is a double-minded woman, unstable in all she does.
James 1:6-8

Last week Gwen was sick with a virus we had never heard of before. She had fever for five days straight, and among other symptoms, painful sores in her mouth. She was almost unable to eat anything for the better part of three days. The doctor told us that day 4 of the sores would be the worst and it was. She drank only a couple of glasses of milk. She was miserable. By the time night rolled around, she was so deeply uncomfortable and discouraged that she started to groan.
I was working on the other side of the house and heard these lamenting sounds. I got up to see what it was and went to her room and she looked like she was asleep. Then I went back to work, and a couple of minutes later, I heard it again. This time when I went back, I saw her turning and spoke to her. She was just so miserable.
I pray a lot – every day – but one thing I rarely do, and haven’t done for years, is to pray with Gwen. Just at that moment, I felt I should pray with her and, as intimate as our relationship is, it still took a good measure of courage to open my mouth and pray. I started out slowly, “Heavenly Father…” and as I prayed I realized that because of the import and rarity of this prayer, Gwen would full faith it in. That gave me pause. Do I pray for her healing? What if she is not better in the morning? If God doesn’t answer the prayer, Gwen might begin to doubt the power of prayer. Maybe I should pray a safe prayer. But I didn’t. I prayed a bold prayer that the Creator of that virus might wipe it clean from her system.
She turned over to sleep and for the most part had a restful night. I went back to work, my mind wrestling with doubt. I prayed for God to forgive my doubt and fill me with childlike faith. These verses from James came to mind – I understand the damage that doubt does. It makes me unstable in all that I do.
Gwen’s fever broke that night. But would it have done so anyway? Father, forgive my doubt.