Overcomer

Drama unfolds before my eyes. It’s a small event to the casual observer, but high drama to a closely watching eye.  The young deer is terrified.  Each step is followed by a dead-silent pause, a glance here and there and an overall body-shaking that interrupts all progress.

The next step happens. The same drama unfolds and the next and the next. It takes a full five minute for the young doe to cover about 20 feet of low lying brush and grass near the water’s edge. The progress is utterly painful to observe. It’s one of a creature completely unnerved, unknowing and unacquainted with life in the moment. 

The eyes and the head position even tell the tale. The head is high—at right angle to the back-- and the eyes wide open and in constant motion. The deer to looks quickly—shaking--in anticipation of the need to leap into high speed action.

So what’s the trouble? It’s a completely quiet moment in the course of a Spring day. The sky is soft, the wind is quiet for the moment and the lake nearby is calm. No other animals share this plot of ground with the deer. She is quiet as a mouse.

Then the true nature of this drama unfolds.  This is birthing time in the country. A fawn has one year to learn the ways of the land and the dangers of bands of coyotes and cougars that roam nearby in the winter. This young doe has been ejected from the nest. The mother protection is gone and she must walk alone so another can be born.

I want to rescue her. Her eyes speak “fear” to me and I long to wrap my arms around her neck and invite her in my heart and my neighborhood of protection.  I want her to know that I love her and understand that she is longed for and wanted.

Not to be.  I remember the first time I taught children, the first time I rode a horse, the first time I entered a school room and the first time I walked alone.  The first time successes are essential in sending fear running for cover and building in me the courage and trust in the One who loves me to the core.

Be safe little one.  And grow to become a world-changing mom in your own right.

A Reflection

On January 20, 2017, Martin Luther King III spoke to reporters as he left Trump Tower in NYC.  On the occasion of his father’s birthday, this youngest son of Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered a quick message that shook me awake in the moment. He mentioned President Johnson’s War on Poverty, an initiative born in the 1960’s and implied that this major legislation had a hand in bringing decline to inner-city black families. 

President Johnson initiated Community Action Agencies throughout the Country to bring economic and social benefits to low income families throughout the nation. The goal was stellar. The outcome was less so.

Already in place was the practice of giving low-income moms a welfare check if they were single. They were circled with support at these neighborhood agencies. The agencies became creative, starting treatment programs, home-based education, early childhood education, youth development, employment programs and housing initiatives. Yet an unexpected outcome clouds the efforts.

Because of the welfare check, fathers became the odd-man-out and were often even targeted as “the enemy” in an impossible double bind.  Should low-incomes parents desire to marry, they had to make the decision to leave welfare’s financial support. Fathers were not targeted in job searches to encourage this outcome. As a result, marriage was delayed and often completely out of the question. Fathers wandered around the borders of family life or left altogether.

Martin Luther King III’ stings me to the core!

For 27 years, I worked in a Community Action Agency. I gave it my all, raising millions and millions of dollars to address poverty issues, discuss solutions and build programs for low income families. Most of those we served were single-parent families or youth needing a boost to get into college. I also helped to jump start a non-profit organization to assist single women to gain employment. 

Within the Community Action Agency, two major programs should have clarified my limited vision. The first program employed men who were experiencing homelessness before they found housing. Men stayed in a shelter during job searches and found their own housing once they were employed.  Much to our surprise, once the man was employed an entire family structure came out of nowhere!  Reunifications happened and children found the dad they had not known for years.  Federal funding for this program ended and we left the positive outcomes in the dust.

In the second program, the agency established Devoted Dads, a program to serve the needs of low-income, non-custodial parents. Non-custodial parents swarmed our offices, and without exception voiced frustration, helplessness and alienation from a bureaucracy that pointed the figure at them instead of offering assistance. They wanted visitation, job training and supportive services. They wanted help solving custody issues that were out of reach without an attorney to assist them. We were able to impact over 1,300 men in three years with visitation, help with child support and support for family reunification, when appropriate.  As with the first program, federal funding ended and our development activities turned elsewhere, where money targeted traditional services.

I no longer work in social services, but my memory is crystal clear. In my mind, I revisit those two short-lived programs at the same time that I see black men chanting, “black lives matter”, stop traffic and create havoc on the sidewalks of their cities. While women join them, the overarching scene is out of control black men, yelling in helpless frustration.

I now believe that we must take a serious look at the wisdom of Mr. King and determine that inner-city black families matter. Young men in inner cities are often alienated from the mainstream of family life. They turn to drugs, father children and languish on their own. These men must recognize the law. However, they also must receive the honor and respect that comes from having a living wage job in support of their families. 

The caring colleagues of mine from years in social services are still my heroes. However, I reflect the defining assumptions of our work that was handed down from federal legislation:

Did we focus on the symptoms and not the roots of poverty?  

Did we inadvertently foster generations of fatherless children with welfare for single mom?

Did we leave dads behind?

Our nation is now shifting like a boat in a strange, blustery sea.  I believe that it is wise to use this season to encourage the restoration of families simply by giving the economic nod to fathers.  

The Fall Retreat Goose Hotel

The leaders of the annual goose gathering do not allow any divergence from the hallowed September invasion.  It’s the only chance that these leaders have to enforce rest and they allow no interference. It’s the Fall Goose Convocation. 

The clan arrives the first week in September as though they hold a clock in their beak that goes off with a time-to-rest announcement.  They take over completely. Once they appear, the other residents move out of the way and wait for permission to join the fringes of their dignified Goose club meetings.

By now,  the second week in September, the full family of 43 settles in and begins a daily routine: breakfast near the shore, group exploration of deeper waters and short excursions.  This formal get-away is an away-from-it-all moment-in-time, a place of rest.

My role is to listen and to watch—to visit them daily—especially in the morning light.  Clearly, this goose hotel is a where they gather strength and increase substance.   The "clock over their beaks" will sound in November and they will gather their young ones for long flight time South. 

Next year, this family will return with their little ones arriving as adults.  The kids will have completed their schooling in the furnace of affliction and have experienced the struggle to endure hours of flight into the night hours.  Next year they will know from experience the extraordinary value of rest. 

The Ocean Speaks

Today, the wild Pacific Ocean!  My six-month-old puppy stays at heel by my side, responds to commands and seems ready for the shore instead of a quiet lake walk. 

The flat shore is a monster today: ten breaking waves and salty foam at break point.  The scene is the follow-up from two hurricane-force storms.  I sink into three inch rain-soaked holes at every step. This is no walk in the park.

A late-model white truck approaches and halts directly in front of me, 15 feet from the rising tide.  My heart stops and I yell inside—don’t slow down; the sand swells with storm water and is SO soft.  But the drivers steps on the gas too late and the truck wheels twirl.

I remember dos and don’ts, but the young man doesn’t even know how to get the borrowed truck into four-wheel drive.  I call 911 and get the number of two rescue services.  No answer.

Ten minutes pass and we are only10 feet from the wave.  I find that these drivers are Canadian students who say, “We know nothing”.  The girl gets out of the truck and stands on the rear bumper as her friend finds four-wheel drive and begins yet another assault on the impossible.

The 911 operator and I soon partner on my cell phone and we connect with the local police who are only able to help with rescue but cannot provide rescue (laws!).  I see two black dots on the horizon.  Pup and I run full speed toward a small jeep and ask them to give aide.  The next dot is the police SUV and I point toward the distant truck, knowing that my work here is over.

I know this beach well, but wait a minute! The familiar beach is no more:  The yellow sign at trail’s head and other trusty stakes in the ground are nowhere to be found.  They’ve been decimated by the storm!  

I climb up the sand to the dunes and see my dire position!  Familiar beach-front homes are in the wrong place. I’ve long-since passed the trail and must double back.  I decide to return on the dunes rather than the beach.  It seems logical. 

Yet each step is an adventure.  The pup leaps over logs and splashes through swamps that now populate the waist-high dunes, while I use all of my available leg strength to maintain balance and avoid falling.  Forty-five minutes later, we find the trail and head home with me in a full sweat.  My shaking body gives way to a steaming hot bath and the pup lies spread eagle on the floor.

Upon reflection I find that experiential learning again is at its best:

·       Pray first.  When I met up with the couple in the truck, I needed to immediately call on the name of the Lord.  I did not.

·       Submit to His quiet spirit.  I recognized their fear.  It was an open door to introduce the love-power of God to them or at bare minimum to depart in Jesus name.  I did not change the atmosphere.

·       Stop.  Later, when I was alone on the dunes, I continued to make split-second decisions in do-it-yourself mode, until I realized that much of my progress was interrupted by the standing water, logs and debris from the storms.  I did not stop first, and ask Holy Spirit for direction back to the beach.

Here we have it!  Graduate level course in preparedness for those who seek God as Lord.  I have only two-choices in trauma:  “head in the sand” or “heart in the Lard”.  Which will I choose next time?

Off Track--On Track

It all began when I decided I must have a “today” word for what it means to “put the Lord your  God to the test”.  It’s the 2^nd temptation Jesus faces after fasting 40 days.  The devil states his nasty business by suggesting that Jesus needs some real proof of His exalted position and should jump off a roof and get rescued by God. That would settle everything. (See Luke 4)

But Jesus says, ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test” and sends the messenger from hell away on his heels.

I wonder, I’m not one to jump off buildings, so what do I do that puts my God to the test--today? 

After a few days, I hear within me the fateful words, “Drive the speed limit.  Drive the speed limit.” 

This is revolting.  My personal pet peeves are slow poke drivers.  They drive exactly the speed limit and keep 12+ drivers fuming behind them.  They lack basic consideration for others and contemplate life in their own sweet time. 

On the other hand, I am an appropriate, over-the-actual-speed-limit driver.  I drive eight to 10 miles over the speed limit on freeways and five or more over in cities.  It’s a generational skill inherited from my father and I do it well. I have no accidents.

But the truth soon dawns---the “today” 2nd temptation of Christ is parked right in my own driveway.  When I speed I expect God to keep me safe.    I’ve been “had” and I asked for it.  Yuk!

But now, weeks later, I am becoming a new woman.  I drive the speed limit and report the following:

1. I am always on time.  If I arrive after the scheduled start time of an event, the meeting is delayed and I am on time.
2. Stop lights and I are in a groove.  At the first stop light after a highway drive, the light invariably turns green just as I arrive and I pass the speedsters that are waiting in the other lane. 
3. I rest.  I notice houses, people, hills, animals, trails, etc.  Where were they before? 
4. I pull over to let drivers pass or I drive in the slow lane.  I have compassion on them and don’t want their tension darting into my rear view window.
5. I now rule over the race car driver to the point of her demise.  She is a liar and a cheat.  All these years I thought I needed to be “wherever” as quickly as possible.  On a 100 mile trek, I now arrive about 10 minutes later than before the slow down.  Hmm.  What did I do in those 10 minutes that made the world a better place?  Not much.
6. I’m in the Word. I now look forward to road trips, because I am at peace, not “working the road”, and can listen to the New Testament on CD, over and over again. 

But there’s more change emerging in other places of my life.  That race car demon had her hands into everything!  She’s now exposed into the light of day and declared a complete misfit. 

Devil you lose.  Jesus you win again.  The journey itself has become a destination.

The "Temp" Job

I did not know I could be a writer until I quit writing.  I felt all along that my participation in the work of social services as a grant writer and program developer was designed for someone else.  Since that someone failed to show up or just said “no” to the offer, God tapped me.  I sensed that the work was a “someone-has-to-pay-the-price” thing and that the Lord could not find anyone else to climb into the saddle of this race horse.  Since He knew I was available, he placed me in that fast-paced, firing-range type position doing a work that He simply needed to have done.

I raised millions and millions of dollars in the nation’s War on Poverty, but always felt like a fish-out-of-water.  I just showed up.  After all, my training is in Microbiology and Psychology, not English or Social Services.  But God accomplished a work in spite of me.  Truly a miracle!

The technical writing is over and I now write in a different way.  But I appreciate some things that I learned while engaged in that “temp” job that lasted 26 years. 

First, I came to the computer each morning desperate, since I felt that I knew nothing whatsoever.  For years the work day started with me calling out for God to be God in the weighty matters before me. I began one step at a time and things of importance came forth at the point of greatest need and only as I worked.

Also, I learned God’s intense care for persons experiencing poverty and homelessness.  This passion often gripped me so hard and strong that I paced the floor.  The office area was large and other staff came know the pacing as part of my workday.

I also learned to fight.  I sensed that often what was going on was out of sight and in another realm, so I came to work early in order to pray for this non-profit organization, and it became needed component of my day.  The writing continued, but prayer was my center point.  I learned that I was not alone, ever. 

 

I now write in a different way, but sometimes still cannot imagine that this writing life is for real and not just another “temp” job. Yet something is different.  I seldom resist the computer when my resident friend, desperation, is there.  I accept this “guy”, since he seems to partner rather closely with the living God.

I sense that I really do not need to know much of anything.  I just need to know Him. 

Close Encounter of a Natural Kind

I park my car, clicking the lock and trudging slowly toward a nearby trial that circles a small lake.  It is late Friday afternoon and a thin layer of clouds cover the sky.  As I turn onto the trail, every visible form of life clamors to escape my towering presence. Some gain altitude, some paddle away and others scoot along the water in a significant struggle to gain a safe distance from my intruding presence. 

The resident Great Blue Heron adds to the commotion.  He lets out a guttural, caw-caw complaint at my interference in his life and flies forward around the lake, guaranteeing yet another interruption of his sublime fishing expedition. 

I continue with eyes downcast in a steady pace, expecting my way to now be predictable; however, at the next bend in the trail, a fully-grown doe comes into view and stands her ground.  The doe’s jack knife ears zero in to examine and determine the danger factor of the upright movement 100 feet in front of her.

The doe continues to hold her position and in five minutes doe and I meet—two feet apart at most—head-to-head and heart-to-heart. 

Time then stands still.  I begin to share from my heart the difficulty of living life in the fast lane and the urgency of recovering from such at week’s end.  The doe listens intently, still motionless, responding with her significant understanding of underground matters of life. 

 

The doe then seems to whisper, “just be.”  She reflects back to me the steady rhythm of life on the lake in the quiet of the day, reminding me of her season of early summer and the need to plant and give birth at the right moment in time--not too soon and not too late.  The doe refers to that “monarch in the sky” and its dominion over her most important objective: giving and sustaining life.  I sigh and look up, noting that clouds no longer hide the sun and long shadows outline my doe. 

The doe is not finished, however, and I must receive several more minutes of deep counsel that is focused on the “work” of waiting in silence.  At last I sense the freedom to move on and turn back to the trail, noticing for the first time that I am in a secret garden: wild roses, myrtles, salmon berry vines, hawthorns and salal bushes form a halo over my head.  Their leaves brush against my arms as I continue my walk around the little lake. 

I now walk strong, tucking this mysterious encounter with wisdom and beauty in my hip pocket and dropping futile labors to the ground.  Such become trifles and cannot survive a day of life in this secret garden.