Refreshment - Words of Kindness

I stand at the pharmacy counter, curl my toes, breathe deep, and explain again that my son is on our insurance policy. There’s a mix-up with numbers and this happens every time. There’s a line behind me and a son beside me with eyes streaked purple-red.

“The eye drops are three hundred dollars. I don’t see that they’re covered,” the clerk says.

And I snap.

I’m frazzled and frayed and my tone goes sharp. I know it is not the clerk’s fault, but I’ve found the end of my rope.

In this moment, I don’t care.

It’s been a long morning. Waiting on the phone. At the doctor’s office. Now here. I could’ve predicted this problem, too. In the end, I decide it’s best to go home while the pharmacy contacts the insurance company. It means another trip into town, but we leave the store – my scarlet-eyed son and me.

It takes about a quarter of a mile for the conviction to come. I’d been rude. Short-tempered. Sharp. I try to justify my attitude, but it doesn’t settle on my soul. And later in the afternoon, it all makes perfect sense.

My youngest sons and I sit on the back patio. The afternoon sun scorches and my boys have popsicles we’ve made from raspberry lemonade. The popsicles melt fast – quick rivers down their forearms and watercolor drops that hit the red bricks under our feet.

Sweet refreshment.

And as we sit together, the pharmacy scene comes to heart. As we sit, it moves through my mind. Even though my boy still looks like the tough end of a fight, I know I’ve been wrong.

My reaction was sandpaper on the soul.

Far, far from refreshment.

A printed piece by Chuck Swindoll hangs by a magnet on our fridge, and I think of it now. The pink copy paper has faded to pastel. The edges are torn. A preschooler added art work – an army of stick-figure men. But the words are still powerful. The last two lines of “Attitude” flow with my pulse:

“The only thing we can do is play the one string we have, and that is our attitude…I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.” – Chuck Swindoll

Truth. Sweet truth.

 Every tough circumstance offers an opportunity to respond in a way that brings refreshment.

When I go to pick up my son’s meds, I look for the clerk. It’s late and she’s left for the day. But another trip into town brings another opportunity, and one afternoon I see her standing behind the counter. I know what I need to do. The apology brings tears, for her and for me. But she unlatches the gate, moves to the other side of the counter, and wraps her arms around me. We stay for a moment, holding on tight. We’re suddenly stranger-sisters brought together in a moment of real-life, heart-and-soul grace.

When I leave, I know I’ve left behind a trace of Jesus. Today my attitude has bought refreshment to another’s soul.

And because God’s mercy cup simply overflows, her reaction brought refreshment to mine.

Rain Rescue - The Power of a Loving Thing

The boys and I are driving home after an afternoon of errands. As we cross the bridge that spans the Mississippi, I notice the clouds. They're broody and dark and the sky in between is a deep blue gash.

By the time we're home, they've knit to a ominous mass and then there is a wild torrent of rain.

We pull in the drive and sit. The back door is down the steps and across the patio.

"I'm going to run in," Gabe says. I turn around and see he's watching the digital clock. It's three. Time for the boys' half-hour of PBS. It's a powerful thing.

"Just wait," I say. "It will slow. If you make a run for it, you'll still be soaked."

"Please?" he asks.

I pop the locks and he's out, down the steps, and  fumbling at the door for the right key.

And he's in.

And the rain hits the windshield in hard, angry pelts.

A bit like my mood lately, I recognize. A long-time struggle has left me newly stripped. The raw, inside of me can be as dark as the day.

I sit for a moment and listen to the chatter from the back seat. I watch the rain flow like a river down the the drive.

And then I see the umbrella.

It's a Fighting Illini umbrella, and it's huge. Wide slices of blue and orange move across the patio. I see small legs and feet underneath.

Gabe.

The umbrella bobs up the stairs, stops for a moment as the gate, and pauses outside my van door.

It tips and there is Gabe's smile.                             

I throw the door open.

"I came to rescue you, Mom," he says.

There he is, this small sprig of a boy, holding this canopy of nylon. He's holding it out to me, wanting to walk me in.

I've been rescued from the rain.

I hold the umbrella and it covers us both. We move fast and Gabe delivers me to the porch. I step inside and he runs back for his brothers.

The struggle, the sadness, hasn't gone away. But the edges have been soothed with a sweet salve. The sweet salve of a loving thing.

Loving others well makes a difference. Simple kindness can shine rays of hope.

Before long the boys are all in and the house is full. There's a thunder of boyness moving toward the family room upstairs. But as Gabe rushes past I reach out and snag him. I pull him close. I whisper in his small, warm ear.

"Thanks," I say. "For rescuing me."

"You're welcome," he says. And he smiles.

But he really has no idea.


Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds...  Hebrews 10:23-24

So Long, Old Man Sam!

We used to call Samuel Old Man Sam. When he was smaller, he loved to sit around in his robe and slippers. He drank tea. He talked about deep things. He learned to read at an early age so it was a normal thing to find him reading, sipping, wearing....

Sam is eleven now and Old Man Sam has gone out the window.

Sam's my adventure seeker. This summer meant para sailing and diving. It meant learning to water ski, too.

We're on the river and Sam balances on the edge of the boat, toes curling, brown arms at his side. He's about to plunge in. Then we'll hand him his skis. We'll toss in the ski rope. We'll circle around him and put the rope close and when he's ready we'll "hit it" and the boat will surge forward like mad.

My mama's heart beats a mile a minute.

Sam is in the water now. It takes a few times, but before long he's is up. He's standing, water spraying around him. He's grinning so big and he nods his head and we know the signal.

Faster, Dad.

Old Man Sam sheds and this born-to-be-wild son has arrived.

Sometimes I look at this boy and I don't know how we've gone from there to here. Sam was three when Gabe was born. Zay came two years later. I hope some of his precious time, some of those tender moments, weren't washed away in the rush of those crazy-busy years.

But it was good. Now Sam is growing. Changing. And it's a good thing, too.

Father let my son grow in the ways of Your son. Let him, like Jesus, grow in wisdom and stature and favor with You and men.

It's a prayer I lift for my boys often. That they'd grow physically, socially, intellectually, emotionally, but most of all spiritually. That they'd grow in the Lord. That they'd anchor deep as they stretch into men.

Sam's arms are tired. We've turned twice. He was careful not to ski over the wake yet. I know his legs are tired, too.

Eventually he lets go of the rope and glides into the water.

For a second I sit straight in my "spotter" seat. He's wearing a life jacket but the Mississippi - it churns strong.

Then I see his head. Blondness bobbing. We pull a little closer and I see that he's beaming, too.

I love this new boy.

It's okay to hold those memories dear. That little boy will forever be in in my heart.

 But it's also okay to bid farewell to Old Man Sam.

And to reach for the new man he'll become!