Rain, Rain, Go Away

Rain rain go away,
Come again another day.
Little Johnny wants to play;

After four days of rain here in Florida, tropical storm Fay continues to linger around. As a kid, I remember saying the above nursery rhyme when the weather was bad and kept me inside. Waking to the sound of rain this morning brought the short chant back to mind.

It's not the rain that bothers me, it's the company it keeps. Torrential down pours accompanied with high wind gust and conditions right for tornadoes isn't exactly conditions conducive for singing in the rain.

When will it stop?

I don't know.

Two different friends with two totally different hardships going on in their lives asked me the same question. "When will it stop?"

I don't know. The torrential down pour in their lives are very real and at this point, no end is in sight.

The little rhyme mentioned earlier has an interesting history. Spain and England were rivals. In 1855, the Spanish attempted to attack England with a larger fleet of ships only to be soundly defeated. The English victory was attributed to the swiftness of their ships and the stormy weather that scattered the Spanish Armada fleets.

The rain actually helped to bring about the victory.

Is it possible for the rain in our lives to bring about victories? Ask, Silas and Peter. They were beaten, jailed, and chained for doing something right. The rains poured down in their lives and they worshiped.

"When will it stop?" They didn't know, but it didn't keep them from worshiping the God they knew to be real.

"Rain, rain go away,
but I will praise Him anyway."

Praising is a choice that cannot be taking away by circumstances.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

The old cliche "between a rock and a hard place" came to mind as I listened to the retelling of a National Geographic film clip. Having been lured away from the herd, a wilder beast calf was in a race for its life as it was chased by cheetahs.

Being caught at the edge of the river, the end seemed near for the young animal. Death by cheetah. Not a way I would want to go. Suddenly a crock appeared from nowhere and grabbed the trapped calf. A tug-of-war pursued. Death by cheetah, crock, or being ripped into. Wow, the calf was caught between a rock and a hard place.

Amazingly, the rest of the herd had been watching and a few of the bulls ventured forth. They attacked. The cheetahs let go, the crock let go and here is the miracle, the calf lived!

All appeared hopeless and the calf lived in spite of being caught in an impossible situation.

Over the last few months I have faced situations where the outcome seemed grim. It's strange that the survival of a wilder beast can give me hope.

So does Psalm 33:19
"He rescues them from death and keeps them alive in times of famine."

My Past Finally Caught Up With Me

Tired, late at night, and distracted can equal a date with disaster; especially when behind the wheel of a car.

Having arrived back in town after almost three weeks of being away, I opted to go to a meeting Tuesday night. I wanted to go, yet after flying Orlando to Seattle, back to Orlando to Philadelphia and back to Orlando, fatigue had caught up with me.

Heading home Tuesday, I was quickly yanked out of my tiredness when a blue and white lights appeared in my rear view mirror. Heart pounding fast, I pulled over.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

"Turn into the next street so we are not in the middle of the road." The command was stern.

Driving well under the speed limit, I drove the three hundred or so yards with the officer close behind me. His lights on the entire time.

My mind was spinning. What did I do?

Speeding? No.

Following too closely? No.

The last thing I remembered doing was moving my purse and cell phone so they would not slide to the floor if I needed to stop. Gut wrenching feelings flood through me. Did I do something while relocating my phone? I had no idea.

Walking up to my window the questions started. Was I aware of the offense I had made? No. Where was I coming from? A friend's house.

"Driver's license, proof of insurance, and registration, ma'am."

Fumbling and shaken, I produced what was requested. As the officer went back to his car my mind tried to embrace what was happening. Had I really done something that required a ticket? I prayed.

Moments felt like an eternity before he returned.

"Mrs. Perkins, how long have you been driving?"

I stopped breathing.

"Since I was seventeen, officer."

He smiled. He actually smiled!

"You have an impeccable record. Just be careful and drive home safely."

An impeccable record? I repeated to myself as I pulled away.

A past of twenty years with no tickets or traffic violations had caught up with me and I had been given favor.

I Want My Mommy!

The tears flowed down his face yet he made no attempt to stop them. Turning away he spoke in an inaudible whisper.

We waited.

Turning toward us again, he said loud enough to be heard, "I want my Mommy." The tears rolled down his face and carried the pain that he felt.

The camera continued rolling as he walked away, shoulders slumped and quivering, he tried to control his sobs.

This easily could be a scene found in a rerun of Lassie, but in actually it is a scene from a reality show. All viewers witnessed a grown man crying and asking for his "Mommy".

The rawness of reality shows can sometimes reveal the unexpected. Why are we so enthralled with someone else pain? Is it because of the pain in our own lives?

The individual lost the dream he had of being #1 and did what came natural to him in a time of extreme disappointment--he asked for his Mom. It didn't matter that he was a grown man.

I was reminded of how often we turn to something that gives us the most comfort when we face the most pain.

When overwhelming disappointment catches you off guard, what do you cry out for. Friends? Family? Material things?

When I'm feeling squeezed like a tube of toothpaste, I can only hope I cry out to the One who brings me the most comfort.

"I want my Daddy." My Abba, Father.

Stuff

Thinking about what to blog, I had decided to share about an event in the lives of my twins. That is until I received an e-mail from a friend.

She has spent the last six days in the hospital with her son. A couple of surgeries later, the problem is still not resolved. After reading through her e-mail that was full of medical jargon that I do not understand, one sentence caught my attention.

A week in the hospital truly gives you a new perspective on life and a new appreciation for all things simple and complex.

She began listing the things she missed that I, for one, have been guilty of not appreciating at times.

Sleeping in her own bed.

Seeing her child healthy and up running around.

Sitting on the couch talking with her daughter.

Eating food that she prepared.

There were several more desires on her list, but what caught my attention was her closing statement. She closed with saying, "it's just stuff." Looking around at the "stuff" in my life, I understand what she was saying. It's not the stuff, it's the people in our lives that make the stuff matter.

Looking at the clutter on the table doesn't bring me the frustration that it has over the last few days. It is a reminder that life is not always neat and tidy, but stuff is happening in and around our home.

Who knows, maybe I will eventually write about my "all-you-can-eat" pancake experience with the twins and two of their friends. After all, it is part of the stuff that makes my family so dear and special to me.

Nature of the Beast

New to the world of blogging, I've struggled to get my hands around two concepts: diary and public domain.

In my mind, a diary has always represented a place where one can write their deepest and most private thoughts. A close and dear friend may be presented with the privilege of peaking into the inner most parts of my being, but that is after they have declared their loyalty for a long time. No where in my definition of a diary does the scrutiny of total strangers enter the picture.

I decided to consult my word document on the definition of "blog." Underlining the word I had typed, my computer informed me that I had made a mistake. Interesting. So, I inquired as to the word my trusted electronic friend suggest I use. Bog, bloc, blot, blob, or blow. Not even close.

Okay, what about "Blogger?" Bolger, Flogger, Logger, or Boggier. Boogier? I don't think so.

My college-age daughter tells me, when in doubt--dictionary.com. This is what I found.

Blog, noun, online dairy. There in lies the problem.

My diary will remain my diary. Pen and paper making contact to convey my private thoughts is still very important to me. And my blog will remain my blog; revealing yet another side of me that emerges when fingers glide across a keyboard.

For now, I will continue to try to understand the nature of blogging and see where it takes me.

486

I was simply known as 486. Initially, after entering the building, passing an entourage of police, and being scrutinized by a medal detecting machine, I was addressed by my first and last name. The address was even accompanied with a smile.

The next time my name was called, my addressed included my first name and the number.

486

My presence was acknowledged with a glance. Like herded sheep, forty of us followed obediently, entered an elevator and headed to the seventh floor. As if watching a movie screen, we all watched the numbers change from one to seven. No words were exchanged.

The waiting began along with the silence. Sounding like a mosquito chorus, the florescent lights buzzed over head.

Someone coughed. Someone else sneezed followed by at least a dozen mumbled “bless you.” Again we were embraced by silence.

“I can tell none of ya’ll want to be here.” The voice rushed from around the corner flooding our silence. Questioning glances were exchanged by a few, but the voice had a captivated audience. Was he talking to us? Most of us probably wondered.

“I expect you to be where I can see you.” With that declaration, we all stood and filed around the corner. No one was in a hurry to be the first one there, especially after seeing the one who addressed us. His voiced matched his appearance; big, black, and no nonsense. Definitely not new to the task he completed, our addressing officer had expected us to respond quicker than we did to his call. He folded his arms as he scanned our interesting ensemble.

“If your name is not Jackson, Smith, Jones, or Brown I will probably butcher it.”
Butcher, did he have to say butcher?
“So when I call your number, line up in front of me.” At that point, all formality was gone. I was just a number. Even a smile was no longer in the equation.

When called, 212 pushed his glasses up on his noise as he approached the officer. “415”

No answer.

“415!”

No answer. Those who stood closest to the cop offered meek explanations for the absence. One brave soul offered to search for one missing in action.
“415, Linda—” the officer looked down at his chart before he addressed her last name.

Silence.

He looked at the officer standing next to him, both exchanged a frustrated look. With a heavy sign he bellowed once again.
“415!” Emerging from around the corner, 415 moved forward with an obvious limp in her right leg.
For a moment, the cop stared at her as if he would address her tardiness, but instead he looked back at his chart.

Eventually I heard it.

“486.”
I took my place.

We were escorted into the courtroom in single file. A heavy set red head sat to my right. Number 128, 125? Because of the location of her number, I couldn’t see the last one. To my right was Mr. Unidentified. I called him Mr. Unidentified because he sat down, slouched, folded his arms, and covered his number in the process.

He drummed his fingers on the arm closest to me. There were other places he would have rather been, and his demeanor expressed his desire quite clearly. Even the judge addressed him several times.

The forty was soon to be six.
“Listen careful; I will call your name and your number.”
One, two, three numbers were called quickly in succession. After glancing downing at a chart, the clerk continued.

“Edwina Perkins, 486.”

I rose from my seat and entered the juror’s box. My day of jury duty was about to get longer. Much longer.