Deal or No Deal

Bargaining with God isn’t the smartest idea. For a year I’d prayed that God would give me the desire of my heart. Time to understand, pursue, and work on the craft of writing.

He answered my prayer, but I changed my mind. In order to write, I needed to give up something else I loved—teaching.

“Just one more year and I’ll stop,” I said.

The position seemed like a perfect fit. I loved the team of teachers I would work with. I knew some of the students from past classes. Everything happened so fast—too fast.

I knew to pray about this new position. My prayer was a simple one. “God, if you don’t want me to do this, close the door.”

Just because the door was open, didn't mean I needed to walk through.

My problem, I didn’t stay still long enough to hear His answer. How could I? In less than two weeks, I had been asked to take on a directorship, attended a conference, a parent meeting and acquired my first couple of students. When I was with others in the organization, my excitement grew. I allowed my excitement to silenced God’s voice.

When I decided to listen, I sent in my resignation.

“What if I pay you more?” One Mom inquired. So many ‘what ifs’ have come my way. What if I had listened to God the first time then disappointing my friends may not have entered the equation.

To pursue the dream God put in me comes with a cost. I never thought the cost would be something else I loved.

I’ll leave my bargaining to garage sales.

Thanks God, for not allowing me to settle for a “deal” instead of your best.

Purpose

The round mechanism on the dialysis machine turned like a hamster’s wheel. Each rotation massaged blood through the long tubes. So many tubes; so much blood. Ruby Brooks drifted in and out of sleep from the rhythmic hum of the motor. The transfer of the life-giving liquid from her body into the machine and back didn’t seem to disturb her.

The nurse continued to monitor the changing numbers of her vital signs.

“Are you comfortable?” The nurse asked.

“Oh, yes.” Ruby opened her eyes long enough to answer.

The two responded to each other with the ease of an elderly couple. Five hours of continuous interaction can bring about the familiarity I witnessed in the few minutes I had been in the room.

Nurse Eve placed a chair across from the bed.

“Get comfortable.” She encouraged. “Don’t mind me.”

Her instruction turned out to be difficult for me to execute. Each time she entered the room, Eve walked between the bed and where I sat. When Ruby was awake enough to converse, the necessary intrusion often brought our conversation to a halt.

“What were we talking about?” Ruby would ask when Eve departed.

After an hour, I got into the rhythm of Eve’s visits every sixty second (I’m not exaggerating) and helped Ruby track with our conversations.

“It’s not suppose to be this way.” She stared at me; her eyes clear and alert. The most they had been during my visit.

I waited.

“How do I go on when I question if God will answer my prayers?” she asked. “Do you think I’m strong enough to handle this?”

Eve walked in before I could answer. For once, I appreciated the interruption.

Ruby wasn’t asking me about her physical health, but her spiritual one. I didn't have answers for what was happening in Ruby’s life. I listened some more, we talked, and I prayed for her. Three hours has passed before I stood to leave.

“Thank you” she said.

“For what?” I stood by the bed and held her hand.

“For listening.” She smiled.

I adjusted the oxygen tube under her nose before I walked out. Then the struggle in my heart began. I wanted to ask God why. He never promised the Christian life would be easy, but for over ten years I had watched Ruby help others even when she struggled. She helped me. She changed my life.

When I was angry with God and wanted nothing more than to walk away, she reminded me God didn’t cause my pain. God understands hurt. He watched his own son die an agonizing death because He loved me. God had a purpose for his son’s pain.

I walked toward the exit.

Nurse Eve rounded the corned with the dialysis machine. We headed for the elevator together.

“She’s a special lady.” Eve said.

“Yes, she is.” I said.

Eve stopped and looked at me. “It’s her faith. She’s always talking about God. Mrs. Brooks has strong faith.”

I smiled.

“I don’t see too many patients around here with faith like hers. She’s a remarkable lady.” Eve said.

Nurse Eve pushed the machine toward the staff elevators.

It’s her faith. Ruby had shared with me her struggles and yet someone else saw her strength. When she didn’t realize it, Ruby ministered to others.

Was Eve a Christian? I don’t know.

God has a purpose for Ruby’s pain, even if I don’t like what she’s going through.


“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God’s throne. Think of all the hostility he endured from sinful people; then you won’t become weary and give up.” Hebrews 12:1-3

Perspective

He was homeless and hungry. His complexion matched the blackness of his thread barren shirt. The skin color of his face blended with his dark hair and made it difficult to detect a hairline. The pants he wore were several sized too big and were held up on his small frame with an old electrical cord. His feet, leathery and cracked from exposure, were covered with the red dirt. When he smiled, my heart broke for this sixteen-year-old boy.

He was one of thousands of homeless children who lived in Nairobi. Some as young as five.

As we finished preparations for the only hot meal he would receive that week, one of the leaders in our group asked him to lead the twenty-five young boys in worship. With a broad smile, he nodded and approached the other street kids.

“He has a fine voice and he loves the Lord.” Ruth said. She was one of the few local pastors who reached out to these unwanted kids.

He stood in the middle of the group and clapped a rhythm. The rest of the boys joined in. Before long, they were clapping, jumping, and singing. I knew the song, but hadn’t heard it sung with such passion. I didn’t want them to stop.

Ruth called to the young man and asked him to bless the food. Again, he smiled and nodded. He prayed.

I cried.

He thanked God for everything he had and asked Him to bless his friends who had nothing.

How different our perspectives were. I saw a teenager who lived on the streets, ate out of trashcans, and wore everything he owned to keep it from being stolen.

He had had an encounter with God. He knew he was blessed.

Seven years have passed and I have never forgotten the young boy whose face radiated when he smiled, the love of Christ so apparent in his eyes. His material possessions were so few, but spiritually he had everything he needed.

With Easter only a few days away, I’m reminded of what’s important through the eyes of a sixteen-year-old homeless youth.

He has risen indeed!

There's Always Hope

“Why did she die?” I asked. Grandmother put the plate she washed on the drying rack before she faced me. From where I sat at the kitchen table, I could see the moisture in her eyes. I looked down at my homework. The struggle I had with math didn’t compare with the struggle I saw in her eyes.

“She was sick and didn’t get better.” Grandmother said.

At thirteen, I hadn’t experienced death. I knew of distance relatives who had died when I was younger, but their deaths had little effect on my life. This was different. My mother had died. She died and I never got the chance to know her.

My grandmother was the only mom I knew. I was two when my grandparents adopted me. My mother lived in another state and her visits during holidays were short and stressful.

Life is complicated when you’re adopted by relatives. I learned how to explain that my grandparents were my parents, my mother was my sister, and my brother was my nephew. Most people didn’t understand.

“You look like your mother.” People said to me at the funeral. I hated those words. No one wants to hear they look like a corpse.

Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize my grandmother sat at the table until she touched my arm.

“I don’t think her sickness caused her death.” Grandmother said. She picked up a potato from the bowl that rested in her lap. “She gave up.”

“Gave up what?” I asked. I watched grandmother peel the potato before she answered.

“She gave up on life. Life gets tough sometimes; dreams get crushed." Grandmother wiped her tears with a paper napkin before she looked at me again. "Never give up. When you're faced with difficult situations, remember there’s always hope. One day you’ll understand.”

My days of understanding did come. There have been times when I’ve felt crushed and defeated. I wanted to give up. “God, take me out of this, it’s too hard!” I’ve cried.

Don’t give up, Edwina, I’m here. God’s words reminded me of my grandmother’s.

The only mom I knew, my grandmother, died thirteen years ago.

“Next time I see you, I’ll be out of this bed and we’ll do something together.” Mom said. At seventy-five, Mom was blind and a double amputee.

“I’ll look forward to that.” I said thankful she couldn’t see my tears. She died four days later.

Next time I see my mom (grandmother) will be in heaven. She won’t be in bed and I look forward to spending time with her.

“Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen.” Hebrews 11:1

There’s always hope.

Breaking Bread

I sat at the back of the classroom and listened to the students read a familiar Bible passage. As the teacher’s assistant, I had collected homework and proceeded to take attendance. I stopped when the teacher wrote two words on the board—breaking bread.

Breaking bread is a term I associate with Bible stories or good food. As a youth, I had grown too familiar with the stories for them to have much of an impact. The food is what I remember.

Bread-Breaking dinners at church meant an abundance of home-made dishes. Gluttony was expected as people over-loaded their plates. Sometimes a person carried two plates; one for the main meal and the other for desserts.

By the end of the dinner, people pushed their chairs away from the table, rested their hands on their full stomachs, and settled into conversations. The dinners eventually became known as potlucks or fellowship meals, but the purpose was still the same—full bellies and good conversations.

Recently, I broke bread at a writer’s conference and the purpose wasn’t to fill my stomach. To give details wouldn’t be fair to the writer who shared this activity, but I can share my experience. I was full of encouragement, hope, and possibilities. I was reminded that words can feed an appetite that is often ignored, and give strength to a tired soul.

The teacher’s voice drew my attention back to the board. I smiled. The passage the students read was more that a story about bread and fish. The words were meant to give us encouragement, hope, and possibilities.

God’s Word is full of encouragement, hope, and possibilities.

When I feast on God's Word, He fills me. While I chew, I can’t negate what He says is true about me.

“I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

I swallow and am thankful.

Things I've Learned in the Hands of a Master

"Edwina, The many comments below may discourage you, but that's not my intention."

My heart sank. I scrolled down the manuscript and read comment after comment until I couldn't read another word.

I closed my lap top and sat with my palms pressed against my eyes. I took several deep breaths and swallowed. I didn't want to cry.

"Honey, it's okay. You're still a good writer." My husband rubbed my shoulders.

I nodded.

Questions began to bombard my mind. Who said you could write? Have you spent a year wasting your time?

I shook my head to chase away the words that discouraged me. Isn't this what I wanted? An opportunity to have my writing critiqued by a master of the craft? Why was it so painful?

I learned when you are in the hands of a master and start to look around, doubt crowds your thoughts.

"You can write." I had heard often. Maybe too often.

When I presented what I thought was my best to a well-known writer, I felt defeated when I read his critique. The pain wasn't because his words were unkind. It was painful because I had been broken.

I learned you need to bend when you sit at the feet of a master. If you don't bend, you will break.

The one who critiqued my work wanted to make me better. I presented a piece that I thought needed polishing. The master took me back to the beginning of the process. The piece needed to be taken apart.

I learned the master can see what the student can't.

The next morning I sat in front of my computer. I cried. I asked God to make me teachable. An hour later, I had typed out two paragraphs the way I had been instructed. After many critiques, I received the words I longed to hear.

"YOU GOT IT. Excellent."

Being teachable is important and brokenness is sometimes part of the process. Painful; yes, but worth it.

In the hands of a master, I have so much to learn.

One of Those Days

Yesterday was one of those days. I smiled until my face hurt. I danced silly dances with my teenage sons and husband. No music needed. I laughed out loud just because.

Sleep finally embraced me with a grin on my lips. I had one of those days when life was exciting and rewarding. I hope I have another one very soon.