Although many have not returned to the Rec Center in the midst of Covid-19, I decided the risk was worth it for me. The only exercise I was getting at home was bending the elbow to shovel the ice cream from the dish to the mouth. I was really settling into this “largely waistful” habit each evening and except for the fact that my clothes weren’t hanging right – as in not hanging at all – I was rather enjoying the break. But to my dismay, I had literally killed the adage “no pain, no gain.”  I glared at my bathroom scale as it shouted numbers that proved otherwise.

This week as I sprayed down each machine with disinfectant, wiping away any bacteria I might have deposited and then tossing the rag away, an analogy formed in my mind. This is what God does when we repent of our sins – He wipes the sin away, leaving us with a clean heart to start again – just as if we never sinned in the first place. And get this –  God not only wipes them away, He forgets them!  I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more. Jeremiah 31:34. This is such good news because when we do our part (repent) God does his. God takes our blunders (no matter how bad they are) and heals and restores us. There is nothing I can do that is SOOO awful that God won’t forgive if I ask Him.

I believe God gives us plenty of ways to see his goodness in our every day lives if we look for it. I had wiped down these machines many times since joining the Rec Center several years ago, yet this week was the first time I had thought about it in this spiritual way. Whether it was God pointing it out to me or it was just a heightened awareness on my part, I’m not sure. What I do know is that it encouraged me and reminded me of God’s love and His grace. And that’s a reminder I’ll take however it comes!

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

My sister and I ran into the house from the front yard where we had been playing. “Dad,” we hollered in panicky voices, awaking our father from his afternoon power nap, “Hurry, come save a life, please come – save a life!” Both of us, grabbing  a hand, pulled him to his feet from the recliner. His curiosity had obviously taken over and he willingly marched with us to the front yard where we pointed out the impending death of a medium sized toad in the clutches of a bull snake’s jaws.

I wouldn’t say Connie and I were toad lovers, but we certainly weren’t endeared to snakes. They could all starve to death as far as we were concerned. It was easy for us to go to battle for the under-toad (in this case).

Dad didn’t disappoint. I don’t remember exactly how he did it, but he was able to free the little guy from the jaws of the disgruntled consumer.

This story is a good reminder of how we have Someone to go to whenever we find ourselves involved in battle – whether that battle is relational, financial, health related, or any number or things. Just as Connie and I weren’t capable of (or courageous enough)  to free the toad and had to ask for Dad’s help, there are still battles as adults too big for us to manage on our own. And just like Dad who came willingly to help us, our Father in heaven stands ready to take over. In fact, II Chronicles 20:15 tells us that the battle is not ours, but God’s. I can imagine how King Jehoshaphat felt when he heard that the mighty armies of the Moabites, the Ammonites, and the Meunites had all combined and declared war on Judah. King Jehoshaphat’s small army didn’t stand a chance – not until they went to God. (Read the amazing outcome of this story in II Chronicles 20.)

I find it very comforting to know that God is not only willing, but commands me to let Him fight my battles.  He is so much better at it than I could  ever be. The outcomes that He orchestrates are beyond my imagination.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

FYI: I write most of my blogs to record family history and stories so that descendants  to follow might enjoy reading about and getting to know their ancestors a little better. Hopefully through these blogs, they will grasp a bit more about where they came from and be privy to their ancestor’s personalities, values, and quirks. It seems a bit less daunting to me to write once a month then to try to compile this information into a book. I am delighted when friends and even those I have never met tag along. As a reminder I publish my monthly blog on the first Monday of the month. If you are an occasional reader but would like to be reminded when I publish a new one, feel free to email me at delilalumbardy@gmail.com and I will place you on my reminder list and notify you by text or email – whichever you prefer. Now, let’s step back, again, to days gone by.

 

Dying Grace

Memorial Day has just passed. My childhood memories of this day are pleasant and comfortable. It was the day the family – Mom, Dad, and us three siblings – piled into our only vehicle – a 50’s bumblebee.  The main body of the Mercury was a mellow yellow and the rounded roof was a slightly faded black.  This car was known to vapor lock, but Dad assured me it wasn’t a hot enough day for that to happen. I didn’t understand all that, but I trusted Dad so I crawled in without reservations. We were off with a car full of plastic flowers in every color and a few vases of live flowers for the grandparents. Mom and Dad grew up in the same small town which made it convenient on Memorial Day – the loved ones of both sides resided in cemeteries within a 25 mile range. Mom had the flowers all sorted out in her head – which ones were to be placed on Uncle Bob’s grave, Aunt Millie’s grave, Grandpa and Grandma Schultz’s grave, Grandpa and Grandma Galvin’s grave – you get the picture. Mom is not a person (to this day) that likes to make a decision, but this was one of the exceptions.

I especially liked the years Mother Nature smiled on us. The sweet smells of irises, peonies, lilacs and snowball flowers crowded the inside of that old Mercury to the point we would roll down the windows to soften the strong fragrance.

Cemeteries were not scary places to me, but were instead a book of good stories. We often met up with distant relatives that we had not seen since the last Memorial Day. Weather permitting, we might visit for an hour or more, catching up on each other’s family lives and I would listen to the memories shared of the relative at our feet.

If I got bored with adult conversation, I would wander down the row of graves, reading the headstones. It was concerning to me whenever I found a grave of a child – maybe my age or even younger. I would wonder how they died, why they died, and would I die?  I knew God was a good God and would take care of me if I went to be with Him, but I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to be with my parents.

Even though visiting the cemetery as a child caused me to “deep think” things for a few days, I believe it was a good experience. It gave me an understanding of what James tells us in James, chapter 4 verse 14. For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. How did this help me to develop character?  I thought more of how I could please others because death is a part of life and we don’t have the answers to when our earthly days are over. I thought more about how I wanted to impact this world in a positive way.  It helped me to realize we all have things we can contribute to the time here on earth  – good or bad – and I wanted to be someone that when others remembered me after I was gone, it would bring a smile.

A lot of years have transpired since my visits to the cemeteries with my parents. My Dad now resides in the cemetery, but he doesn’t make his home there. I enjoy going to his graveside and remembering….but I will enjoy more our reunion in heaven. God has a way of preparing us as we get older. How amazing it is that we can dread death as a child, but as a Christian, that dread transforms into a thing to look forward to as we get older.  It’s called dying grace – something we acquire the closer we get to needing it.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

We were gathered around my grandmother’s table for Thanksgiving dinner. I was nine years old and like most nine-year-olds I knew what I liked to eat and what I didn’t. So when the tart cranberry salad that Grandma made came around I said, “I don’t like that,” and passed it on. Some of the babbling and laughter ceased, mostly from my parents as I recall. Nothing was said, but I got the feeling this wasn’t over.

Looking back on it as an adult, I am grateful my Dad didn’t call me out on my blunder in front of the family, but at the time, that didn’t cross my mind. I thought that when nothing had been said by milking time that evening, maybe he had forgotten the incident. Or maybe he realized that I felt bad about whatever I had done wrong and was going to leave it at that. But as it turned out, Dad had not forgotten; he was thoughtfully waiting for us to be alone.

Looking up from Bossy’s flank he said, “From now on if you don’t want it, say ‘no thank-you and pass it on to the next person. To say you don’t like something only hurts someone’s feelings.”‘ Dad always explained things in a loving way which only saddened me more when I  disappointed him.  His reprimand still stands in my memories and through the years has been a reminder to be considerate of others.

I wish I could say that was the end of causing  disappointment to my father, but of course, that wouldn’t be true. For instance, there was the time as a new driver, I pulled in to close to our country mailbox and knocked the mirror off the Rambler. Dad was disappointed I hadn’t used better judgement and taken my inexperience into account. (I had watched him a thousand times and he did it smoothly and perfectly.) He explained that I should have gotten out of the car a safe distance away and walked a few steps to the box. I could see after the fact as I handed him the mirror, that that might have  been a good idea. Then there was the time in college. I went home for a visit and by this time I had become quite comfortable with coming and going at my own discretion. The hometown gang was spending some time together – more than my parents appreciated. I dragged home in the early morning hours (years before cell phones) to find my father pacing the floor. He reminded me that when I come home, I’m still under their roof and he would appreciate it if I didn’t worry Mom. I wondered why it was; he was the one pacing.

Even though Dad was disappointed at times in each of his childrens’ behaviors he was also quick to show us his love. We seldom heard the words, “I love you,” but there was no doubt in our minds that he did. His actions spoke very clearly of this.

I was fortunate to grow up in a home of loving discipline. They say it is easier for people that have had this kind of relationship with their parents to accept God’s love. My parents were always fair, loving, and responsible adults which made it easy to think of God in those terms as well.

I was well into my thirties when I realized that the majority of others did not grow up this way.  A group of five of us were chatting at the nurses station on an uneventful evening in the small hospital where I worked. We started comparing our growing up years. Out of five nurses, I was the only one that had grown up in a consistently loving and nurturing family…the only one who could say they had had a wonderful childhood.

So then…how do people like my co-workers come to trust in a Heavenly Father? I pondered this for some time and then it came to me – it’s an act of faith…like so many other things in our Christian lives. Christianity is built around faith, so why not faith in this?  Psalm 91:4 tells us that God’s faithful promises are our armor and protection and one of these faithful promises is given to us in Psalm 68:5. He is a Father to the fatherless. 

A new friend and I met in the park this week for coffee. We talked of our childhoods. With a sincere heart she told me how much it meant to her when she became a Christian and knew that now she had a wonderful Father that loved her. She’s just one example of someone, by faith, that has been able to move beyond her earthly experiences and has found joy in the protection of Him. (Psalm 2:12)

You can find it in Him as well.

 

 

I went to the store to replenish supply
but when I got there, there was little to buy.
The eggs were gone and not one measly tator –
the clerk shrugged her shoulders – “Better luck later.”

The Charmin and Northern had flown the coop.
But that’s no problem – I just won’t poop.
The cereal aisle looked sad and forlorn,
not one box of oats, or wheat, or corn.

I was gritting my teeth and getting quite pissed,
thinking I’d  not find a thing on my list,
but I rounded the corner and “Well, all be!”
One bottle of sanitizer waiting for me!

With a mission in mind, I took off down the aisle.
The frown on my face; replaced with a smile.
But then – with Roadrunner speed from somewhere she came;
a strong-minded, young woman with sniper like aim.
She snatched that bottle with her outstretched hand
while I considered where best my fist might land.

I caught myself before I landed the blow
right at her belly-button or slightly below.
What was I doing? I’m not the mean kind.
This corona virus was affecting my mind!

Well, I set a new record that day at the store.
For, I’ve never left there with nothin’ before.
I felt quite smug about the money I saved,
but not so much about how I’d behaved.

I’ve had a chance now to think it all through.
Before I go back I know what I’ll do.
I’ll dig in my purse and throw out the mace;
under the mask I’ll paste a smile on my face.

I have good intentions, but then – who’s to say
what will play out on the next shopping day.
Who’s to know what I’ve hidden beneath,
Is it a smile or am I gritting my teeth?

 

(Hope you enjoyed a bit of humor this month. For more humor, check out my book page and how to obtain Chicken Soup’s newest book – Laughter is the Best Medicine. The 101 stories in the book have been selected from thousands of entries so they’re pretty much guaranteed to give your belly some exercise.)