Storms, helpers, and theories on faith-building

So, one of the best things about a blizzard—

Wait, scratch that last. Saying "one of the best things" implies that there are more than one good thing about blizzards—which is, frankly, laughable, since I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel here to find even a single good thing. So, beginning again:

The only good thing about a blizzard and subsequent heavy snowfall is that suddenly, neighborhoods become neighborly again. I suppose any natural disaster brings about this end; I recall similar friendly acts when our street flooded two summers ago. Suddenly, people who'd barely spoken to each other were sharing buckets to bail, and even the more aloof crowd up the street wandered down to assist folks on our dead end, to push cars out of harm's way, to chat amicably and offer support. We haven't seen them since, but hey...

So, when last weekend's snow began to fall, and the husband was headed out of town, and the kid was sick with a flu, we just sort of hunkered down... and I did a lot of praying. For safe travel for the hus and his gang of church kids and fellow leaders (they arrived safely and had a great time), for my loved ones to have random plowing help and for more able family shovelers to step in (all of that happened), for everyone to use good judgment and common sense and do what they could for whom they could do it. Paying it forward, so to say. I couldn't drive an hour in my low-riding sedan in the snowdrifts with an ill child, so I shoveled our own walkway and the elderly neighbor's as well, trusting that if only all of us contributed in a sensible, local way,the good deeds would work their way around to every needy soul. And from what I've found out? That's what happened.

I remember reading that Fred Rogers told kids who were struggling to comprehend disasters that they should "look for the helpers." He comforted children who were floundering in confusion and unanswered questions by pointing them toward those fellow humans who stepped up to lend a hand—to be God's hands, in a way. And Mr. Rogers was right, of course; there are always helpers, and one can take some solace in seeing the good works of those folks. Part of healing occurs when you see the helpers, and sometimes when you are the helper... and I truly believe a big part of it also happens when you accept help, because that acceptance is an admission of sorts that you needed help in the first place.

The whole disasters-and-helpers thing has me thinking about a point I keep trying to make at my Bible study, and which as far as I can see has not yet been well received. I have observed aloud a direct correlation between being in a position where you need to ask for or accept human help, and being able to ask God for His gift of salvation. The part I think most of my study-mates object to is my suggestion that when you have plenty of money and a bevy of people around you whom you can pay for help, you don't grasp the idea of needing salvation as deeply because you just don't "need" much in this earthly realm.

This is my opinion, of course. But it lines up well with what I keep hearing about people who've been to the poorest places in the world, decrepit, downtrodden villages where people hear of God's love and eternal life and embrace it with the utmost joy. These people have nothing, their very existence often depends on moment-by-moment offerings. People who need assistance with every task—the chronically ill, the disabled, the infirm—those people truly understand their own helplessness, and I suspect that understanding helps them to better grasp their absolute dependence on God's mercy and kindness.

I'm not saying I want to be ill, or incapable, or desperately poor. Of course I don't. Yet, I do see over and over that those people have far less trouble on the whole accepting their need of Jesus. They have been humbled by life, by circumstances, by hungry children in their care, by the fact that without someone else, they can't get out of bed.

Humility is a difficult state to achieve when you're healthy, able, and comfortable, with money to spare. Doesn't it make sense that it's harder for many of us to feel we truly need God because we already have all the trappings of this world? It seems that the people with the biggest concept of God are those who have the smallest, most realistic, often most broken images of themselves and their utterly fallen, current dwelling place.

That's why bad storms make us neighborly again. We are humbled by something far bigger than ourselves; we realize, at a fundamental level, that we must accept help or be cut off and have our well-being endangered by our own stubbornness. It seems to me that the storms of life have the same effect. We can sit, snowed in, by the light of a flickering candle, eating cold canned beans and feeling lonely and sorry for ourselves... or we can open the door, accept the hand that is proffered, be humbled yet thankful, and then pass on the gift to others.

In my uninformed, simple opinion, this is one of America's greatest weaknesses: Our wealth. It's hard to see ourselves as we really are, when we've heaped up so much shoddy "finery" and just-released technology around our pathetic, messed-up selves. That stuff affects our perception of ourselves. It's piled so high that we can't even see Him knocking at the window. I hate storms... but I could probably do with more of them. Think about it: when have you felt closest to God? I don't feel joy when faced with trials, not yet, but I'm going to work on my big-picture viewpoint about the whole thing.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. -James 1:2-4

Precious is definitely related to fleeting

Our neighborhood is in a bit of flux. Two of our close neighbors who happen to live right beside each other are both trying to sell their homes at the same time. It's not because there's a neighborhood flaw (it's a great little street); it just happened that way. Which, of course, makes the prospect of slapping our home on the market anytime soon seem like a pretty poor idea. Small street, fewer than 12 homes total, and three of them for sale simultaneously? Not a good scenario. Alas, we stay put and wait to see what unfolds... (Which feels like the story of my life lately... but I digress.)

The entire point of this post, however, is not real estate markets. It's the idea that when we see an approaching end to something, then that thing begins to gain meaning and perhaps even value. For example, take our neighbors who are trying to move: one of the two homes seems to have found a buyer, and now I find that I feel sad and melancholy when I see the sellers walking their little dog. Each walk they take probably boils down to one of the last times I'll witness them strolling with the little guy (pictured here in a painting I just finished—would anyone out there like a commissioned pet portrait?)

I wanted to paint a portrait of their pup regardless, just because he's so darned cute and they've been such great neighbors. Now, it looks as if the painting might end up being a parting gift. When big upheavals are imminent and impending, small moments and glimpses are loaded with sentimental weight. I suppose I'm realizing that one more familiar thing that I took for granted is likely going away. We can keep in touch, but it won't be the same—it never is. Something I assumed was a given will soon be taken. And that in itself makes me examine the soon-to-be-taken in a totally different light. Is that true for everyone? Is it human to re-evaluate everything right before, or even right after, it is removed from one's realm?

Must you be my neighbor?!

Mr. Rogers would not be proud of me this week.

We've been having some minor neighbor issues lately. Someone a few doors down from us spent last summer constructing a giant, 2-story, multi-car garage. The family already owns a professional garage not even a mile away, on the main business road below our neighborhood. Guess what they specialize in? Hot rods. Antique ones. Yep, the super-loud, throaty-engined, characteristically fussy and high-maintenance cars of the ever-immature. Oops, there goes my opinion sneaking in there again... And the grown son drives these boisterous beauties past our home at all hours; I'm not sure what he does for a living, but it often requires a 5:30am start and/or a near-midnight arrival. Rumble, rumble, growl, putt-putt.

But anyway, the eldest family member is now much more immobile, so I figure the family is doing all they can to bring the garage to him.

Which is nice. For him.

On the first beautiful, warm day of the year, I got to watch a somewhat steady parade of beautifully manicured 50s-era trucks and cars revving their way up our street and around the block. Sometimes they drove farther, but often, the obnoxious music of over-tuned, under-muffled engine never got out of earshot before it came back to me full force.

People. This is when I dream of 40 acres, a mule, and myself planted squarely in the middle. With razor wire surrounding the whole compound.

I know that sounds awful. I guess it is awful. Because, even as I bite my lip to keep from cursing at that fool behind all the sets of wheels, I have this niggling little thought in my head: God loves that person, too.

Mumble, mumble. No, I didn't say anything.

And with that, I introduce to you my first Zazzle store attempt: a little bag to help illustrate why I can still look forward to Easter with true joy.

I do know the Good Shepherd, which is handy for me, because as you can see I need Him very, very much. Do you know the Good Shepherd? If there were ever anyone to know, it is He. This sheep knows him, too—which is why she is pleading with her eyes for you to think hard about this.

Everyone keeps telling me how easy it is to create Zazzle products. That has not yet been my experience, but I did finally get this one set up, and you can buy it for just under $10 if you go here. Zazzle also has a huge number of other products, like mugs, keychains and T-shirts, to name a few. If anyone has a sincere interest in getting this image and wording (or some other wording) on a product like that, just email me and I can try to set it up. You purchase right from the Zazzle site, I get a cut of the cost (I think it's 10%), and I put the cut toward Todd's upcoming missions trip to Kentucky in July. Mostly, the cost will be to cover his lost wages while he's out of town.

In the meantime, I'll try to eat my humble pie while the hot rods roll past. I'm finding that it tastes a lot like crow.

Sittin'

I mentioned in a previous post that we are dog-sitting this week, for a neighbor. The folks live close by, the dog is small and sweet, and he's able to stay in his own home and get by with visits and walks. The occasional field trip to our home is exciting for him at first, and then he realizes that we aren't hiding his people there, and the same dismayed expression comes over him before he sighs and lies down with chin between paws, looking pitiful.

Pet-sitting is good practice for us. My son is delighted when we dog-sit for these friends. He adores the dog, at least until he's bored with him, and it's nice to have a warm, fuzzy thing around again. (We lost our elderly kitty just over a year ago, you may recall.) We even did some fish-sitting earlier in the fall for a different neighbor while they vacationed at the beach, but I figure that somewhere in the word "pet" is a history of being able to actually pet and stroke the creature in question—and I don't see how that's possible with a goldfish, which in my mind eliminates the fish from any list of potential pets...

Anyway, not only is the sitting good practice for us, it's also a realistic reminder of what pets entail. For example, most of them have a distinctive animal odor. Sometimes they like to scratch and dig at things: themselves, you, the furniture, the floor. Our borrowed dog has the itchiest snout known to canines, and he loves to rub it on any and everything he can find. And some dogs (this one, for example) tend to regurgitate meals that are taken in too quickly, or when the pup's stomach is already upset from heartbreak over disappearing people.

Then there's the whole issue of following the furball around with a scooper and a bag. Just like cats who must eat soft food, I'm sad to share, the dogs on soft-food diets also have what must be the most squishy, malodorous waste in the world. Put a few bags of those treats in your garbage can (the outdoor one, of course) and you'll swear a couple days later that there's a dead body in there.

I realize dog-sitting someone else's pooch is not the same as having your own. Your own pet would rejoice at your presence, instead of eventually rebuffing you in sadness. Your own would have a different schedule, and you could fence in a portion of yard or control whether the dog was bathed frequently.

But I would not be able to control that the dog has favorites, and that it may not be me. This dog, searching madly for a replacement Alpha dog, is not happy unless Todd is around. The little guy will run around the house, searching for Todd. He'll bark at the top of the steps if he suspects Todd is downstairs (he's not), and will resist going back into his own home if he hasn't ascertained that an Alpha dog is still in the vicinity and still in charge.

I also would not be able to control the need for a dog-sitter in our home if we had to be away. We don't travel much these days, but it still bears considering. Are we able to cover days and nights away? Would we simply exchange favors with the neighbors? What if they get rid of their dog, or he dies, and the debt can no longer be repaid? What then? Kennels are expensive and traumatizing.

Additionally, I can see that if a dog should join our family (or even another cat for that matter), the bulk of responsibility would still fall on my shoulders. Am I ready or willing to take that on at this time? Not sure. Maybe when my son is a bit older, this will be a more attractive option.

Right now, I think I'm happy to borrow. Last evening, I was walking with my boy and this little neighbor dog in a howling, frigid wind, holding a make-you-want-to-retch bag of poo as far from me as I could, and I was undeniably immersed in the true meaning of dog ownership. Fuzzy companionship, loving eyes, and so much more. Maybe this isn't the season for us yet.

Please, remind me of all this if I start romanticizing pets come springtime. All it'll take is one whiff of puppy breath, one squeaky kitten mew, and I'll be foolish again.

Kids will be kids

The folks next door have a young granddaughter who’s just a week older than Marcus. The two have occasionally played when she’s been visiting, spontaneous playtimes that happened because they and we happened to be out back at the same time and we encouraged the two children to interact. They’re usually shy with each other at first, and then start giggling and running around like little buddies.

These days, they’re both a bit more outgoing, so when we stepped onto the patio recently, there was the little girl (I’ll call her Arlene) swinging in her little swing, waiting for some fun. She hollered out, “Hi, Marcus!” And he looked back at me, a shy, embarrassed smile on his face. I told him he could go ahead and say hello to her, and he did.

“Do you want to go over there and say hello?” I asked him.

“No, not right now.” But he kept looking down at her to see what she was doing.

“Do you want to ask her if she wants to play in the sandbox with you?”

“Okay, but you come with me.” I agreed and we strolled down the slight hill between our yards toward the tree that houses the swing. Arlene had obviously been hoping he’d come over to chat, and she slid out of the swing and took a few steps toward him. She’s a pretty little thing, a slim miss with soft brown hair and lovely hazel eyes; as soon as Marcus put the invitation out there, she said yes and started over toward our yard.

“Arlene, why don’t you let your mom know where you’ll be so she doesn’t worry when she doesn’t see you swinging?” Arlene hurried up the back steps to alert the adults inside. A minute later, she popped back out, followed by Grandma, who looked concerned—had she been invited? Would she be a bother? No, no, we’d asked her to come over, I assured her.

The two of them began playing in the sand, then with trucks, then chalk, and finally they were riding around like mad on two of the bevy of huge plastic riding toys that have infiltrated the perimeters of my home. She stayed for nearly an hour, but then we needed to eat lunch. I thought of inviting her to stay, but decided that the excitement would be too great and Marcus wouldn’t touch a bite—not good, since we still had more visiting to come later that day, and I needed him to get some food in him. We walked Arlene to her grandparents’ door and explained that we were eating lunch now. We thanked her for visiting and said we’d see her later.

Of course, Marcus turned shy again and, after lunch, declined to go outside even though he could see Arlene on the swing, patiently waiting for more fun. When Daddy popped outside for something, I heard her immediately ask about Marcus’ whereabouts. Was he coming back out? Daddy explained that Marcus preferred to stay in just now, but perhaps he’d come out later. I let Marcus know that Arlene was hoping to play again, and that I wanted to go out but I knew she would ask about him… After some wheedling, the boy finally agreed to go back out. He decided he would take the puppets that he’d been playing with.

As soon as he was out the door, he yelled down to Arlene, “Wanna play with puppets?” She nodded vigorously and ran up to the back door, out of our sight, to again alert parents and grandparents. And then, she did not come back. And she did not come back. He waited, and watched for her return, and began to set up the puppet show, all the while glancing over. “Wonder where she is?” he asked. I explained that perhaps she had not been allowed to come over. Maybe they were eating now. Maybe there were other folks visiting who wanted to see her. Minutes passed, and no Arlene appeared.

And then I heard giggles, kid voices. He did too, and we both looked over at the house, but to no avail—no child in sight. “That was probably the other neighbors down the street,” I said. He agreed. As he manipulated a puppet, I stood, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the patio, simultaneously attempting a covert look over at the neighbors’ yard. What?! I saw a flash of pink three doors up from us. On the other neighbor boy’s swingset. I quickly averted my gaze so as not to arouse interest from Marcus. I changed the subject, too: “Maybe you could use the back of the patio chair as your puppet platform? Then you can hide behind it?”

While he tried that out, I continued sweeping, moving closer to the patio’s edge to find a better view. That smidge of pink was Arlene, all right—the little minx had gone three doors up to see the boy with the full-size swingset and slide combo. There they were, sliding and swinging away, while my sweet, unsuspecting child played puppets all alone. Even as they frolicked just out of his view, he turned to me and motioned with his head and eyes to the house next door: “Probably asking her mom if it’s okay to come over.” He had no idea she was a traitor; he was giving her every benefit of the doubt.

I wanted to weep a little. I smiled instead, and said, “Probably.” And then I hunkered down to play puppets with him. And I thought, Oh Lord, how will this look 10 years from now, when he’s got a crush on the traitorous little girl? What will it be like when it’s his best friend who’s having another pal sleep over, or going with a different buddy to get pizza? How will I handle all his disappointments to come? After awhile I didn’t hear any kid noises, and I assumed the coast was clear, while he assumed aloud that his friend had not been allowed to come over to play. Life went on.

I wish I could protect him—from reality, from little and big hurts, from the inevitable letdowns of friends. But I can’t. I suppose it’s only going to get rougher from here on out.

Evolution of a neighborhood

A flattering tribute to any street, I believe, is when folks move into the neighborhood and never move away. I am happy to say that our street is sort of like that—or has been for many years. We purchased our home from its original owner, an elderly woman who’d been here ever since she and her husband got married in the 50s, and our neighbor across the street is an original owner, too. A couple of other homes right around us are owned by single men—men who just happened to purchase the house from their grandmas. There is one rental nearby that I can’t quite figure out, but it’s a covert rental, and I suspect that the people in it are in the process of slowly buying the house from the landlord in one of those “rent to own” situations…so they’re likely not going anywhere, either.

However, when people love a neighborhood and stay long enough, they eventually begin to be forced from their homes by circumstance.

Earlier this week, Marcus looked out the window and asked me what the big fire truck was doing up there. Sure enough, a large red truck—paramedic rescue, not a fire truck after all—was parked at a neighbor’s home at the top of the hill. We know the woman’s last name just because it’s on a nameplate in the yard; we’ve never met her. But she is a neighbor. And she was coming out on a stretcher, looking not so good. It was big excitement for my son, because playing rescue is his favorite game—but a more sober moment for me. This is the third time I’ve seen an ambulance on our street, and each time someone was taken in one, it amounted to the last time I saw that person.

The original owner who remains across the way is the one who said it first: “Everyone who used to live here is dead.” And he should know: Until this week, his dear wife was the last person I saw carried out to an emergency vehicle—and she did not make it back home again.

It’s a bit unnerving to me, having grown up in a more rural area where you’d likely never notice an ambulance in someone else’s driveway because they’re a quarter-mile away. Perhaps many streets are like this, and I’ve just been protected from the harsh truth. But we’ve only lived here 2 years, and I even missed an ambulance farther down the street about a year ago; that means there have been 4 ambulances on our road taking people away. As in away, not to return. And this is not a long street. One of those ladies went to live in a nursing home, but she’s not coming back to her old ‘stead—because it’s been sold to a new gal with a little dog. And the woman who sold us this place? I hope she’s not planning to leave assisted living and move back, because she wouldn’t find anything the same—we’ve changed it all.

I like the fact that people don’t want to leave this little slip of a ‘hood…but it makes for some inevitable solemnity when you realize that slowly, surely, the face of this street is changing completely, and an entire founding generation will cease to exist here.