Picking Up the Pieces

Every time I think back to that autumn afternoon I feel a surge of pain. If there were a way to remove it and start again, I would do it. 

It was late in the day, and the children had just bounded into the tiny foyer of our German row house. The bus had dropped them off at the outermost edge of our housing complex, and they enthusiastically, energetically tumbled into the door. The school day was over, and they were glad to be home. They would have their after-school snack and hurry off to play. The tight space of the entryway was hardly big enough for one adult, much less three exuberant children. The green tile floor, the sheer curtains, the mahogany shrunk became the stage props for the drama about to unfold.

The momentum was ahead of me. I had not finished the last thing that needed to be done before they came home, and I was battling a measure of frustration both with myself and with the clock. Though the table was set with milk and cookies, I was not there to greet them when they turned the knob. 

As I sighed and emerged from ironing in the basement, I saw staring at me the unwelcome sight of everyone’s coats, shoes, and backpacks tossed recklessly in a heap on the tiny amount of floor space, thus blocking any hope of pathway to the front door. 

My mind went into overdrive. “How could this be? They all knew this was wrong. They knew this was against house rules, and it was not the first time this had happened. A pattern was developing, and before long this would be a habit. There is not enough floor space for all this stuff. What if we had a fire? We could never make it out. All three of them are old enough to know better. We have rehearsed this countless time. They are just ignoring me. Something must change.” Though this occurred nearly thirty years ago, I can still feel the tension. Adrenalin and aggravation formulated a plan that to this day I regret. 

So, (and here is the moment that I would take back), I proceeded to exercise my parental authority and with ceremonial emphasis, I tossed each coat and each backpack out the front door and onto our small porch. Toss being the operative word. There. Backpacks and coats and shoes are to be placed in the closet and not on the floor, right? This is sure to solve the problem. Good.

Then this little girl turned the corner and with a look of horror said, “But Mommy. My. Clay. Art. Project. Was. In. My. Backpack.  We got to bring them home today. I couldn’t wait to show it to you.” In her plaid dress with hair pulled back with barrettes, she opened the front door and retrieved her bulky German backpack from the mass heap. Heaven and earth stood still as she slowly pulled out the two halves of what once was a child’s work of art.

“Oh dear Jesus, what have I done? She made a mistake, and I made a mountain out of a molehill. Oh the pain I have caused for wanting to teach a lesson. Her precious art project is the victim.”

Kneeling down and wrapping her into my arms I said, “Sweetheart, I am so, so sorry. Will you please forgive me? Please, please forgive me. I was way too quick and I was wrong. I love you so much.” Her pure, gracious response of, “I forgive you, Mommy,” moved us forward into the kitchen where we worked arduously to glue the object back together. 

As long as we lived in that house, the item held a place of honor on the shelf in her room. She was so very proud of it, and never mentioned the incident again. That spoke volumes to me.

From time to time, alone in her room, I would look long and hard at the childish artifact, and again feel so childish myself. The crack, imperceptible to any but me, reminded me of my humanness and and her graciousness.

Mothers don’t always get it right. When we are wrong, we must admit it. When we offend, we must ask for forgiveness. Relationships can thrive in an environment of love, grace, and forgiveness, even when we wish we could rewrite the script. What can’t be taken back can be taken over by The Holy Spirit of God. He alone is able to redeem our mistakes and help us move forward. “Forget what lies behind and look forward to what lies ahead.” (Philippians 3:13) 

Question: What incident in your own life do you recall that can't be taken back, and needs to be taken over by the Holy Spirit?

10 Tips to Transform Your Travel

Aka How to Pack a Suitcase

Humiliation. Not good. My innermost beings were strewn across the tile floor of the airport lobby. The check-in agent had declared my bag overweight. With her czarina-type declaration, the purging commenced. I was hot and unhappy amidst my slinging, flinging, shoving, and stuffing . Other passengers tried to step around me offering their various bits of advice. Some were sarcastic, some were sympathetic; none were helpful. I was in a race against the clock. I muttered under my breath, “If I ever get out of this alive, it will NEVER happen again.” 

The disastrous day is a distant memory, but I still find myself thinking a suitcase is a tool of the devil. The iconic symbol of travel threatens like nothing else to bring out the grrrr in me.

So, can anything be done to rise above this onslaught of decision-making that precedes getting out the door on a trip? Yes, peaceful packing can become a practice. After more than 45 years of international travel, I have gleaned a few tips to help eliminate the paralyzing “what if” of packing, and send you sailing with a jolly “Bon Voyage.” Here they are:

1.    Pray. Take charge. Don’t over-think; be decisive.
2.    Start 2 days ahead. Place your suitcase in a separate room other than your bedroom. Do your laundry first.
3.    Place hanging clothes on a door rack to view your choices.
4.    Pack in daylight, not at night. Begin by counting out underwear.
5.    Use Eagle Creek packing cubes for categories.
6.    Think simple, think solids.
7.    Minimize shoes. Always take a dress. 
8.    Remove at least 2 items. Be realistic, but not ruthless. You do need clothes and supplies where you are going.
9.    Place a versatile windbreaker and a small empty duffle in the outside pocket of your suitcase.
10.    Know your enemy. Weigh bags at home. 
11.    [OK, this is a bonus tip. Always, always leave one clean pair of underwear in your drawer at home. Why? In the event your suitcase is lost or delayed upon returning, you will at least have one clean pair of undies waiting. 
Note: When I shared this with my 8-year-old granddaughter, she very quickly asked, “Gammy, did you learn this the hard way?!”]

Once the suitcase is zipped, and you are ready to go, you can pull up to the airport curb without a knot in your stomach. As the ticket agent smiles at you and says, “Place your bag here on the scale,” you can confidently look her in the eye, knowing that you made the cut. Victory. Bye-bye bag.

Question: What is your best packing tip?

1. Lublin, We Went Through Fire and Water

But You led us to a place of abundance. (Psalm 66:12)

 

“Oh God, how am I going to make it? You have got to help me. Never in my life have I felt this helpless.” Caught in an absolute desperate depth of desperation I never knew possible, this missionary wife and mom needed Jesus as never before.

It was the summer of 1977, and Larry and I, with our Baby Girl, had gone to live covertly as missionaries behind the Iron Curtain. We were students in a summer language program in Lublin, Poland. Though we were trained for culture shock, this shock was way beyond our preparation. This was Communism. Nothing could have trained a free American for this. We were behind the Iron Curtain; we were behind the lines of NATO. Alone didn’t begin to describe the acute isolation created by a covert, undercover lifestyle.

The iron fist of communism screamed around every corner. Economic deprivation was astounding. Routine tasks became monumental. A simple phone call to my parents in the U.S. had to be reserved 48 hours ahead, and then on the appointed day, we waited two hours in the post office for the international operator to connect the call. Once the call was connected, we hyper-guarded our conversations were for personal safety. 

I assessed my situation and knew: 

Life was far more challenging than I expected.

We washed our clothes in a wringer washer, the type my Daddy purchased for my Grandmother when he returned from World War II. There was no dryer, and the cool summer weather made drying clothes especially difficult. Food lines outside of nearly empty stores resembled black and white movie clips from The Great Depression.

Language school was far more challenging than I anticipated.

My high school Spanish class paled in comparison to this. The Polish language was daunting.  I felt so stupid. 

Lingering questions, like “How did I get here?” were far more threatening than I could handle.

How did I end up as a clandestine missionary in a communist country? How did I find myself walking the streets of a town a mere 97 kilometers, 60 miles from the Soviet border? How could I have landed in the same town with buildings, photographs, and personal effects of the Nazi concentration camp Majdanek? How screamed at me!

I grew up in a Christian home, and I became a follower of Christ at an early age. As a little 3rd grade girl I believe God wanted me to be a missionary. Yet, for years my relationship with God was laced with fear, fear that He would ruin my life and send me to Africa as a missionary. 

Then, at university, I met a group of students who had a smile on their face, a spring in the step and a song in their heart. They were marching to the beat of a different drum, and I joined their ranks. Our clarion call was “Come help change the world.” My manifesto before God was declared, “Anything, Anytime, Anywhere.”

Soon after, I met and fell in love with a young football player. His proposal was “Will you go with me in helping to reach the world for Christ?” My “yes” to that question, and the supernatural call of God on our lives, now placed me right here on this unfamiliar piece of earth in eastern Poland.
 
“Oh God, p l e a s e help me. If I am going to survive, You must intervene.” My prayer gushed from an honest, confused, hurting, aching heart held out before God. 

And. God. intervened. Deep down, in the depths of my soul, in the power of His Word, God took over.  He marched right across communism, right across culture shock, right across my emotional crisis, and met me, Debby, with the words of Psalm 139:9-10: “Though I dwell on the far side of the sea, even there Your Hand will guide me, Your right Hand will hold me fast.” 

The Holy Spirit threw a Lifeline, and I grabbed it. I held on for dear life. Right there in a communist coffee shop, surrounded by a language I could not understand, heaven descended and brought peace to my troubled, broken heart. Just what I needed most, just when I needed it most. God showed up - right then, right there.
In July 1977
     In Lublin, Poland
          In His Word
 
That dark day I discovered the light of a lesson I will never forget, a lesson that laid the foundation for the 12,045 days of the 33 years to follow: 

When I was most desperate, He was most dependable.
Geography is not an issue to God.

“I will never leave you or forsake you,” is for real. (Hebrews 13:8)