Category Archives: Sacred Mundane

Tuesday’s Reading: Matthew 21:23 – 26:3, Mark 11:27 – 13:37, Luke 20 – 21:36 (today’s are longer than the rest, perhaps break up into two sittings…)

“And He saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins.” Luke 21:3

~

Most days I am gaga over my kids. I love their smell, their voices, their hilarious stories and wild imaginations. But some days I do not. Some days I want them to go away. Far away. And it’s usually because of this:

Me: Dutch, please pick up your toys.

Dutch: All of the toys? Or just my toys? What about Heidi’s toys? Do I have to pick up her toys too?

Me: Just pick them all up.

Dutch: What about Max? Can I leave him out?

Me: Whatever. Just pick up!

Dutch: What about the papers and coloring stuff? Do I have to pick up the coloring stuff?

[Insert me leaving the room so I don’t say, “I don’t give a rip what you do just STOP TALKING AND MAKE ALL THIS STUFF GO AWAY!!!!”]

Now, I understand it’s important for me to clarify exactly what I’m asking Dutch to do. But often (OFTEN) he’s only asking questions so that he can do the least amount of work possible. 

His questions are thinly-veiled attempts to keep his own discomfort to a minimum.

Over and over and over in Tuesdays’s passages we see the Scribes, Pharisees, chief priests and Sadducees approaching Jesus with “questions.” But their questions had nothing to do with wanting to gain knowledge, wisdom or understanding, their questions were challenges of authority and thinly-veiled attempts to keep their own discomfort to a minimum.

One in particular stands out: The chief priests and scribes ask Jesus about paying taxes, crafting their question in a way that might easily entangle a lesser man than Christ. But Jesus cuts to the heart of the issue:

“Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.”

Done. The response: “Marveling at his answer, they became silent.” 

See, our world is full of people who are “questioning” the faith. Often these “questions” are nothing more than an attempt to be let “off the hook” of worshiping Christ and bowing before Him in humble obedience. They are thinly veiled attempts to keep their own discomfort to a minimum. Do you know what I mean?  There is absolutely a place for humble, honest, sincere questions–but we are wise to recognize when our “questioning” is nothing more than an attempt to slip away from surrender. 

Right after this story, a woman comes on the scene.  She does no questioning. In fact, she doesn’t even speak:

“And Jesus looked up and saw … a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And He said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”

She easily could have questioned the tithe. She could have tried some similarly-slippery Scribe-like reasoning to weasel her way out of worship:

“Jesus, do I really have to tithe? I mean technically it’s impossible to tithe off of two coins, an amount that can’t be divided by 10, right?”

She saves her words and just obeys. She gives all she had. Instead of arguing, questioning, and trying to “figure it out” she just goes ahead and gives all she has. No calculating or scheming.

Just surrendering. So today we:

FOCUS on simply surrendering everything to Him.

Reflection for today: Is there any area of your life you’re struggling to trust God? Are you peppering Him with questions instead of simply obeying? Is there any portion of your heart, your time, your finances, or your family, where you sense you’re still fighting for white-knuckled control? Spend time quietly with Him and ask Him if there’s anywhere He wants you to simply surrender this week. Thanks for reading.

{The next part of our journey getting to know Ernie…}

~

Something inside said, “Take him the Jan Hagels.”

These are Dutch cookies–a cinnamon flavored shortbread my mom always made growing up.

Heidi dumped in the flour and ate half the chopped walnuts before we could sprinkle them on top. Dutch supervised and asked (repeatedly) when they’d be done.  We baked, cut, cooled, and plated the beautiful nut-covered squares. Then we headed over, up the statue-lined driveway.  There were even more than I remembered. Stone frogs and bears, several deer (including Bambi), butterflies and squirrels, a tall madonna holding the baby Jesus.

I rang the doorbell.

We waited, and waited. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, louder. No answer. Really? Was he not even going to open his door for us? The kids were getting impatient, “Let’s just leave the cookies on the step.” I leaned in and could hear the TV on. I could just leave them …

I glanced down at the mail-box mounted by the front door. “The Gerksons.”  I reached over and touched the etched name. The metal was so cold.  I looked at the statues, all lined up like graves.

One more try: Pound, pound, pound. 

Then, a sound. A shuffling, scratching sound. A click at the door. Ever so slowly, it opened.

I don’t know what I expected, but he wasn’t it. Grumpy Guy was bent over a walker: frail, weak. Gray, several-day stubble covered his cheeks; his hands shook slightly as he gripped his walker for support. For just a moment I hated myself: Why didn’t I come over here months ago??? The inside of the house was dark behind him and he squinted, holding his hand across his forehead, as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine streaming in.

“Hello there. We live next door … We, um, made you some cookies.” For a second he just took it in.

Then he smiled.

“Yes.  I know Jeff. He’s come over here a few times.”

“Yes, well I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to come over.” 

He returned to Jeff. “I always see your husband outside, playing with the kids. Those other people who lived there never had any G** d*** time for their kids. Never any time. Always workin’, always busy. Their kids died, you know that?”

I nodded.  I had heard the unthinkably tragic story.

“Well they never spent time with ’em. Shoulda been put in G** d** jail, that’s what I think.”

I shifted a little and glanced back at the kids. They were picking dandelions, oblivious. I looked back at him and he was watching the kids too. A shadow of sadness covered his face.

“I’m so sorry. I hope we can be good neighbors for you. Do you need anything?”

“Nah. I’m ok. I see you have a good garden going.”

“Yes! I’m trying. I don’t know much, but we have a few things growing. Do you garden?”

He looked out at the yard, but farther away, like he was seeing what it all used to be. 

“I had flowers. So many flowers. Fifty rose bushes. I had fuchsias all along here, and an arbor out back with clematis climbing all over it.” He paused, still lost in thought, and smiled to himself. “I had a garden too. Big garden. Tomatos and cucumbers, and parsnips. I love parsnips, I’d leave ’em out there all winter, you know, that’s what you do. And they’d get so big. I love parsnips. Can’t buy ’em really. They’re expensive.”

I made a mental note.

“Yeah, not many flowers here anymore…” his voice trailed off, looking out over his land, looking for flowers. 

“Can I plant some?”

His eyes snapped back to me. “What?!”

“Can I plant some flowers? I was noticing you have that empty flower bed right by the fence. I could reach it without even coming through your gate. The kids and I were going to plant sunflowers … could we plant some seeds there, for you?”

“Sunflowers …” He went back to his faraway world, then told a story of the sunflowers he planted once upon a time. He looked down at Dutch, “They were 104 inches tall!” Dutch’s eyes were wide.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I smiled and patted his shoulder. “Well, I’m sorry you had such a hard time with your old neighbors. We’ll try …”

He interrupted me and looked me straight in the eye: “We’ll get along great.”

“Yes sir, I believe we will. Would you come over for dinner sometime?”

He started to fuss, “Ah, I can’t get around that well…”

“We’ll bring it over here!”

“No, no. Yeah … I’ll come over.”

Just as we were saying goodbye, he looked out and saw an enormous purple dahlia opening right beside the porch.

“Well, I’ll be. A flower.” He inched his walker slowly over the threshold, and shuffled, carefully, outside. The screen door and the darkness closed behind him.

We stood, in the sun, in silence, looking at the flower, both breathing in beauty, life, hope.

We said goodbye and he went back in the house. We piled in the car, ready to tackle our long list of errands. Grabbing my grocery list, I jotted down one last item:

Parsnips.

~

The next morning I looked out the window:

His blinds were pulled open wide. 

And that afternoon, in the bright sunshine, to my everlasting amazement, he was outside, looking at his yard, pointing and cursing and hollering at two workers as they spread barkdust around. I was so overjoyed I didn’t care a bit when the f-bomb floated our way.  He even shuffled down the long length of sidewalk and greeted us by name.

“Just sprucin’ the place up a bit,” he said.

Indeed. God is doing just that. 

{Praying you find–and share–beauty in whatever everyday situations you find yourself in today. Thanks so much for reading.}

We found out yesterday that Ernie, our next-door neighbor, passed away. I’m sad that I don’t know whether or not he received Christ, BUT I’m so grateful God gave us 3 years with him and the opportunity to share the gospel with him several times. I’ve been remembering our journey getting to know him, and it all began with his blinds: 

~

I pulled down hard on the cord—it had been a while.  The large, heavy blinds heaved upward, disturbing the dust and clicking, one against the other, slapping together at the top.

The room filled with light. I looked down the street—our house is taller than all the others—and took in the bird’s eye view. The hospital at the very end, the incongruous dumpy duplex with a new Hummer and a Mustang out front, the 100-year-old bungalows, like ours.

The small ranch next door with statues lining the front yard.

Nothing ever moves over there. We’ve been here almost four months and I’ve never seen the owner. (That’s mostly an indictment of me.) Jeff went over straight away, discovering an 80-something-year-old man who drops F-bombs with alarming frequency. (Partly why the kids and I haven’t taken cookies.) His first words to Jeff were, “Hey! I keep getting’ all your f-in’ mail!”  Awesome; great to meet you too.

But the statues stumped me. Old grumpy guys are no anomaly, to be sure. But the statues. Why the statues? One of Snow White and several little dwarfs. A few Dutch-children and two little frogs. Their color has worn and faded, the edges chipped.

They sit at slight angles, settled in the soil like ancient tombstones.

The door on this toolshed always hangs open. The day we moved I took this as a sign that he’d be back and forth, active, at work. But the door never closed. It just hangs open, slack, still, every day. I can see tools inside. A small tractor is parked just outside. Many signs of a life once lived.

The blinds are always closed. The back of his house has large picture windows—they’re beautiful, really. But never once, in all our time here, have I ever seen the blind slits open wide, or pulled up to the top.

Blinds. Such an odd thing.

It was on Jeff’s third or fourth visit that he found out:

She had died.

Of course. The statues, the tools, the signs of once-life, all sifted into place.

And now the blinds are sealed tight, a tomb.

Debra, our housemate, had said it just that morning. “When we share our stories with each other we give the gift of a glimpse into redemption.” God is always redeeming. Always taking broken things, broken lives, and making them new. When we isolate, seeking to protect, we close the blinds and become just that—blind. We lose sight of hope. CS Lewis’ words came to mind:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket–safe, dark, motionless, airless–it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

I turned from the window, resolving to open the blinds more often, and called for the kids to follow me into the kitchen. I plugged in the Kitchenaid as they pulled stools up to the counter.

“Who wants to make cookies for the neighbor?!” 

“ME!” both hands shoot up.

“Good,” I glanced out the window. “I do too.”

{Thanks for reading.}